What is relative space? Whoever understands the meaning of the words

will say that relative space is that through which the movement from a

point to another point is possible. Now, the possibility of movement

can be viewed under three different aspects. First, as a possibility

dependent on the active power of a mover; for movement is impossible

without a mover. Secondly, as a possibility dependent on the passivity of

the movable term; for no movement can be imparted to a term which does

not receive the momentum. Thirdly, as a possibility dependent on the

perviousness of space which allows a free passage to the moving point;

for this is absolutely necessary for the possibility of movement.

In the present question, it is evident that the possibility of movement

cannot be understood either in the first or in the second of these three

manners; for our question does not regard the relation of the agent to

the patient, or of the patient to the agent, but merely the relation of

one ubication to another, and the freedom for movement between them. If

the possibility of movement were taken here as originating in a motive

power, such a possibility would be greater or less according to the

greater or less power; and thus the relativity of two given ubications

would be changed without altering their relation in space; which is

absurd. And if the possibility of movement were taken as resulting

from the passivity of the term moved, then, since this passivity is a

mere indifference to receive the motion, and since indifference has no

degrees, it would follow that the possibility of movement would be

always the same; and therefore the relativity of the ubications would

remain the same, even though the ubications were relatively changed;

which is another absurdity. Accordingly, the possibility of movement

which is involved in the conception of relative space is that which

arises from space itself, whose virtual extension virtually contains all

possible lines of movement, and allows any such lines to be formally

drawn through it by actual movement.

From this it follows that relative space is nothing else than _absolute

space as extrinsically terminated by distinct terms, and affording

room for movement between them_. It follows, further, that this space

is relative, not because it is itself related, but because it is that

through which the extrinsic terms are related. It is actively, not

passively, relative; it is the _ratio_, not the _rationatum_, the

foundation, not the result, of the relativities. It follows, also, that

the foundation of the relation of distance is nothing else than space

as terminated by two extrinsic terms, and affording room for movement

from the one to the other. This space is at the same time absolute

and relative; absolute as to its entity, relative as to the extrinsic

denomination derived from the relation of which it is the formal reason.

The distinction between absolute and relative space is therefore to be

taken, not from space itself, but from its comparison with absolute or

with relative ubications. Space, as absolute, exhibits the possibility

of all absolute ubications; as relative, it exhibits the possibility of

all ubicational changes. Absolute space may therefore be styled simply

“the region of ubications,” whilst relative space maybe defined as “the

region of movement.”

This notion of relative space will not fail to be opposed by those who

think that all real space results from the dimensions of bodies. Their

objections, however, need not detain us here, as we have already shown

that the grounds of their argumentation are inadmissible. The same notion

will be opposed with greater plausibility by those who confound the

formal reason of local relations with the relations themselves, under the

common name of relative space. Their objections are based on the popular

language, as used, even by philosophers, in connection with relative

space. We will reduce these objections to two heads, and answer them,

together with two others drawn from other sources, that our reader may

thus form a clearer judgment of the doctrine we have developed.

_First difficulty._ The entity of a relation is the entity of its

foundation. If, then, the foundation of the relation of distance is

absolute space, or the virtuality of God’s immensity, it follows that the

entity of distance is an uncreated entity. But this cannot be admitted,

except by Pantheists. Therefore the relation of distance is not founded

on the virtuality of God’s immensity.

This difficulty arises from a false supposition. The entity of the

relation is _not_ the entity of its foundation, but it is the entity of

the connotation (_respectus_) which arises from the existence of the

terms under such a foundation. Likeness, for instance, is a relation

resulting between two bodies, say, white, on account of their common

property, say, whiteness. Whiteness is therefore the foundation of their

likeness; but whiteness it not likeness. On the contrary, the whiteness

which founds this relation is still competent to found innumerable

other relations; a thing which would be impossible if the entity of the

foundation were not infinitely superior to the entity of the relation

which results from it.

This is even more evident in our case; for the foundation of the

relation between two ubications is an entity altogether extrinsic to

the ubications themselves, as we have already shown. Evidently, such an

entity cannot be the relativity of those ubications. The relation of

distance is neither absolute nor relative space, but only the mode of

being of one term in space with respect to another term in space. Now,

surely no one who has any knowledge of things will maintain that space,

either absolute or relative, is a mode of being. The moon is distant from

the earth; and therefore there is space, and possibility of movement,

between the moon and the earth. But is this space _the relation_ of

distance? No. It is the ground of the relation. The relation itself

consists in the mode of being of the moon with respect to the earth; and,

evidently, this mode is not space.

The assumption that the entity of the relation is the entity of its

foundation may be admitted in the case of transcendental relations,

inasmuch as the actuality of beings, which results from the conspiration

of their essential principles, identifies itself _in concreto_ with

the beings themselves. But the same cannot be said of predicamental

relations. It would be absurd to say that the dependence of the world

on its Creator is the creative act; nor would it be less absurd to say

that the relativity of a son to his father is the act of generation, or

that the fraternity of James and John is the same thing as the identity

of Zebedee, their father, with himself. And yet these absurdities, and

many others, must be admitted, if we admit the assumption that the entity

of predicamental relations is the entity of their foundation. Hence the

assumption must be discarded as false; and the objection, which rested

entirely on this assumption, needs no further discussion.

We must, however, take this opportunity to again warn the student of the

necessity of not confounding under one and the same name the relative

space with the relations of things existing in space. This confusion is

very frequent, as we often hear of distances, surfaces, and volumes of

bodies spoken of as “relative spaces,” which, properly speaking, they

are not. We ourselves are now and then obliged to use this inaccurate

language, owing to the difficulty of conveying our thoughts to common

readers without employing common phrases. But we would suggest that, to

avoid all misconstruction of such phrases, the relative space, of which

we have determined the notion, might be called “_fundamental_ relative

space,” whilst the relations of things as existing in space might

receive the name of “_resultant_ relative spaces.” At any rate, without

some epithets of this sort, we cannot turn to good account the popular

phraseology on the subject. Such a phraseology expresses things as they

are represented in our imagination, not as they are defined by our

reason. Distances are intervals between certain points in space, surfaces

are intervals between certain lines in space, volumes are intervals

between certain surfaces in spaces; but these intervals are no _parts_

of space, though they are very frequently so called, but only relations

in space. Space is one, not many; it has no parts, and, whether you call

it absolute or relative, it cannot be cut to pieces. What is called an

interval _of_ space should rather be called an interval _in_ space; for

it is not a portion of space, but a relation of things in space; it is

not a length of space, but the length of the movement possible between

the extrinsic terms of space; it is not a divisible extension, but the

ground on which movement can extend with its divisible extension. In

the smallest conceivable interval of space there is God, with all his

immensity. To affirm that intervals of space are distinct spaces would

be to cut God’s immensity into pieces, by giving it a distinct being in

really distinct intervals. It is therefore necessary to concede that,

whilst the intervals are distinct, the space on which they have their

foundation is one and the same.

Pantheists have taken advantage of the confusion of fundamental space

with the resulting relations in space, to spread their absurd theories.

If we grant them that _distance is space_, how can we refute their

assertion that distance is a form under which divine substance, or the

Absolute, makes an apparition? For, if distance is space, and space is

no creature, distance consists of something uncreated (and therefore

divine) under a contingent form. This is not the place for us to refute

Pantheism; what we aim at is simply to point out the need we have of

expressing our thoughts on space with philosophical accuracy, lest the

Pantheists may shield themselves with our own loose phraseology.

God is everywhere, and touches, so to say, every contingent ubication by

his presence to every ubicated thing. But the contingent ubications are

not spaces, nor anything intrinsic to space; they are merely extrinsic

terms, corresponding to space, as we have explained; and therefore such

ubications are not apparitions of the divine substance, but apparitions

of contingent things; they are not points of divine immensity, but points

contingently projected on the virtuality of God’s immensity. It is as

vain to pretend that contingent ubications are points of space, as it

is vain to pretend that contingent essences are the divine substance.

Pantheists, indeed, have said that, because the essences of things are

contained in God, the substance of all things must be God’s substance;

but their paralogism is manifest. For the essences of things are in

God, not formally with the entity which they have in created things,

but eminently and virtually, that is, in an infinitely better manner.

The formal essences of things are _only_ in the things themselves, and

they are extrinsic terms of creation, imperfect images of what exists

perfect in God. In the same manner the ubications of things are not in

God formally, but eminently and virtually. They formally belong to the

things that are ubicated. So also the intervals of space are in God

eminently, not formally; they formally arise from extrinsic terminations,

and therefore are mere correlations of creatures. This suffices to show

that distances and other relations in space involve nothing divine in

their entity, although they are grounded on the existence and universal

presence of God, in whom “we live, and move, and have our being.”

_Second difficulty._--If the foundation of local relations is uncreated,

it is always the same; and therefore it will cause all such relations

to be always the same. Hence, all distances would be equal; which is

manifestly false.

