the glory of God in eternity, let us worship the glory of God surrounded by those who have won His peace and carried it back to their Creator beyond the limits of the grave." So the fugue began, the fugue that was the outpouring of the Brother's very heart and soul. Notes rang out, others chimed in, and with each meeting, challenging and caressing the others, the song of glory proceeded. The feeble attempts of men to render adequate praise were there, and the praise grew ever dearer and stronger till high, and at first, far away, another part joined in. Surely here Brother Fidelis had caught the echo of the angels' songs, and had imprisoned them in earthly music. So heaven and earth combined to render one swaying volume of praise to the God of all. As the parts met they softened together in a union of reverence, and then burst out into irresistible adoration of the Unity of the Three, “In gloria Dei Patris," till at last like a sob, to think the song of praise was ended, but like a sob of thankful joy, sounded the "Amen." Brother Fidelis stopped, his hands fell, and, filled with a fervent joy, he turned with an impulsive movement and faced the Tabernacle. Lord, did you ever hear such a song of praise?" the words, following hard on the thought, slipped out. The next minute the Brother knelt, and he thought again. It was his own song he had been singing, and he had made it for whom? -for his God. The praise, then, was for God. But to whom were men giving the praise? Surely to himself, to Brother Fidelis, and then-coldly the thought struck him as he knelt there he had accepted the praise and adulation of men. God had let him catch the echo of the angels' songs, and he, Brother Fidelis, had accepted as his due the praise men awarded to the song which his angel had whispered in his ear. How easily he had fallen into the trap; how great was the hold which pride had gained in his heart. Only that very afternoon a request had come from the director of a world-famed choir for permission to sing this new Mass, that others far away from the peaceful monastery might enjoy the music that had captivated all those who had heard it. The permission had been given, his precious manuscript sent, and the Brother was longing to know what criticisms would be passed on his work; above all, he was anxious to hear the opinion of Maxwell, the critic, whose influence was so great that his would be the final and decisive verdict. Brother Fidelis had felt he might await that decision with pleasure and confidence; and now, as he knelt before the Tabernacle, he could see in that confidence nothing but the proof of his pride. He thought of that, and he thought, too, of the quiet, peaceful days that seemed now so far away; of days when he had touched the keys of his organ, and made it speak, not to the world, but to his God alone. And now, could it ever be as it had been? Could he ever be at peace again? Now crowds knew of and were discussing that which had been his secret and God's ; now a barrier of pride stood between him and the peace that lay at his Master's feet. And could the world that applauded give him in return that for which he craved? No, a thousand times no, and yet he yearned to find the peace again. Closely his angel had watched the struggle, and, full of pity, he whispered into the Brother's ear and told him of a way that would lead him back to his place at his Master's side. The angel brought the thought, and deep from his heart Brother Fidelis poured out his prayer : “ Lord, hear me, help me. Take away again all this praise that men accord me. It is all Your due, Lord, for did I not use Your angel's songs and sing them anew? But I did it for You, for You alone, my Lord, and now, Lord, men hear the songs and call them mine, and they give, and I have taken and cherished their praise. Take it from me, Lord, take back all save my sorrow, and let that be deep, all-abiding." So he prayed and his angel was glad, and over the monk's heart crept a feeling of peace, that remained with him through the days and weeks that followed. His Mass he neither played nor mentioned, remembering it only when he made his acts of love and sorrow. But the following month the Mass was sung in a far-away cathedral. Conductor, choir, and organist, all did their best to give to the music its composer's interpretation. But the crowds who listened were left with a feeling of disquiet, an impression that their efforts at interpretation were frustrated. None there realised the impassioned beauty of that which they failed to understand. To Maxwell, the critic, the world looked for a verdict; and he, great artist, great musician, as he was, failed to fathom the depth and beauty of the Mass. But by reason of the very uncertainty that prevailed he had to step forth where others feared to tread. His verdict was given: he heard and condemned. Soon, very soon, the news reached Brother Fidelis. He heard, and from his heart went up an act of thanksgiving that rang true. He hastened to the church and knelt in his stall close, very close, to the altar. He knelt there and was happy. Had not his Master heard his prayer? Was he not trusted once again? "Not mine the glory," was the prayer that beamed from his eyes. His heart was nigh to bursting with love and