Chapter IV: We All Meet to Part (4)

And now, to come to the comparison: if to the adequate realization of the divine idea of sacred song, as an instrument placed at the disposal of the church, to aid in carrying out her work of sanctification and instruction, the notion of a definite authority, both defining what it should be, and prescribing and regulating the manner of its use, necessarily belongs, the conclusion I think is that this authority is found attaching itself to the Ritual chant; and, from the nature of the case, it is incapable of attaching itself to the works of modern music. First, because it would seem to be an inseparable principle as regards their use, that every individual must be at liberty to ask for or to demand their employment according to his own pleasure; and secondly, because a positive authority can attach to that alone which exists in a definite and tangible shape, which is far from being the case with the works of modern music. They not only do not form a definite collection, but, such as they are, are subject to perpetual change--that which is on the surface to-day and admired, being to-morrow nauseated and condemned; and hence there is no resting point whatever in them for the idea of a positive authority.

And as regards the comparison on the score of moral authority, the attempt to draw it will, I fear, touch upon delicate ground; for, to confess the honest truth, it cannot be drawn without bringing to light the degeneracy of our popular ideas respecting sacred music. Who is there who seriously thinks of claiming for the works of modern music any connection with the saints, past or present? or who is there who either cares to ask for, or to attribute any character of sanctity to its authors? or would even be likely to think very much the more highly of the music if the fact of its saintly origin could be established? And what kind of persons, for the most part, have its authors been? Mozart died rejecting the last sacraments; Beethoven is supposed by his German biographer, Schindler, to have been a pantheist during the greater part of his life; Rink was a Protestant; Mendelssohn a Jew, who cared very little for his Jewish faith; and the different _maestri di capella_ who have been throughout Europe the chief composers of these works, were, for the most part, also the directors of the theatres and opera-houses of their royal patrons.

But enough has been said to make it evident upon how different a footing the chant of the Ritual and the works of modern art respectively stand, as regards moral and ecclesiastical authority.

RESPECTIVE CLAIM TO THE COMPLETENESS AND ORDER OF A SYSTEM.

The idea of a God Incarnate, manifesting himself in the nature of man on earth, necessarily contains the idea of a system and order displayed in his works. All apparent system, it is true, does not necessarily imply God as its author; but absence of system and its consequence, positive confusion and disorder, is undeniably a sign that the mind of the Almighty is not there. If, then, the Catholic Church be the kingdom of God Incarnate, and the abiding-place of his Spirit, it follows that her song is a _system_, if God is at all to acknowledge it in any respect of his own. But the idea of system leads at once to the Ritual song-books. Modern art has not as yet furnished even the necessary materials out of which to construct a system, not to speak of the hopelessness of forming one, when the materials should exist. Do but remove the Ritual chant from the church, and you remove a wonderful and perfect system, which an order-loving mind takes pleasure in contemplating--one that moves with the ecclesiastical year, that accompanies the Redeemer from the annunciation of his advent, the Ave Maria of his coming in the flesh, to his birth, his circumcision, his manifestation to the Gentiles, his presentation and discourse with the learned doctors in the Temple, his miraculous fast in the companionship of the wild beasts in the wilderness, his last entry into his own city, his betrayal, his institution of the Holy Eucharist, his agony in the garden, his death upon the cross, his resurrection from the dead, his ascension into heaven--a system of song which places around him, as jewels in a crown, his chosen and sainted servants, as the stars which God set in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. _Cœli enarrant gloriam Dei, et opera manuum ejus annuntiat firmamentum_--“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handiwork” (Ps. xviii.) Yet if we saw the heavens only in the way in which we are treated to the performances of modern music, the greater and the lesser light occasionally changing places, after the manner of the vicissitudes of Mozart and Haydn, the planets moving out of their orbits in indeterminate succession, at the caprice of some archangel, as the organist changes his motets and introits, the Psalmist would hardly have spoken of the “_firmament showing God’s handiwork_.” Where is there a trace of order and system in the use of the works of modern art? Where is the musician who regards “duplex,” “semiduplex,” or “simplex”? Mozart in one church, Haydn in another, Beethoven in a third, and a host of others whose name is Legion, taken like lots from a bag, as whim or fancy may at the moment direct, like the chaos described by the poet, where

“Callida cum frigidis pugnant, humentia siccis,
Mollia cum duris, sine pondere habentia pondus.”

--_Ovid, Metam._

But to approach the comparison. If in the divine idea of the Christian song there is necessarily contained the notion of a working and efficient system, the simple truth is, that there is no such system, either in the works of modern music themselves, or in the manner of their use. On the one side is the important fact, that the modern art of music leaves the vastly larger portion of the Ritual without any music at all, embracing positively not more than its merest fraction; on the other, the equally great fact of a total absence of any thing like rule to determine their selection. As a working system, then, full and complete in all its points, the Ritual chant stands alone the only realization of that part of the divine idea which contemplates order and system in the use of Christian song.

