philosophical parties, and settling the disputes about the constitution
of bodies, matter and form, and all their cognate topics, and making a
perfect synthesis of physics and metaphysics. Mathematics come in also,
with the consideration of quantity, space, infinites and
infinitesimals, demanding a place in a really complete synthetical
exposition of fundamental and universal philosophy. There is room
enough for a great genius who shall be a continuator of the work of St.
Thomas. If such a man should arise, he would need to have all the
intellectual gifts and all the knowledge of a great metaphysician, a
great mathematician, and a great physicist, combined under one form.
There has been but one Aristotle and one St. Thomas, and we cannot tell
whether or no any other man like them, or even equal to Suarez, will be
granted to the science of philosophy. It seems that we need some man of
that kind to deal with the obscurities and ambiguities, the new aspects
and new relations of scholastic metaphysics, and with the peculiar
mental attitude and habits of thought and expression belonging to our
own time. The English-speaking part of the educated world certainly
needs the service of some really original thinker, as well as learned
and acute expositor, to make all that is certain or highly probable in
the Thomistic philosophy thoroughly intelligible, and to accomplish
whatever is requisite and possible in advancing this philosophy toward
a desirable completion. Able and learned expositors of the ancient
philosophy are not lacking in Italy and Germany, but it seems to us
that some higher degree of original power of thought and expression
than is found even in the most eminent of these authors is desirable
for the masterly handling of certain questions of present controversy.
Father Ramière considers that the time has come to hope for and attempt
the construction of “the majestic temple of Catholic science, whose
base is laid in the infallible dogmas of faith and the immovable
principles of reason, whose stories are erected by the co-operating
labor of observation and reasoning, whose circuit embraces the entire
expanse of human knowledge, in which facts and laws, experimental and
abstract sciences, the truths of the natural and those of the
supernatural order, complete, strengthen, and embellish each other by
their mutual agreement.” That “complete synthesis, to which all the
particular sciences are attached as branches of a tree to the trunk,”
he considers to have been fifty years ago apparently impossible, though
the conception of it may have been latent in some minds, but at present
to be really within the power of combined and rightly-directed
intellectual effort to achieve.
So far as essentials are concerned, we are convinced that the learned
and pious Jesuit is not without a solid ground for his enthusiastic
prognostication of the advancement of Catholic science. In respect to
the special topics of which we have been writing in the present
article, we are not very sanguine of a speedy adjustment of the
controversies which divide Catholic philosophers and others, whether
physicists or metaphysicians, who investigate and argue upon the nature
of material substance. There is yet a good deal of discussion and
controversy to be gone through, and we confess we are in doubt how far
it will ever terminate in a conclusive and final result. There are
limitations to human knowledge which are not precisely determined. The
space of the unknowable lies around our restricted sphere of the known
and the knowable. Happily, it is not necessary for the substantial
solidity and practical utility of rational metaphysics and ethics, much
less for theological certainty in the matters of real moment, that all
the interesting and abstruse questions of controversy between different
schools should be decided. Apparent “antinomies of reason” may furnish
a pretext to the sceptical and captious, but they prove only the
limitation of intellect and reason, our imperfect and inadequate
conceptions of the terms and premises which we reason about and from
which we draw conclusions, and the defectiveness of language as the
medium of thought. The certainties of reason, of history and
experience, of the judgments of the human conscience, of divine
revelation, of Catholic authority, of the common sense of mankind, are
amply sufficient for refuting every kind of infidel or heretical error
which cloaks itself under a scientific pretext, and for proving and
defending all that belongs to sacred dogma in faith or morals, or is in
proximate connection with it. Unity and harmony in these things need
not be disturbed by differences and discussions respecting all manner
of scientific questions. We understand that this is what Father Ramière
principally aims at, and he himself gives a good example of free and
earnest controversial discussion conducted in the irenical spirit. We
have always found his writings luminous, interesting, and profitable.
We trust that he and his _confrères_ will continue their labors in the
same direction. We shall look also with great interest for the
arguments by which the learned writers for the _Civiltà Cattolica_ and
_Scienza Italiana_ and other advocates of strict Thomism maintain their
own opinions. The Sovereign Pontiff, in his recent letter to the rector
of the University of Lille, has declared that he desires all learned
Catholics “should with one accord, _although they follow different
systems_, turn all their energies to put down materialism and the other
errors of our age.” This shows that, in the judgment of the Holy
Father, agreement in these matters of actual difference is not a
necessary condition precedent to combined and successful polemics
against materialism and the other dangerous errors of our time. The
Holy Father also exhorts “all whom it may concern” not to “scatter
their forces by disputing with one another on questions which are
matters of free opinion.” We understand this to mean that discussions
should not degenerate into disputes of that kind which is hostile to
the spirit of unity and charity, and not that discussion should be
altogether abandoned. For, in another paragraph, he exhorts learned
Catholics to “keep within the bounds of moderation and observe the laws
of Christian charity while they discuss or attack systems in nowise
condemned by the Apostolic See.” This may suffice for the present, and
we trust that our readers who hold metaphysical articles in aversion
will tolerate this one, in consideration of the long time they have
been spared a similar trial of their patience.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TOTA PULCHRA.[84]
Can God so woo us, nor, of all our race,
Have formed one creature for his perfect rest?
