XXIX.

During the week following the ball a most unexpected change took place in

my feelings—a change that at once afforded me so much comfort that I did

not hesitate to think and say that heaven had, in the hour of my greatest

need, sent me a friend.

It must be acknowledged, however, the hour when Gilbert de Kergy so

suddenly made his appearance was not exactly that in which I should have

expected an extraordinary intervention of divine Providence in my behalf.

I ought even to say that the first feeling I experienced at seeing him

again was one of extreme confusion at exhibiting myself under so different

an aspect from that he had seen me in before, and, in fact, so different

from that which was usually mine. This confusion, added to my fatigue and

the painful reaction and disgust which inevitably follow such intoxication

as I had voluntarily indulged in, sent me home in a totally different

frame of mind from that I was in when I left. Two hours before, I beheld

myself in the mirror with great complacency; but when I now saw myself in

this same glass resplendent with jewels and flowers, I turned away with

displeasure, and do not think I should have felt the least regret had I at

that moment been told I wore this brilliant array for the last time.

I hastily took off my diamonds and pearls, and changed my dress; and when

at length I found myself alone, face to face with the thoughts I had

vainly tried to escape from, for the first time since my interview with

Lorenzo a flood of tears came to my relief. The nature of the distraction

I had sought now appeared in all its vanity, and the shame I felt was

increased by the remembrance of Gilbert’s smile and the sarcastic accent

of his words. It was not in this way he had addressed me at Paris. This

was not the grave, respectful manner, so different from that of any other

person, which had so touched and flattered me then. The contrast made me

blush, and I longed to meet him again, that I might efface as completely

as possible the impression now left on his mind.

I longed also to inquire about his mother and Diana. In short, a thousand

recollections, as foreign as possible to everything that surrounded me

now, came to my mind and diverted it more effectually than any amusement

could have done from the cause of my present troubles. I slept more calmly

than I should have supposed after so exciting a day, and the following

morning when I awoke, though my first thoughts were of all I had suffered

the day before, I could not forget the pleasant event that had also

occurred to lighten my burden.

Gilbert had asked at what o’clock he could see me, and, at the appointed

hour, I was ready to receive him. I anticipated his arrival with pleasure,

and felt no embarrassment, except that which resulted from the

recollection of the previous evening. He came punctually, and, after an

observant look and a few minutes’ conversation, he became the same he once

was; which reconciled me a little to myself. We talked about Paris, the

Hôtel de Kergy, and a thousand other things, and his conversation, as

formerly, absorbed my attention, diverted my mind from my troubles, and

awoke an interest in a multitude of things unconnected with him or myself.

As he was on the point of leaving, he smiled, as he said with something of

the sarcastic tone of the evening before:

“I suppose, madame, I cannot flatter myself with the hope of finding you

at home, at least as long as the Carnival lasts.”

“Allow me to undeceive you,” I hastened to reply with a blush. “Whatever

you may have thought last evening, I am not fond of dancing. I very seldom

go to a ball of my own accord, and am sure I shall not attend another this

year. This _soirée_ was every way an exceptional one, as far as I was

concerned.”

“Really! I hope you will not think me too bold if I acknowledge that what

you say affords me pleasure.”

He said this in so frank and natural a way that I was restored to my ease,

and laughingly replied:

“You prefer my former manner? Well, Monsieur de Kergy, I acknowledge you

are right, and let me assure you it was my true one.”

As he was going away, I expressed the hope of seeing him again, and from

that time not a day passed in which I did not meet him. When I had no

engagement elsewhere, I usually spent my evenings at home, where I

invariably received a certain number of friends who were in the habit of

meeting in my drawing‐room. These _soirées_ were not interrupted when

Lorenzo was absent from home, but the number of those who composed the

little circle was more restricted. Stella, of course, never failed to

come, and the other _habitués_ consisted of friends and some of the

foreigners who lived in Naples, or were there temporarily, and preferred a

quiet circle to gayer society.

On the first story, to the right and left, were two long, lateral

terraces, united by a third which extended all along the front of the

house. These terraces surmounted a Greek portico, whose colonnades

surrounded a small square court, like those of Pompeii, into which looked

all the windows of the ground floor. All that part of the house, with the

exception of Lorenzo’s studio, was reserved for large parties, while the

first story was used for ordinary reunions. We therefore generally

assembled in an upper drawing‐room, which opened on one of the lateral

terraces; and from the day I allude to Gilbert regularly formed a part of

the little coterie which met there every evening. His influence was

speedily felt, and the atmosphere once more changed around me as at Paris,

and this change seemed even more beneficial than before. Every one felt

Gilbert’s influence more or less. He possessed the enviable faculty of

elevating the minds of others above their usual level, and of

communicating to them the interest he felt in whatever he was conversing

about. Not that he tried to introduce subjects he had made a special study

of, or to advance theories or opinions that first excited wonder and

afterwards wearied the minds of those on whom he wished to impose them. On

the contrary, he seemed to take an interest in everything except what was

low, repulsive, and absolutely trivial. But subjects of this kind were

rather not thought of than avoided intentionally in these conversations,

which were lively, natural, unrestrained, and agreeable, and at the same

time different from those I took a part in anywhere else.

It soon became evident that this addition to our daily reunions added

singularly to their charm. Never had the annual influx of foreigners been

so favorable to us. Stella, I observed, sometimes looked pensive while

listening to him, and one day she remarked to me she had never seen any

one like M. de Kergy. As for me, I felt the beneficial influence of his

society, and welcomed it without analyzing the enjoyment that had come so

opportunely to divert me from my present trials and renew the influences

of the past, which seemed the best in my life.

The lively indignation that filled my heart every time I thought of

Lorenzo’s absence and its cause continued to be felt. I bitterly compared

the world of perfidy and deceit he had forced me to know, with that to

which Gilbert belonged. I thought of the hopes I once had, and how

irreparably they had been deceived, and these reflections were my only

danger at the time I am speaking of.

The Carnival was now over, but it excited no surprise that Lorenzo wished

to prolong it by remaining at Milan during the Carnavalone. No one even

seemed to think it extraordinary he had gone there with a beautiful woman

who was returning without any escort. Naples, as I have said, was not a

place where evil reports were readily credited. People were not much in

the habit of discussing the deeds and actions of others. Rather than give

themselves up to conjectures common elsewhere, they would make a sign, by

putting the hand to the chin, to signify a thing was nothing to them or

concerned them but little. But this charitable indifference did not

exactly spring from love of their neighbor, and sometimes went so far, it

must be confessed, as to be scandalized at nothing.

I soon perceived, therefore, that though the true cause of Lorenzo’s

absence was known to almost everybody, and though his course inspired a

universal sympathy and compassion for me which wounded my pride, it by no

means excited against him the indignation that at least would have

somewhat avenged me.

Mario alone appeared grave and anxious, but Lando, who was not slow in

discovering the real state of the case, confined himself to some

characteristic remarks which would have appeared insulting had I not

learned never to take anything he said seriously, or attach any importance

to it. One evening, however, finding himself by chance near me in the

drawing‐room, he said in his incorrigible way:

“If I were in your place, I would punish that dear Lorenzo in the way he

deserves. Unfortunately, you are not the woman for that, I know. And,

after all, you need not take the trouble, for I can assure you the fair

Milanese herself will be sure to avenge you.”

I did not utter a word in reply to this language, which wounded all the

pride and self‐respect in my nature, and, at the same time, excited a

torrent of bitterness and contempt for Lorenzo. I thought at that moment

of the fearful vow Livia once spoke of, and asked myself if he, this

perjured partner of my life, did not make this vow as well as I. By what

law, then, was I bound to it, when he had chosen to be free?

I abruptly turned away from Lando as he said this, and left the drawing‐

room, where we happened to be alone.

The fineness of the weather and some indications of activity in Mt.

Vesuvius had drawn all the company that evening out on the terrace. I went

out as if intending to join them, but I did nothing of the kind. On the

contrary, I sought a place apart, where I could enjoy in peace the serene

brilliancy of the heavens, and took a seat overlooking the garden and

commanding a view of the Villa Reale, the bay, and the long line of

mountains beyond It was one of those incomparable evenings in spring‐time

when all you see or hear, and the very air you breathe, at once softens,

enchants, and predisposes the heart to melancholy. I had thrown over my

white dress a large veil of black lace, which I drew up over my head; and,

thus protected from the scarcely perceptible dampness of the night, I gave

myself up without restriction to my feelings of admiration, as well as the

sadness, indignation, and bitterness that filled my heart. Afar off on the

sombre azure of the cloudless heavens streamed a reddish flame whose

brilliancy formed a strong contrast with the trembling, silvery light the

growing moon cast over the waters of the sea. It was one of those

awakenings of Vesuvius, the fearful but magnificent spectacle of which is

always regarded at Naples with a pleasure that greatly surpasses the

anxiety it would be natural to feel at the probable consequences of a new

eruption.

All my guests were at that moment at the end of the terrace, where they

could have a full view of the flaming crater. But I was by no means

disposed to follow their example. I remained in the seat I had taken, my

face uplifted and my eyes gazing into the blue, mysterious depths, which

seemed to direct my thoughts to something far beyond the visible, starry

heavens. I know not how long I had been in this attitude when I perceived

Gilbert, who had been on the other side of the terrace, now standing

before me.

“May I have a seat here, madame,” said he, “or do you prefer continuing

your reverie alone?”

“Oh! no; remain. It is better for me to talk than to dream.”

“And yet, to judge from your looks while thus absorbed, your dreams must

have been delightful I longed to participate in them.”

“I know not whether they were delightful or otherwise, but they were

commonplace and true. Alas! I was thinking that the heavens are as

beautiful as the earth is sad.”

“Sad?... Yes, without doubt, but likewise very beautiful at times,

something like the sky above our heads, so glorious to‐night, but which

does not always look as it does now.”

“But the clouds pass away, and the sky again appears in its unchangeable

beauty; whereas....”

“Whereas, a single day is sometimes sufficient to render our lives totally

different from what they were before. Yes, you are right,” said he.

He was silent for an instant, and then resumed with a smile:

“But these gloomy thoughts do not always prevail. It was very far from the

case the evening I first saw you in Naples.”

“Oh! never speak again of that evening, Monsieur de Kergy, I conjure you,”

I exclaimed with a warmth I could not repress. “Have I not already told

you that I was wretched, infatuated, desperate?...”