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

I. _As a Sacrificial Song._

It has been already remarked that ecclesiastical song is not everything or anything that is beautiful in music, nor merely a work of art. It is, strictly speaking, a sacrificial chant, the song of those engaged in offering sacrifice to God, _Tibi sacrificabo hostiam laudis_. Such a song is obviously not any kind of song, but one that possesses a moral type and character, rendering it a fit companion for the holy and bloodless victim offered on the Christian altar; becoming an offering, offered not to man, but to the ears of the Most High, and akin to the solemnity of its subject--redemption from sin and death through the blood and sufferings of a sinless victim, the crucified Son of God. The divine idea may then, I think, be said to contemplate sacred song as possessing a sacrificial character.

And the reason, if required, will appear, on considering to how great an extent music possesses the remarkable gift of absorbing and becoming possessed with an idea. When song has been successfully united to language, the ideas contained in the latter are found to take possession of the music, and to form the sound or tune into an image and reflection of themselves, in a manner almost analogous to the way in which the mind within moulds the outward features of the face, so as to make them an index and expression of itself. What I mean by this alleged power of music to absorb, and afterwards to express, ideas, even those the most opposite to each other, may be exemplified, if an instance be wanted, by contrasting any popular melody from the Roman Gradual, as the _Dies Iræ_, or the _Stabat Mater_, with one of our popular street tunes, “Cherry ripe,” or “Jim Crow”; and it will be seen at once, on humming over these tunes, with what perfect truth and to how great an extent music is able to ally itself to the most opposite ideas, and how, through the ear, it has the power, not merely to convey them to the mind, but to leave them there, firmly and vividly impressed. If, then, by virtue of this power, music may, on the one hand, become the channel of the most exquisite profaneness in divine worship, so it certainly may, on the other, contribute wonderfully to its majesty and power of attraction. And since the music of the field of battle, the military march, and the roll of the drum, has a character not shared by other kinds, as the song of the banquet, and of the dance, of the drunkard over his cups, of the peasant at his plough, of the sailor at sea, of the village maiden at her home, have each their own stamp and form: so also in the song of Christian worship, God will regard it as the song of men offering sacrifice to himself, as having a character inherent in its subject--the life, sufferings, and death of him who died to take away the sins of the world--in a word, as a sacrificial chant.

Now that a sacrificial chant has in all ages accompanied the offering of sacrifice, is a truth to which history, if examined, will be found to bear abundant testimony. In the sacrifice described by Virgil in the Æneid,

“pueri innuptæque puellæ
Sacra canunt.”

When, at the command of Nehemias, on the return of the captive Jews from Babylon, sacrifice was solemnly offered after their custom in Jerusalem, the priests, it is said (2 Machab. i. 30), _sang psalms until the burnt-offering was wholly consumed_. Nor is it the whole truth to say that this sacrificial chant has passed over in its more perfect reality to the Christian Church, but even in the Song of Heaven among the redeemed, the sacrificial character still continues, a point well worthy of the notice of those who are so confident that the type of the modern music is alone that which is found in heaven. “And they [the twenty-four ancients] sang a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation.”

If, then, the ideas which suggest themselves and arise naturally on reflecting upon what, in the nature of things, would be the type and character of the Christian sacrificial chant; if these ideas find themselves absorbed, then expressed, embodied, and brought out into life and being in the music of the ecclesiastical chant; and if, on the other hand, they are not to be found in the variety of modern compositions such as are now in partial use;[141] if it be possible to conceive our Lord’s apostles, upon the supposition that they could return to the earth, standing up in any church of Christendom to sing the song of the Ritual in honor of the Holy Sacrifice, and in company with the celebrant priest;[142] and if there be something obviously unbecoming in the mere thought of their taking bass or tenor in such music as that of Mozart’s or Haydn’s masses, neither of which will be denied; then, I think, it is not extravagant to infer that the Plain Chant of the Ritual is far the most adequate fulfilment of that part of the divine idea which contemplates Christian music as a sacrificial song.

II. _Fitness for the Offices of the Church._

With regard to the fitness of the ecclesiastical chant for the offices of the church, it must be remarked, that the ideas of the modern musician touching the use of music in the church are very widely removed from those of the fathers of the church. In their idea, a church-singer would somewhat answer to what would be a ballad-singer in the world, inasmuch as he has a great deal to convey to his hearers in the way of narrative. Almighty God has been pleased to work many wonderful works, and the fathers of the church appointed singers for the churches, to celebrate these works in song, in order that the people who came to worship, or even the heathens who came as spectators, might hear and learn something of the works of the Lord Jehovah, into whose house they had come. What can be more reasonable than this? “_My song shall be of all thy marvellous works_,” says the Psalmist. But, according to the notions of a modern musician, if a Brahmin priest, or the Turkish ambassador, were to come to Mass, and to hear a choral performance, in which the concord of voices should be most ravishingly beautiful, but in which not a single one of the marvellous works of God could be understood from the concert, he is still to consider that he has heard the perfection of Christian music, and ought, according to them, to go away converted. Out of two so contradictory notions one must necessarily be chosen as the one which best answers to the divine idea. And if persons are prepared to say that the ideas of the fathers are become antiquated, and that they would have acted differently had they known better, they are certainly called upon to make this good.

