Professional Documents
Culture Documents
of Sacred Music
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The Value of
Sacred Music
An Anthology of Essential
Writings, 1801–1918
COMPILED BY
JONATHAN L. FRIEDMANN
ISBN 978-0-7864-4201-0
softcover : 50# alkaline paper
Preface 1
Introduction 5
v
vi Table of Contents
Index 175
Preface
Over the past several decades, sacred music has experienced growing
popularity among both scholars and the general public. More and more, the
intersection of song and religion has become a standard topic in music and
religious studies departments, and interfaith groups worldwide have instituted
annual concerts of sacred music. These developments reflect an increased
recognition that not only are music and religion fundamental to the human
experience, they are also inextricably linked in the context of religious wor-
ship.
The close relationship of music and prayer does, of course, have ancient
roots. In fact, it was the rabbinic sages, some fifteen hundred years ago, who
best described this indelible partnership: “Where there is song, there shall be
prayer” (Devarim Rabba 80:2). And among the Bible’s many references to the
singing of divine praise is the stirring proclamation from Psalms: “Sing unto
God with the voice of melody” (Ps. 47:1).
Still, the age-old acknowledgment of music’s profound role in religious
experience has yielded surprisingly few writings on the subject. This paucity
of material is due largely to the fact that because the value of sacred music is
self-evident to those who participate in religious services, it often fails to
inspire serious reflection. Sacred music is, it seems, more apt for experience
than discussion.
As a result, there exists no common body of literature on sacred music,
but rather scattered reflections, often on topics so specialized or denomina-
tion-specific that they appeal only to a handful of musicians and scholars.
Especially lacking are writings of centuries past—scholarship that can serve
as a historical foundation for the broader study of music and religion. After
all, if the study of sacred music is to be a more organized, interdisciplinary
field of research—rather than one primarily limited to church and synagogue
musicians—there ought to be made available a collection of historical writ-
ings from which to derive theories, questions, insights, and debates. Most cru-
cially, these writings should address topics both universal enough to have wide
application, and rich enough to warrant serious contemplation.
1
2 Preface
Fortunately, writings of this sort, though few and largely neglected, have
been preserved on library shelves. This anthology presents the most accessi-
ble of such works, selected for their broad subject matter and keen insights
into the essential union of music and worship. As a whole, they span the nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries, a period that witnessed the emergence of
musicology, psychology, and religious studies—formative versions of which
inform many arguments found in this volume. Written from varied perspec-
tives and by scholars of Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish music, these selec-
tions have in common a favorable view of music in religious ritual, and an
understanding that music can communicate the spirituality of worship far bet-
ter than words. Topics covered include the history of music’s use in religious
ritual, the emotional impact of music on worshipers, and the need for stan-
dards of selecting sacred music for religious services—all issues with rele-
vance for present-day readers.
Moreover, these essays, among the first to view the subject of religion
and music through a modern historical-scientific lens, advocate a humanistic
evaluation of sacred music, focused less on the technical aspects of musical
composition, and more on the effect of sound patterns on the listener—the
expressive nature of music that makes it such a valuable part of the worship
experience. Unlike much of musicological analysis, they are not concerned with
the lives or compositional styles of composers of sacred music, such as Palest-
rina, Bach, or Mendelssohn, but rather address the larger and more universal
questions: Why is music such a natural part of religious ritual, and what sort
of music is conducive to worship? For this reason, in particular, these essays
are worthy of inclusion in modern discussions of sacred song, engaging as
they do the heart and spirit of music often lost in the details of musicological
and even theological discussions of music and religion.
It must be noted, however, that these essays, originally published between
1801 and 1918, reflect the intellectual period in which they were written. While
this does not adversely affect the main thrust of the individual essays, some
of the writings contain generalizations, historical omissions or misinformation,
ethnocentric statements, and a reliance on the Bible as a completely reliable
historical document—arguments that have since been expunged from academic
discourse. As such, they embody both the good and the bad of nineteenth and
early twentieth-century scholarship: they are bold, adventurous, and pioneer-
ing, but also tinged with a sense of social and cultural superiority.
As distasteful as some of the claims made in this volume may be to pres-
ent-day readers, the greater import of these writings should not be ignored.
Rather, they should be understood in their social and intellectual context, and
appreciated for the light they can still shed on the larger subject of sacred
music. After all, if we were to dismiss these writings because they contain a
few old-fashioned statements, then the invaluable ideas they present would
forever go unnoticed.
Preface 3
5
6 Introduction
drama of words and music, sacred song of the highest order—that which is
sincere, inspired, and true to the liturgy—helps to inspire spiritual intention,
and exemplifies music’s potential to enhance the experience of living.
For this reason, music in worship is an especially potent form of ceremo-
nial ritual. Sociologist Émile Durkheim noted that such ritual provides a cohe-
sive function, bringing people together, reaffirming social bonds, and bolstering
congregational solidarity. In the Jewish synagogue, for instance, this role of
sacred music is expressed clearly in the congregational singing of Hinei Ma
Tov, a liturgical text taken from Psalm 133: “How good and how pleasant that
brothers dwell together.” Sung to a variety of melodies, the message of Hinei
Ma Tov supports quite literally the social function of prayer-song. With it, the
congregation affirms, at least implicitly, an underlining assumption of shared
values and beliefs—what Durkheim understood as the basis of religious “broth-
erhood.”12
Likewise, Jewish sacred music serves what Durkheim called a revitaliz-
ing function, reminding the community of its shared history and common
social heritage. This is evident, for example, in the use of Misinai tunes:
melody-types traditionally believed to have been transmitted to Moses on Sinai.
Of course, we have no record of music from the days of Moses; but Misinai
melodies do have relatively ancient roots, developing in southern Germany and
eastern France between the eleventh and fifteenth centuries C.E. These quin-
tessential Ashkenazi themes and motifs have come to dominate the music of
Rosh Hashanah (New Year) and Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), leading to
the reality that virtually all Ashkenazi Jews throughout the world hear these
melodies during the High Holy Days. Such time-honored and ubiquitous musi-
cal themes connect Jews otherwise religiously and geographically dispersed.
They are an audible ritual expression of a collective past.
Jewish sacred music also achieves what Durkheim termed the euphoric
function of ceremonial ritual. Synagogue music helps to establish both a sense
of the sacred and a feeling of social well-being among worshiping Jews, par-
ticularly those faced with communal instability, disappointment, or calamity.
To be sure, the need for such music varies depending on the condition of the
community—a fact reflected in the remarkable persistence of prayer-song in
Jewish ghettos and concentration camps during the Holocaust. There is, indeed,
a long history of singing in the face of adversity. For centuries, the hardships
of war, persecution, and varied forms of discrimination have inspired songs of
witness and hope.
This is illustrated by a firsthand account of Yom Kippur in the Nazi-occu-
pied ghetto of Kovno, Lithuania, where a determined cantor brought height-
ened spirituality and a sense of normalcy—the dual aspects of Durkheim’s
ritual euphoria—to his small congregation:
In the same year in which the Germans had occupied Kovno, prayer groups were
organized in the ghetto for the High Holy Days, and one such group met in the
8 Introduction
hospital. In the middle of Yom Kippur, in fact in the middle of the musaf [additional]
service when the cantor and the participants poured out their hearts in prayer, a
rumor suddenly spread that two German officials from the “Staatskommissariat”
had entered the ghetto and were going in the direction of the hospital. The hospital
was notified at once and just as in the time of the Spanish Inquisition, every trace of
the “major crime” momentarily disappeared. The Holy Ark was hidden, the burning
Yom Kippur candles were extinguished, the prayer books were hidden, and the
participants were hidden in a separate room. The two Germans inspected the
hospital for some time but they found nothing suspicious. After they left everything
and everyone returned to their place and the musaf service continued until its
conclusion.13
this, we come to an important issue in sacred music: some forms of music are
intrinsically suited as modes of religious-spiritual expression, while others are
not. And, despite the problems inherent in labeling certain musical styles or
techniques most appropriate for religious service—especially as sacred music
is a culturally diverse form of religious expression—it is clear that for music
to be considered sacred, it must embody certain “holy” qualities: peace, con-
tentment, joy, unity, harmony, awe, majesty, and so on. In Western Church
music, for example, transcendence is frequently expressed in soft passages,
analogous to the silent fear and awe inspired in the presence of the sacred.
Thus, for Otto’s understanding of the numinous experience to find resonance
in music, the music itself must possess a certain—if ultimately inexplicable—
quality of sacredness. As Richard Viladesau, a Catholic priest and scholar, has
written:
Otto’s theory throws a great deal of light on the relation of music and spirituality.
It accounts for the difference between what is called serious and what is called
light music, and shows why there is some sense to the idea of a sacred “style”:
those forms of music that have emotional and intellectual associations of sufficient
“depth” to be appropriate carriers of sacred words or themes (while light or frivolous
forms of music, although perhaps pleasant in themselves, may betray a sacred
message by inappropriate associations that trivialize it). It also explains why music
can be seen in religion as the height of spiritual expression or, alternatively, as the
epitome of sensual depravity.24
role. Indeed, it is largely due to music’s direct emotional impact that the crit-
ical evaluation of sacred song rarely seems necessary.
This volume is made up of historical reflections on sacred song, spanning
from 1801 to 1918. Though revealing some prejudices and inaccuracies com-
mon to much of nineteenth and early twentieth-century scholarship—particu-
larly in the assessment of non-western and so-called “primitive” cultures—
these diverse and valuable explorations nevertheless contribute greatly to our
understanding of the religious, social, and psychological significance of music
in the context of worship. Indeed, these old writings, “dusted off ” for mod-
ern readers, are filled with precious insights still relevant for those interested
in the place of music in religious ritual.
Part I, “Origins of Sacred Music,” offers five essays on the development
of music as a mode of religious expression. Tracing the centrality of music
throughout the Bible—from Creation to the Last Supper—Nathaniel D. Gould
gives special attention to the human voice as a divinely created instrument
intended for the service of God. Louis S. Davis examines the beginnings of
sacred music in Jewish worship, suggesting that a careful balance of cultural
discrimination and assimilation enabled the Israelites, while slaves in Egypt,
to simultaneously maintain a monotheistic system and adopt the Egyptian prac-
tice of musical worship. Louis C. Elson discusses in detail the growth of wor-
ship music in the Bible from the spontaneous song of Miriam to the
institutionalized singing of the Temple, as well as the continued spiritual
efficacy of Psalm-singing in modern Judeo-Christian worship. Edward Dick-
inson focuses on the dramatizing function of music and dance in ancient reli-
gions, and the echo of this musical drama in modern liturgical song. Waldo
Selden Pratt, defining religion as mainly a social phenomenon, frames west-
ern music as a creation of the church, and stresses the necessity of music in
promoting liturgical literacy among Christians.
Part II, “Music and Spirituality,” presents unique reflections on the psy-
cho-spiritual impact of sacred music. John Bulmer discusses music’s role in
enhancing spiritual concentration and religious joy during worship, and cau-
tions that music must remain an aid to—and not become the object of—wor-
ship. Writing on the mysticism of music, R. Heber Newton suggests that music
is a pathway for gaining intimate understanding of the human soul and the
divine. E. Janes sheds light on the expressiveness of music, arguing among
other things that musical sounds produce virtually universal emotional
responses among listeners. Concluding this section is an essay by Hugh Regi-
nald Haweis, linking music, emotions, and morality.
Part III, “Standards of Sacred Music,” opens with an essay by Dom Andre
Mocquereau, who identifies Gregorian chant as the most sincere musical
expression of the Christian faith, unhindered by the harmonic and rhythmic
complexities of Palestrina, Bach, and other composers, and embodying Chris-
tian ideals of strength, purity, love, and truth. William Jones questions whether
12 Introduction
music should be used for anything other than divine service, and asserts that
sacred music, as it is composed with the highest aspirations in mind, far
exceeds the emotive and even artistic potential of secular music. Confronting
the musical diversity of the Church of England, which he views as detrimen-
tal to the spirit of prayer, A. Madeley Richardson argues that many church com-
posers write worship music that reflects the popular and “vulgar” tastes of the
masses, rather than the twofold purpose of sacred song: offering and edification.
Joseph Reider writes on a similar phenomenon within American Jewish wor-
ship, where sacred texts have been set to foreign and secular-inspired melodies,
blurring the intended separation of sacred and profane time and space. Lastly,
we encounter the perspectives of four men, W. H. Gladstone, W. Parratt, S. A.
Barnett, and C. H. Hylton Stewart, who address the topic of music as an aid
to worship and work. They discuss, among other issues, the need for worship
music that reflects divine rather than “popular” aspirations, and the impor-
tance of maintaining a balance between choral and congregational song in the
church service. Also stressed is the importance of worship music that strikes
not only the ear, but also the heart.
Notes
1. Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life, Vol. 1, trans. Walter Lowrie
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974), 67.
2. Nicholas Cook, A Guide to Musical Analysis (London: Oxford University Press,
1987), 1.
3. Louis Ibsen al Faruqi, “What Makes ‘Religious Music’ Religious?” in Joyce Irwin,
ed., Sacred Sound: Sacred Sound: Music in Religious Thought and Practice (Chico, CA:
Scholars Press, 1983), 26 –27.
4. Leonard B. Meyer, Emotion and Meaning in Music (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1958), 260.
5. Aaron Copland, Music and the Imagination (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1953), 7.
6. Don E. Saliers, Music and Theology (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2007), 9.
7. Oskar Sönhegen, “Music and Theology: A Systematic Approach,” in Joyce Irwin,
ed., Sacred Sound: Music in Religious Thought and Practice (Chico, CA: Scholars Press,
1983), 8.
8. Jacob Beimel, “Divinity and Music: A Jewish Conception,” Jewish Music Jour-
nal, vol. 1, no.1 (1934): 114 –15.
9. Marsha Bryan Edelman, Discovering Jewish Music (Philadelphia: Jewish Publi-
cation Society, 2003), 163.
10. Steven A. Marini, Sacred Song in America: Religion, Music, and Public Culture
(Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2003), 7.
11. Ibid.
12. Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Carol Crossman
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 42 –43.
13. Fred S. Heuman, trans., “Prayer and the Sheliah Tzibbur During the Holocaust,”
Journal of Jewish Music and Liturgy, vol. 3 (1985–86): 55.
14. Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy: An inquiry into the non-rational factor in the
idea of the divine and its relation to the rational (London: Oxford University Press, 1923),
30.
Introduction 13
Bibliography
al Faruqi, Louis Ibsen. “What Makes ‘Religious Music’ Religious?” In Sacred Sound:
Music in Religious Thought and Practice, ed. Joyce Irwin, 21–34. Chico, CA:
Scholars Press, 1983.
Beimel, Jacob. “Divinity and Music: A Jewish Conception.” Jewish Music Journal,
vol. 1, no.1 (1934): 114 –15.
Cook, Nicholas. A Guide to Musical Analysis. London: Oxford University Press, 1987.
Copland, Aaron. Music and the Imagination. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1953.
Durkheim, Émile. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. Trans. Carol Crossman.
New York: Oxford University Press, 2001.
Edelman, Marsha Bryan. Discovering Jewish Music. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society, 2003.
James, William. The Varieties of Religious Experience. 5th Printing. New York: Men-
tor, 1958.
Heuman, Fred S., trans. “Prayer and the Sheliah Tzibbur During the Holocaust.” Jour-
nal of Jewish Music and Liturgy, vol. 3 (1985–86): 53–55.
Kierkegaard, Søren. Either/Or: A Fragment of Life, Vol. 1. Trans. Walter Lowrie. Prince-
ton: Princeton University Press, 1974.
Marini, Steven A. Sacred Song in America: Religion, Music, and Public Culture.
Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2003.
Meyer, Leonard B. Emotion and Meaning in Music. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1958.
Otto, Rudolf. The Idea of the Holy: An inquiry into the non-rational factor in the idea
of the divine and its relation to the rational. London: Oxford University Press, 1923.
Proudfoot, Wayne. Religious Experience. Berkeley: University of California Press,
1985.
Saliers, Don E. Music and Theology. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2007.
Sönhegen, Oskar. “Music and Theology: A Systematic Approach.” In Sacred Sound:
Music in Religious Thought and Practice, ed. Joyce Irwin, 1–20. Chico, CA: Schol-
ars Press, 1983.
Viladesau, Richard. Theology and the Arts: Encountering God through Music, Art and
Rhetoric. New York: Paulist Press, 2000.
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PART I
Origins of Sacred Music
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, 1 .
Gould, Nathaniel D. “Bible History of Music.” In Church Music in America: Its History and Its
Peculiarities at Different Periods, with Cursory Remarks on Its Legitimate Use and Its Abuses.
Boston: A. N. Johnson, 1853.
17
18 I. Origins of Sacred Music
Harmony Destroyed
While for a moment we confine our thoughts to that first scene and song,
we are filled with admiration; for, while our first parents were innocent, their
every breath was praise. In the midst of this enraptured scene, subsequent his-
tory presses in upon our minds, and we are instantly hurried forward but a step
or two in the history of man, when all is confusion and discord. Man deigned
to take the instrument, which came from God’s own hand in perfect tune, seem-
ing to doubt its perfection, and by one fatal act destroyed both melody and
harmony throughout the new-created world.
Exertions to Restore It
From that time to the present, good men of every age have been attempt-
ing to restore a faint resemblance of that harmony which was lost by man’s
transgression, and to harmonize the discordant feelings of mankind. No expe-
dient, save that of the gospel of Jesus Christ, has done so much to soften the
ferocious propensities of human nature as the employment of sacred music;
while the arch enemy of man, who tempted our first parents to that dreadful
act, has ever since been busily engaged in frustrating the designs of good men
of every age, and nowhere else so untiring as with the lovers and performers
of sacred music. The music of the church ever has been, and ever will be, an
invincible enemy.
max of expression and devotion; and, when the power of speech has failed to
give utterance to the feelings of the heart, the addition of melodious sounds, both
of voices and instruments, has been called in to give full vent to holy affections.
Neither our object nor our limits will permit us to give but a mere sketch
of music as alluded to in the Bible. Numerous lectures and sermons have been
written to describe those grand and solemn performances, and bring them
down through the history of after centuries to the present time; and, although
the links may often seem defective and irregular, if not broken, still God’s
praises have always been sung among his saints, and he has ordained that they
always shall be—that it has been so from the beginning, and he will never suf-
fer it to be otherwise.
it, “violin and organ.” Not knowing, however, anything of their form or sound,
we can only infer that one was a stringed and the other a wind instrument. We
may also infer that the voice of music had been cultivated long before the
instruments of Jubal; for how could instruments be tuned, until the voice and
ear dictated the tone?
What progress was made in the art of music by the antediluvians is
unknown, for their improvements are buried with them in oblivion.
The next mention made of music is in Genesis, thirtieth chapter, when
the language of Laban to Jacob was, “Wherefore didst thou flee away secretly,
and steal away from me, and didst not tell me, that I might have sent thee away
with mirth and with songs, with tabret and with harp?” Next, Exodus fifteenth
chapter. Here we find that Moses and the children of Israel shouted forth these
words: “Sing ye unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously. The horse
and his rider hath he thrown into the sea”; closing with “The Lord shall reign
for ever and ever.” Then comes the response from the women, when Miriam
the prophetess took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after
her, with timbrels and with dances, repeating the same words—“Sing ye to the
Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously.” These words, sung by Miriam, con-
tain the first specimen of lyric poetry on record.
In after time, the harp, lyre, trumpet, organ, etc., had been contrived, and
used by man for the purpose of assisting the voice.
Changes
The changes that have taken place, since the days of Jubal, in the man-
ner of using the voice, the different tones produced, the extent and division of
1. Bible History of Music (1853) (Gould) 21
the scale, the combination of sounds, and the manner of applying singing in
the worship of God, cannot be definitely described. It is sufficient for us to
know that, with all nations of the earth where God has been worshiped, prayer
and praise have constituted that worship; and that those who learn to sing with
the spirit and understanding on earth will be permitted to sing the song of
Moses and the Lamb forever in a better world.
We can also learn that the power of uniting voices belongs only to man.
The birds can sing, each its own tune; but thousands and millions of men,
women and children, can unite their voices; and every additional well-trained
voice adds to the effort.
and on earth peace, good will towards men,” was sung by an angelic choir,
telling of the birth of the Savior.
Children sang, “Hosanna, blessed is he that cometh in the name of the
Lord, Hosanna in the highest.”
“And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed and sang praises,” etc.
It is not at all remarkable that music of some kind should have been known
in ages almost prehistoric; for, as a tone is, after all, only a prolongation of
sound on any one degree of the chromatic scale, the human race could not have
been very old before some individual made his discovery by blowing through
a tube. Whether the tube was the throat or a piece of bamboo the difference
was only in the timbre. The wonder, therefore, is not that music should have
been discovered, but that the human race should for four thousand years have
lived with the knowledge that there was a tone-world without the ability to
enter it. There are, of course, sufficient reasons for this crystallizing, chief of
which is the lack of mechanical appliances which, in our day, have made of
such instruments as the piano and organ a marvel of ingenuity, power and
sweetness. Still less a matter of wonder does it come when we remember that
the knowledge of steam and electricity as active and tremendous forces were
realized long before any glimmering intimation of the science of music; and
yet it remained for Handel to write the Messiah while the forces which now
shake the world still slept, nothing more than a perception, a realization which
had existed from the earliest breath of the race.
With regard to ecclesiastical music, or indeed music of any kind, the first
authentic information of which we are possessed comes to us from the land
of the Pharaohs. On the banks of the Nile, history was carved in characters of
stone the achievement of this early civilization, giving ample record of the
respect in which music was held, and the importance attached to its perform-
ance in all religious rites. Barbaric as must have been its character, not only
on account of the primitive nature of the instruments, the thin, disconnected
Davis, Louis S. “Spirit of Jewish Music.” In Studies in Musical History. New York: G. P. Put-
nam’s Sons, 1887.
23
24 I. Origins of Sacred Music
harmonies, the poverty and attenuation of melody, there is that seeking for the
ethereal, that feeling for the beyond, which gave to tone-history a beginning
that, through all the ages of waiting, held fast the promise of its immortality
when its laws should be comprehended, and the union of tone and spirit become
forever one and indivisible.
When Verdi wrote that superlative anachronism, the opera “Aida,” he
unconsciously performed an act of poetic justice. The scenery, the costumes,
the instruments, yea, even the tombs, are all there with the studied exactness
of detail, harmony and chronology, which reveal the hand of the archaeologist
wherever the curtain rises. Suppose that, instead of the voluptuous, almost
lurid splendor of the music, we would substitute the ancient Egyptian mode
of clothing thought in tone, how inexpressively flat and meaningless it would
then appear. Yet the fruit which Verdi plucked sprang from the seed planted
on Egyptian soil four thousand years ago, and amid the tombs and temples,
the groves and palaces of the land of the Nile, we hear the evolutionized echo
of the tone-life of pre-historic man.
Under the religious despotism of Egypt ecclesiastical music arrogated to
itself and maintained an importance which has left its traces on the manners
of the people of that country today. Where the temples of Luxor and Carnac
rise in pyramidal majesty, amid the pomp and splendor of Thebes, sang the
mighty army of the priesthood. No organ there to shake the vast halls and open
courts with the thunder of its double diapason, or weave its colossal harmonies
in sympathetic utterance with the surrounding immensity, but a voice which
spoke of a faith as supreme and gigantic as the autocracy under which it gov-
erned a nation of slaves.
And these slaves—Here, amid the scenes of grandeur, which today, with
the everlasting solitude brooding among its sphinxes and its columns, with its
ritual forever departed, amid its stones standing stripped of their wealth of gold
and ivory, precious wood and precious stones, appalls the modern traveler with
the sense of its sublimity and his littleness here at the summit of Egyptian
power, and in the midst of a ceremonial conducted nowhere else, since man
drew breath, on so vast a scale, lived and listened to the hymn of religion and
of despotism, a nation at once slave and alien. The Jew might look and listen,
but he looked for a deliverer and he listened for his voice. In the choral thun-
der of the Egyptian priesthood he heard only the prayer of idolatry and the
voice which governed him by the power of the lash. In despite of four cen-
turies of slavery, the polytheism of the land of his adoption had taken but lit-
tle hold on the heart which cherished the remembrance of the God of Abraham.
The unifying power of the pharaohs stopped short when it encountered the unit
of Goshen. Here, as in subsequent ages, they might murder his children and
hold him and his people as property of the Government, but behold the limit.
Few as were the traditions possessed by the Jews at this time they, nev-
ertheless, sufficed to maintain external agency. But with that remarkable race-
2. Spirit of Jewish Music (1887) (Davis) 25
have we, as in later periods, the means of estimating the growth and develop-
ment of Jewish music, either as an art or an auxiliary to ecclesiasticism. There
is indeed a comparative method by which may be guessed the character of
Jewish music at the time of the Christian era; but this process would only show
that melodies now in use are either of a comparatively recent date or have been
so chromatically altered as to render them past recognition save by the student
of the old Greek modes. The difference in these modes, or scales as they are
now called, lay, of course, in their succession of tones. They had not, as we
have, major and minor scales, but differed from us in having one to suffice for
both. Thus the Dorian mode, corresponding to our key of D (of which the
Phrygian and Lydian, with all their derived keys, were but transpositions, as
in the case of the modern scale), differed from our scale of D in that its third,
sixth and seventh were made minor. With this explanation I trust I shall be
more fully understood when I repeat that, although there may exist Jewish
melodies today which were written prior to the Christian era, their identity is
so veiled or lost by chromatic alterations as to be almost unrecognizable.
These primitive modes continued during some centuries of Christian
music, and, indeed, are still found in the old Gregorian chants and German
chorals. That there were many instruments, and many kinds of instruments, is
a fact patent to the most casual reader of either sacred or profane history, but
their compass and scope was limited, and they, if not from choice, from neces-
sity were subordinated to music of the voice. As from the storehouse of Egypt-
ian wisdom the Greek and the Jew had alike derived all that was known of
music, so in a later period was Christianity to build on their work, and to fash-
ion its hymns and chants upon the harmonies and melodies which lineally
descended from the music of the Pharaohs. While Christianity, in its musical
heritage, owes no more to the Jew than to the Greek, so far as real tone-knowl-
edge is concerned, inasmuch as it first had being on Jewish soil, incorporat-
ing the Old Testament belief with the New, we may readily believe that where
Jewish theology expounded the doctrines of the Christian, Jewish music would
early be adopted as his psalmody.
There remains a noble, but as yet unwritten chapter, which shall one day
place music before the world as one of the great factors which go to make up
history. Mighty weapons are the battle-hymns of Jew and Christian, Catholic
and Protestant. You can hear them through all the ages that have been, clear
and strong, forever welling up from the heart of the nations. And whether these
be the hymns of peace or hymns of war, songs of grief or gladness, they are
insensibly and imperceptibly fashioning the history of the race. This is, to my
thinking, a field of speculation which to a careful student might yield a rich
harvest. So far as I know, it is a subject which has never been directly dis-
cussed, but the time will come when we shall realize the great historic impor-
tance of ecclesiastical music.
,3.
The hymns of the Old Testament were, as we have indicated, the sponta-
neous outflow of the religious nature. No form of worship requiring song was
instituted by Moses. No order of singers is included among the officers of the
tabernacle. Indeed, the earliest history of the Hebrew race is practically with-
out song. As it has been said, “we read of altar and prayers and accepted inter-
cessions, and we feel sure that those who walked in the light like Enoch or
Abraham must have had their hearts kindled with music; but from the green
earth rising out of the flood—from the shadow of the great rock at Mamre,
from the fountains and valleys and upland pastures of the Promised Land,
where the tents of the Patriarchs rose amidst their flocks—from the prisons
and palaces of Egypt we catch no sound of sacred song.”
But then, this is a subject with which history did not concern itself—and
we must not infer from this silence the utter absence of song—for scattered
over the earlier history there are traces of its presence. The first examples, as
we should expect, are of a very in-formal character—the product of some cri-
sis in the life of the individual or the nation. Improvised songs born of great
occasions, though to our colder western temperament almost impossible, are
yet comparatively common among Eastern people like the Hebrews, even to
this day. It is a common gift among the Italians. The first of such songs is that
of Miriam in celebration of the delivery of Israel from their Egyptian pur-
suers: “Sing ye to Jehovah, for he hath triumphed gloriously, the horse and his
rider hath he thrown into the sea”; but although this is the first recorded, it is
almost certain that it was preceded by others, for before this we read of instru-
ments of music.
Elson, Louis C. “Ancient Jewish Hymns.” In University Musical Encyclopedia. New York: The
University Society, 1910.
27
28 I. Origins of Sacred Music
Since the two greatest fountains of song have ever been love and religion,
we may feel sure that those who had reached to the use of musical instruments,
however rude, would employ them to accompany the words of passion or devo-
tion which in exalted moments would spring to their lips. In Genesis 4:21 we
are told that Jubal “was the father of all such as handle the harp and the pipe,”
that is, of all string and wind instruments. While in verses 23–24 we have
Lamech’s song to his wives—the first example of a song, though not a sacred
one, in the pages of Scripture, yet possessing many of the features of later
Semitic poetry. Later on we read in the account of Laban’s interview with
Jacob of “songs, with tabret and with harp” (Gen. 31:27).
It is not at all likely that such a song as that of Miriam could have been
uttered if she had not previously been accustomed to lyric improvisation. So
grand an outburst and so equal to its grand occasion, although doubtless
touched and enlarged by the editor of the book which records it, implies not
only aptitude but exercise; while the fact that she led a procession of women,
who chanted a chorus to her song, shows that songs had before this, in the
time of their Egyptian captivity, been wedded to music. Somewhat later in the
history we find that when Moses returned from the mount, he heard the peo-
ple, who had made a calf for worship, joining aloud in a song to their newly
fashioned god. It is considered by some all but certain that the lawgiver him-
self was the author of Psalm 90, which has been called the swansong of Moses.
This may have been the first contribution—the nucleus—of that wonderful
collection the Book of Psalms, into which were gathered the noblest lyric utter-
ances of widely severed times.
We catch here and there in the sacred history glimpses of the widening
and deepening river of song to which those we have mentioned were the first
tributary streams. In the Book of Numbers 21:17, we have the song which Israel
sang, “Spring up, O well.” In the Book of Judges we meet with the song of
Deborah and Barak, which was cast in a distinctly metrical form, and sung
with a musical accompaniment—another improvisation by a prophetess, that
is one in a measure trained to music and song. But as the religious life of the
nation grew deeper this kind of improvised song led the way to a school for
the cultivation of music and sacred utterance. This was a chief function of the
schools of the prophets which came into such prominence in the time of
Samuel. Dean Stanley says: “Whatever be the precise meaning of the peculiar
word, which now came first into use as the designation of these companies, it
is evident that their immediate mission consisted in uttering religious hymns
or songs, accompanied by musical instruments, psaltery, tabret, pipe, and harp,
and cymbals. In them, as in the few solitary instances of their predecessors,
the characteristic element was that the silent seer of visions found an articu-
late voice, gushing forth in a rhythmical flow, which at once riveted the atten-
tion of the hearer. These, or such as these, were the gifts which under Samuel
were now organized, if one may so say, into a system. From Ramah, the double
3. Ancient Jewish Hymns (1910) (Elson) 29
good; for his mercy endureth for ever.” Thus, prayer and praise, the two most
vital elements of a true worship, are found as integral parts of the service. It
is somewhat difficult to say with certainty what place was afterward held by
sacred song in the regular services of the temple. Certain psalms have been
identified as having been used at particular seasons. But it is generally admit-
ted that from this time onward, save when interrupted by the calamities which
befell the nation, song, no less than sacrifice, held its ground as part of the
Jewish worship.
The Levites, without the accompaniment of any of their usual musical
instruments, used to sing in the temple on each day of the week a different
psalm. “On other occasions,” says the distinguished rabbinical scholar Paul
Isaac Hershon, “various other psalms were sung, and sung so loud that their
voice could be heard as far as Jericho, a distance of about twelve miles. On
such occasions the youngsters of the Levites were permitted to enter the hall
of the sanctuary in order to spice with their fine ‘thin voices’ the rougher
voices of the elder Levites.”
“The same psalms that were sung in the temple are now merely repeated
by every orthodox Jew in his daily morning prayer. Having no temple, the
priest does not sacrifice and the Levite does not sing!
Ichabod! the glory is departed!
How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land!”
The later history naturally tells only of the special occasions in which the
people broke into song, but these serve to confirm the idea that worship through
song had become a habit among the people. “There is the song of Jehoshaphat
and his army, the chant of victory sung in faith before the battle, and itself
doing battles in that the Lord fought for those who trusted him, and they had
nothing to do but divide the spoil and return to Jerusalem, with psalteries and
harps and trumpets, into the house of the Lord. There is the song of Hezekiah,
when he recovered from his sickness, and the psalm of Jonah from the depths
of the sea, made up from the memory of other psalms sung in happier hours.
There was many a song by the waters of Babylon, whispered low that the
oppressors might not hear. There was the song of liberated Israel, at the ded-
ication of the wall of the Holy City (another witness to the customs of the past),
when the singers sang aloud and they all rejoiced: so that the joy of Jerusalem
was heard afar off.” All these serve to show how the lyric spirit prevailed
among the people, ready, when touched by any deep emotion, to give rhyth-
mic utterance to their prayer and praise.
It is with David, the minstrel king, however, that the stream of song sud-
denly grows broad and deep. Around him the chorus begins to gather, which
has now grown to such a glorious multitude. The Psalms formed at once the
justification and inspiration of all the noble songs of the later history of Israel,
to say nothing of lyric notes, which are heard sounding through the pages of
the prophets. But most remarkable is it, that when we reach the New Testament
3. Ancient Jewish Hymns (1910) (Elson) 31
we find no lyric book corresponding to the Psalter. There are distinct psalms,
like the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, kindled from the lyric fire of the Hebrew
Psalter; and hints which indicate the presence of the lyric gift in the Apostolic
Church, but there is no Christian Psalter in the New Testament, and the rea-
son is not far to seek. It is not that the lyric fire has departed, but that the Old
Testament Psalter has so sounded the deepest notes of the soul in joy and sor-
row, in darkness and light, that it is adequate to the needs, not only of Jewish,
but Christian hearts. Thus it was not for an age, but for all time. Just as the
octave in music can express the loftiest conceptions of the composers of every
age, from the simple Gregorian chant to the intricate music of Beethoven, so
the Psalter, meeting the deepest needs of the soul, becomes the fitting vehicle
through which Christian as well as Jewish feeling can find expression.
And so we find, as a matter of fact, that through by far the greater part
of the history of the Church the Psalms have formed its worship-song; they
have had a place in the services of every church of Christendom where praise
has been offered. They have been said or sung in grand cathedral or lowly meet-
inghouse, by white-robed priests and plain-clad Puritans. The hearts of Roman
and Greek, Armenian and Anglican, no less than Puritan and Nonconformist,
have been kindled into praise by the Psalms of David and his company. Edward
Irving says: “From whatever point of view any Church hath contemplated the
scheme of its doctrine, by whatever name they have thought good to designate
themselves, and however bitterly opposed to each other in Church government
or observance of rules, you will find them all, by harmonious consent, adopt-
ing the Psalms as the outward form by which they shall express the inward
feelings of the Christian life.”
