God the Father for so many centuries, existed, though with a lower degree of force, in the case of the Holy Spirit. For although He never appears in person to man in all sacred history, nevertheless Scripture provides a symbol which art could not reject. Hence at every period of Christian art a white dove has been the recognised representative of the Divine Spiritwhite to indicate the light, which is in art a perpetual attribute of Deity. There is, however, a curious exception to this rule in the case of a manuscript of the thirteenth century. Here the Spirit of God, moving upon the face of the waters before the creation of light, is painted as black as the formless earth. A French miniature of the same period represents the Spirit as the breath (veupa) of the other Divine Persons. The Father and Son sit opposite to one another. The Spirit, in the form of a dove, hovers between with extended wings, their tips touching the lips of each figure, "proceeding from the Father and the Son" like breath.

The Third Person of the Trinity is depicted as a dove, not only on all occasions in history on which He has assumed that form, but also in representations of the day of Pentecost. The dove likewise appears hovering over the heads of prophets, and even of saints of post-apostolic times.

Up to the tenth century, the Third Person of the Trinity was indicated by this sign only; but from that time forward He is also represented in human form,-at first, as a man of mature years only, but afterwards in every stage of life from infancy to old age. It should be observed, however, that in representations of the Trinity, if the Three Persons are not of the same age, the Son or the Spirit, or both, are younger than the Father; never the reverse. In this case the idea of the filiation of the Son and the procession of the Spirit, is suggested; if there is no difference in years, the equality and co-eternity of the Three Persons of the Trinity.

There is frequently found a very remarkable literal rendering of a prophecy of Isaiah, in the representation of Christ surrounded by seven doves, sometimes one of them only, sometimes all of them having the nimbus. These represent the seven spirits which, it has been believed, were signified by the words of the prophecy, "The Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and piety; and the fear of the Lord shall fill him."1

1 Isaiah xi. 2, 3.—So in the Septuagint and the Vulgate. Our version is slightly different: "The Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, ... the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord; and shall make him of quick understanding in the fear of the Lord." Our version follows the

If there has been any hesitation or coldness in the representation of the other persons of the Trinity, this appears in the strongest light by contrast with the abundantly frequent, and, if we may so say, the affectionate treatment of the subject of Christ the Son. The story of His life furnishes the most important subjects of Christian painting and sculpture; but art has ventured to depict scenes which the human eye has never beheld the Word creating the world, speaking to men, inspiring prophets; the Son taking counsel with the Father, sent on His mission to the earth, descending into Hades, rising from the tomb, returning again to the skies, welcomed at the right hand of the Father, and at length appearing as the Judge of all mankind.

In all these scenes our Lord appears in art in human form. It is, however, worthy of remark that the same ancient reverence which indicated the presence of the Father by a hand, and that of the Holy Spirit by a dove, likewise forbade any realistic representation of the Son, even when He wore human flesh. Hence during the first ten centuries He appears in ideal form, youthful and beardless. Like the ever young gods of Greece, years and sorrow make no impression on Him. He appears thus, not only when seated at the Father's right hand, or when performing some great act of Divine power, but in the scenes of His humiliation and death, and even on the cross. This notion of the ideal perfection of the youthful form is illustrated by a basrelief of the translation of Elijah on one of the ancient sarcophagi. The venerable prophet, as he rises to heaven in the chariot of fire, and leaves earth and all its painful weariness below, is represented young and smooth of cheek. So was our Saviour. The practice, however, began to die out in the eleventh century; and during the period of transition the works of the same artist sometimes show the different meaning attached to the two styles of representation. The two following subjects, from the carved ivory covers of a manuscript, furnish an example. On one side, our Saviour is on the cross, suffering mortal pains, and bending towards His mother, who, with the apostle John, stands below. His divinity is declared by iconographic signs, and the sun and moon are reHebrew in repeating the expression, "The fear of the Lord." This word is in the Septuagint translated first εὐσεβεία, and then φοβὸς θεοῦ, while pictus and timor Domini represent it in the Vulgate. Except in this point, the Septuagint and the Vulgate are closer to the Hebrew in their rendering of the passage than our version. The variation may have arisen from a desire to make up the perfect number, Seven. Its adoption in art was probably not independent of its consistency with the text of the Apocalypse, which describes "the Lamb, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God."

presented as bowing before Him, but He is still suffering mortal sorrow, and accordingly He is represented as a man of middle age, worn and wounded. On the other side, He is already victorious over death and the grave; He sits on a throne in the midst of an aureole, with the symbols of the four evangelists round Him. His right hand is lifted in benediction; in the left is a scroll; and a book rests on His knees. Here, therefore, He appears youthful and beardless, and with no marks of weariness or woe.

