The Value of Sacred Music

The Valueof Sacred Music

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The Value ofSacred Music

An Anthology of Essential Writings, 1801–1918

COMPILED BY

JONATHAN L. FRIEDMANN

McFarland & Company, Inc., PublishersJefferson, North Carolina, and London

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

The value of sacred music : an anthology of essential writings,1801–1918 / compiled by Jonathan L. Friedmann.

p. cm.Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-7864-4201-0softcover : 50# alkaline paper

1. Music—Religious aspects—History. 2. Churh music.I. Friedmann, Jonathan L., 1980–ML3921.V36 2009781.71—dc22 2008047024

British Library cataloguing data are available

©2009 Jonathan L. Friedmann. All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

McFarland & Company, Inc., PublishersBox 611, Jefferson, North Carolina 28640

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Table of Contents

Preface 1

Introduction 5

Part I. Origins of Sacred Music

1. Bible History of Music (1853)Nathaniel D. Gould 17

2. Spirit of Jewish Music (1887)Louis S. Davis 23

3. Ancient Jewish Hymns (1910)Louis C. Elson 27

4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903)Edward Dickinson 33

5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914)Waldo Selden Pratt 51

Part II. Music and Spirituality

6. Music in Relation to Public Worship (1881)John Bulmer 67

7. The Mysticism of Music (1915)R. Heber Newton 73

8. The Emotions in Music (1874)E. Janes 91

9. Music, Emotions, and Morals (1893)Hugh Reginald Haweis 99

v

Part III. Standards of Sacred Music

10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896)Dom Andre Mocquereau 105

11. Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving (1801)William Jones 122

12. Church Music: General Considerations (1904)A. Madeley Richardson 133

13. Secular Currents in Synagogal Chant in America (1918)Joseph Reider 138

14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884)W. H. Gladstone, W. Parratt, S. A. Barnett, andC. H. Hylton Stewart 147

Index 175

vi Table of Contents

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

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.

2 Preface

I am grateful to the libraries of Stanford University, Harvard University,

the University of Michigan, California State University, Long Beach, and the

University of California, Los Angeles for preserving and making available

these important writings. They have enabled modern readers to evaluate these

old essays, and to find for themselves those ideas and viewpoints still vital for

the deeper understanding of the value of sacred music.

This anthology presents, for the first time, a collection of important his-

torical essays dealing specifically with the purpose and function of sacred

music. The selections in this volume are, I believe, both approachable and use-

ful for present-day readers. It is my hope that this anthology, while more rep-

resentative than comprehensive, will serve as a much-needed introduction to

the historical thought on sacred music, and that the essays it contains will

inspire readers to think more deeply about the role of music in religious rit-

ual.

Preface 3


Introduction

Søren Kierkegaard wrote, “Music, like time, is measured but immeasur-

able, is composed but indivisible.”1 Though the elements of music can be dis-

tilled and analyzed, the impact of music upon the listener defies mechanical

examination. Music is immediate, affecting directly the ineffable realm of

human emotion. Through a combination of pitches, rhythms, timbres, dura-

tions, and dynamics, music can, in the words of musicologist Nicholas Cook,

“unlock the most hidden contents of [one’s] spiritual and emotional being.”2

Consciously or unconsciously, we relate particular sound stimuli to non-

musical concepts, images, and qualities.3 Recognizing this human tendency,

theorists of the Baroque period devised the Doctrine of the Affections, which

identified specific emotions with standardized musical devices. The “lamento

bass,” for instance, was considered an expression of sadness, while euphoria

was represented by a rapidly ascending sequence of thirds. In the twentieth

century, Leonard B. Meyer adopted the position that while emotions are not

inherent in musical tones themselves, to a culturally knowledgeable listener

they do provide certain expectations and tendencies. For any given culture,

there exist distinct musical patterns that either inhibit or fulfill the psycholog-

ical need for resolution. In this way, emotional responses to music are aroused

primarily through the interplay of tension and release.4

Aaron Copland also described the indispensable role of the “gifted lis-

tener” in the performance of music. Noting the need for interpretation in the

experience of all art forms, Copland wrote, “Because music provides the broad-

est possible vista for the imagination since it is the freest, most abstract, the

least fettered of all the arts,” it is also the most dependent upon imaginative

treatment.5 Without the free and total involvement of one’s heart and mind, the

full meaning and significance of music is not conveyed.

Music and PrayerOur intuitive response to musical sounds justifies in particular music’s role

in religious ritual. As an aid to worship, music communicates the mystery that

5

lies beyond liturgical language, bringing intimate understanding to oftentimes

distant or abstract religious concerns. Just as the subject of theology cannot

be depicted fully in human vocabulary, music expresses the verbally inexpress-

ible.6 As one scholar noted, “Only the elevated language of tones is fitted for

speaking with God.”7 Truly effective sacred songs can both foster and enhance

a meaningful religious experience, making the transcendent present among

the worshiping congregation. Cantor Jacob Beimel described eloquently the

centrality of song in Jewish and Christian worship:

The human soul, which expresses itself in religious beliefs and customs, finds amedium for the utterances of its varied expressions in music. Moreover, that soulreceives its very nourishment from these two attributes, religion and music. Therehas existed, from time immemorial, a strong and indispensable bond betweendivinity and the art of music. In the pagan world of polytheistic beliefs, the religiousservices were accompanied by music. Among the peoples confessing a monotheisticreligion, music, of whatever variety and custom it may consist (vocal, instrumental,or both), has constituted an integral part of their divine services. This has beenespecially true for Judaism and Christianity, where there can be no approach to theAlmighty without song.8

This account reveals, among other things, the programmatic nature of

sacred song. The unity of music and text reflects the interpretation of the com-

poser, as well as his or her agenda to stimulate—or at least approximate—a

sense of the sacred. As opposed to so-called “absolute music,” which does not

exist “to teach, to refer the listener to a certain event, or even to evoke partic-

ular emotions,”9 the music of worship is imbued with ritual function—it is

“music with a purpose.”

Such music is, most centrally, designed to intensify the sacred moment.

A prayer presented through music may deepen the desired union between the

finite (humanity) and the infinite (God)—a fellowship essential to religious

life. And while liturgy may at times fail to capture the grandeur of the sacred—

struggling as it does against the mechanical tendencies inherent in ritual rou-

tine—music provides sacred text with a vehicle for spiritual elevation. Words

set to music achieve a greater emotive range and associational power than ordi-

nary speech. Song can heighten one’s attentiveness during prayer, and imbue

worship with a sense of “otherness” required of the sacred experience.

Music as Ceremonial Ritual

Along with its theological import, sacred music has social functions. As

Steven A. Marini wrote in his book Sacred Song in America, sacred music is

presented in a social context, “consciously prepared to facilitate such a reli-

gious event,”10 and symbolically moves worshipers away from everyday con-

cerns, and into a “shared mythic consciousness.”11 Sacred music is a conduit

through which believers enter the religious dimension. Through a complex

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 MaTov, 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 HineiMa 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 Misinaimelodies 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 wereorganized in the ghetto for the High Holy Days, and one such group met in the

Introduction 7

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, arumor suddenly spread that two German officials from the “Staatskommissariat”had entered the ghetto and were going in the direction of the hospital. The hospitalwas notified at once and just as in the time of the Spanish Inquisition, every trace ofthe “major crime” momentarily disappeared. The Holy Ark was hidden, the burningYom 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 everythingand everyone returned to their place and the musaf service continued until its conclusion.13

The Sacred in Music

Any understanding of the sacred in music should begin with the assump-

tion that, at least for the composers and presenters of sacred song, the sacred

experience is a real phenomenon, removed totally from the domain of ordi-

nary life. In this regard, it is worthwhile to explore the influential work of the-

ologian Rudolph Otto, who believed the sacred to be a reality “whose special

character we can feel without being able to give it clear conceptual expres-

sion.”14

Otto maintained that the numinous experience, which signals the pres-

ence of the sacred, is “more fundamental than and independent of any belief

or conceptual understanding of the experience.”15 In his 1917 book The Idea ofthe Holy, Otto described the numinous experience as “perfectly sui generisand irreducible to any other; and therefore, like every absolutely primary and

elementary datum, while it admits of being discussed, it cannot be strictly

defined.”16 However, while acknowledging the unspeakable nature of this expe-

rience, Otto did attempt to describe its characteristics.

Importantly, Otto posited that the sacred experience begins with a “feel-

ing of personal nothingness and submergence before the awe-inspiring object

directly experienced.”17 Otto described this feeling as “stupor,” which “signifies

blank wonder, an astonishment that strikes us dumb, amazement absolute.”18

At the same time, he was careful to distinguish this reaction from the realm

of ordinary emotions, believing it to be a unique response, analogous to the

experience of being afraid, yet ultimately distinct. More specifically, Otto saw

the sacred experience as an indescribable combination of fear and awe, or mys-terium tremendum.

This understanding of fear and awe in the presence of God has an impor-

tant parallel in the medieval philosophical writings of Moses Maimonides.

Maimonides believed both fear and awe to be natural emotional responses to

the contemplation of the cosmos, intrinsically linked as “mirror image” emo-

tions. He described awe as a primary response to the vastness of nature, which

8 Introduction

is followed by an overwhelming sense of fear, as one realizes the insignificance

of oneself in relation to the sacred:

When a man contemplates [God’s] great and wondrous deeds and creations, andsees in them His unequaled and infinite wisdom, he immediately loves and praisesand exults Him, and is overcome by a great desire to know His great Name... Andwhen he considers these very matters, immediately he withdraws and is frightenedand knows that he is but a small, lowly, dark creature who, with his inferior andpuny mind, stands before Him who is perfect in His knowledge.19

It is unclear whether Otto was influenced directly by Maimonides, but,

like Maimonides, Otto found sufficient basis for the numinous experience in

the Hebrew Bible. In Genesis 28:17, for instance, Jacob, who ascends to heaven,

remarks, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of

God, and that is the gateway to heaven.” To Otto, this response contains at once

“primal numinous awe,” “aweful veneration,” and “immediacy.”20 Jacob rec-

ognized the awesome and overwhelming presence of this sacred place; his

proclamation suggests a mixed sense of fear and awe.

Otto is not, however, without his critics. As mentioned, he believed that

regardless of how the numinous experience is later interpreted, the experience

itself occurs prior to and independent of belief. In this way, he understood the

sacred as a reality existing apart from a conceptual, religious framework. In

contrast, philosopher of religion Wayne Proudfoot and others have noted that

in order to identify an experience as sacred, one must have prior reference to

what constitutes the religious—that is, a theory or belief.21 To be sure, such

critiques have importance in the academic study of religion, but do not nec-

essarily hinder application of Otto’s theory to sacred music, which is—pre-

sumably—composed and presented by believers for clearly defined religious

settings. Rather, Otto’s description is ideally suited for an analysis of sacred

music, particularly as it views the sacred experience as a highly emotional,

non-rational, and ineffable connection with the “Wholly Other”—an experi-

ence that lends itself to musical approximation.

Significantly, Otto, a great lover of music, compared the sacred experi-

ence to “the beauty of a musical composition which no less eludes complete

conceptual analysis.”22 Like a symphony, the enormity of the sacred experi-

ence occurs instantaneously, allowing little time for one to examine its com-

plexities or decipher particular elements. As an interviewee in William James’

classic Varieties of Religious Experience noted, the numinous experience is

“like the effect of some great orchestra, when all the separate notes have melted

into the swelling harmony.”23 One’s emotions are overwhelmed by this spon-

taneous and all-encompassing experience; awe and tremor merge in an inde-

scribable feeling.

Sacred music, then, operates primarily on the level of analogy. Some

musical moods are similar to those aroused by the encounter with the holy,

and can, by association, inspire within the listener a sacred experience. With

Introduction 9

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 calledlight 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 frivolousforms of music, although perhaps pleasant in themselves, may betray a sacredmessage by inappropriate associations that trivialize it). It also explains why musiccan be seen in religion as the height of spiritual expression or, alternatively, as theepitome of sensual depravity.24

Music that succeeds in capturing a religious mood can inspire devotion

and spiritual contemplation. Even if one fails to resonate with the message of

prayer, or is distracted from deep worship by worldly concerns, sacred music

can stimulate an appropriate emotional state, disarming the rational mind, and

inviting an embrace of the sacred moment. To be sure, music does not always

alleviate this “problem of prayer”; but it nevertheless strives to guide the wor-

shiper into the requisite prayerful state of mind. Music is thus a powerful—if

imperfect—defense against the disengagement that may occur during prayer.

And, as long as wholehearted worship remains a religious ideal, the partner-

ship of music and prayer will endure.

The Value of Sacred Music

Collected in this anthology are the thoughts and opinions of Protestant,

Catholic and Jewish scholars, musicians, and clergymen, all of whom address

the oft-neglected question: What is the value of sacred music? The partner-

ship of prayer and song is a union so commonplace that it often fails to inspire

deep reflection. Music is, after all, a natural and essential part of the worship

experience, but few who engage in worship seek to understand the reasons for

the unity of music and prayer, or the qualities of music that justify its religious

10 Introduction

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

Introduction 11

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.

Notes1. 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 ChicagoPress, 1958), 260.

5. Aaron Copland, Music and the Imagination (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UniversityPress, 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.

12 Introduction

15. Ibid., 278.16. Ibid., 7.17. Ibid., 17.18. Ibid., 26.19. Moses Maimonides, Hilkhot Yesodei ha-Torah, 2:2.20. Otto, 126.21. See Wayne Proudfoot, Religious Experience (Berkeley: University of California

Press, 1985).22. Otto, 59.23. William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience, 5th Printing (New York:

Mentor, 1958), 66.24. Richard Viladesau, Theology and the Arts: Encountering God through Music, Art

and Rhetoric (New York: Paulist Press, 2000), 30.

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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 andRhetoric. New York: Paulist Press, 2000.

Introduction 13


PART I

Origins of Sacred Music


, 1 .

Bible History of Music(1853)

Nathaniel D. Gould

When we reflect on the subject of music or harmony, our minds are

instantly carried back more than five thousand years, when all was harmony.

God, in his infinite goodness, created man with music in his soul, and melody

in his voice; so that, when he had finished the work of creation, man and angels

might unite in one glorious song of praise. But alas! That song was short. A

discordant note was soon heard.

The introduction of music, at the commencement of time, is well portrayed

in the following extract from a poem on music, by Miss H. F. Gould:

“Music! a blessed angel she was born,Within the palace of the King of kings—A favorite near his throne. In that glad childOf love and joy, he made their spirits one,And he the heir of everlasting life.When his bright hosts would give him highest praise,They send her forward with her dulcet voice,To pour her holy rapture in their ear.When the young earth to being started forth,Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven;When, suddenly,A shout of joy from all the songs of GodRang through his courts; and then the thrilling call:Wake! Sister music, wake! and hail with usA new-created sphere!She woke; she rose;She moved among the morning stars, and gaveThe birth-song of a world.

17

Gould, Nathaniel D. “Bible History of Music.” In Church Music in America: Its History and ItsPeculiarities at Different Periods, with Cursory Remarks on Its Legitimate Use and Its Abuses.Boston: A. N. Johnson, 1853.

