Volume 21 — CHAPTER VII. THE SEARCH RENEWED. (continued 2)

When the ubication is considered simply as a termination of absolute space without regard for anything else, then we call it absolute, and we define it as the mode of being of an element in absolute space, by which the element is constituted in the divine presence. This absolute ubication is an essential mode of the material element no less than its dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long as the element exists; for, on the one hand, the element cannot exist but within the domain of divine immensity, and, on the other, it cannot have different modes of being with regard to it, as absolute space is the same all throughout, and the element, however much we may try to imagine different positions for it, must always be in the centre, so to say, of that infinite expanse. Hence, absolute ubication is altogether unchangeable.

When the ubication of one element is compared with that of another element in order to ascertain their mutual relation in space, then the ubication is called relative, and, as such, it may be defined as the mode of terminating a relation in space. This ubication is changeable, not in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is only under this formality that the ubication can be ranked among the predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The consideration of relative ubications leads us directly to the consideration of the relation existing between two points distinctly ubicated in space. Such a relation is called distance. Distance is commonly considered as a quantity; yet it is not primarily a quantity, but simply the relation existing between two ubications with room for movement from the one to the other. Nevertheless, this very possibility of movement from one point to another gives us a sufficient foundation for considering the relation of distance as a virtual dimensive quantity. For the movement which is possible between two distant points may be greater or less, according to the different manners in which these points are related. Now, more and less imply quantity.

The quantity of distance is essentially continuous. For it is by continuous movement that the length of the distance is measured. The point which by its movement measures the distance, describes a straight line by the shifting of its ubication from one term of the distance to the other. The distance, as a relation, is the object of the intellect, but, as a virtual quantity, it is the object of imagination also. We cannot conceive distances as relations without at the same time apprehending them as quantities. For, as we cannot estimate distances except by the extent of the movement required in order to pass from one of its terms to the other, we always conceive distances as relative quantities of length; and yet distances, objectively, are only relations, by which such quantities of length are determined. The true quantity of length is the line which is drawn, or can be drawn, by the movement of a point from term to term. In fact, a line which reaches from term to term exhibits in itself the extent of the movement by which it is generated, and it may rightly be looked upon as a track of it, inasmuch as the point, which describes it, formally marks by its gliding ubication all the intermediate space. The marking is, of course, a transient act; but transient though it is, it gives to the intermediate space a permanent connotation; for a fact once passed, remains a fact for ever. Thus the gliding ubication leaves a permanent, intelligible, though invisible, mark of its passage; and this we call a geometric line. The line is therefore, formally, a quantity of length, whereas the distance is only virtually a quantity, inasmuch as it determines the length of the movement by which the line can be described. Nevertheless, since we cannot, as already remarked, conceive distances without referring the one of its terms to the other through space, and, therefore, without drawing, at least mentally, a line from the one to the other, all distances, as known to us, are already measured in some manner, and consequently they exhibit themselves as formal quantities. Distance is the base of all dimensions in space, and its extension is measured by movement. It is therefore manifest that no extension in space is conceivable without movement, and all quantity of extension is measured by movement.

We have said that distance is a relation between two terms as existing in distinct ubications; and we have now to inquire what is the foundation of such a relation. This question is of high philosophical importance, as on its solution depends whether some of our arguments against Pantheism are or are not conclusive. Common people, and a great number of philosophers too, confound relations with their foundation, and do not reflect that when they talk of distances as relative spaces, they do not speak with sufficient distinctness.

We are going to show that relative space must be distinguished from distances, as well as from geometric surfaces and volumes, although these quantities are also called “relative spaces” by an improper application of words. Relative space is not an intrinsic constituent, but only an extrinsic foundation, of these relative quantities; hence these quantities cannot be styled “relative spaces” without attributing to the formal results what strictly belongs to their formal reason.

What is relative space? Whoever understands the meaning of the words will say that relative space is that through which the movement from a point to another point is possible. Now, the possibility of movement can be viewed under three different aspects. First, as a possibility dependent on the active power of a mover; for movement is impossible without a mover. Secondly, as a possibility dependent on the passivity of the movable term; for no movement can be imparted to a term which does not receive the momentum. Thirdly, as a possibility dependent on the perviousness of space which allows a free passage to the moving point; for this is absolutely necessary for the possibility of movement.

In the present question, it is evident that the possibility of movement cannot be understood either in the first or in the second of these three manners; for our question does not regard the relation of the agent to the patient, or of the patient to the agent, but merely the relation of one ubication to another, and the freedom for movement between them. If the possibility of movement were taken here as originating in a motive power, such a possibility would be greater or less according to the greater or less power; and thus the relativity of two given ubications would be changed without altering their relation in space; which is absurd. And if the possibility of movement were taken as resulting from the passivity of the term moved, then, since this passivity is a mere indifference to receive the motion, and since indifference has no degrees, it would follow that the possibility of movement would be always the same; and therefore the relativity of the ubications would remain the same, even though the ubications were relatively changed; which is another absurdity. Accordingly, the possibility of movement which is involved in the conception of relative space is that which arises from space itself, whose virtual extension virtually contains all possible lines of movement, and allows any such lines to be formally drawn through it by actual movement.

From this it follows that relative space is nothing else than absolute space as extrinsically terminated by distinct terms, and affording room for movement between them. It follows, further, that this space is relative, not because it is itself related, but because it is that through which the extrinsic terms are related. It is actively, not passively, relative; it is the ratio, not the rationatum, the foundation, not the result, of the relativities. It follows, also, that the foundation of the relation of distance is nothing else than space as terminated by two extrinsic terms, and affording room for movement from the one to the other. This space is at the same time absolute and relative; absolute as to its entity, relative as to the extrinsic denomination derived from the relation of which it is the formal reason.

The distinction between absolute and relative space is therefore to be taken, not from space itself, but from its comparison with absolute or with relative ubications. Space, as absolute, exhibits the possibility of all absolute ubications; as relative, it exhibits the possibility of all ubicational changes. Absolute space may therefore be styled simply “the region of ubications,” whilst relative space maybe defined as “the region of movement.”

This notion of relative space will not fail to be opposed by those who think that all real space results from the dimensions of bodies. Their objections, however, need not detain us here, as we have already shown that the grounds of their argumentation are inadmissible. The same notion will be opposed with greater plausibility by those who confound the formal reason of local relations with the relations themselves, under the common name of relative space. Their objections are based on the popular language, as used, even by philosophers, in connection with relative space. We will reduce these objections to two heads, and answer them, together with two others drawn from other sources, that our reader may thus form a clearer judgment of the doctrine we have developed.

First difficulty. The entity of a relation is the entity of its foundation. If, then, the foundation of the relation of distance is absolute space, or the virtuality of God’s immensity, it follows that the entity of distance is an uncreated entity. But this cannot be admitted, except by Pantheists. Therefore the relation of distance is not founded on the virtuality of God’s immensity.

This difficulty arises from a false supposition. The entity of the relation is not the entity of its foundation, but it is the entity of the connotation (respectus) which arises from the existence of the terms under such a foundation. Likeness, for instance, is a relation resulting between two bodies, say, white, on account of their common property, say, whiteness. Whiteness is therefore the foundation of their likeness; but whiteness it not likeness. On the contrary, the whiteness which founds this relation is still competent to found innumerable other relations; a thing which would be impossible if the entity of the foundation were not infinitely superior to the entity of the relation which results from it.

This is even more evident in our case; for the foundation of the relation between two ubications is an entity altogether extrinsic to the ubications themselves, as we have already shown. Evidently, such an entity cannot be the relativity of those ubications. The relation of distance is neither absolute nor relative space, but only the mode of being of one term in space with respect to another term in space. Now, surely no one who has any knowledge of things will maintain that space, either absolute or relative, is a mode of being. The moon is distant from the earth; and therefore there is space, and possibility of movement, between the moon and the earth. But is this space the relation of distance? No. It is the ground of the relation. The relation itself consists in the mode of being of the moon with respect to the earth; and, evidently, this mode is not space.

The assumption that the entity of the relation is the entity of its foundation may be admitted in the case of transcendental relations, inasmuch as the actuality of beings, which results from the conspiration of their essential principles, identifies itself in concreto with the beings themselves. But the same cannot be said of predicamental relations. It would be absurd to say that the dependence of the world on its Creator is the creative act; nor would it be less absurd to say that the relativity of a son to his father is the act of generation, or that the fraternity of James and John is the same thing as the identity of Zebedee, their father, with himself. And yet these absurdities, and many others, must be admitted, if we admit the assumption that the entity of predicamental relations is the entity of their foundation. Hence the assumption must be discarded as false; and the objection, which rested entirely on this assumption, needs no further discussion.

