strain, the shining firmament above makes response. Doubtless the Creator is well pleased when "these his works do praise Him," but there is worship more acceptable than this.

Upon this earth which looks so permanent, and beneath those stars that seem unquenchable, there walks a being more enduring than they-whose existence is bounded by no limit of time. The earth shall pass away, and this glorious firmament shall be folded like a vesture, and they shall be seen no more. Man too shall pass away, apparently more ephemeral, more transitory than they-but he shall not go hence like the fleeting shadow of a transient day. Other scenes await him, and death is but the gate of endless life.

It may be that he shall constitute a king, a priest in the hierarchy of heaven.

'My inheritance! Oh how wide and fair

My birth-place, Time-of endless Life, I'm heir.'

Invited to look up to such a destiny, assured that his daily steps are all ordered, that the very hairs of his head are all numbered, is it presumption in man to imagine himself an object of the kindest and strongest interest to his Makerto believe that his own return to loyalty and allegiance will be hailed with a sincere welcomethat the voluntary affection of a free agent, the meek and humble worship of an immortal spirit will be well pleasing in His sight?

It is by no mysterious, arbitrary enactment that the Deity claims the supreme love and homage of

the soul-not because we lie powerless in his mighty hand, too feeble to resist his will, but because all his attributes and perfections deserve our highest love. He has formed the soul for his own glory-He has made it weak and dependant, that it might seek strength and wisdom from a source higher than itself. The human form was once assumed by Deity-human temptations and sufferings were encountered, and thus a new bond of sympathy and affection was established between man and his Maker. The penalty of a broken law was suffered by the law-giver-death and the grave lost their victory.

Such are the relations of the soul to God, and upon these grounds, its love and homage are demanded.

Wonderfully hath God attuned the human soul to his own praise. It is indeed a harp of many strings. Harsh and dissonant as are often its notes, it is capable of the richest harmony, and not unfrequently its imperfect and jarring chords are succeeded by the sweetest strains. But He has not left this inward harmony of the soul to rise silently, unexpressive. The sweetness of the human voice is a fit medium through which the immortal soul shall hold intercourse with its infinite source.

Thus have the devout of all ages approached Him. The songs of the kings, prophets and congregation of his ancient people are still on record. The early Christians worshipped God in hymns

and spiritual songs. And so shall it be until the end of time. Those who are but "strangers and sojourners" here, shall "cheat the toil and cheer the way" with music. Death shall not end their songs for disembodied spirits tarry not in their flight, and the "new song" of that "house of habitation" will have been learned in their pilgrimage below.

Having alluded to the objects which sacred music proposes to itself, it remains to inquire, by what means shall these ends be secured; or in other words, what are the characteristics of that music which shall best promote our own devotions, and consequently be most acceptable to the Creator?

In view of the diversity of human tastes and opinions, it were a hopeless task to attempt to speak in detail of the characteristics of sacred music. It will be sufficient to touch in brief and general terms upon some of those evident principles, which, though receiving the common assent, need to be often repeated and impressed upon the mind.

Sacred music should be characterized in the first place, by a chaste and natural simplicity.

A simplicity there is, which is but a synonym for weakness and poverty. Its emblem may be found in those landscapes, in which the fair Della Cruscans of our age, after attaining to perfection in art by the drawing lessons of a quarter, delight to embody their ideas of rural life. A grassy bank

in the shade-a shepherdess in gown of white and ribbands of green, wielding the never failing badge of all shepherdesses, the mysterious crook—a shepherd with carmine cheeks and azure doublet playing the "oaten pipe," with sympathising sheep listening around, complete their ideal of simplicity.

There is a simplicity of another kind which conveys to an unperverted taste an idea of all that is graceful and beautiful. It is the majestic simplicity of the great Wordsworth compared with the feeble and starveling attempts of his imitators, the harmless caricatures of his travestiers. It is the simple beauty of nature compared with those prim and square plots, whose central sunflower, and border of alternate hollyhocks and poppies attest the fond but ludicrous devotion of her admirers. All things are thus beautiful in their kind, as they come from the Creator's hands. Causes from without disfigure and deform them. The officious zeal of man, where it would adorn, often does but blemish and destroy.

Beautiful are the trees standing in their native forest with pensile branches waving in the wind, and their leafy honors all unshorn-how pitiable and forlorn are they when the hands of man have hewn them into awkward trunks, or some gardener of the ancient regime has clipped them into birds and beasts and other fantastic caricatures of nature. "The river windeth at its own sweet will" through verdant landscapes as though reluctant to leave them-the art of man digs a canal

through low and barren tracts, along whose sedgy course the sluggish water scarcely moves. The motions of childhood are proverbially graceful, until it has learned the lessons of affectation and art.

Thus is it with the human voice. There is no sweeter instrument, until neglect and artificial constraints have changed its tones, and impaired its simplicity. For its natural modulations are substituted misnamed graces. The original air is then but the 'thema' of endless variations, the text of a cloudy and voluminous commentary. A host of unmeaning embellishments is put in requisition; sometimes too grotesque to allow us to retain our gravity, and again too dull and stale to excite our contempt. The voice now undulates in convulsive trills, and again ranges through chromatic successions. It seems to be wandering in quest of something which it has lost, and you smile incredulously when told that music is the object of its search. Not unfrequently you are reminded of the singer of Brentford described by Charles Lamb, whose voice moved forward like the earth around the sun; but it had another motion also, for like the earth, it revolved on its own axis.

Music has her own ornaments, her peculiar graces which may not be rejected.

She should

only be freed from those meretricious decorations with which unskilful hands would hide her native beauties. No ornaments of paste and tinsel, no gaudy and flaunting colors should invest her with a mock splendor.