After dinner it occurred to them that the subject of Gregorians and
Gothic had been left in the lurch. "How in the world did we get off it?"
asked Charles.
"Well, at least, we have found it," said Bateman; "and I really should
like to hear what you have to say upon it, Campbell."
"Oh, really, Bateman," answered he, "I am quite sick of the subject;
every one seems to me to be going into extremes: what's the good of
arguing about it? you won't agree with me."
"I don't see that at all," answered Bateman; "people often think they
differ, merely because they have not courage to talk to each other."
"A good remark," thought Charles; "what a pity that Bateman, with so
much sense, should have so little common sense!"
"Well, then," said Campbell, "my quarrel with Gothic and Gregorians,
when coupled together, is, that they are two ideas, not one. Have
figured music in Gothic churches, keep your Gregorian for basilicas."
"My good Campbell," said Bateman, "you seem oblivious that Gregorian
chants and hymns have always accompanied Gothic aisles, Gothic copes,
Gothic mitres, and Gothic chalices."
"Our ancestors did what they could," answered Campbell; "they were great
in architecture, small in music. They could not use what was not yet
invented. They sang Gregorians because they had not Palestrina."
"A paradox, a paradox!" cried Bateman.
"Surely there is a close connexion," answered Campbell, "between the
rise and nature of the basilica and of Gregorian unison. Both existed
before Christianity; both are of Pagan origin; both were afterwards
consecrated to the service of the Church."
"Pardon me," interrupted Bateman, "Gregorians were Jewish, not Pagan."
"Be it so, for argument sake," said Campbell; "still, at least, they
were not of Christian origin. Next, both the old music and the old
architecture were inartificial and limited, as methods of exhibiting
their respective arts. You can't have a large Grecian temple, you can't
have a long Gregorian _Gloria_."
"Not a long one!" said Bateman; "why there's poor Willis used to
complain how tedious the old Gregorian compositions were abroad."
"I don't explain myself," answered Campbell; "of course you may produce
them to any length, but merely by addition, not by carrying on the
melody. You can put two together, and then have one twice as long as
either. But I speak of a musical piece, which must of course be the
natural development of certain ideas, with one part depending on
another. In like manner, you might make an Ionic temple twice as long or
twice as wide as the Parthenon; but you would lose the beauty of
proportion by doing so. This, then, is what I meant to say of the
primitive architecture and the primitive music, that they soon come to
their limit; they soon are exhausted, and can do nothing more. If you
attempt more, it's like taxing a musical instrument beyond its powers."
"You but try, Bateman," said Reding, "to make a bass play quadrilles,
and you will see what is meant by taxing an instrument."
"Well, I have heard Lindley play all sorts of quick tunes on his bass,"
said Bateman, "and most wonderful it is."
"Wonderful is the right word," answered Reding; "it is very wonderful.
You say, 'How _can_ he manage it?' and 'It's very wonderful for a bass;'
but it is not pleasant in itself. In like manner, I have always felt a
disgust when Mr. So-and-so comes forward to make his sweet flute bleat
and bray like a hautbois; it's forcing the poor thing to do what it was
never made for."
"This is literally true as regards Gregorian music," said Campbell;
"instruments did not exist in primitive times which could execute any
other. But I am speaking under correction; Mr. Reding seems to know more
about the subject than I do."
"I have always understood, as you say," answered Charles, "modern music
did not come into existence till after the powers of the violin became
known. Corelli himself, who wrote not two hundred years ago, hardly
ventures on the shift. The piano, again, I have heard, has almost given
birth to Beethoven."
"Modern music, then, could not be in ancient times, for want of modern
instruments," said Campbell; "and, in like manner, Gothic architecture
could not exist until vaulting was brought to perfection. Great
mechanical inventions have taken place, both in architecture and in
music, since the age of basilicas and Gregorians; and each science has
gained by it."
"It is curious enough," said Reding, "one thing I have been accustomed
to say, quite falls in with this view of yours. When people who are not
musicians have accused Handel and Beethoven of not being _simple_, I
have always said, 'Is Gothic architecture _simple_?' A cathedral
expresses one idea, but it is indefinitely varied and elaborated in its
parts; so is a symphony or quartett of Beethoven."
"Certainly, Bateman, you must tolerate Pagan architecture, or you must
in consistency exclude Pagan or Jewish Gregorians," said Campbell; "you
must tolerate figured music, or reprobate tracery windows."