We must, however, take this opportunity to again warn the student of the necessity of not confounding under one and the same name the relative space with the relations of things existing in space. This confusion is very frequent, as we often hear of distances, surfaces, and volumes of bodies spoken of as “relative spaces,” which, properly speaking, they are not. We ourselves are now and then obliged to use this inaccurate language, owing to the difficulty of conveying our thoughts to common readers without employing common phrases. But we would suggest that, to avoid all misconstruction of such phrases, the relative space, of which we have determined the notion, might be called “fundamental relative space,” whilst the relations of things as existing in space might receive the name of “resultant relative spaces.” At any rate, without some epithets of this sort, we cannot turn to good account the popular phraseology on the subject. Such a phraseology expresses things as they are represented in our imagination, not as they are defined by our reason. Distances are intervals between certain points in space, surfaces are intervals between certain lines in space, volumes are intervals between certain surfaces in spaces; but these intervals are no parts of space, though they are very frequently so called, but only relations in space. Space is one, not many; it has no parts, and, whether you call it absolute or relative, it cannot be cut to pieces. What is called an interval of space should rather be called an interval in space; for it is not a portion of space, but a relation of things in space; it is not a length of space, but the length of the movement possible between the extrinsic terms of space; it is not a divisible extension, but the ground on which movement can extend with its divisible extension. In the smallest conceivable interval of space there is God, with all his immensity. To affirm that intervals of space are distinct spaces would be to cut God’s immensity into pieces, by giving it a distinct being in really distinct intervals. It is therefore necessary to concede that, whilst the intervals are distinct, the space on which they have their foundation is one and the same.

Pantheists have taken advantage of the confusion of fundamental space with the resulting relations in space, to spread their absurd theories. If we grant them that distance is space, how can we refute their assertion that distance is a form under which divine substance, or the Absolute, makes an apparition? For, if distance is space, and space is no creature, distance consists of something uncreated (and therefore divine) under a contingent form. This is not the place for us to refute Pantheism; what we aim at is simply to point out the need we have of expressing our thoughts on space with philosophical accuracy, lest the Pantheists may shield themselves with our own loose phraseology.

God is everywhere, and touches, so to say, every contingent ubication by his presence to every ubicated thing. But the contingent ubications are not spaces, nor anything intrinsic to space; they are merely extrinsic terms, corresponding to space, as we have explained; and therefore such ubications are not apparitions of the divine substance, but apparitions of contingent things; they are not points of divine immensity, but points contingently projected on the virtuality of God’s immensity. It is as vain to pretend that contingent ubications are points of space, as it is vain to pretend that contingent essences are the divine substance. Pantheists, indeed, have said that, because the essences of things are contained in God, the substance of all things must be God’s substance; but their paralogism is manifest. For the essences of things are in God, not formally with the entity which they have in created things, but eminently and virtually, that is, in an infinitely better manner. The formal essences of things are only in the things themselves, and they are extrinsic terms of creation, imperfect images of what exists perfect in God. In the same manner the ubications of things are not in God formally, but eminently and virtually. They formally belong to the things that are ubicated. So also the intervals of space are in God eminently, not formally; they formally arise from extrinsic terminations, and therefore are mere correlations of creatures. This suffices to show that distances and other relations in space involve nothing divine in their entity, although they are grounded on the existence and universal presence of God, in whom “we live, and move, and have our being.”

Second difficulty.—If the foundation of local relations is uncreated, it is always the same; and therefore it will cause all such relations to be always the same. Hence, all distances would be equal; which is manifestly false.

This difficulty arises from confounding the absolute entity of the thing which is the foundation of the relation, with the formal manner of founding the relation. The same absolute entity may found different relations by giving to the terms a different relativity; for the same absolute entity founds different relations whenever it connects the terms of the relation in a different manner. Thus, when the entity of the foundation is a generic or a universal notion, it can give rise to relations of a very different degree. Taking animality, for instance, as the foundation of the relation, we may compare one hound with another, one wolf with another, one bird with another, or we may compare the hound with the wolf, the wolf with the bird, the bird with the lion, etc.; and we shall find as many different relations, all grounded on the same foundation—that is, on animality. In fact, there will be as many different relations of likeness as there are different animals compared. Now, if one general ratio suffices to do this, on account of its universality, which extends infinitely in its application to concrete things, it is plain that as much and more can be done by the infinite virtuality of God’s immensity, which can be terminated by an infinite variety of extrinsic terminations. It is the proper attribute of an infinite virtuality to contain in itself the reason of the being of infinite terms, and of their becoming connected with one another in infinite manners. This is what the infinite virtuality of divine immensity can do with respect to ubicated terms. Such an infinite virtuality is whole, though not wholly, in every point and interval of space; it is as entire between the two nearest molecules as between the two remotest stars. Hence its absolute entity, though unchangeable itself, can have different extrinsic terminations; and, since it founds the relations in question inasmuch as it has such different terminations, consequently it can found as many different local relations as it can have different extrinsic terminations. A hound and a wolf, as we have said, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; and the wolf and the bird, also, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; but the likeness in the second case is not the same as in the first, because the animality, which is one in the abstract, is different in the concrete terms to which it is applied. Hence the difference, or entitative distance, so to say, between the wolf and the hound is less than the entitative distance between the wolf and the bird, although the ground of the comparison is one and the same. In a like manner, the distance from a molecule to a neighboring molecule is less than the distance from a star to another star, although the ground of the relation be one and the same; with this difference, however, that in the case of the animals above mentioned the relation has an intrinsic foundation, because “animality” is intrinsic to the terms compared; whilst in the case of local distances the relation has an extrinsic foundation; for the ubications compared are nothing but extrinsic terms of space.

Third difficulty.—Distances evidently intercept portions of space, and differ from one another according as they intercept more or less of it. But, if space is the virtuality of divine immensity, such portions cannot be admitted; for the virtuality of divine immensity cannot be divided into parts distinct from one another.

This difficulty arises from the confusion of that which belongs to space intrinsically, with that which belongs to it by extrinsic denomination only. Space in itself has no parts; and therefore distance cannot intercept a portion of the entity of space. Nevertheless, parts are attributed to space by extrinsic denomination, that is, inasmuch as the movements, which space makes possible between given terms, do not extend beyond those terms, while other movements are possible outside of the given terms. Hence, since space is infinite and affords room for an infinite length of movement in all directions, the space which corresponds to a limited movement has been called an interval of space and a portion of space. But this denomination is extrinsic, and does not imply that space has portions, or that the entity of space is divisible. That such a denomination is extrinsic, there can be no doubt, for it is taken from the consideration of the limited movement possible between the terms of the distance, as all distances are known and estimated by movement. Indeed, we are wont to say that “movement measures space,” which expression seems to justify the conclusion that the space measured is a finite portion of infinite space; but, though the expression is much used (from want of a better one), it must not be interpreted in a material sense. Its real meaning is simply that movement “measures the length of the distance” in space, or that movement “measures its own extent” in space—that is, the length or the extent, not of space, but of what space causes to be extrinsically possible between two extrinsic terms.

This will be still more manifest by referring to the evident truth already established, that all ubications as compared with the entity of space are unchangeable, because the thing ubicated cannot have two modes of being in the infinite expanse of space, but, wherever it be, is always, so to say, in the centre of it. This proves that the movement of a point between the terms of a given distance measures nothing else than its own length in space; for, had it to measure space itself, it would have to take successively different positions with regard to it, which we know to be impossible. We must therefore conclude that distance does not properly intercept space, though it determines the relative length of a line which can be drawn by a point moving through space; for this line is not a line of space, but a line of movement. In other words, distance is not the limit of the space said to be intercepted, but of the movement possible between the distant terms.

As this answer may not satisfy our imagination as much as it does our intellect, and as our habit of expressing things as they are represented in our imagination makes it difficult to speak correctly of what transcends the reach of this lower faculty, we will make use of a comparison which, in our opinion, by putting the intelligible in contact with the sensible, will not fail to help us fully to realize the truth of what has been hitherto said.

