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, th