Since that blessed hour,Whilst heaven is still her home, Music is ne’erThis darkened world forsaken. She delights,Though man may lose or keep the paths of Peace,To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm the heart,And lends her wings to waft him to the skies.”

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.

Music and Prayer the Only Acts of Worship

It would probably be interesting to some, and profitable to many, should

we trace music, from its origin, all along through Bible history, and mark

minutely its grand and solemn exhibitions as an act of worship. We should find,

all along, equally prominent and equally solemn, prayer and praise; always cou-

pled together as acts, and the only direct acts, by which God was worshiped,

they always have gone, and always will go, hand in hand. If religion languishes,

so will sacred music. The same sentiments and language are used for both;

but singing seems to have been considered the higher order, and the very cli-

18 I. Origins of Sacred Music

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.

The Voice of Melody the Gift of God

Music, though a complex and difficult art, is, in truth, evidently the gift

of the Author of nature to the whole human race. Its existence, in some form,

is to be traced in the records of every people, from the earliest ages to the pres-

ent time, in every quarter of the globe.

The infinite variety of sounds we hear, produced by waters, birds, ani-

mals, and the human voice, affect us with more or less pleasure.

The only exceptions are those that warn us of something to be feared,

such as the hissing of serpents, or the howling of wild beasts; but the melodi-

ous sounds of the human voice affect us most when united with speech or

words. It then delights the ear, touches the heart, as language alone cannot.

This pleasure derived from music must have been implanted in our nature,

capable, however, of great improvement.

When Music Commenced

The history of music, as we have seen, begins with the history of man. Scanty,

indeed, are the materials; and, after all, conjecture must do much in describ-

ing its pathway from age to age. Although volumes have been written to describe

it, still there are few facts contained in them all which are satisfactory.

In the Bible history of the art, as used for sacred purposes, we soon find man

using his voice, and inventing instruments to assist it in sounding praise to God.

First Music and Instruments

The first mention of music is, that Jubal, the sixth son of Cain, is said to

be the father of all such as “handle the harp or organ.” The French translate

1. Bible History of Music (1853) (Gould) 19

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.

The Human Voice God’s Instrument

All unassisted instruments, however, sink into insignificance when com-

pared with the instrument that God has given man to praise him, which is the

human voice. The ingenuity of man may invent instruments to make pleasant

noise; this noise can be modulated into soft and loud, pathetic and solemn

tones, to please and astonish; but, after all, it is but an accompaniment—it is

nothing but sound. They cannot be made to articulate these words: “Hear my

prayer, O Lord!,” or “Praise the Lord, O my soul!” The human voice and tongue

alone can do it. Hence the royal Psalmist, when he calls upon “everything that

hath breath to praise the Lord,” understands the distinction when he says, “The

singers went before, and the players on instruments went behind;” an impor-

tant example, not always observed at the present day, in practice, if in loca-

tion.

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


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.

Holy Men of Old Engaged in the Cause

All holy men, like David and Hezekiah, are found rejoicing in the privi-

lege and honor of leading the multitude of worshipers around them in sacred

song. At one time, we find four thousand Levites in the Tabernacle, divided

into twenty-four courses, with two hundred and eighty-eight teachers, or lead-

ers; and, in all instances, they rose up and sung. Unlike this is the practice of

the present day; when not many of the great, the rich, or the noble, are found

among those who engage in singing in the sanctuary; and in many instances

both singers and hearers treat the subject with so much indifference, that they

cannot take the trouble to rise up in this grand act of devotion.

Solomon says, “I gat me ten singers, and women singers, and instruments,

the delight of men, of all sorts.” It is said his songs were one thousand and

five.

At the dedication of the Temple, it is supposed there were more than fifty

thousand employed as singers.

The eighth psalm is addressed to Benaiah, the chief of the band of young

women who sang in the service of religion.

Women were thus early associated in acts of worship, and were instructed

in music; for at that joyous and glorious day for God’s children, women took

a part.

Music of the New Testament

Music in the first ages of the Christian church, at the time of the Savior’s

birth, was used in all the religions of the nations about Judea; but what that

music was, is a matter of uncertainty.

The following are some of the examples of singing when our Savior was

on earth:

The first strain of the music of the church, “Glory to God in the highest,

1. Bible History of Music (1853) (Gould) 21

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.

Singing at the Last Supper

When we trace this part of the worship of holy men, before we come to

the close of God’s word, a scene is described more interesting than any one

before it, not for its grandeur and display, but the occasion. It is when the Sav-

ior of the world and his disciples met for the last time, and closed the solemn

exercises by singing a hymn. The words of that hymn are not recorded; and

perhaps it is well that they were not; for, if they had been written, we have rea-

son to suppose that in every age they would have been profaned by a wicked

world, like all others in the Bible. We are obliged, however, to conclude that

poetry, as well as music, was in some manner cultivated at that time; for what

psalm would be appropriate for that solemn and momentous occasion? And

when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives. This was

sung by those whose hearts were pure. How many would be glad to sing those

words! Although lost, it would be well if we could imitate the pure, meek, and

loving spirit that breathed forth the song.

But we must confine ourselves more strictly to narrative; for the subject

of praising God, as recorded in his word, both on earth and in heaven, is too

sublime for us to present in its true light. It is a subject worthy the mightiest

intellect of man—yea, great enough for an angel; and probably they alone can

fully understand its import. The employment of praise or singing is, for aught

we know, the only talent or acquisition on earth, transferred to heaven.


, 2 .

Spirit of Jewish Music(1887)

Louis S. Davis

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

23

Davis, Louis S. “Spirit of Jewish Music.” In Studies in Musical History. New York: G. P. Put-nam’s Sons, 1887.

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-


capacity for discriminating, and the no less remarkable ability to assimilate,

it was not strange that, rejecting the dominion of Egypt, they should have

retained for their civil and religious code a compilation largely based on the

law of their taskmasters. Thus is was that the music also became incorporated

into their ritual, never to depart from it while Israel should be Israel. On the

banks of the sacred river, beneath the shadow of the pyramid, within the

precinct of the walls where the names of Isis and Osiris were uttered with rev-

erent and bated breath, and in the lowly dwelling of the slave, Israel had sung

his lamentations and songs of bondage. But the hut and the temple were alike

to disappear to give place to the arch of heaven, and the hymns of bondage to

be substituted by anthems of freedom and victory.

And now begins one of the most remarkable and sublime successions of

composers of religious psalmody whose history was ever recorded by the pen

of man. From the day of the Exodus until the close of the Old Testament his-

tory there passes before us in almost unbroken procession, judges, kings,

prophets and priests, who were in the loftiest, broadest and profoundest sense

the greatest of poets to which the race has ever given birth. From this day Jew-

ish psalmody, with its concrete immensities of thought, was to be the founda-

tion of all ecclesiastical music. By the law of repetition we find men of the

nineteenth century deriving strength from the hymns which, more than three

thousand years ago, gave inspiration and endurance to the Jewish people in

their life-and-death struggle.

Under the theocracy founded by Moses, ecclesiastical music was a term

synonymous with national music. Of all instances to which humanity is sus-

ceptible, those of religion and patriotism are, I think, the most powerful and

enduring. Moses was perhaps the only man at that epoch who could gauge the

dynamics rendered possible by such a union. Filled with assurance that the

God of Battles was with him, and nerved and stimulated by the thought that

the eye, not of his General, but of his General’s General, was upon him, the

defense of his home and the honor of his God were so blended into one that,

to the Jew, a victory over an army of idolaters was as much a religious rite as

the ritual of the tabernacle. Thus it was that every patriot was a religionist,

and every true religionist was a devout patriot. As in the case of the galvanic

battery, the closing of the circuit between the positive and the negative poles

makes known the presence of the electric current, so it was that the comple-

tion of the circuit of positive and negative religion and patriotism, through its

very intensity, produced a current of thought whose vibrations shall continue

to be felt when perhaps the name of the people from whom it sprung will have

passed into oblivion. The text remains, but the music was oral, as in the case

of all preceding and most of the following music in every land.

It is believed that many of the melodies now in use in the Jewish ritual

have an origin pre-dating the Christian era by some centuries. But as for this

claim there is no verification; it must always remain an open question. Nor

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 .

Ancient Jewish Hymns(1910)

Louis C. Elson

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.

27

Elson, Louis C. “Ancient Jewish Hymns.” In University Musical Encyclopedia. New York: TheUniversity Society, 1910.

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


height of the watch-men, they might be seen descending, in a long line or

chain, which gave its name to their company, with psaltery, harp, tabret, pipe,

and cymbals.”

From this school under Samuel the prophet, David, the sweet singer of

Israel, probably caught the inspiration which afterward found expression in

the psalms which form so important a part of the Psalter that the book as a

whole has been known as “The Psalms of David.” It is impossible to say with

certainty what portions of the Psalter we owe to his pen, probably they are fewer

than is commonly supposed; but the impetus he gave to sacred song is indi-

cated by the fact that though some portions of the book belong to an age ear-

lier than his, and that the larger portion came into being long after he had

passed away, yet the book as a whole goes under his name. The Book of Psalms

was doubtless thus ascribed just as the Book of Proverbs was to his son

Solomon, because, as Professor Cheyne says, “Solomon had become the sym-

bol of plain ethical ‘wisdom,’ just as David had become the representative of

religious lyric poetry.” But then a reputation like this does not grow out of noth-

ing. David not only contributed to the songs of the people, but through him

the service of song was added to the ordinary worship of the sanctuary, and

made a fixed and integral part of the daily offering to Jehovah. Before his time,

if ever connected with the tabernacle at all, it had been fitful and occasional,

depending to a large extent on individual enthusiasm. “For so mighty an inno-

vation no less than a David was needed. The exquisite richness of verse and

music so dear to him—‘the calves of the lips’—took the place of the costly

offerings of animals. His harp or guitar was to him what the wonder-working

staff was to Moses, the spear to Joshua, or the sword to Gideon.”

Thus sacred song found its way into the regular services of the temple,

and the Psalms became the liturgical hymnbook of the Jewish Church. How

completely the union of song and sacrifice (in the national worship) had been

effected was made manifest at the dedication of the temple. In the account con-

tained in 2 Chronicles 12–14, we read: “Also the Levites which were the singers,

all of them, even Asaph, Heman, Jeduthun, and their sons and their brethren,

arrayed in fine linen, with cymbals and psalteries and harps, stood at the east

end of the altar, and with them an hundred and twenty priests sounding their

trumpets: it came even to pass when the trumpeters and singers were as one,

to make one sound to be heard in praising and thanking the Lord; and when

they lifted up their voice with the trumpets and cymbals and instruments of

music, and praised the Lord, saying, For he is good, for his mercy endureth

for ever: that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the

Lord; so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason of the cloud; for

the glory of the Lord filled the house of God.” In the seventh chapter of the

same book we find that, when Solomon had made an end of praying, all the

children of Israel bowed themselves with their faces to the ground upon the

pavement, and worshiped, and gave thanks unto the Lord, saying, “For he is

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


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

3. Ancient Jewish Hymns (1910) (Elson) 31

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 .

Primitive and Ancient Religious Music

(1903)

Edward Dickinson

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

33

Dickinson, Edward. “Primitive and Ancient Religious Music.” In Music in the History of the West-ern Church. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons: 1903.

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


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

4. Primitive and Ancient Religious Music (1903) (Dickinson) 35

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


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


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.


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


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


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


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.

RThe 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


could be used to adorn the courts of Jehovah, or could be employed in the

ascription of praise to him. Music was to them an efficient agent to excite emo-

tions of awe, or to carry more directly to the heart the rhapsodies and search-

ing admonitions of psalmists and prophets.

No authentic melodies have come down to us from the time of the Israelit-

ish residence in Palestine. No treatise on Hebrew musical theory or practice,

if any such ever existed, has been preserved. No definite light is thrown upon

the Hebrew musical system by the Bible or any other ancient book. We may

be certain that if the Hebrews had possessed anything distinctive, or far in

advance of the practice of their contemporaries, some testimony to that effect

would be found. All evidence and analogy indicate that the Hebrew song was

a unison chant or cantillation, more or less melodious, and sufficiently definite

to be perpetuated by tradition, but entirely subordinate to poetry, in rhythm

following the accent and meter of the text.

We are not so much in the dark in respect to the use and nature of Hebrew

instruments, although we know as little of the style of music that was performed

upon them. Our knowledge of the instruments themselves is derived from those

represented upon the monuments of Assyria and Egypt, which were evidently

similar to those used by the Hebrews. The Hebrews never invented a musical

instrument. Not one in use among them but had its equivalent among nations

older in civilization. And so we may infer that the entire musical practice of

the Hebrews was derived first from their early neighbors the Chaldeans, and

later from the Egyptians; although we may suppose that some modifications

may have arisen after they became an independent nation. The first mention

of musical instruments in the Bible is in Genesis 4:21, where Jubal is spoken

of as “the father of all such as handle the kinnor and ugab” (translated in the

revised version “harp and pipe”). The word kinnor appears frequently in the

later books, and is applied to the instrument used by David. This kinnor of

David and the psalmists was a small portable instrument and might properly

be called a lyre. Stringed instruments are usually the last to be developed by

primitive peoples, and the use of the kinnor implies a considerable degree of

musical advancement among the remote ancestors of the Hebrew race in their

primeval Chaldean home. The word ugab may signify either a single tube like

the flute or oboe, or a connected series of pipes like the Pan’s pipes or syrinx

of the Greeks. There is only one other mention of instruments before the Exo-

dus, viz., in connection with the episode of Laban and Jacob, where the for-

mer asks his son-in-law reproachfully, “Wherefore didst thou flee secretly, and

steal away from me; and didst not tell me, that I might have sent thee away

with mirth and with songs, with toph and kinnor?” (Gen. 31:27)—the tophbeing a sort of small hand drum or tambourine.

After the Exodus other instruments, perhaps derived from Egypt, make

their appearance: the shofar, or curved tube of metal or ram’s horn, heard amid

the smoke and thunderings of Mount Sinai (Ex. 19), and to whose sound the


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


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


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


antithesis—pervades a large amount of the Hebrew poetry, and may be called

its technical principle. It is, we might say, a rhythm of thought, an assonance

of feeling. This parallelism is more frequently double, sometimes triple. We

find this peculiar structure as far back as the address of Lamech to his wives

in Gen. 4:23, 24, in Moses’ song after the passage of the Red Sea, in the tri-

umphal ode of Deborah and Barak, in the greeting of the Israelitish women to

Saul and David returning from the slaughter of the Philistines, in the Book of

Job, in a large portion of the rhythmical imaginative utterances of the psalmists

and prophets. The Oriental Christian sang the psalms responsively; this method

was passed on to Milan in the fourth century, to Rome very soon afterward,

and has been perpetuated in the liturgical churches of modern Christendom.

