ras and his school,
we seem to be in a kind of laboratory in which all the tones
are labelled and have their special directions for use. For
the legend runs that he composed melodies in the diatonic,
chromatic, and enharmonic styles as antidotes for moods such
as anger, fear, sorrow, etc., and invented new rhythms which
he used to steady and strengthen the mind, and to produce
simplicity of character in his disciples. He recommended that
every morning, after rising, they should play on the lyre and
sing, in order to clear the mind. It was inevitable that this
half mathematical, half psychologically medicinal manner of
treating music would, in falling into the hands of Euclid
(300 B.C.) and his school, degenerate into a mere peg on
which to hang mathematical theorems. On the other hand, when
we think of Greek dances, we seem to pass into the bright,
warm sunshine. We see graceful figures holding one another by
the wrist, dancing in a circle around some altar to Dionysus,
and singing to the strange lilt of those unequal measures. We
can imagine the scheme of colour to be white and gold, framed
by the deep-blue arch of the sky, the amethyst sea flecked
with glittering silver foam, and the dark, sombre rocks of the
Cretan coast bringing a suggestion of fate into this dancing,
soulless vision. Turning now to Rome, we see that this same
music has fallen to a wretched slave's estate, cowering in some
corner until the screams of Nero's living torches need to be
drowned; and then, with brazen clangour and unabashed rhythms,
this brutal music flaunts forth with swarms of dancing slaves,
shrilling out the praises of Nero; and the time for successful
revolution is at hand.

The first steps toward actually defining the new music took
place in the second century, when the Christians were free to
worship more openly, and, having wealthy converts among them,
held their meetings in public places and basilicas which were
used by magistrates and other officials during the day. These
basilicas or public halls had a raised platform at one end, on
which the magistrate sat when in office. There were steps up to
it, and on these steps the clergy stood. The rest of the hall
was called the "nave" (ship), for the simile of "storm-tossed
mariners" was always dear to the early Christian church. In the
centre of the nave stood the reader of the Scriptures, and on
each side of him, ranged along the wall, were the singers. The
Psalms were sung an