This difficulty arises from confounding the absolute entity of the

thing which is the foundation of the relation, with the formal manner

of founding the relation. The same absolute entity may found different

relations by giving to the terms a different relativity; for the same

absolute entity founds different relations whenever it connects the

terms of the relation in a different manner. Thus, when the entity of

the foundation is a generic or a universal notion, it can give rise to

relations of a very different degree. Taking _animality_, for instance,

as the foundation of the relation, we may compare one hound with another,

one wolf with another, one bird with another, or we may compare the

hound with the wolf, the wolf with the bird, the bird with the lion,

etc.; and we shall find as many different relations, all grounded on

the same foundation--that is, on animality. In fact, there will be as

many different relations of likeness as there are different animals

compared. Now, if one general ratio suffices to do this, on account

of its universality, which extends infinitely in its application to

concrete things, it is plain that as much and more can be done by the

infinite virtuality of God’s immensity, which can be terminated by an

infinite variety of extrinsic terminations. It is the proper attribute

of an infinite virtuality to contain in itself the reason of the being

of infinite terms, and of their becoming connected with one another

in infinite manners. This is what the infinite virtuality of divine

immensity can do with respect to ubicated terms. Such an infinite

virtuality is whole, though not wholly, in every point and interval of

space; it is as entire between the two nearest molecules as between

the two remotest stars. Hence its absolute entity, though unchangeable

itself, can have different extrinsic terminations; and, since it founds

the relations in question inasmuch as it has such different terminations,

consequently it can found as many different local relations as it can

have different extrinsic terminations. A hound and a wolf, as we have

said, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; and the wolf and the bird,

also, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; but the likeness in the

second case is not the same as in the first, because the animality, which

is one in the abstract, is different in the concrete terms to which it is

applied. Hence the difference, or entitative distance, so to say, between

the wolf and the hound is less than the entitative distance between the

wolf and the bird, although the ground of the comparison is one and the

same. In a like manner, the distance from a molecule to a neighboring

molecule is less than the distance from a star to another star, although

the ground of the relation be one and the same; with this difference,

however, that in the case of the animals above mentioned the relation

has an intrinsic foundation, because “animality” is intrinsic to the

terms compared; whilst in the case of local distances the relation has

an extrinsic foundation; for the ubications compared are nothing but

extrinsic terms of space.

_Third difficulty._--Distances evidently intercept portions of space, and

differ from one another according as they intercept more or less of it.

But, if space is the virtuality of divine immensity, such portions cannot

be admitted; for the virtuality of divine immensity cannot be divided

into parts distinct from one another.

This difficulty arises from the confusion of that which belongs to space

intrinsically, with that which belongs to it by extrinsic denomination

only. Space in itself has no parts; and therefore distance cannot

intercept a portion of the entity of space. Nevertheless, parts are

attributed to space by extrinsic denomination, that is, inasmuch as

the movements, which space makes possible between given terms, do not

extend beyond those terms, while other movements are possible outside

of the given terms. Hence, since space is infinite and affords room

for an infinite length of movement in all directions, the space which

corresponds to a limited movement has been called an interval of space

and a portion of space. But this denomination is extrinsic, and does not

imply that space has portions, or that the entity of space is divisible.

That such a denomination is extrinsic, there can be no doubt, for it is

taken from the consideration of the limited movement possible between

the terms of the distance, as all distances are known and estimated by

movement. Indeed, we are wont to say that “movement measures space,”

which expression seems to justify the conclusion that the space measured

is a finite portion of infinite space; but, though the expression is

much used (from want of a better one), it must not be interpreted in a

material sense. Its real meaning is simply that movement “measures the

length of the distance” in space, or that movement “measures its own

extent” in space--that is, the length or the extent, not of space, but

of what space causes to be extrinsically possible between two extrinsic

terms.

This will be still more manifest by referring to the evident truth

already established, that all ubications as compared with the entity

of space are unchangeable, because the thing ubicated cannot have two

modes of being in the infinite expanse of space, but, wherever it be, is

always, so to say, in the centre of it. This proves that the movement

of a point between the terms of a given distance measures nothing else

than _its own length_ in space; for, had it to measure _space itself_, it

would have to take successively different positions with regard to it,

which we know to be impossible. We must therefore conclude that distance

does not properly intercept space, though it determines the relative

length of a line which can be drawn by a point moving through space; for

this line is not a line of space, but a line of movement. In other words,

distance is not the limit of the space said to be intercepted, but of the

movement possible between the distant terms.

As this answer may not satisfy our imagination as much as it does

our intellect, and as our habit of expressing things as they are

represented in our imagination makes it difficult to speak correctly of

what transcends the reach of this lower faculty, we will make use of a

comparison which, in our opinion, by putting the intelligible in contact

with the sensible, will not fail to help us fully to realize the truth

of what has been hitherto said.

Let God create a man, a horse, and a tree. The difference, or, as we will

call it, the entitative distance, between the man and the horse is less

than between the man and the tree, as is evident. Yet the man, the horse,

and the tree are extrinsic terms of _the same_ divine omnipotence, which

neither is divisible nor admits of more or less. Now, can we say that,

because the man is entitatively more distant from the tree than from the

horse, there must be _more of divine omnipotence_ between the man and the

tree than between the man and the horse? It would be folly to say so.

The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater entitative

distance of the man and of the tree, is, that a greater multitude of

creatures (extrinsic terms of divine omnipotence) is possible between the

man and the tree, than between the man and the horse. The reader will

readily see how the comparison applies to our subject; for the two cases

are quite similar. Can we say, then, that, because two points in space

are more distant than two other points, there must be _more of divine

immensity_, or of its virtuality, between the former than between the

latter? By no means. The only consequence which can be deduced from the

greater distance of the two former points is, that a greater multitude of

ubications (extrinsic terms of immensity) is possible between them, than

between the two others. This greater multitude of possible ubications

constitutes the possibility of a greater length of movement; and shows

the truth of what we have maintained, viz., that distance endues the

aspect of quantity through the consideration of the greater or less

extent of the movement possible between its terms, and not through a

greater or less “portion” of space intercepted.[150]

The difficulty is thus fully answered. Nevertheless, as to the phrases,

“a portion of space,” “an interval of space,” “space measured by

movement,” and a few others of a like nature, we readily admit that their

use, having become so common in the popular language, we cannot avoid

them without exposing ourselves to the charge of affectation, nay, we

must use them, as we frequently do, in order to be better understood.

But we should remember that the common language has a kernel as well as

a shell, and that, when we have to determine the essential notions and

the intelligible relations of things, we must break the shell that we may

reach the kernel.

_Fourth difficulty._--The notions of space and of ubication above given

imply a sort of vicious circle. For space is explained by the possibility

of ubications, whilst ubications are said to be modes of being in space.

Therefore neither space nor ubication is sufficiently defined.

We answer, that then only is a sort of vicious circle committed in

defining or explaining things, when an unknown entity is defined or

explained by means of another equally unknown. When, on the contrary, we

explain the common notions of such things as are immediately known and

understood before any definition or explanation of them is given, there

is no danger of a vicious circle. In such a case, things are sufficiently

explained if our definition or description of them agrees with the notion

we have acquired of them by immediate apprehension. We say that _Being_

is that _which is_, and we explain the extension of time by referring

to movement, while we also explain movement by referring to time and

velocity, and again we explain velocity by referring to the extension

of time and movement. This is no vicious circle; for every one knows

these entities before hearing their formal definition. Now, the same

is true with respect to space and ubication; for the notion of space

is intuitive, and before we hear its philosophical definition, we know

already that it is the region of all possible ubications and movements.

Moreover, such things as have a mutual connection, or as connote one

another, can be explained and defined by one another without a vicious

circle. Thus we say that a _father_ is one who has a _son_, and a _son_

is one who has a _father_. In the same manner we define _the matter_ as

the essential term of a form, and _the form_ as the essential act of the

matter. Accordingly, since ubications are extrinsic terms of absolute

space, and space is the formal reason of their extrinsic possibility, it

is plain that we can, without any fear of a vicious circle, define and

explain the former by the latter, and _vice versa_.

Finally, no philosopher has ever defined space or explained it otherwise

than by reference to possible or actual ubications, nor was ubication

ever described otherwise than as a mode of being in absolute or in

relative space. This shows that it is in the very nature of things that

the one should be explained by reference to the other. Hence it is that

even our own definition of absolute space, which does not explicitly

refer to contingent ubications, refers to them implicitly. For when we

say that “absolute space is the virtuality, or extrinsic terminability,

of divine immensity,” we implicitly affirm the possibility of extrinsic

terms, viz., of ubications.

And here we will end our discussion on the entity of relative space; for

we do not think that there are other difficulties worthy of a special

solution. We have seen that relative space is entitatively identical

with absolute space, since it does not differ from it by any intrinsic

reality, but only by an extrinsic denomination. We have shown that space

is relative in an active, not in a passive sense, that is, as the formal

reason, not as a result of extrinsic relations. We have also seen that

these extrinsic relations are usually called “relative spaces,” and that

this phrase should not be used in philosophy without some restrictive

epithet, as it is calculated to mislead.

Let us conclude with a remark on the known division of space into _real_

and _imaginary_. This division cannot regard the entity of space,

which is unquestionably real. It regards the reality or unreality of

the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in space. The true

notion of real, as contrasted with imaginary space, is the following:

Space is called _real_, when it is _really_ relative, viz., when it is

extrinsically terminated by _real_ terms, between which it founds a

_real_ relation; on the contrary, it is called _imaginary_, when the

extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in our imagination;

for, in such a case, space is not really terminated, and does not

found real relations, but both the terminations and the relations are

simply a fiction of our imagination. Thus it appears that void space,

as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be called

“imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real.

Hence we infer that the _indefinite_ space, which we imagine, when we

carry our thoughts beyond the limits of the material world, and which

philosophers have called “imaginary,” is not absolute, but relative

space, and is not imaginary in itself, but only as to its denomination of

relative, because where real terms do not exist there are only imaginary

relations, notwithstanding the reality of the entity through which we

refer the imaginary terms to one another.

That absolute space, considered in itself, cannot be called “imaginary”

is evident, because absolute space is not an object of imagination.

