midst of perils, they did all that was necessary, by example as well as by precept, to give the highest sanction to the art. The first annunciation of a Saviour's birth was immediately celebrated by a song of angels. The disciples sang at the sacramental supper. Paul and Silas sang at midnight in the depths of a dungeon: and the Revelation of St. John, contains such high-wrought specimens of minstrelsey as show clearly, that the art was expected to lose nothing of its real power, under the fulness of a gospel dispensation.

But again. If we examine more minutely these specimens of consecrated poetry, we shall find that in general, they presuppose an elevated state of the affections, as necessary to the very commencement of the exercise of singing. There is often required a more entire commitment of soul to God, in these songs of praise, than usually takes place in the exercise of social prayer.

This is a remarkable circumstance, and one which is full of instruction. In prayer, for instance, we plead for the grace of humility: but in song, the Psalmist says,"Lord, my heart is not haughty,"—" My soul was as a weaned child before thee." In prayer we plead for the grace of submission: the Psalmist says, "I was dumb, I opened not my mouth because thou didst it." In prayer we ask for fixedness of strength, for the spirit of love and obedience: the Psalmist exclaims-"My heart is fixed, O God my heart is fixed."-" O, how love I thy law; it is my meditation all the day."

In perfect accordance with this statement is the fact, that singing appears anciently to have been, for the most part, introduced as a sort of climax in the exercises. Witness the services at the dedication of the temple. Skilful leaders were chosen on the occasion. The wise, the pious, and the honourable were among them; and the singers stood close by the altar. Yet, we hear nothing of the singing till the countless sacrifices had been offered, accompanied by the

prayers of the people: nor even then, till the priests had taken the ark, that holy symbol of the covenant, and placed it within the oracle. But when all this had been accomplished, and the people were thus prepared for the exercise, "it came to pass, as the trumpeters and singers were as one, to make one sound, to be heard in praising and thanking the Lord, saying, For the Lord he is good, for his mercy endureth forever, that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the Lord." Then, and not till then, was manifested the special symbol of the Divine presence; and it then appeared in such majesty, that even "the priests could not stand to minister by reason of the cloud; for the glory of the Lord had filled the house of God." Here was an order of the exercises instituted by God himself; and left on record for the instruction of future generations. The same order appears substantially in the early history of the Christian dispensation. The song of angels was preceded not followed, by the story of a Saviour's birth. The singing at the sacramental supper was preceded by a participation of the sacred emblems. The same analogy is preserved throughout the book of Revelation. The songs of the heavenly hosts are all preceded by some marked and special displays of the Divine glory. There the singing is neither a preparative to devotion, nor a "drop-scene" in the exercises. It is called for by the attendant circumstances, and bursts forth spontaneously from the enraptured bosoms of the worshippers.

It appears also from the history of the art, no less than from the preceding observations, that singing in the churches was an exercise peculiarly spiritual. The apostle seems to convey this idea, when he says "Is any among you afflicted? let him pray. Is any merry? [joyful or possessing elevated affections,] let him sing psalms." The fathers understood the subject in the same analogy; so did the reformers. Both have left their testimony in favor of the benign influence of this part of the services.

The Bible, then, as we have said, furnishes us with the themes of song which are peculiarly spiritual; and these themes, or the substance of them, must ever constitute the basis of devotional music. We will now add what is equally obvious, that the music, according to the nature of the institution proposes to superadd something of its own, to the interest and solemnity of the themes.

Poetry is the language of feeling; and music, when properly applied to it, is expected to heighten its influence. A sentiment of penitence, for instance, may be supposed under favorable circumstances, to produce some given degree of emotion, though expressed in the humblest prose. Let the same sentiment be uttered in that species of poetry which speaks to the heart; and according to the acknowledged principles of human instrumentality, we may look for a higher degree of emotion. Now music, which is also the language of feeling,* proposes to assist our devotions, by superadding something of its own, for the further increase of emotion; and if it generally fails to do this, then, most undoubtedly, it fails to answer the design of the institution. The subject matter is furnished to our hand; the themes carry with them their own definite interest; and, if while singing them, we cannot habitually discover the increase of pious emotion; then we may rest assured that we are not deriving legitimate effects from the institution.

Now, we venture to ask, whether this is not the precise state of the case in most of the worshipping assemblies throughout the land; and we make the suggestion after years of the most careful and extensive observation.

Go where we may into the place of worship, there is the solemn stillness of devotion, while the Scriptures are read, while prayer is offered, and while the sermon is delivered. Also while the minister is reading the psalm or hymn in ever so indifferent a manner, there is generally the appear.

* At least, it ought to be such a language.

ance of attention and solemnity. Not so when the singing commences. Then the congregation are either on the one hand, gazing at the select performers to admire the music; or, on the other, expressing their dissatisfaction by general symptoms of restlessness. The latter case is the most common. While the minister is reading the themes, then there is devout attention; but when the exercise commences, which according to its nature, should superadd something to the pious interest of these themes; then we observe the universal appearance of restlessness or relaxation. The words require, perhaps, a more entire commitment of soul before God, than is usually implied in the office of social prayer. Do the congregation-does even the minister, join in the petitions, and professions, and vows which are taken upon the lips of the singers? No; most evidently they do not; for their attention for the most part, is diverted from the subject. The minister is turning over the leaves of the Bible; adjusting the pages of his manuscript, examining a written notice which is handed him; beckoning to the sexton; whispering with some one who sits by his side; or leaving the desk to speak with some member of the congregation relative to an appointment, or to some clergyman sitting below, whose assistance is desired in the pulpit. All this, and often much more is done directly in presence of the congregation; and the example, of course, loses nothing from its conspicuity. The sexton follows it, in the performance of his noisy offices; the silent worshippers too, are in motion, and even the singers, perchance, where there is a choir, are gazing about the house, to ascertain whether any one is pleased with their style of performance. In some churches we even see the penny contribution box handed round during the exercise. Are these the characteristics of spiritual worship? By no means. Yet abuses of this nature are generally prevalent in the churches; and they are almost endlessly diversified in character. The language of such a state of things cannot possibly be misinterpreted.

But there is a single fact in the history of the art which pours additional light upon the subject. The music of the ancients up to the third century of the Christian era, was scarcely any thing more or less than a refined species of oratory, cultivated in such a manner, as to give to the words, not only a melodious, but a distinct and impassioned enunciation. This was undoubtedly its character, when the laws of the institution were established; and it had the same character, when the examples of singing were recorded in the New Testament.* The precepts of the Bible, also referring to "the understanding," as well as to "the heart,” require this express feature of the art; and the modern rules of composition and execution, if rightly interpreted, fully recognise its existence in theory at the present day.

Here then, is it not evident that the churches have departed from the very first principles of devotional music? The Bible furnishes the language of the themes; but in singing we annihilate this language. The Bible requires us to sing to edification; but we sing virtually in an unknown tongue. The words are not distinctly uttered-are not heard. The music instead of augmenting the interest of the themes, actually does away their character.

It is not enough to say, as an apology in this connexion, that the words are first read, and afterwards placed before us. For in most cases we fear they are read but indifferently in the first instance; and, as we have seen, they afterwards receive comparatively but little attention. Yet, were the fact otherwise, the plea would be inadmissible: for vocal music is, or should be, the very soul of elocution itself. It proposes to superadd something to the themes of song; not to destroy or neutralize them. It proposes to enforce them by the power of a distinct and impressive enunciation-not to substitute a monotonous style of reading, as a preparative which is to be followed by inattention and the confusion of tongues.

* See Burney's History of Music.