duction, I require a new terminology and a new personal experience.—
—Of course—said Lynch.—After all Aquinas, in spite of his intellect, was exactly a good round friar. But you will tell me about the new personal experience and new terminology some other day. Hurry up and finish the first part.—
—Who knows?—said Stephen, smiling.—Perhaps Aquinas would understand me better than you. He was a poet himself. He wrote a hymn for Maundy Thursday. It begins with the words Pange lingua gloriosi. They say it is the highest glory of the hymnal. It is an intricate and soothing hymn. I like it: but there is no hymn that can be put beside that mournful and majestic processional song, the Vexilla Regis of Venantius Fortunatus.—
Lynch began to sing softly and solemnly in a deep bass voice:
Inpleta sunt quæ concinit
David fideli carmine
Dicendo nationibus
Regnavit a lingo Deus.
—That's great!—he said, well pleased.—Great music!—
They turned into Lower Mount Street. A few steps from the corner a fat young man, wearing a silk neckcloth, saluted them and stopped.—Did you hear the results of the exams.?—he asked.—Griffin was plucked. Halpin and O'Flynn are through the home civil. Moonan got fifth place in the Indian. O'Shaughnessy got fourteenth. The Irish fellows in Clark's gave them a feed last night. They all ate curry.—
[246]