But, in the meantime, it will be both reasonable and pious to acquiesce in the belief that the fathers acted in conformity with the divine idea, and under the direction of God’s Holy Spirit, in appointing a song for the church, in which the marvellous and merciful works of God might be set forth in a charming, becoming, and perfectly intelligible manner, for the instruction of the people. A serious person, when he goes into the house of God, is supposed to go there with the intention of learning something respecting God, and it is to be supposed that Almighty God desires to see every church in such a condition as that the people who frequent it may learn all that they need to know respecting God and his works. To this use the fathers employed chant, and considered that it was, by the will of God, to be employed to this end. If any candid and serious person will take the trouble to examine the language and sentiments of the Ritual apart from its musical notation, he will be struck with it as a complete manual of popular theology. He will see that it is full of the works of God, the knowledge of which is the food of the faithful soul, particularly among the poor and the unlearned. Next let him examine its notation in song, as contained in the Gradual and Antiphonary, and he will be struck with a solemnity, beauty, and force of melody fitted to convey to the people the words of inspiration, to which melody was annexed in order that they might be the better relished, and pass current the more easily. And lastly, let him consider them, in both these respects, as forming one united whole, and he cannot refuse to acknowledge the fitness of the chant which the fathers selected for the purpose they had in view. Musicians must be equitable enough to abstain from complaining of a work on the score of its unisonous recitative character, if they will not be at the pains to understand or to sympathize with the end for which it was formed and destined. Have the fathers ever troubled themselves to criticise what was innocent and allowable in the world’s music? Then why should musicians go out of the way to find imaginary faults with that of which they seem indisposed to consider either the use or the efficacy? The church chant was framed generations before they and their art were known; and it has helped to train up whole nations in the faith, and fulfilled its end to the unbounded satisfaction of the fathers, who adopted, enlarged, and consolidated it into the form in which it has come down to us, and may therefore claim a truce to such criticism.

But here, again, the comparison fails for want of a competitor, and we are again brought back to the fact that the works of modern art embrace too small a fraction of the whole Liturgy to be in a condition to challenge any comparison. And could the comparison be admitted, it would still remain to insist on the equally certain truth of experience that the idea of a lengthened and continual recitation of the works of God, intended to be popularly intelligible, is one unsuited to the employment on any great scale of even the simplest counterpoint vocal harmonies, and fundamentally averse to the prevailing use of the canon and fugue of modern musical science.

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

Upon this point of the comparison the result, I think, will be tolerably obvious, if it be admitted that the divine idea contemplates the chant of the church as designed to pass to some considerable extent among the people in the form of congregational singing. It will not, however, be out of place to show briefly on what grounds this assumption rests.

1. Almighty God has created in people a strong love for congregational psalmody, and has attached to it peculiar feelings possessed of an influence far more powerful for good than the somewhat isolated pleasure that the musician feels on hearing beautiful artificial music, inasmuch as congregational singing is a common voice of prayer and praise; and being, as Christians, members one of another, in congregational psalmody we gain a foretaste of heaven, where it will be far more perfect.

2. There are obvious benefits arising from it. It is an union of prayer and praise, and as such is more powerful with God. It kindles in the individual a livelier sense of Christian fellowship. It is a voice that expresses the union of the many members in the one body; many voices, one sound.

3. The argument from history. The worship of God has always been that of congregational psalmody; and where trained choirs of singers existed, their song was always such as to admit of the people at times taking part with them. This is an undeniable fact of history. “Then sang _Moses and the children of Israel_ this song unto the Lord” (Exodus xv.) “Then _sang Israel_ this song, Spring up, O well, sing ye unto it, etc.” (Numbers xxi. 17). The psalm CXXXV. was composed for the people to sing the chorus. The Book of Psalms is a kind of historical testimony, in many of its passages, to the fact of that congregational song to which it so often exhorts. Fleury, in his _History of the Manners of the Jews and Christians_ (page 143), acknowledges congregational song as a fact among both. He cites the testimony of S. Basil, that all the people in his time sang in the churches--men, women, and children--and he compares their voices to the waters of the sea. S. Gregory of Nazianzen compares them to thunder. But it is impossible to conceive such to have been the practice both of Jews and Christians, without inferring that it was so with the approbation of Almighty God.

4. The apostles and the fathers of the church have sanctioned it. “Teaching and admonishing yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with melody in your hearts unto the Lord” (Col. iii. 16).