Imagination cannot conceive space except in connection with imaginary

terms so related as to offer the image of sensible dimensions. It is,

therefore, a blunder to confound imaginary and indefinite space with

absolute and infinite space. Indeed, our intellectual conception of

absolute and infinite space is always accompanied in our minds by a

representation of indefinite space; but this depends on the well-known

connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations: _Proprium

est hominis intelligere cum phantasmate_; and we must be careful not

to attribute to the object what has the reason of its being in the

natural condition of the subject. It was by this confusion of the

objective notion of space with our subjective manner of imagining it,

that Kant formed his false theory of subjective space. He mistook,

as we have already remarked, with Balmes, the product of imagination

for a conception of the intellect, and confounded his phantasma of

the indefinite with the objectivity of the infinite. It was owing to

this same confusion that other philosophers made the reality of space

dependent on real occupation, and denied the reality of vacuum. In

vacuum, of course, they could find no real terms and no real relations,

but they could _imagine_ terms and relations. Hence they concluded that,

since vacuum supplied nothing but imaginary relations, void space was an

imaginary, not a real, entity. This was a paralogism; for the reason why

those relations are imaginary is not the lack of real entity in absolute

space, but the absence of the real terms to which absolute space has to

impart relativity that the relation may ensue. It was not superfluous,

then, to warn our readers, as we did in our introduction to this article,

against the incursions of imagination upon our intellectual field.

A FRAGMENT.

_David Ben-Aser to his friend, Amri Ephraim, health, love, and greeting_:

MY BEST FRIEND: A month past I would have marvelled greatly that the

fame of one seemingly so obscure as he who calls himself Jesus of

Nazareth--and what good can come out of Nazareth?--could have travelled

to Rome or Damascus.

But the inquiry in thy friendly epistle from the banks of the Tiber,

brought me to-day by thy faithful Isaac, assures me that the city of the

Emperor has caught wind of the rumors with which Jerusalem is filled, and

’tis but an hour since Yusef, a Damascene merchant, questioned me with

interest concerning this new teacher, whose wonderful doctrines and still

more wonderful deeds have set all Galilee in a flame.

Strangely enough, it has been my fortune of late to have met him, not

once only, but several times, and always under striking circumstances.

What seemed less likely when we parted than that I should give more than

idle thought to what we both deemed a sensation of the hour; and yet it

has come to pass that this prophet, teacher--what you will, so that it

be kindly--has occupied my reflections for many moments in many days.

Things have so fallen out from a small beginning that I am bidden to dine

to-morrow at the house of Simon the Pharisee, in the company of Jesus.

At the present writing, I can gratify thy curiosity to a certain

important and strange extent; but after having had opportunity to

converse with him, I hope to be able still further to enlighten thee,

as well as satisfy myself as to the nature and depth of the impression

this strange teacher has made on thy hitherto reserved and unsusceptible

friend. I saw him first about a fortnight past.

On my way to the house of Marcus the centurion, with whom I had a money

transaction, my attention was attracted by a motley crowd of men, women,

and children, all eager to press closer to what seemed to be some

prominent figure in their midst.

“What is the cause of this commotion,” I inquired, “and whither are ye

bound?”

One of the number made answer thus: “We follow Jesus of Nazareth, who has

been sent for by Marcus the centurion, to heal his servant, now lying at

the point of death.”

“Which is Jesus?” I asked “and is he also a physician?”

“That is he with the grave face and gentle eyes, and he is not a

physician, but a worker of miracles.”

Anxious to obtain a nearer view of him whose name is in every mouth, I

endeavored to force my way through the crowd, when a man running at full

speed and making wild gestures with his hands called on the multitude

to part and give him speech with Jesus, which they did, as soon as they

fully understood his meaning and from whence he came. Then he called

out, saying: “Lord, my master saith, Trouble not thyself, for I am not

worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word, and my

servant shall be healed.” Jesus lifted his head, and I saw his face for

the first time; nay, but that part which extends from the top of the

forehead beneath the eyes. But what eyes--how full of life, and holiness,

and truth! And methought they fixed their piercing glance full upon me

as he cried aloud: “I say unto you, I have not found so great faith in

Israel.”

But the crowd pressed about him and I saw him no more, for he retraced

his steps, followed by the multitude, while I pursued my way, filled

with curiosity as to the result. As I neared the house of Marcus I heard

sounds of thanksgiving, and what was my surprise to hear, and in a moment

after see, the man who had been ill, perfectly restored, and fairly

dancing and laughing with joy.

Marcus is a man of probity and considerable influence, as you well know,

and his faith in the power of Jesus is very great, which can hardly be

counted singular.

Having transacted my business, I went on my way, marvelling and

reflecting much, albeit I am not given to running after strange prophets,

nor to walk in new paths. But once lighted upon, it seemed this untrodden

way was to open out fresh scenes to my view.

The next day I betook my steps early to Nain, where my brother-in-law,

Jonah, lies sick of the fever, which is now making fearful ravages in

that city. Returning in the cool of the evening, I suddenly encountered

a funeral procession. A woman deeply veiled followed the corpse,

piercing the air with heartrending cries. At the same moment a group

of travel-stained men entered the gate of the town. In their leader I

recognized Jesus of Nazareth, and at his approach an indefinable feeling

possessed me. I cannot describe it save in saying that I would fain have

fallen at his feet, as though in the presence of some superior being.

“Whom do you carry?” inquired one of the travellers.

“The only son of his mother, and she is a widow,” was the sad response.

Jesus touched the bier, and the bearers paused. Turning with a look of

ineffable compassion to the heartbroken mother, he said, in tones gentle

as those of a woman, “Weep not.” Then, in a louder voice, “Young man, I

say to thee, Arise.”

My breath came thick and fast, the cold dews gathered on my forehead,

for, miracle of miracles: the dead arose, cast aside his grave-clothes,

and fell sobbing upon his joyful mother’s breast. This I beheld with my

eyes--I heard him speak, I saw his happy tears. But Jesus calmly gathered

up his robe and pursued his journey, and once again I fancied--or did I

fancy?--that he singled me out from the crowd, and fixed his eyes on mine

with an expression that was almost an appeal. My eager gaze followed him

till I could no longer catch the outline of his garments; after which, I

slowly returned to Jerusalem.

There is much talk in the city concerning this last great miracle, and I

have been at pains to learn more of Jesus, of whom it is even said that

he calls himself the Messiah. It is argued against him that he consorts

with publicans and sinners, and that his most intimate friends and

disciples are illiterate fishermen.

However, he preaches that he came not to call the just, but sinners, to

repentance; it is therefore but natural and consistent that he should

seek out such, if his mission lies among them; and, with regard to his

near friends being illiterate, he is himself only a carpenter’s son.

Again, his enemies say that he casts out devils and works prodigies

through Beelzebub. But he preaches charity, good-will, hatred of

hypocrisy and double-dealing, and surely these are not the weapons of the

prince of darkness.

Many of the Pharisees, far wiser than I, are disturbed and thoughtful

because of these marvels that are daily occurring, so be not alarmed, nor

fear that your David is losing his wits.

Three days ago, on my way from the synagogue, I was joined by Simon, to

whom Jesus is well known, and in the conversation which ensued between

us, our friend hospitably invited me to dine with him at his house this

evening, saying that Jesus would be of the company. Of course I assented,

and am all impatience for the hour to arrive. Simon’s recognition of

Jesus speaks well for both, the former being a shrewd and careful man, a

quick observer, and not slow to detect imposture; and if the qualities of

the latter were not sound and commendable, Simon would not thus honor him

with his hospitality.

But already the sun dips low in the heavens; till to-morrow, my

Ephraim--farewell.

* * * * *

I left you last evening aglow with curiosity to see and hear more of the

prophet of Israel, who is agitating all Jerusalem with the fame of his

miracles. I return to you awestruck, fascinated, filled with the spirit

of reverence and admiration. What I have to say may lose much of its

impressiveness by reason of distance and want of actual participation in

the events which have taken place. But you cannot fail to be touched by

the strangeness and sublimity of the soul embodied in the form of Jesus.

Yet you have not seen him, you have not heard the sublime language that

falls from his lips whenever he opens them to speak, you have not felt

his god-like eye penetrating yours, nor seen his rare and wondrous smile.

Therefore, should you scorn my enthusiasm, I shall not blame you, but

abide the time when Jerusalem may claim you once more. For the rest, I do

not doubt that in this, as in all things else, we two shall be one. But I

must hasten to resume my narrative while the events of the past few hours

are still fresh in my memory.

The sun had gone down behind a huge bank of crimson clouds, portending a

storm, as is not unusual at this wintry season, when we seated ourselves,

to the number of twenty or thereabouts, at the well-spread table of

Simon the Pharisee. Jesus was already present when I arrived, and sat,

the honored guest, at the right hand of the host, while several of his

friends or disciples surrounded him in the semicircle formed by the curve

of the table. Was I mistaken, or did his eyes rest on me, as I entered,

with that half-sad, half-affectionate expression so like an invitation?

Remembering the interest I had manifested in our conversation concerning

him, Simon kindly placed me as near Jesus as could well be, owing to the

proximity of several older guests, but after the first moment of greeting

Jesus resumed his discourse, and I had ample opportunity for observing

him at my leisure. He wore a single garment of woollen stuff, which fell

in graceful folds to his feet, being confined at the waist by a thick

cord. The robe was of soft but coarse material, and, though considerably

worn, appeared quite free from soil or travel-stain. He sat with hands

loosely folded on his knees, and I noticed the peculiar whiteness and

transparency of the fingers, which were long and thin. Those hands do

not look as though they belonged to a carpenter’s son. His forehead is

high and broad, and the hair, tinged with auburn, falls in graceful waves

about half-way to the shoulders. The face is oval, each feature perfect,

the eyebrows delicately pencilled, the nose of a Grecian rather than

our native Hebrew type, the lips not very full, but firm and red. Beard

the color of his hair, and slightly cleft, shows the well-formed chin,

and barely sweeps his breast. But those eyes--those deep, unfathomable,

crystal wells--how can I speak of their many and varied expressions, of

that changeful hue between gray and brown so beautiful and yet so rare.