I stopped short, confused at what had escaped me. I saw his expression of

surprise, and noticed again the look of sympathy and emotion he had shown

at Paris, as I wept while listening to Diana’s music—a look that silently

asked me the cause of my tears. Alas! the day I last visited the Hôtel de

Kergy was that on which the sadness that now wholly surrounded me first

cast its shadow over my path. But I did not wish to betray what I felt

now, any more than I did then, and I instantly regretted the words I had

just uttered. I think Gilbert perceived it.

“I assure you,” said he after a moment, as if I had never spoken,

“notwithstanding the brilliancy of your attire, you were far less imposing

in my eyes than you are at this moment; and yet I am going to show a

boldness I certainly should not have thought of manifesting that evening,

to which I shall never allude again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed that night to belong to a world whose manners and language I

was ignorant of, and where I felt more out of place and uninitiated than a

savage. I could not have said such a word then. I hardly dared look at you

afar off; whereas—but you will think me presumptuous.”

“No, say what you were going to.”

“Well, then, you seem now, on the contrary, as you did at Paris, a member

of the world I live in—an inhabitant, a queen if you like, or a sister,

perhaps, whose language I speak, as you can mine. That is why ...”

He hesitated an instant, and then continued with an accent of truth and

simplicity that prevented his manner from appearing singular: “That is why

I venture—and it is showing myself very bold—yes, venture, madame, to

consider myself worthy of being your friend, and, should you deign to

accord me this title, I think I can safely promise never to show myself

unworthy of it.”

What reply I made I hardly know, but what I am only too sure of is that

these words were welcome to a heart at once crushed and embittered as mine

then was. The void occasioned by Lorenzo’s treachery caused a suffering

like that of intense hunger. My dignity, even more than my conscience,

forbade my alleviating this hunger by giving vent to my grievances; nor

was I tempted to do so. But was there any reason why I should refuse

myself the solace of such a friendship as Gilbert now offered me? Had I

any other duty now, with regard to Lorenzo, than to show a respect he had

not manifested to the tie that united us? Could not Gilbert, as he had

just offered, be truly my brother in heart and soul? Was he not different,

as Stella acknowledged, from any one I had ever met? And was I not myself

in a position without parallel?

I pass over the remainder of my reflections in silence, merely remarking

here that if all the women who believe themselves to be in an exceptional

position could be counted, they would be astonished, I imagine, to find

their number so great, and would perhaps have to renounce some of the

privileges they lay claim to by virtue of the singularity of their

destiny.

To Be Continued.

Church Chant _Versus_ Church Music.

Concluded.

“Ah! but it is sad to think,” objects a friend at our elbow, “that your

rigid principles deprive the church of the use of the _best_ music. _I_

think she ought to have the very best of all that this world can offer.”

We have already given our friend his answer, from one point of view, in a

former article. We will endeavor to give a fair interpretation of the

answer which the church herself would make:

“It is not the best music, as such, that I want for my divine offices, any

more than I wish my priests to decorate the walls of my churches with the

_chefs‐d’œuvre_ of painting and sculpture simply because they are

masterpieces of art. I certainly want, and rejoice to possess, _the best

that is suitable_ in art, whether of melody, painting, or sculpture, and

even of scientific discovery or invention; but my canons of suitability

would be a besom of destruction to gas‐lighted altar‐candles and sanctuary

lamps, fixed or portable opera‐glasses for the use of distantly‐placed

worshippers, the manufactured mimic rain, hail, and thunder storms at the

beck of organ pedals, the statues of the Apollo Belvidere or the Greek

Slave, valuable paintings of first‐class yachts, fast horses, or prize

cattle, even if they came from the pencil of a Landseer or a Rosa Bonheur;

and if I cared for melody of any style for its own sake, my child, I would

strongly advise my American clergy to engage the services of Theodore

Thomas or Patrick J. Gilmore, whose orchestral performances are truly

delicious, and the best for their purpose that can be procured in my

beloved dominions of the western hemisphere. _But the purpose of these

delightful concerts is not a part of my programme._ The disciples of the

Grand Lama, I am told, turn off their rosaries and other prayers by means

of a crank, as music is often made by mechanical organs; but my prayers

and melodies are not made in this fashion. Have your _best_ music, as you

define it, sung and performed where it suits the best; go and hear it, and

God bless you; but please do not let me hear of your inventing and using a

small patent steam‐whistle to replace the acolyte’s altar‐bell, nor a

large one either in lieu of the church‐bell, for that would smack a little

too much of the cotton‐mill or the iron‐foundry; and I do not think I

_would_ tolerate that.”

We must confess to having our patience severely tried when the question of

“suitability” comes under discussion, and we burn to cry out, Where is the

honest musician who is not so engrossed with, and mastered by, his art as

to become, like it, deprived of ideas, or at least of the power of

expressing them in one single logical affirmation, and who has a principle

which he will fairly state and reason from instead of taking us into the

pathless dreamland of sentiment, or enticing us for ever off the track on

to side switches of individual tastes and special pleas that lead nowhere?

Discussing the relative suitability of music and plain chant for the use

of the Liturgy of the church is, in our experience, only equalled by the

purgatory of suffering one’s reason endures when talking “controversy”

with a Protestant. Has art no first principles? Is there no relation

between art and the nature and purpose of the object to be expressed or

illustrated by it? Do you _dare_ define “suitability” to be the harmony of

the subject with _your_ present mood, with the fashion of the hour, or

with the demands of ignorance and prejudice, or presume to close all

discussion with your “_Sic volo, sic jubeo; stet pro ratione voluntas_”?

But this is a digression. Let us return to our argument.

_Thirdly._ If we were to say that, contrasted one with the other, the

expression of plain chant is unimpassioned, and that of modern music is

impassioned—in other words, that the former has not much, if any, capacity

for expressing human passions, and that the latter has not only a great

capacity for expressing them, but also for exciting them, we think we are

affirming what every one who knows anything of the philosophy of music, as

well as every one who has been subjected to the influence of both, will

readily acknowledge to be true. There is martial music for soldiers, to

excite them to combat, or cheer them in victory, or stir their enthusiasm

on the triumphant return from battle. There is music for the dancers, and

distinct kinds of dance music which invite and sustain those who may wish

to waltz or polka, thread the figures of the quadrille, or indulge in the

lascivious mazes of other such‐like enjoyments not worthy of our mention

or consideration outside of our duty as confessor or preacher. There is

funny music to make us laugh, and there are funereal dirges to keep us in

fit mood as we march after a coffin. There is music which we know will

rouse the wrath of our enemy, and there is amorous music which awakes the

passion of love, pure and impure.

We have already signalized the cause which gave to music its sensuous

character. Lest it may be supposed that we are endeavoring to create a

theory without sufficient warrant, we quote from one who holds an

undisputed post of honor in the musical world:

“Very well! that which musical doctrine had condemned, that which ages had

proscribed, a man one day dared to do. Guided by his instinct, he had more

confidence in what it counselled him than in what the rules commanded, and

in spite of the cries of horror which arose from a whole nation of

musicians, he had the courage to bring into relation the fourth note of

the gamut, the fifth, and the seventh (the tritone). By this one act he

created the natural dissonances of harmony, a new tonality, the kind of

music called _chromatic_, and, as a consequence, modulation. What a world

of things produced by one single harmonic aggregation! The author of this

wonderful discovery is Monteverde.(84) He gives himself the credit, in the

preface of one of his works, for the invention of the modulated, animated,

and expressive style of melody. In fact, the impassioned accent (_l’accent

passionné_) does not exist, and cannot exist, except in the leading note

(_la note sensible_), and this cannot itself be produced, except by its

relation with the fourth and fifth degrees of the gamut—in other words

that any note placed in the harmonic relation of augmented fourth with

another note produces the sensation of a new tone, without the necessity

of hearing the tonic or making a cadence, and that by this faculty of the

augmented fourth to create immediately a leading note, modulation—that is

to say, the necessary succession of different tones—is rendered easy.

Admirable coincidence of two fruitful ideas! The musical drama is born;

but the drama lives on emotions, and the tonality of plain chant, grave,

severe, and calm, could not furnish it with impassioned accents; for the

harmony of its tonality does not contain the elements of transition. Hence

genius found inspiration in the demand, and all that could give life to

the music of the drama was brought into existence at one blow.”(85)

We cannot refrain from adding the reflections of another eminent

musician—M. Jos. d’Ortigue:

“Is it not evident that a new order of ideas, a new social element, and a

novel spirit, were introduced in music by the fact alone of the creation

of a tonality, and that dissonance, modulation, transition, the leading or

_sensible note_, the _impassioned accent_ (mark the words), were but the

material clothing, the means, the outward expression, thanks to which this

new principle—namely, the _moi humain_—which had already, so to speak,

broken through the upper strata of thought, made for itself a vent by

means of the art of music? For just as the ancient tonality, by the fact

of its constitution, inspired the sentiment of repose—that is to say, gave

birth to the ideas of permanence, of immutability, of the infinite, which

comport with the expression of divine things—so also disturbance,

agitation, the febrile and tumultuous expression of the passions, which

are the essential characteristics of all earthly things, are inherent in

the modern tonality precisely in virtue of its constitution, which depends

upon _dissonance_ and _transition_.”(86)

Those wise old Spartans who made it a capital crime to add a new cord to

the lyre, lest the people should be rendered effeminate, would certainly

despair of finding a man living in our XIXth century who was fit to be

called a man, if they were told that the chord of the minor seventh was in

such common use that hardly one melody can be found where its effeminate

dissonance is not made to appear and to be felt.(87) We pray to be

understood when we call the tonality of “impassioned accent” effeminate. A

few words from M. Victor de Laprade will convey our meaning: “I dare to

class music, and even women themselves, in the order of femininity—that is

to say, in that class in which sentiment rules ideas, in which the heart

is more manifestly active than reason. It is bold, I acknowledge. We are

no longer living in the age of the Book of Wisdom, of the sacred

lawgivers, of the prophets, of the philosophers, nor simply of Molière; we

are of the age of Saint‐Simon, of Fourier, of Auguste Comte, and we have

changed all that. We have put the heart on the right side. I am obstinate

enough to feel it beating on the left.”

