thoroughly to still more difficult work, the local affairs of a large constituency, which demand not only trouble, but tact and firmness and a broad toleration.

But above all and before all came his duty to God, his devotion to prayer, the motive power that sustains the whole activity of the spiritual life. Morning Mass, the Rosary, the Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, the Stations of the Cross, half an hour's reading of the Imitation or of Father Gallwey's Watches of the Passion, evening service and Benediction, when possible-such was his daily programme whether in town or country. It seems formidable enough to many whose efforts in this direction are limited to a couple of hasty Hail Marys in the morning, and a Mass of obligation on Sunday.

Added to this he was for many years an active member of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, and many of the old people about his home still speak of the master's visits and the 'master's" gentle ways.

And be it remembered that prayer did not come naturally to this man, who prayed so much. Yet prayer took first place, and no temporal cares were allowed to interfere or seldom even to defer the hours for prayer. He was a busy man at all times, whether attending the House of Commons in London, or looking after local and family matters at home; and to each duty as it came he gave careful thought, capable management. With him prayer and work went hand in hand, and one prepared him for the other.

In public life, as at school, he was a general favourite, having by nature the lovable disposition that gained affection as well as respect; that won friends, disarmed critics, and exerted over others a vast influence for good.

For his virtue was not of the kind that makes oneself unpopular and others uncomfortable. On the contrary the world was attracted to the religion that could produce this type of man. It saw a member of the Catholic Church a prominent and respected figure in social and political life, one who served his country with a love that was real, and absolutely devoid of self-seeking. It saw a fervent Catholic, efficient and capable in public affairs, upright and honourable in thought and act, gifted besides with a distinguished appearance and a charm of manner that made him popular even with opponents.

Prayer, as we have said, took first place in his life. Then came duty, done faithfully in public and private life; trials and disappointments, sickness and pain borne silently and taken

cheerfully as coming from God's hand; and charity to others, shown in words and deeds of kindness to the sick, in practical help to the poor, in thoughtful attentions to the afflicted and forgotten-these little attentions that count for so much, and call for no small self-denial on our part. But his charity was best shown in his relations to those who were stubborn, selfish, and perverse. To such, in political life and outside it, he was in a striking degree patient and forbearing, slow to judge, careful that no word of his should stir up strife or increase ill will; anxious, above all things, to conciliate and. meet his opponents half way. He was essentially a man of peace, just to all, ready to look at both sides of a question, ready, if possible, to compromise rather than crush-a frame of mind to be attributed no doubt to his sincere humility..

At the same time, as became one whose mission lay in the midst of the world, he was in all externals strictly normal. To one meeting Mr. Power casually in society or in public life, he appeared like an ordinary courteous gentleman, of genial manners, a keen sense of humour, and with a capacity for that almost lost art, a hearty laugh. In every phase of politics and social questions he was deeply interested, but country life and country sports appealed to his tastes most of all. Hunting, shooting, golf, football, in all such things he excelled so long as his health permitted, and it was no small trial to him to lay most of them by when he entered on Parliamentary life.

To those in his own home it seemed the thought of death was constantly in his mind, as though he expected the call at any moment. It may be that long years of ill-health kept him on the alert, kept him in mind of Our Saviour's many words of warning:"Blessed is that servant whom when the Lord cometh, He shall find watching." And when the summons came, as it did with startling suddenness, when he was struck down into apparent unconsciousness at midnight on his return from the House of Commons, we may feel assured that in that hour Our Lady's servant was found watching, his lamp trimmed for the last journey, his life-work done, his heart ready in death as in life to do God's will.

L. E. O.

In memory of Very Rev. John FitzGerald, P.P., Manister, Co

Limerick, buried April 30, 1914.

W1

BRIXLEGG

HERE is Brixlegg? Probably very few Irishmen have ever heard of the name, much less visited the village. Perhaps our missionary saints of yore set foot there; at least it must have been near the journeys of Feargal. The name itself is not helpful; few of the names in this lccality are-Hall, Sistrans, Absam, Lans, Natters, Mutters. You can reach Brixlegg from Innsbruck in an hour's journey with the slowest possible train. It is a Tyrolese village in the Inn valley eastward from the famous capital of Tyrol.

On the first Sunday in last October our party started from Innsbruck somewhere about eight o'clock in the morning. To board a train in an Austrian station is no light achievement, for a waste of rails lies between the covering shed, by courtesy the "platform," and the possible train. On that morning we essayed several trains, and retreated as often before others that threatened to cut our communications with the shed. At last we found a train that was not merely performing shuntingtrials and took our places. It was the "passenger train that would stop at Brixlegg and at all other interesting stations. Modern life does not aid in the growth of a simple piety. We were on our way to see a Passion Play; had we been in the ages of faith we should have gone only afoot and been glad of all the pains-somehow it is very hard to derive any spiritual profit from the vagaries of a railroad.

As we crept along the valley, the clouds were rolling low, hiding the mountains that shut in this little world. We are high up here, two thousand feet above sea-level, and the clouds. come down to us. Still we could watch, beside us, the swift Inn, with its ice-grey water, and catch further glimpses of the green fir-clad hills from which the mountains rise. When we reached Hall the mist was clearing. The old Münze Tower, with its company of twisted streets, was a first reminder of another more romantic age that has been lived in the Tyrc and is but lately gone. In Hall there still lives a wonderful child of that other age, the wood-carver, Bachlechner; remember that the local master is the medieval type and that art was then of the people.

On went our train, and now we could see more of the hard, cold grey limestone mountains, standing up from the rich green of the hills. Here and there we saw the long blank walls, the towers, and the loop-holes of ancient castles, where still live barons and freiherrs. The railway could not deprive us of all preparation for a Passion Play. One must put on a medieval garb of thought.

On leaving the station we must go some hundred yards along a path muddy with the morning's rain. The path had no hedge or fence, but was full in view of some shops that lay at the head of the village street. Leaning against the doorpost of one of these shops, a general store, if I remember aright, was a portly man he was grey-haired; his face was cleanshaven and his features of that peculiar cast that lies between heavy and hard; his head was massive; his whole bearing was that of a man to whom it was an every-day occurrence to be observed of others and to observe-from his higher plane. He was in his shirt sleeves and smoked the usual long Tyrolese pipe. It was Pilate. He was not due at the theatre till the afternoon, but the arrival of the morning train stirred his dignity to life. We paid him the tribute of a prolonged inspection; one feels that greatness is beyond the region where politeness protects shrinking mediocrity.

Tyrolese peasants often remind one of our own Irish peasantry in their build and gentlemanly deportment. On this day we noticed a new trait of resemblance: the men-folk were assembled on and about the bridge. But the surroundings are strange. The houses are more spacious than in Ireland, more artistic in their decoration, and far more individual; they are individual in their variety of verandahs and of projecting roofeaves and in their varying degrees of forwardness or aloofness. A Tyrolese village is a picturesque entity, even when in most commonplace surroundings. The air seems somewhat more that of the farmyard than it does in Ireland; but that is merely a token of more general prosperity.

We passed through the scattered groups, receiving as we went a good many salutes and not a few Grüss Gotts" (corresponding to the good old Irish "Dia dhuit "). We could see that many of the men and boys had the long hair that must be so carefully cultivated by the Passion Play actors. Only very few, even among the young boys, wore the elaborately embroidered knee-breeches and the complicated suspenders that ought to be part of the Tyrolese man's dress. The age of