call music "the language of the emotions." This phrase is on many accounts misleading, for, as is suggested above, one might quite as well call poetry the language of the emotions. One very significant distinction between music and poetry, however, gives a valuable clue to both. the place and the power of music. It is that, in general, the art of music can both call up more readily and sustain more vividly and at length a given emotion than can poetry. The delight in tones and in tonal patterns is a powerful aid in diverting the mind from emotional strain, and so in delaying the reaction from it. Herein lies its value as an aid in emotional tasks. Herein, therefore, lies its value to religious feeling. By its assistance this feeling can be both prolonged and intensified without excessive mental fatigue. Under its exhilaration joy becomes more transcendent, grief and penitence more poignant, consolation more compelling, and awe more impressive. It furnishes, as it were, a gorgeous and convincing background to feeling.

As, therefore, there is no music sacred in itself, the creation of so-called sacred music is a matter of artistic insight on the part of the composer. The decision as to what is sacred and what not is a matter of critical judgment. In reading the Pope's recent letter introducing sweeping reforms in the musical services of the Roman church one can readily feel the force of his commendation of the grave, dignified, and sweet Gregorian chant, of the spiritually uplifting strains of Palestrina, and his condemnation of the flippant, noisy, and florid composition in the theatrical style of the nineteenth century; but the query arises whether it is not a mistake for him to insist that composers revert to the models of a bygone day, however wonderful they may be. When we examine the "ancient traditional Gregorian chant" we see first of all that it is at its best a highly flexible musical declamation. It differs from the later product of the drama, "recitativo secco," in that it is independent of instrumental support (although modern habit has given to much of it a harmonization that belongs mainly to the vocal polyphonic period, from six hundred to a thousand years younger than the original melody), that it conforms to regular rules of inflection based upon the nature of speech, in sentence making, and that it allows in the moments of exaltation a free play of melodic outline, admirably calculated to give vent to intensity of religious feeling. It, however, dates from the formative period of the language of music, and fails therefore to utilize certain. important possibilities in the construction of melody which came later to be regarded as valuable, namely, that regularity of recurrent accent and fixed patterning of tone-lengths which we call rhythm, and that balancing of phrase with phrase, by likeness and contrasts of melody,

which we call form. One need only ask whether music which thus ignores important factors of musical construction is adequate to that expression of spiritual emotion which fulfils all the demands of a religious service. A corresponding examination of the vocal polyphonic of Palestrina's time and style would raise a similar question. This music represents the first great art climax after the actual materials of the living tongue had been developed. The factors of musical tone, pitch, length, volume, and quality had been worked over into the terms of melody, rhythm, harmony, and color. But the art of developing intensities in the utterance of each of these things by principles of construction was yet in its infancy. The beautiful music of the vocal polyphonic was often a mere rope of melodic strands, in which the charm of the individual thread was but dimly felt, a communism of melodic entities, without the force of any commanding personality. Can music of this type say all that ought to be said to the reverent soul? More especially, shall its method of construction be the model for all time? The heritage of the psalms is priceless; but to ask modern poets to add to them would be both ill-judged and futile. Music is a living language, subject necessarily to changing idiom. And just as the composers of the past who were most profoundly moved by religious motives have given us deeply spiritual music in the phraseology of their own period, may we not expect composers of our time yet more fitly to voice the needs and aspirations of the present by using the fulness of the musical resources of today? There has been an enormous amount of dull and monotonous Gregorian music, of prolix and pointless polyphonic, of empty and uninteresting church compositions from every age; and the publishers continually add to the mass. But there has always been wheat in the chaff, and today there is perhaps as much as

ever.

From the standpoint of the composer, too, a word may not be amiss to the church. All great art is the product of sincerity and earnestness. If the church would have her composers write thrillingly, she must stir them with holy thoughts, imbue them with divine zeal for expression, and encourage them to bring the utmost of their creative power to bear upon their work for her glory. Seasons of deep spiritual quickening have instant effect upon such souls, and the results descend to the ages. The church composer makes this plea with special right, since he is peculiarly subject to the subtle temptation of all artists to become absorbed in the manner rather than the matter; for his whole art, as a factor in religious ceremonial, is but the manner, must be regarded simply as a means, and must be held unswervingly to its high purpose. When released from

the guidance of words he constructs his music so as to give free vent to his delight in tone in accordance with laws of effectiveness that have gradually been evolved and are approved by him. These laws almost invariably tend to prolong any given mood, seeking a new one only when flagging interest suggests the need of contrast. When, however, the progress of a liturgy is to be glorified by its musical setting, and holy words are to be illuminated by heart-searching tones, the purely musical must give way to the expressive, and the natural desire of the artistic mind to elaborate a mood must often be repressed. The Pope is right in regarding music as "a complementary part of the solemn liturgy," just as Wagner insists that music is but one of three factors in dramatic art. It is, accordingly, of utmost importance to the musician not only that his spiritual insight be quickened so that he will infallibly choose the fitting music for the sacred message, but that his desire to give to the message wings will be so overpowering that no musical allurement can hinder him on the way. There is no incentive to self-criticism like the domination of an inspiring purpose. Make the musician profoundly religious and his art will speak to the soul, whether through the language of the eighth, or the sixteenth, or the twentieth century.

