The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1909-10-23

rings of stone prayer becomes more and
more toilsome, for what little earth lies
in the rocks is soon beaten to mud.
Generations of pilgrims have taken the
sharp edge off the rocks but bruises
still lie in wait for tender feet.
After the"buds" we went down and
prayed ankle-deep in the water and
again kneeling on the stone shore. The
station" concluded with a visit to the
Blessed Sacrament After completing
three of these we broke our fast on
black tea and oatmeal.
After a short rest we betook our
selves to st. Patrick's chapel for the
Stations of the Cross.
The night shadows had fallen. and
but for two tapers the chapel was grim
ly dark. 1t was something strange and
weird, without counterpart on this
earth, to look round at the rows of
white. haggard faces peering in the
fragile candle light.
Generations of Gaels have spent a
night there gathered from every quar-
ter of Ireland, for few of the Irish
care to die without a glimpse of what
they are coming to. All that night we
kept vigil in one prison house reciting
the next days stations by advance
Men and women, old and young, were
there. All that blessed night we prayed
and our priests, weary and barefooted
as ourselves, led us through an unend-
ing Rosary.
With the fall of night the world
Slipped away. We seemed to stand in
dim place where two worlds meet.
AT intervals we walked out into the
misty starlight and stamped little
warmth into our feet. The noiseless
going in and out of the watchers was
too eerie for words. Truly we seemed
to be doing Purgatory for ourselves
and our dead.
All night our voices rose and fell and
the waves beat unseen at our feet. At
dawn white spectral mist hung over
the waters, and in a kind of dream we
went over to st. Marys chapel for mass.
Then came a first touch of color to
remind us we were still in the world
of sense and not of shadow. for such
of our wan company as were priests
drew pale gold vestments over their
shoulders and said mass in a haze of
red candlelight. And the day was the
second day.
Later on confessions were heard by
the island clergy, and we proceeded to
a sermon brief and simple, but, spoken
in that mysterious atmosphere to us
Of last words spoken before the grave.
The rain was falling keen and pitiless.
and the wind was breaking the Tough
water into long foamy streaks
The preacher looked round on the
desolate weather and, asked US to bear
with a good heart, if God saw fit to
add to our penancc.
The rest of that day we looked for
ward to our black tea and our first
nights rest. Before bed that night we
heard the Stations of the Cross in COM
pany with a fresh batch of pilgrims,
who were to take our place that night
in prison" Then we slept very thank
fully in the hospice, for all the cry
ing of wind and tapping of water out
side. In the morning the bell rang at
five for mass. We went down to ST.
Patrick's chapel and received COM
munion from the prior. 1t was the re-
ward of all our labor. The Church could
give no better.
Then, with hearts refreshed, we
turned to accomplish the three remain
ing stations. In spite of the dripping
rain and the slippery rocks, there was
a feeling of 1.-The joy that cometh in
the morning" for we moved like men
who had laid down heavy loads. To-
ward midday there came rift in the
storm, and we left the island with dry
skins, but still carrying our fast"
with us.
From the mainland we could see 9TH
ers taking our place and moving like
dim shadows about the prayer-stones of
the dead
Such is Derg. the Mecca of the Gaelic
people, spiritual venture that is still
unique in Christendom, a relic of the
stern old days when the saints lived
with God on the bleak hillsides, and
communed with Him in the teeth of
the storm.
In spite of persecution and enmity the
old pilgrimage has lived on, for Rome
has blessed the penitence and sorrow of
Ireland
There is only one Church that can
accept the pageantry of the south and
the discipline of the north and offer
both equally to God, leaving each under !
her blessing, to make out their own |
whether it be with song and !
banner through the vineyards of Italy |
Or with tears amid the gray rocks of |
Leslie in London |
Tablet.
A Rule of Life.
DIR. G. f Butler in Chica % Journal \ |