“On Sunday, the 21st of May, there was no Mass in our deserted

chapel, from whence the Blessed Sacrament had been removed the

evening before. The persecution against us had reached its

height, and also its term. That same day the besieging army

forced the Gate of St. Cloud, and on the next, the 22d, took

possession of our quarter, and put an end for us to the Reign

of Terror.…

“All this week was nothing but one sanguinary conflict; our

mother-house was crowded with wounded to the number of six

hundred; a temporary building had also been erected within its

precincts, to which were brought those who were slain in the

neighborhood; as many as eighty dead would sometimes be carried

in at a time. On Wednesday, the 24th, however, the military

authorities decided that the ambulance should be transferred

back again to Longchamps, and that the Brothers should

immediately be restored to the possession of the mother-house

as well as of their other establishments. From that day a new

order of things commenced for us, and with it the reflux into

Paris of our emigrated Brothers.

“But all were not able to return; some were prisoners at

Mazas. Already, out of hatred to religion, the Commune had

shot Monseigneur the Archbishop, the _cure_ of the Madeleine,

and several other priests, secular and regular, … and they now

proposed to shoot _all_ their prisoners, and renew in 1871 the

massacre of 1792. But again time failed them.

“The liberating army, like an irresistible torrent, carried

away the barricades, and the firing soon began around Mazas,

whereupon the keepers of the prison seized the Communist

director and locked him up, opening all the doors, and

bringing down the captives--between four and five hundred in

number--into the court, from whence they made their exit three

by three. Our Brothers went out; but only to find themselves

entangled in the lines of the Federals, and forced to work

at the barricades, until night seemed to favor their escape.

It was while he was thus employed that our dearest Brother

Néomede-Justin, of Issy, was killed by the bursting of a shell.”

During three days and nights the Brothers were the objects of the most

active surveillance, and had to watch their opportunity to recede from

one barricade to another. In this way several managed to reach the

mother-house on Friday, the 25th; others, on the two following days, but

not all. To continue in the words of Brother Philip:

“On Whit-Sunday, towards one o’clock in the morning, all the

insurgents were surrounded on the heights of Belleville,

disarmed, chained five together, taken to La Roquette (the

prison of the condemned), and brought before a council of

war. Our two Brothers, who had been also chained to three

insurgents, were present at the interrogation of those who

had preceded them, and at the execution of sentence of death

upon a large number. For the space of three hours they waited

thus in the most anxious expectation. When it was their turn

to appear, they said that they were Brothers of the Christian

Schools, just out of prison, but that for three days they had

found it impossible to escape from the vigilant oppression of

the insurgents. On ascertaining the truth of their statement,

the council gave them a pass, and facilitated their return to

the mother-house.

“They came back to us worn out and broken down by fatigue, as

well as by all the terrible emotions they had undergone, and

blessing God for their wonderful preservation.”

On hearing of the restoration of order the emigrated Brothers hastened

back to Paris, their venerable superior joining them at the mother-house

on the evening of the 9th of June.

“It was,” writes Brother Philip, “the hour of Benediction of the Blessed

Sacrament, … after which we sang the psalm, _Ecce quam bonum_, … and then

I attempted to say a few words to our dearest Brothers, reunited once

more, but I found it impossible, so great was my emotion.”

When, during his absence, Brother Philip had heard of the arrest of

Brother Calixtus, he immediately set out from Epernay, to give himself

up in the place of his friend; but learning, at St. Denis, that he had

been set at liberty, he proceeded to the visitation of other houses of

his institute in the provinces. We can understand with what joy these two

holy friends would meet again.

After some great calamity has passed away, life, emerging from the

regions of death, seems as it were to begin anew. Brother Philip, who

regarded the misfortunes of France as a warning from God, invited all the

members of his institute to carry on their work with increased energy

and devotion. From the beginning of the year 1872, as if he had had some

presentiment of his approaching end, he gave more attention than ever to

the perfecting of his “children,” and completed various little works of

piety which he thought might prove useful to them. An illness which he

had at this time he regarded as a first warning. The Archbishop of Paris,

Mgr. Guibert, who had not then long succeeded his martyred predecessor,

came at this time to visit the venerable Superior.

Brother Philip presided at all the sittings of the general chapter which

was assembled from the 12th of June, 1873, to the 2d of July. Towards the

conclusion of the last sitting, in reply to some respectful words which

had been addressed to him, he answered: “My dearest Brothers, soon, yes,

soon you will again assemble together, but I shall be no longer among

you. I shall have had to render to God an account of my administration.”

It was with heavy hearts that the Brother Assistants heard these words,

while their Superior proceeded to consecrate the Institute to the Sacred

Heart of Jesus.

Our Holy Father Pius IX. had for the heart of Brother Philip an

unspeakable attraction. On the 22d of October, 1873, the latter set out

on his fifth journey to Rome. His first visit to the Eternal City was in

1859, when he was welcomed by the Pope with paternal affection. He was

there again in 1862, for the canonization of the Martyrs of Japan, when

he had an opportunity of conversing with the bishops of many distant

regions in which the Brothers of the Christian Schools were established.

On this second occasion, the day after his arrival in Rome, he hastened

to the Vatican and mingled with the crowd in the hall of audience;

but the Pope having observed his name in the long list of the persons

present, immediately sought with his eye the humble Superior, and,

perceiving him far off in the last rank of the assembly, his Holiness,

with that clear and sweet voice so well known to the faithful, said to

him, _Philip, where shall we find bread enough for all this multitude?_

(S. John vi. 5), and bade him come near. Brother Philip, confused at so

great a mark of attention, approached, and, kneeling before the Holy

Father, presented the filial offering of which he was the bearer on the

part of his Institute. He made his third journey to Rome in 1867, to

be present at the eighteenth centenary anniversary of the Martyrdom of

the Apostles SS. Peter and Paul. On seeing him, the Pope said, “Here is

Brother Philip, whose name is known in all the world.”

“It will soon be so at Madagascar, Most Holy Father,” answered Brother

Philip, smiling, “as we are just now establishing ourselves there.”

In 1869, about the time of the opening of the Vatican Council, the

Superior-General was again at Rome. True as the needle to the magnet

was his loyal heart to the Vicar of Christ; and yet once more must the

veteran soldier look upon the face of his chief before laying down his

arms and receiving his crown. He took his fifth and last journey to the

city of Peter in 1872, accompanied by Brother Firminien. Of this last

visit, which especially concerned the beatification of the founder of his

Institute, as well as of the preceding ones, full particulars are given

in the work of M. Poujoulat. The Pope received Brother Philip to private

as well as to public audiences, asking many questions and conversing

with interest upon the details of the various works in which the order

was engaged. On the Festival of All Saints, more than a hundred of the

Brothers being assembled with their Superior-General in the throne-room

at the Vatican, the Pope entered, preceded by his court, and attended

by five cardinals, numerous bishops, and other ecclesiastics, for the

reading of the decree referring to the beatification of the venerable De

la Salle. When a few lines had been read, His Holiness said to one of the

prelates, “Do not allow Brother Philip to continue kneeling; the brave

old man must be fatigued.”

The reading being ended, Brother Philip was invited to approach the

Holy Father, to whom he made an address of thanks for the progress of

his founder’s cause, concluding with the following words: “With regard

to our devotion to the Holy Church, to this ever-celebrated chair of

Peter, and to the illustrious and infallible Pontiff who occupies it so

gloriously, it will be the same all the days of our life; and, moreover,

we shall never cease, Most Holy Father, to offer to God our most fervent

prayers that he will speedily put an end to the calamities which afflict

so profoundly the paternal heart of Your Blessedness, … praying Your

Blessedness to be pleased to bestow your holy benediction upon him who

has at this moment the exceeding happiness of kneeling at your feet, and

also upon all the other children of the venerable De la Salle.”

Copies of the decree were then distributed amongst those present, the

original manuscript, which was presented to the Superior, being now in

the archives of the _Régime_. The Pope addressed his answer directly to

his “dearest son, Brother Philip,” as if to testify his esteem not only

for the Institute but for the man. Immediately after the closing of the

audience, the Pope despatched messengers to the Palazzo Poli with two

immense baskets full of various kinds of pastry, etc., saying, “Brother

Philip must assemble the Brothers to-day for a little family feast, and

I wish to regale them”; and when afterwards the Superior expressed his

thanks for this paternal mark of attention, the Holy Father answered:

“Some good nuns thought of the Pope, and the Pope thought of Brother

Philip.”

On his return from this last journey to Rome, the Superior reached Paris

at seven o’clock in the morning, was present at Mass in the mother-house

at eight, and half an hour later was seated at his bureau as usual in the

_Salle du Régime_, as if he had never quitted his place. The longest life

is short; but what can be done by a man who never wastes a moment of his

time is something prodigious. One result of this unceasing activity on

the part of Brother Philip was the fact that, having found 2,300 Brothers

and 143,000 pupils when he was placed at the head of the Institute, he

left 10,000 of the former engaged in the education of 400,000 youths and

children. He was a man of study, prayer, and action; no one could be more

humble than he, nor yet more qualified to govern. He listened patiently

to arguments and suggestions, but, when his resolution was once taken, he

adhered to it. He spoke little, having neither taste nor time for much

talking, but what he said was always to the point, the right thing at

the right time, and the truth on every question. His correspondence was

a reflection of himself, his letters containing just so many syllables

as were sufficient to express his meaning: with him, a letter was an

action. He was at the same time the most devout of religious and the most

assiduous of workers; severe to himself, and never accepting the little

indulgences which others would fain have mingled with the hardness of

his life. The Abbé Roche mentions that on one occasion Brother Philip,

arriving in a little town of Cantal after forty hours of travelling, had

one hour to rest. Being shown the way to the house of the Brothers, he

found them assembled in the chapel, where he remained until the prayers

were over. Then, after exchanging greetings with them, and taking a

morsel of bread moistened with wine and water, he resumed his journey.

There are few communities of his Institute in France which he did not

visit, and in all these his presence left an abiding remembrance.

The art of ruling presupposes a knowledge of men. Under his simple and

modest exterior, Brother Philip had a keen penetration; he very quickly

formed his judgment of what a man was and what were his capabilities,

and there could be no better proof that he chose his instruments wisely

than the fact that all his establishments have succeeded; not that he

always allowed human prudence to have much voice in his undertakings,

as he frequently preferred to leave much to Providence. His look and

manner were reserved, almost cold, but in his heart were depths of real

tenderness and feeling. He allowed no recreation to his fully occupied

existence except indeed his one refreshment and rest, which was in

attending the services at the chapel; and his great enjoyment, the beauty

of the ceremonies and the grand and ancient music of the church. He never

failed to bestow the most particular attention on every detail of the

procession on the Feast of Corpus Christi, and took an especial delight

in being present at the First Communion of the pupils. For this great act

of the Christian life he recommended a long and serious preparation, and

wrote a manual with this intent, entitled _The Young Communicant_.

He excelled in the art of solving difficulties, not by having recourse to

human wisdom, but by imploring light and guidance from above. To overcome

obstacles, he prayed; he did the same to lead his enemies to a better

mind; and against their decisions, again he armed himself with prayer.

The municipal council of Châlons had, in 1863, suppressed the Christian

schools in that town. Brother Philip repaired thither on the 2d of May.

The mayor gave notice that the council would assemble on the following

day. The Superior was suffering from acute rheumatism, but would not

accept anything but the regulation supper of the Brothers, who made

him a bed in the parlor. The next morning, at four o’clock, when the

community had risen, they found Brother Philip kneeling on the pavement

of the chapel, and it was observed that his bed had not been touched. He

had passed the night in prayer before the Tabernacle. At six o’clock he

attended Mass with his foot bound up in linen. On the evening of the same

day the municipal council, annulling its decision of the preceding year,

permitted the re-establishment of the Christian Schools in Châlons. The

Superior had not prayed in vain.