They seem to unite in themselves all of majesty and sweetness I have

ever dreamed looked forth from eyes of angels--dignity and lowliness,

severity and tenderness, sadness and something higher than joy. But their

prevailing expression is one of sorrow, as though they had looked out

into the world, and, taking in its untold miseries and sins at one deep

glance, must hold the mournful picture there for evermore. Indeed, it is

said, I know not how truly, that Jesus has never been known to laugh.

His voice is low and soft, but very clear. I fancy it would be most

melodious in our Hebrew chants. And yet it can grow strong and loud in

reproach, as you shall presently hear.

The feast had begun, and the servants were busy attending to the wants

of the guests, when a slight noise was heard in the antechamber, as

though the porter were remonstrating with some one who desired to enter.

Suddenly a woman appeared on the threshold, clothed in a fleecy white

tunic, girdled with blue, and bearing an alabaster box in her hand. A

murmur went round the assembly. Surely our eyes did not deceive us--it

was the notorious courtesan, Mary Magdalen, but divested of the costly

robes and ornaments which were formerly her pride, and with her rich

golden hair loosely coiled at the back of her head and simply fastened

with a silver comb.

I bethought me of a rumor I had heard, that Jesus had once delivered her

from the hands of those who were about to stone her, and also that since

that time she had renounced her abandoned manner of life. Pale, with

eyes downcast, she stood one hesitating instant in the doorway; then,

falling on her knees before Jesus, she wept aloud, literally bathing his

feet with her tears. He uttered no word of reproach, but suffered her

to unbind that beautiful hair whose golden threads had lured so many to

destruction. Now, as though seeking to make atonement, she wiped with it

his tired feet. Kissing them humbly, and still weeping, she drew from

the alabaster box most precious ointment and anointed them profusely.

All were silent, but many shook their heads with doubt and suspicion.

Simon the Pharisee folded his arms, but spake not, till Jesus, as though

divining the thoughts of his heart, said slowly and impressively:

“Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.”

And he answered him: “Master, say on.”

Then he said: “There was a certain creditor who had two debtors: the one

owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. And when they had nothing

to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me, therefore, which of them

will love him most?”

Simon answered and said: “I suppose he to whom he forgave most.”

And he said unto him: “Thou hast rightly judged.” And he turned to the

woman, and said unto Simon: “Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine

house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet

with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no

kiss; but this woman, from the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss

my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath

anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore, I say unto thee, her sins,

which are many, are forgiven, for she hath loved much; but to whom little

is forgiven, the same loveth little.” And he said unto her: “Thy sins are

forgiven.”

No one made answer as the woman silently departed, but the incident

had strangely disturbed the spirit of the feast. I marvel how the most

critical could have found fault or misjudged what was undoubtedly a

spontaneous expression of gratitude and contrition in the repentant

sinner. Jesus had saved Mary from death, and humbled her accusers with

these remarkable words: “Let he who is without sin among you throw the

first stone.” They slunk away mortified and abashed.

Since that time she has seen the error of her ways, and surely, if

the God of our fathers pardons sinners, it is but in keeping with his

established character for justice and mercy that so perfect a man as

Jesus should not rebuke them. I am more and more powerfully drawn towards

this wonderful teacher. As the guests dispersed last evening, I contrived

to obtain speech with him, and he replied to several questions of mine

with great mildness and suavity. And although, by reason of my known

wealth and position among the Pharisees, one might suppose he would make

some note of the voluntary admiration and respect I did not hesitate to

manifest, he soon turned with grave dignity to others who surrounded

him, his own friends no doubt, and seemed to forget my presence. They

say he goes to-morrow into various towns and villages, for the purpose

of preaching and instructing. He will be accompanied by the twelve who

always follow him. My interest has been so strongly excited that I am

tempted to defer still longer my journey to Rome, which I had intended to

begin almost immediately. However, I shall not postpone it sufficiently

long to deprive myself of the pleasure of thy company in the capital for

some time previous to thy return to Jerusalem.

In any event, I shall write thee soon. Blessings upon thee, dearest

friend! I await an answer to this lengthy epistle.

II.

The fury of the first persecution had nearly exhausted itself, and even

Nero, that insatiable butcher whose thirst for blood had enkindled the

fierce flame, seemed to have well-nigh spent the measure of his inhuman

cruelty.

Hiding like criminals in gloomy abodes and obscure retreats, those

Christians who had escaped martyrdom seldom ventured forth save when the

dusk of evening rendered them less liable to scrutiny or interrogation.

But among the exceptions to this precautionary rule was one, that of

a very old, white-haired man, who might be seen at all times in the

most public places, and who was well-known to be a fearless and devoted

Christian. Indeed, he seemed rather to court danger than avoid it, and

it was a marvel to the more timid among his brethren how he had thus far

escaped the lion’s jaws or the caldron of boiling oil.

One raw evening in early March, three drunken soldiers were tumbling

along a narrow Roman street, lined with small, obscure-looking houses,

when a bent figure suddenly issued from one of the low doorways and

walked hurriedly in the direction of the Jews’ quarter, not far distant.

“Ho there!” called one of the three, eager for adventure of any kind, “ho

there! Who art thou, and whither goest thou?”

The figure paused, and said in reply, “I am an old man, and I go to

relieve a fellow-man in distress.”

“Not so fast, not so fast, friend,” retorted the soldier. “In these

times, we guardians of the emperor’s peace must be circumspect and

vigilant.”

“Ho, ho! It is Andrew, that dog of a Christian who boasteth, I am told,

that he is not afraid of our august emperor himself,” said another of the

three. “Speak, old man; art thou not a Christian, and brave enough to

face thy master, who can, if he so pleases, make a torch of thee to light

belated way-farers home?”

“Ay, thou sayest truly, I am a Christian,” replied the old man, folding

his arms and standing erect, as he continued: “My name is Andrew; I am

well known in the city, and acknowledge no master in the odious tyrant

who calls himself Emperor of Rome.”

“Ah! what is this?” said the soldier who had not yet spoken, and who

appeared the most sober of the three. “So--so. A traitor and a Christian.

There is a double reward set upon thy head, old fellow. Comrades,

we would be doing an injustice to the emperor and the state in not

apprehending this venomous traitor. Let us away with him to prison, and

before this time to-morrow he may know what it is to feel the emperor’s

avenging arm.” The old man’s eye brightened, and he would have spoken,

but was prevented by him who had first accosted him.

“Nay, nay, comrades,” he said, “let the poor creature go. He has been

seen in all public places since the edict, and is well known for a

Christian. Yet his age and infirmities have thus far saved him from

arrest. Let us to our quarters, and permit him to go free.”

“Not so,” replied his companion gruffly, while the other seized the old

man by the cloak. “It won’t do to make fish of one and flesh of another.

Besides, there’s the booty, and that’s something not to be despised.”

“Well, so be it,” was the reply; “one against two is but poor odds. Let

us go.”

The prisoner made no resistance, walking on silently between his captors,

but a strange light shone in his eyes; and when the great iron door of

the cell into which he was rudely hurried closed behind him, he fell on

his knees exclaiming:

“At last, my God, at last! O Lord! I thank thee--let not this great joy

pass from me.”

Morning dawned, and Nero sat dispensing death and torture to the doomed

Christians, inventing new cruelties with each death sentence. An old man,

heavily manacled, was led in by three guards. His venerable appearance

attracted the emperor’s notice, and he cried out:

“Ho, guards! bring forward the patriarch. What offence hath the old Jew

committed? Has he been pursuing some unlucky creditor, or hath his last

enterprise savored too strongly of usury? What is charged against thee,

Jew?”

“He is no Jew, but a bragging Christian, most noble emperor,” exclaimed

the foremost guard. “He boasted but last night that he would not

acknowledge thee for master, and we have brought him to thy presence that

his boast may wither beneath the light of thy august countenance.”

“Art thou not a Jew?” cried Nero, as the prisoner lifted his bowed head,

and stood erect.

“I am a Jew by birth, but a Christian by religion,” he replied in a low

but audible voice.

“What is thy name?”

“I was baptized Andrew, and so I am called.”

Here a murmur ran through the crowd, and a centurion stepped forward,

saying:

“A most bitter enemy of the gods, most noble emperor. He is the same who

may be seen at all the public executions of Christians, exhorting and

praying with them.”

“I wonder he has never been apprehended until now--it speaks well for

the devotion of my adherents,” replied the emperor with a sneer. The

centurion drew back somewhat abashed.

“I have often sought death, but my gray hairs have spared me until now,”

said the old man.

“Hold thy treacherous tongue, sirrah,” cried one of the guards. “I’ll

warrant thee they will not spare thee now.”

“Silence!” cried the emperor. “Old man, art thou the same of whom it is

said thou wert a friend of the Galilean ere he went to the gibbet?”

“What I was it matters not. What I desire to be is the faithful servant

of my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Verily, thou art impertinent, and age hath not taught thee humility.

Mayhap, it would please thee to have thy old body cut in slices and

thrown to the wild beasts.”

“It would be the fulfilment of my most ardent prayers--any death by which

I might suffer martyrdom for Jesus Christ. I have longed for it these

fifty years.” As he spoke his face seemed transfigured, while that of

Nero assumed a new and more malicious expression.

“How old art thou?” he asked.

“I am ninety-two.”

“Where is thy birthplace?”

“Jerusalem.”

“And thou wouldst die for Jesus Christ?”