Whether, in the ancient temple service, this twofold utterance was divided

between separate portions of the choir, or between a precentor and the whole

singing body, there are no grounds for stating—both methods have been

employed in modern times. It is not even certain that the psalms were sung in

alternate half-verse, for in the Jewish Church at the present day the more fre-

quent usage is to divide at the end of a verse. It is evident that the singing was

not congregational, and that the share of the people, where they participated

at all, was confined to short responses, as in the Christian Church in the time

next succeeding the apostolic age. The female voice, although much prized in

secular music, according to the Talmud was not permitted in the temple serv-

ice. There is nothing in the Old Testament that contradicts this except, as some

suppose, that reference to the three daughters of Heman in 1 Chronicles 25:5,

where he said, “And God gave to Heman fourteen sons and three daughters”;

and in verse 6: “All these were under the hands of their father for song in the

house of the Lord.” It is possible, however, that the mention of the daughters

is incidental, not intended as an assertion that they were actual members of

the temple chorus, for we cannot conceive why an exception should have been

made in their behalf. Certainly the whole implication from the descriptions

of the temple service and the enumeration of the singers and players is to the

effect that only the male voice was utilized in the liturgical worship. There are

many allusions to “women singers” in the scriptures, but they plainly apply

only to domestic song, or to processions and celebrations outside the sacred

enclosure. It is certainly noteworthy that the exclusion of the female voice,

which has obtained in the Catholic Church throughout the Middle Age, in

the Eastern Church, in the German Protestant Church, and in the cathedral serv-

ice of the Anglican Church, was also enforced in the temple worship of Israel.

The conviction has widely prevailed among the stricter custodians of religious

ceremony in all ages that there is something sensuous and passionate (I

use these words in their simpler original meaning) in the female voice—some-

thing at variance with the austerity of ideal which should prevail in the

music of worship. Perhaps, also, the association of men and women in the

sympathy of so emotional an office as that of song is felt to be prejudicial


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 apriori 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


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


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.

This music foreshadowed the completer expression of Christian art of

which it became the type. Inspired by the grandest of traditions, provided with

credentials as, on equal terms with poetry, valid in the expression of man’s

consciousness of his needs and his infinite privilege—thus consecrated for its

future mission, the soul of music passed from Hebrew priests to apostles and

Christian fathers, and so on to the saints and hierarchs, who laid the founda-

tion of the sublime structure of the worship music of a later day.


, 5 .

Religion and the Art of Music(1914)

Waldo Selden Pratt

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

51

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.

aspects of religion as a social manifestation, especially with the great reli-

gious institution of public worship. This connection has been so constant and

so close that it immediately challenges attention. Music actually seems to be

necessary to public worship. At least, its prevalence in all kinds of public wor-

ship, with but insignificant exceptions (as among the Quakers), suggests that

it has an altogether peculiar aptness for incorporation into the observances

that constitute this, the most conspicuous of the social embodiments of reli-

gion.

In illustration of this point it is not necessary to traverse the items in the

prodigious catalogue of the various applications of music in public worship in

every century and land. The main outline of the list is entirely familiar—from

the Hebrew Temple with its choir and its Psalms, and from the synagogue and

early Christian fraternities, with their cantillation and choral antiphony, through

the slowly-formed rituals of both the Eastern and the Western Churches, with

their sonorous and sumptuous services, and through the much simpler usages

of all the different Reformed Churches, with their return in some way to true

congregational praise, even to the manifold customs of modern Christendom,

with its curious blending in its several denominations of musical habits derived

most variously through distinct lines of tradition. Everywhere and always pub-

lic worship has chosen to make utterance freely through poetry meant for

singing, and to count music, usually both vocal and instrumental, as a cher-

ished and indispensable part of its liturgical apparatus. Single items in this list

often seem at first sight to stand far apart and even in opposition; yet close

study shows that all are bound together by remarkable bonds of historic con-

tinuity and essential relationship. The union of religion with music, therefore,

can be illustrated by instances drawn from every quarter of the civilized world

and from every age throughout not less than three millenniums. This general

fact is well known, and something of its massive magnitude is perhaps duly

appreciated.

We must remember, however, that emphasis upon this fact is often sus-

pected of being prompted by a kind of mere sentimentality or being called forth

by the casuistry of the special pleader. In these days of highly complex cul-

ture and of the infinite subdivision of intellectual interests that they may be

separately pursued, the great art of music has become so specialized and so

elaborate in itself as to claim full independence as a social fact. Music now

has its own literature and periodicals, its own established commercial enter-

prises, its own professional class, its own system of education, its own vast

circle of devotees and students, its own artistic laws and doctrines, its own

organic momentum as an independent fine art, at least coordinate with the

other historic fine arts. Religion, it may be said, is another such independent

phenomenon. Music and religion, it may be urged, have nothing important to

do with each other; except, of course, in the one particular that religious wor-

ship does more or less utilize musical implements and skill in a comparatively


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.

RIt 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—

5. Religion and the Art of Music (1914) (Pratt) 53

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


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


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


of contrapuntal expression as much as made possible and desirable upon the

church organ and in church services. The influence of this achievement shows

no sign of passing away. The pure Palestrina style is no longer widely known

except in the ritual music of the Roman Catholic Church, and exerts no appre-

ciable control upon modern music as a whole. But the impress of Bach on the

present century—and to a less degree of Handel also—is deep and pervasive.

The patriarchal leadership of Bach has been acknowledged by hosts of musi-

cal workers with a peculiar affectionate reverence, and yet often without any

adequate recognition of the plain fact that this sturdy organist at Weimar and

cantor at Leipsic was what he was chiefly because he and all his tribe were

steeped in the traditions and the spirit of Protestant church music. The streams

of tendency that flow through him and broaden out from him are thoroughly

religious and profoundly evangelical.

There are many other related points that might be urged. Modern music

is largely dominated by the opera. Yet, if we go back two hundred and fifty

years, we find that the opera and the oratorio of that day were almost indistin-

guishable, both being primitive attempts to give a musical treatment to a dra-

matic text, secular or sacred. Soon after 1650 they began to separate, though

never far enough to lose all traces of kinship. The oratorio, transplanted from

Italy to Germany and thence later to England, took on many features from pure

church music, and in the hands of Mendelssohn, a Christian Jew, attained a

striking culmination as a composite art-form—one of the broadest and noblest

in the whole range of music. The educative energy of this particular combi-

nation of religious ideas with musical expression is not sufficiently appreci-

ated. Not to speak of the well-known influences of the oratorio in creating and

shaping standards of musical taste in a country like England, it may be worth

while to remark that in the present century German opera has been given evi-

dence of being repeatedly touched by the spirit of its sister art-form. It is most

interesting, for example, to note how Wagner’s mind steadily reverted toward

the exaltation of ethical topics, toward the presentation of real soul-struggles,

and finally expressed itself in that peculiar religious fantasy, “Parsifal.” Music

in our day, in obedience to strenuous inner impulses of growth, is pushing out

hither and thither, both through vocal and through instrumental forms. It lingers

upon all sorts of topics, yields to manifold moods, and addresses manifold

tastes. Much of it is evidently non-religious, and some of it is animated by

worldly, sensuous, and even pessimistic spirit. Yet in its total movement it

seems to be unable and unwilling to escape from the fascination of religious

subjects and sentiments. Often it plainly reverts, consciously or unconsciously,

to those religious modes of expressing itself that were almost its only avail-

able ways of realizing its conceptions. So sometimes it seems to the thought-

ful observer as if it were a divine law that music as a fine art must continually

return in some way to religion for a fresh impulse of life, must frequently

expend its artistic powers with keenest zest upon sentiments that are either


religious or proximately religious, and, thus must continue to acknowledge

itself still, as it was in all its younger days, the chosen handmaid and inter-

preter of religious worship and religious enthusiasm

ROne 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—


of necessity at the outset of Christianity, and of choice at certain periods since

and among certain groups of believers. Other parts of the Scriptures have usu-

ally been introduced into public worship by reading; but the Psalms have always

been sung if possible, whether in chant or motette style. Thus in innumerable

instances the whole Psalter has been sung through in order within stated peri-

ods—once a year, once a month, once a week, and even once a day. However

perfunctory such urges may have been in many instances, they have still served

during long ages thoroughly to familiarize at least the clergy with the verbal

contents of the Psalms, and, wherever translation into the vernacular was per-

mitted, the laity as well.

The general point that we are considering might be endlessly illustrated

by reference to the history of the gradual accumulation of the vast treasures

of Christian hymnody. The composition of hymns has always been due in large

measure to the desire to furnish matter for singing, and the practical popular-

ity of hymns has always been closely dependent upon the wide familiarity with

them that has come from the reiterated utterance of them in song. The sweep

and significance of this fact we shall see more in detail at a later point. Here

it is enough to remark that if music had done nothing else for religion than

this—to afford an occasion for the Hebrew Psalms and for the far more exten-

sive literature of Christian hymns, as well as to furnish a medium whereby these

Psalms and hymns might become popularly known and loved—if music had

done nothing else for religion, it would surely have the right to be emphati-

cally honored for its services in the religious world.

But music has certainly done much more—far more than we can here

mention except in the most cursory fashion. Those who occupy anything of

the Puritan standpoint are apt to think slightingly of the influence of the more

elaborate liturgical practices of other branches of the Christian church. They

may draw back from desiring to copy these practices in their entirety, and may

regret that the formal liturgies have often combined with objectionable doc-

trines. But to the historian the popular power of stately rituals is undeniable,

and, when carried forward by men of deep spiritual earnestness, as they have

been and still are, their power has told mightily for reverence, for righteous-

ness, for the exaltation of life in an evangelical sense. Now, if you try to ana-

lyze the power of such a ritual as that of the Church of England or of the

Lutheran Church, you find at once that it lies not only in the literary eloquence

of the liturgy proper, and not only in the impress of such visible accessories

as noble architecture or ceremonial pomp, but also and conspicuously in the

constant intermingling with these of singing and instrumental music. Strike

out this latter element, and the persistent and widespread popular effective-

ness of the whole liturgical system would be infinitely impaired, if not alto-

gether destroyed. We are not here arguing that the system of cathedral services

as it obtains in England, for example, is absolutely good in its practical work-

ing. The system, however, has been historically a power, and the present impor-


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


much for music. Now we say that music in return has surely done much for

religion.

RBefore 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


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.


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


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


, 6 .

Music in Relation to Public Worship

(1881)

John Bulmer

Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.

—Ephesians 19

In discoursing on the subject of Music, as an element in Divine Service

and an aid in public worship, it is hardly necessary to adduce arguments in

favor of a connection which is felt by all to be a most appropriate one, and

which is abundantly sanctioned by the authority of Holy Scripture, and in the

maintenance of which the consent of the Christian Church has been all but

universal. This preliminary point may be taken for granted. And if I should

presently detail somewhat the more obvious uses of Music in relation to our

common devotions, it will not be so much in the way of inculcating points

already recognized as, rather, in order that one part of our subject may be fairly

stated and balanced against certain limitations and cautions, that require to be

enforced on the other side.

Let me further add, that there is no intention to lay down any general rule,

or to urge any private view, as to the exact proportion in which a musical ele-

ment should be introduced into the forms of public worship; as this is clearly

a point on which there must always exist some latitude of opinion and diversity

of practice, in accordance with the differing circumstances of differing con-

gregations, and the varying musical capacity, also, of individuals composing

67

Bulmer, John. Music in Relation to Public Worship: A Sermon. Cambridge: Jones and Piggott,1881.

a congregation. It is sufficient to say that the dignity of the Church’s Service,

as our public act of homage to God, demands that its accessory should, as far

as possible, be worthy of it, the best-ordered and most perfect that our means

admit of; so as the same be also answerable, in each case, to the requirement

and capacity of the particular body of worshipers, and thus calculated to assist,

or at least not to hinder, those spiritual acts in which all real worship consists.

The remarks, therefore, which I propose making, will be addressed to the

individual worshiper; who is invited to regard the musical element in Divine

Service simply in relation to himself—and, if possible, to judge truly how far,

in his own acts of worship, this most excellent help and adornment is answer-

ing its rightful purpose—and, whether, in any degree, there may be failures,

or misuse of it.

I. Now, the ordinary advantages of Music, in conjunction with the Offices

of the Church, are sufficiently obvious, to need little more than a brief enu-

meration.

We are familiar with the opening of the 108th Psalm: “O God, my heart

is fixed; I will sing and give praise.” Fixity of the heart, the concentration of

our thoughts upon the spiritual exercise in which we are engaged, is a first con-

dition of acceptable worship. But, by reason of the fleshy infirmity which acts

as a perpetual check upon the soul’s better and holier impulses, and in the pres-

ence if unnumbered distracting influences external to us, it is a difficult task

to keep the mind long and steady occupied upon purely spiritual objects, the

more so as such objects are not, by nature, congenial to us; the mind, there-

fore, is apt to wander and to weary in the acts of worship. But, the accessory

of Music is of much service against this defect. By its attractiveness it is ever

able to win and hold the attention; and as it strikes freshly on the ear, it has

the effect of, as it were, rallying the mind against its distractions; while, by its

recurrence at intervals, it will commonly supply the needful stimulus, when

our interest has begun to flag, and our devotional energies are failing us. And

these musical sounds, in the case of the true-hearted and conscientious wor-

shiper, will surely recall the attention, not to themselves alone, but also to

those sacred themes of which they are the melodious setting and embellish-

ment.

Again: “Serve the Lord with gladness and come before His presence with

a song.” A joyous spirit, always becoming to the Christian, and most especially

so in his approaches to the Sanctuary of God, is yet—through our slowness to

recognize the great objects of faith and hope, and from manifold depressing

and irritating causes—not to the extent it should be, a fact in the Christian’s

experience; and, consequently, his “serving the Lord” may often be found

deficient in that spirit of “gladness” which the Psalmist enjoins. But, constituted

as we are, it must needs be that a duty, the performance of which some sensi-ble pleasure attends should be entered on with greater alacrity and heartiness;

and, therefore, the pleasure universally felt in the strains of Music is here with

68 II. Music and Spirituality

advantage made subordinate to the ends of religion. This adjunct is servicea-

ble, not only as effecting an outward liveliness, and removing from our wor-

ship the appearance of spiritual dullness, but as indirectly tending to counteract

the reality itself. For religious joy is not less likely, but much more likely, to

find place within the heart of a worshiper, when the mind has been in a meas-

ure tranquilized, and the spirits elevated, and a certain healthy glow imported

to the natural feelings—the whole man, in a word, attuned to the work of

praise—under the grateful influences of melodious music.

Furthermore: the power of Music to touch and impress the emotional ele-

ments of our nature is sufficiently known by experience; and this accessory,

when judiciously applied, can scarcely fail to be an aid to devotion, in which

the emotions are so largely engaged that “worship” has been not un-fitly

described as “a holy exercise of the passions.” “The passions, rightly directed,”

observes Bishop Atterbury, “are the wings and sails of the mind, which speed

its passage to perfection; and they are of particular use in the offices of devo-

tion, which consists of an ascent of the mind toward God.”

Now, to take a chief example, that tenderness of feeling, that holy fervor,

which is inseparable from the true devotion and spiritual communion, and

without which the soul’s approaches to God would be but the cold, hard, acts

of a distant, unloving homage—may not even this be somewhat facilitated and

prepared by a right application to spiritual ends of that power of Music, whose

subduing and kindling influence is so operative on our natural temperament?

But I will not further prolong this view of the present subject; the uses,

already specified, of Music, as an aid to the acts of devotion, are among the

most familiar, and perhaps the most important ones; and they abundantly suffice

to vindicate the presence (in just proportion) of a musical element in the order

of public worship.