After the twelfth century, the youthful form is very rare. The face of Christ becomes more sad; He has now made acquaintance with grief. Happier incidents are rarely sought by the artist; and while He is represented in the scenes of His sharpest suffering on earth as the Man of Sorrows, He appears in the skies as the Judge of all mankind, the Rex tremendo Majestatis of the Dies Ira.

Notwithstanding the natural attraction to the human form in representations of the Second Person of the Trinity, art has admitted other signs also into her service. According to the symbolism of the Mosaic law, by the descriptions of the Prophets, by the declaration of the Baptist, and in the imagery of the Apocalypse, Christ was the Lamb of God; and this symbol of a lamb is in very frequent use in art. It is often borne in the arms of the Baptist, who always points to it with the finger. And whatever the surroundings may be, it is adorned with the cruciform nimbus, and it often bears the resurrection cross. The Lamb of the Apocalypse is different. Its distinguishing marks are the seven horns and seven eyes; and whatever the position of the Lamb may be, they are so placed that all of them may be visible. Thus, in a French miniature of the thirteenth century, there is an apocalyptic Lamb with its side to the spectator. The seven horns are in a row at the top of the head; one eye is in the ordinary position, and the six others are in two rows down the same side of the neck. Below them all, at the side of the chest, is the wound of the spear, with blood streaming from it.

There were many other ways of representing Christ, but it is unnecessary to make further allusion to them, as they are fully and admirably set forth in the recent work of Mrs. Jameson and Lady Eastlake.

All these details, however, show that the productions of the Christian artist make a strong claim on our attention of a nature collateral to their purpose, and in a great measure independent of their value as examples of art. Art has done much more than please and purify the æsthetic faculties of men. The works of the painter and the sculptor, the enamellist and the miniaturist,

form a most valuable historical record. There is no careful statement of doctrine, no ill-concealed desire to place a cherished dogma in the most favourable light. The teaching is unconscious, unconscious as the revelation of the habits and civilisation of remote periods, which is made to us in their language. Medieval art bears witness to changes in the minds of men from gladness to gloom, from reverence to audacity, or from faith to scepticism, just as the boulders on the lower Alps testify to the enormous glaciers which once covered their sides. But her glory is in the instruction which she has given, and which she still gives to the devout. She preaches sermons to the eye more eloquent than those which are heard with the ear. And by giving heed to these lessons, we may appropriate to our own use the united conceptions of successive ages of the Church, and thus arrive at a more complete comprehension of every incident of sacred story, and a more thorough appreciation of the moving thoughts and feelings of men, who, while they were of like passions with ourselves, yet attained an eminence of piety and vigour of faith which seem to place them beyond our reach. If these things be so, the works of the medieval masters, whatever may be said of their conventionalism or their unrealism, cannot be unworthy of a patient study.

ART. VII.—1. Discorso del Senatore Marchese Gualterio nella seduta del 2 Dicembre 1864, sul Progetto de Legge per il trasferimento della Capitale a Firenze. Favale & Cie.

2. La Translation de la Capitale et la Convention du 15 Septembre. Discours du Chevalier Bon-compagni. Turin, 1864.

THERE are events in a people's history which bear upon their face the features of capital turning-points, as strikingly as in an individual's life certain years are stamped with the indelibly impressive marks of epochs. The instinctive effect of both is alike on those who experience them. On finding itself in the actual presence of such moments of weight, the mind is forcibly impelled to pause and ponder-to look back inquiringly at the extent of ground that has been travelled over, and then to consider anxiously what may remain to be encountered in the future. Such pregnant instances irresistibly suggest taking a survey; for by no other process than that of measuring the relative strength of the difficulties already contended against, and of the force already brought to bear thereon, can we obtain some trustworthy clues to the perplexities that may be anticipated, and to the probabilities of their being successfully dealt with. In presence of a future that darkly advances forcing on us a deep feeling of its weightiness, it is impossible not to turn for guidance to the lights of experience and practical facts. It is at a moment inviting such review-a moment plainly marking the sharp passage between two most important periods in her political life-that Italy has arrived, by the transfer of the seat of Government away from the city and the province that served as the cradle for her national infancy. As long as Italy continues to exist as one State, the step so taken must prove a memorable era in her destinies and her progress, marking the stride made from the sprawling condition of babydom into the organic shape assumed by boyhood growing strong. Italy has entered upon her teens-a term in life exposed to many perils, fraught with many risks. What then are the chances that Italy will survive the dangers that she has thus made herself liable to encounter? The question is one which every person must be asking himself who takes the remotest interest in the politics of our times; for however varied are the sympathies of men in the great interests at stake, all acknowledge the Italian revolution to be the most startling event of our day, and all therefore watch its course intently from their point of view. On all sides, therefore, speculation has been intensely stimulated to estimate the practical consequences that will flow from the measure that has been ventured upon. Is this an exercise of