To be master of one's self it is necessary to abstain from every superfluous movement, from any displacement of the body. A good organist sits firmly, well-balanced upon his bench, inclining slightly towards the manuals, never permitting his feet to rest upon the frame which surrounds the pedals, but letting them glide lightly along over the keys; heels and knees riveted, so to speak, together. Nature has vouchsafed us two guides of the greatest value; with the heels pressed one against the other, the maximum separation of the other extremities of the feet gives us a _fifth_; with the knees held similarly together, the maximum interval obtainable should be an _octave_. Precision and confidence will never be obtained except by adopting this method; holding the two limbs as if bound together, the two feet unceasingly in contact with each other. The foot should not attack the pedal vertically, but from well to the rear towards the front, as close to the key as possible; gliding slightly, or "skating," the toe to within a half-inch of the black keys. Considering the degree of perfection attained in our contemporary manufacture, we must be careful not to become dazzled in the midst of the wealth of resources thereby offered us, and thus led far astray from the right path. Let us not forget that upon the organ, as in the orchestra or chorus, all music is based upon the _quartet_. It is the true foundation of the language. With the organ, our quartet is embodied in the noble and flowing sonority of the 8-foot foundation stops. The _basso continuo_ of certain organists, who have fallen asleep over their pedals, soon becomes an intolerable nuisance for the audience. We should go wild at a performance of a symphony in which the double-basses played uninterruptedly from the first note to the last. Plain-song itself, thus interpreted, loses its eloquence; although the apparent monotony of its design, closely confined within the limits of an octave, would, above all, seem to be better adapted than any other form of music to a continuous bass. But not at all! This apparent monotony exists in reality only for those who see not with their eyes, neither hear with their ears. Plain-song is of a complex species; it has two faces, like Janus.[4] To be understood, it must be listened to at once from a literary and a musical standpoint. It is this synthesis which the "decadent" poets or musicians have, in late years, striven to revive. [Footnote 4: Take the most beautiful type of the Plain-chant, for instance: the Te Deum. Simply vocalize it, sing it without words; rhythm, beauty, grandeur, all disappear. Translate it, and sing the same music with either French or German text, it becomes absurd. If the Roman Church had not prescribed Latin as the language of its liturgy, we should have no Plain-chant to-day.]