“Wherefore, since these things are so, let us with the more confidence give ourselves to the work of song, considering that we have obtained a great grace of Almighty God, to whom it has been given, in company with so many and so great saints, the prophets, and the martyrs, to celebrate the marvellous works of the eternal God.”--_An old author in the first volume of Gerbert’s Scriptores Musici._

“Quocunque te vertis, arator stivam tenens Alleluia decantat, sudans messor Psalmis se evocat, et curva attollens vitem falce vinator aliquid Davidicum cantat. Hæc sunt in provincia nostra carmina, hæc ut vulgo dicitur amatoriæ cantationes, hic pastorum sibilus, hæc arma culturæ.”--“Wherever you turn, the laborer at his plough sings an alleluia; the reaper sweating under his work refreshes himself with a psalm: the vinedresser in his vineyard will sing a passage from the Psalmist. These are the songs of our part of the world. These are, as people say, our love-songs. This is the piping of our shepherds, and these are the arms of our laborers.”--_S. Jerome, Epist. 17 ad Marcellum._

“Alas!” observes Mgr. Parisis, upon this passage of S. Jerome, “where are now the families who seek to enliven the often dangerous leisure of long winter’s evenings with the songs of the Catholic Liturgy; where are the workshops in which an accent may be heard borrowed from the remembrance of our divine offices; where are the country parishes which are edified and rejoiced by the sweet and pious sounds which in the times of S. Jerome echoed through the fields and vineyards?”[143]

S. Augustine: “As for congregational psalmody, what better employment can there be for a congregation of people met together, what more beneficial to themselves, or more holy and well-pleasing to God, I am wholly unable to conceive?”--_Letter to Januarius, towards the end._

A passage of S. Chrysostom, exhorting the people to psalmody, will be found elsewhere. It is unnecessary to do more than to refer to the example of S. Basil and S. Ambrose, encouraging their people in the same manner; to which may be added a passage from the life of S. Germanus:

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

_Venantius, vita S. Germani._

Lastly, the _moral_ reason of the thing.

This is expressed by S. Basil in the words: “O wonderful wisdom of the teacher! who hath contrived that we _should both sing_, and therewith learn that which is good.”

Now, if it be considered that Providence could not possibly have meant that the people at large should be formed into singing classes, in order to be initiated into the mysteries of minim and crotchet, tenor and bass, and that the _one_ only practical means of bringing them to pick up by ear the more popular parts of the church chant is by encouraging, as the system of the Ritual chant does, that clear enunciation of language and melody which easily fixes itself upon the ear, and which the prevalence of unison singing gives;[144] it follows at once that the only hope of procuring general congregational singing in the worship of the Catholic Church lies in the increased use and zealous propagation of the unison execution of the Ritual chant. Experience is clear to the point that the use of the works of modern art, with their rapid movements, elaborate fugues, scientific combinations of sound, necessarily tends to stifle the voices of the people, and this is certainly not the will of our merciful God.

Now, if this be the case, I do not see how we are to avoid the conclusion, that any extensive use of these works of modern art tends to the clear frustration and the making void one great and important popular end, viz., congregational singing, which the divine idea contemplates in the song of the church, and which, in the song of the Ritual, is efficiently realized, as the history of the progress of the faith abundantly testifies. Might it not, then, be well that those who advocate the continued cultivation of these elaborate works of art should consider the full meaning of Mardocheus’ prayer, _Ne claudas ora te canentium_: “Shut not the mouth of them that sing thy praise, O Lord” (Esther xiii. 17).

RESPECTIVE MORAL INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER.

The influence upon the mind of sounds that habitually surround the ear is a fact well known to all moralists. “Whosoever,” says Plato, in his treatise _De Republicâ_, quoted by Gerbert, “is in the habit of permitting himself to listen habitually to music, and to allow his mind to be engaged and soothed by it, pouring in the sweet sounds before alluded to through the ears, as through an orifice, soft, soothing, luscious, and plaintive, consuming his life in tunes that fascinate his soul; when he does this to an excess, he then begins to weaken, to unstring, and to enervate his understanding, until he loses his courage, and roots all vigor out of the mind.” Cicero observes, “Nihil tam facile in animos teneros atque molles influere quam varios canendi sonos, quorum vix dici potest quanta sit vis in utramque partem; namque et incitat languentes, et languefacit excitatos, et tum remittit animos, tum contrahit” (lib. ii. _De Legibus_). These remarks seem very much to have their exemplification at this day in the effeminate tone and temper of polished society in all the nations of Europe, who seem to be befooled with their love for pretty airs and opera music. Now, if the fathers, observing this power of music insensibly to mould and form the character, and acting, as it is more than pious to believe, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, that his divine intention might be fulfilled, designed the song of the church to form a character very different from that of the musical voluptuary--one who was to be no cowardly skulker from the good fight of faith, but the soldier of Jesus Christ, the disciple patiently taking up his cross and following his crucified Master--those who do not participate in these ideas ought not to wonder that they find so little in the church chant with which they can sympathize; but above all let them at least have the modesty not to blame the fathers of the church for adapting it, after their wisdom, to a purpose the need for which they do not comprehend. The historian Fleury has a pertinent remark: “Je laisse à ceux qui sont savants en musique à examiner si dans notre Plain Chant il reste encore quelque trace de cette antiquité [he is speaking of the force of character of the old chant]; car notre musique moderne semble en être fort eloignée” (Fleury, _Mœurs des Chrétiens_, page xliii.)--“I leave to those who are versed in music to determine whether there remain any traces of this ancient vigor in our Plain Chant; for our modern music seems very far from it.”