Let God create a man, a horse, and a tree. The difference, or, as we will call it, the entitative distance, between the man and the horse is less than between the man and the tree, as is evident. Yet the man, the horse, and the tree are extrinsic terms of the same divine omnipotence, which neither is divisible nor admits of more or less. Now, can we say that, because the man is entitatively more distant from the tree than from the horse, there must be more of divine omnipotence between the man and the tree than between the man and the horse? It would be folly to say so. The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater entitative distance of the man and of the tree, is, that a greater multitude of creatures (extrinsic terms of divine omnipotence) is possible between the man and the tree, than between the man and the horse. The reader will readily see how the comparison applies to our subject; for the two cases are quite similar. Can we say, then, that, because two points in space are more distant than two other points, there must be more of divine immensity, or of its virtuality, between the former than between the latter? By no means. The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater distance of the two former points is, that a greater multitude of ubications (extrinsic terms of immensity) is possible between them, than between the two others. This greater multitude of possible ubications constitutes the possibility of a greater length of movement; and shows the truth of what we have maintained, viz., that distance endues the aspect of quantity through the consideration of the greater or less extent of the movement possible between its terms, and not through a greater or less “portion” of space intercepted.[150]

The difficulty is thus fully answered. Nevertheless, as to the phrases, “a portion of space,” “an interval of space,” “space measured by movement,” and a few others of a like nature, we readily admit that their use, having become so common in the popular language, we cannot avoid them without exposing ourselves to the charge of affectation, nay, we must use them, as we frequently do, in order to be better understood. But we should remember that the common language has a kernel as well as a shell, and that, when we have to determine the essential notions and the intelligible relations of things, we must break the shell that we may reach the kernel.

Fourth difficulty.—The notions of space and of ubication above given imply a sort of vicious circle. For space is explained by the possibility of ubications, whilst ubications are said to be modes of being in space. Therefore neither space nor ubication is sufficiently defined.

We answer, that then only is a sort of vicious circle committed in defining or explaining things, when an unknown entity is defined or explained by means of another equally unknown. When, on the contrary, we explain the common notions of such things as are immediately known and understood before any definition or explanation of them is given, there is no danger of a vicious circle. In such a case, things are sufficiently explained if our definition or description of them agrees with the notion we have acquired of them by immediate apprehension. We say that Being is that which is, and we explain the extension of time by referring to movement, while we also explain movement by referring to time and velocity, and again we explain velocity by referring to the extension of time and movement. This is no vicious circle; for every one knows these entities before hearing their formal definition. Now, the same is true with respect to space and ubication; for the notion of space is intuitive, and before we hear its philosophical definition, we know already that it is the region of all possible ubications and movements.

Moreover, such things as have a mutual connection, or as connote one another, can be explained and defined by one another without a vicious circle. Thus we say that a father is one who has a son, and a son is one who has a father. In the same manner we define the matter as the essential term of a form, and the form as the essential act of the matter. Accordingly, since ubications are extrinsic terms of absolute space, and space is the formal reason of their extrinsic possibility, it is plain that we can, without any fear of a vicious circle, define and explain the former by the latter, and vice versa.

Finally, no philosopher has ever defined space or explained it otherwise than by reference to possible or actual ubications, nor was ubication ever described otherwise than as a mode of being in absolute or in relative space. This shows that it is in the very nature of things that the one should be explained by reference to the other. Hence it is that even our own definition of absolute space, which does not explicitly refer to contingent ubications, refers to them implicitly. For when we say that “absolute space is the virtuality, or extrinsic terminability, of divine immensity,” we implicitly affirm the possibility of extrinsic terms, viz., of ubications.

And here we will end our discussion on the entity of relative space; for we do not think that there are other difficulties worthy of a special solution. We have seen that relative space is entitatively identical with absolute space, since it does not differ from it by any intrinsic reality, but only by an extrinsic denomination. We have shown that space is relative in an active, not in a passive sense, that is, as the formal reason, not as a result of extrinsic relations. We have also seen that these extrinsic relations are usually called “relative spaces,” and that this phrase should not be used in philosophy without some restrictive epithet, as it is calculated to mislead.

Let us conclude with a remark on the known division of space into real and imaginary. This division cannot regard the entity of space, which is unquestionably real. It regards the reality or unreality of the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in space. The true notion of real, as contrasted with imaginary space, is the following: Space is called real, when it is really relative, viz., when it is extrinsically terminated by real terms, between which it founds a real relation; on the contrary, it is called imaginary, when the extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in our imagination; for, in such a case, space is not really terminated, and does not found real relations, but both the terminations and the relations are simply a fiction of our imagination. Thus it appears that void space, as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be called “imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real.

Hence we infer that the indefinite space, which we imagine, when we carry our thoughts beyond the limits of the material world, and which philosophers have called “imaginary,” is not absolute, but relative space, and is not imaginary in itself, but only as to its denomination of relative, because where real terms do not exist there are only imaginary relations, notwithstanding the reality of the entity through which we refer the imaginary terms to one another.

That absolute space, considered in itself, cannot be called “imaginary” is evident, because absolute space is not an object of imagination. Imagination cannot conceive space except in connection with imaginary terms so related as to offer the image of sensible dimensions. It is, therefore, a blunder to confound imaginary and indefinite space with absolute and infinite space. Indeed, our intellectual conception of absolute and infinite space is always accompanied in our minds by a representation of indefinite space; but this depends on the well-known connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations: Proprium est hominis intelligere cum phantasmate; and we must be careful not to attribute to the object what has the reason of its being in the natural condition of the subject. It was by this confusion of the objective notion of space with our subjective manner of imagining it, that Kant formed his false theory of subjective space. He mistook, as we have already remarked, with Balmes, the product of imagination for a conception of the intellect, and confounded his phantasma of the indefinite with the objectivity of the infinite. It was owing to this same confusion that other philosophers made the reality of space dependent on real occupation, and denied the reality of vacuum. In vacuum, of course, they could find no real terms and no real relations, but they could imagine terms and relations. Hence they concluded that, since vacuum supplied nothing but imaginary relations, void space was an imaginary, not a real, entity. This was a paralogism; for the reason why those relations are imaginary is not the lack of real entity in absolute space, but the absence of the real terms to which absolute space has to impart relativity that the relation may ensue. It was not superfluous, then, to warn our readers, as we did in our introduction to this article, against the incursions of imagination upon our intellectual field.

A FRAGMENT.

David Ben-Aser to his friend, Amri Ephraim, health, love, and greeting:

My Best Friend: A month past I would have marvelled greatly that the fame of one seemingly so obscure as he who calls himself Jesus of Nazareth—and what good can come out of Nazareth?—could have travelled to Rome or Damascus.

But the inquiry in thy friendly epistle from the banks of the Tiber, brought me to-day by thy faithful Isaac, assures me that the city of the Emperor has caught wind of the rumors with which Jerusalem is filled, and ’tis but an hour since Yusef, a Damascene merchant, questioned me with interest concerning this new teacher, whose wonderful doctrines and still more wonderful deeds have set all Galilee in a flame.

Strangely enough, it has been my fortune of late to have met him, not once only, but several times, and always under striking circumstances. What seemed less likely when we parted than that I should give more than idle thought to what we both deemed a sensation of the hour; and yet it has come to pass that this prophet, teacher—what you will, so that it be kindly—has occupied my reflections for many moments in many days. Things have so fallen out from a small beginning that I am bidden to dine to-morrow at the house of Simon the Pharisee, in the company of Jesus.

At the present writing, I can gratify thy curiosity to a certain important and strange extent; but after having had opportunity to converse with him, I hope to be able still further to enlighten thee, as well as satisfy myself as to the nature and depth of the impression this strange teacher has made on thy hitherto reserved and unsusceptible friend. I saw him first about a fortnight past.

On my way to the house of Marcus the centurion, with whom I had a money transaction, my attention was attracted by a motley crowd of men, women, and children, all eager to press closer to what seemed to be some prominent figure in their midst.

“What is the cause of this commotion,” I inquired, “and whither are ye bound?”

One of the number made answer thus: “We follow Jesus of Nazareth, who has been sent for by Marcus the centurion, to heal his servant, now lying at the point of death.”

“Which is Jesus?” I asked “and is he also a physician?”

“That is he with the grave face and gentle eyes, and he is not a physician, but a worker of miracles.”

Anxious to obtain a nearer view of him whose name is in every mouth, I endeavored to force my way through the crowd, when a man running at full speed and making wild gestures with his hands called on the multitude to part and give him speech with Jesus, which they did, as soon as they fully understood his meaning and from whence he came. Then he called out, saying: “Lord, my master saith, Trouble not thyself, for I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word, and my servant shall be healed.” Jesus lifted his head, and I saw his face for the first time; nay, but that part which extends from the top of the forehead beneath the eyes. But what eyes—how full of life, and holiness, and truth! And methought they fixed their piercing glance full upon me as he cried aloud: “I say unto you, I have not found so great faith in Israel.”

But the crowd pressed about him and I saw him no more, for he retraced his steps, followed by the multitude, while I pursued my way, filled with curiosity as to the result. As I neared the house of Marcus I heard sounds of thanksgiving, and what was my surprise to hear, and in a moment after see, the man who had been ill, perfectly restored, and fairly dancing and laughing with joy.

