Chapter XXVIII: Part II: Sonnet--Rydal with Wordsworth (5)

“The musical reputation of England,” says a writer in an old review of 1834, “must mainly rest on the songs in parts of the period between 1560 and 1625.” And Gardiner says: “If we can set up any claim to originality, it is in our glees and anthems.” The gleemen, who were at first a class of the minstrels, are supposed to have been the first who performed vocal music in parts, according to set rules and by notes, though the custom must have existed long before it was thus technically sanctioned. The earliest pieces of the kind _upon record_ are by the madrigal writers, and were, perhaps, founded upon the taste of the Italian school; but there soon grew up a distinction sufficient to mark English glee-music as a separate species of the art. It is said that glee-singing did not become generally popular till about the year 1770, when glees formed a prominent part of the private concerts of the nobility; but their being adopted into fashionable circles only at that date is scarcely a proof of their late origin. The canzonets for three or four voices must have been closely allied to glees, and a family likeness existed between these and the madrigals for four or five voices, the ballets, or fa-las, for five, and the songs for six and seven parts, which are so prodigally mentioned in a list of works by Morley within the short space of only four years--1593 to 1597. The number of these songs proves their wonderful popularity, and we incline to think, with the writer we have quoted, that the English, in the catches and glees, the works of the composers of the days of Elizabeth and James I., and those of Purcell, Tallis, Croft, Bull, Blow, Boyce, etc., at a later period, possess a music essentially national and original--not imitative, as is the modern English school, and not more indebted to foreign sources than any other progressive and liberal art is to the lessons given it by its practisers in other civilized communities. For if _national_ is to mean isolated and petrified, by all means let us forswear nationalism.

Shakspere’s songs are scattered throughout his works, and were evidently written for music. Both old and new composers have set them to music, and of the latter none so happily as Bishop Weelkes and John Dowland, his contemporaries and friends; the latter, the composer of Shakspere’s favorite song (not his own), “Awake, sweet Love,” often wrote music for his words. In his plays Shakspere has introduced many fragments of _old_ songs and ballads; but Ritson says of him: “This admirable writer composed the most beautiful and excellent songs, which no one, so far as we know, can be said to have done before him, nor has any one excelled him since.” This statement is qualified by an exception in favor of Marlowe, a predecessor of Shakspere, and the author of the “Passionate Shepherd to his Love”; and besides, it means that he was the first great poet among the song-writers, who, in comparison with him, might be called mere ballad-mongers. Shakspere’s love for the old, simple, touching music of his native land, shown on many occasions throughout his works, is most exquisitely expressed in the following passage from _Twelfth Night_:

“Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we had last night:
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.
…
O fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,[165]
Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.”

Though Shakspere’s plays were marked with the coarseness of speech common in his time, and therefore not, as some have thought, chargeable to him in particular, his songs, on the contrary, are of singular daintiness. They are too well known to be quoted here, but they breathe the very spirit of music, being evidently intended to be sung and popularly known. The chorus, or rather refrain, of one, beginning, “Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” runs thus:

“Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly!”

The “Serenade to Sylvia” is lovely, chaste and delicate in speech as it is playful in form; and the fairy song “Over hill, over dale,” is like the song of a chorus of animated flowers. The description of the cowslips is very poetic:

“The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see--
Those be rubies, fairy favors;
In those freckles live their savors.
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.”

Bishop Hall, in 1597, published a satirical poem in which he complains that madrigals and ballads were “sung to the wheel, and sung unto the pail”--that is, by maids spinning and milking, or fetching water; and Lord Surrey, in one of his poems, says (not satirically, however):

“My mother’s maids, when they do sit and spin,
They sing a song.”

Now, we gather what was the style of these songs of peasant girls and laborers from the writings of good old Izaak Walton, who mentions, as a common occurrence, that he often met, in the fields bordering the river Lee, a handsome milkmaid who sang like a nightingale, her voice being good and the ditties fitted for it. “She sang the smooth song which was made by Kit Marlowe, now at least fifty years ago, and the milkmaid’s mother sang the answer to it which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.… They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good; I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age.”[166] He wrote in the reign of Charles I., and already deplored the influx of more pretentious songs; but those he mentions with such commendation were the famous “Passionate Shepherd to his Love” and the song beginning “If all the world and love were young,” two exquisite lyrics of an elegance much above what is now termed the taste of the vulgar.

Izaak Walton was as fond of music as of angling, and quotes many of the popular songs of his day. He was a quiet man, and only describes the pastimes of humble life. He used to rest from his labors in an “honest ale-house” and a “cleanly room,” where he and his fellow-fishermen, and sometimes the milkmaid, whiled away the evenings by singing ballads and duets. Any casual dropper-in was expected to take his part; and among the music mentioned as common in these gatherings are numbers of “ketches,” or, as we should say, catches. The music of one of his favorite duets, “Man’s life is but vain, for ’tis subject to pain,” is given in the old editions of his book. It is simple and pretty; the composer was Mr. H. Lawes. Other songs, favorites of his, were “Come, shepherds, deck your heads”; “As at noon Dulcina rested”; “Phillida flouts me”; and that touching elegy, “Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,” by George Herbert. This is as full of meaning as it is short:

“Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night
For thou must die.

“Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

“Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows you have your closes
And all must die.

“Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber never gives,
But, when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.”

Sir Henry Wotton’s song for the poor countryman, beginning--

“Fly from our country pastimes, fly,
Sad troops of human misery!
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Or the pure, azured heaven that smiles to see
The rich attendance on our poverty!”

and some verses of Dr. Donne (both these writers being contemporaries of James I.), are also mentioned by Walton as popular among the lower classes in his day. Here is another instance of the power of song over the peasantry in the early part of the XVIIth century. In the spring of 1613, on the occasion of Queen Anne of Denmark’s return from Bath, where she had gone for her health, she was met on Salisbury Plain by the Rev. George Fereby, vicar of some obscure country parish, who entreated that her majesty would be pleased to listen to a concert performed by his people. “When the queen signified her assent, there rose out of the ravine a handsome company, dressed as Druids and as British shepherds and shepherdesses, who sang a greeting, beginning with these words, to a melody which greatly pleased the musical taste of her majesty:

“‘Shine, oh! shine, thou sacred star,
On seely[167] shepherd swains!’

We should suppose, from the commencing words, that this poem had originally been a Nativity hymn pertaining to the ancient church; and it is possible that the melody might be traced to the same source.… The music, the voices, and the romantic dresses, so well corresponding with the mysterious spot where this pastoral concert was stationed, greatly captivated the imagination of the queen.”[168] Anne of Denmark admired and patronized the genius of Ben Jonson, the writer of several musical masques often performed at court by the queen and her noble attendants. The really classical time of English poetry and music was before the Commonwealth, and popular music certainly received a blow during the Puritan rule. Songs and ballads were forbidden as profane; and in 1656 Cromwell enacted that “if any of the persons commonly called fiddlers or minstrels shall at any time be taken playing, fiddling, and making music in any inn, ale-house, or tavern, or shall be taken proffering themselves, or designing or entreating any to hear them play or make music in any of the places aforesaid,” they should be “adjudged and declared to be rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars.” Fines and imprisonments were often the penalties attached to a disregard of these ordinances; but this opposition only turned the course of popular song into political channels, and it became a point of honor among the Royalists to listen to, applaud, and protect the veriest scamp who called himself a minstrel. Songs were written with no poetical merit, but full of political allusions, bitter taunts and sneers; and it was the delight of the Cavaliers to sing these doggerel rhymes and make the wandering fiddlers sing them. Many a brawl owed its origin to this. Even certain tunes, without any words, were considered as identified with political principle, and led to dangerous ebullitions of feeling, or kept alive party prejudices in those who heard them. Popular music has always been a powerful engine for good or bad, in a political sense. Half the loyalty of the Jacobites of Scotland in the XVIIIth century was due to inflammatory songs; Körner’s lyrics fired German patriotism against Napoleon; and there has never been a party of any kind that did not speedily adopt some representative melody to fan the ardor of its adherents.

But if music and poetry were proscribed by the over-rigorous Puritans, a worse excess was fostered by the immoral reign of Charles II. The Restoration polluted the stream which the Commonwealth had attempted to dam up. Just as, in a spirit of bravado and contradiction, the Cavaliers had ostentatiously made cursing and swearing a badge of their party, to spite the sanctimoniousness of the Roundheads, so they affected to oppose to the latter’s psalm-singing roaring and immodest songs. Ritson says that Charles II. tried his hand at song-writing, and quotes a piece by him, beginning:

“I pass all my hours in a shady old grove.”

“Though by no means remarkable for poetical merit,” says the critic, “it has certainly enough for the composition of a king.” Molière was not more severe on the attempts of Louis XIV. But though the general spirit of the age was licentious, many good songs were still written. Sedley, Rochester, Dorset, Sheffield, and others wrote unexceptionable ones, and the great Dryden flourished in this reign. One of his odes, “On S. Cecilia’s Day,” is thoroughly musical in its rhythm, the refrains at the end of each stanza having the ring of some of the old German Minnesongs of the XIIth and XIIIth centuries. But his verses were scarcely simple or flowing enough to become popular in the widest sense, which honor rather belonged to the less celebrated poets of his day. Lord Dorset, for instance, was the author of a sea-song said to have been written the night before an engagement with the Dutch in 1665, and which, from its admirable ease, flow, and tenderness, became at once popular with all classes. The circumstances under which it was supposed to be written had, no doubt, something to do with its popularity; but Dr. Johnson says: “Seldom any splendid story is wholly true. I have heard from the late Earl of Orrery, who was likely to have good hereditary intelligence, that Lord Dorset had been a week employed upon it, and only retouched or finished it on the memorable evening. But even this, whatever it may subtract from his facility, leaves him his courage.” The anonymous writer to whom we have referred[169] tells us that “the shorter pieces of most of the poets of the time of Charles II. had a rhythm and cadence particularly well suited to music. They were, in short, what the Italians call _cantabile_, or fit to be sung.… In the succeeding reigns, with the growth of our literature, there was a considerable increase in song-writing; most of our poets of eminence, and some who had no eminence except what they obtained in that way, devoting themselves occasionally to the composition of lyrical pieces. Prior, Rowe, Steele, Philips, Parnell, Gay, and others contributed a stock which might advantageously be referred to by the composers of our own times.” Prior was a friend and _protégé_ of Lord Dorset, who sent him to Cambridge and paid for his education there. Parnell was an Irishman. His “Hymn to Contentment” is a sort of counterpart to the old song “My Mind to me a Kingdom is”:

“Lovely, lasting peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.”