One of his principal cares was always the reinforcement of his Institute,

and it was with exceeding happiness that, on the 7th of December, 1873,

he presided at the reception of fifty-four postulants.

It was not without apprehension that the Brothers had seen their

venerated Superior, at eighty-one years of age, undertake his last

journey to Rome, but after his return his activity was unabated, and he

did not in any way diminish his daily amount of work. On the 30th of

December, having returned to the mother-house in the evening from a visit

to Passy, he was indisposed, but rose the next morning at the hour of

the community. After Mass he was seized with a shivering; he repaired,

however, to the _Salle du Régime_, where deputations from the three

establishments of S. Nicolas were waiting to offer him their respectful

greetings for the New Year. On receiving their addresses he answered,

in a weak and failing voice: “My dearest children, I thank you for your

kindness in coming so early to wish me a happy New Year; perhaps I shall

not see its close. I am touched by the sentiments you have so well

expressed, but, for my own part, there is but one thing that I desire,

and that is, that you should go on increasing in virtue.” After a few

more words of paternal counsel, he bade them adieu.

The exchange of good wishes between himself and the community was not

without sadness. On the 1st of January he made a great effort to go to

the chapel, where he heard Mass and received Holy Communion. This was

the last time that he appeared amid the assembled Brothers; his weakness

was extreme, and his prayers were accompanied by evident suffering. From

the chapel the Superior went to his bed, from which he was to arise no

more. On the 6th of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, he received the

last sacraments, while the Brother Assistants were prostrate around his

bed, weeping and praying. One who appeared more broken down with sorrow

than the rest was Brother Calixtus, the old and most intimately beloved

friend of the dying Superior. The Apostolic Benediction solicited by

Brother Floride at four o’clock arrived at six, but Brother Philip,

having fallen into a profound slumber, was not aware of it until past

midnight. The morning prayers were being said in a low voice in his cell,

it not being known whether he was unconscious or not, but the Brother

who presided having, through distraction, begun the _Angelus_ instead of

the _Memorare_, the dying man gave a sign to show that he was making a

mistake.

There is a little versicle and response particularly dear to the dying

members of the Institute: “_May Jesus live within our hearts!_” to which

the answer is, “_For ever._” It is, as it were, their watchword on the

threshold of eternity. On the morning of the 7th of January, Brother

Irlide, assistant, bending over the Superior, pronounced the words of

Jesus on the Cross: “_Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit_,”

adding, “_May Jesus live within our hearts_.” Brother Philip, like a

faithful soldier, ever ready with the countersign, attempted to utter

the answer “_For ever_,” but in the effort his soul passed away. The

community being then assembled in the chapel for the recitation of the

Rosary, at once commenced the _De profundis_. The Institute had lost its

father and head.

The death of Brother Philip produced a profound impression. Together

with the sense of a great loss, a feeling of admiration for the great

qualities of the departed, and gratitude for the immense services he had

rendered to his countrymen, burst forth from all ranks of society. The

working-classes more especially felt keenly how true a friend they had

lost, and the announcement, “Brother Philip is dead,” plunged every heart

into mourning. From the moment of his death the cell of the Superior was

constantly filled by the novices, who in successive companies recited

the Office of the Dead. In the evening, the body was removed into the

Chamber of Relics, which had been transformed into a _chapelle ardente_,

or lighted chapel, and there in the course of two days more than ten

thousand persons came to pay their respects and to pray by the dead.

On the Friday evening the remains were enclosed in a coffin, which was

covered with garlands and bouquets which had been brought, a tall palm

being placed at the top; and on Saturday morning it was transferred to

the chapel, where the sorrowing community had assembled, and where a Low

Mass of requiem was said by the Reverend Almoner, the Abbé Roche.

But another kind of funeral was awaiting the humble religious. The

Institute, in accordance with its rules, had ordered merely a funeral

of the seventh class; but France, true to herself, was about to honor

her benefactor with triumphant obsequies. The coffin, taken out of the

mother-house at a quarter past seven, and placed upon a bier used for the

poorest of the people, was borne to the church of S. Sulpice, through

silent and respectful multitudes, and placed upon trestles, surrounded

by lighted tapers, in the nave. A white cross on a black ground behind

the high altar composed all the funeral decoration of the church. But

a splendor of its own was attached to this poverty and simplicity,

contrasted as it was with the vast assemblage present, among whom were

two cardinals, several bishops, and many of the most important personages

of the church and state. There were the representatives of all the

parishes of Paris, and of all the religious orders, as well as of the

public administration. Not the smallest space remained unoccupied in the

vast church; and, when it was found necessary to close the doors, more

than ten thousand persons remained in the Place St. Sulpice. Cardinal

Guibert, Archbishop of Paris, gave the absolution, and M. Buffet,

President of the National Assembly, threw the first holy water on the

coffin.

“On both sides of the streets,” writes an eye-witness, “the crowd formed

a compact mass; the men uncovered, and the women crossing themselves, as

the body of the venerated Superior passed by. Long lines of children

conducted by the Brothers marched continuously on each side. In the

course of the progress to the cemetery of Père la Chaise, ten thousand

pupils of the Christian Brothers, school by school taking its turn,

joined without fatigue in the procession.”

Paris, this city so wonderful in its contrasts--in the brightness of its

lights and the depths of its shadows--is more Christian than men are

apt to suppose. Out of this Paris no less than _forty thousand persons_

attended the remains of Brother Philip to the grave, and many were the

tears of heartfelt sorrow which mingled with the last prayers at the

brink of that vault where he was laid, the place of burial reserved for

the Superiors of his order. On the day of the funeral itself, the memory

of Brother Philip received from Cardinal Guibert, in his circular letter

addressed to the venerable _curé_ of S. Sulpice, a testimony which will

remain as a page in the history of the church of Paris.

And it was not Paris only, but France, which paid its homage to the

memory of Brother Philip. The whole French episcopate testified its

regard for him by requiem Masses on his behalf, by solemn services,

funeral orations, allocutions, or circular letters. Nor was this

religious mourning limited to France: it was expressed in all the lands

where the Christian Schools have been founded, so that throughout the

world honor has been done to him who never sought it, but who, on the

contrary, shrank from celebrity, feared the praise of man, and singly and

simply did all for God.

As the crown and completion of all other witness to the merits of

the departed Superior, the Brothers received in answer to the letter

announcing their bereavement a Brief from our Holy Father Pius IX.,

most honorable to the departed, and for themselves full of sympathy and

consolation.

Five months after the death of Brother Philip, the venerable Brother

Calixtus, who had for sixty-four years been his dearest friend, and who

was chosen as Superior-General in his place, followed him to the grave.

His present successor is Brother Jean-Olympe, an excellent and devoted

religious, who, at the time we write, has just returned from Rome, where

with four of the Brother Assistants he has been welcomed by the Holy

Father with marks of particular regard. We conclude our sketch in the

words of M. Poujoulat, the admirable writer already so often quoted: “The

undying remembrance of Brother Philip will remain a motive power for his

Institute, an effective weapon in time of conflict, an incitement to

perseverance in well-doing, to the love of God, our neighbor, and our

duty.”

SUBMISSION.

When the wide earth seems cold and dim around me,

And even the sunshine is a mocking thing;

When the deep sorrow of my soul hath bound me,

As the gloom swept from a dark angel’s wing;

When faces, dearer to my soul than being,

Like shadows faint and frozen past me flee,

I turn to thee--Almighty and all-seeing

God of the universe!--I turn to thee!

When in my chamber, lone and lowly kneeling,

I pour before thee thoughts that inly burn;

I lay before thy shrine that wealth of feeling

Whose ashes sleep in my heart’s funeral urn:

I pray thee, in a mercy yet untasted,

To raise my spirit from its dark despair;

To give back prospects crushed, and genius wasted,

That have no memory save in that wild prayer.

It may not be! O Father! high and holy,

Not thus thy _chosen_ bow before thy shrine;

But with submission, beautiful and lowly,

Asking no boon save through thy will divine;

Bearing with faith the Saviour’s cross of sorrow,

Filling his bleeding wounds with tears of balm,

Seeking his cankering crown of thorns to borrow--

To make them worthy of the pilgrim’s palm.

THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT

_COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC._

II.--CONTINUED.

RESPECTIVE AUTHORITY, ECCLESIASTICAL AND MORAL.

Natural religion attaches the idea of authority to God. God is King,

“Dominus Exercituum,” the Lord of Hosts, the one supreme absolute source

of all power and authority. Moreover, society implies authority, in order

that it may exist. In social life there cannot be discordant purposes

and independent wills. Now, God called all created society into being

out of nothing, and through the principle of authority and subjugation

of the will maintains his work in love, happiness, and mutual concord.

And in the scheme of redemption he has sent his church, a working society

upon earth, to heal by her sweet and divine yoke of a lawful authority

the social anarchies and disorders of a fallen race. In the church,

then, as sent by him who is the absolute source of authority and order,

governed by him, and in continual correspondence with him through prayer,

we expect to find all her important elements and modes of acting upon,

and of dealing with, mankind under the direction of the principle of

authority; and since God declares of himself that he is a God of order,

and the “author, not of confusion, but of peace in the churches” (1

Cor. xiv. 33), we conclude that God will contemplate sacred song in

the Christian Church as subject to the principle of authority, as an

instrument placed by himself at the disposal of the church for carrying

out her divine work, and as such to be used, under the guidance and

direction of the authority which governs her.

To put, then, what is meant by the claim about to be made that the Ritual

or Gregorian Chant possesses this authority, in its true light, it would

be a misconception to suppose that the notion of a _positive authority_

is identical with that of _absolute monopoly_. The positive authority

of the chant of the Ritual by no means implies that the use of modern

music cannot, under certain conditions, enjoy a just toleration, as will

be plain from an instance. The sick man who is slowly recovering from a

severe disease may be fully aware of the positive authority which his

physician has for many reasons attached to a particular rule of diet,

and may yet have the permission occasionally to deviate from it. But

now, if it be asked, what is this authority which is claimed for the

Roman Ritual chant-books? it may be replied, if a spectator, at a review

of British military, were to ask what authority the infantry regiments

had for wearing red coats, he, I suppose, would be answered at once,

that in a disciplined army the regimental uniform could not be otherwise

than authorized. In the same manner, in an organized state of society

so perfect as that of the Catholic Church, the mere existence of such

song-books as the Gradual and Antiphonary, and their immemorial use

in connection with the Missal and Breviary, necessarily implies their

authority. It would be in place here, if space permitted, to cite the

various archiepiscopal and episcopal synods that have made these or

similar song-books the subjects of their legislation, providing, down to

the minutest details, for the different questions which might be liable

to arise out of their use. But it may here suffice to refer to the fact,

not perhaps sufficiently known, that the whole of the Roman Liturgy, the

entire Breviary, the whole of the Missal, except the few parts which the

celebrant himself recites in an undertone of voice at the altar, has

its proper notation in music, which every efficient choir-singer and

celebrant priest is required to know, as the necessary accompaniment of

his functions.

The authority, therefore, of the Ritual chant is to a considerable

extent identified with that of the Ritual itself in the character of

the authorized form of its solemn celebration. No other music has been

at any time published by the church. No other is co-extensive with the

Ritual; and the use, therefore, of any other, however permissible it may

have become through force of circumstances, can only be regarded as a

deviation from perfect Ritual rule.

