first half of the 17th century, and was even respected by Handel, when he wrote, as he sometimes did with amazing power, in the older scales. So far as the treatment of the Canto fermo was concerned, no departure from the strict rule of the Mode was held to be, under any circumstances, admissible: but, a little less rigour was exacted, with regard to the counterpoint. Composers had long since learned to recognise the demand for what we should now call a Leading-note, in the formation of the Clausula vera, or True Cadence—a species of Close, invested with functions analogous to those of the Perfect Cadence in modern music. To meet this requirement, they freely admitted the use of an accidental semitone, in all Modes (except the Phrygian) in which the seventh was naturally Minor. But, in order that, to the eye, at least, their counterpoint might appear no less strict than the Canto fermo, they refrained, as far as possible, from indicating the presence of such semitones in their written music, and, except when they occurred in very unexpected places, left the singers to introduce them, wherever they might be required, at the moment of performance. Music so treated was called Cantus fictus: and the education of no Chorister was considered complete, until he was able, while singing it, to supply the necessary semitones, correctly, in accordance with certain fixed laws, a summary of which will be found in the article, Musica Ficta. For the rest, we are able to detect but little attempt at expression; and very slight regard for the distinction between long and short syllables. The verbal text, indeed, was given in a very incomplete form; the word, Kyrie, or Sanctus, written at the beginning of a movement, being generally regarded as a sufficient indication of the Composer's meaning. In this, and other kindred matters, the confidence reposed in the Singer's intelligence was unbounded—a not unnatural circumstance, perhaps, in an age in which the Composer, himself, was almost always a Singer in the Choir for which he wrote.
Even at this remote period, the several movements of the Mass began gradually to mould themselves into certain definite forms, which were long in reaching perfection, but, having once obtained general acceptance, remained, for more than a century and a half, substantially unchanged. The usual plan of the Kyrie has already been fully described. [See Kyrie.] The Gloria, distinguished by a more modest display of fugal ingenuity, and a more cursive rendering of the words, was generally divided into two parts, the Qui tollis being treated as a separate movement. The Credo, written in a similar style, was also subjected to the same method of subdivision, a second movement being usually introduced at the words, 'Et incarnatus est,' or 'Crucifixus,' and, frequently, a third, at 'Et in Spiritum Sanctum.' The design of the Sanctus, though more highly developed, was not unlike that of the Kyrie; the 'Pleni sunt coeli,' being sometimes, and the Osanna, almost always, treated separately. The Benedictus was allotted, in most cases, to two, three, or four Solo Voices; and frequently assumed the form of a Canon, followed by a choral Osanna. In the Agnus Dei—generally divided into two distinct movements—the Composer loved to exhibit the utmost resources of his skill: hence, in the great majority of instances, the second movement was written, either in Canon, or in very complex Fugue, and, not unfrequently, for a greater number of voices than the rest of the Mass.
The best-known composers of the Second Epoch were Okenheim, Hobrecht, Caron, Gaspar, the brothers De Fevin, and some others of their School, most of whom flourished between the years 1430, and 1480. As a general rule, these writers laboured less zealously for the cultivation of a pure and melodious style, than for the advancement of contrapuntal ingenuity. For the sober fugal periods of their predecessors, they substituted the less elastic kind of imitation, which was then called Strict or Perpetual Fugue, but afterwards obtained the name of Canon; carrying their passion for this style of composition to such extravagant lengths, that too many of their works descended to the level of mere learned ænigmas. Okenheim, especially, was devoted to this particular phase of Art, for the sake of which he was ready to sacrifice much excellence of a far more substantial kind. Provided he could succeed in inventing a Canon, sufficiently complex to puzzle his brethren, and admit of an indefinite number of solutions, he cared little whether it was melodious, or the reverse. To such Canons he did not scruple to set the most solemn words of the Mass. Yet, his genius was, certainly, of a very high order; and, when he cared to lay aside these extravagances, he proved himself capable of producing works far superior to those of any contemporary writer.
The Third Epoch was rendered remarkable by the appearance of a Master, whose fame was destined to eclipse that of all his predecessors, and even to cast the reputation of his teacher, Okenheim, into the shade. Josquin des Prés, a Singer in the Pontifical Chapel, from 1471 to 1484, and, afterwards, Maitre de Chapelle to Louis XII, was, undoubtedly, for very many years, the most popular Composer, as well as the greatest and most learned Musician, in Christendom. And, his honours were fairly earned. The wealth of ingenuity and contrivance displayed in some of his Masses is truly wonderful; and is rendered none the less so by its association with a vivacity peculiarly his own, and an intelligence and freedom of manner far in advance of the age in which he lived. Unhappily, these high qualities are marred by a want of reverence which would seem to have been the witty genius's besetting sin. When free from this defect, his style is admirable. On examining his Masses, one is alternately surprised by passages full of unexpected dignity, and conceits of almost inconceivable quaintness—flashes of humour, the presence of which, in a volume of Church Music, cannot be too deeply regretted, though they are really no more than passing indications of the genial temper of a man whose greatness was far too real to be affected, either one way or the other, by a natural