In his famous Instructions (we beg our readers to recall our proposed

amendment of their title) the cardinal vicar feels the necessity of

protesting against this emotional tendency of music. “We forbid,” he says,

“too lively or exciting movements,” and dreads lest some composers may be

led to express “the unbridled liveliness of the dance.” He would not

“deprive the music of that grace and coloring which art and _good taste_

suggest,” but thinks it necessary to add that “an effeminate softness is

to be avoided.”

Without question, the best music, allied to words, as music, is in the

compositions for the opera. Those eminent composers who have written for

the opera and for the church have indisputably produced works of a higher

order of musical merit for the former than they have for the latter.(88)

And is not operatic music the most intensely impassioned of all melody,

and is it not, alas! becoming a vehicle for the expression of the most

debased and lascivious passions of the human heart? Give to modern music

language and a stage, free it from all the restraints of Catholic

morality, and who does not see, after the experience of an operatic season

in one of our great cities, that it would soon become the most powerful

and dangerous of all the forces which are now threatening to enervate and

demoralize our modern society? We must not be surprised, therefore, nor

should we much regret, that “modern composers have failed in their works

to meet the requirements of Catholic devotion.”

Let us see what spirit marks the ceremonies of the church when considered

as opportunities for exhibiting, or as exciting causes of awakening, the

passions. It is not possible to find one such occasion. All gesture which

might suggest aught but the most perfect calm and repose of the soul in

the actors is absolutely out of place. It is very difficult in sudden,

unlooked‐for instances of disturbance for the priest not to show in his

countenance or by his manner symptoms of alarm, disgust, or annoyance; but

he ought not to do so, and would not fail to scandalize the people, unless

such disturbance happened to be extraordinary. To betray by look, gesture,

or intonation of voice the slightest emotion of sensual passion, however

innocent in itself, would disgust and horrify all observers. Neither do

the rubrics permit him or his assistants to excite any passion in the

hearts of others; for the ceremonial directs their most simple movements,

the position of the body, the _tenue_ of the eyes, the hands, and the

feet. That “ecclesiastical modesty” which forms so constant a theme of

instruction to candidates for the sacred ministry here finds its perfect

realization, and is exacted in the highest degree.

The sacred offices are essentially unlike opera, and the church has the

good sense to dread the introduction of anything in connection with her

divine ceremonies that might be suggestive of it. We now understand why

the cardinal vicar throughout the Instructions vehemently proscribes, and

over and over again warns composers not to write, operatic or theatrical

music, or anything like it, either in its _melodies_ or its character, nor

borrow from it, nor imitate it in the use of ariettas, duets, trios,

recítative, _finales_, or _cabaletta_. Truly, “the best music” is pretty

well ruled out by his eminence. By his cautious discrimination, and

prudent lopping off, and general toning down he has pretty closely clipped

the wings of the steed of Helicon, and, after all, it must be

acknowledged, has made of him rather a sorry and unreliable nag, not worth

half the old horse who all his lifetime has never given out, or baulked,

or behaved in any unseemly manner.

We trust that a distinct disavowal of any intent on our part to treat with

flippancy and disrespect the oft‐quoted Instructions of his eminence is

not needed, for nothing could be further from our thought; but that our

readers will perceive that the point of our lance is directed against the

endeavor to impose a restrictive and prohibitory circular‐letter of the

cardinal vicar as a brief in favor of modern music with apostolic

sanction. We complain, also, that the words of Benedict XIV. have been

quoted by the same writers in such a way as to leave the impression on the

mind of the general reader that the learned pope treated modern music as

_un fait accompli_, and rather preferred it if composed according to

certain demands which he makes of musicians. Wherefore we quote again his

words, by which we get at his real sentiments: “The Gregorian chant is

that song which excites the minds of the faithful to piety and devotion;

it is that music, therefore, which, if sung in our churches with care and

decorum, is most willingly heard by devout persons, and is justly

preferred to that which is called figured or harmonized music. The

titillation of figured music is held very cheaply by men of religious mind

in comparison with the sweetness of the church chant, and hence it is that

the people flock to the churches of the monks, who, _taking piety for

their guide_ in singing the praises of God, after the counsel of the

prince of psalmists, skilfully sing to their Lord as Lord, and serve God

as God with the utmost reverence.”

The learned Suarez has also been cited in favor of modern church

music—rather a strange fact, as the great theologian was dead and buried

before the system of modern music was invented! S. Alphonsus—no mean

theologian, nor a rigorist either—says: “The devil usually gets more by it

than God does.”

This attempt to argue a positive approval from prohibitory enactments

reminds us of “a little story.”

“I had the honor this morning,” boasted a vain soldier, “of holding a

conversation with his majesty the king.”

“_You_ converse with his majesty?” exclaimed his companion. “And what did

you say to him?”

“Oh! _I_ said nothing. His majesty alone conversed.”

“And pray, what did _he_ say to _you_?”

“He said: ‘Fellow, stand out of the way!’ ”

Who has ever thought of denying that the old plain chant suits exactly the

ceremonies of the church? There were never any “Instructions” promulgated,

that we know of, to curb its worldly, operatic, sensual, or effeminate

tendencies, simply because by its essential melodic form it does not lend

itself to any such aberrations. By its short intervals, its grave and

unmeasured movement, and its intellectual character,(89) it is freed from

all sensuousness. You can neither march to it, dance to it, nor make love

with it. But you can appropriately accompany any of the ceremonies of the

church with it, and pray with it; that is—to forestall the special plea of

a theological “distinction”—you can _adore_ with it, _propitiate_ the

divine justice with it, _supplicate_ with it, _praise_ and _thank_ God

with it; and doing all this, we respectfully ask, what more do you want,

and, if you do want more, what right have you to ask it?

In the interests of art, do you say? Pshaw! You know well that the church

can offer but a very confined field for the cultivation of music _as an

art_, and, compared with music inspired by other wants and tastes, the

music written for her use is not worth mentioning. It is only fit to be

consigned to the flames, as our friend observes. Besides, the church is

not an Academy of Arts and Sciences. Try again.

If being content with what the church prescribes, refusing to admit what

she has not distinctly commanded, and contending stoutly for the fitness

of that melody for the expression of her divine prayer, and as an

accompaniment to her sublime offices, and which she has never declared to

be unsuitable, be to “censure the whole church, and even the Pope

himself,” as it is insinuated we do, then we offer ourselves at once for

safe conduct to a lunatic asylum, for assuredly we have lost our senses.

_Fourthly._ We hear much of the _coloring_ in the phraseology of modern

music. That it is essentially rhetorical is plain enough. It is pretty

much all made up of figures of speech, musically expressed. It is

especially antithetical, full of striking contrasts, and highly

metaphorical. We used to hear frequently in our own church, when we had a

“mixed” choir and a gallery, a _finale_ of the Gloria in Excelsis which

the unlearned in musical gymnastics were accustomed to say sounded like

the men scampering after the women, and the women scampering after the

men, and neither coming out ahead of the other. This rhetorical character

of music, this dealing in figures of musical speech, which we dare affirm

is not free in many an instance from the faults of tautology, bombast, and

mixed metaphor, lucidly explains the reason why the frequent repetition of

_morceaux de musique_, whether anthems, motets, “grand Masses,” or

“musical Vespers,” by any celebrated composer whomsoever, soon grows

tiresome. The same rhetorical phrases and identical figures of speech in

the discourses of a preacher Sunday after Sunday would set all the people

yawning, and, if the sacredness of the place and of the speaker were not a

hindrance to such emotional display, laughing and hissing as well.

The metaphorical character of music is the result of its theme, which may

be, as we have already said, either pastoral, martial, amorous, saltatory,

funereal, or even prayerful, etc.; but it is not really pastoral, for

there are no green fields to pipe in or any hay‐making going on. It is

_like_ pastoral music, and would be only tolerable, even in a concert‐

room, on the strength of the maxim, “Art for art’s sake”—a principle we

contend to be unphilosophical at best, and absolutely intolerable when

applied to sacred ceremonies, and not sanctioned by a single instance in

the rubrics. So, also, there are no military evolutions, no love‐making or

dancing, going on, for which reason the music is not _really_ martial,

amorous, or saltatory, but only _like_ such music. But there may be a

funeral, and there certainly is prayer going on; and what objection can

there be to funereal and prayerful music? We have never heard any funereal

_music_ that was fit to accompany a Requiem Mass. We have heard musical

howling, wailing, sobbing, groans and sighs of despair, and even the

spiteful cursing and gnashing of teeth of the damned, as in the

_confutatis maledictis_ of Cherubini’s _Requiem_; but let that pass for

the present. Prayer_ful_ music there is of incomparable sweetness and

ravishing harmony, but _prayer_ music—_i.e._, music which _is_ prayer—is

quite another thing. Music does not lose its metaphorical character

because its theme is prayerful. There is the greatest difference in the

world between first‐class paste and real diamond, or between vermeil and

pure gold, although it is possible that neither you nor we could

distinguish them without the application of a scientific test. The paste

may have a perfect diamond_ful_ glitter, if you will; but that this

glitter is the expression of the substance of real diamond needs no

argument to disprove.

Let us again apply our test. The official acts of the celebrant and his

assistants at the altar are not figurative, but real. The priest acts _as_

a priest, and not _like_ a priest. The chorus rise, kneel, bow, prostrate,

as a chorus should, and not as a chorus might. All their acts are real,

finding their _ratio_ in themselves, and not in something else of which

they are now a good and admirable, or now a poor and far‐fetched, figure.

Melody for such performances should be a faithful and _true_ expression of

these realities. That is to say, when you hear the melody, you should hear

the prayer which is the form of the _corpus rubricarum_, as the soul is

the form of the human body. Subjected to this test, the paste is easily

distinguished.

Now, will the diamond, as we choose to typify the church chant, be as

readily known by the like test? There is nothing corresponding or similar

to figures of speech in the chant, neither is it based upon metaphorical

themes. It has properly no theme, but only modes, with their special

intonations, mediations, and cadences. Considered in its melodic form, it

is a rhythmic combination of unities, the purest artistic expression of

communion with the Infinite Unity—with God. Sung in or out of the

celebration of the divine offices, if it be not simple rehearsal, it is

prayer, and nothing else but prayer. It rejoices in the “perennial

freshness” of the Holy Mass and Divine Office, because, like these, it is

not metaphorical, but real; and hence we deduce at once the explanation of

its lasting character. Its melodies do not wear out or become tiresome. It

would never occur to a child of the church, although he were the most

accomplished musician the world ever knew, if his age surpassed that of

Mathusala, and he had heard High Mass every day of his life, that the

Preface or the Pater Noster (and wherefore any other chant?) was a worn‐

out or tiresome melody. There is a truth for the lovers of church _music_

to digest.