“Thou knowest it, my judge.”

“Such death would be the greatest boon thy heart desires?”

“My God knoweth it.”

A mocking smile played around the emperor’s lips as he said:

“Then hear thy sentence. Thou shalt be taken from hence to the Appian

gate--and there bidden go thy way in peace. Thou art not young enough

to be toothsome to the lions, and the sap is so dried in thy veins thou

wouldst make but a sorry torch by night. There is so little flesh upon

thy bones that thou wouldst not sink in Tiber, and we cannot afford to

waste stones in weighting such as thou. Thy withered carcass would not

whet the executioner’s knife; there is naught for it but to let thee

go. Spend the remainder of thy days as thou hast wasted those that are

gone, in longings for martyrdom. Guards! seize your prisoner, and execute

sentence upon him.”

The light that had illumined the eyes of the old man slowly faded as the

emperor spoke, and great tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. Clasping

his withered hands high above his head, he exclaimed:

“It is not to be--it is not to be! My God, I accept the retribution.”

“What sayest thou?” cried Nero. “Hast thou committed some terrible crime

that thou talkest of retribution?”

“Ay, a great crime; but I have suffered much, and striven to make

atonement. But my Saviour is not yet satisfied.”

“Accuse thyself. We may be less lenient here than awhile ago.”

The old man’s eyes kindled once more and again he stood erect: “Yes, I

will confess,” he cried in a loud voice. “I will let all the world know

that he whom his companions have called just is the meanest sinner of

them all; I will strive by the whiteness of my gray hairs and the years

of sorrow that have passed since that mad day to awaken in thy tyrant

heart some pity, some relenting from thy cruel sentence.

“But alas! what do I say? The hand of God is in it--my Saviour refuses me

the boon I crave, and thou art but his instrument.” He sighed heavily,

wiped the tears from his eyes, and continued in a less agitated voice:

“I am a native of Jerusalem--a descendant of the tribe of Aser; my father

was a ruler of much wealth and influence--both of which I inherited. I

had luxurious tastes, and gratified them to a certain extent, filling my

house with rare and costly furniture and ornaments. I travelled much, and

indulged my inclinations to the fullest extent without transgressing the

moral law. I esteemed virtue and practised it, more from a sense of pride

than a feeling of true religion. I was unmarried and had few intimate

friends. One, however, Amri Ephraim, was bound to me by the closest ties

of intimacy and association. He was also wealthy. Business called him to

Rome about the time our Lord Jesus began to preach the gospel in Galilee.

We were both somewhat interested in the new prophet, as he was then

called; but from my first meeting with him I was filled with admiration

for his teachings, and drawn towards him by an attraction I could not

then understand. Alas! I have known its meaning for many sorrowful,

repentant years.

“His influence grew upon me. I followed him from place to place; he

took kindly notice of me. His gentle looks seemed to beckon me on; his

wondrous miracles became convincing proofs of his divine mission; his

merciful and consoling teachings entered deep into my soul, and left

it glowing with awe and veneration. I felt that he was the Messiah

promised by David; I knew it in my coward heart. And yet this world--this

glittering, hollow sham--it was that which held me back and lured me to

my own perdition. Many times I saw Jesus look upon me with a gaze that

told of affection mingled with doubt and sorrow. For days I would absent

myself from his side, only to return athirst and filled with new desires.

“One day, as he sat in the shade of a palm-tree with a few of his

disciples, I threw myself at his feet and listened to the wisdom that

fell from his lips.

“‘Master,’ I said at length, ‘what shall a man do to inherit eternal

life?’

“‘Keep the commandments,’ he answered, fixing his eyes upon me as though

he would read my soul.

“‘I have kept them from my youth,’ I replied.

“‘Then lackest thou yet one thing,’ he said. ‘Sell all thou hast, give

thy treasure to the poor, and come, follow me.’

“The words were spoken--they had appealed to my heart for many days;

Jesus loved me, he had singled me from the multitude of whom but little

is required--he would have chosen me for a familiar disciple. I saw it in

his eye; I heard it in his voice. He had called me to follow him! And I?…

“Before me there swept a vision of lost delights and despised honors. I

saw myself hungry and cold, and naked and scorned; I heard the censure of

the world, the altered tones of friends, the jibes and sneers of enemies.

If I had dared once more to lift my eyes--if I had met that benignant

glance, so full of affection and assurance--all would have been well, and

the craven heart had never bled these sixty years for that one moment’s

loss. But, alas! I cast down my eyes and bowed my head; I arose and went

away sorrowful. That night I left Jerusalem and fled to Rome. I say

fled, for I was like a criminal fleeing not from a tyrant but a kind

and merciful father. My friend, to whom I had written faithfully of my

interest in Jesus, passed and missed me on the way to Jerusalem.…”

Here the old man’s voice faltered and his frame shook with sobs. He

seemed unconscious of all but his own sorrow as he continued:

“He learned to know Jesus--became a faithful disciple; he witnessed his

capture and cruel trial; he followed him to Calvary; he saw the prodigies

that occurred at his death; he saw him ascend into heaven. He enjoyed

the sweet privilege of conversing with Mary; he received the dead body

of Stephen the blessed martyr, and helped to give it decent burial, and

his body lies to-day at the bottom of old Tiber--martyred for the faith

of Christ; while I--coward that I was--awoke to the sense of my sin when

it was too late to return and throw myself at his sacred feet, too late

to touch the hem of his garment, too late to follow his bloody footsteps

up the frightful Mount of Calvary. One expiation I thought to make--one

atonement for my sin; for the poor sacrifice of my wealth was nothing to

me. I sought martyrdom. In the public places, in the forum, by the side

of dying Christians, at the graves of murdered saints. But I seemed to

bear a charmed life. They passed me by, they did not molest me. He is

harmless, said one; he is old, said another. And now, when I thought the

goal within my reach, when I hoped that my expiation had been accepted,

it is again denied me. Be it so, my God, my outraged and despised

Saviour, be it so! I rejected thee--thou rejectest me. Thou didst die for

me--thou wilt not suffer me to die for thee. Thy will be done!”

The bowed head fell heavily on the clasped hands, and the old man sank

slowly on his knees. At that moment a stray sunbeam, the first of a murky

morning, touched his white hair as with a crown of brightness, then faded

and the clouded heavens grew dark. The guards stooped to lift him. He was

dead.

“What a dramatic talent those Christians have!” said the emperor to his

friend Apulius, who stood beside his throne. “Pity they do not apply it

to better purpose. Guards! let that old man go free--we pity his gray

hairs--ha! ha!”

“He is dead, most noble emperor,” replied one of the soldiers, not

without something of softness in his voice.

“Ah! so? Remove the corpse then; and thou, good Marcellus, be sure thou

hast those fifty Syrian Christian torches well pitched and oiled ere

night--for it will be dark, and we must needs be lighted to Phryma’s

banquet. Come Apulius--make way, lictors.”

So Nero passed beneath the arched doorway from his tyrant throne--and at

the same moment some timid Christians near its foot bore away the body of

a saint for burial.

ART AND SCIENCE.

A wild swan and an eagle side by side

I marked, careering o’er the ocean-plain,

Emulous a heaven more heavenly each to gain,

Circling in orbits wider and more wide:

Highest, methought, through tempest scarce descried,

One time the bird of battle soared;--in vain;

So soon, exhausted ’mid their joy and pride,

Dropped to one sea the vanquished rivals twain.

Then, o’er the mighty waves around them swelling,

That snowy nursling of low lakes her song

Lifted to God, floating serene along;

While she that in the hills had made her dwelling

Struggled in vain her wings to beat and quiver,

And the deep closed o’er that bright crest for ever.

AUBREY DE VERE.

THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT

_COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC._

II.--CONCLUDED.

VALUE AS A MEDIUM OR VEHICLE OF DIVINE TRUTH AMONG THE PEOPLE.

Popular national songs with their melodies are not, either in point of

poetry or music, very elaborate or classical works of art. Consummate art

is incapable of passing among a people, and must ever remain confined

to the initiated and the connoisseur; yet national songs are not only

characteristic of all people, but fulfil a very important function. They

not only foster and preserve the national spirit, of which they are the

expression, but also keep up, by tradition among the people, a knowledge

of the history of their race, and of the exploits and noble deeds of its

great men. In a word, the songs of a people have an influence over the

growth of their moral character which it is not easy to overestimate, and

which was well known to that statesman who was heard to say that they who

have the making of a people’s songs will soon have the making of their

laws; a sentiment fully confirmed by the proverb, “Qui mutat cantus,

mutat mores.”

The above remarks, much too brief to put the importance of the ideas

contained in them in their proper light, seem to issue in the conclusion

that the song of the Christian kingdom will be necessarily something very

different from an elaborate work of musical genius.

When our divine Redeemer lifted up his eyes, and beheld the multitudes

going astray as sheep without a shepherd, he was moved with compassion.

Surely in his judgment sacred song will be deemed to fulfil its mission

when it passes current among the people, is domesticated in the laboring

man’s cottage among his children, and there teaches the family the

knowledge of their Saviour’s life and sufferings, of their redemption by

these from sin, and the death of the world to come. Sacred song will,

in his compassionate eyes, fulfil its mission of mercy when it takes up

the words of eternal Wisdom, and puts them in the mouth of the people

as a charm against the maxims of a world declared by the Word of God to

be “_lying in wickedness_,” and as a shield against the assaults of a

tempter, said in the same Word “_to be ever going about seeking whom he

may devour_.” It will fulfil its mission when it enters into the heart

and soul of the people, accompanies the departed with a requiem as man

goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets, when it

administers comfort to the survivors, while it bids them not to sorrow

as they that have no hope, and, in a word, weeps with them that weep,

and rejoices with them that do rejoice. Nor let it be said that this is

a romantic notion--the making out of the earth an ideal paradise. Surely

the actual and adequate fulfilment of such a mission of sacred song

belongs to the idea of the mission of the Son of God, sent by the Father

to re-establish order, piety, and sanctity on the earth. But what if this

idea was not only familiar to the fathers, but that they actually saw the

progress of its accomplishment?