Gay, the elegant, the humorous, and the pathetic, shows to most advantage in this group. He it was who wrote the famous ballad “Black-eyed Susan,” and many others which, though less known at present, are equally admirable. One of them was afterwards set to music by Handel, and later on by Jackson of Exeter. But music did not keep pace with poetry; and though Purcell, Carey, and one or two other composers flourished in the latter part of the XVIIth and beginning of the XVIIIth centuries, they kept mostly to sacred music, and the new songs of the day were generally set to old tunes. Gay’s _Beggar’s Opera_, a collection of seventy-two songs, could not boast of a single air composed for the purpose. The music was all old, but the stage, says Dr. Burney, ruined the simplicity of the old airs, as it invariably does all music adapted to dramatic purposes. Indeed, we, in our own day, sometimes have the opportunity of verifying this fact, when old airs or ballads are introduced into operas to which they are unfitted. The “Last Rose of Summer” put into the opera of _Martha_ is an instance in point; but, worse than that, the writer once heard “Home, Sweet Home” sung during the music-lesson scene in the _Barbier de Seville_. Adelina Patti was the _prima donna_, and any one who has seen and heard her can imagine the contrast between the simple, pathetic air and words, and the kittenish, coquettish, Dresden-china style of the singer! Add to this the costume of a Spanish _señorita_ and the stage finery of Rosina’s boudoir, not to mention the absurd anachronism involved in a girl of the XVIIth century singing Paine’s touching song. Of course the audience applauded vigorously; for an English audience at the opera goes into action in the spirit of Nelson’s words, “England expects every man to do his duty,” and the incongruousness of the scene never troubles its mind.

Carey tried to stem the downfall of really good popular music by writing both the words and music of the well-known ballad of “Sally in our Alley,” which attained a popularity (using the word in its proper sense) that it has never lost and never will lose. The song was soon known from one end of the country to the other, and, like the old songs, was “whistled o’er the furrowed land” and “sung to the wheel, and sung unto the pail.” Addison was no less fond of it than the common people; but the song was an exception in its time, and the poetry of the day never again made its way among the great body of the people, as it had done under the Tudors and the early Stuarts. Music and poetry both grew artificial under the Hanoverian dynasty, and the mannerisms and affectations of rhymers and would-be musical critics were sharply satirized by Pope and Swift. In the reign of Queen Anne the Italian opera was introduced into London, and the silly rage for foreign music, _because_ it was foreign, soon worked its way among all classes. Handel brought about the first salutary return to natural and simple musical expression, and, setting many national and pastoral pieces to music, diffused the taste for good music through the intermediate orders of the people, especially the country gentry, but the masses still clung to interminable ballads, with monotonous tunes and no individuality either of sense or of form. Although England could boast of some good native composers and poets in the XVIIIth century--for instance, among the former, Boyce, Arne, Linley, Jackson, Shield, Arnold, etc.--still no good music penetrated into the lower strata of society; for these musicians mostly confined themselves to pieces of greater pretension than anything which was likely to become popular. Wales and the North of England still kept up a better standard, but the general taste of the nation was decidedly vitiated. Dibdin’s sea-songs broke the spell and reached the heart of the people; but this was rather a momentary flash than a permanent resurrection of good taste and discernment. The custom of writing the majority of songs for one voice, we think, had had much to do with destroying the genuine love of music among the people. It seemed to shift the burden of entertainment upon one member of a social gathering, instead of assuming that music was the welcome occupation and pastime of the greater number; and besides this, it no doubt fostered an undue rage for melody, or, as it is vulgarly called, _tune_. We have often had occasion to notice how bald and meagre--trivial, indeed--a mere thread of melody can sound when sung by one voice, which, if sung in parts, acquires a majestic and full tone. The fashion of solo-singing, which obtains so much in our day, has another disadvantage: it encourages affectation and self-complacency in the singer. The solo-singer is very apt to arrogate to him or herself the merit and effect of the piece; to think more of the individual performance than of the music performed; and to spoil a good piece by interpolating runs and shakes to show off his or her powers of vocal gymnastics. All this was impossible in the old part-songs, where attention and precision were indispensable.

There are hopeful indications at present that England is not utterly sunk into musical indifference, but, strange to say, wherever the good leaven _does_ work, it does so from below upwards. The lower classes in the North of England have mainly given the impulse; the higher are still, on the whole, superficial in their tastes and trivial and mediocre in their performances. Even as far back as 1834, the writer in the _Penny Magazine_ already quoted gives an interesting account of a surprise he met with at a small village in Sussex. (This, be it remembered, is an almost exclusively Saxon district of the country.) Being tired of the solitude of the little inn and the dulness of a country newspaper, he walked down the street of the village, and, in so doing, was brought to a pause before a small cottage, nowise distinguished from the other humble homesteads of the place, from which proceeded sounds of sweet music. The performance within consisted, not of voices, but of instruments; and the piece was one of great pathos and beauty, and not devoid of musical difficulty. When it was finished, and the performers had rested a few seconds, they executed a German quartet of some pretensions in very good style. This was followed by variations on a popular air by Stephen Storace, which they played in excellent time and with considerable elegance and expression. Several other pieces, chosen with equal good taste, succeeded this, and the stranger enjoyed a musical treat where he little expected one. On making inquiries at the inn, he found that the performers were all young men of the village, humble mechanics and agricultural laborers, who, for some considerable time, had been in the habit of meeting at each other’s houses in the evening, and playing and practising together. The taste had originated with a young man of the place who had acquired a little knowledge of music at Brighton. He had taught some of his comrades, and by degrees they had so increased in number and improved in the art that now, to use the words of the informant, “there were eight or ten that could play by book and in public.”