II. Let me, therefore, pass on, in the second place, to observe that the

embellishment of the Church’s service, the uses of which may be so valuable

to each of us, requires, at the same time, to be carefully guarded against pos-

sible abuse. It is indeed possible that this musical element in our worship, the

intention of which is to stimulate and add fervor to the devotions of all, may

fail, in the case of some, to realize this purpose, or even become altogether

alienated from its legitimate use.

And here, I have not in view the case of any absolutely unmusical per-

sons, to whom such accompaniment might prove rather a hindrance than a

help in the performance of religious exercises; this is a very exceptional case,

and need not be taken into account. And even were any congregation (to put

the most extreme case) composed for the greater part of such persons, it need

not, I think, be anticipated that an unpalatable form of worship would (like

some new and hard “term of communion”) be forced upon it in disregard of

the general sentiment. In what, therefore, I am about further to say, I have

regard to the case of the ordinary worshiper, who possesses the average power

6. Music in Relation to Public Worship (1881) (Bulmer) 69

of being interested and edified by a musical accompaniment to the Offices of

the Church; addressing myself more particularly to those in whom there exists

some natural taste for, and love of, Music.

Now, seeing that we are more readily impressible by such things as strike

the senses and fall under our natural powers of perception, than by those spir-

itual objects, which it needs a supernatural agency to bring us into sympathy

with, and to enable us to take any cognizance of, the danger to which we are

in the present matter liable, is, lest this accessory of Music should cease, in

any degree, to be an accessory, and should usurp the place of, and become of

greater importance with us than, those spiritual acts of worship themselves,

to which it was designed to be subservient. While the worshiper of most earnest

and enlightened piety may not dispense with watchfulness over himself on this

point, less spiritual minds (or unspiritual minds) are often in great danger of

abusing—either consciously, or unconsciously—this attractive adjunct to worship.

In the former case, with regard to any who are consciously, perhaps delib-

erately, in fault in the matter—to whom the musical, or other external, adorn-

ment of a service at all, and acquiesced in as much, so perform in spiritual act

of devotion, and are content that it should be so—of these we can only say

that their participation in the ordinances of the Sanctuary is indeed a profana-

tion, a mere mockery of worship and the “sacrifice of fools”; and that, being

such, it must needs be adding to their condemnation, and hastening down upon

them the displeasure of Him, whom they dare thus to trifle with and insult.

But, there is another and very different class of worshipers, to whom the

musical part of the service may occupy other than its true place in their wor-

ship, while they themselves remain more or less unconscious of the mis-pro-

portion. There are those who would not designedly come short in the offices

of public devotion, who enter the house of God in no spirit of levity, on the

contrary, under some real sense of what is both their duty and their privilege,

yet whose minds, being of a less spiritual nature, and, it may be, in a measure

worldly, may readily become satisfied, that true acts of worship have been per-

formed, and the inner homage of the heart offered, when, all the while, little

more than natural feelings have been brought into exercise, and the worshiper’s

interest has barely extended beyond an appreciation and enjoyment of the exter-

nals of worship. To such persons—especially if with culture and the taste for

Music there be joined a certain degree of emotional susceptibility—there exists

a danger of mistaking, to some extent, merely aesthetic feeling for the true

spirit of devotion. And this is a mistake which the force of the natural incli-

nation may have the effect, in some cases, of rendering less involuntary. I may

quote here to you the words of an eminent modern divine, the Rev. John Caird:

“Awe, reverence, rapt contemplation, the kindling of the heart and swelling of

soul, which the grand objects of faith are adapted to excite, may, in a man of

sensitive mind or delicate organization, find a close imitation in the feelings

called forth by a tasteful and splendid ceremonial.” To these words, it need


only be added that, if a spurious devotion is capable of being created by an

undue appreciation of the ornate accessories of worship generally, we may

well fear so potent (as well as attractive) an element, as that of Magic, might,

where not rightly used, contribute largely toward such a result.

It is well, therefore, that each individual worshiper should judge himself in

this matter, and guard against possible self-deception as to the use which the

musical part of our service is sub-serving in his own case—whether it finds its

secondary and lawful place, as an aid to the acts of worship, or whether it is

being exalted into an end, and acquiesced in as a substitute for the spirituali-

ties of worship.

It is, indeed, not easy for the Christian worshiper to analyze minutely his

composite mental states, and to distinguish nicely between their natural and

supernatural elements, so as to say with certainty where mere aesthetic feel-

ing ends and the true spirit of devotion begins. This is not easy, if it is even

possible; but it is not necessary. It is enough for each worshiper to question

his conscience and ascertain (as all, who will deal honestly with themselves,

can, surely, ascertain), wherein his interest and satisfaction in these sacred

ordinances more especially consists; whether it is by the spiritual truths offered

to his contemplation and by the inner solemnities of soul-prostration, or by

aught attractive and imposing in the mere surroundings of worship, that his

mind is more really impressed. I say, more really; for, though impressions that

reach us through the medium of our natural senses, may be, and are, more vividand striking and urgent, they are neither so deep nor so permanent nor so cer-tain, and, consequently, not so real, as those which are of a spiritual class.

What, then, is most real to us, in this our public worship? We have an interest

in these services, and a satisfaction in attempting them; what is most really

the ground of it all? What do we chiefly mean, not merely in the hackneyedphrase as it passes our lips, but within ourselves; what are we most inwardly

conscious of, when we say that “we have enjoyed the service”?

In the case of some persons, such an inquiry cannot be urged too closely;

nor, in the case of any of us, is it superfluous. The matter is one capable of

seriously affecting our spiritual health and progress in the Christian life. If we

are allowing Music, or whatever other accessory beautifies and enriches our

service, so to fail of its true and lawful purpose as to become our chief attrac-

tion and most absorbing interest, as often as we resort hither—while the inward

realities of worship are made of less account—while there are few breathings

of prayer, or upliftings of the soul in praise—while the precious truths of the

Gospel gain but slight hearing and the mere fragments of our attention—and

while the story of a Savior’s love is listened to with indifference, or even with

impatience—if we are guilty, habitually guilty, of this, then we are doing what

we can to un-spiritualize and deaden our hearts, and to drive away from us for-

ever the life-giving influences of the Divine Sanctifier.

Music, rightly used as an aid to worship, is invaluable; and, as part of our

6. Music in Relation to Public Worship (1881) (Bulmer) 71

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 .

The Mysticism of Music(1915)

R. Heber Newton

Part I. The Mysticism of Music

“Wagner is my religion.” Thus spoke an enthusiast to a friend, remon-

strating with him concerning his neglect of church-going. Wagner is one of

the greatest masters of music. It was, then, music, as represented by Wagner,

of which this enthusiast spoke. He meant what a certain abbé of Paris meant,

when listening for the first time to Gluck’s Iphigenia: “With such music one

might found a new religion.”

Both words are hyperbolic; but each contains a truth in exaggerated form.

This thought is borne out by the language of the most philosophically minded

of the masters of music, Wagner himself, concerning music. He calls it “Holy

Music.” He compares it with Christianity. Again and again, he makes it evi-

dent that, to him, all noble music is something so mystic, so sacred, so divine,

as not to be separable from religion. “I found true art to be at one with true

religion,” he writes in one place. In another place he declares, still more strik-

ingly, “Our own God still evokes much within us, and as [in the confusion

wrought by materialistic physical science] He was about to vanish from our

sight, He left us that eternal memorial of Himself, our music, which is the liv-

ing God in our bosoms. Hence we preserve our music, and ward off it all sac-

rilegious hands; for, if we obliterate or extinguish music, we extinguish the

last light God has left burning within us, to point the way to find Him anew.”

In such expressions Wagner was but articulating more distinctly the

thoughts and feelings which the noblest masters of music have cherished—as

notably Beethoven.

This ought to be no surprise to the churchman who follows the Church

73

Newton, R. Heber. The Mysticism of Music. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1915.

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


all arts, is preeminently true of music. It is intellectual as well as emotional.

It deals with thoughts as much as with feelings. Its contents are ideas. Musi-

cians are measured in the scale of music by their intellectuality. Note that intel-

lectual majesty which crowns the heads of the great masters of music. Handel

and Mozart and Beethoven lift above us heads as of the immortals. Intellec-

tuality is stamped on every line of their faces.

Music can never cease to be emotional, because thought, in proportion

as it is deep and earnest, always trembles into feelings. When one philosophizes

after the fashion of Plato, his profoundest passages grow rhythmic and pas-

sionate, his paragraphs become prose poems, which cannot be read without

the hearer thrilling as under the strains of heavenly music. The loftier the

genius of the composer, the nobler his nature, the loftier will be the themes

with which he deals, the nobler the thoughts which blossom into feeling through

his art.

We need not be surprised when the great philosopher from whom Wag-

ner learned so much found himself compelled to recognize “in music itself an

Idea of the World.” This saying Wagner interprets as meaning that, “He who

could explain music to us wholly in concepts would at the same time have pro-

duced a philosophy explaining the world.” Or, as he puts it in another place,

“In Beethoven’s music the world explains itself as definitely to every con-

sciousness as the most profound philosophy could explain it to a thinker well

versed in the most abstract conceptions.” So that it is a fundamental convic-

tion with Wagner that, “in music the Idea of the World manifests itself.”

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

7. The Mysticism of Music (1915) (Newton) 75

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.”


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.


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


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:


Such was the Boy—but for growing youthWhat soul was his, when, from the naked topOf some bold headland he beheld the sunRise up and bathe the world in light! He looked—Ocean and earth, the solid frame of the earthAnd ocean’s liquid mass beneath him layIn gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched,And in their silent faces did he readUnutterable love. Sound needed none,Nor any voice of joy: his spirit drankThe spectacle: sensation, soul and formAll melted into him: they swallowed upHis animal being; in them did he live,And by them did he live; they were his life.In such access of mind, in such high hourOf visitation from the living God,Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;Rapt into still communion, which transcendsThe imperfect offices of prayer and praise,His mind was a thanksgiving to the PowerThat made him: it was blessedness and love.

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


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


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 theeTo understand my presence and to feelMy 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 fromTh’ illimitable years.

Part II. The Christian Mysticism of MusicRichard II, while listening to the strains of music outside his dungeon

walls, exclaims:

Blessings on his heart that gives me,For ’tis a sign of love.

If music be, indeed, a sign of love, it is the symbol, the sacrament, of the

one spiritual reality which is at the heart of the Christian Creed, which is at

the core of being.

In our previous chapter, we saw grounds to declare that, if we should feel

constrained to close our Bibles and wander from the Church, we should still

find a theology in music, and that theology the underlying theology of all noble

religion—Theism. “Holy Music” reveals to us the thought, the conviction, the

faith of God, the Immanent Life of nature, the Spirit indwelling man.

Is there anything more suggested by music than this pure Theism? Unques-

tionably there is. Nothing less, indeed, than the true Christian Theism; not

only the idea of the World, but the distinctively Christian Idea of the World.

Such a statement need not surprise us, who know the history of modern

music. It is the child of Christianity. It was born in the Church. Its cradle was

upon the altar. Its first cry was a mass.

Again, let it be said, we are to expect not the letter of the Christian Creed,

but its spirit; not the secondary accretions of Reformation theology, but the

inner and vital thought of the Catholic theology, the theology of the Nicene

fathers; and not this as misunderstood by ecclesiastics, but as understood by

the mystics—the only class who hold the key to the Nicene Creed.

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.


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


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,


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 decayDost 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.

The language of poetry is the language of philosophy. The oldest, most

widespread, and most insistent of the clues to the problem of the universe has

been found in that mystic doctrine of numbers which Pythagoras first taught

our Western world. He meant, as all mystics have meant, that the inner law of

the creation is a law of proportion. If we could find that inner law of the uni-

verse, it would be expressed in terms of numbers, it would reveal a science of

proportion. Thus the movements of nature would prove to be a harmony; and,

if we had ears fine enough to hear, we should listen in calm hours to a music

of the spheres.

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


lines of metaphysics, by the severest and most logical processes, he reached

the great ultimate thoughts in which the universe has ever centered; and then,

by his rare mathematical talent, he was enabled to express these formulas in

forms visible to the eye—in mathematical diagrams. What was the result? Cer-

tain great typical forms, exquisitely beautiful, marvelously proportioned, which

proved to be the great typical forms of the flower world.

But more than this, these very flower forms prove to be those which we

find through the universe—from crystals to the convolutions of certain vast

nebulae scattered through space. They thus prove to be cosmic forms—uni-

versal and essential.

Some thirty years ago, a rarely gifted musician, to whom I am indebted

for much stimulating thought, showed me certain photographs which he had

just received from England. They were pictures of most subtle, mathematical

figures, which were, at the same time exquisitely beautiful forms, strangely

suggestive of the great typical forms of the flower world. And my friend thus

interpreted to me these puzzling pictures. Some time before, a scientific musi-

cian bethought him of making the chords of music record the lines of their

soundwaves, so that the eye could have a picture of the forms thus produced.

Suspending fine pins from the wires of a piano, so that they should move del-

icately over sheets of paper, by striking the chords carefully and allowing the

sound to die out naturally, he succeeded in making the vibrations of the sound

wave of each chord trace the lines of its movements. The results were designs

of mathematical exactness, of exquisite beauty, strangely suggesting the great

typical flower forms. These diagrams were thus the expression, to the eye, of

the music which the ear hears; the audible world translated into the visible

world; the revelation of a mystery until then unseen by human eye, un-grasped

by human thought.

If one studies these diagrams carefully and lets the thoughts which they

awaken lead him out amid the mysteries of the cosmos—then in the vision

which they open of the mystery of law, of the law which is everywhere pres-

ent, acting in all life, directing all, controlling all, everywhere one and the

same, where will he find himself? Before the one supreme mystery of the uni-

verse, of which all theology is an expression, in which all faith rests.

This vision is that which the great mystics of all ages and creeds have

beheld, and which, in such dim fashion as speech could render, they have

sought to picture before men, in philosophic thought. This is the vision which

the great Alexandrian Hebrew, Philo, beheld; he who was indirectly instru-

mental in shaping the form of philosophy into which the early Christian Church

ran its speculation concerning the Man in whom the moral law lived perfectly;

the vision which he pictured, as best he could, in a noble eulogy of law:

For God, as Shepherd and King, governs according to Law and Justice, like aflock of sheep, the earth and water and air and fire, and all the plants and livingthings that are in them, whether they be mortal or divine, as well as the courses of


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.”

V

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


appears to be the savage struggle for existence. Everywhere, to the inquiry of

a tender conscience, it has seemed to man that—

Nature, red in tooth and clawWith ravine, shrieked against his creed.

Discord is everywhere—but harmony? And the story of man, is it not also

one of law in the lower and physical nature, but of lawlessness in the spirit?

The savage struggle for existence, does it not reproduce itself in the history

of man? He dreams of laws of goodness, but they fail to order his life into the

harmonies of character. He dreams of heavenly purity, and wallows in the lusts

of the flesh. He dreams of angelic self-control, and reels along the street with

the unsteady step of the drunkard. He dreams of divine justice, and sanctions

with religion a social order of cruel injustice. He dreams of universal broth-

erhood, and finds the mainspring of civilization still in selfishness. The vices

and crimes of human nature, the ruin which sin works—this is the pathos of

history, the mystery over which tragedy broods, with endless fascination. There

seems to us no mastery of an immoral chaos by moral law, as there must be,

if the Christian Creed is the true interpretation of that Conscious Law which

is King of Kings. Discord, not harmony, seems to prevail, and life appears no

order, but a sad disorder.

