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.