lively, being unlocked-of Lucretius. In the fifth Heaven, that of Mars, the venerable sign (il venerabil signo), the cross was seen, on which cross Christ was beaming; it was studded over with the lights of the spirits of many a warrior saint, and as the giga and harp tuned in the concord of many strings makes "sweet harmony, even to him who does not understand the notes, so the lights that there appeared to me, united together along the cross into one melody, that ravished me, without my understanding the hymn." Cacciaguida, an ancestor of the Poet, appears to him, yet not of choice, but of necessity. He at first speaks to him of matters beyond his comprehension; but when the bow of ardent passion was so unbent that his speech descended within the limits of our understanding, the first thing that was understood by him was "Blessed be Thou." The metaphor, "the bow of ardent passion" (l'arco dell' ardente affetto), is as striking as it is original and expressive. Equally so is the adaptation of Ovid's "nam prævisa minus lædere tela solent"-for foreseen arrows are wont to injure less— which is contained in the request of Dante that Cacciaguida would enlighten him as to the future which was before him. My will shall be content to know what fortune attaches itself to me, since foreseen arrows (satta provisa) come more gently. Cacciaguida further assures him that the words of his poem shall form a vital nutriment, and this thy reproof will be like the wind, which the harder strikes the higher summits.

When about to ascend into Jupiter, or the sixth Heaven, over which Justice, personified by an Eagle, presides, the Poet noticed that his circuit, which rolled round equally with the heaven had an increased arc, and he became like the man doing good, who feels the more joy as he perceives that his virtue advances from day to day. The discourse of this same Eagle of justice is full of beautiful expositions of moral and of spiritual problems. Lucifer was described as the first proud one, that was the highest of every creature; who, because he would not wait for light, fell whilst yet imperfect (acerbo). The human sight or understanding is said to be a ray of that Divine mind by which all things are filled (Jer. xxiii. 24). Does evening draw on and the stars appear, the Poet sings of the time when he, the sun, which illumines the whole world, departs from our hemisphere, and consumes every part of day. The heaven suddenly repairs its brightness by many lights in which one shines-the sun, from which Dante supposed the planets borrowed their light. Rich

in description, rich in metaphor, rich in imagery, of the highest and purest type, are the latter cantos of the "Paradiso ;" one lingers over them as one would walk in a beautiful garden for the first time. With Beatrice ever smiling and undergoing successive glorification, as heaven after heaven is passed through, converse is carried on with the noblest of beatified spirits, David, Hezekiah, St. Francis, St. Domenic, St. Peter Damian, onwards and upwards to St. Peter himself, who examines the Poet upon faith; to St. James, who questions him upon hope; to St. John, the Apostle of love, who interrogates him concerning charity. Then, in the Gemini, or the eighth Heaven, he learns from Adam-pardoned and translated—the origin and conditions of language. One more elevation, the "Primum Mobile," is reached, in which, as in a point (un punto), Deity itself is seen -a point of dazzling, blinding light, encircled as it was, with the nine orders of the heavenly hierarchy. Angels, Archangels, Principalities, Powers, Virtues, Dominations, Thrones, Cherubim and Seraphim. Paradise in all its glory is gradually unfolded, with its White Rose of Saints and Angels, who are ever contemplating themselves in the river of God, now is gained, as Beatrice tells him-Light, intellectual, full of love (luce intellectual piena d'amore), love of true bliss, full of joy-joy that transcends all sweetness; and she herself now takes her due place in the third circle of the highest grade of the Saintly Rose, adorned with a chaplet that reflected eternal rays. Very tender is Dante's parting with her, who for his sake left her footsteps "in Inferno." St. Bernard, as the great master of the spiritual life, continues his work and guidance, explaining the divisions of the Rose, and leading him to a sight of the beatific vision— three circles of triple hue, which absorbs his being in love. Let our readers study the last six cantos of the "Paradiso," and then determine whether or not the Poet's prayer is answered: "Make my tongue so powerful, that it may be able to leave to future nations one spark only of Thy glory."

THE MUSICAL REVIVAL IN THE SCOTTISH CHURCHES.