We turn to music, and find the key of the puzzle.

In the latest born, the highest of the arts, the most central of the sciences,

there is discord. That discord measures the superiority of modern music to

ancient music. Ancient music was melodic. One strain flowed in a sweet uni-

son of peace and purity, but as an un-evolved and rudimentary art. Modern

music, the music of the man, as distinguished from the music of the child, is

characterized by harmony. The scientific music, through which thought speaks

and law rules, seems to the uneducated ear largely discord. To climb to har-

mony we must mount by the way of discord. Discord is imperfect harmony.

To the ear accustomed to the simple melodious strains of rudimentary

music, the musical dramas of Wagner seem only dissonance.

When I stand before a great orchestra, it seems to me that I am in the

presence of a symbol of the universe.

If I am too near to any of the instruments, the effect is not harmonious,

but discordant. One instrument dominates the others, clashes with the rest,

seems out of harmony with the mass of sound. If I would understand the secret

of that mighty mass of sound, I must stand where the instruments blend. Even

there, too, my inner ear must listen, and coordinate the separate and clashing

sounds, duly. The mighty orchestration is only possible by the development of

the individual parts, which seem to be forever running away with all order and

rushing into chaos. You cannot have a Tristan and Isolde without this disso-

nance of various instruments, apparently clashing, yet, at the right distance,

coordinating into harmony.


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


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 .

The Emotions in Music(1874)

E. Janes

Writers upon psychology have hitherto somewhat neglected the subject

of emotion. The problem of knowledge has occupied their attention, almost to

the exclusion of the problem of feeling. How we know, is a more important

inquiry than how we feel; and hence far more has been written upon the human

intellect than upon the sensibilities or even the will. Probably, too, far more

has been written upon what might be called abstract psychology—upon the

laws of thought, as these laws must rule the mental operations of all intelli-

gent beings—than upon what we may call concrete psychology—or the sci-

ence of mind as known to us, dwelling in and manifested by a bodily organism.

The former might be a very good mental science for disembodied spirits, but

the latter only could be of any practical use to us in the present stage of our

existence. The science of the human mind, it is evident, must be intimately

connected with the science of the human brain, and the human nervous sys-

tem, by which the mind finds expression and has the power of action. There

is, indeed, a growing tendency, among thinkers and writers on these subjects,

to study the mind and the body in connection, but they generally fall into one

or the other of two opposite dangers. One class of thinkers, absorbed with the

fact that the mind works through the brain and the nerves, forget the part played

by the corporeal organism, and ignore the fact that, as different tools do dif-

ferent work, and different instruments produce different music, though

employed by the same hand, so the instrument of thought or of the expression

of thought must necessarily modify, in some way, the operations of the mind

inhabiting and using it. Some of them even go so far as to claim, explicitly or

implicitly, that the most plainly corporeal desires and feelings, such as hunger

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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.

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


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.

8. The Emotions in Music (1874) (Janes) 93

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


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


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,


and that whatever emotional or passional excitement arises thence is a very

different thing from the emotions excited through the senses, and results from,

if indeed it does not consist in, a deep and absorbing perception of the rela-

tions, causes and consequences of the facts thus conveyed, aided, perhaps, by

the imagination. For otherwise it is the case of music. No operations of the

reasoning powers intervene, no arbitrary signs require interpretation, no voli-

tion and no imagination has anything to do with its effect. Through the air and

the physical system it reaches at once the seat of passion and feeling. No induc-

tion, no deduction, no reasoning, no conception, has anything to do with it.

Music, subjectively considered, is purely sensuous.

Plato says that “harmony, melody, and rhythm, combined in music, flow

from a corresponding state of mind, and hence music tends to reproduce this

state.” This harmony of mind, this music of the spirit, is the end and ideal of

Plato’s philosophy, as, indeed, is it not also of Christianity? And so, accord-

ing to Plato, the perception of harmony and relation of sounds must fit the soul

for perceiving the higher harmonies of the spiritual world, and excite its desire

for them, thus elevating and purifying the mind. But Plato’s soul-harmony has

no resemblance to that ecstasy or intoxication which we call the excitement

of the emotion of music. Yet it need not be demanded that in music, or in any-

thing else, all pleasures of the senses should be despised and denied, and the

highest speculative uses should be alone pursued. Pleasure is a good thing.

The highest good is not stoical indifference. But let men understand that pleas-

ure, even in the refined and elevated form of music, does not involve the exer-

cise of the highest faculties, that emotion of this kind is not the noblest power

with which we are endowed.

This pleasure of the senses should be considered as recreation, and is not

worthy to be pursued as an end in life. For it is a fact conveying a useful les-

son, and also confirmatory of our theory, that there are some who are consumed

by what might be called the lust of the ear, corresponding to the lust of the

eye which the Apostle Paul condemned. There are some who seem almost to

live for no other end than to enjoy the delights of music. They know nothing

of the spiritual uses found by Plato in music, for indeed platonic souls are rare.

They care nothing for the tender or lofty associations connected with the strains

they worship—they live for the titillations of the ear, as epicures for the pleas-

ures of taste. They are music-mad. Music is to them both religion and culture,

home, friends, and country. And while love and patriotism and duty and all

higher sentiments are thus swallowed up in one absorbing pursuit and passion,

they often contrive to believe that their course is the very one which raises

them up to a spiritual elevation far above other men. Moreover, it is fashion-

able to imitate their raptures, and there is a cant in this worship, as in all oth-

ers. One of these imitators, who had really but slight knowledge or taste in

music, once said in our hearing, just after listening to a symphony of

Beethoven: “Such music as that lifts me right up above this world; it burns


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 .

Music, Emotions, and Morals(1893)

Hugh Reginald Haweis

My topic is “Music, Emotion and Morals.” I find that the connection

between music and morals has been very much left out in the cold here, and yet

music is the golden art. You have heard many grave things debated in this room

during the last three or four days. Let me remind you that the connection

between the arts and morals is also a very grave subject. Yet, here we are,

ladies and gentlemen, living in the middle of the golden age of music, perhaps

without knowing it. What would you have given to have seen a day of Raphael

or to have seen a day of Pericles, you who have been living in this great Christ-

ian age? And yet the age of Augustus was the golden age of Roman literature.

And the age of Pericles was that of sculpture, the Medicean age of painting;

so the golden age of music is the Victorian or the Star-Spangled Banner age.

Music is the only living, growing art. All other arts have been discovered.

An art is not a growing art when all its elements have been discovered. You

paint now, and you combine the discoveries of the past; but you cannot paint

better than Raphael; you cannot build more beautiful cathedrals than the cathe-

drals of the middle ages; but music is still a growing art. Up to yesterday every-

thing in music had not been explored. I say we are in the golden age of music,

because we can almost within the memory of a man reach hands with Mozart,

Beethoven and Wagner. We place their heads upon pedestals side by side with

Raphael and with Michelangelo, yet we have no clear idea of the connection

between the art of music and morals, although we acknowledge that great men

like Beethoven are worthy of a place along with the great sculptors, poets and

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Haweis, Hugh Reginald. “Music, Emotions, and Morals.” In John Henry Barrows, ed., The World’sParliament 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.

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


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.

9. Music, Emotions, and Morals (1893) (Haweis) 101

I now approach the last clause of my discourse. We have discovered the

elements of music. Modern music has been three or four hundred years in exis-

tence, and that is about the time that every art has taken to be thoroughly

explored. After that, all its elements have been discovered; there is no more

to be discovered, properly speaking, and all that remains is to apply it to the

use, consolation and elevation of mankind.

Music is the most spiritual and latest born of the arts in this most mate-

rial and skeptical age; it is not only a consolation, but a kind of ministering

angel in the heart; it lifts us up and reminds us and restores in us the sublime

consciousness of our own immortality. For it is in listening to sweet and noble

strains of music that we feel lifted and raised above ourselves. We move about

in worlds not realized; it is as the footfalls on the threshold of another world.

We breathe a higher air. We stretch forth the spiritual antennae of our being

and touch the invisible, and in still moments we have heard the songs of the

angels, and at chosen seasons there comes a kind of open vision. We have

“seen white presences among the hills.”

Hence in a season of calm whether,Though inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither.


PART III

Standards of Sacred Music


, 10 .

The Art of Gregorian Music(1896)

Dom Andre Mocquereau

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,

105

Mocquereau, Dom Andre. The Art of Gregorian Music. Washington, D.C.: Catholic EducationPress, 1896.

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,

106 III. Standards of Sacred Music

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 Revuedes 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

10. The Art of Gregorian Music (1896) (Mocquereau) 107

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


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


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.


Take the first element: unison. Plainsong is unisonous; it is simple, clear,

luminous, stripped of all disguise: all can understand it, the most fastidious

artist as well as the man in the street. It does not lurk beneath the obscure and

whimsical maze of the myriad sounds of an orchestra, hardly to be followed,

even by cultivated ears. Harmony, in the modern meaning of the word, is

unknown: it relies upon its own intrinsic charm to move and enthrall us. Plain-

song is like a great, still-flowing river: the sacred text is broadly reflected on

the surface: the clear, limpid stream, so to speak, is unison; the sonorous waves

of an accompaniment, harmonious though they be, sadly trouble the surface

and sully those limpid depths. This alone was enough to differentiate it from

all modern music. But what follows is still more characteristic.

It will be well at this point to bring to mind some principles which have

been most ably exposed by M. Mathis Lussy, in his treatise on “Expression in

Music.” I quote them in an epitomized form:

Modern music is composed of three principal elements:

1. The Scale, or tonality, in the two modes, major and minor.

2. Time, that is, the periodic recurrence at short intervals of a strong beat,

breaking up a piece of music into small fragments, called measures, of equal

value or duration.

3. Rhythm, that is, the periodic recurrence of two, three, or four meas-

ures of the same value so as to form groups or symmetrical schemes, each of

which contains a section of a musical phrase and corresponds to a verse of

poetry.

These three elements impress upon our consciousness a threefold need

of attraction, of regularity, and of symmetry.

No sooner has the ear heard a series of sounds subject to the laws of tonal-

ity, of time, and of rhythm, than it anticipates and expects a succession of

sounds and analogous groups in the same scale, time, and rhythm. But, as a

rule, the ear is disappointed of its expectation. Very often the group antici-

pated contains notes extraneous to the scale-mode of the preceding group,

which displace the tonic and change the mode. Or, again, it may contain notes

which interrupt the regularity of the time, and destroy the symmetry of the

original rhythmic plan. Now, it is precisely these unforeseen and irregular

notes, upsetting tone, mode, time, and the original rhythm, which have a par-

ticular knack of impressing themselves upon our consciousness. They are ele-

ments of excitement, of movement, of force, of energy, of contrast: by such

notes is expression engendered.

It must be admitted that this theory contains a certain measure of truth,

but can it be said to be complete? Are not order, calm, and regularity most

potent factors of expression, even in modern music? Moreover, if expression

must be denied to all music which does not employ such elements of excite-

ment, then it must be denied to Gregorian music, which rejects, on principle,


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,


“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.


It must be understood that this equality is not a metronomical equality,

but a relative equality—the mean duration resulting from all the syllables taken

as a whole, and pronounced in accordance with their material weight: this, to

the ear, produces a distinct sense of equality. Nevertheless this equality

becomes more rigorous as the melody frees itself from the text, for then the

shades of inequality caused by the varying weight of the syllables, entirely dis-

appear and make way for more equal musical durations.

It is not to be inferred from this fact that the notes are all equal in length.

As a matter of fact, though a beat may never be divided, it may be doubled

and even trebled. Just as in embroidering upon canvas, the same color in wool

or silk may cover several stitches, so upon the canvas of the simple beat, the

same note may include two, three or four stitches and thus form a charming

melodic scheme.

Adequate attention has not been paid to this fundamental distinction

between plainsong and modern music, notwithstanding the fact that it

influences in no small degree the whole movement of the phrase and the expres-

sion as well. It is to the indivisibility of the beat that the Roman chant owes,

in great measure, its sweetness, calm, and suavity.

Since Latin is the language of the Roman liturgy and the Latin syllables

are the prima materies of Gregorian rhythm, it will be well to examine the

nature of the Latin accent at the period when the Gregorian melodies were writ-

ten, drawing attention to important differences between the character of the

tonic accents at that date and in more recent times.

Now the Latin accent has not the same force as is usually attributed by

modern musicians to the first beat of the measures, not as the accent in the

Romance languages. In Latin, the accent is indicated by a short, sharp, deli-

cate sound which—inasmuch as it is the soul of the word—might almost be

called spiritual. It is best represented by an upward movement of the hand

which is raised only to be lowered immediately. In modern music this swift

flash is placed on a ponderous material beat, crushing and exhausting the move-

ment. This surely is a misconception. For the Latin accent is an impulse or

beginning which requires a complement: this, as a matter of fact, is found in

the succeeding beat. It is therefore most aptly compared to the upward move-

ment of the hand in beating time, no sooner raised than lowered. In modern

music, however, this impulse or beginning is placed on the second and down-

ward beat, on which the movement comes to rest. And this again is surely a

misconception.

Nor is this all: for the Latin accent is essentially an elevation of the voice:

which plainsong—that faithful interpreter—translates constantly by a rise of

pitch; and, once more, the upward movement of the hand corresponds and

gives plastic expression to the lifted accent. But modern figured music, mis-

led by the ponderous weight of the stroke by which the Latin accent is so often

emphasized as well as by the downward movement of the hand, represents this


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


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


pages on the simplicity of Greek art, I am constantly reminded of the music

of the Church. Take for instance, the following passage:

The temple is proportionate to man’s understanding—among the Greeks it was ofmoderate, even small, dimensions: there was nothing resembling the huge piles ofIndia, of Babylon, or of Egypt, nor those massive superimposed palaces, thoselabyrinthine avenues, courts, and halls, those gigantic statues, of which the veryprofusion confused and dazzled the mind. All this was unknown. The order andharmony of the Greek temple can be grasped a hundred yards from the sacredprecincts. The lines of its structure are so simple that they may be comprehendedat one glance. There is nothing complicated, fantastic, or strained in its construc-tion; it is based upon three or four elementary geometrical designs.

Do you not recognize in this description, Gentlemen, the unpretentious

melodies of the Gregorian chant? They fill but a few lines on paper: a few short

minutes suffice for their execution: an antiphon several times repeated and

some verses from a psalm, nothing more. They are moreover so simple that

the ear can easily grasp them. There is nothing complicated, weird or strained,

nothing which resembles those great five-act operas, those interminable ora-

torios, those Wagnerian tetralogies which take several days to perform, bewil-

dering and confusing the mind.

The same simplicity is found in Greek literature and sculpture. To quote

Taine again: “Study the Greek play: the characters are not deep and complex

as in Shakespeare; there are no intrigues, no surprises—the piece turns on

some heroic legend, with which the spectators have been familiar from early

childhood; the events and their issue are known beforehand. As for the action,

it may be described in a few words—nothing is done for effect, everything is

simple—and of exquisite feeling.”