That such was the view of the fathers of the Council of Trent is evident

from the fact, that they seriously debated whether it might not be

advisable to put an end to the scandalous musical excesses that had

found their way into the church through the partial abandonment of the

Ritual chant, by rendering it henceforth imperative. But though this

measure was vehemently urged by more than one father as the best remedy

for the evil complained of, still the father of the council at length

declined to pass the decree. They seemed to have judged it to be on the

whole wiser to leave the Ritual chant to its claims as the acknowledged

and authorized song of the Liturgy, and to have thought that the remedy

required was rather to be sought for in prayer to God to give his people

a better and more sober mind than in a severe and peremptory legislation,

which might end in provoking the further and worse evil of a more formal

and open disobedience.

But to return to the subject of the positive ecclesiastical authority of

the Ritual chant-books. The truth and the reason of this authority appear

at once, on reflecting how impossible it is that a kingdom directed by

the Spirit of God, under the government of a divinely founded hierarchy,

should employ sacred song to the extent which the Catholic Church does,

without a sanctioned and authenticated form of it. That this form should

be absolutely imperative, to the rigid exclusion of every other, could

occur to no one to maintain. But still, without an acknowledged body and

form of song, of such indisputable authority as to claim the willing

confidence of those whose calling is with sacred song, its efficacy is

certainly lamed and its mission impeded. Men that have work to do in

God’s vineyard require to know not merely the general truth that what

they are engaged with is in the main good, but they also desire to know

that the blessing of God is with the manner of their work, and the means

they employ. Now, such confidence nothing but an authorized body of song

can supply.

For what reason do we trust the church in her definitions of faith?

Because we feel our own weakness; because we feel how impossible it is

for the mind to repose on its own conclusions. We know, from a voice that

speaks from within the heart, that our heavenly Father could not have

given a revelation without the conditions necessary to fit it to meet our

wants. And because we feel the need of a positive authority in matters of

faith, we believe it to have been given, and that the Catholic Church is

the depository of it, as alone possessing the satisfactory credentials.

Now, although it may be true that an equal need for a positive authority

in matters of song cannot be asserted, yet if ecclesiastical music do

really possess those many healing virtues which at once betoken its

divine origin and heavenly mission, it may be asked, is it a wise, is it

a self-distrusting, is it a pious course for each individual to imagine

himself free from such an authority? Is it not rather true that, in

proportion as his sense of the heavenly mission of the ecclesiastical

chant deepens, the more vivid will become his perception of the need of

an express living authority to which the individual can commit himself,

in perfect confidence that that song which a divinely directed hierarchy

shall put forth and acknowledge as their own work, will be sure to carry

along with it the blessing of God upon its use.

I do not see how a reasonable person can refuse to admit that such is

the positive authority attaching to the liturgical song-books, and

that it is to the devout and skilful use of these books by her own

priests, cantors, and devout people, that the church mainly looks for the

fulfilment of the divine idea with respect to sacred music. How otherwise

will you account for their existence? to what purpose has the wisdom of

saints who contributed and collected their contents been exerted? Why

has the church not let the Gregorian system of music alone, as she has

the modern? why has she formed a complete system and body of song in the

one, and not in the other, if her work, when complete, has no positive

authority? Or will the advocate of modern art say, that this her work is

defective and superannuated; and that it is time it should be locked up,

out of the way, in collections of antiquities, and cease to be an offence

to ears polite? Yet, if such be the case, an abrogation is not to be

presumed; it must be proved. But the fact is, that the Council of Trent

caused the song-books to be reissued, and directed the ecclesiastical

chant to be taught in the seminaries of the clergy.[139] And when those

very canonized saints, of whose conditional approbation of the use of

modern art so very much is made, came to the dignity of obtaining a

record in the church’s song of her warriors departed, here was surely a

fit occasion, if, indeed the church had abandoned her former song, and

disembarrassed herself of its defective scale and wearisome monotony, to

call for the charms of modern art, that at least it might be identified

with its votaries. Yet with this very natural supposition contrast the

fact that the Ritual chant and its singers continue year by year to hand

on the memory of the virtues of S. Philip Neri and S. Charles Borromeo;

while for these, its supposed patrons, modern art has not even a little

memorial. To the Ritual song it leaves what would seem to be to itself

the unwelcome task of keeping up the record of their sanctity and their

example.

Nor do I see to what purpose a reference can be made to the anecdote of

Pope Marcellus’ approbation of Palestrina’s composition, since named

_Missa Papæ Marcelli_, with the view to establish an authority for the

system of modern music; for the idea of deviation from the order of the

Ritual chant once admitted to toleration, nothing can be more natural

than that a pontiff, equally with any other person, might come to express

his very high commendation of a particular composition. And if we allow

that such a commendation is not without its weight, it would surely be a

violent inference, singularly betraying the absence of better argument,

if an instance of such approbation of a particular work were to be

claimed as an _ex cathedra_ legislative authorization of a whole system

of music to which it cannot be said to belong.[140] For it should not

be forgotten that Palestrina’s music is essentially different from the

existing system of modern art, inasmuch as his works are either mere

harmonies upon the _Canto Fermo_, or else consist of themes borrowed

from it, which frequently preserve that distinct tonality of the modes of

the ecclesiastical chant which modern art has quite abandoned.

It has been objected, “that an assertion that the church does not

authorize the use of modern harmony, because she has not herself

furnished her children with any individual compositions, is about as

reasonable a conclusion as the notion that she does not authorize and

sanction sermons, because their composition is left to the judgment,

good or bad, of private clergymen.” But the objection fails, as there

is a total want of parity between the office of singer and preacher.

The preacher passes through a long course of training to the state of

priesthood, before he receives a license to preach; and every person

in the church who has the license to preach, is to be presumed to be

duly qualified both to make known the divine law and recommend it by

his words and example. This is not the case with the singer, who is not

necessarily even in the minor orders, and whose duty is merely to sing

what is placed before him correctly and with feeling. If the education

of the priests were left to the same hazard and caprice that would seem

to be desired for the choice of music for the church, it is easy to

imagine the result. But very far from this, the most thoughtful care is

bestowed by the church on the training of her future ministers: obliged

to fixed and unalterable dogmas of the faith, versed in one sacred

volume, bound to one uniform office of daily prayer and pious reading,

trained in an almost uniform system of studies and external discipline,

the preacher comes forth the living organ of a divine system, fitted to

be the spokesman of a kingdom that is endowed with the power of drawing

its manifold materials to a concordant and coherent system, and moulding

multiform and varied minds to a unity of type and consistency of action.

“Such was the strict subordination of the Catholic Church,” says the

historian Gibbon (_Hist._, ch. XX.), “that the same concerted sounds

might issue at once from a hundred pulpits of Italy or Egypt, if they

were tuned by the master hand of the Roman or Alexandrian primate.” Carry

the same principle of system and order into the song of the church, and

it will be found impossible to stop short of the Ritual chant-books.

2. With regard to the moral authority of the chant: moral authority, in

the legislation of the church, is ever a necessary companion of any act

of her legislative authority. We should not, however, overlook what seems

to be a distinct element of moral authority, in the historical connection

of the Ritual chant with the generations now past and gone to their rest.

It was their song, the song of saints long ago departed. It is the song

which S. Augustine sang, and which drew forth his tears: “Quantum flevi

in hymnis et canticis, suave sonantis ecclesiæ tuæ vocibus commotus

acriter; voces illæ influebant auribus meis, et eliquebatur veritas tua

in cor meum, et ex ea æstuabat. Inde affectus pietatis, et currebant

lacrymæ, et bene mihi erat cum illis”--“How often have these sacred hymns

and songs moved me to tears, as I have been carried away with the sweetly

musical voices of thy church. How these sounds used to steal upon my ear,

and thy truth to pour itself into my heart, which felt as if it were set

on fire! Then would come tender feelings of devotion, my tears would

flow, and I felt that all was then well with me” (_Confess._ lib. vi.

cap. 6). It was the song of S. Augustine, the apostle of Saxon England,

of S. Stephen the Cistercian, and of all the holy warriors of our Isle

of Saints. Nor is it only the song which the saints sang, but it is the

song that sings of the saints--the only song which cares to pour the

sweet odor of their memory over the year, or to spread around them its

melodious incense, as they too surround the throne of their Lord and King.

Again: a moral authority attaches to the Roman Ritual chant in the

very name _Gregorian_, by which it is so generally known. S. Gregory

was the first to collect it from the floating tradition in which it

existed in the church, and to digest it into that body of annual song

for the celebration of the Ritual which has come down to us. This work

came to be called after him, _Cantus Gregorianus_, and forms at this

day the substance of the Roman chant-books, enriched and added to by

the new offices and Masses that have since then been incorporated in

the Ritual. Nothing is known with any positive historical certainty as

to the authorship of the several pieces in the song-books; but as to

the main fact, that the music of the Ritual is the work of the greatest

saints of the church--of the Popes Leo, Damasus, Gelasius, and S. Gregory

himself--of many holy monks in the retirement of their cloisters--history

leaves no doubt. This fact, then, is beyond dispute: that the Roman

Ritual chant, which the present inquiry concerns, is the creation of the

saints of the Roman Church, for the decorum and solemnity of the public

celebration of the Liturgy.

And now, to come to the comparison: if to the adequate realization of

the divine idea of sacred song, as an instrument placed at the disposal

of the church, to aid in carrying out her work of sanctification and

instruction, the notion of a definite authority, both defining what

it should be, and prescribing and regulating the manner of its use,

necessarily belongs, the conclusion I think is that this authority is

found attaching itself to the Ritual chant; and, from the nature of the

case, it is incapable of attaching itself to the works of modern music.

First, because it would seem to be an inseparable principle as regards

their use, that every individual must be at liberty to ask for or to

demand their employment according to his own pleasure; and secondly,

because a positive authority can attach to that alone which exists in a

definite and tangible shape, which is far from being the case with the

works of modern music. They not only do not form a definite collection,

but, such as they are, are subject to perpetual change--that which is on

the surface to-day and admired, being to-morrow nauseated and condemned;

and hence there is no resting point whatever in them for the idea of a

positive authority.

And as regards the comparison on the score of moral authority, the

attempt to draw it will, I fear, touch upon delicate ground; for, to

confess the honest truth, it cannot be drawn without bringing to light

the degeneracy of our popular ideas respecting sacred music. Who is

there who seriously thinks of claiming for the works of modern music

any connection with the saints, past or present? or who is there who

either cares to ask for, or to attribute any character of sanctity to

its authors? or would even be likely to think very much the more highly

of the music if the fact of its saintly origin could be established? And

what kind of persons, for the most part, have its authors been? Mozart

died rejecting the last sacraments; Beethoven is supposed by his German

biographer, Schindler, to have been a pantheist during the greater part

of his life; Rink was a Protestant; Mendelssohn a Jew, who cared very

little for his Jewish faith; and the different _maestri di capella_ who

have been throughout Europe the chief composers of these works, were, for

the most part, also the directors of the theatres and opera-houses of

their royal patrons.

But enough has been said to make it evident upon how different a footing

the chant of the Ritual and the works of modern art respectively stand,

as regards moral and ecclesiastical authority.

RESPECTIVE CLAIM TO THE COMPLETENESS AND ORDER OF A SYSTEM.

The idea of a God Incarnate, manifesting himself in the nature of man on

earth, necessarily contains the idea of a system and order displayed in

his works. All apparent system, it is true, does not necessarily imply

God as its author; but absence of system and its consequence, positive

confusion and disorder, is undeniably a sign that the mind of the

Almighty is not there. If, then, the Catholic Church be the kingdom of

God Incarnate, and the abiding-place of his Spirit, it follows that her

song is a _system_, if God is at all to acknowledge it in any respect of

his own. But the idea of system leads at once to the Ritual song-books.