And even those who refused to sing the Psalms in the form in which they
are found in Scripture—who deemed it dangerous and even heretical so to
do—have sung them in metrical versions from which much of their glory had
departed. Until quite recently there were churches whose only hymnal con-
sisted of these versions. Thus the Psalms have been at once an inspiration and
a bondage: an inspiration, in that they have kindled the fire which has pro-
duced the hymnody of the entire Church; a bondage, because by stereotyping
religious expression they robbed the heart of the right to express in its own
words the fears, the joys, the hopes that the Divine spirit had kindled in their
souls. Had there been no Psalter in the canon of Scripture, the Church would
have had no model for its song—no place at which to kindle its worship-fire;
but, on the other hand, its worshiping instinct would have compelled it to cre-
ate a psalter of its own, and so there would have been an earlier and fuller devel-
opment of hymnody in the Church. The very glory and perfection of the Psalter
made the Church for long ages content with the provision thus made for its
worship, and so it discouraged all who else would have joined the company of
the singers. And even those who at last ventured to join their company, did so
timidly, and chiefly as adapters of the Psalms for public worship. George
32 I. Origins of Sacred Music
Wither, Sir Philip Sidney and his sister belong to this class. Even when Dr.
Watts began to write, his hymns were used only as supplemental to the Ver-
sions; indeed, a large part of his compositions are themselves metrical render-
ings of the Psalms, though some of them are so alive with his peculiar genius
as to deserve rank as original compositions.
Mighty indeed was the spell the Psalter exercised over the Church, and
rightly so, for it is the heart-utterance of the noble men whose mission it was
to give the world religion. And as we have not outgrown the art of Greece or
the laws of Rome, so neither have we outgrown the worship-song of Israel.
This is so deep and true that it expresses the longings and praise even of those
who have sat at the feet of Christ and learned of him. And as in the most sacred
moment of his life one of these psalms served to express his deepest feelings,
so they have inspired and expressed the feelings of his followers in all after-
time. As has been well said, “the Church has been singing these psalms ever
since, and has not yet sung them dry,” and she will go on singing them until
she takes up the new song in the heavenly city. It should be frankly admitted
that there are elements in the Psalms distinctly Jewish, and expressive of the
feeling of earlier days. There are imprecatory notes that are out of harmony
with the gentler melody of Christ. These ought to be dropped as unsuitable to
Christian worship; but as a whole the Psalms form the noblest treasury of
sacred song, and their inspiration may be discerned in every hymn that is wor-
thy of a place in the Church’s worship. Her hymnody can never be understood
apart from the Psalter, and it will be found that those whose hearts are steeped
the most deeply therein have given to the Church the songs that she will not
willingly let die.
,4.
Leon Gautier, in opening his history of the epic poetry of France, ascribes
the primitive poetic utterance of mankind to a religious impulse. “Represent
to yourselves,” he says, “the first man at the moment when he issues from the
hand of God, when his vision rests for the first time upon his new empire. Imag-
ine, if it be possible, the exceeding vividness of his impressions when the
magnificence of the world is reflected in the mirror of his soul. Intoxicated,
almost mad with admiration, gratitude, and love, he raises his eyes to heaven,
not satisfied with the spectacle of the earth; then discovering God in the heav-
ens, and attributing to him all the honor of this magnificence and of the har-
monies of creation, he opens his mouth, the first stammerings of speech escape
his lips—he speaks; ah, no, he sings, and the first song of the Lord of creation
will be a hymn to God his creator.”
If the language of poetical extravagance may be admitted into serious his-
torical composition, we may accept this theatrical picture as an allegorized
image of a truth. Although we speak no longer of a “first man,” and although
we have the best reasons to suppose that the earliest vocal efforts of our anthro-
poid progenitors were a softly modulated love call or a strident battle cry rather
than a sursum corda; yet taking for our point of departure that stage in human
development when art properly begins, when the unpremeditated responses to
simple sensation are supplemented by the more stable and organized expres-
sion of a soul life become self-conscious, then we certainly do find that the
earliest attempts at song are occasioned by motives that must in strictness be
Dickinson, Edward. “Primitive and Ancient Religious Music.” In Music in the History of the West-
ern Church. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons: 1903.
33
34 I. Origins of Sacred Music
called religious. The savage is a very religious being. Of all the relations of
his simple life he is hedged about by a stiff code of regulations whose sanc-
tion depends upon his recognition of the presence of invisible powers and his
duties to them. He divines a mysterious presence as pervasive as the atmos-
phere he breaths, which takes in his childish fancy diverse shapes, as of ghosts,
deified ancestors, anthropomorphic gods, embodied influences of sun and
cloud. In whatever guise these conceptions may clothe themselves, he expe-
riences a feeling of awe which sometimes appears as abject fear, sometimes
as reverence and love. The emotions which the primitive man feels under the
pressure of these ideas are the most profound and persistent of which he is
capable, and as they involve notions which are held in common by all the
members of the tribe (for there are no skeptics or non-conformists in the sav-
age community), they are formulated in elaborate schemes and ceremonies.
The religious sentiment inevitably seeks expression in the assembly—“the
means,” as Professor Brinton says, “by which that most potent agent in reli-
gious life, collective suggestion, is brought to bear upon the mind”—the liturgy,
the festival, and the sacrifice. By virtue of certain laws of the human mind
which are evident everywhere, in the highest civilized condition as in the sav-
age, the religious emotion, intensified by collective suggestion in the assem-
bly, will find expression not in the ordinary manner of thought communication,
but in those rhythmic and inflected movements and cadences which are the
natural outlet of strong mental excitement when thrown back upon itself. These
gestures and vocal inflections become regulated and systematized in order that
they may be permanently retained, and serve in their reaction to stimulate
anew the mental states by which they were occasioned. Singing, dancing, and
pantomime compose the means by which uncivilized man throughout the world
gives expression to his controlling ideas. The needed uniformity in movement
and accent is most easily effected by rhythmical beats; and as these beats are
more distinctly heard, and also blend more agreeably with the tones of the voice
if they are musical sounds, a rude form of instrumental music arises. Here we
have elements of public religious ceremony as they exist in the most highly
organized and spiritualized worships—the assemblage, where common motives
produce common action and react to produce a common mood, the ritual with
its instrumental music, and the resulting sense on the part of the participant
of detachment from material interests and of personal communion with the
unseen powers.
The symbolic dance and the choral chant are among the most primitive,
probably the most primitive, forms of art. Out of their union came music,
poetry, and dramatic action. Sculpture, painting, and architecture were stim-
ulated if not actually created under the same auspices. “The festival,” says Pro-
fessor Baldwin Brown, “creates the artist.” Festivals among primitive races,
as among ancient cultured peoples, are all distinctly religious. Singing and
dancing are inseparable. Vocal music is a sort of chant, adopted because of its
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 35
nerve-exciting property, and also for the sake of enabling a mass of partici-
pants to utter the words in unison where intelligible words are used. A sepa-
ration of caste between priesthood and laity is effected in very early times.
The ritual becomes a form of magical incantation; the utterance of the wiz-
ard, prophet, or priest consists of phrases of mysterious meaning or incoher-
ent ejaculations.
The prime feature in the earlier forms of worship is the dance. It held also
a prominent place in the rites of the ancient cultured nations, and lingers in
dim reminiscence in the processions and altar ceremonies of modern liturgi-
cal worship. Its function was as important as that of music in the modern
Church, and its effect was in many ways closely analogous. When connected
with worship, the dance is employed to produce that condition of mental exhil-
aration which accompanies the expenditure of surplus physical energy, or as
a mode of symbolic, semi-dramatic expression of definite religious ideals.
“The audible and visible manifestations of joy,” says Herbert Spencer, “which
culminate in singing and dancing, have their roots in instinctive actions like
those of lively children who, on seeing in the distance some indulgent rela-
tive, run up to him, joining one another in screams of delight and breaking
their run with their leaps; and when, instead of an indulgent relative met by
joyful children, we have a conquering chief or king met by groups of his peo-
ple, there will almost certainly occur salutatory and vocal expressions of elated
feeling, and these must become by implication signs of respect and loyalty—
ascriptions of worth which, raised to a higher power, become worship.” Illus-
trations of such motives in the sacred dance are found in the festive procession
of women, led by Miriam, after the overthrow of the Egyptians, the dance of
David before the ark, and the dance of the boy Sophocles around the trophies
of Salamis. But the sacred dance is by no means confined to the discharge of
physical energy under the promptings of joy. The funeral dance is one of the
most frequent of such observances, and dread of divine wrath and the hope of
propitiation by means of rites pleasing to the offended power form a frequent
occasion for rhythmic evolution and violent bodily demonstration.
Far more commonly, however, does the sacred dance assume a represen-
tative character and become a rudimentary drama, either imitative or emblem-
atic. It depicts the doings of the gods, often under supposition that the divinities
are aided by the sympathetic efforts of their devotees. Certain mysteries, known
only to the initiated, are symbolized in bodily movement. The fact that the
dance was symbolic and instructive, like the sacrificial rite itself, enables us
to understand why dancing should have held such prominence in the worship
of nations so grave and intelligent as the Egyptians, Hebrews, and Greeks. Rep-
resentations of religious processions and dances are found upon the monuments
of Egypt and Assyria. The Egyptian peasant, when gathering his harvest,
sacrificed the first fruits, and danced to testify his thankfulness to the gods.
The priests represented in their dances the course of the stars and scenes from
36 I. Origins of Sacred Music
the histories of Osiris and Isis. The dance of the Israelites in the desert around
the golden calf was probably a reproduction of features of the Egyptian Apis
worship. The myths of many ancient nations represent the gods as dancing,
and supposed imitations of such august examples had a place in the ceremonies
devoted to their honor. The dance was always an index of the higher or lower
nature of the religious conceptions which fostered it. Among the purer and
more elevated worships it was full of grace and dignity. In the sensuous cults
of Phoenicia and Lydia, and among the later Greek votaries of Cybele and
Dionysus, the dance reflected the fears and passions that issued in bloody,
obscene, and frenzied rites, and degenerated into almost incredible spectacles
of wantonness and riot.
It was among the Greeks, however, that the religious dance developed its
highest possibilities of expressiveness and beauty, and became raised to the
dignity of an art. The admiration of the Greeks for the human form, their
unceasing effort to develop its symmetry, strength, and grace, led them early
to perceive that it was in itself an efficient means for the expression of the soul,
and that its movements and attitudes could work sympathetically upon the
fancy. The dance was therefore cultivated as a coequal with music and poetry;
educators inculcated it as indispensable to the higher discipline of youth; it
was commended by philosophers and celebrated by poets. It held a prominent
place in the public games, in processions and celebrations, in the mysteries,
and in public religious ceremonies. Every form of worship, from the frantic
orgies of the drunken devotees of Dionysus to the pure and tranquil adoration
offered to Phoebes Apollo, consisted to a large extent of dancing. Andrew
Lang’s remark in regard to the connection between dancing and religious
solemnity among savages would apply also to the Hellenistic sacred dance,
that “to dance this or that means to be acquainted with this or that myth, which
is represented in a dance or ballet d’action.” Among the favorite subjects for
pantomimic representation, united with choral singing, were the combat
between Apollo and the dragon and the sorrows of Dionysus, the commemo-
ration of the latter forming the origin of the splendid Athenian drama. The
ancient dance, it must be remembered, had as its motive the expression of a
wide range of emotion, and could be employed to symbolize sentiments of won-
der, love, and gratitude. Regularly ordered movements, often accompanied by
gesture, could well have a place in religious ceremony, as the gods and their
relations to mankind were then conceived; and moreover, at a time when music
was in a crude state, rhythmic evolutions and expressive gestures, refined and
moderated by the exquisite sense of proportion native to the Greek mind,
undoubtedly had a solemnizing effect upon the participants and beholders not
unlike that of music in modern Christian worship. Cultivated as an art under
the name of orchestik, the mimic dance reached a degree of elegance and emo-
tional significance to which modern times afford no proper parallel. It was not
unworthy of the place it held in the society of poetry and music, with which
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 37
it combined to form that composite art which filled so high a station in Greek
culture in the golden age.
The Hellenic dance, both religious and theatric, was adopted by the
Romans, but, like so much that was noble in Greek art, only to be degraded
in the transfer. It passed over into the Christian Church, like many other cer-
emonial practices of heathenism, but modified and by no means of general
observance. It appeared on occasions of thanksgivings and celebrations of
important events in the Church’s history. The priest would often lead the dance
around the altar on Sundays and festal days. The Christians sometimes gath-
ered about the church doors at night and danced and sang songs. There is noth-
ing in these facts derogatory to the piety of the early Christians. They simply
expressed their joy according to the universal fashion of the age; and espe-
cially on those occasions which, as for instance Christmas, were adaptations
of old pagan festivals, they naturally imitated many of the time-honored obser-
vances. The Christian dance, however, finally degenerated; certain features,
such as the nocturnal festivities, gave rise to scandal; the church authorities
began to condemn them, and the rising spirit of asceticism drove them into
disfavor. The dance was a dangerous reminder of the heathen worship with all
its abominations; and since many pagan beliefs and customs, with attendant
immoralities, lingered for centuries as a seductive snare to the weaker brethren,
the Church bestirred itself to eliminate all perilous associations from religious
ceremony and to arouse a love for an absorbed and spiritual worship. During
the Middle Age, and even in comparatively recent times in Spain and Span-
ish America, we find survivals of the ancient religious dance in the Christian
Church, but in the more enlightened countries it has practically ceased to exist.
The Christian religion is more truly joyful than the Greek; yet the Christian
devotee, even in his more confident moments, no longer feels inclined to give
vent to his happiness in physical movements, for there is mingled with his rap-
ture a sentiment of awe and submission which bids him adore but be still. Reli-
gious processions are frequent in Christian countries, but the participants do
not, like the Egyptians and Greeks, dance as they go. We find even in ancient
times isolated opinions that public dancing is indecorous. Only in a naïve and
childlike stage of society will dancing as a feature of worship seem appropri-
ate and innocent. As reflection increases, the unrestrained and conspicuous
manifestation of feeling in shouts and violent bodily movements is deemed
unworthy; a more spiritual conception of the nature of the heavenly power and
man’s relation to it requires that forms of worship should become more refined
and moderate. Even the secular dance has lost much of its ancient dignity from
somewhat similar reasons, partly also because the differentiation and high
development of music, taking the place of dancing as a social art, has rele-
gated the latter to the realm of things outgrown, which no longer minister to
man’s intellectual necessities.
As we turn to the subject of music in ancient religious rites, we find that
38 I. Origins of Sacred Music
where the dance had already reached a high degree of artistic development,
music was still in dependent infancy. The only promise of its splendid future
was in the reverence already accorded to it, and the universality of its use in
prayer and praise. On its vocal side it was used to add solemnity to the words
of the officiating priest, forming the intonation, or ecclesiastical accent, which
has been an inseparable feature of liturgical worship in all periods. So far as
the people had a share in the religious functions, vocal music was employed
by them in hymns to the gods, or in responsive refrains. In its instrumental
forms it was used to assist the singers to preserve the correct pitch and rhythm,
to regulate the steps of the dance, or, in an independent capacity, to act upon
the nerves of the worshipers and increase their sense of awe in the presence
of the deity. It is the nervous excitement produced by certain kinds of musi-
cal performance that accounts for the fact that incantations, exorcisms, the
ceremonies of demon worship among savages and barbarians are accompanied
by harsh-sounding instruments; that tortures, executions, and human sacrifices,
such as those of the ancient Phoenicians and Mexicans, were attended by the
clamor of drums, trumpets, and cymbals. Even in the Hebrew temple service
the blasts of horns and trumpets could have had no other purpose than that of
intensifying emotions of awe and dread.
Still another office in ancient ceremony, perhaps still more valued, was that
of suggesting definite ideas by means of an associated symbolism. In certain
occult observances, such as those of the Egyptians and Hindus, relationships were
imagined between instruments or melodies and religious or moral conceptions,
so that the melody or random tone of the instrument indicated to the initiate the
associated principle, and thus came to have an imputed sanctity of its own. This
symbolism could be employed to recall to the mind ethical precepts or religious
tenets at solemn moments, and tone could become a doubly powerful agent by
uniting the effect of vivid ideas to its inherent property of nerve excitement.
Our knowledge of the uses of music among the most ancient nations is
chiefly confined to its function in religious ceremony. All ancient worship was
ritualistic and administered by a priesthood, and the liturgies and ceremonial
rites were intimately associated with music. The oldest literatures that have
survived contain hymns to the gods, and upon the most ancient monuments are
traced representations of instruments and players. Among the literary records
discovered on the site of Nineveh are collections of hymns, prayers, and pen-
itential psalms, addressed to the Assyrian deities, designed, as expressly stated,
for public worship, and which Professor Sayce compares to the English Book
of Common Prayers. On the Assyrian monuments are carved reliefs of instru-
mental players, sometimes single, sometimes in groups of considerable num-
bers. Allusions in the Bible indicate that the Assyrians employed music on
festal occasions, that hymns to the gods were sung at banquets and dirges at
funerals. The kings maintained bands at their courts, and provided a consid-
erable variety of instruments for use in the idol worship.
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 39
There is abundant evidence that music was an important factor in the reli-
gious rites of Egypt. The testimony of carved and painted walls of tombs and
temples, the papyrus records, the accounts of visitors, inform us that music in
Egypt was preeminently a sacred art, as it must needs have been in a land
which, as Ranke says, there was nothing secular. Music was in the care of the
priests, who jealously guarded the sacred hymns and melodies from innova-
tion and foreign intrusion. In musical science, knowledge of the divisions of
the monochord, systems of keys, notation, etc., the Egyptians were probably
in advance of all other nations. The Greeks certainly derived much of their
musical practice from the dwellers on the Nile. They possessed an extensive
variety of instruments, from the little tinkling sistrum up to the profusely orna-
mented harp of twelve or thirteen strings, which towered above the performer.
From such an instrument as the latter it would seem as though some kind of
harmony must have been produced, especially since the player is represented
as using both hands. But if such were the case, the harmony could not have
been reduced to a scientific system, since otherwise a usage so remarkable
would not have escaped the attention of the Greek musicians who derived so
much of their art from Egypt. Music never failed at public or private festivity,
religious ceremony, or funeral rite. As in all ancient religions, processions to
the temples, carrying images of the gods and offerings, were attended by dances
and vocal and instrumental performances. Lyrical poems, containing the praises
of gods and heroes, were sung at public ceremonies; hymns were addressed to
the rising and setting sun, to Ammon and the other gods. According to Chap-
pell, the custom of caroling or singing without words, like birds, to the gods
existed among the Egyptians—a practice imitated by the Greeks, from whom
the custom was transferred to the Western Church. The chief instrument of the
temple worship was the sistrum, and connected with all the temples in the time
of the New Empire were companies of female sistrum players who stood in
symbolic relations to the gods as inmates of his harem, holding various degrees
of rank. These women received high honors, often of a political nature.
In spite of the simplicity and frequent coarseness of ancient music, the
older nations ascribed to it an influence over the moral nature which the mod-
ern music lover would never think of attributing to his highly developed art.
They referred its invention to the gods, and imputed to it thaumaturgical prop-
erties. The Hebrews were the only ancient cultivated nation that did not assign
to music a superhuman source. The Greek myths of Orpheus, Amphion, and
Arion are but samples of hundreds of marvelous tales of musical effect that
have place in primitive legends. This belief in the magical power of music was
connected with the equally universal opinion that music in itself could express
and arouse definite notions and passions, and could exert a direct moral or
immoral influence. The importance ascribed by the Greeks to music in edu-
cation of youth, as emphatically affirmed by philosophers and lawgivers, is
based upon this belief. Not only particular melodies, but the different modes
40 I. Origins of Sacred Music
or keys were held by the Greeks to exert a positive influence upon character.
The Dorian mode was considered bold and manly, inspiring valor and forti-
tude; the Lydian, weak and enervating. Plato, in the second book of the Laws,
condemns as “intolerable and blasphemous” the opinion that the purpose of
music is to give pleasure. He finds a direct relation between morality and cer-
tain forms of music, and would have musicians constrained to compose only
such melodies and rhythms as would turn the plastic mind toward virtue.
Plutarch, in his discourse concerning music in his Morals, says: “The ancient
Greeks deemed it requisite by the assistance of music to form and compose
the minds of youth to what was decent, sober, and virtuous; believing the use
of music beneficially efficacious to incite to all serious actions.” He even goes
on to say that “the right moulding of ingenuous and manners civil conduct lies
in a well-grounded musical education.” Assumptions of direct moral, intellec-
tual, and even pathological action on the part of music, as distinct from an aes-
thetic appeal, are so abundant in ancient writings that we cannot dismiss them
as mere fanciful hyperbole, but must admit that music really possessed a power
over the emotions and volitions which has been lost in its later evolution. The
explanation of this apparent anomaly probably lies, first, in the fact that music
in antiquity was not a free independent art, and that when the philosophers
speak of music they think of it in its associations with poetry, religious and
patriotic observances, moral and legal precepts, historic relations, etc. Music,
on its vocal side, was mere emphasized speech inflection; it was a slave to
poetry; it had no rhythmical laws of its own. The melody did not convey aes-
thetic charm in itself alone, but simply heightened the sensuous effect of meas-
ured speech and vivified the thought. Mr. Spencer’s well-known expression that
“cadence is the comment of the emotion upon the propositions of the intel-
lect” would apply very accurately to the musical theories of the ancients. Cer-
tain modes (that is, keys), on account of convenience of pitch, were employed
for certain kinds of poetical expression; and as a poem was always chanted in
the mode that was first assigned to it, particular classes of ideas would come
to be identified with particular modes. Associations of race character would
lead to similar interpretation. The Dorian mode would seem to partake of the
sternness and vigor of the warlike Dorian Spartans; the Lydian mode and its
melodies would hint at Lydian effeminacy. Instrumental music also was equally
restricted to definite meanings through association. It was an accompaniment
to poetry, bound up with the symbolic dance, subordinated to formal social
observances; it produced not the artistic effect of melody, harmony, and form,
but the nervous stimulation of crude unorganized tone, acting upon recipients
who had never learned to consider music as anything but a direct emotional
excitant or an intensifier of previously conceived ideas.
Another explanation of the ancient view of music as possessing a con-
trolling power over emotion, thought, and conduct lies in the fact that music
existed only in its rude primal elements; antiquity in its conception and use of
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 41
music never passed far beyond that point where tone was the outcome of sim-
ple emotional states, and to which notions of precise intellectual significance
still clung. Whatever theory of the origin of music may finally prevail, there
can be no question that music in its primitive condition is more directly the
outcome of clearly realized feeling than it is when developed into a free, intel-
lectualized, and heterogeneous art form. Music, the more it rises into an art,
the more it exerts a purely aesthetic affect through its action upon intelligences
that delight in form, organization, and ideal motion, loses in equal proportion
the emotional definiteness that exists in simple and spontaneous tone
inflections. The earliest reasoning on the rationale of musical effects always
takes for granted that music’s purpose is to convey exact ideas, or at least
express definite emotion. Music did not advance so far among the ancients that
they were able to escape from this naturalistic conception. They could con-
ceive of no higher purpose in music than to move the mind in definite direc-
tions, and so they maintained that it always did so. Even in modern life
numberless instances prove that the music which exerts the greatest effect over
the impulses is not the mature and complex art of the masters, but the simple
strains which emanate from the people and bring up recollections which in
themselves alone have power to stir the heart. The song that melts a congre-
gation to tears, the patriotic air that fires the enthusiasm of an assembly on the
eve of a political crisis, the strain that nerves an army to desperate endeavor,
is not an elaborate work of art, but a simple and obvious tune, which finds its
real force in association. All this is especially true of music employed for reli-
gious ends, and we find in such facts a reason why it could make no progress
in ancient times, certainly none where it was under the control of an organ-
ized social caste. For the priestly order is always conservative, and in antiq-
uity this conservatism petrified melody, at the same time with the rites to which
it adhered, into stereotyped formulas. Where music is bound up with a ritual,
innovation in the one is discountenanced as tending to loosen the traditional
strictness of the other.
I have laid stress upon this point because this attempt of the religious
authorities in antiquity to repress music in worship to a subsidiary function
was the sign of a conception of music which has always been more or less active
in the Church, down even to our own day. As soon as musical art reaches a
certain stage of development it strives to emancipate itself from the thralldom
of word and visible action, and to exalt itself for its own undivided glory. Strict
religionists have always looked upon this tendency with suspicion, and have
often strenuously opposed it, seeing in the sensuous fascinations of the art an
obstacle to complete absorption in spiritual concerns. The conflict between the
devotional and aesthetic principles, which has been so active in the history of
worship music in modern times, never appeared in antiquity except in the later
period of Greek art. Since this outbreak of the spirit of rebellion occurred only
when Hellenistic religion was no longer a force in civilization, its results were
42 I. Origins of Sacred Music
felt only in the sphere of secular music; but no progress resulted, for musical
culture was soon assumed everywhere by the Christian Church, which for a
thousand years succeeded in restraining music within the antique conception
of bondage to liturgy and ceremony.
Partly as a result of this subjection of music by its allied powers, partly,
perhaps, as a cause, a science of harmony was never developed in ancient
times. That music was always performed in unison and octaves, as has been
generally believed, is, however, not probable. In view of the fact that the Egyp-
tians possessed harps over six feet in height, having twelve or thirteen strings,
and played with both hands, and that the monuments of Assyria and Egypt and
the records of musical practice among the Hebrews, Greeks, and other nations
show us a large variety of instruments grouped in bands of considerable size,
we are justified in supposing that combinations of different sounds were often
produced. But the absence from the ancient treatises of any but the most vague
and obscure allusions to the production of accordant tones, and the conclusive
evidence in respect to the general lack of freedom and development in musi-
cal art, is proof positive that, whatever concords of sounds may have been
occasionally produced, nothing comparable to our present contrapuntal and
harmonic system existed. The music so extravagantly praised in antiquity was,
vocally, chant, or recitative, ordinarily in a single part; instrumental music was
rude and un-systematized sound, partly a mechanical aid to the voice and the
dance step, partly a means of nervous exhilaration. The modern conception of
music as a free, self-assertive art, subject only to its own laws, lifting the soul
into regions of pure contemplation, where all temporal relations are lost in a
tide of self-forgetful rapture—this was a conception unknown to the mind of
antiquity.
R
The student of the music of the Christian Church naturally turns with
curiosity to that one of the ancient nations whose religion was the antecedent
of the Christian, and whose sacred literature has furnished the worship of the
Church with the loftiest expression of its trust and aspiration. The music of
the Hebrews, as Ambros says, “was divine service, not art.” Many modern
writers have assumed a high degree of perfection in ancient Hebrew music,
but only on sentimental grounds, not because there is any evidence to support
such an opinion. There is no reason to suppose that music was further devel-
oped among the Hebrews than among the most cultivated of their neighbors.
Their music, like that of the ancient nations generally, was entirely subsidiary
to poetic recitation and dancing; it was un-harmonic, simple, and inclined to
be coarse and noisy. Although in general use, music never attained so great
honor among them as it did among the Greeks. We find in the Scriptures no
praises of music as a nourisher of morality, rarely a trace of an ascription of
magical properties. To the Hebrews the arts obtained significance only as they
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 43
walls of Jericho were overthrown (Jos. 6); the hazozerah, or long silver tube,
used in the desert for announcing the time for breaking camp (Num. 10:2 –8),
and employed later by the priests in religious service (2 Chron. 5:12, 13;
29:26 –28), popular gatherings, and sometimes in war (2 Chron. 8:12, 14). The
nebel was either a harp somewhat larger than a kinnor, or possibly a sort of
guitar. The chalil, translated in the English version “pipe,” may have been a
sort of oboe or flageolet. The band of prophets met by Saul advanced to the
sound of nebel, toph, chalil, and kinnor (1 Sam. 10:5). The word “psaltery,”
which frequently appears in the English version of the psalms, is sometimes
the nebel, sometimes the kinnor, sometimes the asor, which was a species of
nebel. The “instrument of ten strings” was also the nebel or asor. Percussion
instruments, such as the drum, cymbals, bell, and Egyptian sistrum (which
consisted of a small frame of bronze into which three or four metal bars were
loosely inserted, producing a jingling noise when shaken), were also in com-
mon use. In the Old Testament there are about thirteen instruments mentioned
as known to the Hebrews, not including those mentioned in Daniel 3, whose
names, according to Chappell, are not derived from Hebrew roots. All of these
were simple and rude, yet considerably varied in character, representing the
three classes into which instruments, the world over, are divided, viz., stringed
instruments, wind instruments, and instruments of percussion.
Although instruments of music had a prominent place in public festivi-
ties, social gatherings, and private recreation, far more important was their use
in connection with religious ceremony. As the Hebrew nation increased in
power, and as their conquests became permanently secured, so the arts of peace
developed in greater profusion and refinement, and with them the embellish-
ment of the liturgical worship became more highly organized. With the cap-
ture of Jerusalem and establishment of the royal residence within its ramparts,
the worship of Jehovah increased in splendor; the love of pomp and display,
which was characteristic of David, and still more of his luxurious son Solomon,
was manifest in the imposing rites and ceremonies that were organized to the
honor of the people’s God. The epoch of these two rulers was that in which
the national force was in the flower of its youthful vigor, the national pride
had been stimulated by continual triumphs, the long period of struggle and
fear had been succeeded by glorious peace. The barbaric splendor of religious
service and festal pageant was the natural expression of popular joy and self-
confidence. In all these ebullitions of national feeling, choral and instrumen-
tal music on the most brilliant and massive scale held a conspicuous place.
The description of the long series of public rejoicings, culminating in the ded-
ication of Solomon’s temple, begins was the transportation of the ark of the
Lord from Gibeah, when “David and all the house of Israel played before the
Lord with all manner of instruments made of fir-wood, and with harps (kin-
nor), and with psalteries (nebel), and with timbrels (toph), with castanets
(sistrum), and with cymbals (tzeltzelim)” (2 Sam. 6:5). And again, when the
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 45
ark was brought from the house of Obed-edom into the city of David, the king
danced “with all his might,” and the ark was brought up “with shouting and
with the sound of a trumpet” (2 Sam. 6:14, 15). Singers were marshaled under
leaders and supported by bands of instruments. The ode ascribed to David was
given to Asaph as chief of the choir of Levites; Asaph beat the time with cym-
bals, and the royal paean was chanted by masses of chosen singers to the
accompaniment of harps, lyres, and trumpets (1 Chron. 16:5, 6). In the organ-
ization of the temple service no detail received more careful attention than the
vocal and instrumental music. We read that four thousand Levites were
appointed to praise the Lord with instruments (1 Chron. 23:5). There were also
two hundred and eighty-eight skilled singers who sang to instrumental accom-
paniment beside the altar (1 Chron. 25).
The function performed by instruments in the temple service is also indi-
cated in the account of the reestablishment of the worship of Jehovah by
Hezekiah according to the institutions of David and Solomon. With the burnt
offering the song of praise was uplifted to the accompaniment of the “instru-
ments of David,” the singers intoned the psalm and the trumpets sounded, and
this continued until the sacrifice was consumed. When the rite was ended a
hymn of praise was sung by the Levites, while the king and the people bowed
themselves (2 Chron. 29:25–30).
With the erection of the second temple after the return from the Baby-
lonian exile, the liturgical service was restored, although not with its pristine
magnificence. Ezra narrates: “When the builders laid the foundation of the tem-
ple of the Lord, they set the priests in their apparel with trumpets, and the
Levites the sons of Asaph with cymbals, to praise the Lord, after the order of
David king of Israel. And they sang one to another in praising and giving
thanks unto the Lord, saying, For he is good, for his mercy endureth forever
toward Israel” (Ezra 3:10, 11). And at the dedication of the wall in Jerusalem,
as recorded by Nehemiah, instrumentalists and singers assembled in large num-
bers, to lead the multitude in rendering praise and thanks to Jehovah (Neh. 12).
Instruments were evidently employed in independent flourishes and signals,
as well as in accompanying the singers. The trumpets were used only in the
interludes; the pipes and stringed instruments strengthened the voice parts; the
cymbals were used by the leader of the chorus to mark the rhythm.
Notwithstanding the prominence of instruments in all observances of pri-
vate and public life, they were always looked upon as accessory to song. Dra-
matic poetry was known to the Hebrews, as indicated by such compositions
as the Book of Job and the Song of Songs. No complete epic has come down
to us, but certain allusions in the Pentateuch, such as the mention in Numbers
21: 14 of the “book of wars of Jehovah,” would tend to show that this people
possessed a collection of ballads which, taken together, would probably con-
stitute a national epic. But whether lyric, epic, or dramatic, the Hebrew poetry
was delivered, according to the universal custom of ancient nations, not in the
46 I. Origins of Sacred Music
speaking voice, but in musical tone. The minstrel poet, it had been said, was
the type of the race. Lyric poetry may be divided into two classes: first, that
which is the expression of the individual, subjective feeling, the poet com-
muning with himself alone, imparting to his thought a color derived solely from
his personal inward experience; and second, that which utters sentiments that
are shared by an organization, community, or race, the poet serving as the
mouthpiece of a mass actuated by common experiences and motives. The sec-
ond class is more characteristic of a people in the earlier stages of culture, when
the individual is lost in the community, before the tendency towards special-
ization of interests gives rise to an expression that is distinctly personal. In all
the world’s literature the Hebrew psalms are the most splendid examples of
this second order of lyric poetry; and although we find in them many instances
in which an isolated, purely subjective experience finds a voice, yet in all of
them the same view of the universe, the same conception of the relation of
man to his Creator, the same broad and distinctly national consciousness, con-
trol their thought and diction. And there are very few even of the first class
which a Hebrew of earnest piety, searching his own heart, could not adopt as
the fitting declaration of his need and assurance.
All patriotic songs and religious poems properly called hymns belongs in
the second division of lyrics; and in the Hebrew psalms devotional feeling,
touched here and there with a patriot’s hopes and fears, has once for all pro-
jected itself in forms of speech which seem to exhaust the capabilities of sub-
limity in language. These psalms were set to music, and presuppose music in
their thought and their technical structure. A text most appropriate for musi-
cal rendering must be free from all subtleties of meaning and over-refinement
of phraseology; it must be forcible in movement, its metaphors those that touch
upon general observation, its ideas those that appeal to the common conscious-
ness and sympathy. These qualities the psalms possess in the highest degree,
and in addition they have a sublimity of thought, a magnificence of imagery,
a majesty and strength of movement, that evoke the loftiest energies of a musi-
cal genius that ventures to ally itself with them. In every nation of Christen-
dom they have been made the foundation of the musical service of the Church;
and although many of the greatest masters of the harmonic art have lavished
upon them the richest treasures of their invention, they have but skimmed the
surface of their unfathomable suggestion.
Of the manner in which the psalms were rendered in the ancient Hebrew
worship we know little. The present methods of singing in the synagogues give
us little help, for there is no record by which they can be traced back beyond
the definite establishment of the synagogue worship. It is inferred from the
structure of the Hebrew poetry, as well as unbroken usage from the beginning
of the Christian era, that the psalms were chanted antiphonally or responsively.
That form of verse known as parallelism—the repetition of a thought in dif-
ferent words, or the juxtaposition of two contrasted thoughts forming an
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 47
to the complete absorption of the mind which the sacred function demands.
Both these reasons have undoubtedly combined in so many historic epochs to
keep all the offices of ministry in the house of God in the hands of the male
sex. On the other hand, in the more sensuous cults of paganism no such pro-
hibition has existed.