These principles, Gentlemen, may all be applied to plainsong. “No loud

tones, no touch of bitterness or passion; scarce a smile, and yet one is charmed

as by the sight of some wild flower or limpid stream. With our blunted and

unnatural taste, accustomed to stronger wine,” I am still quoting Taine, “we

are at first tempted to pronounce the beverage insipid: but after having mois-

tened our lips therewith for some months, we would no longer have any other

drink but that pure fresh water; all other music and literature seem like spice,

or poison.”

You will no doubt ask how so simple an art, from which the modern means

of giving expression are systematically excluded, can faithfully interpret the

manifold and deep meaning of the liturgical text. Seemingly this is impossi-

ble. But here you are mistaken, Gentlemen. In music, as in all art, the simpler

the means, the greater the effect and impression produced. Victor Cousin has

a telling saying: “The less noise the music makes, the more affecting it is!”

And so simplicity excludes neither expression nor its subtleties from the chant.

What then is this expression, whence does it spring, and what is its nature?

Let me make yet another quotation, for I like to adduce the theories of modern


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.


“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 munditiamsuam.” 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 orieturprinceps, 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


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,


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 .

Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving

(1801)

William Jones

“Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving” (Psalm 98:6.). These

words, like many others in the Psalms of David, assert and encourage the use

of music, both vocal and instrumental, in the worship of God: the propriety

and benefits of which will be evident from such an examination of the sub-

ject, as the present occasion may well admit of: and I hope the good affections

of my hearers will be as ready to enter into a rational consideration of the

nature and uses of music, as their ears are to be delighted with music. For this

art is a great and worthy object to the understanding of man: it is wonderful

in itself; and, in its proper and best use, it may be reckoned amongst the sev-

eral means of grace, which God in his abundant goodness hath vouchsafed to

his church; some to direct our course through this vale of tears, and some to

cheer and support us under the trails and labors of it.

Music will need no other recommendations to our attention as an impor-

tant subject, as I mean to show in the first place, that it derives its origin from

God himself: whence it will follow, that so far as it is God’s work, it is his

property, and may certainly be applied as such to his service. The question

will be, whether it may be applied to anything else.

What share so ever man may seem to have in modifying, all that is found

in this world to delight the senses is primarily the work of God. Wine is pre-

pared by human labor; but it is given to us in the grape by the Creator. The

prismatic glass is the work of art; but the glorious colors which it exhibits to

122

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.

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

11. Sing to the Harp with a Psalm of Thanksgiving (1801) (Jones) 123

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


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


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


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, thesecrets 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 Lordhelpeth his anointed: then all join together in supplication, Save Lord, and hearus 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


is agreeable to the heavenly worship of the seraphim, in the vision of the

prophet Isaiah, where they are represented as crying one to another with alter-

nate voices, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts.” The version of the Psalms

into practical meter leads to a sort of Psalmody so plainly measured, as to be

easily comprehended and performed by the generality of the people in a con-

gregation; and simple as this music may appear, the greatest masters have

thought it worthy of their cultivation, and we have some divine pieces of har-

mony in this kind. The old hundredth Psalm, which is ascribed to Martin

Luther, is deservedly admired; the 113th is excellent; so are the old 81st, the

148th, and many others, which are judiciously retained in our congregations.

Such is the state, and such the excellence of our music, in the Church of

England; and long may the sound of our cathedrals and churches go up to

heaven and reach the ears of the Lord.

To what hath here been said on the nature, and use, and state of music, I

wish it were in my power to add something effectual toward the reformation

of some abuses; for such will find admission into all societies, through negli-

gence in some, and want of judgment in others.

As God is the greatest and best of beings, and it is the highest honor of

man in this life to serve him, every thing relating to his worship should be

ordered with decency, propriety, reverence, and affection. “I will sing with the

spirit and with the understanding also” (Corinth. 14:15), saith the Apostle: so

should we sing, and so should we perform in all our approaches to the throne

of Grace; our music should be the music of wise men and of Christians. No

lame, or maimed, or defective sacrifice was permitted to be ordered in the tem-

ple of God; who, being the first proprietor of all things, hath a claim to the

best of everything, and consequently to the best music, performed in the best

manner we are able.

Church music has a proper character of its own, which is more excellent

than that of secular, or profane music, and should always be preserved. With-

out the restraints of discretion, wisdom, and authority, the art of man is apt to

run out into excess and impropriety; and while it affects to be too fine, and

too powerful, becomes ridiculous. What is it but vanity that betrays the poet

into bombast, the orator into buffoonery, the composer of music into useless

curiosity, the performer into ineffectual rapidity and flourish? Thus do men

always fail of their end, when they think more about themselves than about

their subject. Queen Elizabeth, therefore, took what care she could by her

injunctions, that affection, which spoils all other things, should not be permit-

ted to spoil the music of the Church: and it hath been rightly observed, that

the music from the Reformation to the Restoration was more plain and solemn

in its style than that which succeeded; though it still preserved great excel-

lence.

The performer on the organ, who, for the time he is playing by himself, hath

the minds of the congregation under his hand, should take care not to mislead


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


the Psalmist, for it becometh well the just to be thankful. What, shall we praiseGod 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 himof 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 hismercy endureth for ever. Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hathredeemed 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


every individual increases in proportion as charity is diffused and multiplied

in the church.

But there is another sense in which charity is promoted in music. This

happens on those occasions, when music is promoted with a charitable inten-

tion. Very considerable sums are raised from the contributions of those who

come to be treated with sacred harmony. The poor are fed, the sick are healed,

and many good works are carried forward. Blessed be the art, which from the

hands and hearts of the wealthy and the honorable, can draw relief for the poor

and needy! The widows and orphans of the poor clergy of this church were

the first objects relieved through the medium of church music: and let us hope

they will rather be gainers than losers by all improvements in this way: for

they who are related to the church have, undoubtedly, a priority of claim upon

the music of the church.

I am, lastly, to remind both my hearers and myself, that all our observations

upon this subject will be to no purpose, unless from the use of divine music,

and its effect upon us, we learn to aspire to the felicity of heaven, of which it

gives us a foretaste. While we are in this lower state, there is no vehicle like

sound for lifting the soul upwards toward the eternal source of glory and har-

mony. We may conceive of the spirit of man as riding on the wings of Psalmody

to the celestial regions, whereto its own powers could never transport it. A great

admirer and practitioner of sacred music, who was also a man of great piety

and devotion, was present at a grand church performance, with which he felt

his mind so rapt and elevated, that in describing the sensation afterwards, he

made use of this emphatic expression: “I thought I should have gone out of

the body.” O what a place would this world be, were it our only employment

thus to be rising upwards towards heaven, to visit God with our hearts and affec-

tions, adoring his greatness, and delighted with his goodness! But this we can

attain to only by uncertain intervals: the corruptible body will soon recall the

soul from its heavenly flights. How high so ever it may mount, on certain occa-

sions, it must descend again to the wants and weaknesses and sorrows of mor-

tality; as the lark, from its loftiest song in the air, drops to its lowly residence

upon the ground. However, what we do enjoy must make us wish for more.

What then have we to do, but to fit ourselves for that society, which praise God

without interruption in his own glorious presence, and rest not day and night?

When the heavenly scenery is described to us in the revelation: “I heard,

as it were, the voice of the great multitude, and as the voice of many waters,

and as the voice of mighty thunderings saying, Alleluia, for the Lord God

Omnipotent reigneth! Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honor to him!” Who

can read these words without a desire to add his own voice to that multitude,

and to sing as a member of that kingdom, in which the Lord God Omnipotent

reigneth! How must the soul be filled with that immense chorus of men and

angels, to which the loudest and mightiest thunder shall add dignity without

terror, and be reduced to the temper of an accompaniment!


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

133

Richardson, A. Madeley. “Church Music: General Considerations.” In Church Music. New York:Longmans, Green, and Co., 1904.

from misdirected enthusiasm. This is an inevitable consequence of the revival

of life and energy.

English Church music has a great past; it has also a recent past of sloth

and inaction. It has further, we may confidently say, a great present and a still

grander future. It is in a very similar position to ritual. Few people are now to

be found who will assert that no ritual is at all admissible. But when we seek

to discover what things are lawful and what are not, we find ourselves in a state

of hopeless confusion. We are confronted with ancient authority, medieval

authority, modern authority, and no authority; and amid the strife of tongues

and conflict of opinions, it seems well-nigh hopeless to seek for truth and

order.

To return to music. One man will tell us that, to be quite correct, we must

use only medieval music, as having the support of ecclesiastical authority and

tradition; another, equally confident, will assert that we need pay no regard

whatever to authority or tradition, but may use every man what seems right in

his own eyes. As of old, as today, the true and safe path lies in the mean. Let

us respect and learn from the past; let us, in the light of its teaching, use the

God-given materials of the present, remembering in all things that the end and

object of our art is not to please this or that person, not to be trammeled by

this or that old and worn-out tradition, but to fulfill its purpose in the world

as a living force.

The raison d’être of Church music is worship, and worship only. This

may be thought an obvious truism, but it is very necessary to be borne in mind,

as, being so plain, it is most easy to forget. The simple idea of worship is not

difficult to grasp, but what does it mean put into actual practice? How can we

truly worship through music?

Music as worship has a twofold aspect—Offering and Edification. The

offering to God, and the edification of the faithful. The first thought suggests

that we must offer the best and highest that it is possible to produce in the art

in question: the best kind rendered in the best way; the second that, though it

may be granted that there is an absolute beauty independent of the opinions

and feelings of people, yet for practical purposes we should use that form of

it which is felt to be beautiful by the majority.

Music is the most ephemeral and intangible of the arts. That its beauty is

absolute may be accepted as a general statement, but to us it is in actual prac-

tice relative. History tells us that from the commencement of the world until

now mankind has always been subject to the influence of music, and has paid

its homage as divine art. But when we come to examine the actual forms and

the mediums through which the art has been practiced, we are confronted by

a remarkable fact, which may be expressed as follows: Music, though reign-ing supreme in the human heart, is subject to restrictions of time, place, andeducation. Unless all these conditions are favorable, the sympathy between the

maker of the music and the recipient or hearer is lost; that is, though clearly


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

12. Church Music (1904) (Richardson) 135

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


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.

12. Church Music (1904) (Richardson) 137

, 13 .

Secular Currents in SynagogalChant in America

(1918)

Joseph Reider

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 adextremun, 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.

138

Reider, Joseph. “Secular Currents in Synagogal Chant in America.” The Jewish Forum (Winter 1918).

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

13. Secular Currents in Synagogal Chant in America (1918) (Reider) 139

abbellimenti and fiorituri of ambitious composers, is deeply religious and soul

stirring. Or I might refer to that powerful and all-engulfing hymn of the

Sephardim at the close of the Day of Atonement, Eil Nora Alila, which in my

mind is always associated with Luther’s Eine feste Burg, both being ascendant

and aggressive in the highest degree.

But all these genuine tunes are rare exceptions in our liturgy. For the most

part our ancient hymns have undergone a radical metamorphosis, due to var-

ious internal and external factors, but chiefly to the strange environments to

which the Jews found themselves at the entrance of the Diaspora. Under the

conditions of flux and re-flux, of continuous immigration and emigration, in

which the Jews henceforth found themselves, it was inevitable that even their

closely guarded and strictly observed chant should be affected by current pop-

ular melodies. As a matter of fact, it can be maintained with a considerable

degree of certainty that the synagogal chant was never absolutely pure and

uncontaminated, that there was always some leaven of folksong mixed with

the pabulum of the hymn. But with the supremacy of ecclesiastical over sec-

ular music until the end of the Middle Ages this admixture was not noticeable,

being of a negligible quality and therefore enjoying the connivance of the

clergy. It was only during the Renaissance, when popular got the ascendancy

over ecclesiastical music, that the contamination of the chant began to grow

apace. It was the natural result of the process of secularization, which was

supreme and dominant in the Christian Church of those days and culminated

later on in the excrescence of the Muggletonians in England and the Salvation

Army brotherhood in America, in the revival methods of the Protestant John

Wesley, who borrowed some of the Devil’s best tunes in order that all of them

might not be thrown away upon an unworthy service. The Jews, without even

a hierarchy to restrain them, proved excellent imitators in this attractive and

seducing practice. As an authority on the subject, Francis L. Cohen, expresses

it very succinctly:

Beginning with the sixteenth century it became a frequent practice among Ashkenazim as well as Sephardim, to adopt melodies foreign to the synagogue,and to liberally reproduce there the folksongs of the country. Many hazzanimwould themselves compose melodies for the service, but these would be influencedrather by the popular music of the day than by the Jewish spirit of the older tunes.The larger number of the tunes henceforward introduced bear plain token of theiroutside origin, to which indeed many of them are clearly traceable. Such are theliturgical hymns for Sabbath, and for Hanukah, and other similar occasions, thelarger portion of the melodies which characterize the three festivals, together withnearly all, if not quite all, of the hymns for singing in the home circle, accordingto the good old Jewish custom. Much of this adopted music is of a jingling prettiness;some little of it, however, well worth preservation.

The subject of secularization is highly interesting and fascinating not only

from the religious but also from the musical standpoint, and I intend to deal

with it at some length on another occasion. Here I want to touch upon it only


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 jemischenJuden, 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


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 wasenriched by the solemn hymns of Gabriol, Judah ha–Levi, and other celebratedHebrew poets, chants or melodies were composed or adapted to them, and were soongenerally adopted. It would have been, indeed, most desirable that the sublime waysof our pious poets should have ever been found combined with equally sublimeand 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 necessaryto sing these hymns to the popular melodies of the day; and in most collections wefind directions prefixed to hymns replete with piety and devotion, that are to besung to the tune of Permetid, bella Amaryllis, Tres colors in una, Temprano naces,Almendro, and similar ancient Spanish or Moorish songs—a practice no doubtvery objectionable, for obvious reasons, and from which the better taste of thepresent age would shrink.

The profanation became so universal that hardly a congregation escaped

it. Its traces may be pursued in the mahzorim coming from the Orient, a great

majority of which bear superscriptions on the head of each piyyut indicating

by first line the popular melodies to which the piyyutim were to be sung. From

the standpoint of musical history this material is quite important.

It is also interesting to note that the Rev. Leeser states on one occasion

that the hymn Ki Eshmera Shabbat was publicly caroled forth by an adventur-

ous songster in a most respectable congregation to the popular love tune of

“Meet Me by the Moonlight Alone,” and by another, to the well-known song

Partant pour la Syrie—a practice which he condemns in strong terms.

The Sephardim, in their process of secularization, never went beyond the

folksong. There is only one instance of an attempt to introduce operatic airs

in their service, probably in imitation of the flourishing German temples. In

Leeser’s Occident of Dec. 1, 1859, a correspondent from New York states that

“for some time past there appeared in the Jewish papers an advertisement for

singers a la opera, for the Portuguese Synagogue of this city; the thing went

so far that an advertisement even appeared in a London periodical—but the

electors at a recent meeting, with scarcely a dissenting vote, refused to permit

any such folly to be introduced in place of good old fashioned orthodox wor-

ship.”