Modern art has not as yet furnished even the necessary materials out

of which to construct a system, not to speak of the hopelessness of

forming one, when the materials should exist. Do but remove the Ritual

chant from the church, and you remove a wonderful and perfect system,

which an order-loving mind takes pleasure in contemplating--one that

moves with the ecclesiastical year, that accompanies the Redeemer

from the annunciation of his advent, the Ave Maria of his coming in

the flesh, to his birth, his circumcision, his manifestation to the

Gentiles, his presentation and discourse with the learned doctors in

the Temple, his miraculous fast in the companionship of the wild beasts

in the wilderness, his last entry into his own city, his betrayal,

his institution of the Holy Eucharist, his agony in the garden, his

death upon the cross, his resurrection from the dead, his ascension

into heaven--a system of song which places around him, as jewels in a

crown, his chosen and sainted servants, as the stars which God set in

the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. _Cœli enarrant

gloriam Dei, et opera manuum ejus annuntiat firmamentum_--“The heavens

declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handiwork” (Ps.

xviii.) Yet if we saw the heavens only in the way in which we are treated

to the performances of modern music, the greater and the lesser light

occasionally changing places, after the manner of the vicissitudes of

Mozart and Haydn, the planets moving out of their orbits in indeterminate

succession, at the caprice of some archangel, as the organist changes

his motets and introits, the Psalmist would hardly have spoken of the

“_firmament showing God’s handiwork_.” Where is there a trace of order

and system in the use of the works of modern art? Where is the musician

who regards “duplex,” “semiduplex,” or “simplex”? Mozart in one church,

Haydn in another, Beethoven in a third, and a host of others whose name

is Legion, taken like lots from a bag, as whim or fancy may at the moment

direct, like the chaos described by the poet, where

“Callida cum frigidis pugnant, humentia siccis,

Mollia cum duris, sine pondere habentia pondus.”

--_Ovid, Metam._

But to approach the comparison. If in the divine idea of the Christian

song there is necessarily contained the notion of a working and efficient

system, the simple truth is, that there is no such system, either in the

works of modern music themselves, or in the manner of their use. On the

one side is the important fact, that the modern art of music leaves the

vastly larger portion of the Ritual without any music at all, embracing

positively not more than its merest fraction; on the other, the equally

great fact of a total absence of any thing like rule to determine their

selection. As a working system, then, full and complete in all its

points, the Ritual chant stands alone the only realization of that part

of the divine idea which contemplates order and system in the use of

Christian song.

RESPECTIVE MORAL FITNESS: I. AS A SACRIFICIAL SONG; II. AS A SONG FOR THE

OFFICES OF THE CHURCH.

I. _As a Sacrificial Song._

It has been already remarked that ecclesiastical song is not everything

or anything that is beautiful in music, nor merely a work of art. It

is, strictly speaking, a sacrificial chant, the song of those engaged

in offering sacrifice to God, _Tibi sacrificabo hostiam laudis_. Such

a song is obviously not any kind of song, but one that possesses a

moral type and character, rendering it a fit companion for the holy and

bloodless victim offered on the Christian altar; becoming an offering,

offered not to man, but to the ears of the Most High, and akin to the

solemnity of its subject--redemption from sin and death through the blood

and sufferings of a sinless victim, the crucified Son of God. The divine

idea may then, I think, be said to contemplate sacred song as possessing

a sacrificial character.

And the reason, if required, will appear, on considering to how great

an extent music possesses the remarkable gift of absorbing and becoming

possessed with an idea. When song has been successfully united to

language, the ideas contained in the latter are found to take possession

of the music, and to form the sound or tune into an image and reflection

of themselves, in a manner almost analogous to the way in which the mind

within moulds the outward features of the face, so as to make them an

index and expression of itself. What I mean by this alleged power of

music to absorb, and afterwards to express, ideas, even those the most

opposite to each other, may be exemplified, if an instance be wanted,

by contrasting any popular melody from the Roman Gradual, as the _Dies

Iræ_, or the _Stabat Mater_, with one of our popular street tunes,

“Cherry ripe,” or “Jim Crow”; and it will be seen at once, on humming

over these tunes, with what perfect truth and to how great an extent

music is able to ally itself to the most opposite ideas, and how, through

the ear, it has the power, not merely to convey them to the mind, but to

leave them there, firmly and vividly impressed. If, then, by virtue of

this power, music may, on the one hand, become the channel of the most

exquisite profaneness in divine worship, so it certainly may, on the

other, contribute wonderfully to its majesty and power of attraction.

And since the music of the field of battle, the military march, and the

roll of the drum, has a character not shared by other kinds, as the song

of the banquet, and of the dance, of the drunkard over his cups, of

the peasant at his plough, of the sailor at sea, of the village maiden

at her home, have each their own stamp and form: so also in the song

of Christian worship, God will regard it as the song of men offering

sacrifice to himself, as having a character inherent in its subject--the

life, sufferings, and death of him who died to take away the sins of the

world--in a word, as a sacrificial chant.

Now that a sacrificial chant has in all ages accompanied the offering

of sacrifice, is a truth to which history, if examined, will be found

to bear abundant testimony. In the sacrifice described by Virgil in the

Æneid,

“pueri innuptæque puellæ

Sacra canunt.”

When, at the command of Nehemias, on the return of the captive Jews

from Babylon, sacrifice was solemnly offered after their custom in

Jerusalem, the priests, it is said (2 Machab. i. 30), _sang psalms until

the burnt-offering was wholly consumed_. Nor is it the whole truth to

say that this sacrificial chant has passed over in its more perfect

reality to the Christian Church, but even in the Song of Heaven among the

redeemed, the sacrificial character still continues, a point well worthy

of the notice of those who are so confident that the type of the modern

music is alone that which is found in heaven. “And they [the twenty-four

ancients] sang a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and

open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God

by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation.”

If, then, the ideas which suggest themselves and arise naturally on

reflecting upon what, in the nature of things, would be the type and

character of the Christian sacrificial chant; if these ideas find

themselves absorbed, then expressed, embodied, and brought out into life

and being in the music of the ecclesiastical chant; and if, on the other

hand, they are not to be found in the variety of modern compositions

such as are now in partial use;[141] if it be possible to conceive our

Lord’s apostles, upon the supposition that they could return to the

earth, standing up in any church of Christendom to sing the song of the

Ritual in honor of the Holy Sacrifice, and in company with the celebrant

priest;[142] and if there be something obviously unbecoming in the mere

thought of their taking bass or tenor in such music as that of Mozart’s

or Haydn’s masses, neither of which will be denied; then, I think, it

is not extravagant to infer that the Plain Chant of the Ritual is far

the most adequate fulfilment of that part of the divine idea which

contemplates Christian music as a sacrificial song.

II. _Fitness for the Offices of the Church._

With regard to the fitness of the ecclesiastical chant for the offices of

the church, it must be remarked, that the ideas of the modern musician

touching the use of music in the church are very widely removed from

those of the fathers of the church. In their idea, a church-singer would

somewhat answer to what would be a ballad-singer in the world, inasmuch

as he has a great deal to convey to his hearers in the way of narrative.

Almighty God has been pleased to work many wonderful works, and the

fathers of the church appointed singers for the churches, to celebrate

these works in song, in order that the people who came to worship, or

even the heathens who came as spectators, might hear and learn something

of the works of the Lord Jehovah, into whose house they had come.

What can be more reasonable than this? “_My song shall be of all thy

marvellous works_,” says the Psalmist. But, according to the notions of

a modern musician, if a Brahmin priest, or the Turkish ambassador, were

to come to Mass, and to hear a choral performance, in which the concord

of voices should be most ravishingly beautiful, but in which not a single

one of the marvellous works of God could be understood from the concert,

he is still to consider that he has heard the perfection of Christian

music, and ought, according to them, to go away converted. Out of two so

contradictory notions one must necessarily be chosen as the one which

best answers to the divine idea. And if persons are prepared to say that

the ideas of the fathers are become antiquated, and that they would have

acted differently had they known better, they are certainly called upon

to make this good.

But, in the meantime, it will be both reasonable and pious to acquiesce

in the belief that the fathers acted in conformity with the divine idea,

and under the direction of God’s Holy Spirit, in appointing a song for

the church, in which the marvellous and merciful works of God might be

set forth in a charming, becoming, and perfectly intelligible manner,

for the instruction of the people. A serious person, when he goes into

the house of God, is supposed to go there with the intention of learning

something respecting God, and it is to be supposed that Almighty God

desires to see every church in such a condition as that the people

who frequent it may learn all that they need to know respecting God

and his works. To this use the fathers employed chant, and considered

that it was, by the will of God, to be employed to this end. If any

candid and serious person will take the trouble to examine the language

and sentiments of the Ritual apart from its musical notation, he will

be struck with it as a complete manual of popular theology. He will

see that it is full of the works of God, the knowledge of which is

the food of the faithful soul, particularly among the poor and the

unlearned. Next let him examine its notation in song, as contained in

the Gradual and Antiphonary, and he will be struck with a solemnity,

beauty, and force of melody fitted to convey to the people the words of

inspiration, to which melody was annexed in order that they might be

the better relished, and pass current the more easily. And lastly, let

him consider them, in both these respects, as forming one united whole,

and he cannot refuse to acknowledge the fitness of the chant which the

fathers selected for the purpose they had in view. Musicians must be

equitable enough to abstain from complaining of a work on the score of

its unisonous recitative character, if they will not be at the pains to

understand or to sympathize with the end for which it was formed and

destined. Have the fathers ever troubled themselves to criticise what was

innocent and allowable in the world’s music? Then why should musicians

go out of the way to find imaginary faults with that of which they seem

indisposed to consider either the use or the efficacy? The church chant

was framed generations before they and their art were known; and it has

helped to train up whole nations in the faith, and fulfilled its end to

the unbounded satisfaction of the fathers, who adopted, enlarged, and

consolidated it into the form in which it has come down to us, and may

therefore claim a truce to such criticism.

But here, again, the comparison fails for want of a competitor, and

we are again brought back to the fact that the works of modern art

embrace too small a fraction of the whole Liturgy to be in a condition to

challenge any comparison. And could the comparison be admitted, it would

still remain to insist on the equally certain truth of experience that

the idea of a lengthened and continual recitation of the works of God,

intended to be popularly intelligible, is one unsuited to the employment

on any great scale of even the simplest counterpoint vocal harmonies,

and fundamentally averse to the prevailing use of the canon and fugue of

modern musical science.

RESPECTIVE FITNESS TO PASS AMONG THE PEOPLE AS A CONGREGATIONAL SONG.

Upon this point of the comparison the result, I think, will be tolerably

obvious, if it be admitted that the divine idea contemplates the chant

of the church as designed to pass to some considerable extent among the

people in the form of congregational singing. It will not, however, be

out of place to show briefly on what grounds this assumption rests.

1. Almighty God has created in people a strong love for congregational

psalmody, and has attached to it peculiar feelings possessed of an

influence far more powerful for good than the somewhat isolated pleasure

that the musician feels on hearing beautiful artificial music, inasmuch

as congregational singing is a common voice of prayer and praise; and

being, as Christians, members one of another, in congregational psalmody

we gain a foretaste of heaven, where it will be far more perfect.