“There is no need here,” says S. Chrysostom, exhorting his people to take

part in the church chant, “of the artist’s skill, which requires length

of time to bring to perfection. Let there be but a good will and a ready

mind, and the result will soon be sufficient skill. There is no absolute

need even of time or place, for in every place or time one may sing with

the mind. Though you be walking in the Forum, or are on a journey, or

are seated with your friends, the mind may be on the alert, and find for

itself an utterance. It was thus that Moses cried, and God heard. If you

are an artisan, you may sing Psalms as you sit laboring in your workshop;

you may do the same if you are a soldier, or a judge seated on his bench”

(Hom. on Ps. iv.)

A formal acknowledgment on the part of the church of this principle of

teaching by means of song, which at the same time proves its antiquity,

though it can be hardly necessary to cite it, may be found in one of

the Collects for Holy Saturday: “Deus, celsitudo humilium, et fortitudo

rectorum, qui per sanctum Moysen puerum tuum ita erudire populum tuum

sacri carminis tui decantatione voluisti, ut illa legis iteratio fiat

etiam, nostra directio,” etc., etc.--“O God! the loftiness of the humble

and the strength of them that are upright, who wast pleased, through thy

holy servant Moses, to instruct thy people by the singing of a sacred

song,” etc., etc.

If, then, this be a true and just view of the mission of the sacred song

among the poor and the unlearned multitude, as contemplated in the divine

idea; if it be true, as I suppose no one will deny, that the Ritual

Chant is not only fitted to accomplish it, but has realized it in times

past, and does still realize it in countries that might be named; and

if the works of modern art are, from their very scientific character

as music, incapable of being the medium in which divine truth can pass

among the people; and, indeed, if it be their nature to give so much

more of prominence to the beauty of mere sound than to the expression of

intelligible meaning or sentiment, which every one knows is the case, we

seem to gain this obvious result, on drawing the comparison, that the

Ritual chant is a _real medium_ or vehicle for the circulation of divine

truth among the people, fitted with a divine wisdom to its end; while

the great works of art that the musician so much admires are not, to any

practical extent whatever, such a medium, and indeed, if the truth must

be said, were probably _never_ contemplated as such, either by those who

composed or those who now admire them.

COMPARATIVE “MEDICINAL VIRTUE.”

“They that are whole need not a physician,” said our Redeemer (Mark

ii. 17), “but they that are sick. I came not to call the just, but

sinners to repentance.” It was part of the mission of the Son of God

upon earth, that he should be the physician of the souls of men (Isaiæ

lxi.): “Spiritus Domini super me, eo quod unxerit Dominus me, _ut mederer

contritis_ corde.” It will follow, then, that the music which the divine

Physician of souls will desire to see employed in his church will be

strongly marked with the medicinal character.

And this conclusion becomes the more natural, from observing the

numberless indications which the literature of different countries

affords that music has always been popularly regarded as a medicine for

the spirit; as, for instance, the Greek pastoral poet, Bion:

Μολπὰν ταὶ Μοῖσαι, μοὶ ἀεὶ ποθέοντι διδοῖεν

Τὰν γλυκερὰν μολπὰν τᾶς φάρμακον ἅδιον οὐδέν.

BIONIS, _Bucolica_, i.

“Song than which no medicine so sweet.” Among the Romans, the courtly

Ovid:

“Hoc est cur cantet vinctus quoque compede fossor

Indocili numero, cum grave mollit opus.

Cantat et innitens limosæ pronus arenæ,

Adverso tardam qui vehit amne ratem;

Qui refert pariter lentos ad pectora remos,

In numerum pulsâ brachia versat aquâ.

…

Cantantis pariter, pariter data pensa trahentis

Fallitur ancillæ, decipiturque labor.”

OVID, _de Tristibus_, _Eleg._ lib. i.

And, in our own literature, the great poet of human nature, Shakspeare:

“When griping grief the heart doth wound,

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music with her silver sound

With speedy help doth lend redress.”

SHAKSPEARE’s _Romeo and Juliet_.

With this view of music, as permitted by a merciful Providence to retain

a large share of healing virtue, even apart from religion, and in the

midst of the disorders of heathenism, expectation will be naturally much

raised on coming to inquire what have been the effects of the Christian

music which the divine Physician of souls has given to his Church. Nor

will there be any disappointment. S. Basil the Great, the well-known

doctor and bishop of the East, speaks of the Plain Chant of his own day

in the following terms:

“Psalmody is the calm of the soul, the umpire of peace, that sets at rest

the storm and upheaving of the thoughts. Psalmody quiets the turbulence

of the mind, tempers its excess, is the bond of friendship, the union of

the separated, the reconciler of those at variance; for who can count him

any longer an enemy with whom he has but once lifted up his voice to God?

Psalmody putteth evil spirits to flight, calleth for the help of angels,

is a defence from terrors by night, a rest from troubles by day, is the

safety of children, the glory of young men, the comfort of the old, the

fairest ornament of women.… Psalmody calls forth a tear from a heart of

stone, is the work of angels, the government of Heaven, the incense of

the Spirit.”

S. Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan in the West, in the preface to his

Commentary on the Book of Psalms, speaks as follows:

“In the Book of Psalms there is something profitable for all; it is a

sort of universal medicine and preservative of health. Whoever will

read therein may be sure to find the proper remedy for the diseased

passion he suffers from. Psalmody is the blessing of the people, a

thanksgiving of the multitude, the delight of numbers, and a language

for all. It is the voice of the Church, the sweetly-loud profession of

faith, the full-voiced worship of men in power, the delight of the free,

the shout of the joyous, the exultation of the merry. It is the soother

of anger, the chaser away of sorrow, the comforter of grief. It is a

defence by night, an ornament by day, a shield in danger, a strong tower

of sanctity, an image of tranquillity, a pledge of peace and concord,

forming its unity of song, as the lyre, from diversity of sound. The

morning echoes to the sound of psalmody, and the evening re-echoes.

The apostle commanded women to be silent in the church; yet the song

of psalmody becomes them (S. Ambrose is speaking of congregational

psalmody). Boys and young men may sing psalms without danger, and even

young women also, without detriment to their matronly reserve. They

are the food of childhood; and infancy itself, that will learn nothing

besides, delights in them. Psalmody befits the rank of the king, may be

sung by magistrates, and chorused by the people, each one vying with his

neighbor in causing that to be heard which is good for all” (_Præfatio in

Comment in Lib. Psalmorum_).

S. Augustine speaks thus of the Church Chant: “How my heart burned within

me against the Manicheans, and how I pitied them, that they neither

knew its mystery nor healing virtue; and that they should insanely rage

against that very antidote by which they might have recovered their

saneness (insani essent adversus antidotum quo sani esse potuissent)!”

(_Confess._ lib. ix.) To which should certainly be added the fact that,

in some degree, the church may be said to be indebted to this very

medicinal power of her psalmody, and to the tears it drew forth from the

young catechumen Augustine, for one of the profoundest among her saints

and doctors.

And to come to times nearer our own, the well-known Massillon, in one

of his charges to his clergy, delivered at the Conference at which he

presided, earnestly recommends them to make the study of the Plain Chant

a part of their recreation; for, adds he, “le peuple souvent se calme au

chant du sacerdoce dans le temple.” (_Conferences_, vol. iii.) And our

own times have witnessed a remarkable instance of the same medicinal

power of the church chant when in the Champs Élysées of Paris, during the

summer of 1848, the citizens met in the open air, to celebrate a Requiem

Mass for the repose of those who had fallen in the great civil commotion

of that year, which had been suppressed with such loss of life. Here were

to be seen the murderer and the relations of the murdered, forgetting

that strongest and deadliest feud of the human heart--the thirst for

vengeance for the shedding of kindred blood--joining their own to the

thousands of voices that poured forth the well-known church chant of the

_Dies iræ_. Ten thousand voices supplicating Almighty God to pardon the

past, to grant rest to the souls of the slain, to bear in mind that he

had come on earth to save them, and to beg that he would remember them in

mercy at the day of his judgment, in the language and song of the church!

Of a truth, then, may the church chant say, _Unxit me Spiritus Domini, ut

mederer contritis corde_.

It is also curious to observe in what a marked manner, even in the recent

Protestant literature of our own country, this medicinal character of the

church chant is still recognized. Mr. Wordsworth has the following lines

in his _Ecclesiastical Sonnets_ (xxx.):

CANUTE.

“A pleasant music floats along the Mere,

From monks in Ely chanting service high,

While--as Canute the King is rowing by--

‘My oarsmen,’ quoth the mighty king, ‘draw near,

That we the sweet song of the monks may hear.’

He listens (all past conquests and all schemes

Of future vanishing like empty dreams)

Heart-touch’d, and haply not without a tear.

The royal minstrel, ere the choir is still,

While his free barge skims the smooth flood along,

Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme.[151]

O suffering earth! be thankful; sternest clime

And rudest age are subject to the thrill

Of heav’n-descended piety and song.”

Henry Kirke White, in the fragment of a ballad entitled the “Fair Maid of

Clifton,” bears even the still more remarkable testimony to a power over

evil spirits. He is describing the death-bed of a female who, fearing

that the demons would carry her away, had sent for her own relations to

pray by her side, and for the “clerk and all the singers besides.”