The Ashkenazim have likewise been good adepts in this art of secular-

ization. They were particularly subject to such influences, living as they did

in the heart of musical fermentation, in a land where new forms were crop-

ping up overnight and where harmony was marching in the cloud-capped emi-

nencies of triumph and glory. The folksong with its charming simplicity and

melodic sweetness naturally exerted great influence, as may still be seen in a

minute examination of the hymns. To point out every such instance in the


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 frenteuch, ihr lieben Christen (“Now rejoice, ye dear Christians”) or So weiss icheins, 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


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:

It is sometimes absolutely grotesque to hear the tunes associated with amorous ordramatic passages in operas, sung to words of religious import. The most ridiculouslack of aesthetic taste is displayed. Seldom is there any true solemnity or othernatural emotional force expressed by these choirs. Nothing but declamatory phrasingand sensational yelling and screeching utterly at variance with the character of theservice. The whole thing is disgusting to the true artistic temperament, which realizesthat melody should be wedded to verse and that the tune itself should be of such anature that even without the words the hearer should be able to judge of its character.This was possible with the ancient En Kelohenus, Yigdals, Adon Olams and othercharacteristic Hebrew melodies, but it is utterly impossible with the present hotchpotch concert in the temple.

The Sunday morning service in particular served for a display of virtu-

osity. At that time the choir, made up largely of non–Jews, would intone “O

du mein holder Abendstern” from Wagner’s Tannhauser or, “I dreamt I dwelt

in Marble Halls” from Balfe’s Bohemian Girl. Then would follow Christian

hymns and anthems such as the Old Hundred and the Doxology. As evidence

may be cited the fact that in 1887 Dr. Gustav Gottheil of Temple Emanuel New

York, issued a volume entitled Hymns and Anthems Adapted for Jewish Wor-ship, in which under five headings (Worship, God, Man, Israel, For Various

Occasions), he offers a collection of hymns, mostly by Christian writers. He

draws upon Tate and Brady, Watts, Wesley, Doddridge, Bowring, and Mont-

gomery, as well as upon Whittier, Emerson, Hosmer, and Chadwick, and sev-

eral native sources. That conditions are the same in our present-day temples


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 Maccabeuson 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 BlackJoe. 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


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.

147

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.

There is one case, however, in which my own experience suggests an

exception to the general rule. It was not until I had been some time at the uni-

versity that I paid much attention to music, and then, I must confess, I found

it so seductive and engrossing, that it interfered very seriously with other stud-

ies, which should have had the first claim. At schools, it is both necessary and

possible that the practice of music—especially of the pianoforte—should be

fenced about by stringent rules; but, at the university, this is not possible, and

there music will remain, I fear, a formidable competitor with the sterner and

more solid studies which primarily belong to the place.

It is under this head, of Music as an Aid to Work, that I should prefer to

place a large class of hymns, such as those used by Messrs. Moody and Sankey.

As for the street-bawling and braying of the Salvation Army, I will only say

it is sad to see to what extent the holy and beautiful art of Sacred Music may

be perverted and profaned. But these hymns of Messrs. Moody and Sankey

deserve, no doubt, to be regarded as powerful aids to Missionary work. Many

of them are pathetic and affecting; many cheerful and encouraging; nearly all

gratify and attract—and this is a great matter. But whether they can be in any

real sense aids to worship, I doubt very much. I should not like to do injus-

tice to those many earnest and religiously-minded persons who feel elevated

by them. Mr. Moody himself tells his hearers, that he relies as much on hymns

as on his words to sing the Word of God down into their hearts. But are they

of a quality—of course, I speak now of the tunes only—to lend themselves to

the higher purposes of worship, rather than to others of a more trivial kind?

Are they likely to act permanently upon the religious temper of the multitude?

So light in texture, that there is nothing, save the words to which they are put,

to distinguish them from the ballads of the music halls, it would seem that the

worship they suggest must be, to a great extent, superficial and unreflective,

and that they are liable to great abuse. They easily touch upon popular senti-

ment, and are taken up with a facility dangerous in the highest degree to that

reverence due to the words—a consideration which will come home to any per-

son who may ever hear (as I have chanced to do) the hymn, “Safe in the arms

of Jesus,” emanating from the upper room of a public house.

I pass on to our principle theme—music as an aid to worship. And here

we feel that the great musical activity of the present day—the extraordinary

degree of development to which the art has attained—the new resources, appli-

ances, and facilities that modern invention has given us, cast upon us an

increased responsibility in applying these advantages rightly and effectually

to God’s greater honor and glory. As the weapons which we wield are more

potent than of yore, it matters all the more that they be put to a right use. Music

is a great and glorious gift of God; but it may, like other things, be abused;

and our means of abusing it are increased, as well as our means of improving

it. Music is not a mere study—not merely a fine art. Rather is it a moral agency,

designed to foster and sustain the best aspirations of our nature. Its operation


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

14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Gladstone) 149

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


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


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


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


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 blowTo the full voic’d quire below,In service high and anthems clear,As may with sweetness through mine earDissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

As people come to listen and not to join, it is in Cathedral music that a

perfect performance should be more particularly aimed at. It is not in the more

elaborate portions of the music, where the choirs are, as it were, upon their

mettle, that failure is most likely; but rather in the commoner matters of per-

sonal demeanor and in the chanting that slovenliness first shows itself, and with

disastrous effect. A choir may be deficient in numerical strength: this is much

to be regretted, and the short-sightedness of those who have caused it much

to be deplored: but the weakest choir may shine in its chanting; and, living,

as I do, near the cathedral town of Chester, I may be permitted to instance that

choir as one example of careful and beautiful chanting.

But the foremost and best example of what the musical service should

be, is, undoubtedly, that of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the distinguished organist of

which church may have the satisfaction of having brought it to a point of excel-

lence, probably, never before attained in this country. (Not but that I should

think all the better of it, if genuine English compositions were substituted for

the adaptations from Schubert and others, which figure somewhat prominently

in the anthem lists.) One or two special features deserve mention. Once in the

week the service is sung by men—an admirable opportunity either for unison

singing with the organ, or for a distinct type of harmonized music, hitherto

much neglected by Church composers. Once in the week, again, music is ren-

dered by voices only, without organ—a most excellent practice, deserving of

being largely followed, partly as an act of wholesome discipline for the choir,

but mainly for the display of the peculiar beauties of purely vocal music. For

there is a vast amount of the finest Church music which is not only not

improved, but is actually spoilt by organ accompaniment. This is true, I imag-

ine, of Palestrina en bloc, of much of Farrant, Tallis, Gibbons, and Byrd; in

great measure of J. S. Bach, and of some splendid specimens from such musi-

cians as Mendelssohn, Samuel Wesley, and Sterndale Bennett. It would be well

indeed if this most noble department of Church music—probably the most

impressive of all—were more in favor both with singers and composers. Well


do I remember the impression made upon myself by an unaccompanied piece

of Pittone’s, which I heard in Rome at the obsequies of a cardinal nearly twenty

years ago. The unaccompanied singing of the Imperial choir in Russia is

described as extra-ordinarily fine—especially for the richness and depth of the

bass voices. I fancy if some of us could hear it, we should come to think a lit-

tle less of our foreign adaptations and our florid organ accompaniments.

Practically, however, it is chiefly with the aid of the organ that music in

this country is an effective aid to worship, and of its use, on which so much

depth depends, I say little or nothing; it would be impertinent for me to do so

in the presence here today of one at least of its greatest masters. Not only the

highest technical skill, but a vast amount of judgment and forbearance are

among the qualities required in the management of the huge instruments of

modern days. Happily we have amongst us many worthy representatives of this

most delightful but also most arduous and responsible profession. I shall only

name one, who is gone, but to whom the Church owes much for his devoted,

life-long, and admirable labors in her service—George Cooper—one who sig-

nally upheld the lofty character of his art, and the tradition of whose teaching

will, I trust, long bear fruit at the hands of a host of pupils. I shall only notice

one point as regards the organ, and allude to an old custom which prevailed,

I believe, in parish churches, and among other cathedrals at St. Paul’s, York,

Dublin, and Lichfield, and which used to delight me much at New College,

Oxford, some twenty years ago, of having a soft voluntary played after the

Psalms and before the First Lesson. It has, I fear, everywhere fallen a victim

to the desire of curtailing the length of the service, but a more favorable

moment for allowing the organ to deliver a message of peace and tranquility

could not be; and it is a custom which, within moderate limits, I, for one,

should like to see restored.

The main question, however, is what constitutes Church music, and is it

possible to lay down any cardinal principles to distinguish it from other kinds?

And when I speak of Church music, I mean such music as may properly form

part and parcel of the daily service of the Church. I am not now speaking of

oratorio, which stands on a somewhat different ground, being a thing com-

plete in itself, and not necessarily connected with any act of worship. It is clear

that this title of Church music cannot be claimed for any particular age or mas-

ter to the exclusion of others, seeing that its types vary according to the degree

of development to which the art has at different times attained, and according

to the particular bent of one and another genius. Thus we have the widely dif-

ferent types of Palestrina, of Handel, of Bach, of Mendelssohn, and of Spohr—

to come down no later; or, if we take our own composers, of Gibbons, of

Purcell, and of Wesley—all marked by strong individuality of their treatment

of the common subject matter, yet all having constantly in view a high and

noble idea of the purpose for which they wrote. It is in truth by its intention

and effects, not by the name or the composer of the date of its composition,


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


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

14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Parratt) 157

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.


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

14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Parratt) 159

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


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

14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Barnett) 161

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.”


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-


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,


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.

This association of music with religious life gives it immense power.

When the congregation is gathered together, and the sounds rise which are full

of that which is, and perhaps always will be, “ineffable,” there floats in also

memories of other sounds—poor and uncouth—in which simpler ages have

expressed their wants and hopes. The atmosphere becomes, as it were, reli-

gious, and all feel that music is not only beautiful, but the means of bringing

them near to the God of all the world, who was, and who ever shall be.


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


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

14. Music as an Aid to Worship and Work (1884) (Stewart) 167

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; ifmusic 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,


and, of course, if we could depend on an offertory, or devise some like means

to defray the expense, so as to avoid any payment for admission, it would be

most desirable. Personally I long to see the cathedral crammed to the full with

the rich and poor, especially the poor, entranced with the devotional music of

oratorios, with our leading English singers, band and chorus, to which they

have been welcomed free of all charge, but this-much-to-be-wished-for state

of things cannot be secured yet. There can be no doubt that amongst our peo-

ple the opinion is growing stronger and stronger that the cathedral, rather than

the concert room, is the place in which to listen to our grand oratorios; and as

this feeling gains ground, some scheme for admission—other than payment

for ticket—may develop: but rather than condemn such works as “The Mes-

siah,” “the Elijah” and others to the concert room—while sympathizing with

objectors—I should turn to them a deaf ear, rather than let others be debarred

from having the Bible narrative told so devotionally as it is done both by the

music and its interpreters. If the ordinary and regular services of the Cathe-

dral are carefully attended to, and not interrupted, I do not see that any one

can have the whereat to grumble, and I should respectfully ask all objections

to stop at home. Music is an aid to worship: the most sublime music lies in

our oratorios (I need not quote instances) wedded to the gospel story; could

we analyze the hearts of men, we should find that to very many that gospel

story, and the gospel comforts, have come home with a tenderness and real-

ity hitherto unknown and unfelt—and have lived afterwards in their memory—

by reason of the interpretation that the music has lent to the words. I

respectfully condemn the foregoing remarks to the thoughtful consideration

of all Church Chapters.

Do not for one moment imagine that, coming from a cathedral, I would

advocate the use of elaborate services and anthems in our parish churches. Far

from it. Though there are in London, and in some of our large towns, a few

churches with all the appliances at hand, and with congregations consisting of

what is known by the term of “the upper classes,” where such a custom has

been in use for some years, I am by no means in favor of increasing their num-

ber. In such churches you cannot look for much congregational singing. We

desire that the Church should maintain her present hold on the affections of

our people, and not only maintain, but increase it. We desire to make our

churches the “Homes” of our brethren. If so, we must make our services light

and hearty, by using music of a simple and melodious kind; in a word, we must

do all in our power to increase congregational singing—and this ought not be

a matter of very great difficulty in this nineteenth century. Let me say here,

before entering more fully on this subject, a few words upon intoning and

chanting the service. I believe intoning to be the right and reverent way of “say-

ing” the prayers—nay, further, I believe it to be the best way of “praying” the

prayers. But to intone well, i.e., in tune and with distinctness of enunciation,

two qualities absolutely necessary for the reverent rendering of a service, is a


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 ChurchBells. 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;


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


for congregational singing, is the “Cathedral Psalter,” published by Novello &

Co. The singing of the psalms is the most important part pf our choral serv-

ices, and it is distressing to find how disgraceful it often is in country parishes—

this is due mainly to the pointing used, and indeed to the want of thought in

choosing appropriate chants. Every clergyman has his own private views on

pointing; but here is a Psalter which has supplied a long felt want, a distinctadvance upon all others, arranged most carefully by a committee of five emi-

nent men; in use in most of, if not all, our cathedrals; supplied at a cheap rate

by the publishers: consisting a preface wherefrom its use may be clearly learnt;

with proper marks for taking breath, thus avoiding all unseemly hurry in recita-

tion; when once tried by the very countriest of country choirs, delighted in

because it is so easy (I speak thus from experience gleaned from practicing

country choirs for choral festivals in our diocese). Why should not the clergy

give up their particular fads, and make this Psalter universal? It would be a

grand step forward, if when our people went about from different churches we

could ensure their finding, at all events, uniform pointing of the psalms. It

would be a grand help towards congregational singing. What a treasure we have

in these Psalms of ours, and when sung as they are sometimes so gloriously

in our cathedrals and churches, how helpful they are to our devotion! To accom-

pany them well every organist should study them well (in this he will receive

much assistance from “Paragraph Psalter,” edited by Canon Westcott); he

should endeavor to play each verse as if it were a prayer from his own indi-

vidual heart to the chief Musician (the title applied by St. Augustine to our

Lord), he will have then little difficulty in creating sympathy between his choir

and himself, and will greatly enhance, greatly aid the worship of the church

in which he officiates.

Of the canticles—to find a suitable setting of the Te Deum appears to be

the most difficult matter. Novello’s “Parish Choir Book” will meet the wants

of many churches, but if a simpler form is desired, I would recommend the

use of a series of single chants rather than that of a solitary double chant, the

effect of which is monotonous in the extreme. We sadly need some simple

services in chant form, and our church composers will not find their time

wasted if they set to work and write some, on the model of the “Goss in A,”

or “Wesley’s Chant Service in F.” The use of anthems is the subject of much

discussion. I think it would be a great mistake to do away with them altogether.

The choir likes to sing an anthem—it is a relief to them—and we must take

their desires and wishes into consideration. The congregation, too, often likes

to listen to an anthem. The mistake is that very often those are introduced

which are far beyond the capabilities of the choir, or the understanding of the

people. A clergyman goes to a cathedral and hears an elaborate and effective

anthem easily sung by a highly trained choir, and he resolves at once to have

it in his own church. The anthem is purchased, practiced, and the result—well,

it is more easily imagined than described. There are plenty of easy and effective


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 everyadult 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.