The essential reason—to go to the very bottom of the matter—of the lasting

character of the chant, lies in the form of its phraseology, which is

purely didactic, consisting of simple and therefore sublime affirmations;

this simplicity of its phraseology being often reduced to the utterance of

pure substantives, as if the soul were in rapture, meditating upon God and

his attributes, the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End, the Being

of beings, the Eternal, the Omnipotent, the Everlasting, the All in all,

the All wise, the All fair, and the All good.

There is an instance of this sublime simplicity of language in Holy

Scripture which is an apt example to illustrate our meaning. It is the

twelfth verse of the viith chapter of the Apocalypse: “Amen. Benedictio,

et claritas, et sapientia, et gratiarum actio, honor, et virtus, et

fortitudo Deo nostro in sæcula sæculorum, amen”—Amen. Benediction, and

glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, honor and power, and strength to our

God, for ever and ever, amen.

The test being applied, we think we may affirm and certify the diamond.

_Fifthly._ From what we have already said, and to judge from the

extraordinary pretensions of its capacity for expression put forth in

these later days, modern music is essentially dramatic, mimetic, or

imitative. That it is especially suitable as the melody to accompany and

aid the expression of dramatic representation there is no question. There

appears also to be hardly any limit of its capacity, as musicians affirm,

for word‐painting and scene‐painting. If the musical critics are not

deceived, we think that, with the full score of some genius who may be

even now about to graduate in the school of “the music of the future,” a

Thomas or a Gilmore might dispense with the actors on the stage

altogether, and with the services of the scene‐painter as well. What is

thought of this power of word‐painting, when employed to illustrate the

sacred text of the church’s offices, we quote from the _Dublin Review_,

Oct., 1868:

“What is called word‐painting in music is, of course, very effective, but,

as a rule, it cannot be carried so far in sacred as in secular music

without detriment to the dignity of the subject. Indeed, even where it is

not otherwise objectionable, it sometimes becomes tiresome from its

conventionality. The run down the notes of the scale at the _descendit de

cœlis_, and such like effects, do not bear much repetition. Indeed, the

attempt at minute expression has often led to odd blunders, such as in the

passages _resurrectionem mortuorum_, where the music for the first word is

usually made to have a joyful effect, the latter a lugubrious one (and

that, too, sometimes drawn out into musical passages cut off from the

previous word, as if it were a fresh sentence), the composer forgetting

that the phrase only comprehends one idea—that of the resurrection. So

with the passage _remissionem peccatorum, exaltavit humiles_, and others

that might be named.”

We have already mentioned a notable instance of this word‐painting—the

_confutatis maledictis_ from the _Dies Iræ_ of Cherubini. The vividly

descriptive and intensely dramatic power of that passage is well known;

and if it were further heightened by a mechanically‐darkened church, with

a flash or two of stage‐lightning and the rumbling of sheet‐iron thunder,

we are sure the effect would be quite as much as we could bear, whether as

celebrant or as near relatives of the departed. Overpowered with the

emotions of horror and fear which we are sure we would experience in thus

having hell opened to us, we would be thinking a great deal more of the

devil than of the God of mercy and compassion when the cry of fright broke

from our lips, “Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna!” Certainly, deprived

even of any stage effects, we have never listened to it without a shudder.

And now comes the pertinent question, Is dramatic, theatrical effect what

the church desires to obtain from her melody, or, at least, is she willing

that there should be anything of this kind at all employed to illustrate

her liturgy? We refer to the Instructions of his eminence the cardinal

vicar. He is “polarized,” as we say in America, on that subject. We also

quote from the late articles on church music in this magazine:

“ ‘Humana nefas miscere divinis’ finds its application here. To carry the

minds of worshippers in the church back to the theatre by the music is a

crime, for it is a desecration.”

Musicians themselves are not wholly devoid of the sense of propriety. Mme.

de Sévigné relates that _Baptiste_—the celebrated Lulli—hearing at Mass

one day an air which he had composed for the theatre, cried out: “Lord,

Lord, I crave your pardon. I did not write it for _you_!”

We wonder if the correspondent of the _Herald_ was aware of the satire

contained in the following late announcement: “Signor Verdi protests

indignantly against his _Requiem_ being played in a circus at Ferrara.”

Yet let us see if our comparison with the ceremonies of the liturgy and

the character of the actors holds good as before.

There is no scenery, nor should there be any for any occasion. No, good

reader, not even for the Repository of Holy Thursday. Those puppet‐show

“tombs,” with pasteboard soldiers sleeping and watching before pasteboard

rocks, are not prescribed by the rubrics, or even tolerated, and are

therefore entirely out of order and unmeaning. The Holy Mass is a

continuation of the crucifixion and sacrificial death of our Lord on Mount

Calvary; but there is no dramatic representation of that event, for the

reason, among others that we have alleged before, that it is not a

representation, but a reality. We could readily understand its propriety

if the Episcopalians or other sects of Protestants were to have a stage

erected with scenery of the “upper room,” and a supper‐table with living

actors or wax‐figure ones, _à la_ Mme. Tussaud or Mrs. Jarley, in order to

vividly represent to their people the celebration of the Last Supper,

because their “celebrations,” high, low, broad, or evangelical, expect to

have nothing more at best than a representative sacrifice or commemorative

supper; but the Catholic Mass is a perfect and real sacrifice in itself,

and mimics nothing.

Apart from the Mass, we have a remarkable example in our own day of a

sacred drama, the Passion Play of Ober‐Ammergau, which is not a real but

an imitative crucifixion, mechanical in the highest degree, passional,

figurative, and dramatic. Music for that, _à la bonne heure_!

Let us again bring the chant into comparison. When we say that it is pre‐

eminently the chant of priests, each one of whom is “alter Christus,”(90)

the chorus song of psalmists, we at once proclaim it as pre‐eminently

fitted for the expression of the liturgy, and therefore to be wanting in

dramatic or word‐painting capacity. There have been a few insignificant

attempts made by late composers to express, after a musical fashion, the

_descendit de cœlis_ with square notes on a four‐lined staff, in the hope,

probably, that it would be mistaken for plain chant; but the guise is too

thin!

Here is a fitting opportunity to explain our former intimation that

horrifying, tearful, and groaning melody is not suitable even for a

requiem. How often have we not heard it said, “Oh! Gregorian chant is

admirable for occasions of sorrow; just the thing for a Dead Mass”; or

again, “I think the chant is so lugubrious and solemn; every inflexion

seems to be in the minor key,” to which we reply:

In the first place, they who suppose plain chant to be in the minor key

are simply in ignorance of its tonality. These we advise to study enough

of the chant of their church to avoid making ridiculous objections to it.

The others evidently suppose, 1st, that the church intends to excite

emotions of sadness at a requiem, and to perform, especially with the

services of the choir, the office of a paid mute; and if the friends and

relatives are moved to weep bitterly and for a long time, every one will

say, “How impressive, how touching!” meaning, “How saddening! How

depressing to the spirits!” 2d. That the Gregorian chant Requiem is most

admirably suited to this purpose, being a melody of _such_ a sorrowful

character and of _so_ lugubrious a tone.

On which we remark that they are most egregiously mistaken in both

suppositions. The object which the church has in view at a requiem is not

to make people weep and wail, but to console, comfort, and soothe the

bleeding hearts of the bereaved mourners; to pray herself, and to excite

them to pray earnestly, for the soul of the departed. Nothing could be

further from her thought than to horrify them with visions of the grave

and imaginations of the torments of the damned. No, it is rest, eternal

rest, the rapture of the soul’s enjoyment of the everlasting light of

glory in heaven, that forms the burden of her funereal refrain,

“Requiem æternam dona ei Domine,

Et lux perpetua luceat ei!

Requiescat in pace!”

Those who love to indulge in the luxury of woe, and who fancy that

plentiful tears and a thoroughly broken‐hearted manner are the proper

accompaniments to a mourning dress, highly approve of the anti‐rubrical

exhibition of painted or embroidered skulls and cross‐bones, heightened in

effect by a diapering of gigantic tears, which the artist in funereal

trappings has intruded upon the altar or about the catafalque. The Requiem

Masses of Mozart and Cherubini would certainly admit of these imitative

skeletons and mechanical grief; but not so the Gregorian Requiem.

Hark! what are those strange words which break the silence as the coffin

is borne into the church? “Subvenite sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Domini,

suscipientes animam ejus, offerentes eam in conspectu Altissimi. Suscipiat

te Christus qui vocavit te, et in sinu Abrahæ angeli deducant te.”(91)

And now the Introit begins, which gives the keynote, so to speak, to the

whole Mass:

“Requiem æternam dona eis Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis.”(92)

What a world of comfort in those words! How soothing and hopeful; and

chanted to such a smooth, sweet melody, like oil poured out upon the

troubled waters, calming the agitated and fretted spirits of the mourners,

and gently turning all hearts away from the thoughts of the irreparable

loss they have sustained, and shutting out the memory of the scenes of

anguish and horror that marked the hours of the agony and death, solicits

them to pray for the soul of the beloved departed, and to cast all their

sorrow at the feet of God.

Doubtless you presume the chant is very sorrowful; and, like all Gregorian

chant, this is, of course, “in the minor key.” Not at all, however

inexplicable it may appear to you. Read over again what we have just

written above, and now learn one more astonishing fact. The chant for this

Introit is written in the sixth mode, the only one of all the Gregorian

modes whose scale is identical with the scale of the modern major key!

There is not an invitation to weep in the whole Requiem, neither in the

words nor in the melody. It is true the church takes care to improve the

occasion by preaching her sermon on the Judgment in the chant of the _Dies

Iræ_; but she soon returns to her keynote of comforting prayer, and at the

_Communio_ (which, of course, is not sung at all at our concert requiems)

she essays even a bright and cheerful melody in the triumphant eighth

mode, to the old refrain,

“Lux æterna luceat eis,”

and, addressing the sweet mercy of God, inspires hope and submission to

the divine will by the reminder that he is ever kind and good—“quia pius

es.”