Must the Dove moan for an inviolate nest,
Nor find it ev’n in thee, O “full of grace”—
In thee, his Spouse? Or could the Word debase
His Godhead’s pureness when he fill’d thy breast,
Tho’ Moses treasured up, at his behest,
The typical manna in a golden[85] vase?
Who teach that sin had ever aught in thee,
Utter a thought the demons may not share—
Not tho’ they prompt it in their fell despair:
For these, while sullenly hating the decree
That shaped thee forth Immaculate, “All Fair,”
Adore it still—and must eternally.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MYSTERY OF THE OLD ORGAN.
In one of the least-visited churches of Ghent stands the most curious
and characteristic thing in it—its organ: a contrast to the defaced
wood-work and mouldering Renaissance plaster, to the unused and
deserted chests in the vestry and the few benches in the choir. The
paintings, the removable carvings, even some of the monuments, the
choir-stalls and the stained-glass windows, disappeared long ago; the
very name by which the church goes in the popular speech is ill-omened
and mysterious. Old women cross themselves and shake their heads as
they whisper the name of the Apostate’s church, and tradition tells the
rare inquirer that this was a private chapel, the property of a once
renowned family, noble and brave, but fierce and fanatical, well known
in the town annals for centuries, and only struck from the roll of
citizens and householders at the end of the great Flemish struggle of
the sixteenth century, when the Protestants left Spanish ground for
ever and found a new country in Holland. The disappearance of all
valuable objects in the deserted church is ascribed—and perhaps
truly—to many combining causes. Some were destroyed during the
occasional image-breaking raids that distinguished the wars of the
Reformation; some were sold or carried off by the family whose property
they were, some confiscated or stolen by the triumphant Spanish
government, or by no less indignant relations of the family, who,
remaining behind, were anxious to prove by deeds their freedom from
complicity with the apostate and fugitive Stromwaels. Such were the
fragments of information to be picked up by any one in whom the simple
people of the neighborhood had confidence; but whether every fragment
was historical is another question. The church was in a lonely quarter
of the town, the least altered by progress, where stood only small
shops supplying the local wants, which in such populations and such
places vary very little from those of five or six generations ago. A
few spacious, comfortable houses showed among more cramped and less
ornamented ones, but the aspect of all, if rather dead-alive, was very
picturesque. The church stands in a narrow street and far from the
house of its patrons, now used as a storehouse by the few wholesale
dealers of this quarter, who each have one floor. In the attics live a
few workmen and one or two nondescript, eccentric, and inoffensive
persons, supposed to be pensioners of one of the dealers. One of these
is a bookworm and supposed to know much of local legends and history.
Being very poor, he frequents only the public library and such private
ones as are accessible gratis to students; and when he wants to
preserve information which he cannot purchase in the shape of printed
books, he copies it assiduously on miscellaneous paper, recruited from
old ledgers, bank and register books, large parcels, etc., besides the
little he buys or has been given to him. His notes thus present a very
curious appearance, which he sometimes complacently connects with the
possible researches and comments of scholars of two hundred years
hence. One of his many little sheaves of manuscript came into my hands
not long ago while I was poking about the neighborhood, looking for
anything out of the way, and I was induced to go and see him. He was
very shabby and commonplace, and a good deal smeared with snuff;
neither his appearance nor his home was in keeping with the outward
look of the houses, and there were no artistically-dilapidated
surroundings to fill out the romantic sketch which my imagination had
made before I was introduced to him. Travellers seldom mention their
disappointments, and always make the most of their agreeable surprises,
so that stay-at-home people are often deluded into a belief that every
one on the European continent is more or less like a Dresden figure or
an actor in a mediæval play. My friend, however substantial the
entertainment might be which his manuscript and his narrative gave me,
was decidedly a failure personally, but none the less was he to me a
very important and, in a degree, even an interesting vehicle of
information. A free translation of his manuscript is all that I can
give; as to his absorbed manner in speaking, his evident interest in
the past, and his self-forgetfulness when he got upon the subject of
the stories he had dug out or pieced together from ancient papers, and
his own impressions concerning whatever was uncertain—these it is
impossible to convey to others. He asked me first whether I had
examined the organ in the chapel. I had done so, and found its case a
very beautiful piece of carving; the keys were kept speckless, and the
front contained a remarkable group of figures, carved in wood and
painted, representing our Lord and the twelve apostles. The instrument
stood in a high tribune looking into the choir, and reached by a
separate staircase, narrow and winding. A carved railing gave this
tribune something of the look of a balcony, but it scarcely projected
forward into the chapel; the carved front of the organ and the gilt
pipes were visible from below, and a tapestry curtain hung from an iron
rod on each side of the instrument, concealing the back entrance into
the tribune. The peculiarity about this organ was that it was all but
dumb, and had never given a satisfactory sound since its maker had bid
it be silent. It emitted some doleful sounds, if struck, but for all
musical purposes it was useless. The situation it was in, and the
defects in its interior, besides a third reason still unforgotten by
the popular mind, accounted for its having been left when the rest of
the church treasures were carried off. As a relic of antiquity it was
valuable, exhibiting as it does the state of mechanical art at the
beginning of the sixteenth century; but it was still more interesting
as the tangible proof of a story connected with its maker, the organist
of the church in 1505. This my old friend of the attic had written out
in the queer-looking manuscript I have mentioned.