2. There are obvious benefits arising from it. It is an union of prayer

and praise, and as such is more powerful with God. It kindles in the

individual a livelier sense of Christian fellowship. It is a voice that

expresses the union of the many members in the one body; many voices, one

sound.

3. The argument from history. The worship of God has always been that of

congregational psalmody; and where trained choirs of singers existed,

their song was always such as to admit of the people at times taking

part with them. This is an undeniable fact of history. “Then sang _Moses

and the children of Israel_ this song unto the Lord” (Exodus xv.) “Then

_sang Israel_ this song, Spring up, O well, sing ye unto it, etc.”

(Numbers xxi. 17). The psalm CXXXV. was composed for the people to sing

the chorus. The Book of Psalms is a kind of historical testimony, in many

of its passages, to the fact of that congregational song to which it so

often exhorts. Fleury, in his _History of the Manners of the Jews and

Christians_ (page 143), acknowledges congregational song as a fact among

both. He cites the testimony of S. Basil, that all the people in his time

sang in the churches--men, women, and children--and he compares their

voices to the waters of the sea. S. Gregory of Nazianzen compares them to

thunder. But it is impossible to conceive such to have been the practice

both of Jews and Christians, without inferring that it was so with the

approbation of Almighty God.

4. The apostles and the fathers of the church have sanctioned it.

“Teaching and admonishing yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual

songs, singing with melody in your hearts unto the Lord” (Col. iii. 16).

“Wherefore, since these things are so, let us with the more confidence

give ourselves to the work of song, considering that we have obtained a

great grace of Almighty God, to whom it has been given, in company with

so many and so great saints, the prophets, and the martyrs, to celebrate

the marvellous works of the eternal God.”--_An old author in the first

volume of Gerbert’s Scriptores Musici._

“Quocunque te vertis, arator stivam tenens Alleluia decantat, sudans

messor Psalmis se evocat, et curva attollens vitem falce vinator

aliquid Davidicum cantat. Hæc sunt in provincia nostra carmina, hæc

ut vulgo dicitur amatoriæ cantationes, hic pastorum sibilus, hæc arma

culturæ.”--“Wherever you turn, the laborer at his plough sings an

alleluia; the reaper sweating under his work refreshes himself with a

psalm: the vinedresser in his vineyard will sing a passage from the

Psalmist. These are the songs of our part of the world. These are, as

people say, our love-songs. This is the piping of our shepherds, and

these are the arms of our laborers.”--_S. Jerome, Epist. 17 ad Marcellum._

“Alas!” observes Mgr. Parisis, upon this passage of S. Jerome, “where are

now the families who seek to enliven the often dangerous leisure of long

winter’s evenings with the songs of the Catholic Liturgy; where are the

workshops in which an accent may be heard borrowed from the remembrance

of our divine offices; where are the country parishes which are edified

and rejoiced by the sweet and pious sounds which in the times of S.

Jerome echoed through the fields and vineyards?”[143]

S. Augustine: “As for congregational psalmody, what better employment can

there be for a congregation of people met together, what more beneficial

to themselves, or more holy and well-pleasing to God, I am wholly unable

to conceive?”--_Letter to Januarius, towards the end._

A passage of S. Chrysostom, exhorting the people to psalmody, will be

found elsewhere. It is unnecessary to do more than to refer to the

example of S. Basil and S. Ambrose, encouraging their people in the same

manner; to which may be added a passage from the life of S. Germanus:

“Pontificis monitis, psallit plebs, clerus et infans.”

_Venantius, vita S. Germani._

Lastly, the _moral_ reason of the thing.

This is expressed by S. Basil in the words: “O wonderful wisdom of the

teacher! who hath contrived that we _should both sing_, and therewith

learn that which is good.”

Now, if it be considered that Providence could not possibly have meant

that the people at large should be formed into singing classes, in order

to be initiated into the mysteries of minim and crotchet, tenor and bass,

and that the _one_ only practical means of bringing them to pick up by

ear the more popular parts of the church chant is by encouraging, as the

system of the Ritual chant does, that clear enunciation of language and

melody which easily fixes itself upon the ear, and which the prevalence

of unison singing gives;[144] it follows at once that the only hope of

procuring general congregational singing in the worship of the Catholic

Church lies in the increased use and zealous propagation of the unison

execution of the Ritual chant. Experience is clear to the point that the

use of the works of modern art, with their rapid movements, elaborate

fugues, scientific combinations of sound, necessarily tends to stifle the

voices of the people, and this is certainly not the will of our merciful

God.

Now, if this be the case, I do not see how we are to avoid the

conclusion, that any extensive use of these works of modern art tends

to the clear frustration and the making void one great and important

popular end, viz., congregational singing, which the divine idea

contemplates in the song of the church, and which, in the song of the

Ritual, is efficiently realized, as the history of the progress of the

faith abundantly testifies. Might it not, then, be well that those who

advocate the continued cultivation of these elaborate works of art should

consider the full meaning of Mardocheus’ prayer, _Ne claudas ora te

canentium_: “Shut not the mouth of them that sing thy praise, O Lord”

(Esther xiii. 17).

RESPECTIVE MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER.

The influence upon the mind of sounds that habitually surround the ear

is a fact well known to all moralists. “Whosoever,” says Plato, in

his treatise _De Republicâ_, quoted by Gerbert, “is in the habit of

permitting himself to listen habitually to music, and to allow his mind

to be engaged and soothed by it, pouring in the sweet sounds before

alluded to through the ears, as through an orifice, soft, soothing,

luscious, and plaintive, consuming his life in tunes that fascinate

his soul; when he does this to an excess, he then begins to weaken,

to unstring, and to enervate his understanding, until he loses his

courage, and roots all vigor out of the mind.” Cicero observes, “Nihil

tam facile in animos teneros atque molles influere quam varios canendi

sonos, quorum vix dici potest quanta sit vis in utramque partem; namque

et incitat languentes, et languefacit excitatos, et tum remittit animos,

tum contrahit” (lib. ii. _De Legibus_). These remarks seem very much to

have their exemplification at this day in the effeminate tone and temper

of polished society in all the nations of Europe, who seem to be befooled

with their love for pretty airs and opera music. Now, if the fathers,

observing this power of music insensibly to mould and form the character,

and acting, as it is more than pious to believe, under the guidance of

the Holy Spirit, that his divine intention might be fulfilled, designed

the song of the church to form a character very different from that

of the musical voluptuary--one who was to be no cowardly skulker from

the good fight of faith, but the soldier of Jesus Christ, the disciple

patiently taking up his cross and following his crucified Master--those

who do not participate in these ideas ought not to wonder that they

find so little in the church chant with which they can sympathize; but

above all let them at least have the modesty not to blame the fathers of

the church for adapting it, after their wisdom, to a purpose the need

for which they do not comprehend. The historian Fleury has a pertinent

remark: “Je laisse à ceux qui sont savants en musique à examiner si dans

notre Plain Chant il reste encore quelque trace de cette antiquité [he is

speaking of the force of character of the old chant]; car notre musique

moderne semble en être fort eloignée” (Fleury, _Mœurs des Chrétiens_,

page xliii.)--“I leave to those who are versed in music to determine

whether there remain any traces of this ancient vigor in our Plain Chant;

for our modern music seems very far from it.”

Is it a thing to be wondered at if the Christian Israel’s Song of the

Cross should have in it something a little strange to the ear of Babylon?

Or are we to content ourselves with the conclusion that nothing but what

is dainty and nice, nothing but that which is as nearly like the world

as possible, will go down with Christian people? On the contrary, is

it not to be presumed that the multitudes, with whom, in the main, the

Christian teacher’s duty lies, are of that sickly, degenerate tone of

mind that nauseates the strong, peculiar, and supplicating energy of the

ecclesiastical chant?

But on this point the comparison may be drawn in the words of Mgr.

Parisis:

“External to the Ritual chant, that is to say, the Gregorian, or Plain

Chant, little else is now known except the works of modern music, that

is to say, a music essentially favoring what people have agreed to call

_sensualism_. It is this, almost exclusively this, which, under the

austere title of sacred music, is sought to be introduced into our sacred

offices. Now, without desiring to enter deeply into the matter, we need

but few words to point out how grievously it is misplaced.

“Worldly music agitates and seeks to agitate, because the world seeks

its pleasure in stir and change. The church, on the contrary, seeks for

melodies that pray and incline to prayer. The church cannot wish for any

others, since her worship has no other object than prayer.

“In vain will it be said that this is the work of one of the greatest

masters, that it is a scientific and a sublime composition; it may

be all this for the world--it is nothing at all of this for the

church. And especially when this worldly music, by its thrilling

cadences or impassioned character, leads directly to light ideas,

sensual satisfactions, and dangerous recollections, it is not only a

contradiction in the house of God, but a formal scandal.” (_Instruction

Pastorale_, p. 45)

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

It is now many years since, during a summer ramble, I found myself at

A----k, now nothing more than a hamlet in population, but retaining

traces of having once been a place of very considerable importance, and

boasting of very remote antiquity. The remains of the wall are, indeed,

locally attributed to the Romans, probably because they are lofty and

very strong, and it is the habit of ignorant people to refer all great

works to that wonderful people. In this instance, however, tradition is

certainly wrong, as the walls bear unmistakable evidence of mediæval

origin, being in parts much enriched with Gothic work.

The little town stands on a plateau enclosed between a bend of the Rhine

and the steep bluff on which the ruins of an old castle stand perched,

equally watching the little burgh below and the counterpart castle on the

opposite side of the Rhine at its next bend.

The eagles that once lived in and sought their prey from that lofty nest

have long since crumbled into dust and have even passed from the memory

of man, leaving for sole representatives the choughs and the crows, and

perhaps a jolly old owl to keep up revelry at night.

The horses that those old knights rode must have been of a sure-footed

breed, for it is hard to conceive how any quadruped, save a goat, could

have mounted the path I scrambled up among the vines; but it is with the

village and the village church that we have to do.

Who built the Rhine churches?

They all, with a few exceptions, are strikingly alike; though varying in

size, number of towers, and many other particulars, they have mostly a

strict resemblance in general conception and detail. To cite an instance:

The cathedral at Coblentz might stand as the type of twenty others;

instead of being individual and standing out alone--an effort of genius

like Cologne, Strasbourg, Notre Dame, Ely, or Winchester--they have all

the same resemblance to one another that a little oak has to a big one.

The church at A----k was no exception. Cathedral it might almost be

called from its great size; but there was no bishop there, and it was

only a parish church! With its three great towers, vast nave, long

aisles, and noble choir, it seemed as if it might well hold all the

population for many miles around, and the extremely small congregation

that were present at the celebration of the High Mass that morning

appeared ridiculously out of proportion. It was a high festival--the

Annunciation--it is therefore to be assumed that the bulk of the

population were there, and the High Mass was at the somewhat early hour

of half-past five!

After the Mass was over, and the last peal of the organ had died away,

and the patter of the last footstep been lost in the distance, as it

still wanted a considerable time to my breakfast hour, I strolled round

the great empty church. There seemed to be nothing of value in it. If

it had ever possessed any of the treasures of art, they had probably

perished or been carried away during the long wars that devastated the

country after the period of the Reformation, for I found nothing worthy

of notice. I had just concluded to leave the church when my eye was

arrested by what I took to be an accident which had happened to the

crucifix on one of the side altars. At first I supposed that it had

received a blow which had nearly broken off the right arm of the figure.

On looking more closely I perceived that it was evidently of great

age, and the arm I supposed to be broken stood out from the cross at a

considerable angle, and hung about half way down the side, the nail by

which it had once been attached still remaining in the hand.