Oh! what is this? It is the sympathizing pressure of the hand of the old,

old friend who has always been true in sunshine and storm, in our sins and

our miseries; it is her sheltering arm that folds our drooping head upon

her gentle breast, and her cheery voice that has so often gladdened us in

days gone by, soothing our broken heart with the only words that have

power with us now—“God is good,” “It is his holy will.”

When we were aforetime groping in the darkness of heretical error, and

denied all privilege of stretching out our hands in prayer to help our

beloved dead through the mysterious way that death had opened to them, and

sternly forbidden to hope for a deeper look into the future than the

yawning chasm of corruption opened to our gaze in the earth, we felt—alas!

how keenly—the appropriateness of the only burial service we knew of then,

whose doleful burden—“ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and “We commit this

body to the _ground_”—expressed well the faith that was of the earth,

earthy. But now our voice is lifted up in praise, and our heart‐strings

tuned to strains of festive joy, when God has spared our innocent loved

ones the dangers and sorrows of life, chanting their translation to the

skies in robes of white, and in words of joy that erst were sung by angels

proclaiming “Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men”; and

at the borders of the tomb which hides from our sight the forms of those

who for many a year have grown with our growth, and knit our very

existence unto theirs, the earth with its darkening clouds is made to

disappear, and heaven itself is revealed as the herald who precedes the

soul to the gates of everlasting light, chants in our hearing its

melodious welcome to the home of rest and glory.

“In paradisum deducant te angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres,

et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem. Chorus angelorum te

suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.”(93)

The Catholic Church calm in the face of death, and triumphant at the edge

of the grave! Why does not the sight convert every Protestant and

unbeliever before the setting of the sun? This is our answer: Because you

have brought upon the true Israel the calamity which Mardochai the just

prayed God to avert when “the mouths of them that sing unto God are shut,”

and by your music have bedimmed one of the most sublime manifestations of

the church, and by the banishment of her chant have silenced her voice in

that supreme, faith‐inspiring hour!

_Music_ at a funeral! We would as soon think of getting an Episcopalian

parson to read his gloomy burial service, or of hiring a Methodist

preacher to declaim by the hour, for the purpose of exhibiting his own

vanity and ministering to ours.

The reason why the much‐lauded musical Masses, whether of requiem or for

other occasions, have failed to meet the requirements of Catholic

devotion, is because their composers have sought by word‐painting to

illustrate the words, as separately defined in a dictionary, instead of

grasping the chief and leading ideas to which the church strives to give

expression; pretty much as if a painter, intending to paint a man, should

most carefully sketch apart every separate bone, muscle, nerve, artery,

and organ in the body. The result obtained would be a series of most

excellently delineated anatomical drawings, no doubt, but no bodily form

of a man, and no expression of what makes the body a living body, which is

the soul.

Hence we deduce a most important conclusion. The _form_ of modern music is

not prayer, but recreation, the delectation of the imaginative faculty. It

aims at producing the impressions which material things excite by their

contact with the senses. It seeks to imitate motion in direction or

velocity, light and darkness, cold and heat, serenity or disturbance in

nature. The piano alone is supposed to make us hear the booming of cannon,

the galloping and neighing of horses (the _tritone Si, Fa_, which in the

palmy days of Gregorian chant was called _diabolus in musica_, and which

is the _essential_ chord in the tonality of modern music, will be found to

give the exact notes of an ass’ braying), the dying moans of the wounded

in battle, the rising and setting of the sun, and a host of other equally

curious things. “I shouldn’t wonder,” exclaims a witty writer, “if one day

I might see upon a piece of sheet music, ‘_Demonstration of the square of

the hypothenuse_,’ or ‘_The theory of free trade_!’ ” Will not some

composer produce a “work” which will give the impressions produced on the

souls of the people at Mass and Vespers? It might be found convenient for

home use on rainy Sundays!

This suggestion quite tickles our fancy. It has the smack of originality

about it, and we feel like playing with it, as a cat plays with a mouse.

Who does not see at once that it opens a vast field for development of

music as an art, and _precisely in the order in which musicians are now

striving to give it expression_? Yes, the glory of the invention is ours.

“PATENT MUSICAL IMPRESSIONS, adapted to every want in church and state.”

“Save your fuel! _Summer Impressions_, warranted for the coldest climate.”

“Watering‐places superseded! Refreshing _Winter Impressions_, deliciously

cool, flavored with hops, serenades, moonlight excursions, sea‐views,

Adirondack trips, etc., according to taste.”

“_Sermon Impressions_, a great variety. Parties ordering will please state

their religious views or the particular branch of the Episcopalian or

other denomination to which they belong.” _N.B._—Agents and composers

wanted.

If our readers think this to be nonsensical trifling, let them read a few

of those lucubrations styled “musical criticisms.”

Musical _coloring_ has only been equalled in its fantastic conceptions by

the so‐called _ocular harmony_ and _visual melody_ imagined by the French

Jesuit, Father Castel, who lived about the beginning of the last century.

Starting with a fancied principle that colors are reducible to a harmonic

scale corresponding to the scale of musical sounds, he had manufactured

what he called his _universal ribbon_, on which were graduated all colors

and their most minute shades. Of this ribbon he made a little book, which

he ingeniously attached to a harpsichord in such a manner that certain

leaves would open at the touch of the different keys, thus presenting to

the sight a particular shade of color at the same time that the hearing

perceived the musical note. It is said that he spent large sums of money

on this hobby. He wished also to have silks and other stuffs woven after

this principle and “_dans ce goût_” of which the sacerdotal vestments

ought to be made, so that every feast and season would be not only

distinguished by those parti‐colored robes, but also, according to his

principle of the harmonic proportions of color, that by a scientific

arrangement of the colors derived from his graduated ribbon one might,

and, as he contended, _should_, note upon the vestments melodies, and even

harmony, so that a chasuble would _sing_ the Gloria in Excelsis or a cope

the Antiphons at Vespers! We do not find, however, in his works, any

proposal to _sing_, in colors, either at Mass or Vespers, thunder and

lightning, landscapes and sunrises, jigs and waltzes, serenades of love‐

sick swains, the shrieks and gnashing of teeth of devils and lost souls,

as our modern musicians have done with their musical coloring.

_Sixthly._ One of the chief complaints justly made against church music is

its liability to the abuse of bringing certain singers of remarkable

talent into an undue and often indecent prominence, and thus ministering

rather to personal vanity, to petty jealousies and envies, and to the

critical delectation of the audience (?), than to the praise and glory of

God. That music can be written so as to preclude such an offensive result

we are not prepared to deny; but that there is any reasonable hope that it

ever will be we do not believe. The principle upon which choice is made of

it in preference to chant, and which has extorted the restricted and

evidently unwilling toleration of it, forbids us to entertain such a hope.

We fancy that such a chastened style of music, composed so as to meet this

requirement, would soon be voted as “confessedly unequal to the task of

evoking and expressing the feelings of Christian joy and triumph,” and,

with plain chant under the same ban, this world would become indeed a vale

of tears and

“... plain of groans,

Whose arid wastes resound with moans

Of weepers over dead men’s bones.”

The style inherent in music certainly calls for more or less of personal

display, and consequently for some sign of appreciation from the

listeners, if it be nothing more than that entranced silence which is

often the most flattering applause, especially in church.

A little incident has just occurred in connection with our own church

choir—we hardly need say that no women sing in it, or that chant is its

accepted melody—which illustrates better than long argument the spirit

that Gregorian chant inspires in the hearts of the singers. One of their

number, a little chorister, lies sick in a hospital. The members of the

chorus have made an offering of all the merit they gain in the sight of

God, on account of their singing, for his recovery. We imagine the look of

puzzled surprise if such an “act” were proposed to the singers of a

musical chorus in one of our ordinary gallery‐choirs.

We would furthermore ask whether music for the church could be, or is at

all likely to be, composed so as not to betray the hand of the composer

and elicit applause for him? Ought the people, or priest either, to suffer

the distraction of remarking interiorly, “We have Mgr. Newsham’s Mass to‐

day, but it is not so pleasing as Mr. Richardson’s revised Mozart that we

had last Sunday. I do hope the organist will soon give us one of those

Mechlin prize Masses; but we cannot have that, I suppose, until we get a

better tenor, for ours is rather a poor voice, etc., etc., etc.”?

We say that all such reflections are out of order, and are a valid

argument against the use of musical compositions.

What of personal display in church ceremonies? It is not only in bad

taste, but irrational, stupid, and contemptible, if it be not grievously

scandalous, as it might very easily become. Does any one ever dream of

applause to be either given or acknowledged? Why does not the church offer

prizes for the composition of “Masses” which will vie with each other in

their literary style, their devotional phraseology, and other

characteristics, so that the people may have the enjoyment of hearing a

Mass, now of the celebrated Dr. Brown, now of Dean Jones, and now of Canon

Robinson, instead of being obliged to listen week after week to the same

old, tiresome Masses of the Feasts of our Lord, the Blessed Virgin, and

the saints, the productions of the same “barbarous” age which formed the

chant, and whose composers are not known to one in a million? Do not the

exigencies of modern progress, and the aspirations to see themselves in

print of more literati than she can find room for in her contracted temple

of fame, demand that the church shall take this matter into serious

consideration? We advise the American daily press to press this matter

into the notice of the hierarchy at once, or at the reassembling of the

Vatican Council at furthest.

As to plain chant, it corresponds exactly with this anonymous character of

the present liturgy of the church, as every one can see—immortal works,

that immortalize only the common faith which produced them—and then _that_

will be got rid of, which is all we need or care to say on this point.

_Verbum sap._

_Seventhly_ (and lastly, for the present). Modern music is essentially

national and secular. It is the product of a natural and sensual

civilization (a question we have not the space to fully discuss here), and

advances in a degree corresponding to the cultivation of the arts for

their own sake by this or that nation, besides receiving a marked impress

from the national habits and tastes.

Art for art’s sake! What else could we expect from a civilization which

has ignored the supernatural and placed scientific investigation above the

revelations of God, whose painters have abandoned the ideal for servile

copying of nature, and whose highest type of beauty for the sculptor’s

chisel is a naked Venus?