Marcus is a man of probity and considerable influence, as you well know, and his faith in the power of Jesus is very great, which can hardly be counted singular.

Having transacted my business, I went on my way, marvelling and reflecting much, albeit I am not given to running after strange prophets, nor to walk in new paths. But once lighted upon, it seemed this untrodden way was to open out fresh scenes to my view.

The next day I betook my steps early to Nain, where my brother-in-law, Jonah, lies sick of the fever, which is now making fearful ravages in that city. Returning in the cool of the evening, I suddenly encountered a funeral procession. A woman deeply veiled followed the corpse, piercing the air with heartrending cries. At the same moment a group of travel-stained men entered the gate of the town. In their leader I recognized Jesus of Nazareth, and at his approach an indefinable feeling possessed me. I cannot describe it save in saying that I would fain have fallen at his feet, as though in the presence of some superior being.

“Whom do you carry?” inquired one of the travellers.

“The only son of his mother, and she is a widow,” was the sad response.

Jesus touched the bier, and the bearers paused. Turning with a look of ineffable compassion to the heartbroken mother, he said, in tones gentle as those of a woman, “Weep not.” Then, in a louder voice, “Young man, I say to thee, Arise.”

My breath came thick and fast, the cold dews gathered on my forehead, for, miracle of miracles: the dead arose, cast aside his grave-clothes, and fell sobbing upon his joyful mother’s breast. This I beheld with my eyes—I heard him speak, I saw his happy tears. But Jesus calmly gathered up his robe and pursued his journey, and once again I fancied—or did I fancy?—that he singled me out from the crowd, and fixed his eyes on mine with an expression that was almost an appeal. My eager gaze followed him till I could no longer catch the outline of his garments; after which, I slowly returned to Jerusalem.

There is much talk in the city concerning this last great miracle, and I have been at pains to learn more of Jesus, of whom it is even said that he calls himself the Messiah. It is argued against him that he consorts with publicans and sinners, and that his most intimate friends and disciples are illiterate fishermen.

However, he preaches that he came not to call the just, but sinners, to repentance; it is therefore but natural and consistent that he should seek out such, if his mission lies among them; and, with regard to his near friends being illiterate, he is himself only a carpenter’s son.

Again, his enemies say that he casts out devils and works prodigies through Beelzebub. But he preaches charity, good-will, hatred of hypocrisy and double-dealing, and surely these are not the weapons of the prince of darkness.

Many of the Pharisees, far wiser than I, are disturbed and thoughtful because of these marvels that are daily occurring, so be not alarmed, nor fear that your David is losing his wits.

Three days ago, on my way from the synagogue, I was joined by Simon, to whom Jesus is well known, and in the conversation which ensued between us, our friend hospitably invited me to dine with him at his house this evening, saying that Jesus would be of the company. Of course I assented, and am all impatience for the hour to arrive. Simon’s recognition of Jesus speaks well for both, the former being a shrewd and careful man, a quick observer, and not slow to detect imposture; and if the qualities of the latter were not sound and commendable, Simon would not thus honor him with his hospitality.

But already the sun dips low in the heavens; till to-morrow, my Ephraim—farewell.

I left you last evening aglow with curiosity to see and hear more of the prophet of Israel, who is agitating all Jerusalem with the fame of his miracles. I return to you awestruck, fascinated, filled with the spirit of reverence and admiration. What I have to say may lose much of its impressiveness by reason of distance and want of actual participation in the events which have taken place. But you cannot fail to be touched by the strangeness and sublimity of the soul embodied in the form of Jesus. Yet you have not seen him, you have not heard the sublime language that falls from his lips whenever he opens them to speak, you have not felt his god-like eye penetrating yours, nor seen his rare and wondrous smile. Therefore, should you scorn my enthusiasm, I shall not blame you, but abide the time when Jerusalem may claim you once more. For the rest, I do not doubt that in this, as in all things else, we two shall be one. But I must hasten to resume my narrative while the events of the past few hours are still fresh in my memory.

The sun had gone down behind a huge bank of crimson clouds, portending a storm, as is not unusual at this wintry season, when we seated ourselves, to the number of twenty or thereabouts, at the well-spread table of Simon the Pharisee. Jesus was already present when I arrived, and sat, the honored guest, at the right hand of the host, while several of his friends or disciples surrounded him in the semicircle formed by the curve of the table. Was I mistaken, or did his eyes rest on me, as I entered, with that half-sad, half-affectionate expression so like an invitation? Remembering the interest I had manifested in our conversation concerning him, Simon kindly placed me as near Jesus as could well be, owing to the proximity of several older guests, but after the first moment of greeting Jesus resumed his discourse, and I had ample opportunity for observing him at my leisure. He wore a single garment of woollen stuff, which fell in graceful folds to his feet, being confined at the waist by a thick cord. The robe was of soft but coarse material, and, though considerably worn, appeared quite free from soil or travel-stain. He sat with hands loosely folded on his knees, and I noticed the peculiar whiteness and transparency of the fingers, which were long and thin. Those hands do not look as though they belonged to a carpenter’s son. His forehead is high and broad, and the hair, tinged with auburn, falls in graceful waves about half-way to the shoulders. The face is oval, each feature perfect, the eyebrows delicately pencilled, the nose of a Grecian rather than our native Hebrew type, the lips not very full, but firm and red. Beard the color of his hair, and slightly cleft, shows the well-formed chin, and barely sweeps his breast. But those eyes—those deep, unfathomable, crystal wells—how can I speak of their many and varied expressions, of that changeful hue between gray and brown so beautiful and yet so rare. They seem to unite in themselves all of majesty and sweetness I have ever dreamed looked forth from eyes of angels—dignity and lowliness, severity and tenderness, sadness and something higher than joy. But their prevailing expression is one of sorrow, as though they had looked out into the world, and, taking in its untold miseries and sins at one deep glance, must hold the mournful picture there for evermore. Indeed, it is said, I know not how truly, that Jesus has never been known to laugh. His voice is low and soft, but very clear. I fancy it would be most melodious in our Hebrew chants. And yet it can grow strong and loud in reproach, as you shall presently hear.

The feast had begun, and the servants were busy attending to the wants of the guests, when a slight noise was heard in the antechamber, as though the porter were remonstrating with some one who desired to enter. Suddenly a woman appeared on the threshold, clothed in a fleecy white tunic, girdled with blue, and bearing an alabaster box in her hand. A murmur went round the assembly. Surely our eyes did not deceive us—it was the notorious courtesan, Mary Magdalen, but divested of the costly robes and ornaments which were formerly her pride, and with her rich golden hair loosely coiled at the back of her head and simply fastened with a silver comb.

I bethought me of a rumor I had heard, that Jesus had once delivered her from the hands of those who were about to stone her, and also that since that time she had renounced her abandoned manner of life. Pale, with eyes downcast, she stood one hesitating instant in the doorway; then, falling on her knees before Jesus, she wept aloud, literally bathing his feet with her tears. He uttered no word of reproach, but suffered her to unbind that beautiful hair whose golden threads had lured so many to destruction. Now, as though seeking to make atonement, she wiped with it his tired feet. Kissing them humbly, and still weeping, she drew from the alabaster box most precious ointment and anointed them profusely. All were silent, but many shook their heads with doubt and suspicion. Simon the Pharisee folded his arms, but spake not, till Jesus, as though divining the thoughts of his heart, said slowly and impressively:

“Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.”

And he answered him: “Master, say on.”

Then he said: “There was a certain creditor who had two debtors: the one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. And when they had nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me, therefore, which of them will love him most?”

Simon answered and said: “I suppose he to whom he forgave most.”

And he said unto him: “Thou hast rightly judged.” And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon: “Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss; but this woman, from the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore, I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she hath loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.” And he said unto her: “Thy sins are forgiven.”

No one made answer as the woman silently departed, but the incident had strangely disturbed the spirit of the feast. I marvel how the most critical could have found fault or misjudged what was undoubtedly a spontaneous expression of gratitude and contrition in the repentant sinner. Jesus had saved Mary from death, and humbled her accusers with these remarkable words: “Let he who is without sin among you throw the first stone.” They slunk away mortified and abashed.

Since that time she has seen the error of her ways, and surely, if the God of our fathers pardons sinners, it is but in keeping with his established character for justice and mercy that so perfect a man as Jesus should not rebuke them. I am more and more powerfully drawn towards this wonderful teacher. As the guests dispersed last evening, I contrived to obtain speech with him, and he replied to several questions of mine with great mildness and suavity. And although, by reason of my known wealth and position among the Pharisees, one might suppose he would make some note of the voluntary admiration and respect I did not hesitate to manifest, he soon turned with grave dignity to others who surrounded him, his own friends no doubt, and seemed to forget my presence. They say he goes to-morrow into various towns and villages, for the purpose of preaching and instructing. He will be accompanied by the twelve who always follow him. My interest has been so strongly excited that I am tempted to defer still longer my journey to Rome, which I had intended to begin almost immediately. However, I shall not postpone it sufficiently long to deprive myself of the pleasure of thy company in the capital for some time previous to thy return to Jerusalem.