There is difference of opinion in regard to the style of melody employed
in the delivery of the psalms in the worship of the temple at Jerusalem. Was
it a mere intoned declamation, essentially a monotone with very slight changes
of pitch, like the “ecclesiastical accent” of the Catholic Church? Or was it a
freer, more melodious rendering, as in the more ornate members of the Catholic
Plain Song? The modern Jews incline to the latter opinion, that the song was
true melody, obeying, indeed, the universal principle of chant as a species of
vocalism subordinated in rhythm to the text, yet with abundant movement and
possessing a distinctly tuneful character. It has been supposed that certain
inscriptions at the head of some of the psalms are the titles of well-known tunes,
perhaps folksongs, to which the psalms were sung. We find, e.g., at the head
of Psalm 22 the inscription, “After the song beginning, Hind of the Dawn.”
Psalm 56 has, “After the song, The silent Dove in far-off Lands.” Others have,
“After lilies” (Ps. 45 and 69), and “Destroy not” (Ps. 57–59). We cannot on a
priori principles reject the supposition that many psalms were sung to secu-
lar melodies, for we shall find, as we trace the history of music in the Christ-
ian era, that musicians have over and over again borrowed profane airs for the
hymns of the Church. In fact, there is hardly a branch of the Christian Church
that has not at some time done so, and even rigid Jews in modern times have
employed the same means to increase their store of religious melodies.
That the psalms were sung with the help of instruments seems indicated
by superscriptions, such as “With stringed instruments,” and “To the flutes,”
although objections have been raised to these translations. No such indica-
tions are needed, however, to prove the point, for the descriptions of worship
contained in the Old Testament seem explicit. The instruments were used to
accompany the voices, and also for preludes and interludes. The word “Selah,”
so often occurring at the end of a psalm verse, is understood by many author-
ities to signify an instrumental interlude or flourish, while the singers were for
a moment silent. One writer says that at this point the people bowed in prayer.
Such, generally speaking, is the most that can definitely be stated regard-
ing the office performed by music in the worship of Israel in the time of its
glory. With the rupture of the nation, its gradual political decline, the inroads
of idolatry, the exile in Babylon, the conquest by the Romans, the disappear-
ance of poetic and musical inspiration with the substitution of formality and
routine in place of the pristine national sincerity and fervor; it would inevitably
follow that the great musical traditions would fade away, until at the time of
the birth of Christ but little would remain of the elaborate ritual once commit-
ted to the guardianship of cohorts of priests and Levites. The sorrowing exiles
4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 49
who hung their harps on the willows of Babylon and refused to sing the songs
of Zion in a strange land certainly never forgot the airs concentrated by such
sweet and bitter memories; but in the course of centuries they became lost
among the strange peoples with whom the scattered Israelites found their home.
Many were for a time preserved in the synagogues, which, in the later years
of Jewish residence in Palestine, were established in large numbers in all the
towns and villages. The service of the synagogue was a liturgical service, con-
sisting of benedictions, chanting of psalms and other Scripture passages, with
responses by the people, lessons from the law and the prophets, and sermons.
The instrumental music of the temple and the first synagogues eventually dis-
appeared, and the greater part, if not the whole, of the ancient psalm melodies
vanished also with the dispersion of the Levites, who were their especial cura-
tors. Many details of ancient ritual and custom must have survived in spite of
vicissitude, but the final catastrophe, which drove a desolate, heart-broken
remnant of the children of Judah into alien lands, must inevitably have
destroyed all but the merest fragment of the fair residue of national art by
sweeping away all the conditions by which a national art can live.
Does anything remain of the rich musical service which for fifteen hun-
dred years went up daily from tabernacle and temple to the throne of the God
of Israel? A question often asked, but without a positive answer. Perhaps a few
notes of ancient melody, or a horn signal identical with one blown in the camp
or in the temple court, may survive in the synagogue today, a splinter from a
mighty edifice has been submerged by the tide of centuries. As would be pre-
sumed of a people so tenacious of time-honored usages, the voice of tradition
declares that the intonations of the ritual chant used in the synagogue are sur-
vivals of forms employed in the temple at Jerusalem. These intonations are
certainly Oriental in character and very ancient, but that they date back to the
time of David cannot be proved or disproved. A style of singing like the well-
known “cantillation” might easily be preserved, a complete melody possibly,
but the presumption is against an antiquity so great as the Jews, with pardon-
able pride, claim for some of their weird, archaic strains.
With the possible exception of scanty fragments, nothing remains of the
songs so much loved by this devoted people in their early home. We may spec-
ulate upon the imagined beauty of that music; it is natural to do. Omne igno-
tum pro magnifico (Everything unknown is taken for magnificent). We know
that it often shook the hearts of those who heard it; but our knowledge of the
comparative rudeness of all Oriental music, ancient and modern, teaches us
that its effect was essentially that of simple unison successions of tones wed-
ded to poetry of singular exaltation and vehemence, and associated with litur-
gical actions calculated to impress the beholder with an overpowering sense
of awe. The interest which all must feel in the music of the Hebrews is not due
to its importance in the history of art, but to its place in the history of culture.
Certainly the art of music was never more highly honored, its efficacy as an
50 I. Origins of Sacred Music
agent in arousing the heart to the most ardent spiritual experiences was never
more convincingly demonstrated, than when the seers and psalmists of Israel
found in it an indispensable auxiliary of those appeals, confessions, praises,
and pious raptures in which the whole afterworld has seen the highest attain-
ment of language under the impulse of religious ecstasy. Taking “the harp the
monarch minstrel swept” as a symbol of Hebrew devotional song at large,
Byron’s words are true:
It softened men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, so soul so cold,
That felt not, fired not to the tone,
Till David’s lyre grew mightier than his throne.
The word “religion” is constantly used in two senses that sometimes need
to be somewhat carefully distinguished. On the one hand, it denotes certain
inner states of the heart toward God and toward godliness. In this usage it is
applied to the description of beliefs, moral sentiments, and such purely spiri-
tual qualities as make up personal experience and character. On the other hand,
it also denotes certain bodies of formulated statements and practices in which
such inner religious life comes to social manifestation, including many details
of embodied thought or concrete action that are so distinct from a genuine soul-
experience that they may sometimes be unwillingly substituted for it or thrown
into a kind of opposition to it. The one sense of the word is subjective, the
other objective. The one belongs to the sphere of private individuality, the
other to that of social institutions. However much harm may result from using
this distinction as a means of evading practical spiritual obligations, it is still
necessary and valuable for clear thinking. Religion as a social phenomenon is
largely characterized by outward institutions, such as the organizations of
church polity, the fixed elaborations of church doctrine, and the established
customs of church worship, all of which readily offer themselves to ordinary
historical and scientific scrutiny. These things are in themselves external to
the essence of religion, and yet in many cases are almost the only available
data for the study of religion. So far as they go, they are surely valuable as
indications of the more intimate and intangible sides of religion, and as obvi-
ously powerful agencies in determining and perpetuating religious experience.
When one takes up the question of the relations of the art of music to reli-
gion, it is natural to think first of its evident historic connection with certain
Pratt, Waldo Selden. “Religion and the Art of Music.” In Musical Ministries in the Church: Stud-
ies in the History, Theories, and Administration of Sacred Music. New York: G. Schirmer, 1914.
51
52 I. Origins of Sacred Music
petty way for its own purposes. The connection between the two subjects may
thus be minimized until it seems to be only incidental and accidental. The cap-
tious critic may exclaim, “Music has always been used in war, and with notable
results; and are we therefore to lecture learnedly on War and Music as if they
were somehow akin?” Or possibly he turns the matter about by saying, “Pub-
lic worship is singularly dependent for success on certain aspects of practical
building, like acoustics or ventilation; and are we therefore soberly to discuss
Religion and Acoustics or Religion and Ventilation as necessary to each other?”
In view of possible scoffs like these it may be well to recall one or two con-
siderations that go to show that the relation now before us is not so loose or
casual as either some musical enthusiasts or some religious workers would have
us imagine.
R
It is worth remembering, in the first place, that the art of music is what
it is today largely in consequence of what religion has done for it. By this I
mean that the demands that religion has put upon music, the opportunities and
incentives for its development that religion has afforded, and the basis of
knowledge and character that religion has supplied for musical culture—I mean
that these have furnished to music the necessary occasion and atmosphere and
nutriment for its growth to the stature of a great and famous fine art. Music is
to a striking degree the creation or child of the Church. Many of its most ordi-
nary technical ways and resources were discovered or invented primarily
because the Church needed them. Hundreds of the most constructive masters
were trained primarily as ecclesiastical officers, so that sometimes for ages
together the entire direction of its artistic progress has been given by those
whose minds were full of religious ideas and whose work was actuated by reli-
gious motives. The stages of advance leading up to our modern musical styles
were many of them strictly ecclesiastical undertakings, called forth by reli-
gion, intended to dignify religion, and more or less potent in fostering and con-
serving religion.
This point will bear illustration, though necessitating reference to a few
musical technicalities. It is well known that all orderly musical procedure in
composition rests upon three constructive doctrines: Harmony, dealing with
chords and tonality, Counterpoint, dealing with voice-parts and their inter-
weaving, and Form, including every grade of the rhythmical disposition of
tone-materials. Harmony and Counterpoint are distinguishable, though vitally
interdependent. In our modern theories we usually put Harmony first, but his-
torically Counterpoint was developed first. The altogether extraordinary elab-
oration of Counterpoint in the later Middle Ages was the first systematic effort
to deliver music from its ancient bondage to mere poetical recitation, and to
give it laws of internal structure and organization somewhat analogous to those
of architecture. For some three centuries—say from about 1200 to after 1500—
54 I. Origins of Sacred Music
almost the entire energy of those who made music a real study was put upon
the solution of this problem, whose difficulty is but slightly appreciated by those
who have not themselves wrestled with it. The result was the formulation of
certain laws of musical grammar and rhetoric that have never since been abro-
gated, though their applications have been extended and multiplied. Every
composer today must follow the lines of procedure once for all established rudi-
mentally by tedious experiment and toil some five hundred years ago.
Now, the important fact for us here is that every step in this process was
taken by ecclesiastics and primarily for the upbuilding of church music.
Nowhere but in the Church was there an adequate opening or a salient motive.
The Gregorian style, out of which Counterpoint grew, was itself a style pecu-
liar to the Church. The few pioneers in the tenth, eleventh and twelfth cen-
turies whose names we know were all monks. The earliest piece of
Counterpoint that is now extant, whose date is conjectured to be about 1226,
appears to have been written in an English abbey. Of the recognized masters
in the gradual unfolding of the contrapuntal system, observe that Dufay (died
1474) was a priest, Okeghem (died 1495) a canon, Josquin des Prés (died 1521)
at least a duly appointed choirmaster and organist, and remember further that
the culmination of the whole contrapuntal movement in the sixteenth century
was dominated by the splendid series of church musicians connected with St.
Mark’s, in Venice, or by Lassus (died 1594), the life-long protégé of the Duke
of Bavaria, or by Palestrina (died 1594), whose whole career was spent in active
Church service, most of it in the Papal Chapel. Apparently, then, we may safely
say that this exceedingly rich expansion of music from insignificance into an
artistic system whose possibilities in this special direction of contrapuntal
structure are still by no means exhausted, would have been inconceivable at
this period and perhaps for centuries after, if it had not been for the stimulus
of religion and the cordial support of the Church.
But even before the end of the fifteenth century, and still more as the six-
teenth century progressed, it became clear that purely contrapuntal advance,
strong and remarkable as it was, came up against limitations and disclosed
inherent imperfections. The whole truth regarding musical composition could
not be seen from the merely contrapuntal point of view. The Gregorian sys-
tem had brought over to the Middle Ages from ancient times a theory of scales
that was defective, and strict Counterpoint had failed to solve the fundamen-
tal problem of Form. The necessary supplement was furnished rapidly through-
out the sixteenth century by grafting into sacred music certain new features
that seem to have been chiefly derived from earlier secular music of what was
then esteemed a much humbler sort, from the song of the Troubadours of
France and the Minnesinger of Germany and their successors and from the folk-
dances of the peasantry.
The origin of these new elements cannot be claimed for the Church, and
their first motives were not distinctly religious. But one or two of the main
5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914) (Pratt) 55
channels through which they were now poured into the stream of general musi-
cal tendency were distinctly religious. It will be enough for our purposes to
dwell upon one of these—the famous hymn singing of the Reformation. This
was organized first by Luther and later by Calvin and diligently cultivated by
their followers for purely liturgical and evangelistic purposes. It was carried
forward into practical effect by musical enthusiasts, and it spread far and wide
because it appealed to universal musical tastes. In consequence, to an extent
that is but poorly appreciated by musical historians, the clear instinct or intu-
ition of the common people as to musical methods was made to assume con-
trol of professional or scholastic composition. As we pass over into the
seventeenth century, we find that the whole theory of music has undergone a
revolution, true Harmony and true Form now for the first time taking their
places with Counterpoint as structural determinants of the art. Both of these
constructive elements were strongly developed in the rapidly multiplying
chorales of Germany and Switzerland and Scotland. Wherever the Reforma-
tion spread, the practice of constant hymn singing went, and wherever hymn
singing appeared, the whole course of musical progress was directed, as never
before, into usages in which Counterpoint was fully supplemented by its nec-
essary companion elements. It would be foolish to claim that this great tran-
sition would not have occurred without the aid of Protestant congregational
singing, but it is equally foolish to belittle the part that singing played in has-
tening and diffusing the ideas that distinguished modern music from medieval
at the outset of its career.
Contemporaneous with these movements and involved in them was
another of almost equal importance. The organ, though apparently of Greek
origin in the time of Alexandria’s eminence as a center of culture, had early
been appropriated by the Christian Church as its peculiar musical instrument.
During the next millennium the use of the organ seems to have been confined
to the barest support of plain song, and its construction remained very sim-
ple. But as Counterpoint developed, the structure of the organ necessarily
became more complicated and the technique of its players more skillful. About
1500 we find that the arrangement of the keyboard had become nearly what
we now have, and many other important details of construction had been greatly
improved. The art of organ building had become so mature and lucrative that
we now find it for the first time escaping from the monasteries and becoming
here and there a secular trade. As the instrument improved, its players began
to reach out more or less eagerly after music suitable for it alone, independ-
ent of singing. To write music of this purely instrumental sort began to be an
ambition with leading composers—a wholly new ambition in the field of
scholastic music.
Without stopping for details, we may simply remind ourselves of the obvi-
ous influence of this upon the general advance of the art of composition. Pre-
viously the only instruments in common use (besides the organ) had been solo
56 I. Origins of Sacred Music
instruments, like the flute or the shawn, or at most such petty appliances for
producing small groups of tones as the harp and the lute. There was nothing
at all adequate for producing sustained and concerted efforts except the organ.
Neither of the prototypes of the modern piano had come to maturity, the vio-
lin was still almost a century away, and of course there was nothing like the
true orchestra. So in the sixteenth century the church organ suddenly asserted
itself, both in Italy and in Germany, until it became a powerful artistic influence.
Its leadership continued to grow stronger through the seventeenth century,
especially in Germany, in spite of the steady rivalry of other instruments. In
1700, when Handel and Bach appear actively in the field, large organs were
everywhere common in Northern Europe, dexterous organists were abundant,
and the artistic importance of organ music was more or less generally acknowl-
edged. At that time, especially in England and Germany, most prominent musi-
cians were organists of course, very much as today most of them are pianists.
This fact must be given due weight in estimating the nature of the foundation
on which presently was to be rested the whole great fabric of the music of the
Classical Period, through which the transition was ultimately made to the styles
of the nineteenth century.
Here let us turn back a moment. The existence of well-developed organs
and their incessant use as the basis for all church music led to one rather sur-
prising result. The old medieval Counterpoint has grown in its own way and
within its own field to perfection in the hands of great catholic masters of the
sixteenth century that seemed to be final and unsurpassable. The so-called
Palestrina style closed a period, and from its rather cold and ethereal com-
pleteness there was a decided reaction. Italian music, in particular, branched
off in the seventeenth century into wholly new undertakings, most of them
widely divorced from sacred things. It looked as if the fine art of music in its
craving for dramatic expression was now to part company with religion more
and more. But just here the spirit of Protestantism stepped in. The new mate-
rials and methods of composition with which the Reformation chorales were
an illustration were soon subjected to a steady development in combination
with the true contrapuntal idea. German organ music began to work over
chorale themes in a contrapuntal manner, and in the process uncover unsus-
pected possibilities in contrapuntal form. The same drift appeared strongly in
German writing for voices. And so before the seventeenth century was done
a new school of counterpoint had become established, preserving the essen-
tial principles of procedure in the other style, but applying them with a
confident enterprise and independence, and exhibiting at every point a posi-
tive power of fresh artistic creativeness. Out of this came forth in the early part
of the eighteenth century the splendid polyphony of Handel and Bach. Handel
displayed his genius chiefly in his masterly oratorio choruses; Bach chiefly in
still more wonderful organ works. The two together made an epoch in musical
history, the characteristic feature of which was a display of the latent capacity
5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914) (Pratt) 57
R
One cannot tell just how far these phases of music history may be famil-
iar to the ordinary reader, nor how great a value he may be inclined to place
upon the view of them that has been here advanced. Their importance may
well be thoughtfully weighed by every strenuous mind, as indicating in what
ways the art of music is really indebted to religion, not only for its having grown
into a significant fine art, but for no small part of its technical methods and
character. This general proposition might still be further developed and illus-
trated at length. But it is possible that our argument thus far may seem over-
technical and also a trifle transcendental. Accordingly, it is time to turn the
subject about and look at it from its reverse side. Whether or not music be so
deeply indebted to religion as has been claimed, surely religion as a social insti-
tution owes much to music. This is almost a platitude, but yet may profitably
be dwelt upon for a moment.
The most striking result of the constant association of music with reli-
gion is the steady evolution of the great poetic act of Hymnody—a special
application of poetry to religious uses that is so extensive and so rich that
it merits a whole series of chapters by itself. For example, very few persons
ever stop to consider how much music had to do in giving us the Book of
Psalms and in setting it in canonical place in the Old Testament. Without rais-
ing any of the vexed questions as to who wrote the Psalms and when and under
what circumstances, we may safely assert that the editing of the Book into its
present form was occasioned chiefly by the fact that music has a recognized
place in the Hebrew ritual. The selection of the materials to be included in the
completed collection was probably influenced by observing what had proved
in experience to be liturgically useful for musical rendering. Possibly many
points in the final redaction and arrangement were determined by musical con-
siderations. And certainly the way in which the completed Book passed into
habitual usage and became before Christ’s time one of the best-known parts
of the Old Testament was through song. However rude may have been the artis-
tic quality of Hebrew music and however foreign to our modern notions,
it was still music, artistic according to the standards of its time and place. If
this practice of music in public had not been, the Psalter, with all its inex-
haustible richness of thought, imagery and diction, is not likely (humanly
speaking) to have been framed as it was, nor to have become universally cur-
rent as it did.
How signally true this has also been in the long use of the Psalms in the
Christian Church! For the Hebrews the Psalter was the only hymnbook. For
their Christian successors in some cases it has also been the only hymnbook—
5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914) (Pratt) 59
tance of the ideals underlying it cannot be ignored. Our only point is that what-
ever potency it has had or may be intended to have is due in a large degree to
its abundant and painstaking use of music.
The same thing is true in an analogous way of our own plainer and much
less uniform systems. We also know that religion in its action as a social force
is not only a matter of rational cognition, not only a matter of deliberate voli-
tion, but also a matter of somewhat indefinable emotional attitudes. We know
that the Church in its services, whereby it makes a manifestation of religion
to the world and aims to bring religion effectively to bear upon men, must
always use a great variety of modes of approach. It must instruct men
and indoctrinate them, and it must persuade them and seek to commit them to
voluntary action so as to establish religious character. But to do these things
it must not fail to appeal by every available artistic means to the great maga-
zines of feeling that lie hidden in every human heart. Of these artistic appeals
none is on the whole more penetrating or more intense than music. Nothing
that can be urged by those who profess themselves to be insensible to musi-
cal impressions, or by those who have become righteously exacerbated by
the misuse of sacred music here or elsewhere, can break the force of this gen-
eral truth. There is no artistic means of getting at the internal springs of feel-
ing in the popular heart that can compare with music. The illustrations of this
need not be drawn from the splendid cathedral service, with its imposing array
of polished weaponry. They can be found in many a humble church in towns
and villages where the elaborate ways of the metropolitan sanctuary are prac-
tically unknown and where such ways would be egregiously out of place.
Sooner or later in the work of a settled pastor in every organized parish the
force of this truth makes itself felt. There is a wonderful, indefinable power
in the social routine of the church’s stated services, taken in their massive
totality. This power is plainly made up of several elements. Perhaps if we were
talking about preaching, we should magnify that element, and of course set it
high in all its ideal glory. But the social power of the institution of public wor-
ship is not wholly dependent on preaching, nor on any other one element. It
is rather due to the intimate blending in varying proportions and relations of
several elements, all of which are important both in themselves and for what
they symbolize and suggest. Of these constituent elements in public worship
that give it its social power music is one, and a powerful one, one that the
thoughtful observer can never safely neglect or despise. Personal ignorance of
music or prejudice against it may distort the views of single investigators, but
the great historic fact remains that music has been continuously and univer-
sally of the greatest service to religion in accomplishing its work in society
through the specific means of public worship. And music occupies this place
of power and honor, not by any accident or because of any audacity on its part,
but because the Church through long centuries has been nurturing and train-
ing it for this service. A moment since we were saying that religion has done
5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914) (Pratt) 61
much for music. Now we say that music in return has surely done much for
religion.
R
Before we leave this general and preliminary discussion we must devote
a few pages to a more abstruse side of our subject, which, however, is helpful
to our main purpose. Thus far we have been examining the general fact that
between music and religion as a social institution there is a conspicuous con-
nection, so that part of the social power of public worship is due to music as
one of its main constituents. Now, if this power of music in public worship
exists, it must grow out of some power in music to reach the individuals of
which society consists. Nothing is socially influential that is not first of all per-
sonally influential. Music would never have been so magnified and honored
as a method of religious expression as it has been if it did not have peculiar
personal values to those who produce it and those who hear it. What are these
values? Have they any special bearing on our general subject? In particular,
has the art of tone some subtle influence upon the inner, subjective, experien-
tial side of religion? Many strenuous advocates of music as a spiritual force
make strong statements in this direction. Is their contention extravagant? The
proper consideration of this group of questions would take us far afield into
the extensive domain of musical aesthetics, and would be out of place here.
But we may yet venture to make a few rapid notes upon them without pretend-
ing to offer any exhaustive treatment of the problems involved.
Observe, first of all, that music has a power unmatched among the other
fine arts to act as an illuminator of thought and of life because it is an art of
progressive action. It is not fixed and statuesque in its forms, like all the pic-
torial and plastic arts. It gives, not a single, motionless impression, but a con-
tinuously unfolding impression. In working out its intentions it has therefore
great capacities, not only for repetition or for contrast, but for an organic devel-
opment of great effect through intricate involution in details and through unbro-
ken sequences, gradations and accumulations of its materials into extensive
wholes. It is not static, but dynamic; not rigid, but infinitely elastic; not pic-
torial, but dramatic; in short, not inorganic, but vital. These qualities make it
a twin sister of speech, especially of poetic speech. Whether or not music be
itself a true language, it is at least so analogous with language that the two can
be joined in a union that is not mechanical, but fully sympathetic. The great
compound art of Song is possible because music and speech are akin by nature.
Whatever is true of speech as an interpreter of the human spirit and an influence
upon it is likely to be true in some sense and in some degree of song.
Now, it is music in the form of song that is prominent in all its religious
applications. Religious experience constantly tries to realize itself in words,
seeks to bring to utterance what it knows and feels and desires; and, on the
other hand, religious experience is largely evoked and shaped by suggestions
62 I. Origins of Sacred Music
received through words. Words are needed, both for expression and impres-
sion. The mind must rest with definiteness on certain images, memories, needs,
hopes, cravings, aspirations, ideals, such as only words can embody with pre-
cision. But the attempt to use religious terms by themselves as a means either
of self-realization or of communication brings out in many directions the weak-
ness of mere language as a full embodiment of religious truth and experience.
As everyone knows from his efforts to express himself in prayer, mere words
often break down in setting forth certain religious attitudes of the soul. The
lack in our spoken prayers of an adequate expression of the emotion that
envelopes and permeates the thoughts we have is often due not so much to any
real deficiency of feeling in us as to the inherent inadequacy of verbal speech.
And what is true of prayer is still more true of such utterances as are attempted
in hymns, both those that are meditative or pathetic and those that are jubilant
and triumphant. Even the immense resources of poetry as contrasted with mere
prose are not sufficient for what we aim to do.
Here music comes in, with an almost magical power to incorporate itself
with the words we use, to follow their every movement and suggestion, and to
add to them just that color and glow and sweep of emotional momentum that
are needed. Music thus presents itself as a true extension of language, giving
the latter a scope and an intensity impossible for it by itself. Nowhere does
language need this expansion and reinforcement more than in the sphere of
religious utterance and intercommunication. The historical and scientific
aspects of religion, it is true, are finely supplied with the terms necessary to
their use; but these are not the aspects that constitute the inner side of reli-
gion. When one would set forth or address the heart-life and the soul-life that
are the home of spiritual experience, he is bound to find mere language piti-
fully meager and stiff and cold. Hence in all Christian history men have reached
out instinctively and eagerly after every kind of artistic help to fuller expres-
sion and suggestion. Painting, sculpture, architecture, dramatic representation,
poetry, eloquence—all have been called into religion’s service, and in each case
with glorious and monumental results. But we may venture to say that none
of these religious uses of art has been or in the nature of the case can be greater
in variety, significance, or persistent effectiveness than the special religious
applications of music. Our American poet, Sidney Lanier, with his prophetic
insight, never wrote a truer line than this—“Music is love in search of a word.”
We know what infinite meaning he gave to “love,” and how he meant by it all
that the best spiritual thought could require. And what he affirmed of love that
might also have been affirmed of hope and peace and joy and all the other car-
dinal sentiments of the inmost spiritual life. Words alone cannot tell them or
preach them, but song can and does in forms too manifold and ethereal to be
described. Hence it is that in public worship, where just these sentiments strug-
gle into open manifestation, music, at least in the form of song, becomes prac-
tically a necessity.
5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914) (Pratt) 63
But we must not omit a further point. Music evidently does not rest wholly
upon speech. It is so independent that sometimes it may nullify the words with
which it happens to be joined, or may swing off into regions of its own where
neither words nor the processes of ordinary thought can exactly follow it. There
it seems to be entirely self-centered and self-determined. Indeed, this field of
pure music (without words) is that on which the trained musician is apt to
dwell as the only one of genuine importance. Without balancing the delicate
question of the relative values of music with words and without words, what
shall be said about the moral quality and religious value of pure music and of
music considered apart from its words? Is such music essentially neutral in
these respects, depending wholly on conditions outside itself, as many would
have us believe? Or is it open to classifications as to moral and spiritual char-
acter, so that certain types are to be held as unfit for religious use and other
types are to be sought and cultivated?
For myself, I must feel that all music is in itself a display of the person-
ality of both composer and performer, and hence an appeal to the personality
of the hearer. Like other personal communications, it may have—nay, must
have—moral values and implications. Hence, with reference to a particular
application, as to the uses of religion, it must be regarded as open to exact
analysis and criticism and its actual use as subject to rational judgment. The
fitness of any musical production for use in public worship does not depend
wholly upon its merely formal excellence. Some very poor music has proved
itself liturgically useful; and some very perfect music has proved liturgically
pernicious. The actual effect depends on so many conditions that at the same
moment it may differ in value for different observers and escapes full descrip-
tion in all cases. Yet, even so, we know from the parallel problem of apprais-
ing literary effects that there are certain canons of criticism and interpretation
that go far toward settling what is the real or absolute character and value. These
can be rationally applied by experts and through education can be made more
or less generally appreciated. Musical criticism, however, is as yet in a far
more chaotic state than literary criticism. Musicians themselves are not all
adepts in their own subject, and popular thought is much bewildered. Hence
actual music is often produced and used with a provoking blindness to its moral
values, and much passes for religious music that cannot continue always to be
regarded as healthy and true. We are all conscious of incongruities and abuses
in church music. Sometimes they are so glaring as to give rise to disgust and
despair about the whole subject. The attempt to discuss them often leads to
bitter differences of opinions, severe collisions of judgment, and even personal
estrangements.
These difficulties are certainly most perplexing. I mention them here sim-
ply for this reason. The very existence of such energetic debate regarding them
is an irrefragable evidence of an intuitive perception that music has a real
moral and religious power. There never would be such persistent debates if
64 I. Origins of Sacred Music
there were not in the background an obstinate belief that music in connection
with religion has certain unattained ideal values. Sacred music would long ago
have been laid aside or at least greatly minimized were it not for an instinc-
tive assurance that it might be more than it sometimes is and for an irrepress-
ible demand that it be made more nearly what it ought to be. The real problem
about church music is not whether or not it has substantial values with refer-
ence to religion as an experience, but how better to realize its ideals by prac-
tical means.
PART II
Music and Spirituality
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,6.
Music in Relation to
Public Worship
(1881)
John Bulmer
Bulmer, John. Music in Relation to Public Worship: A Sermon. Cambridge: Jones and Piggott,
1881.
67
68 II. Music and Spirituality
public offering to God, it will, surely, be acceptable; but no blessing can attend
our upraising of the various forms of sacred Music, unless there also ascend
along with them, and far above them, that inner Music of the faithful spirit,
holding sweet communion with God, of which the Apostle makes mention in
our text: “Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.”
,7.
Newton, R. Heber. The Mysticism of Music. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1915.
73
74 II. Music and Spirituality
Year intelligently. The Epiphany season, with which each New Year opens,
brings to us the thought of God’s manifestation of Himself to man, apart from
all the narrow, ecclesiastical channels, otherwise than through religious dog-
mas; His manifestation of himself to all mankind through all forms of truth
and beauty and goodness. The Magi were led to Christ by the star—through
their favorite study of astronomy. So truly wise men, in every line of science
and art, may be led to the Christ of God through their favorite studies. The
spirit of the Epiphany-tide is expressed in the fine anthem so often sung at the
season—“Send out Thy light and Thy truth; let them lead me and bring me
unto Thy holy hill.”
Our modern world is not more distinctively the age of science than it is
the age of music. Perhaps the truths which science has been sent to give men,
blurring traditional faith, denying much of the theology of the priests and doc-
tors, may find their corrective in the truths which music has been sent to teach,
reflecting the theology of the mystics. Certainly, no narrow, dogmatic, eccle-
siastical theology is to be looked for from music. You will never extricate the
Thirty-Nine Articles or the Westminster Confession from Beethoven. You may,
however, find in music the poetic philosophy which is at the core of the Nicene
Creed—the spirit, not the letter of the Creed. You cannot tell the formal reli-
gion of a musician from his music. What Protestant would know that Liszt was
a Roman Catholic? The flooding tides of music swamp the little sheep-pens
of the priest. The religion found in music is as large as man. It is the religion
not of the church merely, but of the family, the school, the factory, and the
capitol—the life of humanity in all its sacred secularity. “Its sacred secular-
ity”—there is its secret. Restrained by the timid hands of ecclesiastics within
the temple, shut up to canticle and oratorio and mass, music burst forth, poured
itself into the life of the world, and lo! The cantata and symphony grow so
serious, so earnest, that the feelings awakened in listening to them are indis-
tinguishable from the feelings roused in the church; and now even the opera
is seen to be capable of growing so mystic as to make a stage scene hush the
soul with awe. Here is the broad thought known to all who love music intelli-
gently, that it expresses, outside of the church, the highest principles of reli-
gion and morality, as they influence the sentiments and actions of men. Music
vindicates thus the cardinal principle of religion, its central article of faith—
that human life, as such, is divine, that the secular is after all sacred. Why?
Ponder this question, and the suggestions to be now offered may well be antic-
ipated.
I
Music, as we know it, was born into the word in the age of science. It is
the art of the age of knowledge. We need not, then, be surprised to find that
music is not an art merely, that it is a science as well. This, which is true of
7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 75
II
Whence then does music draw its philosophy?
Music is not an imitation of nature. Nature provides no ready-made mod-
els of melody or harmony, as she provides perfect types of form and color.
Hints she gives of music, but only hints. Man evolves music from within his
own nature. It is distinctly the human art. It comes forth in the awakening self-
consciousness of man. Music expresses the awakening self-consciousness of
the universe, only to find a deeper mystery within himself. The marvelous cre-
ations of modern music are studies in self-consciousness; attempts to run the
gamut of man’s moods, to fathom the problems of his being, to find a voice for
An infant crying in the night,
An infant crying for the light.
Music is, then, man’s interpretation of the mystery of nature found with-
out him, by the secrets of the nature found within him. It is the universe read
in terms of self-consciousness.
According to music, then, man himself is to yield us our highest philos-
ophy of the universe. We must accept the thought given within his mind as our
76 II. Music and Spirituality
highest and truest thought of the universe. We must implicitly trust that
thoughts, as the most adequate manifestation of the Infinite and Eternal Energy
which animates nature and which rises with man as self-consciousness.
In this thought, music is at one with philosophy; whose masters, from Plato
on, have always busied themselves with the study of man, accepting the con-
ceptions which man’s nature gives of the mystery of the universe, and trust-
ing those conceptions. In this, music, also, is at one with poetry, the greatest
masters of which likewise find their absorbing theme in man. Homer, Dante,
Shakespeare, Browning, use nature as the setting for the study of man.
In contrast with the physical science of our age, which concerns itself
wholly with the physical universe, the art of our age, music, concerns itself
with the metaphysical universe—the universe above and beyond the realm of
physics; having in this the authority of philosophy and poetry. Music bids us
look within, if we would find our highest conception of the Idea of the World;
trust that conception arising in man’s self-consciousness, as the truest attain-
able mirror of the Infinite and Eternal Energy, and lean our whole weight on
the affirmations of human personality.
There is in this one principle a whole theology in a nutshell. No man ever
doubts of God or immortality who trusts the instincts and institutions of his own
nature, who relies on the trustworthiness of the affirmations of consciousness.
And if one’s own self-consciousness be clouded, through the imperfect
development of his being, let a man trust the consciousness of the masters of
music, since they are at one with the masters of philosophy and poetry: and,
finding them devout, religious, hopeful, trustful, let him be sure that “The Idea
of the World,” manifesting itself in holy music and in holy philosophy and in
holy poetry, is the true vision, and let him be at peace.
The great musicians of an age are its interpreters, the priests of nature,
leading us within the most holy place of the universe—the soul of man.
III
What do we find in entering this holy place, led by “Holy Music”?
We find a realm of the invisible, as this inner sphere of life. All sciences
lead us up the threshold of this inner creation, this unseen universe, throw the
door ajar and point us within. All arts press through the open door into the
vestibule of the inner temple. Music takes us by the hand, boldly leads us
within, closes the door after us, and then leaves us alone in this inner world.
In his oration upon Beethoven, Wagner wrote—“As soon as the first measures,
only, of one of Beethoven’s divine symphonies are heard, the entire phenom-
enal world, which impenetrably hems us in on every side, suddenly vanishes
into nothingness; music extinguishes it as sunshine does lamplight. In music’s
enigmatically entwined lines and wonderfully intricate characters stand writ-
ten the eternal symbols of a new and different world.”
7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 77
IV
This inner, unseen world makes itself felt, under the spell of music, as a
most real world; nay, as the real world, the only real world. He who, in listen-
ing to a great symphony, forgets himself, forgets those about him, forgets the
outer world of things seen and sensible, sitting with eyes closed and ears
sealed—is carried away on “the golden tides of music’s sea,” until he feels him-
self in the presence of thoughts and ideas which seem the true reality of life.
