CHAPTER XIII.

NOTKER OF ST. GALL, CALLED BALBULUS.

In the life of Notker, written by Ekkehard (Eckhardt) the Younger, who was Dean of St. Gall in 1220, we have a perfect mine of garrulous gossip and of chattering, pleasant romance. It has been called “one of the most delightful of mediaeval memoirs;” though we are very little disposed to accept a large share of it as solid fact. There is in it much confusion, both of dates and names. From one of its stories came the designation of Charles the Great (“the Emperor Charles”) as the author of the _Veni Creator_, a point which we have treated more fully in the chapter upon Rabanus Maurus. The copyist is mainly accountable for these blunders, some of which are so grossly anachronistic as to be at once corrected by their reader; and others are so puerile that no one can easily be deceived.

Since it is to Notker that we owe the “sequence” in its full development, it may be as well for us to let Ekkehard sketch his character at full length. The biography is in one of the April volumes of the _Acta Sanctorum_ of the Bollandist Fathers—a great white-covered folio which displays the immense research of its editors. For those who are less inclined to the Latin language in its monkish form, there is the admirable abridgment by Baring-Gould, known as the _Lives of the Saints_—a compilation which must be always distinguished from the work of the same title by Alban Butler. From these sources a great deal of truth and falsehood, fact and fiction, real record and unreal romance, have flowed forth upon the world. We cannot but speak reverently and kindly of such noble endeavors as those of Dr. Neale, but here, at the very outset, it must be understood that he has been altogether too much swayed by peculiar opinions for his ideas upon sequences—and upon Notker also—to have the weight of absolute authority.

Notker himself is to be discriminated from another Notker of the same religious house of St. Gall, who is generally known as “the Physician.” This one is Balbulus, or “the Stammerer,” who is sometimes called “Vetustior,” the Elder, to distinguish him from his nephew, Notkerus Junior. He came, Ekkehard asserts, of noble and even royal parentage, being probably born about the year 850. At an early age he entered the monastery of St. Gall, in Switzerland, which had been founded by Gallus, the Irish saint, a disciple of Columbanus, in the seventh century. This celebrated man died, A.D. 640, at the age of ninety-five, and his life was written by Walafrid Strabo in two books; the martyrology recording his death upon October 16th. St. Gall itself is now a town of some fifteen thousand inhabitants, and the capital of the canton to which it has given its own name. But the abbey was suppressed in 1805, though the library, filled with valuable manuscripts, still remains. From these ancient parchments P. Gall Morel, Librarian at Einsiedeln, has resuscitated many sequences and hymns formerly employed in their services.

The Sangallensian poets are not, however, very numerous. Hartmann was probably the earliest composer of a “sequence”—a style of sacred poem which we shall consider presently. Then came Notker Balbulus, who has the greater renown. Tutilo and Ratpert and Walafrid Strabo complete the list. St. Gall was for years a noted centre of learning. It is well situated, and from its towers the waters of the Boden-See (from which it is distant but a few miles) can be readily discerned.

Here, then, Notker began his religious life. He had probably seen the light in the green and fertile Thurgau not far away from St. Gall. And his talents were soon so noticeable that he rapidly advanced in the esteem of his associates. Meanwhile—for the Irish and Scottish monks made this a thoroughfare on their pilgrimages to Rome—there came along an Irish bishop named Mark, whose nephew, Maengal, strongly aroused the admiration of Notker. Maengal’s music especially affected him, and he devoutly prayed God to let the Irishman tarry with them at St. Gall. This indeed happened, and Maengal, rechristened Marcellus, remained in Switzerland.

This good tutor now undertook the musical training of Notker, Ratpert, and Tutilo. And from this beginning arose the choral school of St. Gall. Ekkehard’s history of it is most suggestive. It was originally begun, he says, for the study of the Gregorian tones, but these Swiss people had by degrees lost the sweetness of the old Pope’s music. And he borrows the language of John the Deacon, in his life of Gregory, to satirize the “thundering voices” with which such “Alpine bodies” failed to secure the proper modulation. I borrow Baring-Gould’s idiomatic rendering of this significant passage. It runs as follows:

“The barbarous hugeness of those tippling throats, when endeavoring to utter a soft song full of inflections and diphthongs, makes a great roar, as though carts were tumbling down steps headlong; and so, instead of soothing the minds of those who listen, it agitates and exasperates them beyond endurance.”