* * * * *
Nicholas Verkloep was born a servant of the Stromwaels, and brought up
in their household in the very house where I read the story. His
parents kept the outer gate, and the boy passed through the usual
stages of service common to lads of his position, now a favorite, now a
butt, according to the humor of his master and each member of the
family, but all the spare time at his command was devoted to music. He
haunted the churches, and begged his way into choirs and libraries,
learnt all the church music he could pick up by his ear, the hints of
choristers, and the few explanations in the manuscript chant-books of
the time, and at last begged to be allowed to blow the organ-bellows at
the family chapel. Meanwhile, he joined in the services, and drew on
himself the notice of the old organist, who grew so fond and proud of
him that he taught him all he knew, taught him to play the organ, and
asked the Count Stromwael to allow him to bring the boy up as his
successor. Nicholas was fifteen when this request was granted, and
henceforth he nearly lived in the chapel. Not only the music of the
organ fascinated him; he grew absorbed in studying its mechanism, and
would crouch for hours within the instrument, getting his eyes used to
the darkness, and learning by heart the “feel” of each piece. This
developed all sorts of oddities in him: he grew absent-minded, and
often unconsciously moved his fingers as if at work. Soon after he
began to make models of various parts of an organ, indifferently the
inside and the outside; for carving seemed as natural to him as
mechanical dissection. He had not the same conservative feeling about
things as is common among our present musicians, and the fact that the
Stromwael instrument was a hundred and fifty years old, and had gone
through many repairs as time went on and new improvements succeeded
each other, did not prevent him from feeling certain that he could make
a much better organ in a very short time. His plans were manifold; the
subject grew and grew in his mind; the additional stops which he added
in imagination disgusted him with the music he could draw from the
instrument at present; and while every one in the town was excited
about the wonderful young player who bade fair to be a prodigy, he
himself was impatiently bewailing his drawbacks.
He told no one but his old master of his hopes and his expectations,
and this confidant was certainly the safest he could have; for the old
musician was a contented and patient man, used to his old ways, firm in
his old traditions, not caring to travel out of his old grooves, and
rather resentful of the idea that what had been good music and perfect
mechanism in his time should not be good enough to satisfy the
fastidious taste of a young beginner. Yet he was fond of his pupil, who
used to soothe him by the saying that each generation had a new door to
open and a new room to explore in the house of knowledge, and that he
ought not to grudge him his appointed advance, any more than Moses
grudged Josue his succession to the leadership. In truth, the old man
was secretly proud of his clever scholar, and, perhaps unconsciously to
himself, expected even more of him than the youth did of himself. The
two lived together in the house of their patron, but had little
intercourse with the rest of the mixed household, more gay and more
ignorant than themselves, and my snuffy old friend nursed the belief
that he had discovered the room which was home to these two. It was a
small attic chamber looking towards the church, and in a chest in it
had been found remnants of wood, wire, and leather, as well as some
strange-looking models and bits of carving, with rough sketches on
strips of parchment, all of which I had seen in their case in the
museum at the Town-hall. On the walls were some doggerel Latin verses
and some rather indistinct marks, which, nevertheless, the most learned
musician in the town had pronounced to be, most likely, a sort of
musical short-hand, understood only by its author. All this I also saw,
and, having no opposite theory to uphold, was glad to believe remains
of Nicholas.
