And my proof that modern Christians
Keep the fervent souls of yore
Are the men whose hats are lifted,
As they pass the church's door.

From the school-boy with his satchel,
To the old man with his cane;
From the rich man in his carriage,
To the tramp that all disdain;
From the coal-cart's smutty driver,
To the youth in fashions neat ;
From the postman on his circuit,
To the officer on beat;

From the child whose heart is spotless
To the man whom sins defile;
From the mourner bowed with sorrow,
To the jester with his smile;
From the strong with life before him,
To the weak whose span is o'er,-
One and all lift hats in homage,

As they pass the church's door.

Now and then a boy looks shamefaced And a blushing youth looks shy; Here and there a man lags backward, Till his comrades have passed by; Or a timid hand is lowered

Ere it gains the hat-brim's height, For the laughter of the worldling

Puts the craven's faith to flight. Yet the grace of God suffices

Nature's cowardice to shame,
And the "courage of conviction

Is but Honour's better name.
For the human loves the loyal;
And its glory bides in store
For the men whose hats are lifted,
As they pass the church's door.

Oh, I think reward lurks even

In the reverent action done :
For the school-boy's eyes are happy
As he passes on a run;

And the rich man's face is softer,
And the vagrant stands erect,

And the coal-cart driver whistles,

And the dude gains self-respect.

And the postman's step is lighter,
And the officer looks mild;
And the man of sin smiles gently
On the sinless little child;

And the sad and glad seem kindred,
Who were aliens before;

And the strong and weak are brothers,
As they pass the church's door!

For the Captive of the chalice-
Peter's sacrificial Dove-

Is the God of peace and concord,
And the Christ of tender love.
And His gentle benediction

Rests upon His faithful own,
Who salute the world's Redeemer
On His sacramental throne !
So the smile of the Good Shepherd

Speeds His flock upon Life's way,
Through the earthly shadows drifting
Towards the dawn of Heaven's day;-
And though sin and sorrow menace,
Yet God's blessing hovers o'er
Boy and man whose hats are lifted,
As they pass the church's door!

O, surviving sign of worship,

Mute acknowledgment of Christ
Present on the mystic altar

Of the Holy Eucharist!
By thy witness, Faith is victor;
And its least and humblest sons
Are the noblest human heroes--

Christian Life's immortal ones!
Blessed are the hands uplifted.

Be they palms of king or slave!
Blessed are the manly foreheads

Bared and bowed in tribute brave!
Welcome to My Father's mansions,"
Christ shall say, when life is o'er
To the men whose hats are lifted,
As they pass the church's door!

MARY SARSFIELD GILMORE.

L

A PILGRIMAGE TO LOUGH DERG *

EAVING our home among the mountains on a sunny morning in August, we entered the steam tram at a place called by the patriarchal name of Jobstown, and were duly set down at Terenure on the outskirts of Dublin. We were bound for Pettigo, in the County of Donegal, our ultimate destination being the famous island in Lough Derg, which has for many centuries attracted pilgrims from all parts of the world.

Our train left Amiens Street Railway Station at three o'clock in the afternoon, and a very interesting journey we found it through so many counties that were new to us. The rich pastures of Louth, varied here and there by well-tilled fields, and the glorious coast-line skirting Dundalk Bay, on the waters of which gleamed the many-coloured rocks of Clogher Head, were things of beauty for the eye. Then the panorama grew wider, and the stately range of Carlingford mountains came into full view, deeply purpled with heather, and later on the lofty peaks of the Mournes, ending in that huge mountaingiant, Slieve Donard. It was with regret that we found ourselves turning inland and speeding rapidly through the dreary stretch of country that lies between the east and west coasts. Fields and hills are green in that undulating county of Monaghan, but trees are scarce, and there is a monotony that soon palls on the vision. Mile after mile the country grew more barren and more desolate, the only thing of interest being a flash of water as we passed Lough Erne towards our journey's end.

It was after seven o'clock when we reached Pettigo, where we alighted quickly and found ourselves among a large crowd all bound for Lough Derg. On the platform were a few men from the different hotels seeking customers for the long drive to the lake, but to our surprise no cars were seen outside the railway station, and we were compelled to follow our guide through the town and up a lane narrow to a little hostelry, where we were further detained for nearly an hour waiting for our vehicles. Twilight had deepened considerably before these

His

*At page 20 of our sixth volume (January, 1878) will be found an article on Lough Derg by "J. H."--namely, the present Archbishop of Tuam, who was then a country curate, the Rev. John Healy. paper is a very learned historical and antiquarian account of this famous place of pilgrimage.-ED. I. M.

were brought round and we were huddled anyway on to them, packed in most uncomfortable fashion, and clinging on for dear life.