Whilst I was still wondering as to the nature of the accident which had

befallen the quaintly-carved crucifix a quiet and pleasant voice roused

me from my revery.

“I see, sir, that you are examining our curious old crucifix!”

Turning round I recognized the old priest who had sung Mass, and

encouraged by his amiable manner and address, I stated the matter I had

been pondering over, and asked for an explanation.

“There has been no accident,” said he; “the distortion which you notice

in the right arm has existed far beyond the memory of man.

“The figure is carved out of some very hard wood, and all out of a single

block--there being no joining in any part of it.”

Still more astonished, I asked what could have been the motive of

representing the Saviour in so strange an attitude; the more, as the hole

for the nail still remaining in the hand was still to be seen plainly in

the wood, whilst the hand was in the position in which it would have been

had it just struck a blow.

“That is a curious story, and is, in fact, the only legend I know of

connected with this church.

“The crucifix is held in great reverence, and people come from great

distances to pray before it. As I see you are a stranger, perhaps you

will partake of an old man’s breakfast, whilst you listen to him as he

relates the traditional story, which being connected with this church,

where he has grown old, he regards as almost peculiarly his own. Besides,

the story is too long to be listened to either standing or fasting.”

Thanking the good priest for his kind offer, I followed him into the

little presbytery almost adjoining the church, where we were soon seated

on each side of a little table taking off the edge of our appetites with

eggs, coffee, and rolls.

When we had somewhat appeased our craving, the good man commenced, saying:

“The tradition of which I have to speak dates back a long way, and has

at least so much of authenticity about it as attaches to the undoubted

antiquity of the crucifix itself, and to the fact that, for many

generations at least, no other account has been current.

“My grandfather used to tell it to me when an infant on his knee, and

said that he had heard it from his grandfather in the same way.

“In which of the many wars which have scourged this unfortunate land

since the rebel monk Luther brought the curse of religious dissension

upon it, the circumstances which I am about to relate occurred, I am

unable to determine; for the traditions, which agree in all other points,

differ on this.

“On the whole I incline to the one which places these events during

the period of Gustavus Adolphus’ invasion, and attribute them to the

particular band which was led by his lieutenant Oxenstiern, who certainly

did sack the place. This would place it at more than two hundred years

ago, and it certainly is not more recent.

“At that period there lived in A----k a widow and her daughter. They were

very poor, belonging to the peasant class, and supported themselves in

winter by spinning; and when the spring came round, they would go off to

the steep mountain-sides, where they helped to dress the vines or gather

the vintage, according to the season.

“They never went to distant vineyards, because the mother, having in her

youth met with a severe accident, was unable, from its effects, to walk

far. There was also another reason: for Gretchen, who was the prettiest

girl for many miles around, was also the best, and never failed, winter

or summer, to hear Mass and to spend some time in prayer before that very

crucifix which has attracted your attention.

“There was, no doubt, some older tradition about its origin, for it had a

great reputation for sanctity even then; this tradition, whatever it may

have been, seems, however, to have been swallowed up by the overwhelming

interest of the subsequent event, which I am about to relate.

“All accounts agree that when Gretchen first worshipped there the

crucifix had nothing unusual about it to distinguish it from any other,

except its artistic merit.

“The hand was then nailed to the cross. There, however, kneeling in front

of it, wrapped in prayer, this young girl spent all the time she could

spare from the humble duties of her life.

“She milked the cow, the one valuable possession of her mother, who had

the right of common; she washed the clothes, cooked and did the work

about her mother’s house, and acted as her crutch as she climbed the

steep paths of the vineyard--for, in spite of her lameness, she was a

skilful vinedresser--in short, she was all in all to her only parent.

“With all this labor and care Gretchen grew in grace and beauty; and

though so devout, she was as bright and cheerful and winning in her ways

as the most worldly of her young companions.

“Never, however, could she be tempted to go to any of the merry-makings

or harvest-homes or vintage feasts that were held at a distance; her

invariable answer was, ‘My mother cannot walk so far.’

“She had many suitors; and admirers came from a great distance.

“To all Gretchen was equally kind and considerate; but to none did she

show any sort of preference, so that all the youths for many miles on

both sides of the Rhine were pulling caps for her.

“Thus things went on till she was nineteen, when, to the great surprise

of all, she was seen to take up with and give a decided preference to the

attentions of a young stranger who had been in the place only a few weeks.

“The favored youth was a journeyman clockmaker from Nuremberg, who was

going through his year of wandering, and was at the moment settled in the

town, working for the only tradesman in his line of business in the place.

“A----k was then much more populous, as you may well suppose, being able

to support such a trade.

“This youth, whose name was Gotliebe Hunning, was handsome and showy,

wearing his hair in long locks down his back, and spending much of his

earnings in dress. He sung, played the guitar, and was reputed wild,

though no harm could be alleged against him.

“The old folks shook their heads, and deplored that so sweet and modest a

girl as Gretchen should be seen so much with a roisterer like Gotliebe.

“Somehow it had been no sin to sing and be gay like God’s unreasoning

creatures before the sour times of Calvin, Huss, and Luther; but though

their errors had not penetrated here to any great extent, something of

their acid had been imparted to the leaven of life.

“So things were, however, and all the time that Gretchen gave to

pleasure--which was little enough, poor child, for they were very poor

and her mother was very helpless--she spent with this handsome, clever

youth; not that she abandoned her devotion, or was less frequently

prostrated before the crucifix; for indeed, if possible, she was found

there more than ever. Still, the gossips shook their heads and remarked

upon it.

“One would say, ‘Ah! I never trusted that meek manner of hers. I always

knew she would surprise us some day, and here it is! It is always so with

the very good ones!’ ‘Ay, ay,’ her neighbor would say, ‘cat will after

cream! And Eve has left her mark upon the best of them! The girl is a

girl like other young things; but I did hope better things of Gretchen,

so well brought up as she has been!’--thus they ran on.

“Soon, however, it began to be said that Gotliebe was sobering down; he

frequented the tavern less, never danced except with Gretchen, sang less

and worked more.

“He was admitted to be a master of his craft, and when it became known

that he was engaged in all his leisure hours in making a great clock--the

very one the chimes of which you were admiring--for the church, there

was less head-shaking, and more talk about Gretchen’s luck in making so

great a catch. Still he made no change in his showy dress, and indeed

I think that genius, at least in art, often shows itself in that way,

and tradition testifies that he was no mean proficient in the art he

practised, of which indeed we still have proof every hour.

“Then it began to be observed that Gotliebe was frequently in the church

with Gretchen, and had become a regular attendant at Mass. Still, things

went on in the same way and no betrothal was spoken of, until, after the

war had again broken out and seemed to be drifting this way, it suddenly

became known that Gretchen had consented to be married to Gotliebe

without loss of time, and that he was to take a house and her mother was

to move into it.

“In this remote place, far from any of the great avenues of trade--for

vessels usually passed it by, no great roads branching off here, and

there being no steamboats invented--news came doubtfully and seldom, and

war was at the very door at a moment when only distant rumors had reached

A----k.

“However, to return to Gretchen and Gotliebe: You may be sure that what

goes on now went on then, and that all the busybodies were agog as to

what they were to live upon; how she was to be dressed, and who were to

be the bridemaids; but as the world spins round in spite of the flies

that buzz about it, so they went their way regardless of all that was

said about them.

“In the meantime, the rumors grew more frequent and more particular

concerning the cloud of war which was every day drifting nearer and

nearer, until the dark mass seemed ready at any moment to burst upon the

unfortunate village itself.

“Indeed, news came from neighboring towns and villages that they had

been taken and burned by the heretic Swedes, and tales, no doubt often

exaggerated, of the violent and dissolute conduct of Oxenstiern’s

troopers, kept every one in terror.

“Affairs were in this threatening condition when the wedding-morning

came; and, as the story was, though Gretchen had little to spend on

dress, no art and no expense could have produced a lovelier bride than

stood before the altar of the Crucifix that morning. She wore nothing but

a simple dress of white, and a wreath of apple-blossoms, for the trees

were just then in flower.

“The wedding-bells were ringing, and the humble bridal-party had just

reached the house which Gotliebe had taken, when cannon were heard, and a

band of fierce Swedish soldiers rushed into the village.

“The firing proceeded from an attack upon the castle, which still stands

at about a mile from this place, and the invaders of the village were

army followers and a few of the more dissolute of Oxenstiern’s soldiery,

who, encountering the bridal-party, at once interrupted its progress,

treating the bridemaids rudely; and one of them, who threw his arms

around Gretchen, was immediately struck down by Gotliebe, who, as before

said, was a spirited youth.

“One of the invaders, without a moment’s hesitation, struck him lifeless,

and attempted to seize the bride, who, with a shriek, fled and took

refuge in the church.

“Thither Gretchen was pursued by the band; and when after many hours

the troops were withdrawn, and the priest, with a few of the boldest of

his flock, ventured into the sacred edifice, they found the high altar

desecrated, the sacred vessels gone, and other sacrileges committed,

which filled them with horror; but on turning to the altar of the

Crucifix, they found the bride prostrate before it, either in a trance

or ecstasy, with the soldier who had pursued her lying with his skull

broken, and his iron head-piece smashed in as though a sledge-hammer had

struck it, and the arm of the crucifix distorted as you see it now.

“On being questioned, the young widow could only say: ‘God has protected

me!’

“The poor mother only lingered a day or two afterwards, and was borne to

the grave at the same time as the unfortunate Gotliebe.

“Gretchen never knew, or would not say, more than I have repeated of what

had occurred at the altar of the Crucifix. It was unplundered!

“The people, however, all said that God, who had borne the insults and

profanation directed against himself at the high altar, had interposed

when the virtue of a pure virgin was threatened, and had himself, by

the hand of his image, smitten the would-be violator dead, leaving the

distorted arm as an admonition for ever.”

We were both silent after this recital, and for some moments toyed with

the fragments of our breakfast.

At length, raising my head, I asked: “And you, father--do you believe

this tale?”

A sweet, soft smile hovered about his lips, as he replied: “Nothing in

which the goodness of God is instanced is hard for me to believe! He is

less ready to show his anger, so that, though we live in the midst of his

wonders, we have got so used to them that it is said that there are those

who deny his existence.”

This was said as if to himself. Then, speaking more collectedly, he

continued:

“You English would rather believe in ghosts and devils than in the good

God. Whence do you suppose they derive their existence and their power?”

I assured him that I was of the same faith as himself, and only asked

because I wished to have the opinion of a cultivated man on the subject

of this particular legend, which had greatly interested me, and of which

there remained so singular an evidence.

After a moment’s pause, he said:

“Think of the facts yourself, sir. This tradition, which is certainly

very old, is either true in its main features or it was made to fit the

crucifix. Assume this last to be the case, how did so singular an image

come into existence? Made to hang the tradition upon? Scarcely in so

small a community, where all must have known each other. Besides, it is a

work of art, and I have been told that as such it is of rare merit. Such

a work could hardly have been produced for an unworthy object, and would

have been difficult to substitute for one of inferior workmanship. If I

called it a legend, it is because it has an air of romance about it. But

God is good, and does what he pleases!”

I had nothing more to say; so I asked what had become of Gretchen, and

was told that she had been taken as a lay sister in the small convent at

the head of the valley, whence she had continued, to the very day of her

death, to come and pray at the foot of the crucifix, where in fact she

was at last found dead, in her eighty-seventh year, and that during the

whole time she had been regarded as a saint.

“The altar,” he resumed, “is universally regarded with great reverence,

and is always spoken of as the Altar of Succor to a very considerable

distance up and down the Rhine, and the unusual number of models in wax

or wood which you see hanging before it indicate how special favors are

reputed to have been granted there.”