To come back to the crowds on the Boulevard, the Avenue, the Square, and
the garish light of the world of “reality,” as men term it, is to him, then, to
drop into the world of appearances, illusions, shams and unrealities. That which
all sciences hint and all art declare, music confirms, as with the oath of the
eternal Himself—“the things which are seen are temporal; the things which
are unseen are eternal.”
Beethoven, in his latter days, became almost completely deaf. Sitting
before his piano and playing on it, he could not hear a sound. Yet tender
melodies and marvelous harmonies poured forth from his fingers; not as the
results of composition, but as the transcripts of the music which the deaf man
heard somewhere. “Heard,” I say, for this music was heard, with a most real
hearing, as he himself tells us. Heard within, pushing through the inner realm,
invisible, inaudible. Ponder this fact for a moment, quietly, and it will be seen
that we are taking a solid step forward when we go on to affirm our next
thought.
V
Music reveals the reality of Spirit; not merely of my spirit or of your spirit,
but of Spirit, “writ large”: of what the Hindus meant by “The Self.” Music
brings us face to face with a most real world, in which is the manifestation of
a most real Power; a Power not ourselves, greater than us all; before us, round
about us; in which we, with all things living, live and move and have our being.
This is not rhapsodizing or sentimentalizing. It is speaking soberly of this
reality, into whose presence music leads us; this realm unseen, unseeable,
within the phenomenal world, through which surge the tides of music’s golden
sea; melodies enrapturing, harmonies most heavenly, of which the music that
we hear in the great symphonies is but a faint echo, thrown out upon the audi-
ble world. As the masters who have passed within this mystic sphere tell us,
in such rapt experiences they do not compose; they do not invent, they copy;
and their noblest works are the memories of these strains which no ear may
hear. They are possessed by another and larger life, another and larger being,
the Life, the Being which animates the world within, invisible, inaudible, yet,
most real. Their spirits open, and the Infinite and Eternal Spirit within all life
pours in and fills them to overflowing.
78 II. Music and Spirituality
The deaf Beethoven thus heard that which enabled him to interpret the
varied phases and moods of nature’s existence, of man’s whole life. “And now
the musician’s eye became enlightened from within. He now cast his glance
upon phenomena which, illumined by his inner light, were re-imparted in won-
derful reflex to his soul. Now, again, the essence of the nature of things alone
speaks to him, displaying them to him in the calm light of beauty. He now
understands the forest, the brook, the meadow, the blue ether, the merry throng,
the pair of lovers, the song of the birds, the flying clouds, the roar of the storm,
the bliss of beatific repose.”
How could this be, unless he had found the Spirit which is the life of all
things?
And thus a notable change passed over Beethoven himself. His natural
melancholy, aggravated so pitifully in the early stages of his infirmity, light-
ened into a serenity which, if not joy, was at least peace; and he seemed to
have found the mystic secret of life. How shall we speak of this mystic expe-
rience save in the words of the great master of our day, who tells of finding
through music, “The God within the human breast, of whom our greatest mys-
tics have always been so certainly and so luminously conscious.”
The genius of one of the greatest of French masters of fiction makes this
experience perfectly clear. Balzac gives us, in Louis Lambert, this picture of
the culmination of musical inspiration, in his description of the improvisations
of a genius. “Here Gambara fell into ecstasy, improvising the most melodious
and harmonious cavatina that Andrea had ever heard; a song divine, divinely
sung; a theme of grace comparable only to that of the O filii et filice, and full
of charm which none but a musical genius of the highest order could have
given. The Count was filled with admiration. The clouds were breaking,
heaven’s blue shining forth; angelic forms appeared, and raised the veils that
hid the sanctuary; the light of heaven streamed down in torrents; silence soon
reigned. The Count, surprised to hear no more, looked up at Gambara, who,
with fixed eyes and rigid body, stammered the word—‘God.’”
VI
This is the language of the mystic, not of the ecclesiastic, and as such is
unsatisfactory to the theological Gradgrinds, who never feel that they have an
idea unless they can condense it and see it; who never think they have a belief
unless they can bottle it in a dogma, analyze it, resolve it, label it and store it
away among the things which they have exhausted of mystery. Vague this
thought of God is, and rightfully so. Vague it must ever be; as vague as the
reality transcending our human thinking, making itself felt as reality, while
eluding any clearing up by the understanding. The dogmatist would place in
our hands a telescope to resolve the spiritual nebulae. The mystic knows that
no such lenses have been ground, and humbly offers up the glass which will
7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 79
bring within the field of the inner vision the reality which we can never hope
to map. The mystic’s thought of God has always been thus rightfully vague.
Herein it is the only thought which can meet the need of the age whose sci-
ence has at least impressed on man, never again to be lost, the truth of the
ancient world: “We can by searching find out God.” To the age of science,
taught that the Infinite and Eternal Energy which is manifested in the over-
whelmingly vast universe now opening on man’s vision must for ever be beyond
human comprehension—to this age of science, finding its highest eloquence
of worship in silence, ordering as the ritual of its holiest hours the finger upon
the lips, comes music, the art of the modern world; with a revelation of the
reality of the Infinite and Eternal Soul of all things, whom it manifests within
the mind of man; giving us the name for ever sacred to the soul, as the con-
secrated symbol through which successive ages have declared the faith tran-
scending all definition, and whispering—“God.”
Do you fear that in this vagueness there will be loss of power? The
thoughts of music are certainly vague, but therein lies their power. Music of
the highest order scarcely needs words to express its meaning to the listener—
being itself poetry. You are not helped, ordinarily, in the following of a great
work by the notes of the program. A libretto is helpful to the interpretation of
the musical drama only when written by a genius who is at once a poet and a
musician. If you surrender yourself to the music itself, become enraptured
with it, you feel that meaning of it, though you cannot put that meaning into
words. Words may only becloud the vision of the soul. Mendelssohn entitled
his exquisite collection—“Songs without Words.” Can there be such songs
without words? You do not doubt it after listening to these wordless strains,
whose thoughts and feelings could not be clearer by any articulation of speech.
All the greatest thoughts are thoughts too deep for words. Are they unreal,
therefore? Is not their power in the speechless wonder with which they thrill
us? Words are only intellectual symbols, signs for thoughts, suggesting what
they cannot worthily express; and musical notation is only an emotional sym-
bolism, suggesting that which, as feeling, lies beyond all words and thoughts.
“Where words end, there music begins.”
The greater the thought, the more intense the feeling which it generates—
the more surely does it pass out of the intellect into the heart, cease to be
a mere thought, and become a mental and spiritual apprehension deeper than
all conscious thinking. As Mr. Haweis writes in Music and Morals: “Once
raise a thought to its highest power, and it not only is accompanied by the
highest emotion, but, strange to say, actually passes out of the condition of a
thought altogether, into the condition of an emotion; just as a hard metal, raised
to a sufficient power of heat, evaporates into the most subtle and attenuated
gas.”
Wordsworth thus writes of the highest experience of man:
80 II. Music and Spirituality
Thus the musician becomes the fit theologian of our age, making us feel
the reality of the Infinite and Eternal Spirit whom we name God, and hushing
us in the awe of silence, though in the perfect peace and trust.
VII
“The prefect peace of trust.” For this Spirit, before whom music leads us to
bow in worship, is so revealed to us as, even in our most speechless feeling, to
make us sure that It is trustworthy; to assure us that we may say, not It, but He.
For, to end with the note with which we began, whither does music lead us, as
into the holy place of this awful presence? Within the soul of man. What is the
mirror in which this Mystic Face is reflected? The soul of man. How do we come
to perceive this vision? By awakening into self-consciousness. The human per-
sonality is, then, the revelation of God. That can only mean that we must think
of God, if we think of Him at all, in terms drawn from human nature; that we
must conceive of God as the Perfect Man, the source and spring of human
nature. Its ground and root is then a Being who, however He may transcend per-
sonality, cannot be less than personal; of whom the only worthy name is the
child’s word, the word of the child soul, of the Eternal Child within the
Nazarene—“Our Father which art in heaven.”
So, through our mysterious human nature, with its mind, its heart, its con-
science, rises dimly the shadow of a Being of Infinite Truth, Infinite Beauty,
Infinite Goodness, and we know the profound meaning of The Christ’s words:
“If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how
7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 81
much more will your Father which is in heaven give the Holy Spirit”—the
Spirit revealed through holy music—“unto them that love him?” Love—that is
the central word in the mystery of man. It is the core of his being, round which
all grows. It is the divinest element in our human nature. It is the best image
of the Father of our spirits. Of Beethoven, his great interpreter wrote: “His soul
of souls said to him—‘Love is God’; and so he, too, decreed: ‘God is love.’”
VIII
“God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.” He who in the mys-
tic’s vision, through poetry or philosophy or music, or through the spiritual
experiences of the search after goodness, finds God, finds that we, too, live
and move and have our being in Him, and that, because He is, we shall be also.
He cannot die who is in God. Immortality is bound up with the faith in God.
So, again, “Holy Music” makes perfectly clear this faith of the human heart,
which is the corollary of the faith in God. In that pathetic will which Beethoven
wrote, he thus expressed his own onlook: “I go to meet death with joy.” And
one feels, as he reads Beethoven’s words about death, that his joy was one pass-
ing his understanding; a whisper which he did not clearly interpret, whereof
the feeling was truer than the thought. He seemed to think of death—but his
feeling of joy was the breath of life from “the land of the living.”
How true this is, let us learn from the death of another great master. “One
evening, toward sunset, Chopin, who had lain insensible for many hours, sud-
denly rallied. He observed the Countess, draped in white, standing at the foot
of the bed. She was weeping bitterly. ‘Sing,’ murmured the dying man. She
had a lovely voice. It was a strange request, but so earnest a one that his friends
wheeled the piano from the adjoining parlor to his bedroom door; and there,
as the twilight, deepening with the last rays of the setting sun, streamed into
the room, the Countess sang that famous canticle to the Virgin which, it is said,
once saved the life of Stradella. ‘How beautiful it is!,’ he exclaimed: ‘My God,
how beautiful!—again—again!’ In another moment he swooned away.”
IX
Thus, unless I have followed her leadings blindly, “Holy Music” comes
to us as a prophet from Samaria, revealing to our age of darkened spiritual
vision the mystic faith which the Church has imperfectly breathed, through
her dogmatic creeds and ecclesiastical institutions, in the suffering soul of
men. Close your Bibles, if you must, drop out from your churches, if you can-
not attend them, but think not thus to lose the theology which ever has vital-
ized the Church. Outer body of dead wood may die and fall away, when its
time comes. Inner life and soul can never die, while sciences hint and arts lift
the veil and holy music leads us within that veil before the altar. Profoundly
82 II. Music and Spirituality
significant is it that, in this age when men turn away from the accredited
prophets, these other voices of the soul make themselves heard, in clear, calm
tones; giving us again the mystic’s vision and the mystic’s faith.
Thus may we hear The Eternal saying unto the Daughter of His Voice,
“Holy Music”:
Lo, I have given thee
To understand my presence and to feel
My fullness: I have filled thy lips with power.
I have raised thee nigher to the sphere of heaven,
Man’s first, last home; and thou, with ravished sense,
Listenest the lordly music falling from
Th’ illimitable years.
I
There is a science as well as an art in music. Art there is in music, unques-
tionably. At first sight it seems altogether an art, a skill achieved by genius,
unaccountably transcending all rules.
7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 83
The boy gifted with a genius for music begins to play after his own sweet
will. In the old barn or up in the garret, away from the family, he steals to be
alone with his fiddle, surrendering himself to his boyish improvisations, which
know no law. If he be sent at work under a master, he cannot keep behind the
plodding steps of the pedagogue, but leaps in a bound to the mastery of his
art, such as dazzled the world in the boy Mozart. With the growing conscious-
ness of power, he overleaps all recognized systems and defies all known rules;
accomplishing marvels such as those with which Paganini astonished the musi-
cal world. Yet is he only flying over the terra firma of science, along which
mere talent plods wearily. That terra firma of fixed rule, of rigid system, is
there, beneath him, and, but for it, genius could not fly in its atmosphere of
inspiration. The masters may never know the principles on which they work,
the system which runs through their work. Turner did not know the geology
which he illustrated in his pictures of the Alpine rock strata. The boy Mozart
did not know that all his wizard actions were reducible to science. Yet, when
the critic comes to study genius, he discovers that these defiances of rule are
but the actions of a higher rule, protests against conventionality, expansions
one and all of law. He finds that the master’s beautiful chords and progressions
thence are not capricious violations of rule, possible to genius though unat-
tainable by ordinary composers. There proves to be nothing haphazard in the
work of genius. All turns out to be orderly, methodical, accordant with law.
So the rules which are laid down for the student prove to be but the trans-
lation, into consciously recognized methods, of the unconscious processes of
the master—a systematizing of the practices of genius for the use of talent.
The master’s magical action was the unconscious, instinctive movement of
mind along the lines of law, which criticism clears for all to see and follow.
Art is thus the forerunner of science; and the master’s use of harmonies, which
are justifiable at the time by no known laws, are justified then in their efforts,
and, later on, by a larger knowledge.
The rules of musical art are, thus, not arbitrary, but necessary, natural.
What seem to be empirical rules, drawn from the practice of the masters, prove
to rest upon natural principles, by which, unknowingly, the masters wrought.
Thus a science opens beneath the art of music—and the magical realm
of harmony proves to be but one sphere of the universal reign of law.
In the familiar tradition which has come down from history, Pythagoras
discovered the musical scale by watching certain blacksmiths, pounding iron
in a smithy. Observing, reflecting, experimenting upon the sounds which he
there heard, the simple, physical secret of sound revealed itself to him—the
law which the child learns, when he takes a number of pieces of glass and by
arranging them in different lengths produces a scale, and makes a tune. We
know now that the magic of music can be learned and practiced, that the wiz-
ard genius works upon fixed principles, that the most bewildering beautiful
harmonies are all expressions of mathematical relationships, that on the world
84 II. Music and Spirituality
of sound there is a reign of law. Tennyson’s fine touch sums up the mystery of
music, in a pregnant word: “And music in the bounds of law.”
Thus we find in music the secret of the universe. There is no fear that our
age will miss this open secret in the realm of science. We may, however, dis-
cover it quite as clearly in the realm of art.
The great art-critic, Winkelmann, studied the Apollo Belvidere with a
minuteness of criticism never given before; and discovered that every most
seemingly careless sweep of its beautiful lines reveals the action of exactest
mathematics. He found that he could give the secret of that classic statue in
terms of figures; that its charm was a matter of scientific proportion; that he
could write the formula for each curve of that noble form.
The realm of the beautiful is, equally with the realm of the true and the
good, under the universal reign of law.
II
Yet, further, as we thus find hinted to us in the secret of music, all laws
are correlated. The law of one sphere proves to be the law of the other spheres.
We may translate a law of physics into terms of aesthetics and of ethics.
When Winkelmann found the law governing the lines of Apollo Belvidere,
he found it in terms not of art, but of mathematics. He found a mathematical
statement of the law of proportion which shaped every curve of that wonder-
ful form.
It is only as we break up into bits of men—clergymen and other such pro-
fessional manikin—that we fancy the laws of our individual spheres to be iso-
lated. The men in whom the various powers of life blend know that all spheres
of life are concentric, that the laws of one world are the laws of all worlds.
This was fertile thought which inspired Goethe, in those marvelous
guesses at truth which anticipated some of the greatest discoveries of modern
savants. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which a great-braided friend,
whose friendship grows dearer to me as the years of that privileging comrade-
ship recede, followed the Ariadne clue to this knowledge. Himself artist and
musician and lover of science, he one day left my side in a railway train to talk
with a musician whom I had introduced to him. For an hour or two, he talked
absorbingly; returning to my side with his face all aglow, to assure me that he
had found a certain law of form, which he was seeking, in a law of sound
which he had learned from my musical friend—as he had long hoped prove
the case. In despair of discovering that law in art, he found it in music.
III
Nor is it that all spheres manifest this interchange of thought, but, from
Winkelmann’s study of the Apollo, we learn that this universal mystery of law,
7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 85
reigning everywhere, one and the same through all spheres, translating itself
from one tongue to another, finds its highest term in the language of that art
which we are now studying. In the secret of music we hold the key to that uni-
verse in which is the reign of law.
Shakespeare is thought to be merely poetizing when he describes the uni-
verse in that glowing vision familiar to us all:
There’s not the smallest orb which thou beholdest;
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins.
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Dost grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Yet this is what all great poets have seen, declaring, in some form, the
conviction of Emerson, that:
The world was built in order,
And the atoms march in tune.
IV
Let me give you three striking illustrations of these high thoughts of law
to which we have been led. Some years ago, the great savant, John Tyndall,
made certain curious experiments in the translation of colors into sounds.
Arranging a row of various colored lights, by a very simple mechanism he
caused the vibrations of the light waves to translate themselves into sound
waves, and thus produced a sound for each color, a prism of sound.
Within recent years, a very curious book has been given to the English-
speaking people. It is the result of long study by a man of remarkable meta-
physical powers and of equally remarkable mathematical powers. Early in life,
he conceived the idea that—since the synthetic laws of mathematics express
the inner and cosmic laws of proportion, through and by which all life is
ordered—philosophy itself might be translatable into terms of metaphysics;
that a mathematical diagram might be drawn in which the fundamental pos-
tulates of philosophy should be expressed to the eye. Working out along the
86 II. Music and Spirituality
heaven and the periods of sun and moon, and the variations and harmonious reve-
lations of the other stars; having appointed His true Word, His First-Begotten Son,
to have the care of his great flock, as the Vicegerent of the Great King.
This was the vision before our Yankee mystic, the Hindu seer of Concord,
when, closing the wonderful strain of the “Woodnotes,” he declares that—
“Conscious Law is King of Kings.”
The universe under law, all law one, that law immanent in nature, direct-
ing all, ruling all—what is this but the very presence and action of the Infinite
and Eternal Intelligence, God?
Gaining this vision, we reach the heart of the Christian Faith, we hold the
key to the Nicene Creed, whose doctrines of the Trinity and of the Incarna-
tion of the Logos are but the expressions of this very thought, world-old and
worldwide. The Nicene Fathers, as we can now see, were shaping a cosmol-
ogy and theology in one; a cosmic theology; a theology which finds the secret
of the universe in the Law everywhere present, all ruling, all directing; itself
the Vicegerent of the Infinite and Eternal Intelligence, God. That indwelling
Law of creation seemed to these fathers none other than God Himself; yet, as
it were, a secondary form of the God who, in His essential nature, transcends
all human thought. Thus they conceived of a Dual God; the Father, transcen-
dent, unknowable, who in creation manifests Himself partially, so that the uni-
verse is an image of Him, His Only-Begotten Son.
This Law divine is not merely the law of the material creation but of the
moral order. It is not only a law physical, but a law ethical, acting with moral
aim, in moral beings, toward moral ends; working towards the creation of char-
acter. God is the Good One, ever moving to lift into goodness, and so into Him-
self; thus reconciling man unto God. The Good Man, who perfectly realizes
the idea, the thought of God, in man; who embodies in an individual the moral
energy which is working in the universe—this Man we rightly identify with
that divine Logos or Law which is immanent in nature, indwelling man, the
life and soul of all things, the redeeming and reconciling power of God in
humanity. Thus we affirm—“The Word was made flesh.”
On the surface of things, it does not seem as though law was thus order-
ing all things in nature and mastering all powers in man—out-working a moral
purpose.
Law in nature does not seem to have morally mastered the universe. It is
everywhere holding the millions of stars which the monster Lick telescope
reveals, in the harmonious movements of a beautiful physical order; but where,
men say, are the more harmonious movements of a beautiful moral order in
nature? Strife and discord seem everywhere present. The very law of progress
88 II. Music and Spirituality
The captious critic of the universe stands so close to creation that he fails
to coordinate the jarring instruments into a symphony. He forgets that, as Pope
long ago saw, we too should see:
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood.
Nor has he found the truth which the philosopher-poet of modern India,
Rabindranath Tagore, has learned in his inner experience:
“When Thou commandest me to sing, it seems that my heart would break
with pride; and I took to Thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh
and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony—and my adoration
spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.”
As I stand before the great orchestra, I am self-condemned, again, if, in
my impatience, I will not hear the work out; thus to find how the clashing dis-
sonance, which seems to me only discord running riot, is on the way to the
pure harmony in which it melts at length. What interpretation of great sym-
phony of music-drama can there be which fails patiently to follow on the stress
and strain of the earlier movements into the reconciliation of the final harmony,
with its peace serene, seraphic, its joy unspeakable and full of glory? The
ancients used to speak of man as the spectator of the drama of the universe.
If he would rightfully judge that drama, he must see it out. He must, at the
least, refrain from criticism upon the work whose issue he does not see and
hear.
The final harmony of a great symphony is not merely auditory, but intel-
lectual and spiritual. It is not only the harmony which the ear hears, but the
inner harmony of which it is the expression, the ultimate harmoniousness of
life. It expresses, sacramentally, the close of the battle of life, the issue of the
tragedy of life; and the outward and visible sign—the heavenly harmony—is
the sacrament of the inward and spiritual grace, the good thing given of God,
the victory, the reconciliation, the restoration; salvation from sin, character
won, God found. This is the inner secret of that strain of peace and hope with
which the heavenly knight bids adieu to the scene of suffering and temptation,
of sin and sorrow, in Lohengrin.
Through what storm and struggle does Beethoven express, in the immor-
tal Ninth Symphony, the turmoil and perturbation of the soul of man; its seem-
ingly vain and fruitless effort to find satisfaction, the discord which prevails
within, un-reconciled, un-harmonized. The clashing sounds of the multitudi-
nous instruments of the great orchestra seem but the audible sign and symbol
of that inner discord in which man’s powers strive in vain for harmony. But
there rises from the harsh dissonance a soft, sweet strain, simple as the song
of a child, serene as the song of the seraphs. Lost again in the great tumult,
once more it emerges; losing itself and re-emerging, again and again; each time
90 II. Music and Spirituality
growing clearer, rising stronger, mounting higher, until at length it bursts forth
in that matchless song of peace and joy which has forever enshrined, in per-
fect form, the bliss of the human soul, attaining its goal, gaining the end of its
being, reconciling its powers, finding itself in God.
Our great scientific musician distinctly declares that Beethoven’s prob-
lem in that Symphony was to find in music the original type of human purity,
a strain expressive of the ideal Good Man of his creed.
“In precisely that work, the deliberately recalling Will of its Creator unmis-
takably prevails. We meet its expression without any intermediation. When,
to the raging of the desperation that after each silencing constantly returns, as
with the cry of fright of one awakening from a fearful dream, that Will calls
out in the actually spoken word, the ideal sense of which is none other than—
‘Man is good after all.’”
VI
And thus we return to the thought with which we began, having completed
the circle. Music is the sign of love. Love is the central reality of life. It is the
secret of the power which is working through all things, creating, redeeming,
restoring. It is the symbol of that Triune God, who is at once Creator, Redeemer,
and Reconciler. So, again, Wagner writes of Beethoven, expressing the ulti-
mate truth to which he reached and which he prophetically revealed through
music: “His soul of souls said to him—‘Love is God’; and so he too decreed—
‘God is love.’”
It is what Browning, the most virile poet of our day, tells us in conclu-
sion of his noble poem, “Saul”:
All’s love, yet all’s law.
There is a reign of law, and that law is love. “God is love.” Jesus is the
Christ of God, the incarnation of that divine love. He is the Savior who has
come to save us from our sins, by breathing within us that moral energy, that
spiritual life, in which all the discords of earth shall be lifted into the harmonies
of heaven; and man shall gain the mastery of himself, and be at peace.
It is a fundamental law of musical composition that great works should begin
and end in the same key. That great poem, that great symphony which we call
the universe, began in love divine. It will close in love human made divine, the
love of God outworking itself in the love of man, reconciling all things unto itself.
Handel desired that he might die on a Good Friday. On that day which
commemorates the dying love of a man in whom the living love of God is seen,
as in a sacrament of flesh, the spirit of the great musician passed away; to find
the secret of his earthly harmonies in that love, infinite and eternal, which is
working out the redemption of all life, the lifting of all discord into harmony,
the mastering of all sin into goodness.
,8.
Janes, E. “The Emotions in Music.” In George P. Fisher, Timothy Dwight, and William L. Kings-
ley eds., The New Englander, vol. XXXIII. New Haven, CT: Tuttle, Morehouse, and Taylor, 1874.
91
92 II. Music and Spirituality
and thirst, or the desire to sleep, or physical fear, or the shudder of disgust,
pertain to the immortal spirit of man. On the other hand, another class go as
far in the opposite direction, reducing all to materialism, making thought and
feeling to be functions or secretions of the brain, and eliminating the immor-
tal part altogether.
It is not the purpose of the present article, however, to attempt to medi-
ate between these two ways of viewing the phenomena of intelligence and feel-
ing, or to try to decide precisely at what point matter ceases and mind begins,
or vice versa. The former will accomplish itself. Materialism cannot continue
to satisfy the human mind, for it ignores a most important class of phenom-
ena, and hence is an incomplete philosophy, therefore no philosophy at all. And
a psychology, which is applicable to disembodied spirits alone, which ignores
the body and the brain, cannot thrive in this age, so full of material science,
so noted for progress in physiology. “Psychology,” says President Porter, “is
usually limited to the science of the human soul, in its connection with the
human body.” There can be no doubt that the two will be more and more stud-
ied in connection, and their natural relations investigated. But to lay down the
exact limits between the influence of each would seem to be a problem too
difficult for human powers, and of little or no value in itself, but perhaps that
will be incidentally approached, and by successive approximations.
Perhaps the time will come when the philosophy of emotion will be
revised, and more fully developed, and it will then probably be found that the
physical system has far more to do with the emotions than with the intellec-
tual powers. It is certainly far easier to conceive that a pure spirit, without the
bodily machinery of expression, can think, reflect, and imagine, than that such
a spirit could feel, without the corporeal means of impression. Perception may
be an instantaneous act of the mind acting through the sense, and then the
deductive powers may be busy in the matter for a long time, until some result
is reached, whereupon the physical machinery must again be called upon to
assist in its expression. It may be that light will be thrown upon this subject
by the revival of the old distinction between the soul and the spirit.
According to this ancient and profound distinction, the soul, the neces-
sary counterpart of the body and intimately if not inseparably connected with
it, contains the principle of animal life, and is the seat of sense, feeling, and
emotion; while the spirit, independent in existence, lofty in its attributes, using
the body as instrumental and subordinate, is the seat of intellectual percep-
tion, reflection, intuition, and moral will or choice. Dr. Brown-Séquard has
recently, in a course of lectures in Boston, defended the theory, “that there are
two sets, or a double set, of mental powers in the human organism, or acting
through the human organism, essentially different from each other. The one
may be designated as ordinary conscious intelligence;” that is, he probably
means the power of sense—perception, emotion, etc.: “the other a superior
power ... which solves, sometimes suddenly, sometimes unexpectedly, nay even
8. The Emotions in Music (1874) (Janes) 93
in sleep, our problems and perplexities ... acting through us, without conscious
action of our own.” Professor Agassiz, in quoting this theory, in the words
given above, adds the suggestion, if we understand him rightly, that the for-
mer class of mental powers do not offer in kind from those of the lower ani-
mals. Doubtless, these distinguished lecturers had in mind some such
distinction as the ancient and spiritual one between the soul and spirit. Presi-
dent Porter, in his work, The Human Intellect, says: “The term soul originally
signified the principles of life or motion in a material organism.... Traces of
this signification may be distinctly discovered in the three-fold division of man
into body, soul, and spirit, in which the soul occupies the place between the
corporeal or material part, and the spiritual or noetic.... When the soul was
limited to man, and signified the human soul, it came to designate by emi-
nence those endowments by which man is distinguished from the animals,
instead of denoting, as previously, those which he has in common with them.”
There is a debatable land between the soul and the body, by whatever name it
may be called. And whether we call it the animal soul or the corporeal spirit,
or if we divide it between the mind and the brain, attributing some things to
the activity of the one and some to that of the other, it will be found that it is
to this debatable region that the emotions for the most part belong. And if the
brain and the mind were each to claim its own, those emotions which are
excited through the senses, by means of music for instance, would fall to the
share of the physical organism.
It is universally admitted that the emotions, usually called by that name,
such as love, anger, hatred, are complex, comprising much which is simply
intellectual, and in no way emotional. Thus the perception of the loveliness or
desirableness of the object loved, the selfish desire to enjoy or possess it, and
the earnest purpose to satisfy this desire, all these are commonly joined together
with what is properly called emotion, and the whole complex state of the mind
is termed love. When the intellectual element has been eliminated, what
remains may truly be called emotion, but in this emotion itself there must be
distinguished two elements, one excited by the senses, by the sight or hearing
of the object loved, a physical emotion, and the other aroused by the intellec-
tual perception of excellence of character, or congeniality of tastes, or other
loveable qualities. There is a valid distinction between sense-perception and
intellectual perception, or thought. By the first I may see a man; by the other
I may perceive some abstract relation in which he stands—as, he is responsi-
ble for his actions, or, he is a member of the Church. In like manner, emotions
may be divided into sense-emotions and intellectual emotions. A man who
sees a stone falling down upon his head is filled with fear, perhaps utterly par-
alyzed by it. But this is entirely physical; the intellect, the spirit has nothing
to do with it, as is shown by the fact that a brute is affected in the same way.
One who hears an act of injustice or cruelty is filled with indignation, but with
this feeling the physical organism has nothing to do; it is purely intellectual.
94 II. Music and Spirituality
Using here the beautiful distinction between the soul and the spirit, we may
say that each of the senses fills a double office; in one it is the servant of the
spirit, in the other it is a direct avenue to the soul, a means by which the lat-
ter is subjected to emotional excitement. The spirit cannot come into direct
contact with matter, but must have its royal messengers, its servants, whose
reports are expressed in language, and being passed upon by the judgment,
may be accepted or rejected. But the soul is open to direct impression, and has
no choice but to be excited by that emotion whose appropriate cause is placed
before the senses.
According to the ordinary usage of language, we speak of the emotions
as excited by music, or, by the sight of beauty, or by sublimity. But if there is
any truth in the above suggestions, it would be more in accordance with the
true philosophy of the subject to speak of the emotion of the ear, and that of
the eye, or, of the auricular emotion and the ocular emotion. Music has a pow-
erful influence upon the mind, so powerful that perhaps those who are suscep-
tible to its power are incapable of analyzing it, just as an angry man is prevented
by the heat of his passion from observing the phenomena of his anger, so as
to describe them afterwards. But perhaps something may be found out by
inquiring what experience any one susceptible to emotion of music passes
through on being subjected to its influence. Its plaintive melodies and minor
chords seem to fill his very soul with the deepest melancholy. Despair and
despondency settle down upon his mind. A flood of sadness seems to enter at
every avenue of his soul. His head droops, and the tears gather in his eyes,
against his will, perhaps contrary to his efforts. But let the air or the harmonies
change, let a quick movement begin, let rich chords and stirring combinations
of instruments be introduced, and his sadness and despair vanish as quickly
as they came, and a singular exaltation succeeds. The susceptible hearer seems
to feel the music permeating every tissue of his brain. His eyes flash, his head
rises and sways to and fro, keeping time with the music. It is not joy, not
delight; it is ecstasy. Now these are evidently the two opposite poles of the
same emotion. One is depression of the nerves, the other is exaltation; and the
rapidity and certainty of the change from one to the other show, even if con-
sciousness did not give the same verdict, that it is not the immortal spirit which
is excited to joy, fear, sorrow, courage, or despair, but that these feelings are
due to the depression or exaltation of the brain and nervous system through
the ear, by means of music. Or, we may express the fact by saying, that it is
the soul, the principle of animal life, which is affected by music, and not the
spirit. It is also important to notice in this connection the fact that the parti-
tions between these different forms of musical emotion are extremely thin; how
thin, is best known by those who feel them most vividly. At the Boston Peace
Jubilee, when the immense orchestra and vast chorus burst suddenly into the
triumphant notes of Luther’s grand choral hymn, a man seated in a prominent
position in the gallery was observed to break into an uncontrollable agony of
8. The Emotions in Music (1874) (Janes) 95
tears. Many persons have experienced the same feeling, if they have not so
yielded to it. An accomplished musician of our acquaintance was once chal-
lenged by a distinguished theological professor to make him weep, by the
power of music. He soon brought tears to the professor’s eyes by a perform-
ance upon the piano, which consisted, in reality, of Yankee Doodle in slow
time. Beyond this mere impression upon the nerves, most of the power of
music is derived from association, and not from the music itself. The liveliest
air is solemn enough to the exile. The plaintive wailing of the bagpipes excites
the Scot to a martial ardor and courage. Yankee Doodle, though a British bur-
lesque, excites no anger, and, though an utterly trivial air, excites no contempt,
in any American bosom; but long association has made it stirring and patri-
otic. “America,” originally a Jacobite tune, excites our patriotic ardor now,
quite as well as though it had been composed to honor the exiled tyrant James.
The Marseillaise hymn means nothing to us; to the Frenchman it is frenzied
excitement. These facts show that the principle association must be carefully
eliminated, if we would rightly understand musical emotion.
Another indication that there is but one emotion of music, is found in the
fact that all who are susceptible to music at all are affected by it in the same
way, allowance being made for whatever is the result of association. All are
here on the same level; no difference exists, save in degree. The person of
finely attuned and delicate ear and thorough musical culture is moved to tears
or rapture, while the one of less subtle and delicate auricular mechanism, or
less culture, is simply deeply moved. His spirits rise or fall as the character of
the music changes; the same strange depression, the same divine-seeming exal-
tation, the same exquisite pleasure, are felt by both persons. If one feels music
at all, it must be in the same way, with difference only in degree, according to
nature and education. Moreover, those whose susceptibility has been improved
by education, are conscious that their experiences in hearing music are the same
in kind as when their perceptions were childish or uneducated. They have
gained in the power, but more especially in the definiteness of the impressions
which music makes upon them. If it be true that music excites in the mind dif-
ferent emotions and different combinations of them, surely the infinite vari-
eties of temperament and intellect ought to render the effects various beyond
all computation or foresight. The same strains ought to excite one man to anger
and another to grief, according to the nature of his mind, or his momentary
previous feeling. But if there is only one emotion of music, it would exist in
various degrees of force, delicacy, and cultivation, but the same in kind in all,
which we find in fact to be the case. And, if this is the true theory, we should
expect to find some persons deprived altogether of this emotion, through some
physical defect, or some missing link in the mysterious chain which binds the
body and soul together. And this too is actually the case. Many persons “have
no ear for music.” It is hard to believe that such persons are created with all
the emotions of their fellow man, but deprived of susceptibility to that mode
96 II. Music and Spirituality
of exciting them which is at once the most powerful, pleasurable, and beauti-
ful. There may be some who never love, some who never hate, some who are
not revengeful, but none are deprived of all passion or emotion; each one has
some capability of being excited by external causes. Far simpler and more
analogous with other phenomena is the supposition that the emotions which
depend upon the senses form a class by themselves, and while each sense has
its own peculiar emotion, one or more may be defective in its physical or psy-
chical machinery, so that one man may listen unmoved to the most exquisite
harmonies, and another may take in with his eye all the beauties and sublim-
ities of earthly scenery with knowing it.