In any event, I shall write thee soon. Blessings upon thee, dearest friend! I await an answer to this lengthy epistle.

II.

The fury of the first persecution had nearly exhausted itself, and even Nero, that insatiable butcher whose thirst for blood had enkindled the fierce flame, seemed to have well-nigh spent the measure of his inhuman cruelty.

Hiding like criminals in gloomy abodes and obscure retreats, those Christians who had escaped martyrdom seldom ventured forth save when the dusk of evening rendered them less liable to scrutiny or interrogation.

But among the exceptions to this precautionary rule was one, that of a very old, white-haired man, who might be seen at all times in the most public places, and who was well-known to be a fearless and devoted Christian. Indeed, he seemed rather to court danger than avoid it, and it was a marvel to the more timid among his brethren how he had thus far escaped the lion’s jaws or the caldron of boiling oil.

One raw evening in early March, three drunken soldiers were tumbling along a narrow Roman street, lined with small, obscure-looking houses, when a bent figure suddenly issued from one of the low doorways and walked hurriedly in the direction of the Jews’ quarter, not far distant.

“Ho there!” called one of the three, eager for adventure of any kind, “ho there! Who art thou, and whither goest thou?”

The figure paused, and said in reply, “I am an old man, and I go to relieve a fellow-man in distress.”

“Not so fast, not so fast, friend,” retorted the soldier. “In these times, we guardians of the emperor’s peace must be circumspect and vigilant.”

“Ho, ho! It is Andrew, that dog of a Christian who boasteth, I am told, that he is not afraid of our august emperor himself,” said another of the three. “Speak, old man; art thou not a Christian, and brave enough to face thy master, who can, if he so pleases, make a torch of thee to light belated way-farers home?”

“Ay, thou sayest truly, I am a Christian,” replied the old man, folding his arms and standing erect, as he continued: “My name is Andrew; I am well known in the city, and acknowledge no master in the odious tyrant who calls himself Emperor of Rome.”

“Ah! what is this?” said the soldier who had not yet spoken, and who appeared the most sober of the three. “So—so. A traitor and a Christian. There is a double reward set upon thy head, old fellow. Comrades, we would be doing an injustice to the emperor and the state in not apprehending this venomous traitor. Let us away with him to prison, and before this time to-morrow he may know what it is to feel the emperor’s avenging arm.” The old man’s eye brightened, and he would have spoken, but was prevented by him who had first accosted him.

“Nay, nay, comrades,” he said, “let the poor creature go. He has been seen in all public places since the edict, and is well known for a Christian. Yet his age and infirmities have thus far saved him from arrest. Let us to our quarters, and permit him to go free.”

“Not so,” replied his companion gruffly, while the other seized the old man by the cloak. “It won’t do to make fish of one and flesh of another. Besides, there’s the booty, and that’s something not to be despised.”

“Well, so be it,” was the reply; “one against two is but poor odds. Let us go.”

The prisoner made no resistance, walking on silently between his captors, but a strange light shone in his eyes; and when the great iron door of the cell into which he was rudely hurried closed behind him, he fell on his knees exclaiming:

“At last, my God, at last! O Lord! I thank thee—let not this great joy pass from me.”

Morning dawned, and Nero sat dispensing death and torture to the doomed Christians, inventing new cruelties with each death sentence. An old man, heavily manacled, was led in by three guards. His venerable appearance attracted the emperor’s notice, and he cried out:

“Ho, guards! bring forward the patriarch. What offence hath the old Jew committed? Has he been pursuing some unlucky creditor, or hath his last enterprise savored too strongly of usury? What is charged against thee, Jew?”

“He is no Jew, but a bragging Christian, most noble emperor,” exclaimed the foremost guard. “He boasted but last night that he would not acknowledge thee for master, and we have brought him to thy presence that his boast may wither beneath the light of thy august countenance.”

“Art thou not a Jew?” cried Nero, as the prisoner lifted his bowed head, and stood erect.

“I am a Jew by birth, but a Christian by religion,” he replied in a low but audible voice.

“What is thy name?”

“I was baptized Andrew, and so I am called.”

Here a murmur ran through the crowd, and a centurion stepped forward, saying:

“A most bitter enemy of the gods, most noble emperor. He is the same who may be seen at all the public executions of Christians, exhorting and praying with them.”

“I wonder he has never been apprehended until now—it speaks well for the devotion of my adherents,” replied the emperor with a sneer. The centurion drew back somewhat abashed.

“I have often sought death, but my gray hairs have spared me until now,” said the old man.

“Hold thy treacherous tongue, sirrah,” cried one of the guards. “I’ll warrant thee they will not spare thee now.”

“Silence!” cried the emperor. “Old man, art thou the same of whom it is said thou wert a friend of the Galilean ere he went to the gibbet?”

“What I was it matters not. What I desire to be is the faithful servant of my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Verily, thou art impertinent, and age hath not taught thee humility. Mayhap, it would please thee to have thy old body cut in slices and thrown to the wild beasts.”

“It would be the fulfilment of my most ardent prayers—any death by which I might suffer martyrdom for Jesus Christ. I have longed for it these fifty years.” As he spoke his face seemed transfigured, while that of Nero assumed a new and more malicious expression.

“How old art thou?” he asked.

“I am ninety-two.”

“Where is thy birthplace?”

“Jerusalem.”

“And thou wouldst die for Jesus Christ?”

“Thou knowest it, my judge.”

“Such death would be the greatest boon thy heart desires?”

“My God knoweth it.”

A mocking smile played around the emperor’s lips as he said:

“Then hear thy sentence. Thou shalt be taken from hence to the Appian gate—and there bidden go thy way in peace. Thou art not young enough to be toothsome to the lions, and the sap is so dried in thy veins thou wouldst make but a sorry torch by night. There is so little flesh upon thy bones that thou wouldst not sink in Tiber, and we cannot afford to waste stones in weighting such as thou. Thy withered carcass would not whet the executioner’s knife; there is naught for it but to let thee go. Spend the remainder of thy days as thou hast wasted those that are gone, in longings for martyrdom. Guards! seize your prisoner, and execute sentence upon him.”

The light that had illumined the eyes of the old man slowly faded as the emperor spoke, and great tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. Clasping his withered hands high above his head, he exclaimed:

“It is not to be—it is not to be! My God, I accept the retribution.”

“What sayest thou?” cried Nero. “Hast thou committed some terrible crime that thou talkest of retribution?”

“Ay, a great crime; but I have suffered much, and striven to make atonement. But my Saviour is not yet satisfied.”

“Accuse thyself. We may be less lenient here than awhile ago.”

The old man’s eyes kindled once more and again he stood erect: “Yes, I will confess,” he cried in a loud voice. “I will let all the world know that he whom his companions have called just is the meanest sinner of them all; I will strive by the whiteness of my gray hairs and the years of sorrow that have passed since that mad day to awaken in thy tyrant heart some pity, some relenting from thy cruel sentence.

“But alas! what do I say? The hand of God is in it—my Saviour refuses me the boon I crave, and thou art but his instrument.” He sighed heavily, wiped the tears from his eyes, and continued in a less agitated voice:

“I am a native of Jerusalem—a descendant of the tribe of Aser; my father was a ruler of much wealth and influence—both of which I inherited. I had luxurious tastes, and gratified them to a certain extent, filling my house with rare and costly furniture and ornaments. I travelled much, and indulged my inclinations to the fullest extent without transgressing the moral law. I esteemed virtue and practised it, more from a sense of pride than a feeling of true religion. I was unmarried and had few intimate friends. One, however, Amri Ephraim, was bound to me by the closest ties of intimacy and association. He was also wealthy. Business called him to Rome about the time our Lord Jesus began to preach the gospel in Galilee. We were both somewhat interested in the new prophet, as he was then called; but from my first meeting with him I was filled with admiration for his teachings, and drawn towards him by an attraction I could not then understand. Alas! I have known its meaning for many sorrowful, repentant years.