Is it a thing to be wondered at if the Christian Israel’s Song of the Cross should have in it something a little strange to the ear of Babylon? Or are we to content ourselves with the conclusion that nothing but what is dainty and nice, nothing but that which is as nearly like the world as possible, will go down with Christian people? On the contrary, is it not to be presumed that the multitudes, with whom, in the main, the Christian teacher’s duty lies, are of that sickly, degenerate tone of mind that nauseates the strong, peculiar, and supplicating energy of the ecclesiastical chant?

But on this point the comparison may be drawn in the words of Mgr. Parisis:

“External to the Ritual chant, that is to say, the Gregorian, or Plain Chant, little else is now known except the works of modern music, that is to say, a music essentially favoring what people have agreed to call _sensualism_. It is this, almost exclusively this, which, under the austere title of sacred music, is sought to be introduced into our sacred offices. Now, without desiring to enter deeply into the matter, we need but few words to point out how grievously it is misplaced.

“Worldly music agitates and seeks to agitate, because the world seeks its pleasure in stir and change. The church, on the contrary, seeks for melodies that pray and incline to prayer. The church cannot wish for any others, since her worship has no other object than prayer.

“In vain will it be said that this is the work of one of the greatest masters, that it is a scientific and a sublime composition; it may be all this for the world--it is nothing at all of this for the church. And especially when this worldly music, by its thrilling cadences or impassioned character, leads directly to light ideas, sensual satisfactions, and dangerous recollections, it is not only a contradiction in the house of God, but a formal scandal.” (_Instruction Pastorale_, p. 45)

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

It is now many years since, during a summer ramble, I found myself at A----k, now nothing more than a hamlet in population, but retaining traces of having once been a place of very considerable importance, and boasting of very remote antiquity. The remains of the wall are, indeed, locally attributed to the Romans, probably because they are lofty and very strong, and it is the habit of ignorant people to refer all great works to that wonderful people. In this instance, however, tradition is certainly wrong, as the walls bear unmistakable evidence of mediæval origin, being in parts much enriched with Gothic work.

The little town stands on a plateau enclosed between a bend of the Rhine and the steep bluff on which the ruins of an old castle stand perched, equally watching the little burgh below and the counterpart castle on the opposite side of the Rhine at its next bend.

The eagles that once lived in and sought their prey from that lofty nest have long since crumbled into dust and have even passed from the memory of man, leaving for sole representatives the choughs and the crows, and perhaps a jolly old owl to keep up revelry at night.

The horses that those old knights rode must have been of a sure-footed breed, for it is hard to conceive how any quadruped, save a goat, could have mounted the path I scrambled up among the vines; but it is with the village and the village church that we have to do.

Who built the Rhine churches?

They all, with a few exceptions, are strikingly alike; though varying in size, number of towers, and many other particulars, they have mostly a strict resemblance in general conception and detail. To cite an instance: The cathedral at Coblentz might stand as the type of twenty others; instead of being individual and standing out alone--an effort of genius like Cologne, Strasbourg, Notre Dame, Ely, or Winchester--they have all the same resemblance to one another that a little oak has to a big one.

The church at A----k was no exception. Cathedral it might almost be called from its great size; but there was no bishop there, and it was only a parish church! With its three great towers, vast nave, long aisles, and noble choir, it seemed as if it might well hold all the population for many miles around, and the extremely small congregation that were present at the celebration of the High Mass that morning appeared ridiculously out of proportion. It was a high festival--the Annunciation--it is therefore to be assumed that the bulk of the population were there, and the High Mass was at the somewhat early hour of half-past five!

After the Mass was over, and the last peal of the organ had died away, and the patter of the last footstep been lost in the distance, as it still wanted a considerable time to my breakfast hour, I strolled round the great empty church. There seemed to be nothing of value in it. If it had ever possessed any of the treasures of art, they had probably perished or been carried away during the long wars that devastated the country after the period of the Reformation, for I found nothing worthy of notice. I had just concluded to leave the church when my eye was arrested by what I took to be an accident which had happened to the crucifix on one of the side altars. At first I supposed that it had received a blow which had nearly broken off the right arm of the figure. On looking more closely I perceived that it was evidently of great age, and the arm I supposed to be broken stood out from the cross at a considerable angle, and hung about half way down the side, the nail by which it had once been attached still remaining in the hand.

Whilst I was still wondering as to the nature of the accident which had befallen the quaintly-carved crucifix a quiet and pleasant voice roused me from my revery.

“I see, sir, that you are examining our curious old crucifix!”

Turning round I recognized the old priest who had sung Mass, and encouraged by his amiable manner and address, I stated the matter I had been pondering over, and asked for an explanation.

“There has been no accident,” said he; “the distortion which you notice in the right arm has existed far beyond the memory of man.