There are some interesting facts connected with the execution and com-
position of music which are in point here. The wonderful mechanical mastery
displayed by some performers over their instruments, comes within the prov-
ince of that curious principle of the coordination of motions, which is one of
the most remarkable discoveries of modern physiology. For example, when a
man walks, there come into play a large number of independent muscles. But
the man does not will the alternate flexion and contraction of each of these
muscles; he wills to walk, and this volition carries with it all the subordinate
volitions of each separate muscle. This peculiar power, called the coordina-
tion of motions, is said by physiologists to reside in a particular part of the
brain, the cerebellum, and it lies at the basis of all improvement in mechani-
cal skill of every kind. Of course, this same cerebellum presides over the
mechanical part, the execution, in short the art of music. Without this no
amount of practice would give skill, no brilliancy of talents could avail to pro-
duce anything more than the rudest music. The immortal part of man, then,
seems to have nothing to do with the execution of music, as such.
The composition of music suggests a similar conclusion, though leading
us into a higher region. For music as a science is strictly mathematical, that
is, mechanical. Its precise division of time and its profound calculation of har-
monies employ high mathematical talents. Precision in the performance and
pleasure in the hearing, as well as facility and success in the composition of
the higher class of music, depend upon the mathematical capacity of the mind.
Great composers have often been men of the most splendid talents, nor can
we doubt that in the composition of their more sublime works their vast tal-
ents have found the fullest scope.
The world is full of mysteries. The most common and simple operations
of nature display forces beyond the ken of human science. Equally incompre-
hensible is the link which connects the soul with the body which it inhabits.
It is impossible to explain how the will has power over the bodily organism,
and in like manner we can never expect to understand how it is that certain
sounds or sights fill the soul with emotion, without regard to association or
expectation. In the case of spoken and written language we instinctively feel
that its arbitrary signs are interpreted only by the intellect, the personal reason,
8. The Emotions in Music (1874) (Janes) 97
away the human sin and weakness, and purifies and benefits me more than a
thousand of your Calvinistic sermons about everlasting punishment.” He was
doubtless correct in supposing that his mind was not in a fit state to under-
stand Calvinism or any other system or theology. And doubtless, too, he was
guilty both of cant and bigotry.
Plato utters another important fact when he says that even a strong and
vigorous mind becomes enervated, stupefied, and weakened by exclusive cul-
tivation in this direction. And how emphatically is this true now, when the new,
modern art of music has been carried to so great perfection. The fact is, no
one power of the human constitution can be exercised beyond measure with-
out causing a deformity. Over indulgence of the imagination weakens the judg-
ment. Perception being unduly cultivated, the exercise of the speculative reason
becomes irksome and difficult. The astronomer’s acuteness of eye is not likely
to coexist with the musician’s accuracy of ear. The susceptibilities are not safe
without the intellect. The man who lives in a world of feeling, of emotion, of
sense-pleasure, cannot rise to any height of moral grandeur, will not meet
boldly a great crisis in his fate, or resist nobly and successfully when assailed
by temptation. While we admit that music has important intellectual and spir-
itual uses, we ought not to forget its undue cultivation, as art, or science, or
emotion, is unfavorable alike to intellect and to morals. But we need not on
this account banish and condemn music, because others abuse or worship it.
No! Delightful music, companion of solitude, alleviation of sorrow, which
gives expression to our joys, accompanies and assists our worship, shall be
our recreation and a worthy attendant upon our festivities and religious serv-
ices, but not itself worship, nor an object of worship.
The application of the above theory of the nature of music to its use in
religious services is almost too obvious to be mentioned here. If music is
entirely sensuous, its performance cannot be an act of worship. When we
assemble in the house of God, the calming, solemnizing strains of music may
serve to turn our minds away from everyday pursuits by soothing our weary
brains with their sweetness. But let not the lascivious strains of the opera recall
the most trivial pursuits at the most sacred hour, nor let the marvels of difficult
execution and the display of perfect training excite astonishment and vulgar
curiosity where only reverence or gratitude or contrition have any proper place.
This is profanation of the house of God. Let music, too, enliven our social gath-
erings, but let it not be cultivated by those who care not for it, for mere pur-
poses of display. This is profanation of a noble art, by vanity and foolish
ambition.
,9.
Haweis, Hugh Reginald. “Music, Emotions, and Morals.” In John Henry Barrows, ed., The World’s
Parliament of Religions: An Illustrated and Popular Story of the World’s First Parliament of Reli-
gions, Held in Chicago in Connection with the Columbian Exposition of 1893. Chicago: The Par-
liament Publishing Company, 1893.
99
100 II. Music and Spirituality
painters. Now let me tell you that you have no business to spend much time
or money or interest upon any subject unless you can make out a connection
between the subject and morals and conduct and life; unless you can give an
art or occupation a particular ethical and moral basis.
If anyone asks you what is the connection between music and morals, I
will give it to you in a nutshell. This is the connection. Music is the language
of emotion. Emotion is connected with thought. Thought is connected with
action, action deals with conduct, and the sphere of conduct is connected with
morals. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, if music is connected with emotion,
and emotion is connected with thought, and thought is connected with action,
and action is connected with the sphere of conduct, or with morals, things
which are connected by the same must be connected with one another, and
therefore music must be connected with morals.
Now, the reason why we have grouped all these three worlds—music,
emotion, morals—together, is because emotion is coupled with morals. The
great disorders of our age come not from the possession of moral feeling, but
from its abuse, its misdirection and the bad use of it. Once discipline your emo-
tions, and life becomes noble, fertile, and harmonious.
Well then, if there is this close connection between emotion or feeling,
and the life, conduct, or morals, what the connection between emotion and
morals is, that also must be the character of the connection between music,
which is the art medium of emotion, and morals.
Nothing good and true was ever carried out in this world without emo-
tion. There has never been a great crisis in a nation’s history without some
appropriate air, some appropriate march, which has been the voiceless emo-
tion of the people. I remember Garibaldi’s hymn. It expresses the essence of
the Italian movement. Look at all your patriotic songs. Look at “John Brown’s
body is a-mouldering in the ground, But his soul is marching on.”
The feeling and action of a country passes into music. It is the power of
emotion through music upon politics and patriotism. I remember when Wagner,
as a very young man, came over to England and studied our national anthems.
He said that the whole of the British character lay in the first two bars of “Rule
Britannia.”
And so your “Star-Spangled Banner” has kindled much unity and patri-
otism. The profoundly religious nature of the Germans comes forth in their
patriotic hymn, “God Save the Emperor.” Our “God Save the Queen” strikes
the same note, in a different way, as “Rule Britannia.” This shows the connec-
tion between emotion and music and politics and patriotism. It throws great
light upon the wisdom of that statesman who said: “Let who will make the
laws of a people; let me make their national songs.”
I find it quite impossible for me to exclude religion from my topic, or the
power of emotion through music upon religion and through religion upon morals,
for religion is that thing which kindles and makes operative and irresistible
9. Music, Emotions, and Morals (1893) (Haweis) 101
the sway of moral nature. I read that our Lord and his disciples, at a time when
all words failed them and when their hearts were heavy, when all had been
said and all had been done at that last supper, after they had sung a hymn, went
out into the Mount of Olives. After Paul and Silas had been beaten and thrust
into a noisome dungeon, they forgot their pain and humiliation and sang songs,
spiritual psalms, in the night, and the prisoners heard them. I read, in the his-
tory of the Christian Church, when the great creative and adaptive genius of
Rome took possession of that mighty spiritual movement and proceeded to
evangelize the Roman Empire, that St. Ambrose, Bishop of Milan in the third
century, collected the Greek modes and adapted certain of them for the Chris-
tian Church, and that these scales were afterward revived by the great Pope
Gregory, who gave the Christian Church the Gregorian chants, the first ele-
ments of emotion interpreted by music which appeared in the Christian Church.
It is difficult for us to overestimate the power of these crude scales, although
they seem harsh to our ears. It is difficult to describe the effect produced by
Augustine and his monks when they landed in Great Britain, chanting the
ancient Gregorian chants. When the king gave his partial adherence to the mis-
sion of Augustine, the saint turned from his king and directed his course toward
Canterbury, where he was to be the first Christian archbishop.
Still, as he went along with his monks, they chanted one of the Grego-
rian chants. That was his war cry. “Turn away, O Lord, thy wrath from this
city, and thine anger from its sin.”
That is a true Gregorian; those are the very words of Augustine. And later
on I shall remind you of both the passive and active functions of Christian
Church—passive when the people sat still and heard sweet anthems; active
when they broke out into hymns of praise. Shall I tell you of a great comfort
which the church owes to Luther in his carriage as he approached the City of
Worms and sang his hymn, “Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott”? Shall I tell you of
others who have solaced their hours of solitude by singing hymns and spiri-
tual psalms, and how at times hymn singing in the church was almost all the
religion that the people had? The poor Lollards, when afraid of preaching their
doctrine, still sang, and throughout the country the poor and uneducated peo-
ple, if they could not understand the subtleties of theological doctrine, still
could sing praise and make melody in their hearts. I remember how much I
was affected in passing through a little Welsh village some time ago at night,
in the solitude of the Welsh hills, as I saw a little light in a cottage, and as I
came near I heard the voices of the children singing:
“Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly.”
And I thought how these little ones had gone to school and had learned
this hymn and had come home to evangelize their little remote cottage and lift
up the hearts of their parents with the love of Jesus.
102 II. Music and Spirituality
I
Plato has given us an excellent definition of music. “It is,” he says, “art
so ordering sound as to reach the soul, inspiring a love of virtue.” He would
have the best music to be that which most perfectly expresses the soul’s good
qualities. “It is to serve no idle pleasures,” he says in another place, “that the
Muses have given us harmony, whose movements accord with those of the
soul, but rather to enable us thereby to order the ill-regulated motions of the
soul, even as rhythm is given us to reform our manners, which in most men
are so wanting in balance and in grace.” This was the high ideal which the
Greeks had of music. It was, in their conception, the expression of order in all
things: far from regarding it as a mere pastime, they made it the indispensa-
ble foundation of civilization and morality, a source of peace and of order for
the soul, and of health and beauty for the body. Their masters were insistent
that “rhythm and harmony should be so identified with the minds of the young
that as they became more balanced and composed, they might be better able
to speak and act aright. For, as a matter of fact, man’s whole being has need
of rhythm and of harmony.”
The very nature of that music, its dignity and simplicity, its gentle, tran-
quil movement seconded the master’s endeavors, and led, as it were, naturally
to the desired end. “The ancients,” says Westphal, “never attempted to express
the actual and passionate life of the soul. The noise and bustle whither mod-
ern music carries our fancy, the representation of strife and strain, the por-
trayal of those opposing forces which contend for the mastery of the soul,
Mocquereau, Dom Andre. The Art of Gregorian Music. Washington, D.C.: Catholic Education
Press, 1896.
105
106 III. Standards of Sacred Music
were all alike unknown to the Greek mind. Rather was the soul to be lifted
into a sphere of idealistic contemplation, there to find peace with herself and
with the outer world, and so to rise to greater power of action.” Greek music
may not always have remained faithful to this ideal, but it is enough to know
that in its primitive purity it rose to such heights.
The Catholic Church, that society of souls established by our Lord Jesus
Christ, is the depository of all that is good and beautiful in the world. She inher-
ited the traditions of antiquity, and gave a foremost place to the art of music,
using it in her liturgy as well as for the instruction and sanctification of her
children, no light task indeed when one recalls the state of society when that
peaceful conquest was begun. But Holy Church set her strength and her hope
in her divine Head, that true Orpheus, whose voice has power to charm the
beasts, and melt the very rocks. She had, moreover, treasured those words of
St. Paul: “Teach and admonish one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual
canticles.” In the mouth of the great Apostle this precept had all the force of
law: rightly, therefore, may music be considered a constituent element of the
Church’s worship. St. Dennis was of this opinion, and none have treated of the
divine psalmody with greater insight than he. It was, in his conception, the
preparation for the deepest mysteries of the faith. “The hallowed chant of the
Scriptures,” he writes, “which is essentially a part of all our mysteries, cannot
be separated from the most sacred of them all (he is speaking of the mystery
of the Eucharist or Synaxis). For in the whole sacred and inspired Book is
shown forth God, the Creator and Disposer of all things.” St. Dennis then
describes that great drama at once human and divine which is enacted in our
sacred books, and in the liturgy, and continues: “Wherefore the sacred chants
form, as it were, a universal hymn telling forth the things of God, and work
in those who recite them devoutly an aptitude for either receiving or confer-
ring the various sacraments of the Church. The sweet melody of these Canti-
cles prepares the powers of the soul for the immediate celebration of the holy
mysteries, and by the unison of those divine songs, brings the soul into sub-
jection to God, making it to be at one with itself and with its fellows, as in
some single and concordant choir of things divine.” Peace, strength, purity,
love: in very truth, the music of the Christian Church soars to greater heights
than that of the ancients.
Is it possible, however, for any music of man’s making to realize this
ideal? Can modem music do so? If the question were put, no doubt the answer
would be, “Quo non ascendam?” What shall hinder it? Were you to enquire
of M. Combarieu, who has plunged more deeply than any other critic into the
potentialities and ideals of music, he would doubtless reply that this high ideal
does not transcend its powers. But although I both admire and respect the
views of this distinguished musician, I cannot share them. I know modern
music well: it cannot, in its present form, rise to the heights of the Christian
ideal. And if you name those great creators of the classic symphony, Hadyn,
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 107
Mozart, Beethoven, Berlioz, I must again answer in the negative. Those eagles
of their art never attained to the tranquil spheres of Christian music. They had
indeed force of conception, inspiration, the flight of genius: some had, more-
over, the light of faith, the flame of love; one thing only was lacking, and that
was a language so pure, so free from all earthly alloy, as to be able to echo
faithfully that divine calm, that ordered peace, that ever attuned melody which
rings in the heart of Holy Church, and reminds the exiles of earth of the tran-
quil, endless harmonies of the heavenly Jerusalem.
Far be it from me that, in thus criticizing these great composers, I should
seem to disparage them. To disown them would be to disown my dearest mem-
ories. Often, as a child, I was lulled to sleep to the sound of the sonatas, the
trios and the quartets of Beethoven, Mozart, or Haydn. And when I grew to
man’s estate, I took my place as cellist in an orchestra conducted by that revered
master, M. Charles Dancla, a professor at the Conservatoire. I know the power
of orchestral music. At Pasdeloup, and at the Société du Conservatoire more
especially, I was alternately swayed, overwhelmed, soothed and entranced; it
is the conviction born of this experience that enables me to assert today that
the ideals of Christian art are not, and cannot be, found therein.
Is, then, this ideal realized by Palestrina? A few days hence, in this very
place, M. Bordes, one of the greatest authorities on this subject, will, no doubt,
answer this question. Moreover, M. Camille Bellaigue has already treated of
the characteristics and the beauties of Palestrina’s compositions in the Revue
des Deux Mondes. One remark, however, I will allow myself: The Church
could not have allowed sixteen centuries to elapse before she found a chant
befitting her worship.
Shall we, then, find what we seek in the Gregorian chant? I venture to
think so: nevertheless, it must be borne in mind that this hallowed chant has
in our days so fallen into disrepute, and is so condemned and discredited that
to present this patrician outcast as the most artistic and finished realization of
the Church’s prayer would seem folly. That music which, in the days of its glory,
was so full of beauty, is today unrecognizable. Like the Master whom it hymns,
the chant is come to the hour of its passion. “Non est species ei, neque decor,
et vidimus eum et non erat aspectus et desideravimus eum.” There is neither
beauty nor comeliness: the music which we hear in our churches does not
attract us: it is an object of contempt: “Unde nec reputavimus eum.”
And yet, notwithstanding its sorry plight, something of the ancient power
and majesty remains. You have but to read the impressions recorded by Dur-
tal in Huysman’s book, “En Route,” to see that the chant is still able to turn
souls to God. Along the way, bestrewn with relics and with blood, are yet some
faithful ones who pray and hope beside the grave where the chant awaits the
day of resurrection. That day, gentlemen, has already dawned: A day real
enough, even if not all glorious and resplendent as that of the Master. In many
places the chant, even now is heard. Rome has summoned it to the venerable
108 III. Standards of Sacred Music
feasts of St. Gregory; it is installed in the Vatican; Venice has restored it to its
former place beneath the dome of St. Mark’s. Everywhere the chant is found:
in Belgium, in Germany, in England, in Spain, in America. It is used by all
the great religious orders; in France it has invaded all our churches. It has
existed in a quiet way in Paris for some years, and today you meet it at the
Institut Catholique, so that it may be said to have fairly established itself in
the very stronghold of intellectual culture. You are soon to hear the chant for
yourselves, and I trust that its artless, unaffected beauty will go straight to your
heart. But before you do so, you will allow me, I hope, a few words by way
of introduction.
The chant is invariably set to words. Among the ancients music was
regarded as the auxiliary of poetry: “It was speech raised to the highest term
of power, acting simultaneously upon the sensitive and intellectual faculties.”
Unconscious of its own power, music did not at once throw off the yoke of
centuries in the first ages of Christianity. Indeed, had it existed as a separate
art, the Church would not have made use of it. Music without words would
not have served her end, which is to give her children not sacred melodies only,
and vague musical impressions, but also theological and philosophical truths,
and definite acts of faith, of love and of praise, which music alone could never
formulate.
The primitive conception of music was therefore perfectly adapted to the
Church’s purpose. Set, as it were, at the confluence of those two streams of
civilization, the Jewish and the Greco-Roman, the Church, with her rare insight,
borrowed from the music of both whatever was most suited to her purpose.
The words, and also the whole scheme of her psalmody, were taken from the
books of Holy Scripture, that treasure the Church had received from the Lord’s
hands. The psalmody of the Roman office, indeed, with its verses and stro-
phes characterized by antiphons, which serve as refrains, has a most unmis-
takable Jewish flavor. The Psalter stood forth above all others as the book of
divine praise: the Church added thereto songs of her own making. This is not
the place to remind you of the surpassing beauty of the Liturgy: it ought, nev-
ertheless, to be done, for, in order fully to fathom the meaning of the chant,
it is imperative that we should understand, love, and live those hallowed can-
ticles. For it must ever be borne in mind that they are the essential part of plain-
song.
But however great their beauty, the mere recitation of the words does not
suffice. The Church does not merely know her dogmas: she loves them, and
therefore she must sing them. “Reason,” wrote Joseph de Maistre, “can only
speak; but love sings.” But the Church sings for yet another reason. Although
the word of God has such power that it would seem that the mere hearing
would enthrall both mind and heart, it is, alas, addressed to mortal men, to
souls dull and heedless, buried, as it were, beneath the covering of flesh and
sense, which must be pierced before it can touch them. And therefore the
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 109
Church summons to her aid that most subtle and penetrating of all arts, music.
Albeit inferior to speech in the world of the intelligence, it reigns supreme in
the world of sense, possessing, as it does, accents of matchless strength and
sweetness to touch the heart, to stir the will, and to give utterance to prayer.
It was from the Greco-Roman stream that the Church borrowed the ele-
ments of her music. She chose diatonic melody because of its dignity and viril-
ity, for chromatic and inharmonic melodies accorded but ill with the pure
worship of God. It is, moreover, probable that the Church adapted her songs
to the Greek modes and scales; to what extent, however, it is impossible to say.
It has been recently asserted, though without any sort of proof, that the pagan
airs or nomes, were adopted by the Church, and used by the early Christians.
But this assertion is in manifest contradiction with all that we know of the
Fathers, and of the Councils, as well as with the mind of the Church. Until
further information comes to hand, I incline to think that the airs to which our
antiphons are set, whether simple, florid, or neumatic, are in very deed of the
Church’s own composition. Whether this be so or not, of this marriage of Jew-
ish poetry done into Latin, with the chant, was born a new art, perfect in its
kind, which, though imbued with the principles of antiquity, was nevertheless
well fitted to serve the Church’s purpose. One of our modern poets most aptly
describes it: Beau vase athênien, plein de fleurs du Calvaire. And so it is: Like
the music of the ancients, its offspring is simple and discreet, sober in its
effects; it is the humble servant, the vehicle of the sacred text, or, if you will,
a reverent, faithful, and docile commentary thereon. Even as a healthy body
is an instrument perfectly fitted to serve the soul, and to interpret its workings,
so the chant interprets the truth, and gives it a certain completeness which
words alone could not achieve. The two are bound up together: the word sheds
the rays of intellectual light upon the mysterious shadow world of sound, while
the melody pervades the words with deep inward meaning, which it alone can
impart. Thus mingled, one with the other, music and poetry ravish man’s whole
being, and uplift the soul to the blissful contemplation of truth.
Before we pursue our subject further, you ought to hear some examples
of plainsong. The real value of a statue cannot be estimated from a descrip-
tion, however graphic. And so I propose setting before you a fair statue of
ancient church music, not mutilated, but restored, living, and complete. It will
be easier for me afterwards to make you admire the dignified simplicity, the
harmony and proportion, of its lines and the pervading sweetness of its expres-
sion.
To aid me in this attempt, the execution of the chant should be perfect.
The voices should be pure, flexible, and trained as in the great academies of
the capital. Nevertheless, I have thought it better not to choose trained singers
for my purpose. Not that I consider art to be a negligible quantity in the exe-
cution of plainsong. On the contrary, it is a point on which many, unhappily,
have fallen into regrettable exaggerations which are only calculated to discredit
110 III. Standards of Sacred Music
the chant. But on this occasion, in order to prove that a lengthy training is not
an indispensable condition, and, at the same time, to show what results may
be attained by such ordinary means as may everywhere be found, and in the
conviction, moreover, that culture and intelligence will always give a better
rendering than mere art, however perfect, I have chosen some young men who
would be much astonished were I to introduce them to you as great artists. I
therefore refrain from doing so; this, however, I may say of them, they have
the type of soul which can appreciate and render these holy melodies.
[At this point the Schola sang the following simple chants: An Ambrosian
Gloria in excelsis, the Ambrosian antiphon In lsrahel, followed by the psalm
Laudate Pueri, and the Gregorian antiphon Cantate Domino with the
Magnificat.]
II
Gentlemen, you have been listening to plainsong in this simplest form.
We shall now be able to study its features, its aspect, and expression. If it be
beautiful, wherein does its beauty lie—is it of earth or of heaven? And if this
beauty be something heavenly, if it act upon our souls like a gentle and refresh-
ing dew, how does it go to work? What are its means of action, the elements
of which it makes use? This we must first ascertain by a rapid analysis of
details. I do not propose to do more today than to sketch these in brief.
When I was speaking a little while ago of the marriage of words and
music in the chant, I omitted to say that some modern critics have drawn a
somewhat surprising conclusion from this fact. They allege that this intimate
connection between text and melody is precisely the principle underlying mod-
ern musical drama, which has reached its zenith in the works of Richard Wag-
ner. The famous composer, alluding to his opera, “Tristan and Isolde,” says: “In
‘Tristan’ the fabric of the words has the full compass planned for the music: in
fine, the melody is already constructed in poetic form.” But may not Wagner’s
rule be applied most exactly to plainsong? Whereupon the critics forthwith
leap to the conclusion that Gregorian music is Wagnerian music and vice versa.
To maintain such a conclusion, however, it is evident that one or another
of the terms of the comparison must be omitted. The snare into which the crit-
ics have fallen is obvious. They should have foreseen that although the prin-
ciples which govern Gregorian and Wagnerian music are identical, the same
principles in application may attain widely differing results. And, as a matter
of fact, have you not noticed that as we listen to these melodies, our habits,
taste, and judgment are utterly nonplused? The truth is that, there, a wide gulf
separates the chant from Beethoven’s overpowering symphonies and Wagner’s
fantastical dramas. Though the expression of beauty be the end of both, the
two arts lie at opposite poles: literary and musical terms, tonality, scales, time,
rhythm, movement, the very ideals differ, as analysis will show.
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 111
all such expedients, being thereby distinguished from all compositions of mod-
ern times. The comparison and the scrutiny of the three elements of which we
have been speaking will be a convincing proof of this assertion.
We will deal first with tonality. It is well known that Gregorian tonality
is very different from that of modern music. In the latter are found diatonic
and chromatic intervals, major and minor modes, discords, the leading note,
modulations, and constant irregularities of tone. What is the result? Agitation,
excitement, frenzy, passionate emotional and dramatic expression; in short, the
violent and excessive disturbance of the hapless human frame.
Gregorian tonality, on the contrary, seems ordained to banish all agita-
tion from the mind, and to enfold it in rest and peace. And since the chant is
all in unison, discord, that most effective element of expression, is unknown.
It follows that the leading note is also debarred; and as a matter of fact, long
before there could be any question of its use, anything resembling such a note
was excluded by the rules laid down for the composition of the chant. In plain-
song, the cadence is never made by approaching the final from the semitone
below: a whole tone must invariably be used in such a case. This rule gave the
cadence a certain dignity and fullness of expression to which modern music
cannot attain by means of the ordinary rules of composition.
Gregorian tonality likewise proscribes the effeminate progressions of the
chromatic scale, admitting only the more frank diatonic intervals. These inter-
vals are arranged in scales, eight in number, called modes, the distinct char-
acteristics of which evoke varying impressions and emotions. Bold or abrupt
changes from one mode to another are also proscribed, though the chant is by
no means lacking in modulations, for these are essential in any music. In plain-
song, the modulation is effected by passing from one mode to another. Some
compositions borrow the sentiments they seek to interpret from several modes
in succession: the mere change of the dominant or reciting-note is enough to
give the impression of a true modulation. These changes of mode are effected
very gently: they move and mildly stimulate the soul, without either shock or
disturbance. You must not be surprised that the means employed should be so
simple and elementary: it is to the higher faculties of the soul that the chant
makes appeal. It owes its beauty and dignity to the fact that it borrows little
or nothing from the world of sense. It passes through the senses, but it does
appeal to them: it panders neither to the emotions nor to the imagination. Plain-
song is capable of expressing the most tremendous truths, the strongest feel-
ings, without departing from its sobriety, purity, and simplicity. Modern music
may perhaps arouse and voice coarse and violent passions, although I grant
that this is not always the case. The chant, however, cannot be so abused: it is
always wholesome and serene: it does not react upon the nervous system.
Its frank diatonic tonality, and the absence of chromatic intervals, whose
semitones give an impression of incompletion, seem to render plainsong inca-
pable of expressing anything but the perfection of beauty, the naked truth,
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 113
“yea, yea, and nay, nay.” For the unyielding diatonic scale has a certain angelic
quality which never varies: an ear accustomed to its matchless candor cannot
tolerate melodies, sensuous even when the love of God is their theme.
If from the study of sounds and their progression, we proceed to analyze
their duration and intensity, we shall find that the contrast between plainsong
and modern music is as great as before.
In modern music the simple beat, that is, the unit of time which, when
once adopted, becomes the form of all the others, may be divided indefinitely.
An example will serve to make my meaning clear. A bar, or measure, in sim-
ple duple time is composed of two crochets: each crochet constitutes a beat,
and may be divided into two quavers; these again into semiquavers, demisemi-
quavers, and so on, until the subdivisions become infinitesimal. It is easy to
see how such facility of division may introduce much mobility or instability
into modern music.
In plainsong, on the contrary, the beat, or pulse, is indivisible: it corre-
sponds to the normal syllable of one pulse, and cannot be divided any more
than a syllable can be. Thus, in writing a piece of plainsong in modern nota-
tion, the crochet becomes the normal note and unit of time; it must never be
broken up into quavers. I have no hesitation in declaring that plainsong is syl-
labic music, in the sense that the syllable is the unit of measure, and that not
only in antiphons, where each note corresponds to a syllable, but also in vocal-
izations (melodic passages or neums), where the notes, momentarily freed
from words, remain subject, nevertheless, to the time of the simple beat, pre-
viously determined in the syllabic passages.
This approximate equality of duration is the inevitable consequence of
the intimate connection which existed among the Greeks between the words
and the melody. It is explained by a fact familiar to all philologists and gram-
marians, namely the transformation which the Latin language underwent dur-
ing the first years of the Christian era. Quantity, once paramount in poetry, and
to a certain extent, in Ciceronian prose, eventually gave place to accent. Lit-
tle by little the short and long syllables came to have the same value: in prose
as in poetry, syllables were no longer measured, but counted. Quantity was no
more. In actual practice, the syllables were neither short nor long, but of equal
duration, strong or weak, according as they were accented or unaccented.
An evolution of such import was bound to react upon the music of the
Church, which was in its infancy at the time that these changes were being
effected. Plainsong was modeled on the prose of the period: it therefore adopted
its rhythm, from its simplest elements, the primary fundamental pulse, for
example, to its most varied movements. And just as there were two forms
of prosody, the one metric, the other tonic; two forms of prose, and two “cur-
sus,” so there were two forms of music, the metric and the tonic; the latter,
like the tonic prose and cursus, was based upon the equality of notes and syl-
lables.
114 III. Standards of Sacred Music
accent by lowering the pitch of the note. Have we not here a complete rever-
sal of the text—both melodically and rhythmically, which is unjustifiable even
from a purely musical standpoint?
In modern music the character of the accent is utterly transformed:
melody, rhythm, delicacy and joyous impulse, all are lost, and converted into
the Romance accent. Hence there arises between words and music a continual
conflict, an initiating apposition, which, albeit imperceptible to the inattentive
and uncultured public, is nonetheless painful to those who appreciate the char-
acteristics of the Latin accent, and the rhythm of the Latin phrase. It is, in fact,
an outrage to the ideal which one has a right to expect in every artistic or reli-
gious composition. A very few months of familiarity with plainsong would
suffice to make you grasp fully these statements. As one listens day after day
to the chant, the mind opens to the appreciation of that music, the rhythm and
style of which are so essentially Latin: very soon the judgment appraises it at
its true value, and ultimately the exquisite feeling, the consummate skill behind
that fusion of words and melody become apparent, and scholars and musicians
alike applaud its artistic perfection. On the other hand, a closer knowledge of
plainsong makes us discover in modern religious music—beneath the real
beauty of some of the compositions—the awkwardness, the unconscious clum-
siness, of this mixed romance—Latin rhythm which disfigures even the noblest
musical inspirations.
We are now come to the succession of groups, of sections of the phrase,
and to the phrase itself; that is to say, to rhythm properly so-called. You may
already have noticed that in the Gregorian phrase the groups of two pulsations
or of three do not succeed each other so uniformly, nor so regularly as in
figured music. In plainsong, a mixture of times is the rule, whereas in figured
music it is the exception. The ancients, who were familiar with this mixed
rhythm, gave it the name of numerus, number, or rhythm. Impatient of restric-
tion and constraint, plainsong shook off the trammels of symmetry: thus in the
course of the melody, the groups of two notes or of three or of four, etc., suc-
ceed each other as freely as in oratorical rhythm. Any combination is admit-
ted provided it be in harmony and in proportion. “This proportion,” says Dom
Pothier, “is based upon the relation in which the component parts of the song
or speech stand to each other or to the whole composition.” Nevertheless, the
chant does not altogether disdain measure and successions of regular rhythms:
but these are never cultivated to the extent of accustoming the ear to them and
making it expect the recurrence of regular groups. Never is the ear shocked or
surprised. The measures and rhythm succeed one another with amazing vari-
ety, but never at the cost of smoothness. There are no syncopations, no bro-
ken rhythms, nor yet any of those unexpected, irregular, unnatural effects,
which break the ordinary movement of the phrase by introducing elements of
agitation, of strife, and of passion. All this is unknown in plainsong. All the
accented pulses, whether of the measure or of the rhythm, all the notes which
116 III. Standards of Sacred Music
give expression such as the pressus and the strophicus, although scattered
irregularly over the texture of the melody, are invariably found in their regu-
lar place at the beginning of the measure. This solid foundation of regular
rhythm gives the Roman chant that calm, dignity and evenness of movement
which become the sacred liturgy.
Was I not right in saying that the art of Gregorian music had little in com-
mon with the art of modern music? Henceforward no one will confuse Wag-
ner’s methods with those which animate the Gregorian chant. And if we would
define the results which issue from this analysis, we shall form the following
conclusions:
Gregorian music disclaims, or rather rejects on principle all elements of
confusion, agitation, or excitement: it courts, on the other hand, all that tends
to peace and calm. It will be well, after having thus analyzed the details of the
chant, to view it as a whole, and to study its main distinctive features. To
refresh us, however, after these somewhat dry researches, the Schola is kindly
going to render the melismatic pieces mentioned in the program, namely, the
communion Videus Dominus, and the Introits Reminiscere and Laetare.
III
The most striking characteristic of plainsong is its simplicity, and herein
it is truly artistic. Among the Greeks, simplicity was the essential condition
of all art; truth, beauty, goodness cannot be otherwise than simple.
The true artist is he who best—that is, in the simplest way—translates to
the world without the ideal conceived in the simplicity of his intellect. The
higher, the purer the intellect, the greater the unity and simplicity of its con-
ception of the truth; now, the closest interpretation of an idea which is single
and simple is plainly that which in the visible world most nearly approaches
singleness and simplicity. Art is not meant to encumber the human mind with
a multiplicity which does not belong to it: it should on the contrary tend to so
elevate the sensible world that it may reflect in some degree the singleness and
simplicity of the invisible. Art should tend not to the degradation, but to the
perfection of the individual. If it appeals to the senses by evoking impressions
and emotions which are proper to them, it only does so in order to arouse the
mind in some way, and to enable it to free itself from and rise above the visi-
ble world as by a ladder, cunningly devised in accordance with the laws laid
down by God Himself. Whence it follows that plainsong is not simple in the
sense that its methods are those of an art in its infancy: it is simple consis-
tently and on principle.
It should not be supposed that this theory binds us to systems long since
out of date: the Church in this matter professes the principles held by the
Greeks, the most artistic race the world has ever known. In their conception,
art could not be otherwise than simple. Whenever I read Taine’s admirable
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 117
authorities in support of the aesthetics of the chant: behind their shelter, I shall
not be exposed to any charge of having invented them to suit my case. M.
Charles Blanc, in his “Grammar of the Graphic Arts,” says that “Between the
beautiful and its expression there is a wide interval, and moreover, an appar-
ent contradiction. The interval is that which separates Christianity from the
old world: the contradiction consists in the fact that pure beauty (the writer is
speaking of plastic beauty) can hardly be reconciled with facial changes,
reflecting the countless impressions of life. Physical beauty must give place
to moral beauty in proportion as the expression is more pronounced. This is
the reason why pagan sculpture is so limited in expression.” I am well aware,
Gentlemen, that in sculpture, more than in any other art, the greatest care must
be taken not to pass certain appointed bounds, if the stateliness which is its
chief characteristic is to be preserved. I am also aware that in other arts, such
as painting or music, it is legitimate to indulge more freely in the representa-
tion of the soul’s manifold emotions. All this I grant, Gentlemen: neverthe-
less, it must be acknowledged that these distinctions are very fine indeed, and
that in every art, the higher laws of aesthetics are the same. The laws of musi-
cal expression are analogous to those of plastic expression: there too it may
be asserted that pure musical beauty accords ill with the tonal, metrical or
rhythmic changes of a melody reflecting the manifold old impressions of the
soul in the grip of its passions. There too we may say that the more intense is
the expression, the more the beauty of the music as music gives way to moral
beauty. How then are we to reconcile beauty, by its very nature serene and
immutable, with the restlessness and versatility which are the essential char-
acteristics of expression? The problem is by no means easy of solution.
Ancient art, with deeper insight, loved beauty so much that it shunned
expression: our more sensual modern art endeavors to obtain expression at the
expense of beauty. But the Church in her song has found, it would seem, the
secret of wedding the highest beauty without any change to a style of expres-
sion which is both serene and touching. This result is attained without con-
scious effort. For, as a sound body is the instrument of a sound mind, so the
chant, informed by the inspired word of God, interprets its expression. This
expression is enhanced both by the smoothness of the modulations, and by the
suppleness of the rhythm. And as the melody is simple and spiritual, so like-
wise is the expression: it belongs, like the melody, to another age. It is not, as
in modern music, the result of surprise, of discord, of irregularity or disorder;
it does not linger over details, nor endeavor to chisel every word, to cut into
the marble of the melody every shade of emotion. It springs rather from the
general order, the perfect balance and enduring harmony of every part, and
from the irresistible charm born of such perfection. Measured and discreet,
ample liberty of interpretation is left to the mind by such expression. Always
true, it bears the signal stamp of the beauty of fitness: it becomes the sanctu-
ary, it becomes those who resort thither that they may rise to the spiritual plane.