At that time, and in that part of the country, this was an unusual and remarkable proof of refinement and good taste; but at present, though still the exception, it is no longer quite so rare to find uneducated people able to a certain degree to appreciate good music. Much has been written to vindicate English musical taste within the last thirty or forty years; but still the fact can scarcely be overlooked that, notwithstanding all efforts to the contrary, the standard of taste among the masses is lower than it was in Tudor days.

Every one is familiar with the choral unions, the glee-clubs, the carol-singing, Leslie’s choir, and Hullah’s methods, which all go far to raise the taste of the people and enlist the vocal powers of many who otherwise would have been tempted to leave singing to the “mounseers” and other “furriners,” as the only thing those benighted individuals could be good for. There is, as there has been for many generations, the Chapel Royal, a sort of informal school of music; there is the Academy of Music; there are “Crystal Palace” and “Monday Popular Concerts”; musical festivals every year in the various cathedrals, oratorios in Exeter Hall; and there soon will be a “National School of Music,” which is to be a climax in musical education, the pride of the representative bodies of wealthy and noble England (for princes and corporations have vied with each other in founding scholarships); but with all this, the palmy days of the Tudors are dead and gone beyond the power of man to galvanize them into new activity. True, every young woman plays the pianoforte; you see that instrument in the grocer’s best parlor and the farmer’s keeping-room; but the sort of music played upon it is trivial and foreign, an exotic in the life of the performer, a boarding-school accomplishment, not a labor of love. You can hear “Beautiful Star,” and “Home, Sweet Home,” and Mozart’s “Agnus Dei” sung one after the other, with the same expression, the same “strumminess,” the same stolidity, or the same affected languor, and you will perceive that, though the singer may _know_ them, she neither feels nor understands them. Moore’s melodies, too, you hear _ad nauseam_, murdered and slurred over anyhow; but both the delicacy of the poetry and the pathos of the music are a dead-letter to the performer. But though a few songs by good writers are popular in the middle classes--for instance, Tennyson’s “Brook” and “Come into the garden, Maud,” the immortal and almost unspoilable “Home, Sweet Home”--yet there is also a dark side to the picture in the prevalence of comic songs, low, slangy ballads, sham negro melodies (utterly unlike the real old pathetic plantation-song), and other degrading entertainments classed under the title of “popular music.” The higher classes give little countenance or aid to the upward movement in music, and still look upon the art as an adjunct of fashion. With such disadvantages, it is a wonder that England has struggled back into the ranks of music-lovers at all, even though, as yet, she can take but a subordinate place among them.

PIOUS PICTURES.

A great deterioration having been observable for some time past in the multitudinous little pictures published in Paris, ostensibly with a religious object, some of the more thoughtful writers in Catholic periodicals have on several recent occasions earnestly protested against the form these representations are taking. Their remonstrances are, however, as yet unsuccessful. The “article” continues to be produced on an increasing scale, and is daily transmitted in immense quantities, not only to the farthest extremities of the territory, but far beyond, especially to England and America, to ruin taste, sentimentalize piety, and “give occasion to the enemy to” _deride_ if not to “blaspheme.”

The bishops of France have already turned their attention to this unhealthy state of things in what may be called pictorial literature for the pious, and efforts are being made in the higher regions of ecclesiastical authority to arrest its deterioration. In the synod lately held at Lyons severe censure was passed on the objectionable treatment of sacred things so much in vogue in certain quarters; and, still more recently, Father Matignon, in his conference on “The Artist,” condemned these “grotesque interpretations of religious truths, which render them ridiculous in the eyes of unbelievers, and corrupt the taste of the faithful.” The eloquent preacher at the same time recommended the Catholic journalists to denounce a species of commerce as ignorant as it is mercenary, and counselled the members of the priesthood to “declare unrelenting war against this school of _pettiness_, which is daily gaining ground in France, and which gives a trivial and vulgar aspect to things the most sacred.”