When we recognize, then, that music is a living tongue subject to the laws of change in all language, we also see that the line of effectiveness is forward and not backward, that the composer must enlarge, not contract, his field of vision. Though the yearning toward things eternal is itself abiding, though praise and prayer pass not forever, the formulas in which man will utter his inmost nature unfold themselves gradually and incessantly. It would be difficult to cite music more deeply spiritual, or more modern, than Edward Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius" or his "Apostles," and the Pope has well said that there is much modern music "in no way unworthy of the liturgical functions." We may equally surely expect the future to contribute from its stores wonders of the tonal art as yet undreamt. Does this fact involve the giving up of the treasures of the past? When Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare grow old, we may wish to forget Palestrina, Handel, and Bach.

THE FIELD OF ARTISTIC INFLUENCES IN RELIGIOUS

EDUCATION

PROFESSOR WALDO S. PRATT, Mus.D.,

HARTFORD THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT

It has been thought somewhat imperative that at this initial meeting of the Department of Religious Art and Music there should be some attempt to outline the general field of investigation and effort which this Department of the Religious Education Association may be supposed to cultivate as its peculiar province. Seeking, perhaps, to achieve the impossible, this humble study of the subject is respectfully submitted and thrown into the arena of discussion. In itself it is surely very inadequate; but it may serve to draw forth opinions and ideas that will have a decided value for our mutual work.

One of our number has shrewdly suggested that the first step toward defining our special field should be to define the terms of the general titles under which we are working. What is art, and what religious art? What is education, and what religious education? Without essaying to accept this challenge in full, we may say at once that “religious” indicates the end or result toward which this Association in all its departments is pointed; that "education" emphasizes the special aspect or process of religious activity under consideration; and that "art" designates the implement or means or sphere wherewith or wherein the work is done that we as a Department are to study. This is very rough and general, however, and further definitions are evidently in order.

Religious education is clearly a process that addresses itself to the whole nature of men, aiming to give them information about questions of belief and character on the one side, and about religious objects, institutions, and social development on the other; to arouse appropriate and healthy sentiments regarding all these subjects, especially sentiments like enthusiasm, aspiration, reverence, and devotion; and through information and incitation to provoke to high thinking, noble feeling, right choices, and useful habits in all the relations in which religion may manifest itself. The persons to be thus educated are primarily the young, but not exclusively. In our Department especially the needs and aptitudes of adults must constantly be borne in mind, both because artistic susceptibility and readiness are not usually conspicuous in youthful stages of development, and because the process of popular

education in our field demands the many-sided co-operation of both old and young.

It is quite clear, furthermore, that the forms of art that sooner or later ought to be taken into our consideration are extremely manifold-not only pictorial art and music (as our present departmental title suggests), but architecture, poetry, eloquence, and the drama-practically every one of the fine arts that has attained to independent and organized existence. And not simply such organized arts as wholes, but all those rather undefined artistic aspects of action, expression, and institutions that appeal strongly to taste and take effect upon artistic impulses and powers so as ultimately to influence the religious nature. It is probable that as we push our thought into details it will seem as if our field is literally boundless, since all life has its essentially artistic aspects.

Our study, however, will be naturally guided at the outset by the fact that in religious institutions certain specific arts or artistic ways of working have been generally recognized. The historic church has been the chief patron of almost all of the greater fine arts, powerfully fostering their development into independence, and receiving from all of them most valuable reactive influences. So close is this relation that the church is often called the parent of several of the arts now most distinguished, even though its children, as notably in the case of the drama, have often strayed far away from their early home and have even been repudiated there. This striking employment of specific fine arts by the church has had two main reasons, namely, that these arts are susceptible of being adopted and incorporated into church usage just as are many other factors in general social life; and that these arts are thought to have special utilities for distinctively religious and ecclesiastical purposes. The more general of these two reasons we may here lay one side, but the more definitely utilitarian reason requires some further analysis.

It is often helpful to divide the ecclesiastical uses of the fine arts into those of expression and of impression, though these can never be really torn apart. Thus, for example, in the rise of Gothic architecture the accent fell on its capacity to express or embody the civic or the personal devotion to God of a great transitional period; while in subsequent ages the products of this mediaval zeal have been cherished mainly for their power of impression as monuments and as settings for liturgical action. Thus music, poetry, and literary art in general for centuries have been extensively woven into the fabric of the great historic liturgies (or plans of public worship) because they were seen to be unrivaled media for religious expression, both personal and congregational, while at the same time majestically impressive in actual application. On the other hand,