“His influence grew upon me. I followed him from place to place; he took kindly notice of me. His gentle looks seemed to beckon me on; his wondrous miracles became convincing proofs of his divine mission; his merciful and consoling teachings entered deep into my soul, and left it glowing with awe and veneration. I felt that he was the Messiah promised by David; I knew it in my coward heart. And yet this world—this glittering, hollow sham—it was that which held me back and lured me to my own perdition. Many times I saw Jesus look upon me with a gaze that told of affection mingled with doubt and sorrow. For days I would absent myself from his side, only to return athirst and filled with new desires.

“One day, as he sat in the shade of a palm-tree with a few of his disciples, I threw myself at his feet and listened to the wisdom that fell from his lips.

“‘Master,’ I said at length, ‘what shall a man do to inherit eternal life?’

“‘Keep the commandments,’ he answered, fixing his eyes upon me as though he would read my soul.

“‘I have kept them from my youth,’ I replied.

“‘Then lackest thou yet one thing,’ he said. ‘Sell all thou hast, give thy treasure to the poor, and come, follow me.’

“The words were spoken—they had appealed to my heart for many days; Jesus loved me, he had singled me from the multitude of whom but little is required—he would have chosen me for a familiar disciple. I saw it in his eye; I heard it in his voice. He had called me to follow him! And I?…

“Before me there swept a vision of lost delights and despised honors. I saw myself hungry and cold, and naked and scorned; I heard the censure of the world, the altered tones of friends, the jibes and sneers of enemies. If I had dared once more to lift my eyes—if I had met that benignant glance, so full of affection and assurance—all would have been well, and the craven heart had never bled these sixty years for that one moment’s loss. But, alas! I cast down my eyes and bowed my head; I arose and went away sorrowful. That night I left Jerusalem and fled to Rome. I say fled, for I was like a criminal fleeing not from a tyrant but a kind and merciful father. My friend, to whom I had written faithfully of my interest in Jesus, passed and missed me on the way to Jerusalem.…”

Here the old man’s voice faltered and his frame shook with sobs. He seemed unconscious of all but his own sorrow as he continued:

“He learned to know Jesus—became a faithful disciple; he witnessed his capture and cruel trial; he followed him to Calvary; he saw the prodigies that occurred at his death; he saw him ascend into heaven. He enjoyed the sweet privilege of conversing with Mary; he received the dead body of Stephen the blessed martyr, and helped to give it decent burial, and his body lies to-day at the bottom of old Tiber—martyred for the faith of Christ; while I—coward that I was—awoke to the sense of my sin when it was too late to return and throw myself at his sacred feet, too late to touch the hem of his garment, too late to follow his bloody footsteps up the frightful Mount of Calvary. One expiation I thought to make—one atonement for my sin; for the poor sacrifice of my wealth was nothing to me. I sought martyrdom. In the public places, in the forum, by the side of dying Christians, at the graves of murdered saints. But I seemed to bear a charmed life. They passed me by, they did not molest me. He is harmless, said one; he is old, said another. And now, when I thought the goal within my reach, when I hoped that my expiation had been accepted, it is again denied me. Be it so, my God, my outraged and despised Saviour, be it so! I rejected thee—thou rejectest me. Thou didst die for me—thou wilt not suffer me to die for thee. Thy will be done!”

The bowed head fell heavily on the clasped hands, and the old man sank slowly on his knees. At that moment a stray sunbeam, the first of a murky morning, touched his white hair as with a crown of brightness, then faded and the clouded heavens grew dark. The guards stooped to lift him. He was dead.

“What a dramatic talent those Christians have!” said the emperor to his friend Apulius, who stood beside his throne. “Pity they do not apply it to better purpose. Guards! let that old man go free—we pity his gray hairs—ha! ha!”

“He is dead, most noble emperor,” replied one of the soldiers, not without something of softness in his voice.

“Ah! so? Remove the corpse then; and thou, good Marcellus, be sure thou hast those fifty Syrian Christian torches well pitched and oiled ere night—for it will be dark, and we must needs be lighted to Phryma’s banquet. Come Apulius—make way, lictors.”

So Nero passed beneath the arched doorway from his tyrant throne—and at the same moment some timid Christians near its foot bore away the body of a saint for burial.

ART AND SCIENCE.

THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC. II.—CONCLUDED.

VALUE AS A MEDIUM OR VEHICLE OF DIVINE TRUTH AMONG THE PEOPLE.

Popular national songs with their melodies are not, either in point of poetry or music, very elaborate or classical works of art. Consummate art is incapable of passing among a people, and must ever remain confined to the initiated and the connoisseur; yet national songs are not only characteristic of all people, but fulfil a very important function. They not only foster and preserve the national spirit, of which they are the expression, but also keep up, by tradition among the people, a knowledge of the history of their race, and of the exploits and noble deeds of its great men. In a word, the songs of a people have an influence over the growth of their moral character which it is not easy to overestimate, and which was well known to that statesman who was heard to say that they who have the making of a people’s songs will soon have the making of their laws; a sentiment fully confirmed by the proverb, “Qui mutat cantus, mutat mores.”

The above remarks, much too brief to put the importance of the ideas contained in them in their proper light, seem to issue in the conclusion that the song of the Christian kingdom will be necessarily something very different from an elaborate work of musical genius.

When our divine Redeemer lifted up his eyes, and beheld the multitudes going astray as sheep without a shepherd, he was moved with compassion. Surely in his judgment sacred song will be deemed to fulfil its mission when it passes current among the people, is domesticated in the laboring man’s cottage among his children, and there teaches the family the knowledge of their Saviour’s life and sufferings, of their redemption by these from sin, and the death of the world to come. Sacred song will, in his compassionate eyes, fulfil its mission of mercy when it takes up the words of eternal Wisdom, and puts them in the mouth of the people as a charm against the maxims of a world declared by the Word of God to be “lying in wickedness,” and as a shield against the assaults of a tempter, said in the same Word “to be ever going about seeking whom he may devour.” It will fulfil its mission when it enters into the heart and soul of the people, accompanies the departed with a requiem as man goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets, when it administers comfort to the survivors, while it bids them not to sorrow as they that have no hope, and, in a word, weeps with them that weep, and rejoices with them that do rejoice. Nor let it be said that this is a romantic notion—the making out of the earth an ideal paradise. Surely the actual and adequate fulfilment of such a mission of sacred song belongs to the idea of the mission of the Son of God, sent by the Father to re-establish order, piety, and sanctity on the earth. But what if this idea was not only familiar to the fathers, but that they actually saw the progress of its accomplishment?

“There is no need here,” says S. Chrysostom, exhorting his people to take part in the church chant, “of the artist’s skill, which requires length of time to bring to perfection. Let there be but a good will and a ready mind, and the result will soon be sufficient skill. There is no absolute need even of time or place, for in every place or time one may sing with the mind. Though you be walking in the Forum, or are on a journey, or are seated with your friends, the mind may be on the alert, and find for itself an utterance. It was thus that Moses cried, and God heard. If you are an artisan, you may sing Psalms as you sit laboring in your workshop; you may do the same if you are a soldier, or a judge seated on his bench” (Hom. on Ps. iv.)

A formal acknowledgment on the part of the church of this principle of teaching by means of song, which at the same time proves its antiquity, though it can be hardly necessary to cite it, may be found in one of the Collects for Holy Saturday: “Deus, celsitudo humilium, et fortitudo rectorum, qui per sanctum Moysen puerum tuum ita erudire populum tuum sacri carminis tui decantatione voluisti, ut illa legis iteratio fiat etiam, nostra directio,” etc., etc.—“O God! the loftiness of the humble and the strength of them that are upright, who wast pleased, through thy holy servant Moses, to instruct thy people by the singing of a sacred song,” etc., etc.

If, then, this be a true and just view of the mission of the sacred song among the poor and the unlearned multitude, as contemplated in the divine idea; if it be true, as I suppose no one will deny, that the Ritual Chant is not only fitted to accomplish it, but has realized it in times past, and does still realize it in countries that might be named; and if the works of modern art are, from their very scientific character as music, incapable of being the medium in which divine truth can pass among the people; and, indeed, if it be their nature to give so much more of prominence to the beauty of mere sound than to the expression of intelligible meaning or sentiment, which every one knows is the case, we seem to gain this obvious result, on drawing the comparison, that the Ritual chant is a real medium or vehicle for the circulation of divine truth among the people, fitted with a divine wisdom to its end; while the great works of art that the musician so much admires are not, to any practical extent whatever, such a medium, and indeed, if the truth must be said, were probably never contemplated as such, either by those who composed or those who now admire them.

COMPARATIVE “MEDICINAL VIRTUE.”

“They that are whole need not a physician,” said our Redeemer (Mark ii. 17), “but they that are sick. I came not to call the just, but sinners to repentance.” It was part of the mission of the Son of God upon earth, that he should be the physician of the souls of men (Isaiæ lxi.): “Spiritus Domini super me, eo quod unxerit Dominus me, ut mederer contritis corde.” It will follow, then, that the music which the divine Physician of souls will desire to see employed in his church will be strongly marked with the medicinal character.

