Journal: Bibliotheca Sacra
Volume: BSAC 51:201 (Jan 1894)
Article: The Golden Age Of Italian Church Music
Author: Edward Dickinson

BSac 51:201 (Jan 1894) p. 88

The Golden Age Of Italian Church Music1

Edward Dickinson

UPON a clear evening not many months ago I found myself for the first time before the world-renowned cathedral of Antwerp. The lonely tower, one of the most exquisite of all the works of human hands, with its apex turned to gold by the touch of the last rays of the setting sun, revealed every detail of its fairy-like tracery sharply cut against the intense blue of the sky. From the lofty recesses of the spire the chimes every few moments sent a waft of melody far out over city and river. The dingy square in which I stood, shut in by buildings as old and gray as the cathedral itself, was almost deserted, and, although in the heart of the crowded city, but faint murmurs of life reached my ears. The haste and clamor of the present had slipped away from me and left me in one of those haunts consecrated to the spirit of the Middle

BSac 51:201 (Jan 1894) p. 89

Ages, where poetic and historic associations combine to deepen the spell cast by some miracle of art. As I gazed upward at that amazing shape in which stone seemed robbed of its friableness and obedient like wax to the cunning hand of its artificer, I marvelled not only at the artistic genius that could dream of a thing so beautiful, and the engineering skill that could adjust its multitudinous parts in such flawless proportion and security, but also at the intellectual supremacy of an institution that could bid such structures rise in testimony to its authority over the imaginations and the wills of a continent of men.

As the sunlight faded, the windows of the cathedral began to glow from lights within, now and then a door swung open and strains of music stole out into the silent square. I entered the building and found myself in a vast nave flanked by gigantic columns, which were lost in the shadows of the vaults far above. At the intersection of the nave and transepts stood a lofty altar of snowy white; the broad stairway leading up to the holiest place was carpeted with crimson, and bordered with masses of flowers of gorgeous hues. Enormous candles illuminated the structure. Richly attired priests and attendants passed up and down, and backward and forward, in mysterious evolution and gesture before the radiant sanctuary. Clouds of incense rolled upward, and diffused through the whole edifice their aromatic breath. A crowd of worshippers knelt motionless before the altar and in the shaded spaces between the columns. Beyond the altar was the blackness of night, within which I knew that those sublime paintings in which Rubens has depicted the expiation on Calvary for all time, were hanging with their wings folded across their faces. No light was visible, save the illumination ab...