“The figure is carved out of some very hard wood, and all out of a single block--there being no joining in any part of it.”

Still more astonished, I asked what could have been the motive of representing the Saviour in so strange an attitude; the more, as the hole for the nail still remaining in the hand was still to be seen plainly in the wood, whilst the hand was in the position in which it would have been had it just struck a blow.

“That is a curious story, and is, in fact, the only legend I know of connected with this church.

“The crucifix is held in great reverence, and people come from great distances to pray before it. As I see you are a stranger, perhaps you will partake of an old man’s breakfast, whilst you listen to him as he relates the traditional story, which being connected with this church, where he has grown old, he regards as almost peculiarly his own. Besides, the story is too long to be listened to either standing or fasting.”

Thanking the good priest for his kind offer, I followed him into the little presbytery almost adjoining the church, where we were soon seated on each side of a little table taking off the edge of our appetites with eggs, coffee, and rolls.

When we had somewhat appeased our craving, the good man commenced, saying:

“The tradition of which I have to speak dates back a long way, and has at least so much of authenticity about it as attaches to the undoubted antiquity of the crucifix itself, and to the fact that, for many generations at least, no other account has been current.

“My grandfather used to tell it to me when an infant on his knee, and said that he had heard it from his grandfather in the same way.

“In which of the many wars which have scourged this unfortunate land since the rebel monk Luther brought the curse of religious dissension upon it, the circumstances which I am about to relate occurred, I am unable to determine; for the traditions, which agree in all other points, differ on this.

“On the whole I incline to the one which places these events during the period of Gustavus Adolphus’ invasion, and attribute them to the particular band which was led by his lieutenant Oxenstiern, who certainly did sack the place. This would place it at more than two hundred years ago, and it certainly is not more recent.

“At that period there lived in A----k a widow and her daughter. They were very poor, belonging to the peasant class, and supported themselves in winter by spinning; and when the spring came round, they would go off to the steep mountain-sides, where they helped to dress the vines or gather the vintage, according to the season.

“They never went to distant vineyards, because the mother, having in her youth met with a severe accident, was unable, from its effects, to walk far. There was also another reason: for Gretchen, who was the prettiest girl for many miles around, was also the best, and never failed, winter or summer, to hear Mass and to spend some time in prayer before that very crucifix which has attracted your attention.

“There was, no doubt, some older tradition about its origin, for it had a great reputation for sanctity even then; this tradition, whatever it may have been, seems, however, to have been swallowed up by the overwhelming interest of the subsequent event, which I am about to relate.

“All accounts agree that when Gretchen first worshipped there the crucifix had nothing unusual about it to distinguish it from any other, except its artistic merit.

“The hand was then nailed to the cross. There, however, kneeling in front of it, wrapped in prayer, this young girl spent all the time she could spare from the humble duties of her life.

“She milked the cow, the one valuable possession of her mother, who had the right of common; she washed the clothes, cooked and did the work about her mother’s house, and acted as her crutch as she climbed the steep paths of the vineyard--for, in spite of her lameness, she was a skilful vinedresser--in short, she was all in all to her only parent.

“With all this labor and care Gretchen grew in grace and beauty; and though so devout, she was as bright and cheerful and winning in her ways as the most worldly of her young companions.

“Never, however, could she be tempted to go to any of the merry-makings or harvest-homes or vintage feasts that were held at a distance; her invariable answer was, ‘My mother cannot walk so far.’

“She had many suitors; and admirers came from a great distance.

“To all Gretchen was equally kind and considerate; but to none did she show any sort of preference, so that all the youths for many miles on both sides of the Rhine were pulling caps for her.

“Thus things went on till she was nineteen, when, to the great surprise of all, she was seen to take up with and give a decided preference to the attentions of a young stranger who had been in the place only a few weeks.

“The favored youth was a journeyman clockmaker from Nuremberg, who was going through his year of wandering, and was at the moment settled in the town, working for the only tradesman in his line of business in the place.

“A----k was then much more populous, as you may well suppose, being able to support such a trade.

“This youth, whose name was Gotliebe Hunning, was handsome and showy, wearing his hair in long locks down his back, and spending much of his earnings in dress. He sung, played the guitar, and was reputed wild, though no harm could be alleged against him.

“The old folks shook their heads, and deplored that so sweet and modest a girl as Gretchen should be seen so much with a roisterer like Gotliebe.

“Somehow it had been no sin to sing and be gay like God’s unreasoning creatures before the sour times of Calvin, Huss, and Luther; but though their errors had not penetrated here to any great extent, something of their acid had been imparted to the leaven of life.

“So things were, however, and all the time that Gretchen gave to pleasure--which was little enough, poor child, for they were very poor and her mother was very helpless--she spent with this handsome, clever youth; not that she abandoned her devotion, or was less frequently prostrated before the crucifix; for indeed, if possible, she was found there more than ever. Still, the gossips shook their heads and remarked upon it.