Such was the character of church music when the song school of St. Gall was started. The monks had already been so fortunate as to secure one of the two Gregorian antiphonaries sent by Pope Adrian to the Emperor Charles the Great. The occurrence was curious enough to be chronicled, and the story merits our own repetition. Metz had been the German music centre, but when the French music clashed with that which was considered the correct and Gregorian method, Charles again solicited from the Pope two priests who were thorough musicians, and should put Metz and her school above criticism. These two men, by name Peter and Romanus, set out thereupon, but took a heavy cold between them at Lago Maggiore (_aere Romanis contrario quaterentur_). Peter soon recovered, but Romanus advanced from a mere cold into an actual fever, and remained at St. Gall with one of the antiphonaries, while the disgusted Peter, who claimed both copies, was forced to proceed alone and with a single manuscript to Metz.

St. Gall was sufficiently attractive to Romanus for him to make no effort to leave it when he grew convalescent. And these compositions and melodies of his were the foundation upon which, in later years, Notker and Hartmann and the others built their sequences. That which Maengal now effected was the real beginning of that system of music which is so elaborately treated by Dr. Neale in his preface to the second volume of Daniel’s _Thesaurus_. Perhaps more has been made of it there than it really deserves. It is certainly too far out of the line of this inquiry of ours for us to discuss the point technically. One of the best definitions of the sequence is, however, that of Mabillon, who calls such compositions “rhythmical prayers” (_rythmicae preces_).

Notker became easily—so Ekkehard asserts—the finest musician about the abbey. He was also a bright and rather witty man. When Augustine was asked what God was doing before He created the world, he replied that He “was building hell for such vain and frivolous spirits” as that of his questioner. The chaplain of Charles the Fat put a similar inquiry to Notker, and got quite as brief a retort. He asked, “What is God doing now?” And Notker stammered out, “Just what He has always done and always will do; He is putting down the proud and exalting the humble!”

There is another of these queer anecdotes which will serve to show that the old monks were by no means destitute of a sense of humor. A certain young Salomon, son of the Count of Ramsweg, was a student of the abbey school, and something of a snob among his fellow-scholars. Notker, Ratpert, Tutilo and Hartmann were of as good family as he, and they did not enjoy his behavior. Finally, through favoritism, Salomon came to be abbot of six monasteries and Bishop of Constance in addition. But in spite of these dignities he had a singular predilection for the Abbey of St Gall, and was accustomed to put on a surplice and go about the place attending the offices like a regular monk—which, by the way, he had no right to do. His old friends found this out, and raised so much of a stir about it that he ceased from the practice. But at night he still persisted in entering the abbey and aiding in the services.

Rudiger, one of the confederates, was therefore set to watch for the coming of the intruding bishop, and when Salomon slipped along toward the church in the darkness the watcher suddenly thrust a light in his face and saw who it was. Then this valiant Rudiger swore the largest oath permitted in those sacred precincts, for he asseverated “by St. Gall” that no stranger in their conventual habit should be around the cloisters at night. Salomon offered endless apologies, and promised to secure permission from the abbot before he wore the surplice again. And he even turned his discomfiture into a partial victory by begging Rudiger to present this request in his behalf. The petition, so voiced, came duly before the “senate” of that monkish republic, which happened, unfortunately for the avaricious and rapacious Salomon, to include his four opposers—“Hartmann, who composed the melody to the _Sanctus humili prece_; Notker the Stammerer, who made _Sequences_; Ratpert, who wrote _Ardua spes mundi_, and Tutilo, who was the author of _Hodie cantandus_.” These men finally allowed him to come in as usual, provided he would entirely demit his canon’s raiment, and be nothing but a Benedictine monk while within the walls.

Somehow Salomon conceded even this, and one day brought a splendid gift—a gold box encrusted with jewels and containing relics—which he offered to the abbey. All this looked in the direction that the monks feared; and they therefore rejected his present with some scorn. But it did not take long to lift Salomon the Simonist to the Abbacy of Reichenau, and then Archbishop Sfortto contrived at length to secure the wealthy St. Gall for his favorite. Thus Salomon, the detested, became, in spite of all opposition, the abbot of that celebrated cloister.