ONE of the most noticeable features, or perhaps we should rather say, consequences of the church revival of the past half century is the peaceful advance that has been made in the musical portions of the service and in church music generally. The most irregular and unobservant church-goer cannot but be struck with the increased prominence given on all sides to music in the church. The change in many quarters amounts to little short of a revolution, and in Scotland especially, as we shall have occasion to notice, the old-fashioned Presbyterian form of worship has been transmogrified to such an extent as to be almost unrecognisable. In England the outward and visible signs of the revival are familiar to every church-goer. Let any one visit what church he will, be it High, Low, or Broad, and he will stand a good chance of hearing the Psalms chanted, the responses possibly sung, while even in the lowest of the Low the response to the Commandments will be sung to some melodious and devotional setting instead of being mumbled by the congregation in whispered and bated breath. The black Geneva gown will in all probability have disappeared from the pulpit, and the sour-faced, black-robed clerk will have given place to the comely surpliced choir. We are referring more particularly, of course, to town churches, but the tide of innovation has long since spread to the country, and to a much greater extent than most people imagine. We "hardly ever" hear the nasal duet between parson and clerk, tranquilly performing their parts in sleepy monotone, nor are our ears tortured by the sound of ill-tuned fiddle or viol from the old-fashioned loft. The "three decker" monstrosity no longer makes the church hideous, and the old-fashioned, high-backed pews, where the bored listener could indulge in a quiet nap, free from the accusing eyes of the profanum vulgus, are only to be met with in sequestered corners of the country. These and many other relics of the past have gone for ever, or at best linger in out-of-the

way spots, in villages innocent of æsthetics and blue chinamania, where Tate and Brady still reign supreme, and where Hymns Ancient and Modern" are unknown. Services more or less of the old-fashioned type are doubtless not difficult to find in our rural districts (they are fast disappearing from the towns), and if the pedestrian tourist in his country rambles were to utilize his Sundays in the way of church-going, he would be surprised at the high level of service often attained in quarters where one would least expect it. From their comparative poverty country churches cannot of course hope to compete with town churches as regards perfection of choral singing and the general adornment of the interior, but even in these features many of our rural fanes come surprisingly near their wealthier sisters of the towns. Some country churches are perfect gems both as to exterior and interior, and not infrequently the singing of the rustic choirs would put to shame that of more pretentious rivals. The canticles are very often sung to easy settings, the hymns are well chosen and well rendered, and on great occasions something more ambitious in the shape of an anthem is attempted. Above all there is a brightness and a cheerfulness about the service unknown in the old days when parson and clerk held sway. Not many years ago the idea of the surplice being used in the pulpit was viewed with holy horror, and the clergyman who put his choir into surplices was regarded as on the direct road to Popery. Chanted Psalms and sung responses had somehow or other something to do with Romish doctrines and Romish practices, and all such "advances "the buccolic mind looked upon with uneasy suspicion. Nevertheless we see both innovations in many a country church, in villages where Ritualist cases are unheard of and "'verts " unknown. Not long ago an ancient dame of the old school remarked solemnly to the writer, who was vainly endeavouring to remove her prejudices against chanted Psalms, "Oh, but they are badges of a party!" There was obviously nothing further to say, and the old lady remained unconvinced. Numbers and numbers of Churchmen, we believe, have at the bottom no other reason to urge against the musical developments now so common except that they were initiated by the High Church party, and have ever been associated with it. The innovations to be met with in Low Churches are undoubtedly almost directly due to the Tractarian movement of half a century ago. Low Church congregations, however, are beginning slowly to see

"High" ritual, while Even if their "High'

that they can adopt what is good in eschewing High Church doctrines. brethren deserve all the hard things said of them, there is no reason why the devil should have the best tunes. After the most musical service one can have an intensely "Low" sermon, and a surpliced choir can echo the most approved strains of Bickersteth and the Hymnal Companion. In all parts of the country, we may say, the musical development is spreading at a pace which will one day efface the old-fashioned service altogether from the land.

In Scotland the changes have been much more marked, and especially so within the last fifteen years. Mainly under English influences we see the bald and bare form of worship which John Knox brought with him from Geneva softened and rounded on the Anglican model to an extent which would make that stern reformer turn in his grave. To an Englishman entering a Scotch church, say in one of our larger towns, nothing is more startling than to hear the wholesale "cribbing" from the English liturgy, which seems to be the fashionable practice with the incumbents of the more well-to-do churches. Let any Scotchman, who has set foot on his native heath after long years of absence, but enter one of the more frequented fanes of Glasgow or Edinburgh, and he will hardly recognise in the heterogeneous service, compounded of out-of-the-way scraps from the Anglican liturgy, and hymns from Anglican hymn-books, the simple order of divine worship to which he had been accustomed from childhood. Instead of the staid and sober "precentor" leading the singing with stentorian lungs, he beholds a "band," as the choir is usually called by our Scottish friends, which in a sing-song manner get through some long metrical Psalm with the aid of an Anglican chant, to which it is often quite unsuited, and which is given in brisk time. Behind or above the band he will be almost certain to see a handsome organ, on which a voluntary is played both before and after service, and which he will have no difficulty in recognising as another southern innovation. The visitor's astonishment will not decrease as he hears the "band" end the Psalm with the Gloria Patri, and when, after the minister has read a portion of Holy Writ, he gravely announces, “Here endeth the first lesson," the bewildered Scotchman need only shut his eyes to fancy himself in some stately English cathedral, where nought awakes the echoes save the sweet