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 119
“No defilement shall touch it,” no dimness, nor stain but a limpid virginal
purity: like the ancient Doric mode, it breathes modesty and chastity.
It is, moreover, infinite in its variety. “Attingit ubique propter munditiam
suam.” What, for example, could be more artless and expressive than the
Ambrosian Gloria which was sung to you? It turns upon two or three notes,
and a short jubilus. A modern composer would consider it monotonous and
insipid, but to me its simplicity is charming, and its frank and wholesome
tonality refreshing. That joyous neum has a rustic ring about it that reminds
one of the hillsides of Bethlehem and fills me with the joy and peace of Christ-
mastide. It is indeed a song worthy of the angels, those pure spirits, and of the
poor shepherd folk.
The same characteristics are found in the little carol “In Israhel orietur
princeps, firmanentum pacis.” It contains but six short words, yet these suffice
to make a melodic composition of exquisite delicacy and expression. In the
Introit Reminiscere, you heard the plaintive accents of sorrowful entreaty, and
in the Laetare, those of a joy so sweet and calm as to be almost jubilant. As
for the communion Videns Dominus, it has no equal. No melody could express
more vividly the Savior’s tears and His compassion for Lazarus’ grief-stricken
sisters, and the divine power of His bidding to death.
In presence of the masterpieces of Greek art, the most discerning mod-
ern artists frankly confess their inability to appreciate them at their true value.
To use Taine’s words: “Our modern perceptions cannot soar so high.” And we
may in like manner say of the musical compositions of the early Church that
they are beyond the reach of our perceptions: we can only partially and grad-
ually comprehend the perfection of their plan; we no longer have their sub-
tlety of feeling and intuition. “In comparison with them we are like amateurs
listening to a musician born and bred: his playing has a delicacy of execution,
a purity of tone, a fullness of accord, and a certain finish of expression, of
which the amateur, with his mediocre talents and lack of training can only now
and again grasp the general effect.”
The finishing touch has yet to be added to this brief outline of plainsong;
this suavity, or more correctly, unction, the supreme quantity in which all the
elements we have been discussing converge. The product of consummate art,
it crowns the chant with a glory unknown in all other music, and it is on account
of this very unction that the Church has singled it out for her use: It is this
quality which makes plainsong the true expression of prayer, and a faithful
interpretation of those unspeakable groanings of the Spirit who, in the words
of St. Paul, “prays in us and for us.” We sometimes wonder at the secret power
the chant has over our soul: it is entirely due to unction, which finds its way
into men’s souls, converts and soothes them, and inclines them to prayer. It is
akin to grace, and is one of its most effectual means of action, for no one can
escape its influence. The pure in heart are best able to understand and taste
the suavity of this unction. Yet, for all its delectable charm, it never tends to
120 III. Standards of Sacred Music
enervate the soul, but like oil, it makes the wrestler supple and strengthens
him against the combat; it rests and relaxes, and bathes him in that peace which
follows the conquest of his passions.
A last word as to the style of execution best suited to plainsong. There
can of course be no doubt that an able and artistic interpretation is eminently
suited to music so subtle and so delicate, but I hasten to add that mere tech-
nique is not enough: it must be coupled with faith, with devotion and with love.
There must be no misunderstanding in this matter. Notwithstanding its beauty,
plainsong is both simple and easy: it is within the capacity of poor and sim-
ple folk. Like the liturgy and the Scriptures, and, if such a comparison be
admissible, like the Blessed Sacrament itself, this musical bread which the
Church distributes to her children, may be food for the loftiest intellects as for
the most illiterate minds. In the country it is not out of place on the lips of the
ploughman, the shepherd, or laborer, who on Sundays leave plough and trowel
or anvil, and come together to sing God’s praises. Nor is it out of place in the
Cathedral, where the venerable canons supported by the fresh young voices of
a well-trained choir sing their office, if not always artistically, at least with the
full appreciation of the words of the Psalmist “Psallite sapienter.” Very possi-
bly the chant is neither rendered, understood, nor appreciated in precisely the
same manner in a country church as in a cathedral. But it would be unfair and
unreasonable to except of village folk an artistic interpretation of which their
uncultured minds have no inkling, since, after all, their devotion and taste is
satisfied with less. But on the other hand, a suitable interpretation may in jus-
tice be expected and required of them: the voices should be restrained, the tone
true and sustained, the accents should be observed, so too the pauses, the
rhythm, and the feeling of the melody. All that is needed beyond this is that
touch of devotion, of feeling, which is by no means rare among the masses.
With this slender store of musical knowledge, the village cantor will not, I con-
fess, become an artist. He will not render the full beauty, the finer shades of
the melody: nevertheless, he will express his own devotion and withal he will
carry his audience with him. For the simple folk who listen to him are no bet-
ter versed than he in the subtle niceties of art: neither he nor they can fully
appreciate the chant, but they are satisfied with that which they find in it: it
contents their musical instincts and appeals to their ingenuous piety.
Is this then all, Gentlemen? Does such an easy victory fulfill the Church’s
intentions: is her aim merely to win the approval of our good peasants? Indeed,
such is not the Church’s meaning: she does not rest content with well-mean-
ing mediocrity: she has her colleges, her greater and lesser seminaries, her
choirs, her monasteries, and her cathedrals. Of these she demands an intelli-
gent rendering of the chant so dear to her heart, that it may compel the admi-
ration of the most exacting critics, and be at the same time the most perfect
expression of her official prayer. Here indeed is art most necessary: here we
may despoil the Egyptians of their most precious vessels, and fairly borrow,
10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 121
without any scruple, from profane artists, the methods whereby to restore to
the voice its true sweetness and purity. Art teaches us how to use the voice, to
sing the neums softly or loudly as the case may be, to pronounce the words,
to give delicacy to the accents, to phrase correctly, to bring out the expression
and the true meaning of the ideas contained in the words. Art conceals natu-
ral or acquired defects, and restores to nature its primitive beauty and integrity.
In plainsong, the aim of art is to provide the soul with a docile, pliant instru-
ment, capable of interpreting its sentiments without deforming them. To
attempt to sing without training or art; “naturally,” as the saying goes, would
be as foolish an undertaking as to pretend to attain to sanctity without setting
any check upon our impulses. Art is to the right interpretation of the chant
what the science of ascetics is to the spiritual life. Its proper function is not to
give vent to factitious emotions, as in modem music, but rather to allow gen-
uine feeling complete freedom of expression. It is with intent that I use the
word freedom, for freedom is simply the being able to yield without effort to
the rules of the beautiful, which become as it were natural.
Art then is necessary, but as I have already said it is not sufficient in itself.
To sing the chant, as it should be sung, the soul must be suitably disposed.
The chant should vibrate with soul, ordered, calm, disciplined, passionless: a
soul that is mistress of itself, intelligent and in possession of the light; upright
in the sight of God, and overflowing with charity. To such a soul, Gentlemen,
add a beautiful voice, well-trained, and the singing of those hallowed melodies,
will be a finished work of beauty, the music of which Plato dreamed, a music
which inspires a love of virtue: nay, more, you will have the ideal of Christ-
ian prayer as St. Dennis understood it, the realization of the great Benedictine
motto: “Mens nostra concordet voci nostrae.” “Let our mind concord with our
voice” in the praise of God.
LAUS DEO ET AGNO
, 11 .
Jones, William. “Sing to the Harp with a Song of Thanksgiving.” In The Theological, Philosoph-
ical and Miscellaneous Works of the Rev. Williams Jones in Twelve Volumes. London: F. and C.
Rivington, 1801.
122
11. Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving (1801) (Jones) 123
the eye are from him who said, Let there be light. Man is the contriver of musi-
cal instruments; but the principles of harmony are in the elements of nature;
and the greatest of instruments, as we shall soon discover, was formed by the
Creator himself. The element of air was as certainly ordained to give us har-
monies in due measure, as to give respiration to the lungs. This fluid is so con-
stituted as to make thousands of pulses at an invariable rate, by means of which
the proportions and coincidences of musical sounds are exactly preserved. The
same wisdom which established the seven conspicuous lights of the firma-
ment, which gave names to the periodical measure of time in a week; and
which hath distinguished the seven primary colors in the element of light, hath
given the same limits to the scale of musical degrees, all the varieties of which
are comprehended within the number seven.
In the philosophical theory of musical sounds, we discover some certain
laws which demonstrate that the divine wisdom hath had respect, and made
provision for the delight of our senses, by accommodating the nature of sounds
to the degree of our perception. As this must be a pleasing consideration to
the lovers of music, I shall beg leave to enlarge upon it.
There is no such thing in music as a simple solitary sound. Every musi-
cal note, whether from a string, a pipe, or a bell, is attended by other smaller
notes which arise out of it. When a string sounds in its whole length, the parts
also sound in such sections or divisions as have a certain proportion to the
total sound. We find by calculation and experiment, that these measures are
harmonious in the greater of them, but in the lesser they run into discords.
Now here is the wisdom and goodness of God manifest; that these sounds are
so well tempered to the human ear, that we feel all the pleasant without any
of the disagreeable effect. Were the ear more sensible, or these discords louder,
all music would be spoiled.
There is another providential circumstance in the theory of sounds, that
if a pipe is blown to give its proper note, a stronger blast will raise it to its
octave (8 notes higher). This is done by an instantaneous leap, which if it were
done by procession from the one to the other, as bodies in motion rise or fall,
not music, but a noise would be the consequence, most disagreeable to the ear;
to which nothing is more offensive than a sound rising or falling by the way
of the whole immediate space, and not by just intervals; for that is a principle
of noises as they differ from notes: and a curious principle it is, if this were a
proper occasion for pursuing it. We find music as a work of God in the con-
stitution of the air; which is made capable of proportionate vibrations to delight
us; and in such degrees and manner as to save the ear from offence and inter-
ruption.
Music may be farther traced as the work of God in the nature of man: for
God hath undoubtedly made man to sing as well as to speak. The gift of speech
we cannot but derive from the Creator; and the gift of singing is from the same
Author. The faculty, by which the voice forms musical sounds, is as wonderful
124 III. Standards of Sacred Music
as the flexures of the organs of speech in the articulation of words. The human
pipe is of a small diameter, and very short when compared with the pipes of
an organ: yet it will distinctively give the same note with the pipe of an organ
eight feet in length. The moveable operculum on the pipe of the human throat,
which is imitated by the reed of the organ, has but a very small range: yet with
the contraction and expansion of the throat, it will utter a scale of seventeen
degrees, and divide every whole tone into a hundred parts; which is such a
refinement on mechanism as exceeds all description.
But, more than this, man is an instrument of God in his whole frame.
Besides the powers of the voice in forming, and of the ear in distinguishing
musical sounds, there is a general sense, or sympathetic feeling, in the fibers
and membranes of the body, which renders the whole frame susceptible of
musical emotion. Every person strongly touched with music must be assured
that its effect is not confined to the ear, but is felt all over the frame, and to
the innermost affections of the heart; disposing us to joy and thankfulness on
the one hand, or to penitential softness and devotion on the other. Whence it
follows, that when words convey to the mind the same sense as the music does,
and dispose us to the same affection, then the effect of music is greatest; which
consideration at once gives, to vocal, the preeminence above instrumental
music.
It is a very observable experiment in music, that when one stringed instru-
ment is struck, and another in tune with it is held upon the palm of the hand,
it will be felt to tremble in all its solid parts. Thus doth the frame of man feel
and answer to instruments of music, as one instrument answers to another.
Man is to be considered as a musical instrument of God’s forming; he has
music in his voice, in his ear, and in his whole frame. Hence the Psalmist, when
he calls upon the lute and harp to awake, hath rightly added, I myself an instru-
ment which God hath formed for his own use, will awake right early: I will
utter, and I will feel such sounds as are worthy of a soul awakened to the praise
and glory of God.
Now we have derived music from its proper origin, we are to consider the
end which it is intended to answer. The mind of man is subject to certain emo-
tions, which language alone is not sufficient to express; so it calls in the aid
of bodily gestures and musical sounds, by which it attains to a higher kind of
expression, more adequate to its inward feelings. In prayer, words alone are
not adequate to the affections of the soul: so the eyes are lifted up to the ever-
lasting hills, the knees are bent, and the body falls prostrate upon the dust, to
denote the prostration of the mind. So naturally are the knees bended, and the
hands folded together, when we are imploring the divine forgiveness, that the
word supplication is taken from thence. In joy and thanksgiving, the tongue
is not content with speaking; it must awake and utter a song; while the feet are
also disposed to dance to the measures of music; as was the custom in sacred
celebrations of old among the people of God, before the world and its vanities
11. Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving (1801) (Jones) 125
had engrossed to themselves all the expressions of mirth and festivity. They
have now left nothing of that kind to religion; which must sit by in gloomy
solemnity, and see the world, the flesh, and the devil, assume to themselves
the sole power of distributing social happiness. When the holy prophet David
danced before the ark of God, Michal scorned him in her heart, as if he was
exposing himself, and robbing the vain world of its tributary right: for which
she was barren to the day of her death; as all they are likely to be in their hearts,
who are either ashamed of the condemnation, or can find nothing cheerful and
pleasant in the worship of the God of Israel. However this may be, it must be
admitted, that nothing adds so fully to the expression of joy, as the sound of
instruments accompanying the voice.
When the mind is intent upon some great object, then all the aids of speech
are called for. They are, therefore, never so proper and necessary as in the
praises of God, the best and the greatest. “When you glorify the Lord,” says
the son of Sirach, “exalt him as much as you can; and when ye exalt him, put
forth all your strength, and be not weary for you can never go far enough”
(Ecclus. 43:30). Here music appears in its proper character: but to call in assis-
tance of great sounds to magnify little or worthless things, is absurd and ridicu-
lous. The powers of speech are more than they deserve: but certainly, laborious
celebration, when dedicated to trifles, is to the reproach of human judgment.
The winds of heaven, and the waves of the ocean, which can transport the
loftiest ships, were not intended to float a cork, or to drive a feather. When the
highest music is applied to the highest objects, then we act with reason and
propriety, and bring honor to ourselves, while we are promoting the honor of
the Maker. If a musician has any sense of great things, they must lead him to
higher performances in his art than little things: they call for a higher sort of
expression; and accordingly we find, in fact, that masters have exceeded them-
selves when their talents have been turned to divine subjects on the service of
the church; in whose archives are to be found the most sublime and excellent
of all musical compositions. What is the sense and subject of the most perfect
piece of music in the world, but the humiliation of man, and the exaltation of
God? Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name be the glory! In
truth, there is nearly the same proportion between the music of the church and
the music of secular assemblies, as between the venerable Gothic aile of the
cathedral and the common chamber; and there is the like difference in their
effects upon the mind; for its elevation and enlargement are better than its lev-
ity, and rapture is above mirth.
It may have been made a question by some people, more melancholy than
wise, and soured with the principles of spurious reformation, whether instru-
mental music may be lawfully applied to divine worship. But it is no question
at all. The voices of men are to speak praises of God: but not them alone.
Every devout and well-informed mind hears the whole frame of nature, the
world and all things that are therein, joining in one great instrumental chorus
126 III. Standards of Sacred Music
to the glory of the Creator. Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad—
let the sea make a noise, and all that therein is; let the floods clap their hands—
let the field be joyful, let the valleys sing—let all the trees of the world rejoice
before the Lord. This is a grand sentiment, sufficient to overpower and con-
found all the sullen objections of enthusiastic melancholy, and to awaken the
stupidity of indevotion itself. Here the whole inanimate creation is musical;
and the thought hath been plainly borrowed by our best poet in his supposed
hymn of Adam and Eve in Paradise; which will naturally occur to the mem-
ory of those who are acquainted with it. Sounds from inanimate bodies, such
as musical instruments, are, therefore, undoubtedly to be used in divine wor-
ship; and all ages and nations of the world have admitted them. On occasion
of the overthrow of Pharaoh and his host, Miriam the prophetess took a tim-
brel in her hand to celebrate the glorious triumph of the Lord. In the service
of the tabernacle and temple, all kinds of instruments were used, and bands
of singers and musicians were appointed in so great a multitude, that their
sound must have produced an astonishing effect. A father of the church informs
us, that the music of the temple, on great occasions, from the multitude of per-
formers, and the elevation of the place, was heard to the distance of ten miles.
That the songs of Zion were usually accompanied by the harp, according to
the exhortation in the text, appears from the 137th Psalm. Even the Heathens,
in their sacred festivals, retained the use of instrumental music. When the
golden image was set up in the plain of Dura, the signal was given for the act
of adoration by the sound of all kinds of instruments.
In the lowest state of the church, when the sufferings of our blessed Sav-
ior were at hand, himself and the company of his disciples still followed the
custom of adding music to their devotions; they sung a hymn. Pliny, the min-
ister of the emperor Trajan, tells his master how the first Christians made it
their practice to sing hymns to Jesus Christ, as to God. We are surely not to
wonder, if instruments were not used while the church was in an afflicted and
persecuted state: it could have no organs when it had no public edifices to put
them in, supposing them to have been then in use; but when the church was
supported and established by the kingdoms of the world, it assumed a like
form of worship with that which prevailed in the prosperous days of David
and Solomon.
We find organs in the church as early as the seventh century, near 1200
years ago. And here let all the admirers of the musical art stop a while to
reflect with gratitude and devotion, that the invention of choral harmony in
parts arose from the Trinitarian worship of the Christian church. It is certain,
we have no music of that form extant in the world, but such as is Christian;
nor do we read of any: and had it not been for the schools of music, estab-
lished and maintained by the church, I will venture to say, there had, at this
day, been none of that excellent music with which all of us are now charmed,
and I hope, many of us edified. Look out of Christendom into the kingdoms
11. Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving (1801) (Jones) 127
of China, Tartary, Turkey, and the regions of the southern world, and you will
discover no music but what is beggarly and barbarous, fit only to amuse the
ears of children or savages. Everything that is great and excellent in this way,
hath come down to us from the Christian church. O holy and blessed society,
which hath thus introduced us to all that we can know and feel of heaven itself!
How shall we celebrate thee, how shall we cultivate and adorn thee, accord-
ing to what we have derived from thee! Let others be cold and indifferent, if
they will, to our forms of worship; but upon musicians, if they know them-
selves, religion hath a particular demand; for they would never have been what
they are, if God in his infinite goodness, had not brought us to the improve-
ments of the gospel.
If we proceed now to enquire, what are the subjects to which music may
be applied, we shall find the chief of them set down for us in the 33rd Psalm;
where the righteous are directed to praise the Lord with instruments of music,
because “his word is true, and all his works are faithful.” The wisdom of his
words, and the wonders of his works, are, therefore, to be celebrated in our
sacred songs; he is to be praised as the defender of his people, giving victory
to their arms against their heathen enemies; feeding, healing, and delivering
out of all danger those who trust in him, as their help and their shield. To all
these subjects music may be applied; and this is the use we may make of it in
the Te Deum, and all the hymns of the morning and evening service; to the
words of which, such strains of harmony are adapted in this our Church of
England.
But as the mind has another language of sighs and tears, very different
from that of praise and triumph, so the scale of music affords us a melancholy
key with the lesser third, and a mournful sort of harmony proceeding by semi-
tones, which is exceedingly fine and solemn, and reaches to the bottom of the
soul, as the lighter sort of music plays upon the top of it. That musical sounds
are applicable to prayer and supplication and penitential sorrow, none will
doubt, who hears the Anthem, I call and cry; or that other, Call to remem-
brance, O Lord; by two of our most ancient and excellent composers, Tallis
and Farrant: or that versicle of the Burial Office, Thou Knowest, Lord, the
secrets of our hearts, by the greatest of modern masters, Purcel. Thus much
for the subjects of music.
The form of the Anthem derives itself naturally from the structure of
some of the Psalms, in which we so frequently find the soliloquy, the dialogue,
and the chorus. Thus, for example: The Lord hear thee in the song of trouble,
is the voice of a company encouraging a priest in his intercession; who also
answers for himself, and expresses his confidence; Now know I that the Lord
helpeth his anointed: then all join together in supplication, Save Lord, and hear
us when we call upon thee. The solo, the verse, and the chorus, in our church
music, express all these turns in the sacred poetry, when they are properly
applied. The responsory form of our chanting by alternate singing in the choir
128 III. Standards of Sacred Music
the ignorant into vain fancies, nor to offend the judicious with unreasonable
levity. In the tone of the diapasons of the church organ, there is nothing noisy
and military, nothing weak and effeminate, but a majestic sweetness, which is
fittest to dispose the mind of the hearer to a devout and holy temper. If the dia-
pasons could speak in articulate words, there is not a text in the Bible which
they would not utter with dignity and reverence; and hence their music is of
excellent use to prepare the people for the hearing of the scripture. Many have
felt the effect of it: and I hope I shall give no offence if I add it as a suspicion,
that they who do not feel the power of slow harmony upon the organ, have not
the right sense of musical sounds. The organist should, therefore, by all means,
cultivate that style of harmony which is proper to this noble capacity of his
instrument.
The Psalmody of our country churches is universally complained of, as
very much out of order, and wanting regulation in most parts of the kingdom.
The authority of the minister is competent to direct such music as is proper,
and to keep the people to the ancient forms. A company of persons, who
appoint themselves under the name of the singers, assume an exclusive right,
which belongs not to them but to the congregation at large; and they often make
a very indiscreet use of their liberty; neglecting the best old Psalmody, till the
people forget it, and introducing new tunes, which the people cannot learn;
some of them without science, without simplicity, without solemnity; causing
the serious to frown, and the inconsiderate to laugh. I have frequently heard
such wild airs as were not fit to be brought into the church; through the igno-
rance of the composers, who were not of skill to distinguish what kind of
melody is proper for the church, and what for the theater, and what for nei-
ther. If any Anthems are admitted during the time of divine service, country
choristers should confine themselves to choral harmony, in which they may do
very well; and our church abounds with full Anthems by the best masters. No
solos should ever be introduced without an instrument to support them; and
besides, these require a superior degree of expression to make them tolerable.
The Psalmists of country choirs may with care and practice sing well in time
and tune; and in choral music, or music of several parts, the want of due expres-
sion is compensated by the fullness of harmony: but they can never attain to
the speaking of music without being taught. There is an utterance in singing,
as in preaching or praying, which must be learned from the judgment of those
who excel in it. A man can no more sing a solo for the church without a musi-
cal education than a clown can speak upon the stage for a learned audience in
a theater.
When we consider the performance of sacred music as a duty, much is to
be learned from it. If music is a gift of God to us for our own good, it ought
to be used as such, for the improvement of the understanding, and the advance-
ment of devotion. Services, Anthems, and Psalms should be understood as les-
sons of purity in life and manners. Rejoice in the Lord, O ye righteous, saith
130 III. Standards of Sacred Music
the Psalmist, for it becometh well the just to be thankful. What, shall we praise
God with our lips, while we blaspheme him with our lives? Praise, saith the
son of Sirach, is not seemly in the mouth of a sinner, for it was not sent him
of the Lord. Praise to the Lord is proper to those only who derive blessings
from the Lord; it is impertinent and false when it comes from those who are
never the better for him. O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good, for his
mercy endureth for ever. Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath
redeemed from the hand of the enemy: but let not them say so, who are very
loud and forward in singing, while they are insensible of the greatness and the
value of those subjects which our music celebrates: like the sounding brass of
a trumpet, which makes a great noise, but feels nothing. Others there are, who
are not chargeable with this error: loose, irreligious people, who have an
absolute dislike and contempt for divine music: and they are right; for it would
carry them out of their element. But God forbid that we should be where they
are: no; let us keep our music and amend our lives. It must be our own fault,
if our music doth not contribute to our reformation, and we may have it to
answer for in common with the other means of improvement which we have
abused. All our church music tends to keep up our acquaintance with the
Psalms, those divine compositions, of which none can feel the sense, as music
makes them feel it, without being edified. The sacred harp of David will still
have the effect it once had upon Saul; it will quiet the disorders of the mind,
and drive away the enemies of our peace.
Another excellent use of music, is for the increase of charity; and this in
more senses than one. When Christians unite their voices in the praise of God,
their hearts become more united to one another. Harmony and Charity never
do better than when they meet together; they are of the same heavenly origi-
nal; they illustrate and promote each other. For as different voices join together
in the same harmony, and are all necessary to render it complete; so are all
Christians necessary to one another. The high and the low all meet together in
the church of Christ, and form one body. As those who perform their differ-
ent parts in a piece of music, do all conspire to the same effect; so are we all
members one of another; and as such, are to be unanimous in the performance
of our several duties to the praise and glory of God. And as a greater heat arises
from a collection of a greater number of rays from the sun, so more Chris-
tians, united in charity and harmony, are happier and fewer. The most critical
judges of music must deny their own feelings, if they do not allow that the
effect of music is wonderfully increased by the multiplication of voices. Indeed
the principle is attested and confirmed by the grand performances of the pres-
ent age, so greatly and skillfully conducted of late years to the astonishment
of the hearers. Magnitude of sound will strike the mind as well as the sweet-
ness of harmony; and this is one reason why we are all so affected with the
sound of thunder, to which the sound of a great multitude may well be com-
pared. Thus it comes to pass in the union of Christians: the joy and peace of
11. Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving (1801) (Jones) 131
God of his infinite mercy give us grace so to pray, and so to sing, and so
to live, in this short time of our probation, that we may be admitted into the
celestial choir, where with angles and archangels, and with all the company
of heaven, and with sounds as yet unheard and unconceived, we may laud and
magnify the adorable name of God; ascribing to the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost, into whose name and worship we were baptized upon earth, all
honor, glory, power, might, majesty and dominion forever and ever. Amen.
, 12 .
Church Music:
General Considerations
(1904)
A. Madeley Richardson
Quot homines, tot sententiae may be said of Church music of the present
day. Every one has his opinions, his tastes, his preferences, and his prejudices;
and amid so many conflicting tongues it is sometimes difficult for the inexpe-
rienced student to know what to think, what to accept, and what to believe.
Every clergyman ought to know something of the art of music generally,
and of Church music in particular. It is in reality as important as many of the
other studies usually required as a preliminary to ordination, perhaps more so
than most of them. In the exercise of his office he is constantly surrounded by
music, as by one of the most potent forces through which the life and work of
the Church is carried on; and to be entirely ignorant of its principles and prac-
tice is to be placed in a position of most serious disadvantage.
This is not to say that every clergyman should be a skilled musician; that
is neither necessary nor desirable. But he should know sufficient of the his-
tory, theory, and practice of the art on which so much of the success of his
work depends, to be able to take an intelligent interest in it when discussed,
to manage his own voice and part correctly, and to give strength, support, and
sympathy to those others upon whom he relies for its practice in the service
of the Church.
The fact that English Church music is at present in a state of chaos, though
at first sight somewhat disconcerting, need not alarm nor discourage us. It is
a sign of life and progress. The old days of lethargy and stagnation are past;
therefore let us rejoice. We are suffering now, not from lack of interest, but
Richardson, A. Madeley. “Church Music: General Considerations.” In Church Music. New York:
Longmans, Green, and Co., 1904.
133
134 III. Standards of Sacred Music
possessing an absolute beauty of its own, its relative beauty for the individual
is absent. When an ordinary person speaks of the beauty and power of music,
he refers not to music in general, but to that of his own time, place, and level
of education; in other words, we can only appreciate the music to which we
are accustomed.
Very little ancient music has survived, but there is quite enough to show
that, if it were to be performed today, it would touch no chords of sympathy
in the hearts of the hearers, it would sound ugly and futile. Yet this is the music
that soothed the rage and madness of King Saul, that inspired the magnificent
poetry of the Psalms. These were the strains employed when—
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing.
Again, in our own day, the Oriental nations have music of a high order,
doubtless to them appearing quite as beautiful a form of art as ours does to
us, and giving to them the same feelings and inspiration. Yet, when we hear
it, we perceive nothing but a most painful jargon, unendurable to our ears.
With our own people, every individual likes that which he has become
accustomed. There are endless gradations, from the vulgarity of the music hall
song to the sublimity of Beethoven and Wagner. But here clearly it is mainly
a question of culture and education. The “coster” thinks his melody beautiful,
because it is all that he knows of music; the person of culture enjoys Wagner,
because he has accustomed himself to that kind of music. It is reasonable to
suppose that, if these two individuals were to change places and start life
afresh, the result would be that the attitude of mind depends rather upon habit
and use than upon physical organization.
All these considerations point to two important principles which will be
of use in dealing with our subject:
1. That people will appreciate and be affected by that kind of music with
which they have become familiar.
2. That, this being the case, it follows that by constantly hearing music
of a certain kind they will learn to perceive its particular message.
We offer, then, to God a thing of beauty, upon which all our talents and
energies should be expended to render it as little unworthy of its object as may
be: its quality should be such that it may carry with itself a further offering,
nobler resolves, for which purpose no power on earth is more potent than
music.
Music, the language of the emotions, has an influence which no one can
explain, but no one will deny. The better it is the greater its power. It helps
people to feel in a certain way.
There are gradations in music. Not all music tends to edification. There
136 III. Standards of Sacred Music
is music of vulgarity and frivolity, as well as sublimity and grandeur. The high-
est kind of music tends to produce the highest kind of emotion, and from this
proceed all kinds of virtue. It is something to tell people that they must not be
selfish, mean, hard-hearted, proud; but very often the clearest arguments and
soundest reasoning will produce no change in these respects. If people want
to feel and act in a certain way they will do it. Music is able to produce the
desire for good and holy things; it supplies no arguments, but implants long-
ings and aspirations, which are the sources from which proceed good actions
and holy lives.
Divine love is the greatest thing in the world: sacred music seems to hold
it in solution. It takes its tone from sacred words, and reflects their meaning
and force with tenfold intensity, possessing the heart of the listener and filling
it full of spiritual life and energy.
Think of concrete cases. Compare the effect of the words, “I know that
my Redeemer liveth,” at first merely spoken, and then sung to Handel’s sub-
lime music by a great singer.
Repeat the words, “Lacrymosa Dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla judican-
dus homo reus,” and then listen to them wedded to the immortal strains of the
dying Mozart.
Read the sentence, “And sorrow and sighing shall flee away,” then bow
the head and hearken to the Divine Voice speaking through the mortal man,
Samuel Sebastian Wesley.
We cannot account for this wonderful power of music, but we know and
feel it; we listen, and are convinced.
Bearing in mind the secondary object of Church music, edification, our
work should be built upon the foundation of its primary object, the offering
to God. A man’s life and energies cannot be better occupied than in seeking
to return to the Giver of all beauty the best he can produce of those forms of
beauty which the human brain is enabled to create upon the earth.
All the arts are employed in the service of God: architecture, painting,
sculpture, etc. In these we seek to give the best, but they one and all differ
from music in that their beauty is passive; created once and for all, it remains
quiescent until destroyed by time. Music, on the other hand, is active and liv-
ing, its message can be conveyed to the world only by living agents interpret-
ing it at a given time. The composer of the music directs the performers as to
what they must do, but the music proper does not exist until they obey these
directions. Here is at once the weakness and the strength of music. For its
beauty we are constantly dependent upon the skill of the interpreter, either our
own or that of others, and if this skill fails the music fails, at any rate in respect
of the intention of the creator. An unskillful performance is a mere travesty of
great and beautiful music, a libel upon the composer, who is ever at the mercy
of the performers. On the other hand, when the executants are skillful, and are
competent to understand and to interpret to others the hidden thoughts of a
12. Church Music (1904) (Richardson) 137
great musician then we have an art force greater than that of any passive art.
The tone poet lives again in his music, his own voice speaks to the listener, in
whose being the vibrations find an answering chord, and he is moved, figura-
tively and literally.
We thus see that questions of Church music divide themselves under two
heads, touching the composers and the executants. We must, of course, first
decide what music we use, and then next how we shall get it rendered. It is a
comparatively easy task to select suitable music; it is a far more difficult mat-
ter to secure its adequate performance. Whether it be rendered by clergy, choir,
or congregation, the same difficulties are ever present. Knowledge and skill
are the two things needful; without them music is nothing, with them every-
thing. How to acquire them, how to keep them, and how to use them, is the
constant care of the true guardian of Church music; with the never-to-be for-
gotten thought behind all that neither is of any avail, neither can bring any bless-
ing, without sincere purpose and true intention—the guiding light that should
illuminate every step of the way towards all that is high and great in our art.
, 13 .
The distinction between religious and secular music is not readily admitted.
There is a considerable group of people, some of them very learned in the art
and science of sound, who claim that music per se is one and indivisible, either
good or bad, grammatically correct or wrong, and that the colored moods or
feelings we experience at a recital are simply due to association of ideas. Thus a
chant or anthem becomes to us a sacred composition because we hear them in a
cathedral or synagogue instead of a music hall or theater. The world-renowned
Miserere given in the Sistine Chapel at Rome during the holy week is used as an
illustration. This famous performance, over which tourists enthuse and rave ad
extremun, when noted down and analyzed outside the cathedral atmosphere, as
was done surreptitiously by Mozart, proves to be prosaic and simple to the marked
degree. They also cite instances of sacred oratorios, like Handel’s Esther and
Mendelssohn’s Elijah, being offered on the operatic stage and evoking feelings
quite contrary to those evoked within the cold Gothic walls of the oratory. That
there is a modicum of truth in this assertion is evident with anyone conversant
with the influence of the environment on such a sentient being as man. Indeed,
even apart from this, it must be admitted that what we generally characterize as
holy and secular melodies are not as far apart as we are prone to think. They often
merge together so that we are not able to distinguish their line of demarcation.
Nevertheless, the division of music into religious and secular is legitimate, and
is justified not alone by time-honored usage but also by essentially differing char-
acteristics which serve as criteria for determination of the artistic status of a
certain melody.
Reider, Joseph. “Secular Currents in Synagogal Chant in America.” The Jewish Forum (Winter 1918).
138
13. Secular Currents in Synagogal Chant in America (1918) (Reider) 139
To begin with, all true religious tunes have a certain breadth, strength,
dignity, and simplicity, which are rarely met with in secular songs. These stern
qualities are obtained in various ways, such as the use of slow movement, the
employment of only one note or syllable, the use of common time, major or
augmented intervals, and, last but not least, an upward diatonic progression.
The opposite is true of secular tunes, which are generally florid and melismatic,
fugal and mellifluous, having slurs and appoggiaturas, with the result that two
or more notes are given in one syllable, employing mostly triple time, minor
or diminished intervals, and chromatic progression. The one represents innate
reverence, the other innate flippancy. To make their relation still clearer by a
simile, sacred stands to secular music as Gothic architecture stands to the
building style of the Renaissance: it is pointedness versus rotundity, masculin-
ity against femininity, ruggedness instead of suppleness. The same relation
obtains in painting between the early Church style as exemplified in Fra
Angelico on the one hand and the Renaissance style of Raphael, Michael
Angelo and Rubens on the other; in the former we find perpendicularity and
a suggestion of infinity, in the latter roundness and perfection and nothing left
to the soaring imagination.