And this conclusion becomes the more natural, from observing the numberless indications which the literature of different countries affords that music has always been popularly regarded as a medicine for the spirit; as, for instance, the Greek pastoral poet, Bion:

“Song than which no medicine so sweet.” Among the Romans, the courtly Ovid:

And, in our own literature, the great poet of human nature, Shakspeare:

With this view of music, as permitted by a merciful Providence to retain a large share of healing virtue, even apart from religion, and in the midst of the disorders of heathenism, expectation will be naturally much raised on coming to inquire what have been the effects of the Christian music which the divine Physician of souls has given to his Church. Nor will there be any disappointment. S. Basil the Great, the well-known doctor and bishop of the East, speaks of the Plain Chant of his own day in the following terms:

“Psalmody is the calm of the soul, the umpire of peace, that sets at rest the storm and upheaving of the thoughts. Psalmody quiets the turbulence of the mind, tempers its excess, is the bond of friendship, the union of the separated, the reconciler of those at variance; for who can count him any longer an enemy with whom he has but once lifted up his voice to God? Psalmody putteth evil spirits to flight, calleth for the help of angels, is a defence from terrors by night, a rest from troubles by day, is the safety of children, the glory of young men, the comfort of the old, the fairest ornament of women.… Psalmody calls forth a tear from a heart of stone, is the work of angels, the government of Heaven, the incense of the Spirit.”

S. Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan in the West, in the preface to his Commentary on the Book of Psalms, speaks as follows:

“In the Book of Psalms there is something profitable for all; it is a sort of universal medicine and preservative of health. Whoever will read therein may be sure to find the proper remedy for the diseased passion he suffers from. Psalmody is the blessing of the people, a thanksgiving of the multitude, the delight of numbers, and a language for all. It is the voice of the Church, the sweetly-loud profession of faith, the full-voiced worship of men in power, the delight of the free, the shout of the joyous, the exultation of the merry. It is the soother of anger, the chaser away of sorrow, the comforter of grief. It is a defence by night, an ornament by day, a shield in danger, a strong tower of sanctity, an image of tranquillity, a pledge of peace and concord, forming its unity of song, as the lyre, from diversity of sound. The morning echoes to the sound of psalmody, and the evening re-echoes. The apostle commanded women to be silent in the church; yet the song of psalmody becomes them (S. Ambrose is speaking of congregational psalmody). Boys and young men may sing psalms without danger, and even young women also, without detriment to their matronly reserve. They are the food of childhood; and infancy itself, that will learn nothing besides, delights in them. Psalmody befits the rank of the king, may be sung by magistrates, and chorused by the people, each one vying with his neighbor in causing that to be heard which is good for all” (Præfatio in Comment in Lib. Psalmorum).

S. Augustine speaks thus of the Church Chant: “How my heart burned within me against the Manicheans, and how I pitied them, that they neither knew its mystery nor healing virtue; and that they should insanely rage against that very antidote by which they might have recovered their saneness (insani essent adversus antidotum quo sani esse potuissent)!” (Confess. lib. ix.) To which should certainly be added the fact that, in some degree, the church may be said to be indebted to this very medicinal power of her psalmody, and to the tears it drew forth from the young catechumen Augustine, for one of the profoundest among her saints and doctors.

And to come to times nearer our own, the well-known Massillon, in one of his charges to his clergy, delivered at the Conference at which he presided, earnestly recommends them to make the study of the Plain Chant a part of their recreation; for, adds he, “le peuple souvent se calme au chant du sacerdoce dans le temple.” (Conferences, vol. iii.) And our own times have witnessed a remarkable instance of the same medicinal power of the church chant when in the Champs Élysées of Paris, during the summer of 1848, the citizens met in the open air, to celebrate a Requiem Mass for the repose of those who had fallen in the great civil commotion of that year, which had been suppressed with such loss of life. Here were to be seen the murderer and the relations of the murdered, forgetting that strongest and deadliest feud of the human heart—the thirst for vengeance for the shedding of kindred blood—joining their own to the thousands of voices that poured forth the well-known church chant of the Dies iræ. Ten thousand voices supplicating Almighty God to pardon the past, to grant rest to the souls of the slain, to bear in mind that he had come on earth to save them, and to beg that he would remember them in mercy at the day of his judgment, in the language and song of the church! Of a truth, then, may the church chant say, Unxit me Spiritus Domini, ut mederer contritis corde.

It is also curious to observe in what a marked manner, even in the recent Protestant literature of our own country, this medicinal character of the church chant is still recognized. Mr. Wordsworth has the following lines in his Ecclesiastical Sonnets (xxx.):

Henry Kirke White, in the fragment of a ballad entitled the “Fair Maid of Clifton,” bears even the still more remarkable testimony to a power over evil spirits. He is describing the death-bed of a female who, fearing that the demons would carry her away, had sent for her own relations to pray by her side, and for the “clerk and all the singers besides.”

And now, in drawing the comparison, it is fair to ask, granting the exception where it may be justly conceded, in favor of particular compositions: What on the whole is the medicinal virtue of our modern figured music? how does it take effect? who are the persons whose sorrow it relieves? who are they who find themselves really made better by it, and inclined, through its influence, to feel in greater charity with the remainder of the congregation? To judge from the kind of remarks that are usually made by persons coming away from a church where one of these figured music Masses has been executed, one would certainly not say that they could be many. For what are these remarks but those of connoisseurs, who criticise the merits of a voice which has reached a very high or low note, or of a particular solo, trio, or quartet, to which those who are uninitiated in the mysteries of minim and crotchet pay positively no attention at all? Now, let us for a moment suppose a person to say, with S. Ambrose, in praise of Mozart’s famous No. XII., that it was a “defence by night, an ornament by day, a shield in danger, a strong tower of sanctity, an image of tranquillity, a pledge of peace”; or with S. Basil, that “it had the virtue of putting devils to flight”; would any experience more unfeigned surprise than those very persons who think this Mass the absolute ideal of church music? Or again: if, unknown to himself and to others, there were at this moment a future doctor of the church among our London club politicians, how much would it naturally occur to us to think that the performance of this same No. XII. would be likely to contribute towards effecting his conversion?

RESPECTIVE CAPACITY FOR DURABLE POPULARITY.

God, who gave the Ecclesiastical Chant as a gift of mercy to the people, must needs contemplate it as popular. For except it were really popular, it would fail to attain its end. This, then, will be the place to examine what indications are to be found that the Ritual Chant is really, in this particular, the fulfilment of the Divine idea.

When an invention or an art is such that people come to borrow from it popular expressions, or when it gives birth to new phrases or metaphors, or a word or words come to be engrafted from it upon one or many languages, this becomes an argument for its popularity, such as no one will be inclined to dispute. Such phrases as those of “Go ahead,” “Get the steam up,” are quite sufficient to prove the fact of everybody being well acquainted with the steam-engine, from which they are derived. Now, if a similar fact can be found relative to the Gregorian chant, its popularity is in a manner placed beyond the reach of doubt.

When the poet Gray uses a well-known word in the lines,

he bears testimony to such a fact. The initial word of the first Antiphon of the Matins for the dead, “Dirige gressus meos, Domine,” has given this well-known word to our language. It can be hardly necessary to refer to a similar reception of the word “Requiem” into many different languages, which is the initial word of the Introit in the Mass for the dead.

The following anecdote, related by Padre Martini, page 437 of the third volume of his History of Music, may be here to the point. It is of Antonio Bernacchi, the most celebrated singer of his day (the beginning of the XVIIIth century), and narrated to him by Bernacchi himself: that, as he happened to be on a journey in Tuscany, near a monastery of Trappist monks, he felt a desire to visit it, in order to become acquainted with the way of life of these religious. He entered their church exactly at the time they were singing Tierce. Bernacchi was overcome by the effect of a multitude of voices in such perfect union that they seemed to be only one voice. He admired their precision in the utterance of every syllable, and in the softening, swelling, and sustaining of the voice, that although no more than men, they seemed to him like angels occupied in praising God; whereupon Bernacchi fell into the following soliloquy: “How deceived have I been in myself; I thought that, after a long and diligent application to the art of singing under such a master as Pestocchi, and having the natural gift of a good voice, I might pretend to exercise my profession without any question. How have I been deceived, being obliged to confess that the psalmody of these religious has in it a value and a quality that renders their song superior to mine!”