But St. Gall itself had always prospered, apparently as the sun does according to the theories of some astronomers, for it had been continually receiving cometary accessions that dropped into it unexpectedly. One such was an antiphonary, which, on the principle that “to him that hath shall be given,” fell into the hands of these musical monks through the burning of the Abbey of Jumieges in 851. This was the true origin of the “sequence.” It solved the problem of Notker in a novel manner when he finally examined it, for he had been puzzled at the immense prolongation of the final syllable _ia_ in the _Alleluia_, which was sung to cover the retreat of the deacon as he ascended to the rood-loft to chant the Gospel. This _Alleluia_ came between the Epistle and the Gospel, and as the deacon had some space to traverse, the _ia_ was nearly interminable; for even a very few seconds became on such an occasion a most perceptible and wearisome interval of time.

This Jumieges antiphonary, in which words were fitted to the Gregorian tones, suggested another treatment of the difficulty. Notker consequently composed the _Laudes Deo concinat_, and afterward the _Coluber Adae male suasor_. Iso, his master, approved of them, and Maengal afterward gave him considerable help. The “sequence” in its standard form had a “note to each syllable,” as in modern church music. And this was the beginning of that Book of Sequences perfected by him in 887, and which has gained a merited prominence for the name of Notker Balbulus.

Ekkehard tells certain legends (which may or may not be trustworthy) regarding the suggestion whence some of these sprung. The droning rotation of a slow mill-wheel gave rise, he says, to the sequence _Sancti Spiritus adsit nobis gratia_; and this is far more credible than the additional information that Notker sent it to “the Emperor” Charles and got back the famous _Veni Creator Spiritus_—a story which Mabillon utterly confutes. This Emperor was certainly _not_ Charles the Great—who was long ago dead—and it _might_ have been Charles “the Bald” or Charles “the Fat” (the usurper), or Charles “the Simple,” but there seems an antecedent improbability that any such nickname could belong to the grave and great poet of that splendid hymn. And, indeed, we are now positive that it is the composition of Rabanus Maurus, Bishop of Mayence (Mainz), who died in 856.

There is probably some show of reason in the idea that the groaning machinery of a mill should have helped to originate the extended notes of the sequence. The picturesqueness of the story is really its best claim to our notice. I well remember a mill by which I used often to pause in the stillness of night, listening to the wailing protracted cadences of the huge wheel which slowly turned in its bed as the buckets successively filled from the shut, but leaky gates. Hearing this, and comparing it with the “sequence” of the Catholic service, or with the long-drawn tones of a German choral, it is impossible not to be struck by the resemblance.

Then there is another story—indeed, there are several in the Latin which could scarcely be inserted here—but there is certainly one other which both Baring-Gould and Maitland have had sufficient geniality to extract. It refers to the manner in which Notker, Ratpert, and Tutilo—“the three inseparables”—attended to the eavesdropping of one of Abbot Salomon’s spies. This spy was Sindolf, the _refectorarius_, or steward, a sour-visaged, crab-appleish kind of man, who was never so happy as when he had an evil speech to retail. He particularly delighted in fretting the temper of the abbot with reference to these poets and musicians, but they suspected his design and “set a watch because of him.”

One evening after “lauds” the three were in the “writing-room” (_scriptorium_) where the manuscripts were prepared and kept, busy with their conversation and having thereto the permission of the prior. Sindolf sniffed scandal in the air, and flattened his ear against the opaque glass, where a convenient crack suffered him to listen to their words. It was night, and Tutilo, a shrewd, lively fellow (_homo pervicax_), was glad enough to get this occasion against the slinking traitor. In the _Acta Sanctorum_, and again in Mabillon, copied into the one hundred and thirty-first volume of Migne, we have old Ekkehard’s grim report of this monkish fun.