“One would say, ‘Ah! I never trusted that meek manner of hers. I always knew she would surprise us some day, and here it is! It is always so with the very good ones!’ ‘Ay, ay,’ her neighbor would say, ‘cat will after cream! And Eve has left her mark upon the best of them! The girl is a girl like other young things; but I did hope better things of Gretchen, so well brought up as she has been!’--thus they ran on.

“Soon, however, it began to be said that Gotliebe was sobering down; he frequented the tavern less, never danced except with Gretchen, sang less and worked more.

“He was admitted to be a master of his craft, and when it became known that he was engaged in all his leisure hours in making a great clock--the very one the chimes of which you were admiring--for the church, there was less head-shaking, and more talk about Gretchen’s luck in making so great a catch. Still he made no change in his showy dress, and indeed I think that genius, at least in art, often shows itself in that way, and tradition testifies that he was no mean proficient in the art he practised, of which indeed we still have proof every hour.

“Then it began to be observed that Gotliebe was frequently in the church with Gretchen, and had become a regular attendant at Mass. Still, things went on in the same way and no betrothal was spoken of, until, after the war had again broken out and seemed to be drifting this way, it suddenly became known that Gretchen had consented to be married to Gotliebe without loss of time, and that he was to take a house and her mother was to move into it.

“In this remote place, far from any of the great avenues of trade--for vessels usually passed it by, no great roads branching off here, and there being no steamboats invented--news came doubtfully and seldom, and war was at the very door at a moment when only distant rumors had reached A----k.

“However, to return to Gretchen and Gotliebe: You may be sure that what goes on now went on then, and that all the busybodies were agog as to what they were to live upon; how she was to be dressed, and who were to be the bridemaids; but as the world spins round in spite of the flies that buzz about it, so they went their way regardless of all that was said about them.

“In the meantime, the rumors grew more frequent and more particular concerning the cloud of war which was every day drifting nearer and nearer, until the dark mass seemed ready at any moment to burst upon the unfortunate village itself.

“Indeed, news came from neighboring towns and villages that they had been taken and burned by the heretic Swedes, and tales, no doubt often exaggerated, of the violent and dissolute conduct of Oxenstiern’s troopers, kept every one in terror.

“Affairs were in this threatening condition when the wedding-morning came; and, as the story was, though Gretchen had little to spend on dress, no art and no expense could have produced a lovelier bride than stood before the altar of the Crucifix that morning. She wore nothing but a simple dress of white, and a wreath of apple-blossoms, for the trees were just then in flower.

“The wedding-bells were ringing, and the humble bridal-party had just reached the house which Gotliebe had taken, when cannon were heard, and a band of fierce Swedish soldiers rushed into the village.

“The firing proceeded from an attack upon the castle, which still stands at about a mile from this place, and the invaders of the village were army followers and a few of the more dissolute of Oxenstiern’s soldiery, who, encountering the bridal-party, at once interrupted its progress, treating the bridemaids rudely; and one of them, who threw his arms around Gretchen, was immediately struck down by Gotliebe, who, as before said, was a spirited youth.

“One of the invaders, without a moment’s hesitation, struck him lifeless, and attempted to seize the bride, who, with a shriek, fled and took refuge in the church.

“Thither Gretchen was pursued by the band; and when after many hours the troops were withdrawn, and the priest, with a few of the boldest of his flock, ventured into the sacred edifice, they found the high altar desecrated, the sacred vessels gone, and other sacrileges committed, which filled them with horror; but on turning to the altar of the Crucifix, they found the bride prostrate before it, either in a trance or ecstasy, with the soldier who had pursued her lying with his skull broken, and his iron head-piece smashed in as though a sledge-hammer had struck it, and the arm of the crucifix distorted as you see it now.

“On being questioned, the young widow could only say: ‘God has protected me!’

“The poor mother only lingered a day or two afterwards, and was borne to the grave at the same time as the unfortunate Gotliebe.

“Gretchen never knew, or would not say, more than I have repeated of what had occurred at the altar of the Crucifix. It was unplundered!

“The people, however, all said that God, who had borne the insults and profanation directed against himself at the high altar, had interposed when the virtue of a pure virgin was threatened, and had himself, by the hand of his image, smitten the would-be violator dead, leaving the distorted arm as an admonition for ever.”

We were both silent after this recital, and for some moments toyed with the fragments of our breakfast.

At length, raising my head, I asked: “And you, father--do you believe this tale?”

A sweet, soft smile hovered about his lips, as he replied: “Nothing in which the goodness of God is instanced is hard for me to believe! He is less ready to show his anger, so that, though we live in the midst of his wonders, we have got so used to them that it is said that there are those who deny his existence.”

This was said as if to himself. Then, speaking more collectedly, he continued:

“You English would rather believe in ghosts and devils than in the good God. Whence do you suppose they derive their existence and their power?”

I assured him that I was of the same faith as himself, and only asked because I wished to have the opinion of a cultivated man on the subject of this particular legend, which had greatly interested me, and of which there remained so singular an evidence.