The secular character of music—by which we mean its variability with

succeeding centuries or still shorter periods of time—is also

unquestionable. It is of this age or of that; now “all the rage,” and now

“old‐fashioned” and “out of date.” Modern musical airs enjoy a very short‐

lived popularity. Fashion is the autocrat, almost the divinity, of modern

civilization. It is the logical expression of cultivated sensualism, and

the art of music has basely given itself up to its tyrannical rule and

whimsical lusts. Church music has been forced to bend its neck and go

under the same yoke, and we do not believe it has the power to shake it

off. Talk of making the style of music “alla Palestrina” popular now! We

have been offered Chevalier Pustet’s costly _Musica Divina_ for a song;

and Herr Franz may call the attention of church musicians to the works of

Durante until he is hoarse. We tell you that such music is “out of

fashion”; and fashion’s ban in the kingdoms of this world is as blasting

as the ban of the church’s excommunication in the kingdom of Christ.

There must be nothing national or secular, nothing suggestive of the petty

partisanship and strifes of the world, about the melody which expresses

the universal and everlasting liturgy of the church. Kenelm Digby, whose

judgment is of worth, says: “Sooth, no tongue can be adequate to give an

idea of the impression produced by the plain song of the choir. It is full

of poetry, full of history, full of sanctity. While the Gregorian chant

rises, you seem to _hear the whole Catholic Church behind you

responding_.”

Music may do for religions that are national or fashionable. Hymns in the

German style may do for German Protestants; hymns and anthems in the

English style may do for English Protestants; and American music (if there

be such) may answer for all the requirements of devotion among the fifty

odd sects that are struggling for existence amongst us—and we advise them,

if they wish to make their churches “pay,” to keep their music well up to

the fashion—but the Catholic Church, who knows no present, past, or future

in her eternal faith, whose liturgy has never been subjected to the genius

of national language, whose motto, “Quod ubique, quod semper, quod ab

omnibus,” has defied the attacks of fashion, as her rock‐founded edifice

defies the gates of hell, she must have, and, thank God, she has a melody

no nation or age shall call “its own,” whose purity no _soí‐disant_

“civilization” shall ever be able to defile, which her faithful children

shall always recognize as the voice of their true mother, and know it well

from the voice of a foreign step‐dame or of a hireling housekeeper—a voice

which, through the mysterious link of divine generation, will ever speak

to the child of the Father, who is his through the church, and whose

Paternal compassion is sure to be moved by the tones of that song which

the Mother taught him to sing.

Assunta Howard. V. Sienna.

It was on a beautiful evening in June, just when spring was merging into

summer, that Mr. Carlisle’s family arrived in Sienna, and found a truly

delightful home awaiting them, thanks to Giovanni’s energy and thoughtful

skill. The soft but somewhat enervating air of Rome had failed to restore

Mr. Carlisle’s strength; and the physician imperatively ordered that

panacea which seems, in the opinion of the faculty, to be the last

resource when other prescriptions have failed—complete change. An almost

unaccountable attraction had drawn their thoughts towards Sienna, and

Giovanni had been despatched to Tuscany with _carte blanche_ as to

preparations. He had proved himself entirely worthy of confidence; and the

praises bestowed upon him by all the family, as they inspected the result

of his efforts, were not unmerited. He had succeeded in engaging, for the

season, a pleasant, airy villa about a mile beyond the Florentine gate of

that quaint, proud city, and no expense had been spared to render it

comfortable and home‐like. A small grove in front of the house and a

flower garden on one side promised many a pleasant hour during those days

when shade and beauty afford relief and divert the mind from the power of

the midsummer sun. The _loggia_ in the rear of the house, where Mr.

Carlisle, his sister, and ward were now standing, commanded a most

extensive and beautiful view. Directly beneath them the land sloped down

into a graceful valley covered with vineyards. Beyond was a long stretch

of _campagna_; and in the far distance, like a giant sentinel, rose

Radicofani, on the summit of which still lingered the glory of a sunset

whose gorgeousness had already departed. There is much in first

impressions—more, perhaps, than we are willing to acknowledge—and it may

well be doubted whether any after‐sunshine would have secured for Sienna

the favor it now enjoyed had Radicofani appeared for the first time before

the little group assembled on the balcony, rising weird‐like from out a

veil of mist and cloud.

Mrs. Grey actually sighed, as, instantly spanning with a loving, womanly

thought the distance which separated her from the lover she had

regretfully left in Leghorn, she turned to her companions, saying: “Oh! I

wish George were here. I think Sienna is lovely. There! I have seen the

new moon over my left shoulder, and now I am sure he will not come this

month.”

Mrs. Grey was evidently very much in love. Mr. Sinclair’s presence and

absence formed the light and shade of her life’s picture; and a picture it

was whose colors were too glaring, its contrasts too striking, and it

lacked deep feeling in its tone. After a pause she continued:

“But then I have always noticed that George does not like views.” And

removing her pretty travelling‐hat, she went away to superintend Amalie’s

unpacking.

“He certainly did not like _my_ views,” said Mr. Carlisle in a low voice

to Assunta, “when I expressed them to him rather freely the other day. But

neither did I like his; so we were quits there.”

But the attention of the traveller was soon entirely engrossed in securing

the rest needful after so fatiguing a journey; and it was some days before

Mr. Carlisle was sufficiently strong to explore the city, whose walls and

towers could be seen, in all their mediæval picturesqueness, from the

_loggia_.

At last, however, the change recommended began to tell upon the invalid,

and each day added its portion of renewed strength, until Mr. Carlisle

threatened every possible and impossible herculean labor, by way of

proving that he was, as he said, “ready for anything.”

The ladies had insisted upon postponing any sight‐seeing until all could

enjoy it together, though Clara protested that complete stagnation was

evidently her fate. One could not find much excitement in a grove and a

mountain after the first hour of novelty. Still, as long as the mail

brought her a daily letter from Mr. Sinclair, and took in return the

dainty, perfumed envelope containing so many pretty, loving nothings, she

did not appear to be hopelessly inconsolable.

Assunta had, without scruple, made one exception to the generous

resolution of waiting. But it was because she knew that the expedition she

wished particularly to make alone would afford no pleasure to the others,

while their presence might be the occasion of much pain to herself. Of

course the interest Sienna had for her was its association with S.

Catherine; and she longed to see the spot consecrated by the heroic

sanctity of one whose humility was as profound as her influence on the

world was powerful. She took the opportunity on Sunday, after she and

Marie had assisted at Mass in a little suburban church, to visit the house

of the dyer whose honor and privilege it was to be the father of a woman

the life and character of whom might well be studied by the women of to‐

day. S. Catherine possessed all that the most ambitious of her sex in the

present day could desire—an immense public influence. How did she gain it?

Only by seeking to lose herself in the obscurity of an ignoble origin; in

labors and privations for the sake of a love whose consuming fire many

waters of tribulation could not quench; and in that truly hidden life in

which God delights to work his wonders. The only right she claimed was

that of loving, and consequently of suffering, more than others. The only

insignia of rank she coveted was a crown of thorns, and it was granted to

her by her Eternal Lover, who could refuse her nothing. Her power was in

God’s exaltation of the humble, in his use of the weak things of the world

to confound the mighty. Well might those hands, which were privileged to

bear in them the marks of the Lord Jesus—the sacred stigmata—be made

instrumental in leading back to Rome its exiled pontiff‐king. Self‐

annihilation was the secret of the influence of those glorious women of

the ages of faith who have since been placed upon the altars of the

church. O restless, self‐seeking women of to‐day! striving for a power

which will curse and not bless you, where is the sweet perfume of your

humility? Where are the fruits of mortification? Where the aureola of

sanctity? Where are those grand works for God, offspring of a faith that

believes all and a love that dares all? For these are the virtues in a S.

Catherine or a S. Teresa which all can imitate. Or, if these standards are

too high for modern souls, where are the homely qualities of those women

commended by S. Paul, who adorn themselves with modesty, learn in silence,

are faithful in all things, having a care of the house? Thank God, the

hand of the Lord is not shortened, and holy mother church cherishes many a

hidden gem of sanctity which will one day adorn the bride at the coming of

her divine Spouse! Yet these are but the exceptions, unknown in the midst

of the vast, ever‐moving multitude seeking the open arena of life, and

desiring a part in its contests, animated by hopes as false as they are

human, placing that almost insuperable barrier of pride between their

souls and the Sacred Heart of our divine Lord. S. James has given us this

simple rule of a holy life: “To visit the fatherless and widows in their

tribulation, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the world”—in two words,

charity and purity. May the ever Blessed Mother of God and her glorious

servant S. Catherine intercede for the women of the church, that they may

never covet those empty baubles for which the women of the world are now

spending their lives!

Assunta, simple child of the faith, thought nothing of all this, as she

passed reverently over the threshold of the house, whose rooms, retaining

still something of their original appearance, are now converted into

chapels. The sacristan, perceiving in the young girl an earnestness of

piety to which he was not accustomed in most of the strangers who visited

this holy spot, showed to her, without solicitation, the crucifix before

which S. Catherine was kneeling when she received the stigmata. With kind

attention the good man placed a _prie‐dieu_ before the precious object of

veneration and, then retiring, gave Assunta an opportunity to satisfy her

devotion. Making a place for Marie beside her, she was soon absorbed in

prayer. Here, where the very atmosphere was filled with a spirit of love

and sacrifice, where the crucifix before her spoke so eloquently of the

closeness of the union between the faithful soul and its suffering Lord,

how easy it seemed to make aspirations and resolutions which would of

necessity lose something of their heat when exposed to the chilling air of

the world’s indifference! How far off now was Mr. Carlisle’s affection, of

whose influence she never ceased to feel something; how near the divine

love of the Sacred Heart, that one sole object of S. Catherine’s desire

and adoration! It had been the last request of Father Du Pont, when he

gave Assunta his good‐by and blessing, that, while in Sienna, she would

often visit this holy house. He judged rightly that the evident presence

of the supernatural would help to counteract the spirit of worldliness

which surrounded her in her daily life. She herself already felt that it

was good for her to be there; and though, when she returned home, the

sensible fervor of the moment died away, the effects remained in

reanimated strength. “Courage, my child, and perseverance; God is with

you,” were the last words she had heard from the good priest’s lips; and

they kept singing on in her soul a sweet, low harmony, like the music of

seashells, soothing her in many an anxious hour.

When once Mr. Carlisle was able to go out without danger of fatigue, Mrs.

