take things as they are-and we note two facts. We note (1) that the font is exquisitely carved, its lines are laid out in beautiful proportions, it is as a work of art perfect as perfect as the words of the priest, who

administers the sacrament of baptism before it, are orthodox. We note (2) that Religion and Art say the same thing. "Listen," says the priest, "this infant must faithfully promise that he will renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, and the carnal desires of the flesh." "Look," says. the sculptor, "it is not much to renounce-the world

has a very sinister eye, and as to the flesh-see what' the pretty face of a woman may become if the devil of an evil temper gets into it." What has happened is this. Religion, having a baby to baptize, asks for a font. Art supplies the font, and receives in return a motive. The alliance is voluntary and complete, and the font in Stafford Church is a true though of course limited expression of the relationship existing between Art and Religion.

A limited expression, because (1) Sculpture is only one of the many forms in which Art becomes associated with Religion. Painting, and Architecture, and Poetry, and Music, and Rhetoric, and the Drama, are copartners with Sculpture on equal terms. And (2) because the alliance between Religion and Art strikes far deeper than the occasional inspiration by the one, or application of the other to purposes of decoration. It is an alliance of two forces, moving in the same plane, to the same end, against a common enemy. The insignia of the two forces are, indeed, at times so similar and so intermingled that it is difficult to distinguish between them, and the question seems to arise whether " Religion" and "Art" are not two names for the same thing; whether Religion is not Art—and Art, Religion.

It is true our gods are not now made in the artist's

studio. They are for the most part made in the minister's library, or leap from the fervid imagination of extemporary rhetoricians as Minerva leaped from the brain of Jupiter. But still, in its ordinary, everyday alliance with Religion, Art finds enough to do. For Religion is the recognition of a relationship existing between ourselves and God, by which we owe to Him the performance of certain duties, and submission to His will. And do we not submit to that will, and perform those duties, in the most artistic manner? We are not quite sure, indeed, whether the sense of reverence that comes upon us when we enter a great cathedral, is reverence towards the Lord of the temple, or the temple itself, or the architect who built it—but at all events we are satisfied that the architect must have possessed fine religious feeling. And then, our dead await their resurrection beneath such finelychiselled marbles and polished brass! Our children are baptized in fonts which are such miracles of beauty-or of humour-according to the bent of the artist's mind! Our souls are ravished with such sweet music in the choir! And though-when Whit-Sunday comes round-we miss the passion-play that used to be enacted in the nave, and the flight of a white pigeon from the little chink high up in the groining of the roof, to represent the "descent of the Holy Ghost"-yet we are still strong at stage drill, and march through

the market-place pleasing our eyes and our ears by firing volleys of "Amens," and shouting "Hallelujahs " to the accompaniment of a brass band and the waving of red cotton pocket-handkerchiefs.

We have

We need not miss even the mummers. only to run over to Catholic Spain, or Protestant Germany, to see the miracle-plays still acted; at Ober Ammergau, the Cross-without the passion; at Barcelona, clown and pantaloon making love to the Virgin Mary. Let us look for a moment at one of these "mysteries" as they are performed on Sunday afternoons about Christmas time. It is the eve of the Nativity, and a company of people, with Mary and Joseph, are on their way to Bethlehem. The crowd is sufficiently representative, for it includes not only very much of the World and the Flesh, but, in propriâ persona, the Devil too. Among the company is a man who is tempted with an evil desire. He takes the Devil as his counsellor, and an agreement is made between them. The man shall have his desire, but in return he shall himself become a devil. At once his tail begins to grow. He can conceal it at first, but inch by inch it lengthens till presently it cannot be hidden from his companions. A consultation is held by the company as to what they shall do. They decide to pull the tail off. They fasten the man to the wall, and begin to pull; first one, and then another-but the tail

only lengthens the faster. Instead of inch by inch it is now yard by yard; but still they pull, and pull, and pull, like sailors hauling at a ship's cable, till the whole stage is covered with the hideous coil, and there begins to be no standing room. There is a momentary pause, and a fresh consultation, resulting in a final and strong effort the whole company, men and women and children, pulling together, and with all their might. Suddenly the tail comes off, the devil is cast out, and the man is himself again.

But when the Sunday performances are over; when the thunder of the organ has died away in the aisles of the cathedral, and the laughter of the people in the stalls of the theatre, and we find leisure to reflect a little on what we have seen-thoughts which have been all the while latent in our minds take definite shape, and we begin to ask ourselves whether we have not been witnessing a mystery within a mystery-whether the same thing has not befallen Religion, in this its alliance with Art, that befell the hero of the play; whether Art has not grown, inch by inch, and yard by yard, till it threatens to fill the Church as the tail filled the stage; whether by any mighty effort the two can ever be separated; and finally whether, if the two were separated, Religion would, like the man in the play, be quite itself again.

A formidable array of questions. Yet it is only the