s of potent impulse. His whole soul must be
full of a sacred fear as he draws closer to the gate, the opening of
which may give him a nearer glimpse of the secret. The humble sense of
failure will be a bright and noble thought, because it will show him
how much the mystery transcends the most daring hope and dream.

XXXI

I was present in a great church the other day at a service held at the
hour of sunset The dying light fell richly through the stained windows,
lending a deep and beautiful mystery to the scenes there depicted. The
pale faces of pictured saints, with their rich robes, were outlined
with a pathetic sweetness against backgrounds of solemn buildings or
confused woods. The lighted tapers of the choir threw a faint glow up
to the intricate roof, which seemed flooded with a golden mist; the
gilt pipes of the organ gleamed softly; the music began to roll and
stir, with a grave melodious thunder, like the voice of a dreaming
spirit. A procession of white-vested figures moved with a ceremonial
dignity to their places, and then the service proceeded through soft
gradations of prayer and praise, in words of exquisite and restrained
felicity, all haunted with the echoes of the ages. I sate alone, a
silent listener, and it seemed to me that every appeal which the beauty
of art could make to the spirit was here delicately displayed. Eye and
ear, emotion and intellect, were alike thrilled and satisfied. They
sang the 119th Psalm, that perfect expression of holy quietude: "Thy
testimonies are wonderful; therefore doth my soul seek them."
Wonderful, indeed, and gracious, sweet as honey. The heart, in that
glad moment, drew near to the tender Father of life, who seemed, as in
the old parable, to see the repentant son of his heart wandering sadly
a long way off, to go forth to meet him, and to fill the house with
light and music, that he might feel it to be home indeed.

That the instinct that has drawn all the treasures of art into its
service, and with them welcomes and sustains the wearied soul, is a
pure and beautiful one, I make no doubt. But then I thought of all that
lies outside: of crowded cities, of the ugly mirth, the sordid cares of
men and women; of the dark laws that wound and slay; of pain and shame;
of tired labour and cruelty and harshness, of lust and greediness.

I thought of how few there were of mankind to whom the sweet pomp which
I sate to see and hear makes any appeal, I thought that for