“I noticed them,” I replied, “when first I entered Belgium, where I saw

many. I was much struck with what I thought the singular idea of offering

a leg in wax to obtain the cure of lameness, an eye for blindness, and so

on.”

“I perceive, sir,” said the good priest, “that you have fallen into the

error of mistaking cause for effect. These models and tokens are in no

case hung before the altar until after the cure prayed for has been

effected, when it is the pious custom of the people to commemorate the

blessing they have received--much as one out of the ten lepers cured by

our Lord did--by showing gratitude, that all may see what he has done for

them.

“Some of these emblems,” continued he, “have curious histories attached

to them, whose events have occurred under my own eye.

“I will give you one instance only, not to be tedious.

“Did you notice a small bottle amongst the objects we speak of?”

I acknowledged that I had not done so, having paid little attention to

them.

“Well, there is one there at all events, which I myself attached to the

bunch, under the following circumstances:

“Some years ago, two brothers, both young men, were leaving a wharf

some miles up the river, at twilight. The steamer having landed its

passengers, was on the point of starting, when the elder of the two

remonstrated with his brother upon the condition in which he found him;

in fact, the youth was addicted to drinking, and gave much trouble to his

elder brother, who was a remarkably steady young man. I will not mention

their names, as both are living; but for convenience will call the elder

Fritz and the younger Carl.

“Carl was given to be quarrelsome in his cups, and on this occasion was

more so than usual, and began to struggle with his brother, who wanted to

get him on board, as the boat was in the act of starting; in doing so,

however, he lost his balance, and they fell into the water together.

“Carl, with the luck which is proverbially attributed to drunkards, was

almost immediately pulled out by those who had seen the accident. Fritz,

however, appeared to have been carried away by the current, all search

proving in vain.

“Carl, now completely sobered, was terribly afflicted, as he was deeply

attached to his brother, and remembering the traditional sanctity of the

Altar of Succor, he started off and walked all night, and, wet as he

was, threw himself at the foot of the altar. There he remained for some

hours; whilst prostrate there, another man came in and knelt beside him.

“It is always rather dark at that side altar, which, being situated in

the north aisle, was darker still at that hour of the morning.

“I had observed the prostrate man soon after the church had been opened

in the morning. When next I passed I saw him prostrate still, with

another kneeling beside him.

“Thinking there might be something wrong, I went up, and stooping, laid

my hand upon his shoulder; he was wet, and a shiver ran through him at

my touch. To my surprise I saw that there was a pool of water round the

kneeling man.

“At my touch the man raised himself, exclaiming, as he did so, ‘Yes, I

did it; but I did not mean it! Take me if you will!’

“Before I could explain, the other rose to his feet, exclaiming, in a

voice of great emotion, ‘Carl!’ In an instant the brothers were in each

other’s arms, and explanations were made. It appears that Fritz went down

at once, and, being unable to swim, was borne down for some distance

under water. On coming to the surface his head came in contact with some

substance which he instinctively grasped; it was wood, and was large

enough to enable him to keep his head above water. He drifted down the

current till, almost dead with cold, he found himself cast ashore at a

bend of the river.

“He was glad to find a cottage door open, where he was welcomed to warm

himself and to share the peasants’ humble meal. There also he learned

that he was not far from A----k and the wonderful Altar of Succor, and

at once resolved to come here, moved by gratitude for his escape, and

anxiety for his brother, of whose fate he was of course ignorant.

“A year passed, and one morning Carl called upon me, and I then fully

learned the particulars I have just related.

“At his request I attached the small bottle to the other tokens, in

gratitude, as he said, for the victory there granted to him over the evil

habit which must, otherwise, have rendered his life a curse.

“He also left a sum of money for the poor, and told me that his brother

and himself were both married, and living as prosperous merchants at a

considerable town lower down the Rhine.

“Go thou and do likewise!” added the good priest, laughing as we shook

hands at parting.

WHY NOT?

I knelt before the altar-rail

One holy festal morning,

As to and fro the sexton moved,

The holy place adorning.

Now vases, bright with ruby hues,

He places on the altar,

And now the flowers! O gorgeous sight!

“Good sexton,” I did falter,

“But for one instant let me smell

Those odors which, like vapor

From censer, rising, lift--” “Smell! marm--

They’re only made o’ paper!”

And now the golden candlesticks,

With candles like to rockets,

Lighting afar, quoth he: “Tin, marm:

The candles are in the sockets!”

Yet there I see a hundred more

With blessed tapers burning.

O happy bees! Lo! here he comes,

From sacristy returning,

With basket filled with precious load

Of many more for decking

The candelabra round the “throne.”

Said I, his pathway checking:

“Oh! lift for me the basket-lid;

I’ll only humbly peer in

And see the blessed wax!” “Sakes! marm

Not wax, but only stearine!”

Oh! sparkle brightly, olive star,

In lamp inscribed with Latin:

“Sweet oil! whose unction--” “Guess not, marm:

The gas is turned on that ’un!”

“Devotion dims my pious view,

And speech within me throttles,

To see those sacred relics--” “Them?

Them’s ’pothecary bottles!”

“Now don’t you go a-pokin’ round

Your nose to find ‘abuses’;

We’ll let you know we has these things

Because--because we chooses!”

ON THE WAY TO LOURDES.

CONCLUDED.

Leaving Lectoure, the railway keeps along the valley of the Gers, a

branch of the Garonne several shades yellower than the Tiber. The sides

of the road are covered with _genêt_, or broom, loaded with yellow

blossoms--the emblem of the Plantagenets, to whom this part of France

was once subject. It is not long before we come to Mount St. Cricq at

the left, where, in the IVth century, the glorious S. Oren, the apostle

of the country, demolished a temple of Apollo-Belen, and set up an altar

to the only true and uncreated Light under the invocation of S. Quiricus

(S. Cyr) and S. Julitta. The church is now gone. A windmill stands near

its site, the only prominent object on the hill, which is as bald and

parched as if Apollo had claimed it for his own again.

Auch now comes in sight, built on a height, and crowned with the towers

of its noble cathedral. The sides of the hill are covered with houses,

whose arched galleries are open to the sun and pure mountain air, and

gay with vines and flowers. The terraces before them look like hanging

gardens, which give a charming freshness to the picturesque old city. The

Gers flows along at the foot of the hill as quietly as when Fortunatus

sang of its sluggishness centuries ago. We cross it, and gain access to

the city by one of the long, narrow, steep, sunless staircases of stone,

called _pousterles_, which remind us of Naples and Perugia. The place,

in fact, is quite Italian in its whole aspect. As we ascend one of these

flights we see, away up at the top, a large iron cross with all the

emblems of the Passion in the centre of the landing-place, and we feel as

if we were ascending some _Calvaire_. There is a broad modern staircase,

much more grand and elegant, but not so interesting, dignified by the

imposing term of _escalier monumental_, which takes one up a more gradual

and less weary way of two hundred and thirty-two steps--something rather

formidable, however, for the fat and scant o’ breath!

These old cities, built on heights for greater security, were powerful

holds in the Middle Ages, and all have their history. Their towers are

all scarred over with fearful tragedies, relieved here and there by some

flower of sweet romance or saintly legend.

Auch was in ancient times called Climberris, the stronghold of the

_Ausci_, who dwelt here before the Roman conquest--descendants of the

Iberians from the Caucasian regions, who left their country and settled

in Spain and this side of the Pyrenees. The chief city of the most

civilized people of the country, a Roman settlement under the Cæsars,

the most important place in Novempopulania, the capital of the Counts

of Fezensac and Armagnac in the Middle Ages, and a wealthy influential

see, whose archbishops took part in all the great movements of the

day, Auch was from early times a place of no small importance, however

insignificant now.

When Cæsar’s lieutenant, Publius Crassus, took possession of the country,

he established a Roman colony on the banks of the Algersius, and the

Ausci, descending from their heights, it became so flourishing that

it received the imperial name of Augusta Auscorum, and was one of the

few cities of the land to which the Roman emperors accorded the Latin

right--that is, the power of governing itself. In the year 211, Caracalla

allowed it the privilege of having a forum, gymnasium, theatre, baths,

etc., and it became the seat of a senate, the head of which was a Roman

officer called _comes_. Roman domination was at first submitted to

reluctantly, but it proved an advantage to the city. Literature and the

arts were cultivated with success, the people enriched by new sources of

industry, sumptuous villas were built in the environs, and roads opened

to Toulouse and various parts of Novempopulania. The pre-eminence of the

schools here is evident from the poet Ausonius, tutor of the Emperor

Gratian, who spent part of his youth at Auch, pursuing his studies under

Staphylius and Arborius, both of whom he eulogizes for their learning.

Arborius, the brother of Ausonius’ mother, was the son of an astrologer,

from a distant part of Gaul, who married a lady of rank in this country

and settled here. He taught rhetoric, not only at Auch, but at Toulouse,

where he became the confidential friend of Constantine’s brothers, then

in a kind of exile. This led to his fortune. The emperor afterward called

him to Constantinople, where he was loaded with riches and honors.

Ausonius’ friend, Eutropius, a celebrated Latin author who held offices

under Julian the Apostate, had a seat in the vicinity of Auch.

The women, too, of this country were inspired with a taste for mental

cultivation, as is shown by Sylvia, sister of the illustrious Rufinus

of Elusa, one of the best-versed women of her day in Greek literature,

and who rivalled the noble Roman matrons of the time of S. Jerome in her

knowledge of sacred science. Sylvia died at Brescia, where her name is

still honored, while her native land has nearly forgotten her memory.

The prosperity of Auch was put an end to in the Vth century by the

invasion of the Goths and Vandals, and the city was only saved from

destruction by the mediation of S. Oren, its bishop. In the VIIIth

century the country was overrun by the Moors, who destroyed the whole

city, with the exception of a faubourg still known, after more than a

thousand years, as the Place de la Maure.

Two centuries after, the Counts of Armagnac built a castle on the summit

of the hill where stood the ancient Climberris, and gathered their

vassals around them. Here they held a brilliant court which attracted

gallant knights and the gayest troubadours of the south. We read that

one of the counts, whose stout heart yielded for a time to the softening

influences of the poetic muse, went to Toulouse to breathe out his tender

lays at the feet of a certain fair lady, Lombarda, but prudence getting

the better of his gallantry, he abruptly brought them to an end, and

hurried back to the defence of his castle, suddenly besieged by the enemy.

It was also in the Xth century Auch became a metropolitan see, which

was so generously endowed by the barons of the country that it became

one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the kingdom. Its archbishops

were to the great lords of the province what the popes then were to

the sovereigns of Europe. They were the lords spiritual, not only of

Novempopulania, but the two Navarres. Kings of England wrote them to

secure their influence, which was so great that there was a rivalry among

the leading families desirous of securing the see for their children.

When the Counts of Armagnac transferred their capital to Lectoure, the

archbishops became sole lords of the city, and in them centred its

history from that time. They bore the proudest names in the land, and

maintained all the state to which their birth and the importance of their

office entitled them. We read that when they came to take possession

of their see, the Baron de Montaut, at the head of all the neighboring

gentry, met them at the entrance to the city, and with bared head and

knee took the archbishop’s mule by the bridle and led him to the castle.