Dom Martene relates that, in his travels to visit the churches of France, he passed by a church of Benedictine nuns, who met with a patron and benefactor in the following manner: The Duc de Bournonville retiring from Paris in disgrace to “Provins,” on his arrival inquired for the nearest church; and, upon being shown the church of these nuns, he entered it as they were singing Vespers. So charmed was he by the sweetness of their song, that he seemed to himself to be listening to angels, and not to human creatures. On hearing, in an interview that followed, that the community were in debt, he gave the lady abbess an immediate present of one thousand ecus, and ever afterwards continued to be a benefactor to the convent (Voyage Littéraire, etc., part i. p. 79).

Baini (Mem. Stor., vol. ii. p. 122) quotes a letter, which is thus addressed to some English gentlemen who had visited Rome: “To Mr. Edward Grenfield, Fellow of the Royal Academy of London, to Mr. Davis, Mr. Morris, and other learned Englishmen, whose ears have not been altered by fashion, and made obtuse by habit, and who have been more than once heard to say, that they felt themselves more moved by the Gregorian Chant than by all the noisy performances of the greater part of our theatres.”

Nor is this appreciation for Gregorian music confined merely to persons from among the multitude. The following are the sentiments of two of the most distinguished musical scholars of the day:

“All is worthy of admiration in the primitive Roman Chant. The tune of the ‘Kyrie,’ for doubles and feasts of the first class, runs out to some length, and is full of beautiful passages. That of Sundays is shorter and more simple, but not the less full of unction. In both the one and the other it seems impossible to change or to suppress a note without destroying a beautiful idea, where all hangs so perfectly together. With what natural, or rather inspired genius, has not this Kyrie, confined as it is to such narrow limits, been conceived to form a whole so complete” (Fetis, Des Origines du Plain Chant, ou Chant Ecclésiastique).

“Musicians may oppose and contradict what I say as they please; they have full liberty; but I am not afraid to assert that the ancient melodies of the Gregorian Chant are inimitable. They may be copied, adapted to other words, heaven knows how, but to make new ones equal to the first, that will never be done” (Baini, Memorie Storiche di P. Palæstrina, vol. ii. p. 81).

And again, describing Palæstrina as engaged in the task of revising the Gradual, he says: “But the Gregorian chant claims a character wholly its own, has a beauty and a force proper only to itself. It is what it is, and does not change. But to remain ever the same, and to be susceptible of a change contrary to its nature, would be impossible. In a word, it may be said that heaven formed it through the early fathers, and then fractured the mould.”

“Palæstrina applied himself with the zeal of one who had deeply at heart the majesty of divine worship. But having completed the first part, De Tempore, his pen fell from his hands, and more wearied than Atlas under the weight of the sky, he abandoned his attempt; and nothing was found at his death but the incomplete manuscript.… And thus we may see the greatest man ever known in the art and science of figured music become less than a mere baby when he wished to lay a profane hand on the fathers and doctors of the Holy Roman Church. …And how wise at last was he, after having fruitlessly attempted in so many ways to correct this divine song according to human ideas, to abandon the enterprise for ever, and to conceal up to his death the useless result of his labor, which he himself acknowledged to be unworthy of being made public” (Mem. Stor. vol. ii. p. 123).

Next, as slightly illustrating its power of pleasing even a modern European people, and that in contrast with the most elaborate products of modern art; in 1846, at the centenary Jubilee of the Feast of Corpus Christi at Liege, Mendelssohn’s Lauda Sion was sung at one of the offices. Yet the general opinion of the people who heard it (and who, by the by, from its constant use in processions, are well acquainted with the old Gregorian melody of the same sequence) was, that it was not to be compared to the ritual Lauda Sion. At the Metropolitan Church of Mechlin, on Easter Day, 1846, the students of the great and little seminaries united together to sing at the evening Benediction. The pieces sung were from Italian masters, Baini and a second, and the third was the Gregorian sequence, Victimæ Paschali Laudes. One of the singers himself told me that the people thought nothing comparable to the old melody, sung in simple unison.

The Collegiate Church of S. Gudule, in the city of Brussels, may also be cited as an existing proof of the power of the old chant. Whoever has heard the Requiem Mass and the Te Deum sung in that church by two hundred voices in unison, must cease to think of the idea of its popularity as if it were strange.

In the church of Notre Dame, in Paris, the simple melody of the Stabat Mater is sometimes sung by a congregation of four thousand persons, at the conclusion of the annual retreats, with an effect that can never be forgotten.

Again, as has been already said, the Requiem Mass, which took place in the Champs Elysées after the terrible days of June (1848), it was proposed that the Mass should be sung in music; but the Republican authorities, in conjunction with the bishops, forbade it, and the Plain Chant was ordered instead. Tens of thousands joined in singing the Dies iræ, and their voices seemed to rend the heavens.

In Germany, among the melodies that pass by tradition among the people, are many that are derived from the Ritual Chant of different localities, as may be seen by merely looking into their numerous printed collections of these melodies.

The Gregorian modes, again, as has been said, are far from being unpopular in their nature. Many of the Scotch and Irish melodies, traditional among the people, belong to neither of the modern major nor minor modes. The French in Egypt found many traditional Arab melodies in the Gregorian modes; and no doubt the same would be found to be the case over the whole world.

The chant of the Vespers is exceedingly popular among our congregations in England, though they are acquainted with it only in a form of disguise, shorn of its antiphons, and encrusted with the deposit of a long bandying about from organist to organist, like Ulysses, returning home in rags and tatters after his many years’ wandering. Why should not the popularity of the whole, when it shall become known, by the kind efforts of such as will feel a pleasure in devoting themselves to teach it to the poor, be believed in, upon the augury of the known popularity of a mutilated and tattered part?

This idea has long since found a home among English Catholics. Charles Butler, Esq., in his Memoirs of English, Irish, and Scottish Catholics, after reviewing the chief Catholic composers of modern music, says: “But, with great veneration for the composers and performers of these sacred strains, the writer has no hesitation in expressing a decided wish that the ancient Gregorian Chant was restored to its pristine honors.” And again:

“There (in the church) let that music, and that music only, be performed, which is at once simple and solemn, which all can feel, and in which most can join; let the congregation be taught to sing it in exact unison, and with subdued voices; let the accompaniment be full and chaste; in a word, let it be the Gregorian Chant” (vol. iv. p. 466).

Benedict XIV., after expressing his own decided opinion of the superior fitness of the Plain Chant, accounts, by means of it, for a fact, that those who think the Gregorian Chant an unpopular one, would do well to study. This, says he, is the chief cause why the people are so much more fond of the churches of the Regulars than the Seculars. And then he quotes a very remarkable passage from Jacques Eveillon: “This titillation of harmonized music is held very cheap by men of religious minds in comparison with the sweetness of the Plain Chant and simple Psalmody. And hence it is that the people flock so eagerly to the churches of the monks, who, taking piety for their guide in singing the praises of God with a saintly moderation, after the counsel of the Prince of Psalmists, skilfully sing to their Lord as Lord, and serve God as God, with the utmost reverence” (Encyclical Letter, p. 3).

The same Dom Martene who has been quoted above, often speaks, in the narrative of his journey, of the different churches which he visited, and in which he was present at the celebration of any of the solemn offices of the Liturgy. The following passages are specimens of his opinion on the comparative merits of the Plain Chant. Describing the Cathedral of Sens he says: “Pour ce qui est de l’Eglise Cathedrale, elle est grande,” etc. “La musique en est proscrite, on n’y chante qu’un beau Plain Chant, qui est beaucoup plus agréable que la musique.”—“As regards the cathedral church, it is large and spacious, and figured music is banished from it. Nothing but a beautiful Plain Chant is sung in it, which is far more agreeable than music” (Part i. p. 60). Again, speaking of the Cathedral of Vienne (Dauphinois), he says: “L’Office s’y fait en tout temps avec une gravité qui ne peut s’exprimer. On en bannit entièrement l’orgue et la musique; mais le Plain Chant est si beau, et se chante avec tant de mesure, qu’il n’y a point de musique qui en approche.”—“The divine Office is sung there with a gravity that cannot be surpassed. The organ and all figured music are banished from it; but the Plain Chant is so beautiful, and is sung with so much rhythm, that there is no music that can come near to it” (Part i. p. 256).

Even Rousseau, in his Lexicon Musicum, article, “Plain Chant,” says: “It is a name that is given in the Roman Church at this day to the Ecclesiastical Chant. There remains to it enough of its former charms to be far preferable, even in the state in which it now is (he is speaking of the falsified French edition of it), for the use to which it is destined, than the effeminate and theatrical, frothy and flat, pieces of music which are substituted for it in many churches, devoid of all gravity, taste, and propriety, without a spark of respect for the place they dare thus to profane.”