Grey could no longer complain of stagnation. The cathedral, the academy,

and the numberless places of interest within the city walls, the drives,

the walks through the shady lanes near the villa, twilight strolls through

the vineyards, and excursions into the surrounding country, filled up the

time through all those pleasant weeks. Before they could realize it

Assunta’s birthday, her day of freedom, was at hand. A week before the

eventful occasion Mr. Sinclair had arrived in Sienna, making Mrs. Grey

superlatively happy. The joy he imparted to the others must be expressed

in something less than the positive degree.

The sun rose brightly on the 15th of August. Nature responded to the

joyous Benedicite, and “all the works of the Lord” seemed to “magnify him

for ever” for the great things he had done in giving to heaven a Queen, to

earth an Advocate. Nor was man silent. The grave city of Sienna put off

its wonted dignity, and, by the unfurling of its gay flags, the spreading

of tapestries, and the ringing of bells, testified its share in the common

rejoicing of Christendom. It was the Feast of the Assumption, and Assunta

Howard’s twenty‐first birthday. Was it strange that the young girl should

have arisen with a heavy heart but little in sympathy with the glad sights

and sounds that greeted her in these first waking moments? Surely, to

those who understand the workings of the human heart it was most natural.

On this day ended the relations between herself and her guardian. However

hard the tie which bound her had made her duty towards him, it was harder

still to nature to sever the bond. She was free now to go where she would;

and it would soon be right for her to separate from him who was no longer

her guardian, and was not satisfied to be only her friend. She had not

realized before how much happiness she had experienced in the relationship

which existed no longer; how she had rested content in the very face of

danger, because the peril had in it so much more of pleasure than of pain.

How sweet had been the intercourse which duty had sanctioned, and which

duty must now interrupt! The feeling was all wrong, and she knew it, and

she would not fail to struggle against it. Her will was resolute, but it

was evident that she was not to conquer in life’s battle by throwing aside

her arms and withdrawing from the contest. The bearing of the cross must

be daily, and not only day after day, but year after year. Only to‐day she

seemed to feel its weight more, and she sank a little beneath it. Was it

her guardian angel that whispered courage to her soul, or was it the

Blessed Mother, to whose loving protection she had been specially

confided, who reminded her that our dear Lord fell three times beneath the

overwhelming burden of his cross, and bade her be comforted? Yes, it was

the feast of that dear Mother, and no mere human feeling should prevent

her joining in the church’s exultation and corresponding to her salutation

in the Introit: “Gaudeamus omnes in Domino.”

Assunta had ordered the carriage to be in readiness to take her to San

Domenico for early Mass, and Marie’s knock at the door informed her that

it was waiting. She had before visited the church, but only in the way of

sight‐seeing. She had then been struck with its many points of interest;

she had no idea until this morning how devotional it was. After Mass, at

which she had received, in the Holy Communion, strength and peace, she

remained a long time before the chapel containing those most beautiful

frescos, by Razzi, of incidents in the life of the great saint of Sienna.

The finest of all, S. Catherine in Ecstasy, is a treasure both of art and

devotion. Apparently fainting, supported by two of her nuns, the

countenance of the saint has that indescribable expression of peace which

we see in those whose conversation is in heaven. But, more than this, the

evident absence of all sensation indicates that the soul is rapt into an

ineffable union with its divine Lord, and has passed, for the moment,

beyond the confines of earth. Seemingly dead, and yet alive, the frail

body, with its beautiful, calm face, rests upon its knees in the arms of

the two Sisters, who, with all the tranquillity of the cloister, yet form

a contrast to her who is so wholly dead to the world.

Assunta gazed upon the picture until it seemed to impart rest to her own

soul; and yet the impression was very different from that she always

received in looking at the other S. Catherine whom angels are bearing to

her sepulture. Marie at last interrupted her, and, reminding her that she

was the important personage at the villa on that day, suggested that she

should return to breakfast. And Assunta determined that no cloud should

disturb the serenity of the occasion, which all intended should be joyous.

Mr. Carlisle met her at the door on her return, and assisted her to

alight. Then he took her hand in both his, and his eyes spoke volumes, as

he said:

“Let me look at you, child, and see how you bear your honors. You are more

of a heroine than I thought; for even at this distance we have heard the

bells and have seen the flags. What an important little body you are! No

one thought it worth while to ring me into my majority.”

“It is because you did not come into the world under the same auspices,”

replied Assunta.

“Auspice Maria—that is the secret, then.” And Mr. Carlisle lowered his

voice as he added: “Consider me a Mariolater from this time, my devotion

deriving an ever‐increasing fervor from the doctrine of the Assumption.

Well, you are free, and I suppose I am expected to congratulate you. How

do you enjoy the sensation of liberty?”

“I do not think that I am yet enough accustomed to the use of my wings to

feel the difference between what I was yesterday and what I am to‐day. But

in one point I am unchanged. I have an excellent appetite for my

breakfast.”

Assunta was determined to ward off all approach to sentiment.

“And here is Clara, wondering, no doubt, if I have been left behind in

Sienna.”

Mrs. Grey came out into the garden, looking very lovely in her white

morning dress, and followed by Mr. Sinclair.

“Severn, you are the most selfish man I ever saw,” exclaimed the impetuous

little lady. “Do you flatter yourself that you have the monopoly of

Assunta, and that no one else is privileged to wish her _cento di questi

giorni_, as Giovanni says?—though I am sure I should not like to live a

hundred years. My beauty would be gone by that time.” And she looked

archly at her lover standing beside her.

“I fancy that even relentless time would ‘write no wrinkles on thine

antique brow,’ reluctant to spoil anything so fair,” said Mr. Sinclair in

his most gallant tone; then extending his hand to Assunta, he continued:

“Miss Howard, allow me to congratulate you, and to wish that your life may

be as cloudless as is this wonderful sky. The day is like

yourself—exquisitely beautiful.”

The color mounted into Assunta’s cheeks, but it was with displeasure at

such uncalled‐for flattery. Mr. Carlisle turned away, and walked into the

house; while his sister, with that amiability which often atoned for her

want of tact, exclaimed:

“Bravo! George, you have said quite enough for us both; so I will only

ditto your speech, and add to it my birthday kiss. Now, dear, let us go to

breakfast. Severn is already impatient.”

The table had been placed in a large hall running the whole length of the

house; and as the three were about to enter, Assunta paused on the

threshold, in astonishment and delight at the magical transformation. The

walls were literally garlanded with flowers, and fresh greens were

festooned from the ceiling, while in the centre of the breakfast‐table was

a basket of the rarest exotics. Not only Sienna, but Florence, had been

commissioned to furnish its choicest flowers for the occasion. Assunta’s

eyes filled with tears, and for a moment she could not speak. Mr.

Carlisle, perceiving her emotion, offered her his arm, and led her towards

a side‐table, saying:

“And here are our trifling birthday gifts, which you must not despise

because they fall so far short of expressing all that we feel for you.”

There was a beautifully‐framed proof engraving of Titian’s masterpiece,

the Assumption, from Mr. Carlisle. Clara had chosen as her gift a set of

pearls, “because they looked so like the darling,” she said. Mr.

Sinclair’s offering was a bouquet of rare and exquisite flowers. He had

all the penetration of an experienced man of the world, and understood

well that Miss Howard would prefer not to accept from him anything less

perishable. Assunta put her hand in Clara’s, as she said:

“I never can thank you, it is all so beautiful.” And then she paused,

until Clara exclaimed:

“Why, Assunta love, what a solemn birthday face! To be sure, the flight of

time is a serious thing. I begin to feel it myself, and shall very soon

dispense with birthdays altogether—such disagreeable reminders as they

are.”

“What is it, _petite_?” asked Mr. Carlisle. “You know that to‐day you have

only to command us, and we will prove your most obedient subjects.”

“Oh! it was nothing of any consequence; only a thought that you would

consider very foolish crossed my mind. I am sure my solemnity was quite

unintentional.”

“Well, a penny for that thought, twice told.”

Assunta, perceiving that Mr. Sinclair was out of hearing, explained:

“All this for my poor worthless self and nothing for Her whom God has

delighted to honor. I think I was feeling a little jealous for my dear

Mother. I did not want my feast to be better than hers.”

“Is that all?” said Mr. Carlisle. “To hear is to obey.” And without

another word he quickly removed from the table everything but the picture,

and, taking flowers and candles from the mantel‐piece, he improvised a

really artistic shrine. Giovanni, who was serving breakfast, lighted the

candles, and surveyed the effect with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” said Assunta, and she would not even remember that the love

was wanting which would give value to the offering. “I shall hardly dare

think a wish to‐day, the consequence is so magical.”

“And now, Severn,” said his sister, “if you have finished your popery, you

had better call Assunta’s attention to my ever‐increasing appetite.

Giovanni, too, will not like to have his efforts to honor the occasion

slighted by a want of appreciation.”

Mr. Carlisle offered the young girl his arm, and led her to the table,

saying:

“This is my first attempt at Mariolatry. Quite a success, is it not?”

“If it were only an outward sign of inward grace,” said Clara, laughing,

“exterior piety would be quite becoming to you, Severn. You really have an

artistic taste. But you are too absent‐minded to‐day! Can you not see that

we are starving?”

Assunta was so accustomed to hear sacred things spoken of lightly, and

often irreverently, that she had learned to make a little solitude in her

heart, into which she could retire from the strife, or even the

thoughtlessness, of tongues, and many a short act of reparation was there

performed for those who were unconscious of offence.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Grey, as after breakfast the party were standing on

the _loggia_—“I wonder if Giovanni has succeeded in finding a good balcony

for the races to‐morrow. I would not miss seeing them for the world. I

dote on horses.”

“I very much doubt,” replied her brother, “if the horses will excite the

least admiration, judging from the specimens Sienna has thus far produced.

But the races will be interesting, because they are entirely unique. I

believe that Giovanni has been very successful in securing a balcony, and

he intends to have it surpass all others in decoration; so I hope that the

ladies will do their part, not to disgrace his efforts. He will expect the

jewels to be set in a manner worthy of the casket which contains them.”

“Never fear, Severn! Do you think a lady ever failed to look her best on

such an occasion? An open balcony and a crowd—surely, she needs no other

occasion for vanity.”

George Sinclair removed his cigar to remark carelessly:

“And so the admiration of _one_ is, after all, insufficient to satisfy

you?”