“There he is with his ear to the glass,” cried Tutilo. “Do you, Notker, because you are a timid little chap (_timidulus_), go away into the church. But Ratpert, my friend, take down the whip that hangs in the chimney corner and run out-doors. And then comfort my heart (_cor meum confortare_) by laying on to him with all your might (_esto robustus_). For I, when you get close enough, will throw open the window in a hurry, catch him by the hair and hang on with a will” (_ad me pertractum violenter tenebo_). Off went the timorous Notker; out slipped the cheerful Ratpert; open went the window, and the vigorous Tutilo clutched Sindolf by ears and hair together! Then Ratpert rained on the lashes (_a dorso ingrandinat_), and Sindolf twisted and howled and kicked, and lights began to fly around, and the brethren came running. But Tutilo held on and called for a light and shouted that he had caught the devil; while Ratpert vanished into the night and Notker had entirely disappeared in the church. “Where are Notker and Ratpert?” was the first question. “Oh, they smelled the devil and ran away to ask succor from heaven,” said Tutilo. “And here was I, left to do the best I could with this thing that walks in darkness. And I believe an angel has been sent to chastise him in the rear!”

The sneaky Sindolf was completely abashed, but his temper did not improve under the chastisement. Even Salomon, his patron, laughed at him along with the others, which made the matter worse. So one day, finding a beautiful copy of the Canonical Epistles in Greek which Liutward, Bishop of Vercelli, had sent as a present to Notker, what does the malicious wretch do but cut it to pieces with his knife! Ekkehard adds that the mutilated copy could still be seen in the library of St. Gall.

These two worthies, Ratpert and Tutilo, heartily deserve the place which Ekkehard accords them in his life of Notker. Ratpert walked usually between Notker and Tutilo; a very punctual, studious man who “wore out two pairs of shoes in the year;” a man who seldom left the abbey walls, and who regarded “expeditions” as being to the full “as dangerous as kisses;” a negligent fellow about the offices and masses, claiming that he taught them often enough to his pupils; and finally, a composer of good litanies; dying October 25th, A.D. 900.

Tutilo was a capital companion; genial and ingenious; capable of music on all sorts of pipes and fiddles; who told a good story and made many a good joke; active and agile in his figure, and withal a fine carver, painter, and goldsmith. Some of his ivory carving still exists in the town library of St. Gall—so one historian records in a foot-note—and he was evidently a most skilful musician, whose hymn tunes, composed on the _rota_, or small harp (the minstrel’s instrument in those days), were always acceptable. He wrote _Hodie cantandus_, _Omnium virtutum gemmis_, and _Viri Galilaei_. This last he sent to “King Charles,” who himself composed a tune to which Tutilo set words called _Quoniam Dominus_. His royal patron liked him well. “Curse the man,” he said one day, “he is altogether too good a fellow to be a monk!” Ekkehard adds to this list of compositions the sequence _Gaudete et cantate_ as a specimen of Tutilo’s ability in a slightly different direction of music, declaring that “any one who understands music” will notice and appreciate the distinction.

Hartmann was abbot after Salomon; a most learned man, and one who perhaps contributed more to the development of the “sequence” than we are now able to prove.

Of Notker it is only fair to say that he gave to himself the name _Balbus_, or Stammerer, which was changed, owing apparently to his small stature, into the diminutive, _Balbulus_. When Innocent III. asked Uadalric, then Abbot of St. Gall, what rank Notker had held in the convent, the abbot replied that he was only “a simple monk,” but was born of noble parents and was thoroughly holy and well educated. On which the Pope declared that they were wretched and wicked people (_nequissimi_), and would suffer for it (_infelices eritis_) if they did not celebrate the festival of this man who had been “so full of the Holy Spirit.” Julius II. commanded Hugo, Bishop of Constance, to inquire into the matter. The result established him as a beatified confessor, and so distinguished him by the prefix “Blessed” from Notker “the Abbot,” who was his nephew, and died 973; Notker “the Physician,” who died 1033; Notker “of Liege,” who died 1007, and Notker “Labeo,” who died 1022. B. Notker Balbulus himself died in 912. Salomon, who was then his abbot, died in 919, and in 921 Hartmann succeeded to the dignity.

It would not be difficult to add to this account several superstitious stories; how Notker broke his staff over a dog-devil which went howling through the church; how he had some difficulty with another demon who intermeddled with pen and ink; how he severely handled a flagitious monk; and, generally, how he proved to be a moderate worker of miracles and a pleasant colleague to the other cenobites.