This appeal has not been without effect. There appears in the _Monde_, from the pen of M. Léon Gautier, the author of several pious and learned works, a Letter “Against Certain Pictures,” addressed “to the president of the Conference of T----,” in which the absurdity of these silly compositions is attacked with much spirit and good sense. The _Semaine Religieuse de Paris_ reproduces this letter, with an entreaty to its readers to enroll themselves in the crusade therein preached by the eminent writer--a crusade the opportuneness of which must be only too evident to every thoughtful and religious mind. M. Léon Gautier writes as follows:

You have requested me, dear friend, to purchase for you a
“gross” of little pictures for distribution among your poor and
their children.…

As to the selection of these pictures I must own myself
greatly perplexed, and must beg to submit to you very humbly
my difficulties, and not only my difficulties, but also my
distress, and, to say the truth, my indignation. I have before
my eyes at this moment four or five hundred pictures which
have been sold to me as “pious,” but which I consider as in
reality among the most detestable and irreverent of any kind of
merchandise. A great political journal the other day gave to
one of its leaders the title of _L’Ecœurement_.[170] I cannot
give a title to my letter, but, were it possible to do so, I
should choose this one in preference to any other. I am in the
unfortunate state of a man who has swallowed several kilograms
of adulterated honey. I am suffering from an indigestion of
sugar; and what sugar! Whilst in the act of buying these
little horrors, I beheld numberless purchasers succeed each
other with feverish eagerness in the shops, which I will not
specify. Yes, I had the pain of meeting there with Christian
Brothers and with Sisters of Charity, who made me sigh by their
simple avidity and ingenuous delight at the sight of these
frightful little black or rose-colored prints. They bought them
by hundreds, by thousands, by ten thousands; for schools, for
orphanages, for missions. Ah! my dear friend, how many souls
are going to be well treacled in our hapless world! It is the
triumph of confectionery. “Why are you choosing such machines
as these?” I asked of the good Brother Theodore, whom, to my
great astonishment, I found among the purchasers; “they are
disagreeable.” “Agreed.” “They are stupid.” “I know it.” “They
are dear.” “My purse is only too well aware of the fact.” “Then
why do you buy them?” “Because I find that these only are
acceptable.” And thereupon the worthy man told me that he had
the other day distributed among his children pictures taken
from the fine head of our Saviour attributed to Morales--a
_chef-d’œuvre_. The children, however, perceiving that there
was no gilding upon them, had thrown them aside, gaping.
Decidedly, the evil is greater than I had supposed, and it is
time to consider what is to be done.

In spite of all this, I have bought your provision of pictures;
but do not be uneasy--I am keeping them myself, and will
proceed to describe them to you. I do not wish that the taste
of your beloved poor should be vitiated by the sight of these
mawkish designs; but I will take upon myself to analyze them
for your benefit, and then see if you are not very soon as
indignant as myself.

In the first place we have the “symbolical” pictures, and these
are the most numerous of all. I do not want to say too much
against them. You know in what high estimation I hold true
symbolism, and we have many a time exchanged our thoughts on
this admirable form of the activity of the human mind. A symbol
is a comparison between things belonging to the physical and
things belonging to the immaterial world. Now, these two worlds
are in perfect harmony with each other. To each phenomenon of
the moral order there corresponds exactly a phenomenon of the
visible order. If we compare these two facts with each other,
we have a symbol. There is a life, a breath, a whiteness,
which are material. Figurative language is nothing else than a
vast and wonderful symbolism, and you remember the marvellous
things written on this subject by the lamented M. Landriot.
In the supernatural order it is the same, and all Christian
generations have made use of symbolism to express the most
sacred objects of their adoration. There has been the symbolism
of the Catacombs; there has been also that of the Middle Ages.
The two, although not resembling, nevertheless complete, each
other, and eloquently attest the fact that the Christian race
has never been without the use of symbols.

Thus it is not symbolism which I condemn, but this particular
symbolism of which I am about to speak, and which is so
odiously silly. I write to you with the proofs before me. I am
not inventing, but, mirror-wise, merely reflecting. I am not
an author, but a photographer.

Firstly, here we have a ladder, which represents “the way of
the soul towards God.” This is very well, although moderately
ideal; but then who is mounting this ladder? You would never
guess. It is a dove! Yes; the poor bird is painfully climbing
up the rounds as if she were a hen getting back to roost,
and apparently forgetting that she owns a pair of wings. But
we shall find this dove elsewhere; for our pictures are full
of the species, and are in fact a very plentifully-stocked
dove-cote. I perceive down there another animal; it is a
roe with her fawn, and with amazement I read this legend:
“The fecundity of the breast of the roe is the image of the
abundance and sweetness of grace.” Why was the roe selected,
and why roe’s milk? Strange! But here again we have a singular
collection. On a heart crowned with roses is placed a
candlestick (a candlestick on a heart!), and this candelabrum,
price twenty-nine sous, is surmounted by a lighted candle,
around which angels are pressing. This, we are told underneath,
is “good example.” Does it mean that we are to set one for the
blessed angels to follow? Next, what do I see here? A guitar;
and this at the foot of the cross. Let us see what can be the
reason of this mysterious assemblage; the text furnishes it:
_Je me délasserai à l’abri de la Croix_--“I will refresh myself
in the shelter of the cross”--from whence it follows that one
can play the guitar upon Golgotha. Touching emblem! And what do
you say of this other, in which our Saviour Jesus, the Word,
and, as Bossuet says, the Reason and Interior Discourse of
the Eternal Father, is represented as occupied in killing I
know not what little insects on the leaves of a rose-bush? “The
divine Gardener destroys the caterpillars which make havoc in
his garden,” says the legend. I imagine nothing, but merely
transcribe, and for my part would gladly turn insecticide to
this collection of _imagerie_.