Abraham 24, 27absolute music 6Adam and Eve 126Adon Olam 144, 145Advent 168Agassiz, Louis 93Aida 24Alexandria 55Alps 83Ambrose 42, 101, 165Ambrosian Chant 110, 119Ammon 39Amphion 39Anglican Chant 153, 170antiphony 108, 110, 113Apis 36Apollo Belvedere 84–85Apostle’s Creed 160Apostolic Church 31Arabs 141Arion 39ark 44–45Armenian Church 31Asaph 29, 45Ashkenazi Judaism 7, 141, 142–143asor 44Assyria 35, 38, 42, 43Athanasian Creed 151Atterbury, Francis 68Augustine 101, 172Augustus 99Austria 146Az Yashir Moshe 141

Babylon, waters of 30Babylonian Exile 45, 48–49Bach, Johann Sebastian 2, 56, 144, 152, 154,

155, 156, 157, 168Balfe, Michael William 144ballads 148Balzac, Honoré de 78Barak 28, 47Baroque Period 5Beethoven, Ludwig van 31, 73, 74, 75, 76,

77, 78, 81, 89–90, 97–98, 107, 110, 119,135, 144, 158, 160, 162, 167

Beimel, Jacob 6Belgium 108Belliague, Camille 107bells 44, 123Benaiah 21Benedictine 121Bennett, Sterndale 154, 156Berlioz, Hector 107Bishop of Bedford 170Blanc, Charles 118Bohemia 146, 152Bohemian Girl 144Book of Common Prayer 38, 156Book of the Wars of Jehovah 45Boston 92Boston Peace Jubilee 94Brahms, Johannes 159Brown, Baldwin 34Brown-Séquard, Charles Edward 92Browning, Robert 76, 90Byrd, William 154Byron 50

Cain 19Caird, John 68Calvin, John 55Calvinism 98Cantate Dominio 110Canterbury 101canticle 106, 167, 171, 172cantillation 43, 49, 52Cantors Association of America 146Cantus peregrinus 139Carnac 24castanets 44Cathedral Psalter Chant Book 171, 172cathedral service 60, 150, 153, 154, 168, 169,

172Catholic Church 47, 48, 57, 105–121, 139,

146Cavalleria Rusticana 145ceremonial ritual 6–8

175

Index

Chaldeans 43chalil 44charity 130–131Chester, England 153Chicago 146China 127choir 34, 44, 150–151, 153, 160–161, 167, 173Chopin, Frédéric 81, 160, 162chorales 26, 56, 143, 144Christendom 31, 46, 47, 52, 126–127Christmas 37Church Army Songs 171Church of England (Anglican Church) 31,

59, 133–134church revival 166Cicero 113Classical Period 56Cohen, Francis L. 140, 143Cologne 151Combarieu, Jules 106Communion 152, 161, 167, 168congregational singing 150–151, 152, 153,

160, 165, 169–171Cook, Nicholas 5Cooper, George 155Copland, Aaron 5Cornwall 165counterpoint 53–55Cousin, Victor 117creeds 165Croft, William 167Cybele 36cymbals 27, 38, 44, 45

dance 34, 35–36, 37–38Dancla, Charles 107Dante 76David 21, 29, 30, 35, 43, 44–45, 47, 49, 50,

122, 125, 126, 130, 156, 165Deborah 28, 47Dennis 106, 121Devil 140Diaspora 140diatonic tonality 112–113Dionysus 36divine love 136Doctrine of Affections 5Dorian mode 26, 40, 119, 141Dorian Spartans 40drums 38, 44Dublin 155Dufay, Giullaume 54Dura 126Durkheim, Émile 7Durtal 107

Eastern Church 47, 52Echad mi yodea 143edification 134–136Egypt (Egyptians) 23–25, 26, 27, 28, 35, 36,

37, 38, 39, 42, 43, 120

Eil Nora Alila 140“Ein Feste Burg” 101, 140Elijah 138, 145, 169Elizabethan Period 146Emerson, Ralph Waldo 85, 162En Kelohenu 144Engel, Carl 141England 56, 57, 86, 100, 101, 108, 127, 140,

146, 151Enoch 27Epiphany Season 74Esther 138Eucharist 106, 139, 167, 168European Psalmist 152Evensong 167, 168Exodus 25, 43extemporate prayer 163Ezra 45

Farrant, Richard 127, 154female voice 47–48flageolet 44flute 48, 56Foster, Stephen 145Fra Angelico 139France 7, 54, 95funeral 35, 127

Gabirol, Solomon ibn 142Galicia 145Garden of Eden 126Garibaldi 100Gauntlett, Henry John 152Gautier, Leon 33German Jews 141Germany (German) 7, 8, 47, 54, 55, 56, 57,

108, 142, 143, 152Gibbons, Orlando 154, 155Gibeah 44Gideon 29Gloria in excelsis 110, 119, 139Gluck, Christoph Willibald von 73“God Save the Emperor” 100“God Save the Queen” 100Goethe, Wolfgang von 84Good Friday 90Goshen 24Goss, John 157Gothic cathedral 125, 138, 139Gould, H. F. 17Gounod, Charles Edward 156Gradgrind 78Greco-Roman 108–109Greece (Greek) 26, 31, 32, 35, 36–37,

39–40, 41, 42, 55, 101, 105–106, 109, 112,116–117, 145, 158, 159

Gregorian chant 26, 31, 54, 101, 105–121, 139,153, 170, 171

Gregory 101, 108, 165Gustav, Gottheil 144

176 Index

Hag Gadya 143ha-Levi, Judah 142Hallel 139, 146Handel, George Frideric 23, 56, 90, 138,

144, 145, 152, 155, 156Hanukah 140, 143, 145harmony 53–54, 55, 111, 130harp 19–20, 29, 42, 43, 45, 50, 56, 130Hassidim 145Hatikvah 146Haweis, Hugh Reginald 79Haydn, Franz Joseph 106, 107, 144hazozerah 44hazzan (hazzanim) 140, 145–146heathens 37, 126Hellenism 36–37, 41Heman 29, 47Hershon, Paul Isaac 30Hezekiah 21, 30Hill, Arthur George 161Hindus 38Hinei Ma Tov 7Hodu l’adonai 143Holland 151Holocaust 7Holy Ghost 132Homer 76Hungary 145hymn (hymnody) 58, 59, 106, 143, 148, 149,

171Hymns Ancient and Modern 151–152, 171

Iberian Peninsula 141, 142Idelssohn, Abraham Z. 141idol worship 38Imperial Choir 155In Israhel 110India 89Institut Catholique 108interfaith concerts 1Introit 116, 119Irving, Edward 31Isaiah 128Isis 25, 35Italy 56

Jacob 9, 20, 28, 43Jacobite 95James, William 9Jeduthun 29Jehoshaphat 30Jericho 30, 44Jerusalem 30, 44, 45, 49, 107Jesus Christ 18, 21–22, 48, 58, 74, 80–81, 87,

101, 119, 126, 148, 162, 163, 166, 167Job, Book of 45“John Brown’s Body” 100John Inglesant 154Jonah 30Joshua 29Jubal 19–20, 43

Judah 49Judas Maccabeus 145Judea 21

Ki Eshmera Shabbat 142Kierkegaard, Søren 5Kingsley, Charles 166–167kinnor 43, 44Kol Nidre 139–140Kovno 7–8

Laban 20, 28, 43Laetare 116, 119Lainer, Sidney 62Lambert, Louis 78Lamech 28, 47lamento bass 5Lancashire 149Lang, Andrew 36Lassus, Orlande de 54Last Supper 22Latin 114–115, 152Lazarus 119Ledavid baruch 143Leeser, Isaac 142Leipzig 57Lent 168“Leoni” 139Levites 21, 29, 30, 45, 48, 49Lewandowski, Louis 143L.G. Choral Association 170Lichfield 155Lick telescope 87Liszt, Franz 74Logos 87Lohengrin 89Lollards 101London 142, 149, 161, 162, 169Lord’s Prayer 170Lussy, Mathis 111lute 56Luther, Martin 55, 94, 140, 143, 144Lutheran Church 59Luxor 24Lydia 36Lydian mode 26, 40lyre 20, 43, 45, 50

Magdalen College 160Magi 74magic 39, 68, 71Magnificat 31, 110mahzorim 142Maistre, Joseph de 108Mamonides, Moses 8–9Mamre 27Maoz Tzur 143Marini, Steven A. 6Marseillaise 95Mascagni, Pietro 145materialism 92

Index 177

Matins 167, 168Medicean Age 99Mendelssohn, Felix 2, 57, 79, 138, 144, 145,

152, 154, 155, 157, 167, 168Messiah 169Mexicans 38Meyer, Leonard B. 5Meyerbeer, Giacomo 144Michal 125Michelangelo 99, 139Middle Ages 37, 47, 53, 54, 56, 140, 143Milan 47, 101Milton, John 154minnesinger 54Miriam 20, 27, 28, 35, 126, 165Miserere 138Misinai tunes 7Moody-Sankey tunes 144, 148Moors 141, 142Moses 20, 21, 25, 27, 28, 47Mount of Olives 22, 101Mount Sinai 43Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 75, 83, 99, 107,

136, 138, 144, 167Muggletonians 140musaf service 8music halls 148Musical Association (England) 156mysterium tremendum 8

Nazarene 80nebel 44Nehemiah 45neumes 113, 119New York 142, 144, 145, 146Nicene Creed 74, 83, 87Nile 23, 24, 39Nineveh 38Nonconformist 31numinous experience 8, 9Nunc Dimittis 31

Obed-edom 45Oberon 151oboe 44offering 134Ohio 145Okeghem, Johannes 54“Old Black Joe” 145opera 57, 117oratorio 57, 155, 161, 168–169organ 19–20, 23, 24, 55, 56, 124, 126, 129,

144, 154, 155, 156, 161, 171, 173Orpheus 39, 106Osiris 25, 35Otto, Rudolph 8–10Oxford 155, 160

Paganini, Nicolo 83pagans 109, 118Palestine 43

Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da 2, 54, 56,57, 107, 149, 155, 156, 159

Pan’s pipe 43pantomime 34Paris 73, 108Parish Choir Book 172parish service 150, 173Parsifal 57Passover 139, 143patriotic songs 46, 100Paul 22, 97, 101Pericles 99Pharaoh 23, 26, 126Philadelphia 146Philistines 47Philo 86–87Phoebes Apollo 36Phoenicians 36, 38Phrygian mode 26piano 23, 56, 148Pittone, Ottavio 155piyyut (piyyutim) 141, 142, 146plainsong 48, 111, 112, 113, 115, 119, 152, 157Plato 40, 97, 105, 121Pliny 126Plutarch 40polytheism 24Pool, David de Sola 146Pope, Alexander 89Porter, President 92, 93Portuguese Jews 142Prés, Josquin de 54pressus 116program music 158Promised Land 27prophets 47Proudfoot, Wayne 9Provence 143Proverbs, Book of 29Psalmist 20, 47, 50, 68, 120, 124, 129, 130,

149, 152Psalms 1, 6, 21, 28, 29, 30, 31–32, 46, 48,

52, 58–59, 68, 110, 122, 126, 127, 128, 129,131, 135, 149, 151, 153, 155, 171

Psalms, Book of 29, 58Psalter 29, 31–32, 58–59, 108, 170–171, 172,

173psaltery 29, 44psychology 91–92Purcell, Henry 127, 155, 167Puritans 31, 161Pythagoras 83, 85

Quakers 52Queen Elizabeth 128

Rabbinic Sages 1Ramah 28Raphael 99, 139Red Sea 47Reform Judaism 143–144, 145

178 Index

Reformation 55, 56, 82, 128, 152Reformed Church 52religious studies 1, 9Reminiscere 116, 119Renaissance 139, 140Restoration 128Richard II 82Rome (Roman) 31, 32, 48, 99, 101, 107–108,

114, 115, 138, 155Rosh Hashanah 7Rossini, Giachino 144Rubens, Peter Paul 139“Rule Britannia” 100Russia 155Russian-Polish Jews 141, 145

Sabbath 139, 140sacrificial rite 35, 38, 45St. Cecilie Movement 146St. Gertrude 151St. Giles Church 160St. James Hall 151St. Mark’s Basilica 54, 108St. Paul 145St. Paul’s Cathedral 152, 154, 155, 167, 168,

170, 171, 172saints 50Salamis 35Salvation Army 140, 144, 148Samuel 28–29Sanctus 139San Francisco 146Saul 47, 135Schubert, Franz 154Schumann, Robert 162Scotland 55Scott, Sir Walter 157secular music 48, 138–146, 171selah 48Sephardic Judaism 140, 141, 142, 146seraphim 87, 128Shakespeare, William 76, 85, 117shawn 56Shir ha-ma’a lot 146shofar 43–44Sidney, Philip 32Silas 22, 101Sistine Chapel 138, 152sistrum 39, 44Smetana, Bedrich 146Société du Conservatoire 107Society of American Cantors 146Sola, David J. 142Solomon 21, 44, 45, 126Song of Songs 45Song of the Sea 20, 47Sophocles 35Spain 37, 108, 142Spencer, Herbert 35, 40, 158Spohr, Louis 155Stainer, John 151, 157

Stanley, Dean 28“Star-Spangled Banner” 99, 100Stradelli 81strophicus 116Sullivan, Arthur 151Sulzer, Salomon 143supplication 153Switzerland 55synagogue music 7–8, 46–49, 138–146Synaxis 106

Tabernacle 21, 25tabret 29Tagore, Rabindranath 89Taine, Hippolyte 116–117Tallis, Thomas 127, 152, 154Talmud 47tambourine 43Tannhauser 144Tartary 127Te Deum 127, 172Temple (Jerusalem) 21, 38, 44, 45, 47–48,

52, 141Temple Emmanuel, New York 144Tennyson, Alfred 84thanksgiving 153Thebes 24theocracy 25Thirty-Nine Articles 74throat 124timbrel 20Titian 165toph 43Trajan 126Trinity 87, 126Tristan and Isolde 88, 110troubadours 54trumpet 20, 29, 38, 45Turkey 127Turle, James 157Turner, J.M.W. 83Tyndall, John 85tzeltzelim 44

ugab 43Union Hymnal 145United States 95, 140–141, 144

Vatican 108Venice 108Verdi, Giuseppe 24vesper hymns 149Victorian Age 99Videus Dominus 116, 119Viladesau, Richard 10violin 20, 56Virgin Mary 81, 165

Wagner, Richard 57, 73, 75, 76, 88, 90, 99,100, 110, 117, 136, 144

Wales (Welsh) 101, 165

Index 179

Watts, Isaac 32Weber, Carl Maria von 151Weimar 57Wesley, John 140Wesley, Samuel 136, 149, 152, 154, 155Westcott, Canon 172Western Church 10, 39, 52Westminster Abby 171Westminster Confession 74Wholly Other 9Winchester Cathedral 151Windsor 161Winkelmann, Johann Joachim 84–85Wither, George 31–32

Women of Samaria 156Wordsworth, William 79–80Worms 101

“Yankee Doodle” 95Yemenite Jews 141Yigdal 139, 144Yom Kippur 7, 8, 140York 155Yorkshire 149

Zion 49, 126Zionism 146Zurich 151

180 Index

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The Value of Sacred Music

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