Now, says the manuscript, there were found notes and jottings besides
plans and sketches, and it seems plain from these that the young
organist wished eagerly to make a new organ, on which no one but
himself should work; indeed, this idea grew to be a monomania, and he
devoted to it all the energy and interest which a man generally spends
on wife, children, friends, home, profession, and advancement. But the
count was an obstinate conservative, and scouted the idea of replacing
his time-honored family organ by a new one, the work of a crazy youth,
even though he were the best player and composer that ever breathed.
The old organist and his pupil had many anxious talks on the subject.
In those days it was not easy to transfer your domicile and allegiance
to a patron better suited to you; family bondage still held good in
practical matters; the Stromwaels had given him all the home and
education he had, and, in fact, he belonged to them. Besides, the count
was as proud of his human possession as he was of his ancient organ,
and set as much store by the reputation of the marvellous young
musician whom he owned as he did by that of his best-bred falcon, dog,
or horse. He would not have given up any of these; they were all
ornaments to his name, and it was fitting that he should not be beneath
or behind any of his townsmen. He was not old enough to give room to
hope for a change of circumstances through his death, and Nicholas
became every day more discontented at his prospects. He was more
reserved, morose, and morbid than ever, and as he grew odder the more
was his music admired. Strangers from neighboring towns came to hear
him play; the towns-people begged him to teach their sons; women looked
up at the gallery where he sat with his back to them, with eyes that
told of as ready an inclination to love the player as to admire the
music; wealthy foreigners sent him presents of money or jewels, after
the fashion of the times; but nothing seemed to elate, or even
interest, him.
One day, while he was sitting at the old organ, poring over his plans
for a new one, and contrasting the existing instrument with the
possible one, a man lifted the curtain which then, as now, covered the
entrance to the tribune. He was a stranger to Nicholas, and seemed
elderly; he was very quietly dressed in black, and wore a sword. The
young man looked up in bewilderment, but rose and welcomed the unknown,
who sat down with great composure by his side on the wide carved bench
in front of the organ. He spoke Flemish, but Nicholas thought with a
foreign accent, which, however, he could not localize.
“You will forgive my curiosity,” he said, “in coming here. I have often
heard you play from below, and to-day, passing by the open door, I came
into the chapel in hopes of hearing something, but met your little
blower lying asleep on the altar steps, woke him up, made inquiries,
and decided to come up.”
“You are very welcome,” said Nicholas in a low voice, politely but not
cordially, and speaking with that resignation which well-bred but much
tried misanthropes have but too much occasion to practise in all times
and companies.
“I want to speak of something else than mere conventionalities,” said
the stranger abruptly, “and I will begin by telling you that I quite
understand and appreciate your distaste to general fellowship with your
kind; I see no reason why I should be an exception, so you need not
resort to courteous commonplaces. I have heard what is your aim, and
only seek you because I think I may be of some use to you.”
Nicholas looked up, at first eagerly, then a shadow came over his face.
Any allusion to future success fired him even against his will, but
experience had always hitherto gone the opposite way. Taking the
stranger’s permission literally, he said nothing, but looked at him
inquiringly. The other went on after a pause:
“I think I can promise you the certainty, within ten years, of
accomplishing your wish and seeing your organ, if not in this place, at
least in some other quite as advantageous. I have oddities and fixed
ideas myself, and understand them in others. In short, it rests mainly
with you whether you like to accept my proposal or not.”
“There are conditions, then?” asked Nicholas, whom the belief of his
time with regard to compacts with the devil imbued quite as strongly as
if he had not been a genius, and who, in consequence, immediately
jumped to the conclusion that this visit was not wholly natural.
“Yes,” said the stranger in his metallic voice, unimpassioned but
compelling attention by some quality indefinable to Nicholas’ mind, yet
surely present to his perception, “I always hedge in business with
conditions; otherwise I should be a mere Haroun-al-Raschid, an
experimenter in benevolence, which, though an amiable character, is a
weak one. I hate weakness and I hate foolishness. I judged you to be
neither fool nor weakling, and so sought you out. The conditions are
very simple: I want you to bind yourself to my secret service for ten
years, and in return I promise you the fulfilment of your wish at the
end of that time. In the meanwhile your fame will increase, your powers
as a musician will be unrivalled; you will play and compose so as to
rouse the jealousy of all your profession; you will be in danger, but
will never be struck down; you will have full time for work and study,
yet you must always be ready to leave everything instantly when I call
upon you; you will be my right hand, but no one will suspect it; but if
you once fail in your allegiance to me during these ten years, your
object will be frustrated at the end of that time.”
“But,” said Nicholas, who had listened, growing more fascinated as the
stranger spoke, and by his eagerness and play of features guiding
unconsciously the latter’s fast-increasing promises—“but what power
have you to bring such things about? Count Stromwael is a great man,
besides being obstinate and perverse; how can you dispose of his
property, and even his will?”