“No, it is not, you dear, lazy, old fellow, and you know it. It is only

because I like your taste to be appreciated that I want others to admire

me. I do not think there is a more delicious sensation than to feel that

you are pretty to begin with, and then dressed so as to show every point

to the best advantage, and to know that every eye is fixed upon you. One

can be so innocently unconscious of it all the time.”

“Clara, I am ashamed of you,” exclaimed her brother. “You are a perfect

mirror of your sex; only, unfortunately, it is the weaknesses that you

reflect to the life, and none of the virtues.”

“Hush, impertinence!” replied Clara, laughing merrily. “One cannot always

be a well awfully deep and reflecting only the stars. Come, George, what

will be most becoming to me for to‐morrow?”

If it had been a few months after marriage, instead of before, this

devoted lover would probably have replied, “A fool’s cap and bells, for

all I care!” As it was, he concealed his inward irritation, and no one

would have doubted his sincerity as he said: “You cannot fail to be

charming in anything; and I will not choose or suggest, because I would

like to enjoy the pleasure of a surprise.”

Mr. Sinclair was sometimes fascinated by Clara’s piquancy and brightness;

but she did not suit all moods, and to‐day Assunta’s quiet dignity and the

antagonism that Mr. Carlisle always excited more or less, produced an

interior disturbance of which a wife would surely have received the full

benefit. It is strange that an entirely worldly man will often, from a

selfish motive, show a power of self‐control which Christians find it

difficult to practise, even for the love of God. Alas! that the devil

should receive many a sacrifice, many an offering of suffering and

heroism, which, the intention being changed, would produce a saint.

Mrs. Grey had not penetration enough to see below the surface, and she was

entirely satisfied with her lover, whom she considered the best and

handsomest man in the world, not even excepting her brother. She could

rush fearlessly against a mood which would have kept a more appreciative

nature at a distance; and here, perhaps, she had an advantage.

She was now about to answer Mr. Sinclair’s very gratifying speech when an

interruption came in the shape of Giovanni with a note for herself, which

she read hastily, and then said: “Severn, it is from Lady Gertrude. They

were passing through Sienna, and have remained over a day expressly to see

your humble servant. They wish me to dine with them this evening,

accompanied by my _preux chevalier_—her own expression, George. But I do

not know about leaving Assunta alone on her birthday, even for Lady

Gertrude.”

“Oh! I hope you will not disappoint your friends on my account,” said

Assunta. “I have already had my celebration this morning, and it is quite

proper that I should devote this evening to reflections upon my coming

responsibilities.”

“Besides,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I beg to inform you that Assunta will not

be left alone. I flatter myself that I count for one, at least; and I will

endeavor to act as your substitute, Clara, in most effectually preventing

those contemplated reflections. Responsibility and golden hair are an

association of ideas quite incongruous, in my opinion.”

“I see,” said Clara, “that the balance is in Lady Gertrude’s favor. What

do you say, _caro_?”

“If you mean me,” said George Sinclair in a slightly unamiable tone, “I am

always at your service.”

“You bear!” replied the irrepressible Clara, “I will not allow you to go

if you are cross. Well, Giovanni, come to my room in ten minutes for the

answer; and remember to order the carriage for half‐past five.”

“Truly,” said Mr. Carlisle, turning to Assunta after his sister had left

the _loggia_, “I think I never saw so sunshiny a person as Clara. It is

always high noon with her.”

While Assunta assented cordially, Mr. Sinclair said to himself:

“Too much sunshine makes an unpleasant glare, and noon is always the most

disagreeable part of the day. I confess to liking a little of the shadow

of repose.”

He was careful, however, to keep his thoughts to himself. If the lover

could feel imperfections so keenly, it argued but poorly for the blindness

of love on the part of the husband. And yet this blindness, false and

unworthy as it is, seems to be the only chance of peace for worldly

husbands and wives, the only protection against the evil tendencies of

uncontrolled human nature. All Clara’s sunshine might fail to make even a

silver lining to the cloud rising in the distant future.

The sun shone brightly enough, however, when Mrs. Grey and Mr. Sinclair

took their seats in the barouche to drive into Sienna; and the lady, who

so much delighted in the delicious sensation of undisguised admiration,

must have been more than satisfied this afternoon. Many eyes followed the

handsome pair, as they passed rapidly towards the hotel. Clara knew that

she was looking uncommonly well, and she was very proud of her companion’s

distinguished air and manner; so, altogether, she enjoyed quite a little

triumph.

Assunta and Mr. Carlisle dined alone; and, as they rose from the table

just at sunset, Mr. Carlisle proposed a walk down into the vineyards.

“It will soil that pretty white dress of yours, I know; but the air is so

refreshing, and I want you to occupy for a while the new rustic seat I

have had placed near the brook, in that lovely spot we discovered the

other day. Take a shawl with you, _petite_, for it will be cooler as soon

as the sun sets.”

They strolled along slowly down through the narrow paths which separated

the vines heavy with the fast‐ripening fruit, pausing now and then, as

some new beauty in the distant view or in their immediate surroundings

excited their attention. At last, at the bottom of the valley, close

beside a brook, and beneath a clump of trees, they came upon one of those

fairy spots where nature seems to have arranged herself expressly to

attract an artist’s eye.

“Giovanni is truly invaluable,” said Mr. Carlisle. “I had only to give him

a suggestion, and see how well he has carried out my ideas. This is the

very luxury of comfort.” And seating himself, he lighted a cigar, advised

Assunta to put on her shawl, and was evidently prepared for a pleasant

hour.

As they sat there, almost in silence, the Angelus sounded from a distant

convent tower; and, as if in answer to its summons, Assunta began to sing

in a sweet, low voice Schubert’s Ave Maria. Mr. Carlisle did not say a

word until it was finished; then he begged for just one more, and, knowing

how much he liked the simple Scotch songs, she sang “Robin Adair.”

“Assunta, your voice grows sweeter every day. It is perfect rest to me to

hear you sing.” Then, after a pause, he threw away his cigar, and turned

towards her a very earnest face.

“_Petite_, listen to me patiently a moment. I am a very proud man, as you

know, and one who is not apt to sue, even where he greatly desires. It

seems”—and the peculiar smile broke over his face—“that you have exercised

some magic power, and with a touch of your finger have thrown down the

barrier of pride against which an army might beat in vain. My child, you

know what I am going to say, because I have not changed since that

moonlight night in the Colosseum, except, indeed, that the feeling I then

expressed has strengthened and deepened every day. I made you a promise

that night. I confess that it has been poorly enough redeemed; still, you

must judge me by my self‐conquests rather than by my failures. But to‐day

releases me: and having ceased to be your guardian, I cannot give you up.

I need not repeat to you what I have already said. You know that you are

dearer to me than the life you have saved. I only ask, as before, the

right to devote that life to you. May I?”

“I had hoped, Mr. Carlisle, that you would consider my former answer as

final,” said Assunta; but, though her words were cold, her voice trembled.

“I, too, am unchanged since that night you speak of. I am compelled to be

so.”

“Assunta, you are such a child; do you, then, think it nothing to have won

the love of a man who has reached middle life and has never loved before?”

“Mr. Carlisle,” said the young girl sadly, “if I thought it nothing, I

should not feel the pain it costs me to repeat to you, that it cannot be.

I am so unworthy of your love; you must not think I do not value it. Your

friendship has been more to me than I dare tell you, lest you should

misunderstand me.”

“Your heart pleads for me, child.”

“Then I must not listen to it; for the voice of God in my soul pleads more

loudly.”

“Assunta,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I think you did not understand me

before—you do not understand me now. Do you suppose I should interfere in

your religion? No more than I have ever done. You do not know me, child.”

“I think I know you better than you know yourself, presumptuous as this

sounds,” said Assunta, forcing a smile. “I am sure that, were I to marry

you, you would not be satisfied to hold a place in my heart second even to

God. But,” she added, as the old expression of bitterness crossed her

guardian’s face, “all this is useless. Let me put a question to you, and

answer me candidly. Suppose I had made a promise to you, who love me—made

it, we will grant, out of love for you—and afterwards, yielding to my own

weakness, I should break that promise. Would you feel that I had done

rightly—that I was to be trusted?”

“Certainly not, child. You ask strange questions.”

“Well, I have, out of love for our dear Lord, made him a promise which I

believed his love required of me. He is a jealous Lover, Mr. Carlisle. I

dare to say this reverently. Suppose, for the sake of a human

affection—for your sake—I should fail to keep my promise; would you not

have reason to doubt my fidelity to you, when I could be unfaithful to my

God?”

“My child, I do not comprehend such reasoning. You either do not, cannot

love me, or else you have suffered religious fanaticism to get the better

of your judgment. I hoped that the plea of love would be sufficient to win

my cause; but it is not all. Look your future fairly in the face, Assunta.

What are you going to do? You are young; I need not add, beautiful.

Surely, you understand that without me you are unprotected. Have you any

plans, or have you already become so independent that you prefer not to

make me your confidant? My pride is gone indeed when I put my suit in

another form. I ask only your hand. Let me have the right to protect you

in the world you know so little. I will wait to win your heart.”

“Mr. Carlisle,” interrupted Assunta with more emotion than he had ever

seen in her before, “you are cruel in your persistence. You wilfully

misunderstand me. It seems to give you pleasure to make this trial as hard

for me as possible. I have told you before that I can never marry you; let

that be enough.” And bursting into tears, she rose hastily from her seat.

Her guardian was so taken by surprise that for an instant he sat

motionless; then he followed the excited girl, and joined her before she

had proceeded far along the vineyard path.

“Take my arm, _petite_,” he said gently, and they walked some distance in

silence. At last Assunta said with regained composure:

“Mr. Carlisle, you asked me about my plans, and you have a right to know.

I have thought much of the future, as you may believe. My desire is to

return to Baltimore with Clara after her marriage, and pass the winter

with Mary Percival. Further than this I need not look.”

There was no immediate answer. After a pause Mr. Carlisle said:

“You are your own mistress now. I shall of course place no obstacle in the

way of your carrying out any wish or design which will conduce to your

welfare. As for myself, the time may come when I shall cease to regret

that I am in no wise necessary to your happiness. Meanwhile, it shall be

as you say. Good heavens! to think that a mere girl should have the power

to move me so,” he went on, as if speaking to himself.

And apparently his thoughts were so full of Assunta that he forgot her

actual presence, for they reached the house in silence, and then Mr.

Carlisle proceeded at once to his own room; and so ended the birthday.

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