But we turn with a peculiar interest to that little sequence which has made his name immortal. This _Media vita in morte sumus_ is the one which meets us in the Burial Service of the Protestant Episcopal Church:

“In the midst of life we are in death: Of whom may we seek for succor But of thee, O Lord, Who for our sins art justly displeased?”

It is there found in connection with a passage from the Book of Job, and is followed by the _Sancte Deus; Sancte fortis; Sancte et misericors Salvator, Amarae morti ne tradas nos_; which is in our translation, “Yet, O Lord most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.” All that Notker originally composed is that which is first mentioned above. The rest came about as we shall presently see.

The Rev. F. Proctor, in his _History of the Book of Common Prayer_, states that this brief sequence—of which he does not appear to know the origin—“was formed from an antiphon which was sung at Compline during a part of Lent.” There is also a singular misapprehension by which the “samphire gatherers” hanging over the cliffs of England at their “dreadful trade” were credited with the suggestion. It was formerly supposed that Notker watched them during their dangerous toil, and so, by another equally strange inadvertence, the fact was taken as a proof that he must have been himself a native or resident of Britain. This, like the other legend of the twenty-year debate upon sequences, proves on inquiry to have no foundation in fact. The story itself is a sufficient explanation without any coloring whatever. It reveals to us the poetic spirit of the devout man who beheld his fellow-creatures poised between life and death, and wrote this short and exquisite meditation thereon.

“The holy Notker,” says Canisius, “made the ‘prose’ of the following lament when the bridge [over the chasm] at Martinstobel was being constructed in a precipitous and most dangerous place. But who added the ‘verses’ I do not know. I have quoted it from a most ancient codex, where it is set to modern notes.” He then proceeds to give it in the ordinary form. It is, as he says, a _prose_, and must be distinguished from _verses_ of regular metre:

“Media vita in morte sumus, quem quaerimus adjutorem, nisi te, Domine, qui pro peccatis nostris juste irasceris.”

Thus far Notker. Then occur the “verses” in three stanzas:

“Ah homo, perpende fragilis, Mortalis, et instabilis, Quod vitare non poteris Mortem, quocunque ieris. Aufert te, saepissime, Dum vivis libentissime. Sancte deus.

“Vae calamitas inediae, Vermis fremit invidiae, Dum audit flentem animam Mortalis esse utinam! Nec Christi fati gladius, Transiret, et non alius, Sancte fortis.

“Heu nil valet nobilitas Neque sedis sublimitas, Nil generis potentia, Nil rerum affluentia, Plus pura conscientia Valet mundi scientia. Sancte et misericors Salvator, Amarae morti ne tradas nos.”

It is perfectly plain, then, that this “third sequence”—the _Media vita_ being the second—is derived from the “verses” whose authorship Canisius cannot discover, and the date of which cannot be far from the fourteenth century.

But when we imagine the good monk watching the workmen from the brink of the Goldach, which hurries down through St. Gall toward the Boden-See, we can bring to mind the whole picture. The present bridge is one hundred and sixteen feet long and fully one hundred in height from the swift little stream. It is of wood, and was constructed in 1468. Here, dizzily balancing in mid-air, tradition says that a man, even as Notker gazed, lost his footing and plunged into the abyss. The eternities came together! A spark from the infinite kindled within the poet’s soul. Heaven from on high beheld this single life suddenly hurled to ruin. Earth from beneath reached up and seized upon the thing of earth. And thus it was with us every moment! In the midst of life we were in death, and from none could we seek for help save from God alone—that God, displeased at sinners, who is the sinner’s only hope!

Standing once before the graves at Gettysburg, the tall gaunt figure of Abraham Lincoln paused upon such an eternal edge. His soul took in at one sweep the heroic past and the historic future. And those words which came, so men assure us, almost without premeditation from his lips are the noblest utterance of our time. That compact, terse, brief expression is the essence of national strength. The phrases are vivid with a supernatural brightness: “Government of the people, for the people, by the people must not perish from the earth.” It was so with Notker; and now, wherever that beautiful service is uttered above the dead, the forgotten monk of St. Gall speaks with a voice which touches unaltering humanity, and utters that grave, great thought, preciously protected in its small casket of language, that death is beneath and God is above, and that all our hope must come from Him!