This hand issuing out of a cloud I recognize as the hand of my
Lord God, the Creator and Father of all, who is at the same
time their comforter, their stay, and their life. I admit
this symbol, which is ancient and truly Christian; but this
divine hand, which the Middle Ages would most carefully have
guarded against charging with any kind of burden; this hand,
which represents Eternal Justice and Eternal Goodness--can
you imagine what it is here made to hold? [Not even the fiery
bolt which the heathen of old times represented in the grasp
of their Jupiter Tonans, but] a horrible and stupid little
watering-pot, from the spout of which trickles a driblet
of water upon the cup of a lily. Further on I see the said
watering-pot is replaced by a sort of jug, which the Eternal
is emptying upon souls in the shape of doves; and this, the
legend kindly informs me, is “the heavenly dew.” Heavenly
dew trickling out of a jug! And there are individuals who
can imagine and depict a thing like this when the beneficent
Creator daily causes to descend from his beautiful sky those
milliards of little pearly drops which sparkle in the morning
sunshine on the fair mantle of our earth! Water, it must be
owned, is scarcely a successful subject under any form with our
picture-factors. Here is a poor and miserably-painted thread
lifting itself up above a basin, while I am informed underneath
that “the jet of water is the image of the soul lifting itself
towards God by meditation.”

I also need to be enlightened as to how “a river turned aside
from its course is an image of the good use and of the abuse
of grace.” It is obscure, but still it does not vulgarize and
debase a beautiful and Scriptural image, like the next I will
mention, in which, over the motto, “Care of the lamp: image of
the cultivation of grace in our hearts,” we have a servant-maid
taking her great oily scissors and cutting the wick, of which
she scatters the blackened fragments no matter where.

The quantity of ribbon and string used up by these
symbol-manufacturers is something incalculable. Here lines of
string unite all the hearts of the faithful (doves again!)
to the heart of Our Blessed Lady; there Mary herself, the
Immaculate One and our own incomparable Mother, from the height
of heaven holds in leash, by an interminable length of string,
a certain little dove, around the neck of which there hangs a
scapular. This, we are told, means that “Mary is the directress
of the obedient soul.” Elsewhere the string is replaced by
pretty rose-colored or pale-blue ribbons, which have doubtless
a delicious effect to those who can appreciate it. Here is a
young girl walking along cheerfully enough, notwithstanding
that her heart is tied by one of these elegant ribbons to
that of the Blessed Mother of God, apparently without causing
her the slightest inconvenience. Her situation, however, is,
I think, less painful than that of this other young person,
who is occupied in carving her own heart into a shape
resembling that of Mary. Another young female has hoisted this
much-tormented organ (her own) on an easel, and is painting
it after the same pattern. But let us hasten out of this
atelier to breathe the open air among these trees. Alas! we
there find, under the form and features of an effeminate child
of eight years old, “the divine Gardener putting a prop to a
sapling tree,” or “grafting on the wild stock the germ of good
fruits.” This is all pretty well; but what can be said of this
ciborium which has been energetically stuck into a lily, with
the legend, “I seek a pure heart”? These gentlemen, indeed,
treat you to the Most Holy Eucharist with a free-and-easyness
that is by no means fitting or reverent. It is forbidden to the
hands of laics to touch the Sacred Vessels, and it is only just
that the same prohibition should apply to picture-makers. They
are entreated not to handle thus lightly and irreverently that
which is the object of our faith, our hope, and our love.

Hitherto I have refrained from touching upon that very delicate
subject which it is nevertheless necessary that I should
approach--namely, the representation of the Sacred Heart. And
here I feel myself at ease, having beforehand submitted to all
the decisions of the church, and having for long past made it
my great aim to be penetrated with her spirit. Like yourself,
I have a real devotion to the Sacred Heart, nor do I wish to
conceal it. When any devotion takes so wide a development in
the Holy Church, it is because it is willed by God, who watches
unceasingly over her destinies and the forms of worship which
she renders to him. All Catholics are agreed upon this point.
It is true that certain among them regard the Sacred Heart
as the symbol of Divine Love, and that others consider it
under the aspect of a very adorable part of the Body of the
God-Man, and, if I may so express it, as a kind of centralized
Eucharist. Well, I hold that to be accurate one ought to admit
and harmonize the two systems, and therefore I do so. You
are aware that it is my belief that physiology does not yet
sufficiently understand the mechanism of our material heart,
and I await discoveries on that subject which shall establish
the fact of its necessity to our life. The other day, at
Baillère’s, I remained a long time carefully examining a fine
engraving representing the circulation of the blood through the
veins and arteries, and I especially contemplated the heart
the source and receptacle of this double movement, and said
to myself, “The worship of the Sacred Heart will be one day
justified by physiology.” But why do I say this, when it is so
already? Behold me, then, on my knees before the Sacred Heart
of my God, in which I behold at the same time an admirable
symbol and a yet more admirable reality. But is this a reason
for representing the Sacred Heart in a manner alike ridiculous
and odious? I will not here enter upon the question as to
whether it is allowable to represent the Sacred Heart of Jesus
otherwise than in his Sacred Breast, and I only seek to know
in order to accept unhesitatingly whatever with regard to this
may be the thought of the church. But that which to my mind is
utterly revolting is the sight of the profanations of which
these fortieth-rate picture-manufacturers are guilty. What
right have they, and how do they dare, to represent hundreds
of consecrated Hosts issuing from the Sacred Heart, and a
dove pecking at them as they are dropping down? What right
have they to make the Heart of our Lord God a pigeon-house, a
roosting-place for these everlasting doves, or into a vase out
of which they are drinking? What right have they to insert a
little heart (ours) into the Divine Heart of Jesus? What right
have they to represent to us [a Pelion, Ossa, and Olympus on
a small scale] three hearts, the one piled upon the other,
and cascades of blood pouring from the topmost, which is that
of Our Lord; upon the second, which is that of his Blessed
Mother; and thence upon the third, which is our own? What right
have they to make the Sacred Heart shed showers of roses, or
to give its form to their “mystic garden”? Lastly, what right
have they to lodge it in the middle of a full-blown flower, and
make the latter address to it the scented question, “What would
you desire me to do in order that I may be agreeable to you?”
Ye well-meaning picture-makers! beware of asking me the same
question; for both you and I very well know what would be the
answer.