"How many miles is it to the lake?" we enquired of the driver.

"Oh, 'tis about four miles," quoth he. Those four miles took us an hour and a half to accomplish, and we came to the conclusion that the driver either had no idea of distance, or that he wished to spare us the disagreeable truth.

The town of Pettigo looked squalid and dreary as we passed through, and we were glad when the open country lay before us. It was a glorious moonlight night, showing up every detail of field and mountain. Closely we studied the landscape, and as mile after mile was passed the wonder grew in us that the few inhabitants of these wild regions could eke out even a bare subsistence from the soil. Homesteads were sparse and scattered. Of beasts we saw none. The land lay a dreary waste, the hills untenanted and bare. Bog and moorland lay partly under water, the turf spread thinly in few places and of a poor quality. How the destitute cottiers of this forsaken tract of country drag out their miserable existence and pay rent and taxes and dues, is known only to God, in whom they trust so devotedly. Providence alone can lighten their burden. Providence alone can soften their lot. There was grandeur of a kind in the mountains, rocky and heather-clad, but the poor vegetation, dank and sodden, wind-swept and cold, brought a chill to the heart.

On we toiled-the weary, lean horses dragging a long succession of cars and every description of vehicle over the monotonous, hilly road, till at last a pale, silvery gleam of flat surface lay ahead, and we saw the waters of Lough Derg glinting in the moonlight. Cramped and benumbed from the night wind and long sitting, we were glad to descend and stretch our limbs. The fare charged for each person was ninepence, and having paid our drivers we groped our way in the uncertain light of the cloud-swept moon, supplemented by a lantern held by a boatman, down a steep incline over slippery rocks to the boat that lay waiting for us. There was no time to survey the scene. We were literally flung helter-skelter, treading on each other's heels and toes, a screaming, laughing, disorderly crowd, into the boat that was all too small for its heavy freight. Nevertheless, nothing but good humour prevailed. Somebody remarked that if we went down there were two priests on board to give us absolution! It struck us as not at all unlikely that we would go down, for not only were seats over-crowded, but passengers

were sitting on the sides of the boat, and how the oarsmen found room to ply their oars was a mystery.

Overhead the moon shone out, and threw a silver streak in our wake. Yonder, before us the yellow lights on Station Island dotted the blackness that withheld all else from our view. All around us lay the low hills that confined the waters, and here and there we discovered small islands clad with trees that threw their shadows far down into the depths of the lake.

It was after ten o'clock when our boat touched the little landing stage of the island, and instantly the cry was sauve qui peut, for the rule of "first come, first served" obtained here. Grasping our impedimenta, we scrambled ashore one after another, in a wild rush to look for beds. There was no one to guide us as to where to go or how to proceed, so we made for the first open door showing a hospitable light. This door proved to be the entrance to the guest-house where, however, we were confronted with the intimation that there was not a bed to spare. We therefore passed on to the next door where a number of fellow-passengers were clamouring for shelter. And here, in the hospice, after much adroit manoeuvring accompanied by difficulty and delay, we succeeded in finding two vacant beds in a large, low-roofed dormitory, where the occupants were fast asleep and all was darkness.

Throwing cloaks and bags on our beds to ensure possession, we returned to the guest-house for supper. Here we found assembled a miscellaneous group of both sexes and of all classes, doing full justice to the refreshment provided. This consisted, according to one's fancy or appetite, of tea, hot or cold meat, eggs, and bacon, with good bread and butter. There is no distinction of class on Station Island, so priest, peasant, labourer, gentleman, and lady, put aside every consideration save that all are pilgrims for the time being, and eat together and converse together on perfectly equal terms. During supper all were agreeable, and friendly, and jests and laughter prevailed till it was time to go to bed. For our repast we paid according to what we had eaten, one shilling for tea and bread and butter, and extra in proportion.

Leaving the guest-house, we went to the margin of the lake and looked over the still, moonlit waters, and a strange feeling of spiritual contact with olden times came upon us as we tried to realize that we were, in this busy twentieth century, in this prosaic, work-a-day world, about to join in the almost identical penitential exercises that had been performed by the early Irish Christians and Saints, and that have been performed year after year with almost unbroken continuity since our National