After a moment’s pause, he said:

“Think of the facts yourself, sir. This tradition, which is certainly very old, is either true in its main features or it was made to fit the crucifix. Assume this last to be the case, how did so singular an image come into existence? Made to hang the tradition upon? Scarcely in so small a community, where all must have known each other. Besides, it is a work of art, and I have been told that as such it is of rare merit. Such a work could hardly have been produced for an unworthy object, and would have been difficult to substitute for one of inferior workmanship. If I called it a legend, it is because it has an air of romance about it. But God is good, and does what he pleases!”

I had nothing more to say; so I asked what had become of Gretchen, and was told that she had been taken as a lay sister in the small convent at the head of the valley, whence she had continued, to the very day of her death, to come and pray at the foot of the crucifix, where in fact she was at last found dead, in her eighty-seventh year, and that during the whole time she had been regarded as a saint.

“The altar,” he resumed, “is universally regarded with great reverence, and is always spoken of as the Altar of Succor to a very considerable distance up and down the Rhine, and the unusual number of models in wax or wood which you see hanging before it indicate how special favors are reputed to have been granted there.”

“I noticed them,” I replied, “when first I entered Belgium, where I saw many. I was much struck with what I thought the singular idea of offering a leg in wax to obtain the cure of lameness, an eye for blindness, and so on.”

“I perceive, sir,” said the good priest, “that you have fallen into the error of mistaking cause for effect. These models and tokens are in no case hung before the altar until after the cure prayed for has been effected, when it is the pious custom of the people to commemorate the blessing they have received--much as one out of the ten lepers cured by our Lord did--by showing gratitude, that all may see what he has done for them.

“Some of these emblems,” continued he, “have curious histories attached to them, whose events have occurred under my own eye.

“I will give you one instance only, not to be tedious.

“Did you notice a small bottle amongst the objects we speak of?”

I acknowledged that I had not done so, having paid little attention to them.

“Well, there is one there at all events, which I myself attached to the bunch, under the following circumstances:

“Some years ago, two brothers, both young men, were leaving a wharf some miles up the river, at twilight. The steamer having landed its passengers, was on the point of starting, when the elder of the two remonstrated with his brother upon the condition in which he found him; in fact, the youth was addicted to drinking, and gave much trouble to his elder brother, who was a remarkably steady young man. I will not mention their names, as both are living; but for convenience will call the elder Fritz and the younger Carl.

“Carl was given to be quarrelsome in his cups, and on this occasion was more so than usual, and began to struggle with his brother, who wanted to get him on board, as the boat was in the act of starting; in doing so, however, he lost his balance, and they fell into the water together.

“Carl, with the luck which is proverbially attributed to drunkards, was almost immediately pulled out by those who had seen the accident. Fritz, however, appeared to have been carried away by the current, all search proving in vain.

“Carl, now completely sobered, was terribly afflicted, as he was deeply attached to his brother, and remembering the traditional sanctity of the Altar of Succor, he started off and walked all night, and, wet as he was, threw himself at the foot of the altar. There he remained for some hours; whilst prostrate there, another man came in and knelt beside him.

“It is always rather dark at that side altar, which, being situated in the north aisle, was darker still at that hour of the morning.

“I had observed the prostrate man soon after the church had been opened in the morning. When next I passed I saw him prostrate still, with another kneeling beside him.

“Thinking there might be something wrong, I went up, and stooping, laid my hand upon his shoulder; he was wet, and a shiver ran through him at my touch. To my surprise I saw that there was a pool of water round the kneeling man.

“At my touch the man raised himself, exclaiming, as he did so, ‘Yes, I did it; but I did not mean it! Take me if you will!’

“Before I could explain, the other rose to his feet, exclaiming, in a voice of great emotion, ‘Carl!’ In an instant the brothers were in each other’s arms, and explanations were made. It appears that Fritz went down at once, and, being unable to swim, was borne down for some distance under water. On coming to the surface his head came in contact with some substance which he instinctively grasped; it was wood, and was large enough to enable him to keep his head above water. He drifted down the current till, almost dead with cold, he found himself cast ashore at a bend of the river.

“He was glad to find a cottage door open, where he was welcomed to warm himself and to share the peasants’ humble meal. There also he learned that he was not far from A----k and the wonderful Altar of Succor, and at once resolved to come here, moved by gratitude for his escape, and anxiety for his brother, of whose fate he was of course ignorant.

“A year passed, and one morning Carl called upon me, and I then fully learned the particulars I have just related.

“At his request I attached the small bottle to the other tokens, in gratitude, as he said, for the victory there granted to him over the evil habit which must, otherwise, have rendered his life a curse.

“He also left a sum of money for the poor, and told me that his brother and himself were both married, and living as prosperous merchants at a considerable town lower down the Rhine.

“Go thou and do likewise!” added the good priest, laughing as we shook hands at parting.

WHY NOT?

I knelt before the altar-rail
One holy festal morning,
As to and fro the sexton moved,
The holy place adorning.