The truth is that these clumsy persons manage to spoil
everything they touch, and they have dishonored the symbolism
of the dove, as they have compromised the representations of
the Sacred Heart. The dove is undoubtedly one of the most
ancient and evangelical of all the Christian symbols; but a
certain discretion is nevertheless necessary in the employment
of this emblem of the Holy Spirit of God. This discretion
never failed our forefathers, who scarcely ever depicted the
dove, except only in the scene of Our Lord’s baptism and in
representations of the Blessed Trinity. In the latter the
Eternal Father, vested in pontifical or imperial robes, holds
between his arms the cross, whereon hangs his Son, while the
Holy Dove passes from the Father to the Son as the eternal love
which unites them. This is well, simple, and even fine. But
there is a vast difference between this and the present abuse
and vulgarization of the dove as an emblem, where it is made
use of to represent the faithful soul. No, truly, one is weary
of all this. Do you see this flight of young pigeons hovering
about with hearts in their beaks? The beaks are very small and
the hearts very large, but you are intended to understand by
this that “fervent souls rise rapidly to great perfection.”
These other doves, lower down, give themselves less trouble and
fatigue; they are quietly pecking into a heart, and I read this
legend: “The heart of Love is inexhaustible; let us go to it in
all our wants.” The pigeon that I see a little farther off is
not without his difficulties; he is carrying a stout stick in
his delicate beak, and--would you believe it?--the explanation
of this remarkable symbol is, “Thy rod and thy staff have
comforted me.” Here again are carrier-pigeons, bringing us in
their beaks nicely-folded letters in charming envelopes. One of
these birds [who possibly may belong to the variety knows as
tumbler pigeons] has evidently fallen into the water; for he is
shown to us standing to recover himself on what appears to be a
heap of mud in the middle of the ocean, with the motto, “Saved!
he is saved!” Next I come upon a party of doves again--always
doves!--whose occupation is certainly no sinecure. Oars have
been fitted to their feeble claws, and these hapless creatures
are rowing. Here is another unfortunate pigeon. She is in
prison with a thick chain fastened to her left foot, and we are
told that she is “reposing on the damp straw of the dungeon.”
Further on appears another of this luckless species, on its
back with its claws in the air. It is dead. So much the better.
It is not I who will encourage it to be so unwise as to return
to life. True, in default of doves, other symbols will not
be found lacking. Here are some of the tender kind--little
souvenirs to be exchanged between friend and friend, wherein
one finds I know not what indescribable conglomerations of
religious sentiment and natural friendship. Flowers, on all
sides flowers: forget-me-nots, pansies, lilies, and underneath
all the treasures of literature: “It is a friend who offers
you these”; “Near or far away, yours ever”; “These will pass;
friendship will remain.” “C’est la fleur de Marie Que je vous
ai choisie.” (N.B.--This last is in verse.)

I know not, my dear friend, whether you feel with me on this
point. While persuading myself that all these playfulnesses are
very innocent, I yet find in them a certain something which
strikes me as interloping, and I do not like mixtures.

We have also the politico-religious pictures. Heaven forbid
that I should speak evil of the _fleurs-de-lys_ which embalmed
with their perfume all the dear Middle Ages to which I have
devoted so much of my life; but we have in these pictures of
which I am speaking mixtures which are, to my mind, detestable,
and I cannot endure this pretty little boat, of which the sails
are covered with _fleurs-de-lys_, its mast is the Pontifical
Cross, and its pilot the Sacred Heart. Is another allusion to
legitimacy intended in this cross surrounded with flowers and
bearing the legend, “My Beloved delights himself among the
lilies”? I cannot tell; but if we let each political party
have free access to our religious picture-stores, we shall see
strange things, and then _Gare aux abeilles!_--“Beware of the
bees.”

One characteristic common to all these wretched picturelings is
their insipidity and petty childishness. They are a literature
of nurses and nursery-maids. The designers must surely belong
to the female portion of humanity; for one is conscious
everywhere of the invisible hand of woman. One is unwilling
to conceive it possible that any one with a beard on the chin
could bring himself to invent similar meagrenesses. These
persons are afraid of man, and have wisely adopted the plan of
never painting him, and of making everybody under the age of
ten years. Never have they had any clear or serious idea of the
Word, the God made man--of him, the mighty and terrible One,
who pronounced anathema on the Pharisees and the sellers in the
Temple. They can but represent a little Jesus in wax, or sugar,
or treacle; and alarmed at the loftiness of Divinity, and being
incapable of hewing his human form in marble, they have kneaded
it in gingerbread.