The nearest approach to religious song is the Gregorian chant of the
Catholic Church which admittedly goes back to Temple music at least as far
as content is concerned. This chant has various ramifications, but all of them
portray a self-surrendering faith, the humility and abnegation of a pietistic
soul, subjective resignation and extinction of egotism. The most typical rep-
resentative is the famous Cantus Peregrinus, which Jesus of Nazareth is sup-
posed to have intoned to the Hallel on the Feast of Passover (comp. Mark 14,
26). It is a primitive and elementary tune, consisting of two short phrases, one
ascending and the other descending, terminating in the minor la, so charac-
teristic of the Orient; nevertheless it is full of strength, dignity, and beauty. Its
antiquity may be vouchsafed, even aside from the well-authenticated tradition
by dint of what of we know of the origin of human speech and song. It has
been determined beyond any doubt that originally all music was religious and
consisted in intensive speech-song, a kind of dramatic recitation, with as much
rigidity and as little floridity as possible. The speech was dominant, the song
subservient, and this is exactly what we find in these rugged tunes, as anyone
may convince himself by hearing the Sanctus and the Gloria of the Eucharis-
tic service. Another example of general and antique religious song, more famil-
iar to us Jews, is the well-known tune Leoni, which is sung at some
congregations to Yigdal on Sabbath eve. It is so pathetic and reverent, self-
denying and God-exalting, that it is hard to find its equal in the whole Jewish
liturgy. Its ancient Jewish origin is attested to not merely by the characteristic
minor key, but also by the almost monotonous simplicity represented by the
constantly reoccurring phrase of upward progression. I might also mention the
world-renowned tune for Kol Nidre, which in its basic outline barring the
140 III. Standards of Sacred Music
insofar as it affects the various practices in our American synagogues and tem-
ples. Corresponding to the three great classes of the Jewish population in
America, viz. the Spanish, the German and the Russian-Polish Jews, we can
diagnose three distinct tendencies in the treatment of synagogue music: the
Sephardim retain their love for Moorish and generally Oriental folk tunes, the
Ashkenazim indulge in operatic airs and oratorio themes, while the Russian-
Polish Jews, in addition to their love for Slav and generally eastern European
melodies, imitate everything melodious in the musical register. Some of these
tendencies manifested themselves already in the Middle Ages, but they became
accentuated with the advance of time and the consequent evolution of new
musical forms. With the immigration of the Jews to the new continent these
practices were transplanted here and continued their undisturbed development.
With reference to the Spanish and Portuguese the dictum of Carl Engel
still holds true: “In the synagogal hymns of the Sephardic Jews,” he says in
his work National Music, “who were expelled from the Spanish Peninsula at
the end of the fifteen century, distinct traces and characteristics of Moorish
music are still preserved.” These characteristics, as anyone acquainted with
Arab music knows, are primarily chromatic and inharmonic scales, built up
of semitones and demi-semitones, instead of whole tones and half tones as case
in the diatonic mode of the Europeans. It is the nature of these chromatic inter-
vals that they yield a certain softness and effeminacy which we style minor
mode. Another feature is the nasal twang, so common in the Orient, and no
doubt the result of the peculiar scale system. The impression on a cultivated
ear is something doleful and lugubrious, or else of something cold, turgid and
anemic. This canorous style, with some modification, of course, found its way
into the Sephardic synagogue at an early date and has since become natural-
ized there, so much so that the claim is often heard that it represents the old-
est form of synagogue music and probably goes back to the Temple service.
Thus the hymn Az Yeshir Moshe is claimed by the Sephardim to be the oldest
melody of the synagogue. Whether there is any basis for this claim, I cannot
discuss now; but I want to state my doubts in the face of the newly published
collection of songs of the Yemenite Jews (Idelsohn, Gesaenge der jemischen
Juden, Leipzig 1914). The Yeminite Jews, as is well known, remained without
any outside influence for nearly two thousand years; and if any Jewish chant
is to claim a hoary antiquity and perchance Temple ancestry, it is certainly the
Yemenite chant with its pristine simplicity and elementary structure, its small
range and narrow compass, its paucity of modulation and monotony of modes,
its diatonic and often pentatonic scale. The Sephardic chant, on the other hand,
is quite elaborate and developed, has a variety of motives and modes, a high
range of tonality, a great number of scales, a system of modulation, and last
but not least, chromatic intervals. The piyyutim are crooned in the Irak (Dorian)
mode, but quite frequently also in the l’Sain (Hyper-Dorian or A minor) and
the l’Sain-sebah (A minor with G sharp modern harmonic minor), reminding
142 III. Standards of Sacred Music
us of the romantic folksongs of the Iberian Peninsula and the cooing ditties of
medieval Provence. In this connection it is interesting to quote the Rev. D. J.
Sola, from his book Ancient Melodies of the Liturgy of the Spanish and Por-
tuguese Jews (1857):
When the Sephardic ritual became fixed and generally established in Spain, and was
enriched by the solemn hymns of Gabriol, Judah ha–Levi, and other celebrated
Hebrew poets, chants or melodies were composed or adapted to them, and were soon
generally adopted. It would have been, indeed, most desirable that the sublime ways
of our pious poets should have ever been found combined with equally sublime
and sweet strains by devotionally inspired musical composers of our own nation.
But this was not always practicable; and at a very early period it became necessary
to sing these hymns to the popular melodies of the day; and in most collections we
find directions prefixed to hymns replete with piety and devotion, that are to be
sung to the tune of Permetid, bella Amaryllis, Tres colors in una, Temprano naces,
Almendro, and similar ancient Spanish or Moorish songs—a practice no doubt
very objectionable, for obvious reasons, and from which the better taste of the
present age would shrink.
Ashkenazic hymnal would lead us too far astray. A few instances will suffice
for the present. Thus the grave and pathetic hymn Ledavid baruch is sung at
the close of the Sabbath to a jolly dance tune, notwithstanding the fact that it
contains such weighty words as “Man is like to vanity, his days are but a shadow
that passeth away.” Similarly the hymn Hodu l’adonai for the first days of
Passover bears the earmarks of a dance melody, though in its present form it
is already attuned to a more serious purpose. Notwithstanding the subject of
the prayer requires a lively tune, we expect something more refined and
dignified, something broader and weightier, maestoso instead of allegro. Again,
the song Echad mi yodea for Passover night is in imitation of a Catholic ves-
per which was current in Germany during the fifteenth century and was itself
patterned after a monkish drink song. Though in the minor key, it has that
droning and doleful quality, that flattened intonation, which somehow we asso-
ciate with the moldering monks in a gloomy convent. Another Passover tune,
the famous Hag Gadya, is of foreign origin and of a secular nature. Gay and
lively, of terpsichoreal measure and rhythm, it is a typical Provencal folksong
of the type that was current during the latter part of the Middle Ages. It is
known to have been incorporated in the Ashkenazi ritual during the sixteenth
century. The very popular and sweetly hymn Moaz zur yeshuati sung on
Hanukah is dressed in the melody of a Lutheran chorale, entitled Nun frent
euch, ihr lieben Christen (“Now rejoice, ye dear Christians”) or So weiss ich
eins, das mich erfreut (“So one thing I know that gladdens me”). Incidentally
it might be remarked that in some places of Eastern Europe this hymn bears
the melody of a medieval folksong entitled Die Frau zu Weissenburg.
But more potent than the folksong was the influence of the larger and more
artistic works such as chorales, oratorios, and operas, which, by dint of their
novelty and dramatic dimensions, appealed very strongly to a people steeped
in misery. The introduction of operatic airs in the German synagogue had been
a notorious practice during the first flush of the Reformation, and this prac-
tice persisted throughout the ages until late in the nineteenth century, when,
owing to the beneficent activity of men like Sulzer and Lewandowski, the evil
was partly stamped out. The process of introducing these airs was slow. As
Francis L. Cohen puts it: “It need not be imagined that these foreign airs were
at once admitted into the synagogue. They would have been freely used with
hymn songs sung in the home circle, as seems later on to have been the usual
practice of the German Jews. Then, when their secular origin was forgotten,
the melodies would finally have found a place in the synagogal hymnody, and
would be jealously treasured as the more purely Jewish music.” In this way,
the synagogue service was overburdened with ariosos and cavatinas, traces of
which can still be found in the Ashkenazic liturgy. This zeal for imitation was
intensified with the entrance of Reform, whose main purpose was to beautify
the service through the introduction of good music, both vocal and instrumen-
tal. The traditional chant was discarded as too primitive and un-harmonic, not
144 III. Standards of Sacred Music
suited to the powerful resources of the organ, and in its stead were introduced
opera arias from various composers. In this unnatural adaptation the only exten-
uating circumstance is the fact that they chose their secular airs from the best
composers in the field, among them Hayden, Bach, Handel, Beethoven, Mozart,
Rossini and Mendelssohn. A particular favorite was Meyerbeer, who, because
of his Jewish provenance and faith, was drawn upon very extensively, despite
the fact that he was never capable of writing religious music and that of all
the operatic composers in those days he was one of the lightest and thinnest.
The airs from his Africaine, Huguenots, Prophete, and Robert le Diable, filled
the Reformed temples for more than a generation, and some of them may still
be detected there. There are also instances of borrowing of Lutheran chorales
which, in their turn, have been derived from popular songs. All these things
have been transplanted to America, where, as might have been expected, they
were considerably augmented by Anglican anthems and Methodist revival
songs. Even Moody-Sankey revival tunes and Salvation Army ditties found
their way into some German temples. The result was a Christian-like service
of an inferior kind, with a concert-hall flavor in it. It is such performances that
a writer in the American Hebrew of June 10, 1887 has in mind when he com-
plains of the fact that the choirs in most of the temples sing the most outra-
geously inappropriate melodies. Says the writer:
may be seen from an examination of the latest Union Hymnal published in 1914.
This contains more foreign than traditional Jewish material, and although the
foreign material is of the highest character and by some of the world’s great-
est composers, nevertheless the greatest part of it, from its association with
the concert room, remains secular and irrelevant to divine worship.
Another practice of the Reform Synagogues should be mentioned here.
It has become a custom with some of them to give Handel’s Judas Maccabeus
on Hanukah, for no other reason but that the subject of the words is biblical.
However, the music is anything but sacred, its floral style reminiscent of the
bravura school of Italian opera. In fact, Handel is known as one of the most
unchurchly of choral composers, in complete contrast to his contemporary
Bach, whose compositions are ponderous and pregnant with religious fervor.
Also Mendelssohn’s Elijah is sometimes given there, notwithstanding the fact
that, unlike his St. Paul, this is an opera as well as an oratorio, having been
presented a number of times on the theatrical stage.
The Russian-Polish Jews adopted primarily Slav melodies in their ritual.
The Hassidim of Poland and Russia in particular were wont to appropriate
folksongs of their Slavonic neighbors for their liturgical hymns. Hence the
peculiar characteristics of their chant, which is built on the harmonic minor
and has great rhythmic freedom. An outgrowth of this is the unduly florid and
excessively embroidered style of the so-called “Polish Hazzanuth,” which has
its counterpart in the Greek Church and is a natural concomitant of every
purely melodic style of music. These fiorituri and contrappunti alla mente take
the place of harmony. Trills, shakes, quavers, and passages, serve as a tonic
to the moroseness of a monotonous recitative.
In America the Russian-Polish Jews have gone further than that, having
appropriated also popular songs and operatic airs from the theatrical stage.
Everything depends on the fancy of the Hazzan, who in many cases is igno-
rant of the very rudiments of music and imposes on the synagogue what he
pleases. In an Ohio town, on a Friday eve, I was surprised some years ago to
hear a Hungarian cantor intone Adon Olam to Stephen C. Foster’s Old Black
Joe. I was anxious to know whether he knew the origin of the tune, and so I
asked at the end of the service. But he proved to be absolutely ignorant of its
origin, nor had he ever heard of the existence of that sweet bard of negro
melodies. He said he picked it up on the street, and on account of its beauty
and sweetness introduced it into the synagogue. I also know an old-fashioned
hazzan on the East Side of New York who, after hearing the famous “Sicil-
iana” of Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana and realizing its intrinsic value and
exclusiveness as a devotional air, adapted it to Adon Olam, thus regaling his
congregation with grand opera without their having the slightest notion of it.
I likewise once heard a Galacian hazzan, on Yom Kippur eve, sing the fine
piyyut Yaaleh to Liszt’s second rhapsody, while a Hungarian cantor, with great
pain, did it to the Rakoczi-March. The Last Rose of Summer is likewise popular
146 III. Standards of Sacred Music
in some East Side synagogues, where it is sung in violation of time and meter
and with little regard of its technical suitability to the particular piyyut. It is
enough that a melody is sweet and mellifluous, sad and lachrymose, in order
to be accepted by the Polish hazzan, who rarely worries about its provenance.
In conclusion, it is interesting to note that also the melody of Hatikvah,
the cheval de bataille of the Zionists, which of late is being used for Shir ha-
ma’alot and other liturgical purposes, appears to be foreign and secular, as its
main theme occurs in Smetana’s symphonic poem entitled On the Moldau. I
am aware of Dr. Pool’s contention that this tune is rather an adaptation from
the old Sephardic tune to Hallel. However, aside from the authentic informa-
tion and certain knowledge of the fact which Dr. Pool claims to have and which
I dare not impugn, the assertion is based on the similarity of the first or ascend-
ing figure or phrase in both melodies. But this is not sufficient as a criterion
for authenticity, for the same inceptive figure or musical germ may be found
also in other compositions of various lands and ages. In fact, the progression,
la, ti, do, re, mi, is characteristic of the minor mode and is quite common in
folksongs of all climates. I found it even in English folksongs of the Eliza-
bethan period. One thing is certain, that Smetana did not derive his melody
from the Sephardic Hallel. As is well known, this Bohemian composer uti-
lized popular tunes of Bohemia as themes to his larger compositions. The most
striking thing is that there is more similarity between Hatikvah and Smetana’s
melody than between the former and the Sephardic Hallel, especially with ref-
erence to the second or descending figure. However that may be, in its pres-
ent elaborate shape it appears more like a folksong than an ecclesiastical chant,
and hence is inappropriate for liturgical use.
It is just to add that efforts are being made now, here and elsewhere, to
purge our liturgy of foreign excrescences and preserve the primitive Jewish
tunes in a more or less integral state. The St. Cecilie movement, which aims
to restore the plain chant within the Catholic Church, was no doubt instrumen-
tal in this direction. However that may be, towards the end of the nineteenth
century there grew up cantors’ associations in Germany and Austria whose
main purpose was to purify and beautify the synagogal chant, and even prop-
agate it among the people through periodic sacred concerts. In this country
there was formed the Society of American Cantors, which was succeeded in
1908 by the Cantors Association of America. It has branches in Chicago, New
York City, Philadelphia, and San Francisco. It meets annually to discuss the
most important phases of synagogue music, and though so far it has not accom-
plished much, there is reason to believe that it holds out a good promise for
the future.
, 14 .
Music as an Aid to
Worship and Work
(1884)
W. H. Gladstone, W. Parratt, S. A.
Barnett, and C. H. Hylton Stewart
W. H. Gladstone
In undertaking to read a paper on this important subject, you will readily
understand that I come forward with no pretence of authority, and that I speak
merely with the genuine interest which, as an humble amateur, I take in it. In ad-
dition to other shortcomings, I cannot but feel that some knowledge—did I posses
it—of Church music used in other countries, would much assist the consider-
ation how to make our music most conducive to the purposes of public worship.
With music, as an aid to work, I shall deal very shortly. We all know famil-
iar instances when work is enlivened and assisted by melody and rhythm: but the
music we have to consider today is, I promise, serious music, and the work
serious work, of a moral or intellectual kind. If we look at it as no more than a
solace and recreation, music is, in general, an aid to all such work. Still more so,
when it is such not only to please the ear, but to arouse the interest and intelli-
gence of the listener. Its effect becomes then more distinctly refreshing. Care is
soothed, anxiety alleviated, labor itself lightened. Best of all is it, when it enlists
personal cooperation; when small societies are banded together for its practice;
when the love of the beautiful is kindled, drawing in its train some of the hum-
bler, but scarcely less valuable, qualities of punctuality, attention, and perse-
verance.
Gladstone, W. H., W. Parratt, S. A. Barnett, and C. H. Hylton Stewart. “Music as an Aid to Wor-
ship and Work.” In C. Dunkley, ed., The Official Report of the Church Congress, Held at Carlisle.
London: Bemrose and Sons, 1884.
147
148 III. Standards of Sacred Music
is not, indeed, direct: it cannot of itself make a good man, or a bad man—can-
not, of itself, deteriorate or raise the moral nature; but it can awaken echoes
of itself in minds susceptible to its influence—it can wonderfully answer to,
and reinforce emotions and desires—can quicken the spiritual sensibility—
can minister to the heart’s affections. Such, when rightly used, are its powers:
great, therefore, is the failure, and heavy the responsibility, if it be diverted to
lower uses. But we have not only to consider it in the abstract—we have, also,
to bear in mind the exceedingly solemn and weighty character of the words to
which it is coupled. Hence, our music must be, not only lofty and refined, but
also well correlated to the purport of those words, ever at hand (as it were) to
improve the occasion, and so foster the sense of the high dignity of the act of
worship. For, if it fails to do this, it will do positive harm by lowering and
detracting from the real import of what is going forward. It may promote inat-
tention and indifference to the very words it ought to illuminate; it may even
divert men’s thoughts to other scenes and subjects: possibly it may excite
ridicule and disgust. I have known people leave a church—so incongruous to
their ideas of worship was the music which was being sung. And, to take a
common instance, what a jar upon one’s feeling is it to hear some solemn
psalm—the expression of the Psalmist’s innermost heart—sung in some light,
complacent chant, with, perhaps, a staccato accompaniment on the organ,
intended to prevent any slackening of the time! How very far from the real
meaning of the text must be the ideas presented to the minds of singers and
congregation! In truth, the setting of the Psalms is a matter that demands and
repays long and careful consideration.
It will be evident then, I think, that the spirit of one who writes for the
Church, must not be that of a mere musician. He must be this, but he must be
something more. His office has some analogy to that of the preacher. He, too,
has to select, expound, and illustrate his text, to dive into its inner meanings,
and clothe it in a vesture of song. Moreover, his sermon must be one that will
not only bear, but win its way by repetition. Hence, it must be founded on
canons of taste and right feeling that will endure amid the fluctuations of fash-
ion. This, I think, our best musicians feel. Such was the spirit in which one,
whose name has been endeared to thousands by his hymns—Dr. Dykes—
approached his task. Dr. Wesley confesses the same. “It is an act of worship,”
says he, “when the musician, in his private chamber, devotes his whole mind
to his vocation.” Hear also the great Palestrina: “Nothing, most Blessed Father,”
he says, in his Dedication of the Vesper Hymns, “is so congenial to me, as to
be able to give myself to the study of music, which is the occupation of my
life, to my own discretion; that is to say, when I am under no pressure from
without to demean with trivialities so excellent an art, but, when I can abide
by my purpose of embracing topics which most fully show forth God’s praise,
and which, pondered in all their weightiness and dignity of word and idea, and
embellished with some amount of musical art, may well move the heart of
150 III. Standards of Sacred Music
man to devotion.” “For,” he continues, “what better subject could I have to por-
tray?”
But it is time to pass on from these general considerations to the partic-
ular features of the music in our churches and cathedrals. And here we come
upon the two great divisions of congregational and choir music.
It may be unnecessary to compare these two, for we want both. Yet, I
should augur ill of the vitality of that church music which could not enlist the
voices of its congregation in the musical service, sooner than I should of that
which failed to exhibit its highest developments. The one is the right and duty
of the people at large; the other is for the advantage of those who have a musi-
cal ear. The one can, or ought to be had in every parish, and is attainable by
care and judgment; the other can only be had in certain places, with the cost
of money and special training.
But, while both kinds are worthy of all effort to attain, they would, I think,
be kept more distinct than they are, and either the one or the other should be
aimed at, according to the disposition and resources of the particular congre-
gation. I urge this as a matter of policy and convenience, not of principle.
Where the necessary conditions of available funds, or an abundant musical
instinct are present, as in some of our great Lancashire and Yorkshire towns,
the two may be combined with advantage; but where they are wanting, as is
the case in the vast majority of our parish churches, the attempt to combine
the two commonly results in falling between two stools, and attaining excel-
lence in neither. As a rule, I would say, let parish churches avail themselves
of their regular congregations for the encouragement of congregational singing,
leaving choir music, requiring skill and refinement to execute, to establishments
able to do it justice, but which, on the other hand, often lack the advantage of
a regular congregation accustomed to sing together.
It may seem strange, but I think it is the case, that, unless discretely man-
aged, a choir may not only not assist, but may even discourage the congrega-
tion from taking their proper share. Not only is there a tendency for the choir
to usurp the office of the congregation, but there is also a tendency for the
organ to usurp the office of the choir. Upon this latter point, however, I do not
now dwell. The choir is supposed to lead the congregation, but, practically, it
too often takes the words out of their mouths. The reason of this is, that the
choir often leads where the people cannot easily follow. The pitch of the mon-
otone may be rather high. The reciting notes of many chants are too high, and
their range too great; their intervals also not always quite simple or natural.
Then, again, the pace, especially of the hymns—the most important part of
congregational singing—may be too rapid for a large body of voices, many of
whom require time to get out their notes, or a little pause to take breath between
the verses. The old-fashioned mode of hymn-singing condescended too much,
perhaps, to these physical infirmities; but the slower time, and the organ vol-
untary before the last verse gave a kind of dignity and importance to the hymn
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Gladstone) 151
as a feature in the service, which one sometimes misses now. Another fault
may be a want of discrimination in choosing tunes and chants—no preference
given to those that the congregation are disposed to join in—others that do not
suit them persisted in, because the choir may like them, or, perhaps, the organ-
ist may be partial in his choice. In these ways, it may easily happen that, if
their wants are not specially and primarily consulted, the congregation will
insensibly, but surely, abandon their part to the choir; and, I am afraid, this is
very commonly the case in country churches. Real congregational singing is,
so far as I know, rarely to be heard. At the Temple, in London, and, no doubt,
elsewhere, there is more or less of it, but, as a rule, the part sustained by the
congregation in English churches (for I except Welsh, where the people sing
by instinct) is faint and timid. If it be so, what a loss is here! The effect of a
large body of voices, singing with one heart and consent, is one of the grand-
est and most inspiring things conceivable. There is something, so to speak,
contagious in it. In its very roughness there is magnificence. Some of us, at
one time or another, may have heard enough to enable us, at all events, to dwell
with delight upon the imagination of it. With what rupture do those who were
present at the great meeting at St. James’ Hall some years ago, speak of the
mere recitation of the Athanasian Creed! In Holland, there is said to be
magnificent congregational singing in unison. I have myself heard very fine
hymn-singing in Zurich, where the congregation joined largely in the harmony,
supported by the full organ. Dr. Stainer tells us that to hear the Psalm-tune at
Cologne, sung by the country people all down the nave, is quite enough to last
a lifetime. Is it most unfortunate that in England, which we justly boast is not
un-musical, we cannot produce any such realities? I cannot but think that with
more consideration for the congregation, and more curbing of ambitious ten-
dencies on the part of choir and organist, we might see a vast improvement in
the people’s share of the musical service, and more especially in that which is
their chief opportunity, namely, the hymns.
Of these we have an immense store: the important thing is to select the
best. The taste of our day is not always, I fear, in favor of the best. One of the
editors of Hymns Ancient and Modern, tells us that, when contributions were
invited for the first edition of the work, the tune of which he received the great-
est number of copies, was from a chorus in Weber’s Oberon. And he speaks
of the pressure put upon them, in preparing the last edition, for more pretty
and modern tunes. Dr. Arnold, of Winchester Cathedral, tells us that people
are constantly asking him for music with a swing and a go. Hymns of this class
should be admitted sparingly, and with judgment. I should be sorry to find tunes
like Sullivan’s St. Gertrude, effective as it is as a processional hymn, freely
introduced into our service. And I am probably taking one of the best. Hap-
pily, we have in Hymns Ancient and Modern, a work which, while by no means
free from faults, both of commission and omission, yet upholds a high and
worthy standard of harmony. Our composers have not been slow to adapt to
152 III. Standards of Sacred Music
that wonderfully rich upgrowth of original hymns, which has entirely super-
seded the metrical versions of the Psalms, a variety of tunes with more color
and expression than formerly prevailed. I need hardly mention Dr. Dykes and
Dr. Gauntlett, as typical names amongst many others of distinction, who have
labored successfully in this field. Yet, I trust, we shall never be drawn from
paying due honor to that grand and imperishable type, of which such tunes as
the Old 113th, the Old 137th (not to mention the Old 100th), are specimens;
also such tunes as Upsal and Bohemia in Mercer, Cleves and Arnheim in Dr.
Wesley’s European Psalmist—melodies mostly drawn from the land of
Luther—that soil in which they have so marvelously thriven. Such tunes are,
indeed, the very jewels of our treasure house; none, I believe, so profoundly
affect human sensibility; none are so capable of sublime effect. Viewed thus,
in its length and breadth, it must be confessed that in the hymnody of the
Church we possess an ornament to her service, and an addition to her strength,
the value of which it would be hard to over-estimate.
It is interesting to remember that, historically, the congregational chant
is the very basis of our musical service. The ancient plain song of the Church
was never, as at Geneva, set aside: on the contrary, it was adapted by the
Reformers to our vernacular liturgy, for an account of which I may refer you
to an interesting article in the twelfth volume of the Christian Remembrancer.
We are there told, in a note, that the original term was not “plain chant,” as
we have it now, but in the Latin, Planus cantus, meaning, the writer says, con-
gregational song in parochial churches, corporation songs in cathedrals and
colleges. The term Planus cantus, or plain song, was, according to this, given
later, in contradistinction to the florid counterpoint which came to be written
upon it. Historically, therefore, as well as by right, the English Church is the
people’s Church, and her song the people’s song. It was sung by male voices,
and their part was called the tenor, as holding or sustaining the chant. This is
the case to the present day in Tallis’ harmonized Responses.
Splendid as were the achievements of the ancient Plain Song—and,
indeed, still are for certain purposes—the musical system on which it was
founded was so different and incongruous with that of more recent times, that
it could hardly be expected to survive in its integrity, after the changes brought
about by the Reformation, and after the newborn science of harmony had
shaken that system to the core. But where it lends itself to harmonic treatment,
it still retains wonderful beauty and power. Witness the responses already
referred to, and, especially, that sublime setting of the Litany for five voices,
alas! too seldom heard. Witness the intonation of the 51st Psalm, as sung at
St. Paul’s Cathedral, in the annual Passion service. Witness its pathos and
solemnity in the office of Holy Communion. Then consider, too, the marvelous
potency and fertility of themes which inspired such giants of the modern art
as Handel and Bach, kindled in the Sistine Chapel the enthusiasm of
Mendelssohn, and still continue to draw our Church composers under the spell
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Gladstone) 153
of their attraction. Surely we have guarantees sufficient that the spirit of this
ancient song can never die, but will live on honored and revered so long as
Church music exists worthy of the name.
It remains to be considered whether the use of the Gregorian tones is, or
is not, the best mode of singing the Psalms. As a recitation by male voices in
unison, they were, and, no doubt, still would be, under such conditions, well
adapted to the purpose; but the Psalms, taken as a whole, seem to me to require
a musical treatment more ample and more varied. They have great diversity
of character; the tone of them is strongly accentuated, and demands a corre-
sponding musical coloring; and they are 150 in number. The Gregorian tones
are only eight, and though these may be eked out by variations to a larger num-
ber, that number is still inadequate. Besides, the variations are puzzling, and
have no special character. So that, for these wonderful hymns or poems (for
such not a few of them are), with their alternate notes of thanksgiving and sup-
plication, their profound and glowing sentiment, we have to be content (if we
adopt Gregorians) with a few strains of very devotional, but somewhat neu-
tral tone, and these sung not in unison, but in the far less effective and satis-
factory manner of octaves between the treble and baritone voices. I think, then,
it is not to be wondered if we naturally turn to the freer air and the greater
variety of color of the Anglican chant, single and double, so as to re-echo the
words of the Psalmist in a strain attuned, as nearly as may be, to the spirit of
the particular psalm.
One further question arises before I leave this part of the subject, as to
whether our congregational singing should be in octaves, or in harmony. The
former must either strain the voices, or else unduly fetter the compass of the
melody. It is apt to be irksome and monotonous; and except by way of con-
trast, it is scarcely effective. Try then, all you can, to have the singing in parts:
let the music be in the hands of the congregation; let the tunes and chants be
such as approve themselves popular; let them be simple in harmony, not chro-
matic; of moderate compass—as a rule never higher than E—and you may thus
get people to take an interest, and by degrees to qualify themselves for taking
a part, and so build up a structure of song that will render the service some-
thing like what it ought to be. But, above all, force nothing upon an unsym-
pathetic congregation. Offer good music, but persevere only with that which
proves acceptable. As there is nothing so inspiring to man’s fellow-creatures,
so we may believe there is nothing so worthy of the worship of the Almighty
as the consertaneous uplifting of the heart and voice in the great congrega-
tion.
But I must hasten on in the short time that remains to me, to that other
branch of the subject, namely, choir or cathedral music. We here abandon the
idea of worship by the collective voice of the congregation, but we seek to
fulfill it by appealing through the ear to the inner sensibilities of the soul, and
for this purpose we employ all the resources of the art; all the genius of our
154 III. Standards of Sacred Music
composers, and the skill of our singers. Nor is it the ear only, but the eye also
that should here minister to the spirit of devotion. The mellow notes and linked
harmonies float down the long aisles and around the carved capitals, uniting
the two sister arts of music and architecture in a loving conspiracy of assault
upon the religious imagination. More than one passage of “John Inglesant”
may recur to your minds upon this topic, nor is it easy to refer to it without
having in remembrance Milton’s well-known lines:
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full voic’d quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
that each work must be judged. To rank as Church music, in the true sense of
the word, it must be in harmony with the spirit of worship. That spirit is fun-
damentally always one and the same; it is the spirit breathed in the Psalms of
David and in the Book of Common Prayer. The music that accords with it must
be orderly and reverential, never running into license or extravagance—in its
emotion there should always be a certain reserve, composure rather than excite-
ment, calmness rather than passion. This is not altogether the temper of the
present day. Most of our composers give us highly colored, highly-strung
music, which serves to excite rather than to refresh, to strike the ear rather
than to impress the heart. This is not the music that we really want, and that
we can incorporate into our Daily Prayers. Does not Nature give us her most
exquisite beauties in no flashing colors, but in subdued and delicate hues? And
so it should be with the best Church music, as we see it in Palestrina, and in
many specimens of our own composers. Probably no anthem has given so
much satisfaction to generation after generation as that simple one of Farrant,
“Lord, for Thy tender mercies’ sake;” and it is no exaggeration to say it is as
green now as the day it was written, more than 300 years ago. And the reason
I take to be this; that, while it is beautiful music, it is entirely true to its nature.
In precisely the same spirit is conceived the beautiful air in Sir Sterndale Ben-
nett’s “Woman of Samaria”—“O Lord, Thou hast searched me out.” I am far
from saying that all our music should be written in this strain. The religious
emotions are infinite in their variety, and in the evolution of the myriad secret
relations of the principle of symmetry or proportion lies a perpetual task for
the musical artist. To what extent richness and grace of detail can be combined
with nobility of form and purpose we see in the works of Sebastian Bach, who
was to the Church of the 18th century what Palestrina was to the Church of
the 16th—its apostle of music—and whom M. Gounod calls “that Colossus
upon whom rests all the music of modern times.”
I have already noticed the bad habit (as I cannot but think it), of ransack-
ing foreign masses, and other music of continental composers, adapting them
to English words, not always taken from Holy Writ, and dragging them into
our service, to the exclusion of a vast store of genuine native composition,
infinitely more appropriate to the particular purpose. Mr. Barrett, in a paper
read before the Musical Association, complains that our Church composers
are occasionally led away by the beauty and variety of the effects modern
organs are capable of producing, to write their music in the style of organ
solos, with the accompaniment of voices, with the effect of destroying the
beauty of cathedral singing; the art which, especially as regards “verse” singing,
has, he considers, been lost, vociferation having taken place of vocalization.
I will not undertake to say how far this latter opinion may be absolutely cor-
rect, but I venture to remark on another tendency, which, I think, is to be regret-
ted, namely, that of composing “Services” at inordinate length, and in the most
ornate style of anthem; a total departure from the old and well-established type
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Parratt) 157
of “Service,” inherited from the days of plain song, admired and imitated by
Mendelssohn, and cultivated by such admirable men as Goss, Turle, and
Stainer. Moreover, it is a pity to spend so much time in this way, when enough
cannot be found for some long but splendid specimens of the anthem, like that
of Wesley’s, “Let us lift up our heart.”
One word before I close this long paper, as to the oratorio. I have not,
indeed, included it under the term of Church music as an integral part of the
Church Service, although certain numbers from oratorios are frequently, and
with excellent effect, introduced into it. But I do claim the oratorio as a right-
ful appanage of the Church; and, as musical knowledge spreads, I hope it may
be heard more and more in our cathedrals, and less and less in our concert and
music halls. One great work in this class, the Passion music of Sebastian Bach,
I will say, is almost intolerable outside the walls of a church. Presenting to us,
as they do, with all the force of which music is capable, the scenes and events
of Scripture, I can see in such performances nothing unbefitting the House of
God; whilst, in another point of view, we should be doing far more homage to
Handel by allowing his divine airs and massive choruses to roll out their echoes
in the vast spaces of a cathedral, than by using the names of the great singers
of opera to attract the public.
In conclusion, we must remember that no music, however sublime, can
ever be a substitute for worship, though it is its best and most powerful ally.
That alliance is, I think, appropriately and beautifully described in a stanza
cited in one of Sir Walter Scott’s works:
Devotion borrows Music’s tone,
And music took Devotion’s wing;
And, like the bird that hails the sun,
They soar to heav’n, and soaring sing.
W. Parratt
The subject of our consideration this evening has been much widened in
scope and interest by including within the scheme, Work, as well as Worship.
The influence of music upon worship is acknowledged and felt by all; but its
effect upon working power is more obscure, and would be pronounced harm-
ful by some, beneficial by others, and denied altogether by a third class. As
this is an aspect of the question that has, so far, received scant attention, as it
is the more debatable, and as it compels reference to fundamental principles
which underlie both views, I shall address myself to the first, apologizing if
the time limit obliges me to be suggestive rather than argumentative.
The attitude of society towards music has long been a source of interest
and puzzle to me. Judged by its expressed opinions, one would suppose that
music was one of the keenest delights of life; but its behavior in presence of
158 III. Standards of Sacred Music
good music, the long rows of languid listeners at a severe concert, the persist-
ent chatter which goes on in many drawing rooms, especially during the per-
formance of instrumental music, makes one suspect the sincerity of these
statements, and this is a result to be anticipated when conventional taste is in
advance of culture and intelligence. The fine sayings about music would fill a
volume. Many are beautiful, some foolish, and some false; but none tell us
what we want to know, how and why music exercises over us a strange fasci-
nation. “Music is the silence of heaven,” we are told. The other day, in the paper,
I saw a quotation that architecture was “frozen music.” It is commonly asserted
that music is the one pleasure in which over-indulgence is impossible, a posi-
tion which ought to be challenged; and I think if we inquire what it is that
music does for us, we shall find that it ought to be reasonably limited in quan-
tity, and carefully discriminated in quality.
Herbert Spencer, in an interesting essay on the origin and functions of
music, evolves his theory of the art from what I may term impassioned speech.