"And which are you for," asked Bateman, "Gothic with Handel, or Roman
with Gregorians?"
"For both in their place," answered Campbell. "I exceedingly prefer
Gothic architecture to classical. I think it the one true child and
development of Christianity; but I won't, for that reason, discard the
Pagan style which has been sanctified by eighteen centuries, by the
exclusive love of many Christian countries, and by the sanction of a
host of saints. I am for toleration. Give Gothic an ascendancy; be
respectful towards classical."
The conversation slackened. "Much as I like modern music," said
Charles, "I can't quite go the length to which your doctrine would lead
me. I cannot, indeed, help liking Mozart; but surely his music is not
religious."
"I have not been speaking in defence of particular composers," said
Campbell; "figured music may be right, yet Mozart or Beethoven
inadmissible. In like manner, you don't suppose, because I tolerate
Roman architecture, that therefore I like naked cupids to stand for
cherubs, and sprawling women for the cardinal virtues." He paused.
"Besides," he added, "as you were saying yourself just now, we must
consult the genius of our country and the religious associations of our
people."
"Well," said Bateman, "I think the perfection of sacred music is
Gregorian set to harmonies; there you have the glorious old chants, and
just a little modern richness."
"And I think it just the worst of all," answered Campbell; "it is a
mixture of two things, each good in itself, and incongruous together.
It's a mixture of the first and second courses at table. It's like the
architecture of the façade at Milan, half Gothic, half Grecian."
"It's what is always used, I believe," said Charles.
"Oh yes, we must not go against the age," said Campbell; "it would be
absurd to do so. I only spoke of what was right and wrong on abstract
principles; and, to tell the truth, I can't help liking the mixture
myself, though I can't defend it."
Bateman rang for tea; his friends wished to return home soon; it was
the month of January, and no season for after-dinner strolls. "Well," he
said, "Campbell, you are more lenient to the age than to me; you yield
to the age when it sets a figured bass to a Gregorian tone; but you
laugh at me for setting a coat upon a cassock."
"It's no honour to be the author of a mongrel type," said Campbell.
"A mongrel type?" said Bateman; "rather it is a transition state."
"What are you passing to?" asked Charles.
"Talking of transitions," said Campbell abruptly, "do you know that your
man Willis--I don't know his college, he turned Romanist--is living in
my parish, and I have hopes he is making a transition back again."
"Have you seen him?" said Charles.
"No; I have called, but was unfortunate; he was out. He still goes to
mass, I find."
"Why, where does he find a chapel?" asked Bateman.
"At Seaton. A good seven miles from you," said Charles.
"Yes," answered Campbell; "and he walks to and fro every Sunday."
"That is not like a transition, except a physical one," observed Reding.
"A person must go somewhere," answered Campbell; "I suppose he went to
church up to the week he joined the Romanists."
"Very awful, these defections," said Bateman; "but very satisfactory, a
melancholy satisfaction," with a look at Charles, "that the victims of
delusions should be at length recovered."
"Yes," said Campbell; "very sad indeed. I am afraid we must expect a
number more."
"Well, I don't know how to think it," said Charles; "the hold our Church
has on the mind is so powerful; it is such a wrench to leave it, I
cannot fancy any party-tie standing against it. Humanly speaking, there
is far, far more to keep them fast than to carry them away."
"Yes, if they moved as a party," said Campbell; "but that is not the
case. They don't move simply because others move, but, poor fellows,
because they can't help it.--Bateman, will you let my chaise be brought
round?--How _can_ they help it?" continued he, standing up over the
fire; "their Catholic principles lead them on, and there's nothing to
drive them back."
"Why should not their love for their own Church?" asked Bateman; "it is
deplorable, unpardonable."
"They will keep going one after another, as they ripen," said Campbell.
"Did you hear the report--I did not think much of it myself," said
Reding,--"that Smith was moving?"
"Not impossible," answered Campbell thoughtfully.
"Impossible, quite impossible," cried Bateman; "such a triumph to the
enemy; I'll not believe it till I see it."
"_Not_ impossible," repeated Campbell, as he buttoned and fitted his
great-coat about him; "he has shifted his ground." His carriage was
announced. "Mr. Reding, I believe I can take you part of your way, if
you will accept of a seat in my pony-chaise." Charles accepted the
offer; and Bateman was soon deserted by his two guests.