“And she begged they would sing the penitent hymn,

And pray with all their might;

For sadly I fear the fiend will be here,

And fetch me away this night.

…

“And now their song it died on their tongue,

For sleep it was seizing their sense,

And Margaret screamed and bid them not sleep,

Or the fiends would bear her hence.”[152]

_Southey’s edition_, p. 281.

And now, in drawing the comparison, it is fair to ask, granting the

exception where it may be justly conceded, in favor of particular

compositions: What on the whole is the _medicinal virtue_ of our modern

figured music? how does it take effect? who are the persons whose sorrow

it relieves? who are they who find themselves really made better by it,

and inclined, through its influence, to feel in greater charity with the

remainder of the congregation? To judge from the kind of remarks that are

usually made by persons coming away from a church where one of these

figured music Masses has been executed, one would certainly not say that

they could be many. For what are these remarks but those of connoisseurs,

who criticise the merits of a voice which has reached a very high or

low note, or of a particular solo, trio, or quartet, to which those who

are uninitiated in the mysteries of minim and crotchet pay positively

no attention at all? Now, let us for a moment suppose a person to say,

with S. Ambrose, in praise of Mozart’s famous No. XII., that it was a

“defence by night, an ornament by day, a shield in danger, a strong tower

of sanctity, an image of tranquillity, a pledge of peace”; or with S.

Basil, that “it had the virtue of putting devils to flight”; would any

experience more unfeigned surprise than those very persons who think this

Mass the absolute ideal of church music? Or again: if, unknown to himself

and to others, there were at this moment a future doctor of the church

among our London club politicians, how much would it naturally occur to

us to think that the performance of this same No. XII. would be likely to

contribute towards effecting his conversion?

RESPECTIVE CAPACITY FOR DURABLE POPULARITY.

God, who gave the Ecclesiastical Chant as a gift of mercy to the people,

must needs contemplate it as _popular_. For except it were really

popular, it would fail to attain its end. This, then, will be the place

to examine what indications are to be found that the Ritual Chant is

really, in this particular, the fulfilment of the Divine idea.

When an invention or an art is such that people come to borrow from

it popular expressions, or when it gives birth to new phrases or

metaphors, or a word or words come to be engrafted from it upon one or

many languages, this becomes an argument for its popularity, such as no

one will be inclined to dispute. Such phrases as those of “Go ahead,”

“Get the steam up,” are quite sufficient to prove the fact of everybody

being well acquainted with the steam-engine, from which they are derived.

Now, if a similar fact can be found relative to the Gregorian chant, its

popularity is in a manner placed beyond the reach of doubt.

When the poet Gray uses a well-known word in the lines,

“The next, with _dirges_ due, in sad array.

Slow through the church-yard path we saw him borne,”

he bears testimony to such a fact. The initial word of the first Antiphon

of the Matins for the dead, “_Dirige_ gressus meos, Domine,” has given

this well-known word to our language. It can be hardly necessary to

refer to a similar reception of the word “Requiem” into many different

languages, which is the initial word of the Introit in the Mass for the

dead.

The following anecdote, related by Padre Martini, page 437 of the third

volume of his _History of Music_, may be here to the point. It is of

Antonio Bernacchi, the most celebrated singer of his day (the beginning

of the XVIIIth century), and narrated to him by Bernacchi himself:

that, as he happened to be on a journey in Tuscany, near a monastery

of Trappist monks, he felt a desire to visit it, in order to become

acquainted with the way of life of these religious. He entered their

church exactly at the time they were singing Tierce. Bernacchi was

overcome by the effect of a multitude of voices in such perfect union

that they seemed to be only one voice. He admired their precision in

the utterance of every syllable, and in the softening, swelling, and

sustaining of the voice, that although no more than men, they seemed

to him like angels occupied in praising God; whereupon Bernacchi fell

into the following soliloquy: “How deceived have I been in myself; I

thought that, after a long and diligent application to the art of singing

under such a master as Pestocchi, and having the natural gift of a good

voice, I might pretend to exercise my profession without any question.

How have I been deceived, being obliged to confess that the psalmody of

these religious has in it a value and a quality that renders their song

superior to mine!”

Dom Martene relates that, in his travels to visit the churches of France,

he passed by a church of Benedictine nuns, who met with a patron and

benefactor in the following manner: The Duc de Bournonville retiring from

Paris in disgrace to “Provins,” on his arrival inquired for the nearest

church; and, upon being shown the church of these nuns, he entered it as

they were singing Vespers. So charmed was he by the sweetness of their

song, that he seemed to himself to be listening to angels, and not to

human creatures. On hearing, in an interview that followed, that the

community were in debt, he gave the lady abbess an immediate present of

one thousand ecus, and ever afterwards continued to be a benefactor to

the convent (_Voyage Littéraire_, etc., part i. p. 79).

Baini (_Mem. Stor._, vol. ii. p. 122) quotes a letter, which is thus

addressed to some English gentlemen who had visited Rome: “To Mr. Edward

Grenfield, Fellow of the Royal Academy of London, to Mr. Davis, Mr.

Morris, and other learned Englishmen, whose ears have not been altered by

fashion, and made obtuse by habit, and who have been more than once heard

to say, that they felt themselves more moved by the Gregorian Chant than

by all the noisy performances of the greater part of our theatres.”

Nor is this appreciation for Gregorian music confined merely to persons

from among the multitude. The following are the sentiments of two of the

most distinguished musical scholars of the day:

“All is worthy of admiration in the primitive Roman Chant. The tune of

the ‘Kyrie,’ for doubles and feasts of the first class, runs out to some

length, and is full of beautiful passages. That of Sundays is shorter

and more simple, but not the less full of unction. In both the one and

the other it seems impossible to change or to suppress a note without

destroying a beautiful idea, where all hangs so perfectly together. With

what natural, or rather inspired genius, has not this Kyrie, confined as

it is to such narrow limits, been conceived to form a whole so complete”

(Fetis, _Des Origines du Plain Chant, ou Chant Ecclésiastique_).

“Musicians may oppose and contradict what I say as they please; they have

full liberty; but I am not afraid to assert that the ancient melodies of

the Gregorian Chant are inimitable. They may be copied, adapted to other

words, heaven knows how, but to make new ones equal to the first, that

will never be done” (Baini, _Memorie Storiche di P. Palæstrina_, vol. ii.

p. 81).

And again, describing Palæstrina as engaged in the task of revising the

Gradual, he says: “But the Gregorian chant claims a character wholly its

own, has a beauty and a force proper only to itself. It is what it is,

and does not change. But to remain ever the same, and to be susceptible

of a change contrary to its nature, would be impossible. In a word, it

may be said that _heaven_ formed it through the early fathers, and then

fractured the mould.”

“Palæstrina applied himself with the zeal of one who had deeply at heart

the majesty of divine worship. But having completed the first part, _De

Tempore_, his pen fell from his hands, and more wearied than Atlas under

the weight of the sky, he abandoned his attempt; and nothing was found

at his death but the incomplete manuscript.… And thus we may see the

greatest man ever known in the art and science of figured music _become

less than a mere baby_ when he wished to lay a _profane hand_ on the

fathers and doctors of the Holy Roman Church. …And how wise at last was

he, after having fruitlessly attempted in so many ways to correct this

_divine song_ according to human ideas, to abandon the enterprise for

ever, and to conceal up to his death the useless result of his labor,

which he himself acknowledged to be unworthy of being made public” (_Mem.

Stor._ vol. ii. p. 123).

Next, as slightly illustrating its power of pleasing even a modern

European people, and that in contrast with the most elaborate products

of modern art; in 1846, at the centenary Jubilee of the Feast of Corpus

Christi at Liege, Mendelssohn’s _Lauda Sion_ was sung at one of the

offices. Yet the general opinion of the people who heard it (and who, by

the by, from its constant use in processions, are well acquainted with

the old Gregorian melody of the same sequence) was, that it was not

to be compared to the ritual _Lauda Sion_. At the Metropolitan Church

of Mechlin, on Easter Day, 1846, the students of the great and little

seminaries united together to sing at the evening Benediction. The pieces

sung were from Italian masters, Baini and a second, and the third was the

Gregorian sequence, _Victimæ Paschali Laudes_. One of the singers himself

told me that the people thought nothing comparable to the old melody,

sung in simple unison.

The Collegiate Church of S. Gudule, in the city of Brussels, may also

be cited as an existing proof of the power of the old chant. Whoever

has heard the Requiem Mass and the _Te Deum_ sung in that church by

two hundred voices in unison, must cease to think of the idea of its

popularity as if it were strange.

In the church of Notre Dame, in Paris, the simple melody of the _Stabat

Mater_ is sometimes sung by a congregation of four thousand persons, at

the conclusion of the annual retreats, with an effect that can never be

forgotten.

Again, as has been already said, the Requiem Mass, which took place

in the Champs Elysées after the terrible days of June (1848), it was

proposed that the Mass should be sung in music; but the Republican

authorities, in conjunction with the bishops, forbade it, and the Plain

Chant was ordered instead. Tens of thousands joined in singing the _Dies

iræ_, and their voices seemed to rend the heavens.

In Germany, among the melodies that pass by tradition among the people,

are many that are derived from the Ritual Chant of different localities,

as may be seen by merely looking into their numerous printed collections

of these melodies.

The Gregorian modes, again, as has been said, are far from being

unpopular in their nature. Many of the Scotch and Irish melodies,

traditional among the people, belong to neither of the modern major nor

minor modes. The French in Egypt found many traditional Arab melodies in

the Gregorian modes; and no doubt the same would be found to be the case

over the whole world.