thankfulness. It was night and the Brother was tired; in a little while he slept and as he slept he dreamt that one came and quietly, gently, lifted him up and bore him away. Upwards they went, moving noiselessly through a space full of silence, full of gloom. Gradually low, far-away sounds caught his ears; a faint, dim light pierced the gloom. The music grew fuller, richer, louder; the soft, deep brilliancy of the light became more intense. The music filled him with a wild longing, with an exhilaration of delight; the light became a very sea of sweetness all about him. The quiet motion ceased. The Brother felt himself rest motionless, and saw before him a great white throne, the light whereof was like "to a precious stone, even to crystal." And from all around and below him rose streams of song as the "voice of a great multitude, as the voice of many waters, as the voice of great thunders." The strains arose grand. majestic, solemn; they swayed in stately rhythm, met and united in one great song of praise, a song so glorious that no human mind could imagine aught like it. The streams of song, distinct, were each and all most wonderful; for they brought from earth to heaven all the purest, truest emotions of the human heart : humility, sorrow, hope, thanksgiving, reverence, love. The Brother listening drank it in, and lay lost in a very ocean of peace and bliss. So he remained conscious of naught save of a wild, surging longing in his own heart to join his poor love, his poor song, with the heavenly strain. Quietly, wonderfully, the music changed, a new song arose, and the song was the Brother's own, his song of glory; his own and yet not his, but rather his poor feeble music transformed, glorified, become most wonderful. A quiet surprise was now his. Why, why, was his music ascending there? Unconsciously words rose to his lips : The final criticism," he murmured. God's criticism," whispered his angel in his ear as, bending low, he caught the Brother up once more. Quietly he was borne away, conscious all the time of a burning longing to remain. Each moment the music sounded softer, sweeter, and, to his pain-piled heart, sadder. The light, too, grew more dim, the glory faded away. Soft, sweet, almost as an echo came the last phrase of his song, "In gloria Dei Patris." As it died away, the motion ceased; he rested once more to hear loud and distinct around him, a sonorous VOL, XLII.-No. 491 20 Amen." He awoke in his stall, his brethren around him, the Office begun. From that day his face wore a smile of peace, a smile that remained alike in season of sorrow as in time of joy; in his heart he bore always a longing for the time when he should hear again and for ever the strains of the eternal song of praise. MARY CAHILL. OUR LADY OF THE WAY A VILLANELLE. THE ways of life were glowing green In my past Spring Her robe's white sheen Then fairer, richer grew the scene, And here my feet had strayed, I ween, I tread an Autumn road serene- Beyond the snows my Goal is seen, ་་ ་ ELSA SCHMIDT. PIGEONHOLE PARAGRAPHS HOSE who live in Dublin are inhabitants of no mean city, TH so far as architecture is concerned. Many of its buildings are of a dignity and beauty that should be a matter of pleasure and pride to Irishmen in general. The writer of the article on Architecture in the Encyclopædia Britannica (a work which, we may presume, is not unduly prejudiced in our favour) refers to them in flattering terms. Having described the revival of classical architecture in England, he continues: "The early classic revival set its mark also, in a very fine and unmistakable manner, on the capital of the sister island. Dublin is almost a museum of fine classic buildings of the period, among which the most remarkable is the present Bank of Ireland, originally begun as the Parliament House. . . . It is a remarkable combination of symmetry and picturesqueness, and as a one-storey classic building is far superior to Soane's Bank of England, with which a comparison is naturally suggested. Gandon's Custom House, with its fine central cupola, is another notable example." Anyone familiar with the city could easily name several others fit to be grouped with them. But would many think of going to our railway stations in search of architectural beauty? Yet, here is an interesting testimony in their favour which we take from a recent number of the Irish Builder and Engineer—a periodical which, with commendable liberality of outlook, interests itself in Irish buildings of past ages as well as those of the present moment : "In the ninth of his brilliant lectures on the classical tradition in Great Britain and Ireland, delivered at University College, London, Mr. A. E. Richardson referred to Mulvanny's 'superb railway station in Dublin,' the Broadstone Terminus. It is said that no man is a prophet in his own country,' and certainly the truth of this saying is well exemplified in the case of Mulvanny, the architect of this fine railway station and of the Railway Hotel at Galway, for certainly in Ireland his works have never been appreciated as they deserve; indeed, one seldom hears Mulvanny's name mentioned. There is not the smallest doubt Mulvanny was the greatest Irish architect of his time; in fact, the only great Irish exponent of the later |