“Music,” he says, “is the commentary of the emotions upon the propositions
of the intellect;” and, so far as vocal music is concerned, this is intelligible,
and probably true. But when we turn to the highest order of instrumental music,
we find ourselves in this difficulty—there are no propositions of the intellect
to be commented upon. Yet the skilled musician would certainly place word-
less music in the highest rank of all. That this is not the prevailing view is
clearly shown by the eagerness with which concert-goers study the analytical
remarks which pretend to interpret for us the composer’s mind, but too often
drag down a great work to the level of mere program music. We treat our
instrumental music as a Greek treated natural phenomena. Listening to the
thunder, and watching the sunset, he wove of them stories of great beauty. I
hope the time will never come when we shall cease to be deeply impressed by
natural beauties of sound and sight, though for us they are no longer entan-
gled in these fables. Some day, music may emancipate itself in the same man-
ner.
Must we, then, find the highest use of music in its power of intensifying
language? I should be sorry to think this. A really earnest piece of music, such
as a symphony of Beethoven, excites in our minds those exalted states of feel-
ing out of which ought to spring the deepest thoughts and the noblest resolves;
and they would so spring if we listened in a more passive frame of mind, not
fretting until we can fit to the notes definite ideas, not explaining to ourselves
that here the composer thought of a storm and shipwreck, and here of a great
cathedral echoing to some beautiful anthem. The last material, the most sub-
tle, of the arts is ready to carry us out of this world, and we do our best to pull
it back again. We must all have felt that the mysterious influence of music
affords internal evidence, which is by no means worthless, of our immortal
nature. We strain our mental vision to catch a glimpse of the eternal shore, but
it seems to me that the misty veil which hides it is more easily penetrated by sound.
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Parratt) 159
We claim, then, for music more than the mere power to refresh, soothe,
and tranquillize, valuable as this is to the overtaxed mind and body. Its higher
function of sustaining in the mind a condition of calm and controlled excite-
ment, if I may use such an apparent contradiction in terms, must to the brain-
worker be of vast importance. To say the truth, we have not yet discovered the
proper way of listening to music. We sit in long uncomfortable lines, with the
bitter blaze of hundreds of gaslights in our eyes. Why, when we go to use our
ears, we should thus excite the wrong organ, I have never been able to under-
stand. The halls in which we listen to music are not commonly so beautiful as
to form suitable backgrounds for great sound pictures. This applies also with
great force to many of our town churches. A beautiful church has its loveli-
ness enhanced by the play of light and shadow, and a bad one has its defects
softened; but the point of importance here is, that the mind is left in a far more
receptive condition for all refining influences when outward things are not
forced upon the attention.
The emotional aspect of music has its dangers, dangers so great that many
people consider it a positive hindrance to work, and, if it is indulged in to
excess, I am afraid this is true. All emotional disturbance ought, I suppose, to
have its result in thought and action. Mere idle stirrings of the heart must be
harmful, and lead to dulled sensibility, weakened will, and incapacity for exer-
tion. It might seem that fears as to an excess of music are imaginary, but the
amount of music-making in the world is now enormous, and is daily increas-
ing. It is a mystery to me how the mind can retain its freshness from begin-
ning to end of a four days’ feast of music. Even a single concert of unusual
length leaves the brain drenched and saturated with a jumble of sounds, and
it is only necessary to listen to the fragmentary remarks which catch the ear
from a dispersing audience, to find proof that the criticism is much more promi-
nent than the enjoyment and appreciation.
We now approach the difficult question—Can abstract music, by which I
mean music not associated with words, have any ethical relations? The moral-
ity of art is always rather hazy. As applied to music, it can scarcely be said to
exist in any intelligible shape, and yet the fact that music has its moral side is
by no means new to the world. The Greeks attached the greatest importance
to it, an importance, as it seems to us, altogether out of proportion to the mea-
ger musical material at their disposal. In these days, though there may be some
undercurrent of opinion as to the moral effect of abstract music, it almost never
comes to the surface, and most people, if they think about it at all, will say,
that music without words has no connection with ethics. It is a perplexing
problem, to which no decisive answer can be given. We may easily make a list
of composers, from Palestrina down to Brahms, and say with confidence, none
of these men wrote a single unhealthy bar of music; and another list, espe-
cially among later writers, of men who, partly from sentimental weakness,
more probably from this than from any vice in their music, have written much
160 III. Standards of Sacred Music
that could certainly do no good; but the broader line between helpful and hurt-
ful work is faint, and could not be marked out with clearness: it is even con-
ceivable that it might vary for different hearers. Nobody could fail to be the
better after hearing a symphony of Beethoven; few would come out unscathed
from a course of Chopin, with his endless complaint and peevish whine. In
this case, doubtless, a man’s own feelings are the best guide. This seems sure,
that we have only capacity for a certain amount of music, and it is a pity to
fritter it away upon trivial works.
The efforts which are being made to provide good music for the less
wealthy classes are full of hope. The appreciation of even severe styles is by
no means wanting. I have seen an East-end audience listen with obvious inter-
est and pleasure to a concert in which the comic song element found no place,
and where a fugue was received with genuine applause.
Turning now to music in its relation to worship, it must be evident that
much that has been said in the general question applied here. The probability
that beyond a certain point the effect of music diminishes in proportion to its
amount, must bring to mind many choral services where this limit has been
reached and passed. The opening sentences are sometimes sung, the Confes-
sion partly harmonized, the Apostles’ Creed elaborately accompanied, even
the Epistle and Gospel chanted with inflections for each stop. The parts of the
service which naturally lend themselves to musical treatment suffer by being
placed on a level with the rest. It is scarcely necessary in this place to insist
upon the value of music as an aid to worship, but I should like to give a few
hints, gathered from a very varied experience, as to the way in which that help
may best be given. In ordinary churches, the point of prime importance is to
persuade the congregation to sing. This is one of the commonplaces of the sub-
ject, but it is still the main difficulty. We have all seen the listless lounge of a
congregation which is having its singing done for it at one end of the church.
Few listeners to even the best music are as much interested and affected as the
feeblest performer on his own voice. Much has already been done to banish
this apathy of the congregation. The average choir is very much better than
that of twenty years ago; so much better, indeed, that a new danger has arisen—
the more highly-trained singers demand more elaborate and difficult music, so
that the gap between choir and people is wider than ever. And yet choir train-
ers find it exceedingly difficult to get a good muster of their forces for the prac-
tice of hymns and chants only. One remedy for this is to allow an occasional,
even a weekly, anthem, keeping the rest of the service quite simple. Anthems
with solos should generally be avoided, for obvious reasons, but even a sim-
ple solo may be made into a kind of chorus for all the voices belonging to the
part, sometimes even with increased effect. Another way out of this difficulty
would be to try and make the whole congregation into the choir. During part
of my Oxford time I was organist of St. Giles’ Church, as well as of Magdalen
College, and I persuaded the vicar to invite the people to remain after evening
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Barnett) 161
service, and practice the chants and hymns for the following Sunday. A very
large number stayed, and we had, I think, about six or eight such meetings
before my removal to Windsor interrupted the experiment. I must say I found
it very difficult to get more than the usual inward murmur which does duty for
congregational singing; but there were signs of improvement, and I think we
even learnt a simple setting of the Communion Service hymns.
In connection with this subject, I should like to say a few words about the
position of organ and choir. Without in the least desiring to restore the old west
end gallery state of things, it is certain that in many churches now the organ
and choir are almost useless for the purpose of supporting and controlling the
congregational singing. The modern architect scarcely ever knows what to do
with the organ. When he can, he builds a sort of little house for it on the side
of the chancel; and yet the organ may be made as grand to the eyes as its sound
is to the ear. Its pipes are susceptible of the most effective grouping. All this
we should have known, if the Puritans had not smashed up nearly all the old
cases. Abroad, there are examples enough of what may be done, and to the
curious in those matters I recommend Mr. Hill’s recently published work on
“Medieval Organ Cases.” The constructive skill of organ builders is now so
great that almost any difficulty of arrangement can be overcome, and the first
consideration ought to be to place the organ where it can command the singing.
Choirs, too, when in a narrow chancel at the end of long church, are quite out
of range, and their power of leading the service is seriously affected. I would
have them occupy such a place as they hold in most cathedrals, as nearly as
possible in the middle of the people. I am aware that considerations of space
will make difficulties here, and that the choir now occupies seats which might
otherwise be empty; but all this might be overcome, and no effects ought to
be spared which might arouse life and vigor to worship, which is too often
wanting in both. The average churchgoer will not lift up his voice unless he
is coaxed and encouraged by sounds on all sides of him.
S. A. Barnett
“We must have something light or comic.” So say those who provide music
for the people, and their words represent the world’s opinion with regard to
the popular taste. The uneducated, it is thought, must be unable to appreciate
that which is refined, or to enjoy that which does not make them laugh. The
opinion is not justified by facts. In East London, the city of common people,
crowds have been found willing, on many a winter’s night, to come and listen
to part of an oratorio, or to selections of classical music.
The selections and oratorios have been given in churches or chapels by
various choirs and choral societies; the concerts have been given in school-
rooms, on Sunday evenings, by professionals of reputation. Over those who
162 III. Standards of Sacred Music
are generally so independent of restraint, who cough and move as they will,
there has reigned a death-like stillness as they have listened to some fine solo
of Handel. On faces which are seldom free of marks of care, except in the
excitement of drink, a calm has seemed to settle, and tears to flow, for no rea-
son but because “It is so beautiful.” Sometimes the music has appeared to
break down the barriers shutting out some poor fellow from a fairer past, or a
better future than his present. The oppressive weight of daily care has seemed
to lift, and other sights to be in his vision, as at last, covering his face, or sink-
ing on his knees, he has made prayers which cannot be uttered. Sometimes it
has seemed to seize one on business bent, to suddenly snatch him to another
world, and not knowing what he feels, to make him say out, “It is good to be
here.”
To the concerts, hardheaded unimaginative men have crowded, described
in a local paper as being “friends of Bradlaugh.” They have listened to, and
apparently taken in, different movements of Beethoven, Schumann, and
Chopin. The loud applause which has followed some moments of strained rapt
attention, has proclaimed the universal feeling, and shown that among the peo-
ple of East London many may be found who care for high-class music. There
is enough in these facts to make the world reconsider its opinion that the peo-
ple can care only for what is light or laugh-compelling. Minds not educated
to understand the mysteries of music, or to be interested in its creation, have
depths which respond to its call, and music may thus at the present moment
have a peculiar mission.
“Man cannot live by bread alone” expresses a truth to which the religious
and the secularist subscribe. The desire to be is stronger than the desire to have.
There is in those men, whom the rich think to satisfy by increased wages and
model lodgings, a greater need of being something they are not, than of hav-
ing something they have not. The man who has won an honorable place, who
by punctuality, honesty, and truthfulness has become the trusted servant of his
employer, is often weary with the very monotony of his successful life. He has
bread in abundance, but, unsatisfied, he dreams of himself filling quite another
place in the world—as the leader doing much for others; as the patriot suffer-
ing for his class and country or as the poet living in others’ thoughts. There
flits before him a vision of a fuller life, and the visions stir in him longings to
share such life.
The woman who is the model wife and mother, whose days are filled with
work, whose talk is of her children’s wants, whose life seems so even and
uneventful, so complete in very prosaicness—she, if she could speak out the
thoughts which flit through her brain as she silently plies her needles, or goes
about her household duties, would tell of strange longings, of passions, and
aspirations which have no form in her mind. “There is no one,” says Emerson,
“to whom omens that would astonish have not predicted a future and uncov-
ered a past.”
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Barnett) 163
It is in the spiritual world that they who cannot live on bread alone must
find their food. This spiritual world has been, and is the domain of religion.
That which science has not known, and can never know; that which material
things have not satisfied and can never satisfy, the longing of man to be some-
thing higher and nobler, it has been the glory of religion to develop, as it
reveals through Jesus Christ the God who is higher than the best. The spiri-
tual world in which our aspirations move is the domain of religion, and forms
of worship are the means by which we are brought into this world. Religion
thus sustains and guides our aspirations, and forms of worship unite the spir-
itual world of aspirations with the material world of the senses. A true form
of worship would do away with the pernicious opposition between what is reli-
gious and what is material. There would be no despisers of forms, rituals and
expressions, if they lifted men into a spiritual world, where Christ is, and where
they would be at one with God, who is perfect. The sense of something bet-
ter than their best has been to men the spring of noblest effort and highest hope,
and it is because the present words and forms of worship give so little help to
unite them with the best, that many of those born to aspire and live, not on
bread alone, speak slightingly about religion, and profess they find no need of
prayers nor of church-going.
The present forms (be they words or rituals) do not express present
thoughts, they do not therefore unite the material and the spiritual, and they
do not carry daily hopes and longings into the spiritual world. For want of
words or expressions, man’s aspirations lose their sustenance and guide. Man
is dumb, and is in the world without religion. In other times the words of the
Prayer Book, and the phrases now labeled “theological,” did speak out, or, at
any rate, did give some form to men’s vague, indistinct longing to be some-
thing else and something more. The picture of God, drawn in familiar language,
gave a distinct object to their longing, as they desired to be like Him and to
enjoy Him for ever. In these days historical criticisms and scientific discover-
ies have made the old expressions inadequate to state man’s longing, or to pic-
ture God’s character. The words of prayers, be they the written prayers of the
English Church, or be they that re-arrangement of old expression called
“extempore prayer,” do not always fit in with the longings of those to whom,
in these later days, sacrifice has taken other forms, and life and possibilities.
The descriptions of God, involving so much that is only marvelous, often jar
against the minds which have had hints of the grandeur of law, and which have
been awed, not by miracles, but by holiness. Petitions for the joys of heaven
fall short of their wants who have learnt that what they are is of more conse-
quence than what they have, and the anthropomorphic descriptions of God
tend to make Him seem less than many men who are not jealous, nor angry,
nor revengeful.
Words fail to carry modern thoughts or wants. There still lives in man that
which gropes after God, that which reaches to the spiritual world of righteous-
164 III. Standards of Sacred Music
ness and love, where Jesus Christ is at God’s right hand, but it can find no form
to be the means of bringing it to the spiritual world. Men cannot express their
highest. They are dumb creatures. Dumbness involves a loss which it is hard
to exaggerate, and constitutes an unfailing claim for pity. He who cannot
express his highest is dumb, and today a book might be written on the sorrows
of man as a dumb animal. It is no accident that the dumb were held to be pos-
sessed by devils, and often now it seems to me that it is because they cannot
express their thoughts of themselves or of God that so many live base and
unworthy lives. Thought—hope and love—has outstripped words. Men can-
not say what they think, nor put into words what they know. They are igno-
rant of what they have been unable to express, ignorant of themselves and of
God. They are without the form which would lift them into the domain of reli-
gion, and their aspirations are without guidance. Because they are dumb, they
are not only sad and suffering, they are mean and selfish. There is need, then,
for some power to open their lips to enable them to say what they are and what
they want; there is need of a form of worship to unite the spiritual and mate-
rial worlds.
Music seems to have some natural fitness for this purpose:
1. In the first place, the great musical compositions are the results of
inspiration. The master, raised by his genius above the level of common human-
ity to think fully what others think only in part, and to see face to face what
others see only darkly, puts into music the thoughts which no words can utter,
and the description which no tongue can tell. What he himself would be, his
hopes, his fears, his aspirations; what he himself sees of that Holiest and Fairest
which has haunted his life, this he tells by his art. Like the prophets he has
had his vision, and his music proclaims what he himself desires to be, and
expresses the emotions of his higher nature. Others, lesser men, find in his
music the echo of their own wants. Great men are little men writ large; the
best is what the worst may be, the greatest master is a man akin to the lowest
man, and the voice in which he tells his hopes thus finds its response in human
nature. That music which unfolds passions and aspirations which have never
been realized by the ordinary man speak no strange language, for it will make
him recognize his true self and his true object. In the music which unfolds is
the expression of the wants of a great man, all who are men find an expres-
sion for wants and visions for which no words are adequate. Music may be
what prayer often fails to be, a means of linking men with the source of the
highest thoughts, and of enabling them to enjoy God.
2. In the second place, it may be said that the best existing expression of
that which has been found to be good has been by parables, words, i.e., which
are not limited to time or place, but are of universal application. A parable
does not die with the age in which it is spoken, it lives on, giving to every age
a different conception of that which the eye cannot see nor the tongue utter,
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Barnett) 165
but leaving with each age the sense of having learnt at the same source. In some
degree all art is thus a parable. Titian’s Assumption helped the medieval saints
to worship the Virgin Mother, and helps us now to realize the true glory of
womanhood. Music, though, even better than poetry and painting, fulfills this
condition. It reveals that which the artist has seen, and reveals it with no dis-
tracting circumstance of subject, necessary to a picture or to a poem. They who
listen to great musical composition are not drawn aside to think of some his-
torical or romantic incident; they are free to think of which such incidents are
but the clothes. They may have different conceptions, the cultured and the
uncultured may see from a different point of view the vision which inspired the
master, but they will have the sense that the music which serves all alike brings
them to the same source. Music is the parable for this century. Creeds have
ceased to express that which men in their inmost hearts most reverence, and
are now symbols of division rather than of unity. Music is a parable, and like
all parables is unmeaning, foolish, and sensuous to those who will not think,
to those who having eyes see not, and seek not the revelation of God through
modern life. It condemns the fools who will not understand, to greater folly,
but tells the thoughtful, the student and the earnest seeker, in sounds that will
not change, of that which is worthy of worship; and tells to each true hearer
just in so far as by nature and circumstances he is able to understand it, while
it gives to all that feeling of common life and that assurance of sympathy which
has in old times been the strength of the Church. By music men may be taught
to find the God who is not far from any one of us, and be brought within reach
of the support which comes from the sympathy of their fellow creatures.
3. Lastly, it may be urged there is still one other requisite in a perfect form
of religious expression. It must have association with the past. The emotions
which such expressions are to cover are rooted in old memories, and the inner
life is never brand new. A brand new form of worship, therefore, would utterly
fail to express wants which if born in the present are born of parents who lived
in the past. Music fulfills the necessary condition. Music which expresses the
yearnings of the men of today, expressed also the yearnings of the men of old
days. They who feel music telling their unuttered wants and unsyllabled praises
may recognize in its sound the echoes of the songs which broke from the lips
of Miriam and David, of Ambrose and Gregory, and of the simple peasants,
as 100 years ago they were stirred to life in the moors of Cornwall and Wales.
Music may thus give expression to the inner life, to the aspirations which
reach out to that which is not bread; and it is for the want of such expression
that work is often mean and worship meaningless.
Music cannot indeed take the place of defining words, nor of intellectual
propositions; and left to rule alone its influence might be only sensuous. There
is, however, little danger of the lonely rule of music for the children of this
age. They who are vigorous in the search of truth, and fearless in its applica-
tion, they who are rational and scientific, are under an influence which saves
them from the dominance of the vague emotion of feeling or of sense. The
true children of the age seek and work, they doubt and analyze, and they with-
out fear may let the longings which science and discovery have loosened find
expression in music, and themselves wait in patience for the day on which they
shall say, “This is what I hope,” “This is what I believe.” It is a mistake to put
thoughts into words which are too small for them, and it is a mistake to give
up thinking. Music divorced from scientific thought will not satisfy the soul.
Music united with the teaching which is the world’s latest news of God may
rouse the buried life, and once more give men rest in God through Jesus Christ.
C. H. Hylton Stewart
I think it is a wise move on the part of the committee of management that
they have allotted to music such a high place on the list of subjects for discus-
sion at this Congress; for surely all will acknowledge that as music has been
one of the most important factors in the great Church revival, so now she is
one of the most powerful engines in the hands of the clergy, not only for attract-
ing large crowds to their churches, but for conveying Divine truths into the
souls of men. Some there are who will disagree with me here, no doubt. I will
not waste time by proving the fact, I will content myself with saying that the
“evidence is too strong to admit a contrary opinion.” It has always seemed to
me that, by being placed at the tail end of the Congress, music has lost much
of that treatment and serious consideration which is her due, and we, the clergy,
have lost many a practical suggestion which might prove helpful to us in our
endeavor to make it an ever-increasing aid to worship.
While asking for your generous indulgence for this, my first paper on the
subject, I would fain hope that the remarks I shall have the honor of laying
before you may prove helpful. Not feeling sure as to what is meant by music
as an aid to work, I have confined my attention to music as an aid to worship,
it being almost impossible to do justice to both parts of the subject in one
paper.
Rightly do we call music “the civilizer”—“the recreator”—“the purifier
of the emotions”—yet we must go much higher still. As said Charles Kings-
ley, “Music is a sacred—a divine—a God-like thing, and was given to man by
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Stewart) 167
Christ, to lift up our souls to God, and make us feel something of the glory
and beauty of God, and of all that God has made.” Are not these words very
true? Do they not express to the full the real object, the power and work of
music? Have we never experienced such a power, when listening to a symphony
of Beethoven, Mozart, or Mendelssohn? Or when kneeling at St. Paul’s Cathe-
dral, the music of the Choral Eucharist has chased life’s sorrows and worries
away, and linked our hearts by the chain of meditation and love to Him, whose
heart ever beats in unceasing pulsation with our own? Or again, when joining
with our people in the village church in hymn and chant, the common bond
of membership and brotherhood in Christ has seemed very real, and the Divine
presence very close? How zealously, then, should we guard it against abuse:
how eager ought we to be to make use of it, to the fullest extent, in the serv-
ices of the sanctuary.
We cannot but be thankful for the great strides music has made, both in
our cathedrals and churches. Indeed, a church without its full Choral Matins
and Evensong, and in many cases without its Choral Celebration, is difficult
to find. But here, while appreciating to the full the devotional services which
come from the hands of our cathedral organists, I must enter my humble protest
against much of the music that we are compelled to listen to both in church
and cathedral; of all that we hear, it cannot be said that it is an aid to worship.
There is a lack of that devotional feeling, and, as a natural consequence, a lack
of devotional rendering, in some of the present-day compositions of Church
music. There is too much noise—a too great striving after effect—notably in
the music written for the office of Holy Communion, which detracts from,
instead of adds to, the beauty of the words. While, then, fervently praying that
“the music of the future” may never find its way into the service of the sanc-
tuary, let me earnestly plead with Church composers, and ask them to remem-
ber this: that the line of Church music must be very finely drawn: they have
ample opportunities for musical skill in secular works: they live in the midst
of an age in which men crave for all that is exciting as well as beautiful and
ornate; but when they approach the words of the Bible, or the Canticles of the
Church, and especially the Office of the Holy Communion, let them (the church
composers) seek the twin-sistered spirit of self-control and reverence, and
work on the grand old lines of the cathedral school, wherein, thank God, the
spirit of Croft and Purcell are still alive: I would bid them remember that music
must be an aid to worship—or it is valueless: Music can do what words often
fail to do: as Mendelssohn said, “Music begins where words end,” and then
they will find that they are not only raising their own position as composers
of Church music, to one of greater dignity, but that they will be doing a great
share of the work of the clergy, in their endeavor to bring home Divine truths
and doctrines to the souls of men.
I have been, en passant, alluding to cathedrals, let me add one or two sug-
gestions. The advance of Church music is mainly due to our cathedrals, to the
168 III. Standards of Sacred Music
unbroken order of service and anthem which has been, and is daily sung within
their walls. This practice has set men thinking, and it has educated the English
mind, and the result is that choral services abound. But I think it is a matter
for very great regret (nay, is it not a disgrace?) that, although we clothe our
Matins and Evensong, and our Communion Office as far as the Nicene Creed,
with most beautiful music, the remainder of the chief act of Christian worship
(in which the Church Triumphant and Church Militant are joined together) is
deprived of it, although due provision is made for it in the rubrics. At St. Paul’s
this is not so; would that every cathedral followed its example! I know that
amongst other trivial objections it will be said that it would make the service
too long. But if the Eucharistic Service is the chief service of our church; if
music is an aid to worship; if the cathedral service is the highest idea of the
church service on earth—as I maintain it ought to be, and is—surely the serv-
ices might be so divided, that on every Sunday the strains of choral Commu-
nion (of course with the celebrant’s part properly sung), might be heard in each
cathedral. It is impossible to over-estimate the value of the choral Eucharist
as an aid to worship.
Again, we do not contemplate our congregations in the cathedral joining
in the services and anthems; it was never intended that they should do so; it
is therefore very desirable to introduce a hymn as an introit to the Commu-
nion Office, as well as in the other Sunday services. My own experience tells
me that that one hymn is greatly valued, and we all know the delight of being
able to join in some portion of a cathedral service.
Another point I would urge is the practice of occasional organ recitals.
In our cathedral we have, in addition to our Sunday services, a nave service
in the evening all the year round, and at its conclusion—excepting in Advent
and Lent—our organist gives a short recital. Large numbers remain for it: the
cathedral doors are locked, and no one is allowed to enter after the recital has
begun. I can testify to the quiet reverent behavior of the listeners, and I believe
that the music they hear, surrounded with all the sacred associations connected
with the building, fosters, not only a love for music, but also a reverent attach-
ment to the house of God. I think this plan might be advantageously carried
out in many parish churches also. As my last point in connection with cathe-
drals, I would urge very decidedly in them the performance of oratorios. The
question to my mind is a very simple one: were those grand works of Handel,
Bach, and Mendelssohn meant to be used? If so, where is so appropriate a place
as in a cathedral? Reverence alone seems to demand it, rather than in a music
hall, the sacred words are greeted with applause, akin to that bestowed on a
popular song, and where, probably, the night before, the audience had been
entertained by a traveling troupe, or by a political demonstration. Of course
the question of payment for admission will crop up here, and on this head
opinion is much divided. The performance of an oratorio (which in all cases
should be coupled with a distinct form of service), is necessarily very costly,
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Stewart) 169
matter not learnt in a day, but only after careful study. I would recommend,
therefore, considering that musical services are everywhere on the increase,
that all who contemplate entering the ministry should take lessons in intoning
the prayers; or, at all events, see that they have a few hints given to put them
on the right track. I am sure that any application of the kind made to our cathe-
dral chanters would be gladly responded to. Of course all cannot intone, but
I am sure all can monotone, and surely it is a more reverent way than the prac-
tice of preaching the prayers. Here let me say that more attention must be paid
by clergy and choirs to the saying of the Confession, the Lord’s Prayer, and
the Creeds. All must agree with the very useful remarks of the Bishop of Bed-
ford in his articles on the Church Service, which have been appearing in Church
Bells. There is far too much gabbling of these several portions of the service,
in cathedrals as well as in ordinary churches, especially of the Confession.
Greater care should be shown to the small words, such as “and” and “which”;
and all unseemly hurry would then be avoided. The “Ely use,” or inflected Con-
fession is, I am sure, a mistake; it is contrary alike to the spirit of the words
and of the rubric. The choirs should not be allowed to begin the Lord’s Prayer
after the words “Our Father,” or the Creed after “I believe”; surely they are the
most important words of all: they should be said with the Priest, who by
dwelling sufficiently long on each of the two words, would give his choir ample
time to get up with him. It may be thought that what I am now saying is
superfluous, but I am convinced that by paying attention to these points, we
shall not only raise the “tone” of our services, but our choir will enter upon
the more difficult portions in a more reverential spirit. To think them of sec-
ondary importance can only be wrong.
But now to the broader subject of congregational singing. It has often been
argued that this is best promoted by using Gregorian music; chiefly, I presume,
because it requires unison singing. To this I cannot agree. I have had a good
deal of experience, both in Anglican and Gregorian music, and I fearlessly side
with those who oppose the latter, and agree most heartily with Professor Mac-
farren, in thinking it but the “remnant of false antiquarianism, and of ecclesi-
astical error!” Remember, I am speaking of Gregorian music, pure and simple;
not of Gregorians as they are sung at All Saints’, Margaret Street, or at the
Festival of the L. G. Choral Association, at St. Paul’s. In such cases they cease
to be Gregorians, for the latter they are embellished with band accompaniment;
in the former, with the most artistic and lovely harmonies, from the hand of a
talented musician. But take a tone similar to that heard in the two places above-
mentioned, and teach it to your country choir; give it to the country organist
(often a school-master, and often a rector’s daughter) to accompany—one who
will play the same harmony all the way through a psalm or canticle—or, per-
haps, with but one or two changes—(the accompaniment often being that of
a broken-winded harmonium), and, so far from thinking it conductive to con-
gregational singing, you will soon be convinced, as I have been, of the contrary;
14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Stewart) 171
and you will agree with the American gentleman of the not over-reverent story
with which, no doubt, many of you are acquainted.
One word here on unison singing. To sing canticles, psalms, and hymns
entirely in unison, will, I think, be found quite impractical. Choirs do not like
it; and I do not think it is fair to thrust it upon them; not only does it destroy
much of the beauty of a tune or chant, but to accomplish it the music will have
to undergo complete revision, so that all the notes may be brought within
singable compass, especially for bass voices. By all means try to induce the
congregations to sing the melody in unison; for the musical, as well as the devo-
tional effect, is often sadly marred by the manufactured tenor part by some
would-be musician in the body of the church.
Having disposed of Gregorian, the next thing to be excluded from our
services is all music of a secular description—especially the secular adapta-
tions to which we are tempted to wed many of our beautiful hymns: for our
object must be to raise the “tone” of our musical service—and not to intro-
duce anything which will in any way compromise or lower the dignity of our
standard of worship. The light and pretty six-eight time tunes, such as we find
in a book of some merit, called “The Church Army Songs,” are very suitable
for home use, and for mission services; but, when we come into the church, I
think we want music of a more glorified and devotional character.
We are still craving for a more comprehensive hymnbook—but, in so
doing, I think we are wasting our breath. Of all our hymnals, I believe the
“Ancient and Modern” to be the best. At all events, the church does a very
good work with it, in spite of many errors, distasteful alike to clergymen and
musicians. We can make a still greater aid to worship by a more careful study
of the manner in which its hymns should be sung; by distinguishing between
the time of a festal and ferial hymn; by the introduction of a unison verse here
and there, and so forth. In our eagerness for something new, in our anxiety to
do the best for our people, do not let us grow impatient; but in the faith that
our efforts will be accepted and blessed by the Great Lover of Souls, let us
determine to make the best use of what we have.
Now I come to the Psalms. One thing most conducive to congregational
singing is uniformity in the use of the Psalter and chant book. The chant book
is at present our greatest want. But we have much that is useful in those books
used at St Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, and in the “Cathedral Psalter Chant
Book”; it is very hard to say which is the best of these. To those of my hear-
ers who are fond of unison singing—and who can get their choirs to sing the
Psalms in unison—I would recommend a book containing chants to be sung
in unison, with a free organ accompaniment, edited by Dr. Hopkins of the
Temple; it will be found a most excellent and useful collection. Let me rec-
ommend each choir to make its own MS. Collection of chants, it will be found
by far the best plan.
With regard to the Psalter, the best, to my mind, for all purposes, especially
172 III. Standards of Sacred Music
anthems which will meet the wants of the congregation, as well as the some-
times too ambitious desires of our choir men, and their occasional introduc-
tion on the great festivals, and on the Dedication or harvest festival, is a very
justifiable and politic thing, but as a rule they are a mistake, for they do not
encourage congregational singing.
In those churches where choral celebrations are the custom, let me rec-
ommend the “Short Settings,” edited by Dr. Martin, of St. Paul’s; as well as
Dr. Stainer’s “Office Book for the Holy Communion.” Both will be found full
of useful material.
You will gather from all I have said, that in order to make music an aid
to worship, I strongly advocate congregational singing in our parish churches.
To ensure this, the truest method, to my mind, lies in the use of tuneful, melo-
dious Anglican music; in an uniform Psalter, which lies at our very doors; in
simple, but dignified hymn tunes, and in a reverent and distinct monotoning
of the prayers. To make it all an aid to worship is the work of the parish priest,
in conjunction with his organist. Let me plead for a little more mutual
confidence between both. Both, I am sure, have the same aim in view. The cler-
gyman, unquestionably, is the head of his choir, as, indeed, of all his church
officers of every kind; and only in the most exceptional cases should he ever
dream of handing over his responsibilities. He must instill into his choir the
necessity of attending to the words as well as to the music; words first, music
next, as their exponent.
By friendly intercourse with his organist and choir, both in private as well
as in the practice room; by words of kind encouragement, and, when neces-
sary, of gentle rebuke; he will, I am sure, gain the sympathies of both; and,
when once that sympathy is established, there will be unity—and nothing con-
duces so much to the successful issue of a service, as the clergy, choir, and
organist, being of one heart and one mind.
One more point I am constrained to remark upon, and it is this: that every
adult member of our choirs should be a communicant. I would not allow the
best of singers to enter the choir unless he was a regular communicant. The
system of admitting those into a choir who are not, in the hope of “keeping
them from going elsewhere, and of their eventually becoming communicants,”
is a mistaken one. Such action lowers the status of a choir. In our communi-
cants lies the strength of the Church: we believe them to have a greater appre-
ciation of personal holiness, and a strong reverence for all things pertaining
to the Church; two qualities for which, depend upon it, all our people look in
a choir. They are expected to be—and should be—the leaders in Church mem-
bership, as well as in the songs of the Church: and in that church where its
choir derive their spiritual life through the Divinely appointed means of grace,
there shall we find, depend upon it, music the greatest aid to worship.
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Index
Abraham 24, 27 77, 78, 81, 89 –90, 97–98, 107, 110, 119,
absolute music 6 135, 144, 158, 160, 162, 167
Adam and Eve 126 Beimel, Jacob 6
Adon Olam 144, 145 Belgium 108
Advent 168 Belliague, Camille 107
Agassiz, Louis 93 bells 44, 123
Aida 24 Benaiah 21
Alexandria 55 Benedictine 121
Alps 83 Bennett, Sterndale 154, 156
Ambrose 42, 101, 165 Berlioz, Hector 107
Ambrosian Chant 110, 119 Bishop of Bedford 170
Ammon 39 Blanc, Charles 118
Amphion 39 Bohemia 146, 152
Anglican Chant 153, 170 Bohemian Girl 144
antiphony 108, 110, 113 Book of Common Prayer 38, 156
Apis 36 Book of the Wars of Jehovah 45
Apollo Belvedere 84 –85 Boston 92
Apostle’s Creed 160 Boston Peace Jubilee 94
Apostolic Church 31 Brahms, Johannes 159
Arabs 141 Brown, Baldwin 34
Arion 39 Brown-Séquard, Charles Edward 92
ark 44 –45 Browning, Robert 76, 90
Armenian Church 31 Byrd, William 154
Asaph 29, 45 Byron 50
Ashkenazi Judaism 7, 141, 142 –143
asor 44 Cain 19
Assyria 35, 38, 42, 43 Caird, John 68
Athanasian Creed 151 Calvin, John 55
Atterbury, Francis 68 Calvinism 98
Augustine 101, 172 Cantate Dominio 110
Augustus 99 Canterbury 101
Austria 146 canticle 106, 167, 171, 172
Az Yashir Moshe 141 cantillation 43, 49, 52
Cantors Association of America 146
Babylon, waters of 30 Cantus peregrinus 139
Babylonian Exile 45, 48–49 Carnac 24
Bach, Johann Sebastian 2, 56, 144, 152, 154, castanets 44
155, 156, 157, 168 Cathedral Psalter Chant Book 171, 172
Balfe, Michael William 144 cathedral service 60, 150, 153, 154, 168, 169,
ballads 148 172
Balzac, Honoré de 78 Catholic Church 47, 48, 57, 105–121, 139,
Barak 28, 47 146
Baroque Period 5 Cavalleria Rusticana 145
Beethoven, Ludwig van 31, 73, 74, 75, 76, ceremonial ritual 6 –8
175
176 Index