And yet our greatest present want is manliness. Truly, truly,
in France we have well-nigh no more men! Let us, then, have no
more of these childishnesses, but let us behold in the divine
splendor and perfect manhood of the Word made flesh the eternal
type of regenerated humanity.

SUMMER STORMS.

Summer storms are fleeting things,
Coming soon, and quickly o’er;
Yet their wrath a shadow brings
Where but sunshine dwelt before.

On the grass the pearl-drops lie
Fresh and lovely day appears;
Yet the rainbow’s arch on high
Is but seen through falling tears.

For, though clouds have passed away,
Though the sky be bright again,
Earth still feels the transient sway
Of the heavy summer rain.

Broken flow’rs and scattered leaves
Tell the short-lived tempest’s power;
Something still in nature grieves
At the fierce and sudden shower.

There are in the human breast
Passions wild and deep and strong,
Bearing in their course unblest
Brightest hopes of life along.

O’er the harp of many strings
Often comes a wailing strain,
When the hand of anger flings
Discord ’mid its soft refrain.

Tears may pass, and smiles again
Wreathe the lip and light the brow;
But, like flowers ’neath summer’s rain,
Some bright hope lies crushed and low.

Some heart-idol shattered lies
In the temple’s inner shrine:
Ne’er unveiled to human eyes,
Sacred kept like things divine.

Speak not harshly to the loved
In your holy household band;
Days will come when where they moved
Many a vacant chair will stand.

To the erring--oh, be kind!
Balm give to the weary heart;
Soft words heal the wounded mind,
Bid the tempter’s spell depart.

Let not passion’s storm arise,
Though it pass like summer showers;
Clouds will dim the soul’s pure skies,
Hope will weep o’er broken flowers.

Speak, then, gently; tones of strife
Lightly breathed have lasting power;
Memories that embitter life
Often rise from one rash hour.

THE KING OF METALS

FROM THE FRENCH.

There once lived a widow named Mary Jane, who had a beautiful daughter called Flora. The widow was a sensible, humble woman; the daughter, on the contrary, was very haughty. Many young persons desired her in marriage, but she found none to please her; the greater the number of her suitors, the more disdainful she became. One night the mother awoke, and, being unable to compose herself again to sleep, she began to say her rosary for Flora, whose pride gave her a great deal of disquietude. Flora was asleep near her, and she smiled in her sleep.

The next day Mary Jane inquired:

“What beautiful dream had you that caused you to smile in your sleep?”

“I dreamed that a great lord conducted me to church in a copper coach, and gave me a ring composed of precious stones that shone like stars; and when I entered the church, the people in the church looked only at the Mother of God and at me.”

“Ah! what a proud dream,” cried the widow, humbly drooping her head.

Flora began to sing. That same day a young peasant of good reputation asked her to marry him. This offer her mother approved, but Flora said to him:

“Even were you to seek me in a coach of copper, and wed me with a ring brilliant as the stars, I would not accept you.”

The following night Mary Jane, being wakeful, began to pray, and, looking at Flora, saw her smile.

“What dream did you have last night?” she asked Flora.

“I dreamed that a great lord came for me in a coach of silver, gave me a coronet of gold, and when I entered the church those present were more occupied in looking at me than at the Mother of God.”

“O poor child!” exclaimed the widow, “what an impious dream. Pray, pray earnestly that you may be preserved from temptation.”

Flora abruptly left her mother, that she might not hear her remonstrances.

That day a young gentleman came to ask her in marriage. Her mother regarded this proposal as a great honor, but Flora said to this new aspirant:

“Were you to seek me in a coach of silver and offer me a coronet of gold, I would not wed you.”

“Unfortunate girl!” cried Mary Jane, “renounce your pride. Pride leads to destruction.”

Flora laughed.

The third night the watchful mother saw an extraordinary expression on her child’s countenance, and she prayed fervently for her.

In the morning Flora told her of her dream.

“I dreamed,” she said, “that a great lord came to seek me in a coach of gold, gave me a robe of gold, and when I entered the church all there assembled looked only at me.”

The poor widow wept bitterly. The girl left her to escape seeing her distress.

That day in the court-yard of the house there stood three equipages, one of copper, the other of silver, and the third of gold. The first was drawn by two horses, the second by four, the third by eight. From the first two descended pages clothed in red, with green caps; from the third descended a nobleman whose garments were of gold. He asked to marry Flora. She immediately accepted him, and ran to her chamber to decorate herself with the golden robe which he presented to her.

The good Mary Jane was sorrowful and anxious, but Flora’s countenance was radiant with delight. She left her home without asking the maternal benediction, and entered the church with a haughty air. Her mother remained on the threshold praying and weeping.

After the ceremony, Flora entered the golden equipage with her husband, and they departed, followed by the two other equipages.

They drove a long, a very long distance. At last they arrived at a rock where there was a large entrance like the gate of a city. They entered through this door, which soon closed with a terrible noise, and they were in midnight darkness. Flora was trembling with fear, but her husband said:

“Reassure yourself; you will soon see the light.” In truth, from every side appeared little creatures in red clothes and green caps--the dwarfs who dwell in the cavities of the mountains. They carried flaming torches, and advanced to meet their master, the King of Metals.