The chant of the Vespers is exceedingly popular among our congregations

in England, though they are acquainted with it only in a form of

disguise, shorn of its antiphons, and encrusted with the deposit of a

long bandying about from organist to organist, like Ulysses, returning

home in rags and tatters after his many years’ wandering. Why should not

the popularity of the whole, when it shall become known, by the kind

efforts of such as will feel a pleasure in devoting themselves to teach

it to the poor, be believed in, upon the augury of the known popularity

of a mutilated and tattered part?

This idea has long since found a home among English Catholics. Charles

Butler, Esq., in his _Memoirs of English, Irish, and Scottish Catholics_,

after reviewing the chief Catholic composers of modern music, says: “But,

with great veneration for the composers and performers of these sacred

strains, the writer has no hesitation in expressing a decided wish that

the ancient Gregorian Chant was restored to its pristine honors.” And

again:

“There (in the church) let that music, and that music only, be performed,

which is at once simple and solemn, which all can feel, and in which most

can join; let the congregation be taught to sing it in exact unison, and

with subdued voices; let the accompaniment be full and chaste; in a

word, let it be the Gregorian Chant” (vol. iv. p. 466).

Benedict XIV., after expressing his own decided opinion of the superior

fitness of the Plain Chant, accounts, by means of it, for a _fact_, that

those who think the Gregorian Chant an unpopular one, would do well to

study. This, says he, is the chief cause why the people are so much more

fond of the churches of the Regulars than the Seculars. And then he

quotes a very remarkable passage from Jacques Eveillon: “This titillation

of harmonized music is held very cheap by men of religious minds in

comparison with the sweetness of the Plain Chant and simple Psalmody.

And hence it is that the people flock so eagerly to the churches of the

monks, who, taking piety for their guide in singing the praises of God

with a saintly moderation, after the counsel of the Prince of Psalmists,

skilfully sing to their Lord as Lord, and serve God as God, with the

utmost reverence” (_Encyclical Letter_, p. 3).

The same Dom Martene who has been quoted above, often speaks, in the

narrative of his journey, of the different churches which he visited,

and in which he was present at the celebration of any of the solemn

offices of the Liturgy. The following passages are specimens of his

opinion on the comparative merits of the Plain Chant. Describing the

Cathedral of Sens he says: “Pour ce qui est de l’Eglise Cathedrale, elle

est grande,” etc. “La musique en est proscrite, on n’y chante qu’un

beau Plain Chant, qui est beaucoup plus agréable que la musique.”--“As

regards the cathedral church, it is large and spacious, and figured

music is banished from it. Nothing but a beautiful Plain Chant is sung

in it, which is far more agreeable than music” (Part i. p. 60). Again,

speaking of the Cathedral of Vienne (Dauphinois), he says: “L’Office s’y

fait en tout temps avec une gravité qui ne peut s’exprimer. On en bannit

entièrement l’orgue et la musique; mais le Plain Chant est si beau,

et se chante avec tant de mesure, qu’il n’y a point de musique qui en

approche.”--“The divine Office is sung there with a gravity that cannot

be surpassed. The organ and all figured music are banished from it; but

the Plain Chant is so beautiful, and is sung with so much rhythm, that

there is no music that can come near to it” (Part i. p. 256).

Even Rousseau, in his _Lexicon Musicum_, article, “Plain Chant,” says:

“It is a name that is given in the Roman Church at this day to the

Ecclesiastical Chant. There remains to it enough of its former charms to

be far preferable, even in the state in which it now is (he is speaking

of the falsified French edition of it), for the use to which it is

destined, than the effeminate and theatrical, frothy and flat, pieces

of music which are substituted for it in many churches, devoid of all

gravity, taste, and propriety, without a spark of respect for the place

they dare thus to profane.”

Here it occurs to reply to a remark that I have seen made, which unless

it be founded, as is not impossible, on some very faulty version of the

Roman Chant, seems to betray some little inexperience. After having

admitted a superiority of the Gregorian melodies for hymns written in

the classical metre, the writer proceeds to say: “But, on the other

hand, let us take any one of the hymns of the church, in which, though

the words are Latin, the classical quantities are wholly disregarded,

while the verse proceeds in the measured beat of modern poetry, and

the lines are all in rhyme, and let us make an effort to sing it to an

unmutilated Gregorian Chant. What an absurd effect is the result! The

ear is distracted between two principles of rhythm and versification.

The structure of the poetry forces us, whether we will or no, to mark

the divisions of the song in accordance with its beat and its rhyme;

while the unmeasured, unmarked cadences of the music refuse to yield

any willing obedience, and produce no melodious effect, except at an

entire sacrifice of the principles on which they were framed. A wretched,

hybrid, unmeaning series of sounds is the result, neither recitative nor

song, neither classic nor rhyming, neither Gregorian nor modern, but

wholly barbarous.”

Now, if the writer of this passage be here speaking of the adapting of

melodies to words for which they were not composed, he is himself to

blame for a result of which he is the sole cause. Dress a city alderman

in the uniform of an officer of marines, and send him afloat on duty, if

you will, but do not lay it to his charge if the result is neither very

civic nor very nautical. But if the writer in question really means his

words to apply to the melodies to which these hymns are set in the Roman

Chant-books, he is confronted by the fact that, among these, and they are

now but few, chiefly in the Feast of Corpus Christi, are found the gems

of Gregorian melody. Who is there that has heard the _Ave verum_ and the

_Adoro te_, and the other hymns of S. Thomas on the Blessed Sacrament,

sung to their original melodies, without feeling their exquisite rhythm

and expressiveness? Again, the Gregorian melody of the _Dies iræ_, in the

Requiem Mass, has Châteaubriand’s express commendation as among the most

masterly adaptations of music to words. Lastly, the touching and most

plaintive melody of the _Stabat Mater_, which brings tears into the eyes

of all who hear and sing it.

If space permitted, it would be no very difficult task to multiply

such proofs and examples as these of an inherent popularity, both in

the general character or effect, and in the particular parts of the

Ritual Chant. But I think enough has been adduced to indicate that the

popularity is one that is co-extensive with mankind, that it finds an

echo in the human heart of every age, nation, or state of life. Of

course, God, who gave the ecclesiastical song to work a work of mercy

among the people, contemplates it as capable of popularity; and I think

we have evidence that this part of the divine idea is really fulfilled

by the Ritual chant. And, without prejudging the result, I would wait

to see whether indications of a similar popularity can be found for the

works of art with which I have been engaged in comparing it. However, I

think this is impossible; and for this reason: Things come to be popular

by being often repeated; and suitableness for perpetual repetition is the

test of popularity. But if I am not mistaken, the perpetual production

of novelties, which appear and then disappear, is a first and indeed

indispensable principle in the mode of dealing with these works of art.

SECURITY AGAINST ABUSE.

All things human are certainly liable to abuse and degeneracy, yet

all are very far from being on a par with each other in this respect.

In all human undertakings, order, discipline, and system are the

divinely-appointed securities against abuse. Now, the Ritual Chant, as

all who are acquainted with it know, is, like the ceremonial of the

church, a perfect system. It has two large folio volumes of music,

embracing the whole annual range of canonical offices, and a body of

rules prescribing even the minutiæ of their celebration. On the other

hand, the modern art has no such system, no such rules. Its use is, in

practice, altogether subject to the dominion of individual taste. The

choir-master who likes Haydn’s music, takes Haydn; another, who likes

Mozart, takes Mozart; another, who takes a trip on the continent, comes

back with the newest French, German, or Italian novelties. I am not here

insisting on the singularly small portion of the liturgy that is set to

compositions of modern art, but on the entire absence of all system in

the use of the pieces themselves, on the complete subjection of the whole

thing to individual caprice and taste.

It is quite true that the Bride of Christ is encompassed with variety

(_circumdata varietate_). But the church is also the kingdom of the God

of order; and I apprehend that between the _varietate_ characteristic of

such a kingdom, and the variety actually introduced into Catholic worship

by the unrestrained dominion of individual taste in music, there is the

widest possible difference.

The obvious exposure of modern music to the easiest inroads of every

kind of abuse, in consequence of this absence of system, has been felt

by its best-disposed advocates; and an able writer has maintained the

notion, that the compulsory use of the organ alone, to the exclusion

of all orchestral instruments, especially the violin, would be an

all-sufficient safeguard. But it is not very easy to see upon what

principle orchestral instruments are to be excluded, when the whole thing

is built on the principle of the supremacy of individual taste; and even

could they be excluded, it would still remain to be seen whether the

organ itself were really the impeccable instrument it is represented.

Let us hear a witness in the Established Church, where, according to this

writer, its dominion has been so unexceptionable. In the _Ecclesiastic_

for July, 1846, the following remarks occur: “How intolerable to such

saints (Ambrose and Gregory) would have been the attempt to give effect,

as it is called, to the Psalms, by the organist’s skilful management

of the stops. What would they have thought of the mimic roll of the

water-floods, and the crash of the thunder, and the hail rattling on

the ground, the lions roaring after their prey down in the bass, and

the birds singing among the branches, represented by a twittering among

the small pipes? From a heathen poet these gentry might learn a lesson

of reverence--Virgil seems to make it a point of natural piety not to

counterfeit the thunder of the Highest--

“Vidi et crudeles dantem Salmonea pœnas,

Dum flammas Jovis et sonitus imitatur Olympi.

Demens qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen

Ære et cornipedum pulsu simularat equorum.”

_Æneid_, vi. 585.

A real thunderstorm interrupting one of these mimic tempests on the

organ, makes one feel the profaneness of the imitation.”

Now, it is fair to ask, if the organ is to be the guardian of the

sobriety and gravity of modern art, who is to keep the organ in order?

“Quis custodiet ipsum

Custodem?”