This was in accordance with the customs of feudal times, when vassals

offered homage to their liege lords by bending the bared knee to the

ground, an _extension_, we suppose, of the Oriental practice of baring

the feet. We learn from Andres de Poça, in his work, _De la Antigua Lenga

y Comarcas de las Españas_, that the lords of Biscay took their oaths of

fealty in the sanctuary in this way--a custom derived, perhaps, from the

ancient Cantabrians, who, as Strabo tells us, went to battle with one

foot shod and the other bare, reminding one of the touching nursery rhyme

of “My son John,” or the French ditty which is more to the point:

“Un pied chaussé et l’autre nu,

Pauvre soldat, que feras-tu?”

There were two other bishops in the south of France who received a

similar mark of homage at taking possession of their sees. At Lectoure,

it was the Seigneur de Castelnau, and at Cahors the Baron de Ceissac,

whose duty it was to offer it. At Auch, the Baron de Montaut afterwards

served the archbishop at dinner and received the silver plate on the

table as his perquisite. Dom Brugelles, in his Chronicles of the diocese,

gives a ludicrous account of the disappointment of a Baron of Montaut at

the arrival of a cardinal-archbishop of simple habits, whose service was

of glass, though of fine workmanship, which so disappointed the baron

that he forgot his loyalty and smashed all the dishes, to the great

disgust of the cardinal, who left the city and never returned.

One of the Archbishops of Auch, Geraud de Labarthe, went with Richard

the Lion-Hearted to the Holy Land, and had command of an armament. He

knew also, it seems, how to wield his spiritual weapons, for on the way

he stopped in Sicily for a theological encounter with the celebrated

abbot Joachim, in which he proved himself worthy of his descent from the

Lords of the Four Valleys. He died in the Holy Land in 1191, leaving a

foundation for the repose of his mother’s soul, a touching incident in

the life of this valorous churchman.

Another archbishop established the Truce of God in his province, issued

indulgences to encourage his people to go to the aid of the Spanish in

their crusade against the Moors, and finally placed himself at the head

of those who responded to his appeal and went to the assistance of Don

Alfonso of Aragon, where he distinguished himself by his bravery and

religious zeal.

Other prelates have a simpler record which it is pleasant to come upon

in such rude times. Of one we read he granted an indulgence of three days

to all who should bow the head at hearing the Holy Name of Jesus. This

was in 1383, when S. Bernardin of Sienna, the great propagator of this

devotion, was still a child.

In the XIVth century we find Cardinal Philip d’Alençon, of the blood

royal of France, among the archbishops of Auch. He died in Rome in

the odor of sanctity, and was buried in the church of Santa Maria in

Trastevere, where his beautiful Gothic tomb--a _chef-d’œuvre_ of the

XIVth century--may be seen in the left transept. In the arch is a fresco

of the martyrdom of his patron, S. Philip, who was crucified with his

head downward, like S. Peter; and beneath lies the cardinal on his tomb,

sculptured in marble, with hands folded in eternal prayer. Above are

his cardinal’s hat and the _fleurs-de-lis_ of France, and below is the

epitaph:

“Francorum genitus Regia de stirpe Philippus

Alenconiadus Ostiæ titulatus ab urbe

Ecclesiæ cardo, tanta virtute reluxit

Ut sua supplicibus cumulentur marmora votis.”

This prelate was the nephew and godson of Philippe le Bel, the destroyer

of the Knights-Templars and persecutor of Pope Boniface VIII., who

merited the stigma Dante casts on him in his _Purgatorio_:

“Lo! the flower-de-luce

Enters Alagna: in his vicar, Christ

Himself a captive, and his mockery

Acted again. Lo! to his holy lip

The vinegar and gall once more applied,

And he ’twixt living robbers doomed to bleed.”

“When, O Lord! shall I behold that vengeance accomplished which, being

already determined in thy secret judgment, thy retributive justice even

now contemplates with delight?” continues the spirit met by the Divine

Poet in the place of expiation--words that might be echoed in these days,

when

“The new Pilate, of whose cruelty

Such violence cannot fill the measure up,

With no decree to sanction, pushes on

Into the temple his yet eager sails.”

We are here reminded it was at Auch all the Knights-Templars of Bigorre,

with their commander, Bernard de Montagu, were executed. M. Martin,

in his _History of France_, observes that all the traditions of this

region are favorable to the Templars. There is not one that is not to

their credit. The old saying, “Drink like a Templar,” has no echo in the

mountains of Bigorre. Many of their churches are still standing, objects

of interest to the archæologist, and of devotion to the pious. There

are six or seven skulls shown at Gavarnie, said to be of the martyred

Templars, and every year, on the anniversary of the destruction of the

Order, a knight armed from top to toe, and wearing the great white mantle

of the Order, appears in the churchyard and cries three times: “Who will

defend the Holy Temple? Who will deliver the Sepulchre of the Lord?” Then

the seven heads come to life and reply: “No one! no one! The Temple is

destroyed!” How earnestly these unfortunate knights begged to be tried

by the Inquisition is well known. They felt there was some chance for

justice at a tribunal in which there was a religious element.

A Cardinal d’Armagnac was Archbishop of Auch when the tragedy of Rodèle

took place, which rivals that of the Torre della Fame at Pisa in horror.

Geraud, brother of Count Bernard VII. of Armagnac, having married his son

to Margaret of Comminges, took up arms against her for forsaking her

youthful husband and withdrawing to the castle of Muret. Count Bernard

took advantage of this to make war on Geraud for holding the county of

Pardiac, on which he himself had claims, and pursued his brother from

one castle to another. Finally taking him captive, he carried him to

the fortress of Rodèle, and threw him into a deep pit, where he died of

hunger and cold in four or five days.

Geraud’s two sons, John and Guilhem, alarmed at his captivity, but

unaware of his fate, were induced to come to Auch to implore the clemency

of their ferocious uncle, and on Good Friday, 1403, the Count de l’Isle

Jourdain, kneeling with the poor children at his feet, besought him to

pardon them, in memory of the Divine Passion that day celebrated; but

neither the day nor the helplessness of the children, so touchingly

alluded to by their advocate, softened the inflexible count. He had them

imprisoned in the castle of Lavardens, and shortly after, Guilhem, a

lad of barely fifteen, was tied to a horse and taken to the fortress of

Rodèle. There he was shown the horrible pit into which his father had

been let down alive to incur so fearful a death. The poor boy looked into

the fatal pit, fell senseless to the ground, and was never restored to

life. His brother John, the unhappy husband of the faithless Margaret of

Comminges, was carried to the castle of Brugens, where horrid tortures

awaited him. He had only escaped from the hatred of his wife to fall into

the hands of Bonne de Berri, Count Bernard’s wife, a woman of insatiable

ambition and relentless purpose. This new Frédégonde put his eyes out by

passing a red-hot brazier before them, and then, remembering the strength

God gave the blind Samson to take vengeance on his enemies, she had him

thrown into a deep moat, where he died of hunger.

Never was there a family that reflected more faithfully than the

Armagnacs all the vices and defects as well as the virtues of the Middle

Ages. Its history contains every element to fix the attention, with

its tragedies, its examples of brutal power, its prodigies of valor

and heroism, its struggles in the cause of liberty, and, finally, in

its marvels of faith. Religious influence sooner or later asserted its

triumph in the heart. Many of the counts laid aside their armor for the

cowl and scapular, and atoned for their sins in the cloister. They were

benefactors to the Church, they founded monasteries, they fought in the

holy wars. We find them with Godfrey of Bouillon under the walls of

Jerusalem, and fighting against the Moors with the Kings of Castile and

Aragon. Among the most renowned members of the race, we must not forget

Count John I., a native of Auch, whose valor placed him on a level with

Du Guesclin, the greatest captain of the age. For a time they fought on

the same side, but they met as opponents on the plain of Navarrete, where

Count John fought for Don Pedro and greatly contributed to the victory.

Du Guesclin was taken prisoner. For more than thirty years Count John was

one of the strongest supporters of the King of France. After the battle

of Crécy, he stopped the tide of English invasion, and when the Black

Prince was covering Aquitaine with blood and ruins in 1355, he alone

ventured to resist him and obstruct his victorious march.

After the defeat at Poitiers, he veiled the humiliation of the king

with the splendor of his munificence. He sent the king all kinds of

provisions, as well as silver utensils, for his table. He convoked the

Etats-Généraux to organize forces to avert calamities that threatened

the country. He fought beside the Duke of Anjou and Du Guesclin in the

immortal campaigns of 1369 and 1370. This was the period in which the

grandeur of the house of Armagnac culminated. John I. married Reine

de Got, niece of Pope Clement V., whom Dante thrusts lower than Simon

Magus. She was buried in the choir of the Cordeliers at Auch, now,

alas! a granary. The count’s second wife was Beatrice de Clermont,

great-granddaughter of S. Louis IX., king of France, and one of his

daughters married the brother of Charles V., and the other the oldest son

of Don Pedro of Aragon.

Such were the royal pretensions of this great house. Descended from the

Merovingian race of kings through Sanche Mitarra, the terrible scourge

of the Moors, who lies buried at S. Oren’s Priory, founded by the first

Count of Armagnac, on the banks of the Gers, the Counts of Auch, as they

were sometimes called, bore themselves right royally. They acknowledged

no suzerain. They were the first to call themselves counts _by the grace

of God_, a formula then used to express the divine right, but in the

sense of S. Paul and of the Middle Ages, which was simply acknowledging

that all power comes from God, and that the right of exercising it has

for its true source not the force of arms, but in God alone. We must

come down to the XVth century to find the jealous susceptibility that

only interpreted, in the sense of absolute independence of all human

power, such expressions as _Dei gratiâ_; _per Dei gratiam_; _Dei dono_,

etc., which had been used with the sole intention of expressing a truth

of the Christian faith, a profound sentiment of subordination to divine

authority. This intention is nowhere so explicit as in the legend on the

ancient money of Béarn, where its rulers used almost the words of the

apostle: _Gratia autem Dei sumus id quod sumus_.

Charles VII. thought it worth while to forbid John IV. of Armagnac, in

1442, the use of such formulas. Seven years after, he obliged the Dukes

of Burgundy to declare they bore no prejudice to the crown of France.

Louis XI. vainly tried to prevent the Duke of Brittany from using them.

Since that time it has been claimed as the exclusive right of sovereigns.

Bishops, however, retain the formula _Dei gratia_ in their public acts of

diocesan administration, with the addition: _et apostolicæ sedis_, which

dates from the end of the XIIIth century only.

It was the independence and royal pretensions of such great vassals that

determined the kings of France to destroy their power. Under the sons

of Philip le Bel began the great struggle between the crown and the

feudal aristocracy. In order to incorporate their provinces with the

royal domains, they availed themselves of every pretext to crush them,

and such pretexts were by no means wanting in the case of the Armagnacs,

where they could claim the necessity of protecting the eternal laws

on which are based all family and social rights and the principles of

true religion. History is full of the cruelty of the last counts, and

forgets all it could offer by way of contrast. It forgets to speak of

Count John III., who put an end to the brigandage of the great bands

in southern France, and went to find a premature death under the walls

of Alessandria, in an expedition too chivalrous not to be glorious. It

insists on the brutal ferocity and excessive ambition of Bernard VII.,

the great constable, and passes over all that could palliate his offences

in so rude an age--his fine qualities, his zeal for the maintenance of

legitimate authority, and his interest in the welfare of the Church.

It lays bare the criminal passion of Count John V., and forgets his

repentance and reparation, as well as the holy austerities of Isabella in

the obscure cell of a Spanish monastery, where she effaced the scandal

she had given the world.

Count John was the last real lord of Armagnac. He filled up the cup

of wrath, and his humiliations and frightful death, the long, unjust

captivity of his brother Charles, the scaffold on which perished Jacques

de Nemours, and the abjection into which his children were plunged, are

fearful examples of divine retribution.