"Certainly," answered Cyprian; "I reckon them among the sacred bands whose hearts were strengthened by the power of faith and love. It was this power which brought to them that inspiration by virtue of which they entered into communion with the Highest, and were fired to those works which serve not worldly aims, but are, of necessity, nothing but praise of, and honour to, the loftiest things. This is why those works of theirs bear the impress of veracious truth, and why no anxious striving after 'effect,' no laboured apings of other things, defile and desecrate that of the Heavenly which has revealed itself to them, pure, and clear, and undefiled. This is why there is, in their writings, none of those so-called 'striking' modulations, varied 'figurations,' or effeminate 'melodies,'--none of those powerless, confusing rushes of instrumentation, the object of which is to benumb the intelligence of the listeners so that they may not detect the emptiness of this music. Hence it is that only the works of the masters just mentioned (and of the few in more recent times, who, like them, have remained true servants of that faithful 'Church' which exists no more here below), truly elevate and edify pious souls. Let me here mention the glorious master Fasch, who belongs to the old pious times, and whose profound and reverent writings have found so little favour with the frivolous crowd that his Mass for sixteen voices could not be published for want of due support. You would do me much injustice, Theodore, if you supposed that my mind is shut up with reference to the more modern music. Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven have, in very truth, unfolded a new art, whose germ, perhaps, began to show itself in the middle of the eighteenth century. It was not the fault of those masters that frivolity and lack of comprehension prized the treasures already in existence so lightly that coiners of false money tried to give to their base metal the semblance of true currency. It is true that nearly in the same degree in which instrumental music gained in importance, vocal music became neglected, and that the complete disappearance of the true old choral music (which the result of sundry ecclesiastical changes--dissolution of the monasteries, and so forth), kept pace therewith. Of course it is quite clear that, now, it is not possible to go back to Palestrina's simplicity and grandeur, but it is still a question how far our new gains and progress can be brought into use in churches. The spirit which rules this world drives onward and onward continually; and although the forms which are lost and gone can never come back just as they were when they moved in our life-atmosphere, what is true is everlasting, imperishable, immortal; and a wondrous spiritual communion gently binds a mysterious band around the past, the present, and the future. The sublime old masters are still alive, in the spirit. 'They being dead, yet speak.' Their music has not died away into silence, although in the roaring, tumultuous strife of the ungovernable which has broken in upon us, it is difficult to hear it. May the time of the fulfilling of our hopes be not far off! May a life of piety, peace, and joy begin, when Music, plying her Seraph-pinions freely and joyously once more, may enter upon her flight to the life beyond this, to that world which is her home, and whence comfort and salvation beam down into the unresting hearts of men."
Cyprian spoke those words with an unction which showed that they came truly from his heart of hearts. The friends, deeply moved by them, kept silence for some moments.
Then Sylvester said, "Although I am not a musician as Theodore and Cyprian are, I can assure you that I have thoroughly followed all you have said about Beethoven's Mass, and Church music in general. But, just as Cyprian complains that it may almost be said that there is no such person in existence at the present moment as a genuine ecclesiastical composer, I think I might assert that it would be hard to find a poet able to write worthy words for a Church composition."
"Quite true," said Theodore; "and the German words published with this very Mass of Beethoven's are but too clear a proof of it."[4]
"But now," said Vincenz, rising from his chair, "like a second irate Pope Marcellus, I banish all further talk about music from the chapel of the Holy Saint Serapion. Both Theodore and Cyprian have spoken very finely, but let me move 'the previous question'--let us return to the strict rule of the Order, for which I, being a novice, am a great stickler."
"Vincenz is right," said Theodore. "Our dissertations have not been very interesting to the unskilled in music, wherefore it is well to bring them to a conclusion. Let Sylvester read us the tale he has brought with him."
This was agreed to, and Sylvester began, without further prelude, as follows:--
[MASTER MARTIN, THE COOPER, AND HIS MEN.]
Dear reader, doubtless you, like others, feel your heart swell with emotion when you wander about some spot where the glorious monuments of old German art bear witness, in eloquent language, to the brightness, the pious, diligent industry, the truthfulness of beautiful days which are no more. Does not it seem as though you were entering some old, deserted dwelling? The pious book which the good house-father had been reading is still lying open on the table; the mother's needlework is still in the place where she left it; cherished presents, given on birthdays, and other festivals, stand about in carefully-kept cupboards. You feel as though some members of the household would come in presently and greet you with cordial hospitality. But you wait for them in vain. The ever-rolling wheel of time has carried them away. You may give yourself up to the sweet dream which brings the old masters back to you, so that you hear them talking to you with a pious energy which goes to the very marrow of your bones. And it is then that you begin to understand the deep meaning of their labours; for you are living in their days, and you understand the period which produced them and their works. But alas! what happens is, that just as you would clasp this beautiful dream-image to your heart with loving arms, it flies away coyly on the light clouds of the morning, scared at the noise and uproar of the day, and you gaze at its vanishing after-shimmer with eyes filled with burning tears. Hard beset by the surges of the life around you, you wake suddenly from the beautiful dream, and all that remains to you is the deep, endless longing which penetrates your heart with thrills of sweet emotion. Feelings such as those, dear reader, have at all times filled the breast of him who writes those pages for you, when his way has led him to the world-renowned town of Nürnberg. Delaying before the wondrous fabric of the fountain in the market-place, or contemplating the monument in St. Sebald, or the Pyx in St. Laurenz, or Albert Dürer's works of deep meaning in the Rathhaus, he has yielded himself wholly to the sweet dreams which took him back into the midst of the glories of the old Imperial free-town; and many a picture of the doughty burgher-life of those old days, when art and handicraft held out hands of help and friendship to each other in eager emulation, has risen up in clearness, and impressed itself on his mind with a peculiar pleasure and serenity of cheerfulness. Let it please you, dear reader, to have one of those pictures displayed to you. Perhaps you may look upon it with a sense of pleasure and satisfaction, or even with genial smiles; perhaps you may feel at home in Master Martin's house, and linger gladly amongst his vats and barrels. At all events, may that come to pass which the writer from the depths of his heart most cordially desires.