Chapter 12

LEGENDARY AND POETICAL.

Well beseems That we should help them wash away the stains They carried hence; that so, made pure and light, They may spring upward to the starry spheres. Ah! so may mercy tempered justice rid Your burdens speedily; that ye have power To stretch your wing, which e'en to your desire Shall lift you.

--DANTE.

LEGENDARY AND POETICAL.

DIES IRÆ.

The day of wrath, that dreadful day Shall the whole world in ashes lay, As David and Sybils say.

What horror will invade the mind, When the strict Judge, who would be kind, Shall have few venial faults to find!

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound Must thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations underground.

Nature and death shall with surprise Behold the pale offender rise, And view the Judge with conscious eyes.

Then shall with universal dread, The sacred mystic book be read, To try the living and the dead.

The Judge ascends His awful throne, He makes each secret sin be known, And all with shame confess their own.

O then! what int'rest shall I make, To save my last important stake, When the most just have cause to quake!

Thou mighty formidable King! Thou mercy's unexhausted spring! Some comfortable pity bring. Forget not what my ransom cost, Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost, In storms of guilty terror tost.

Thou, who for me didst feel such pain, Whose precious blood the cross did stain, Let not those agonies be vain.

Thou whom avenging powers obey, Cancel my debt (too great to pay) Before the said accounting day.

Surrounded with amazing fears, Whose load my soul with anguish hears, I sigh, I weep, accept my tears.

Thou, who wast mov'd with Mary's grief, And by absolving of the thief, Hast given me hope, now give relief.

Reject not my unworthy prayer, Preserve me from the dangerous snare,

Which death and gaping hell prepare.

Give my exalted soul a place Among the chosen right hand race, The sons of God, and heirs of grace.

From that insatiate abyss, Where flames devour and serpents hiss, Promote me to Thy seat of bliss.

Prostrate, my contrite heart I rend, My God, my Father, and my Friend: Do not forsake me in my end.

Well may they curse their second birth, Who rise to a surviving death. Thou great Creator of mankind, Let guilty man compassion find.--_Amen_.

AUTHORSHIP OF THE DIES IRÆ.

O'BRIEN. [1]

[Footnote 1: Rev. John O'Brien, A.M., Prof. of Sacred Liturgy in Mount St. Mary's College, Emmettsburg, Md.]

The authorship of the "Dies Iræ" seems the most difficult to settle. This much, however, is certain: that he who has the strongest claims to it is Latino Orsini, generally styled _Frangipani_, whom his maternal uncle, Pope Nicholas III. (Gætano Orsini), raised to the cardinalate in 1278. He was more generally known by the name of Cardinal Malabranca, and was, at first, a member of the Order of St. Dominic. (See _Dublin Review_, Vol. XX., 1846; Gavantus, Thesaur. Sacr. Rit., p. 490.)

As this sacred hymn is conceded to be one of the grandest that has ever been written, it is but natural to expect that the number of authors claiming it would be very large. Some even have attributed it to Pope Gregory the Great, who lived as far back as the year 604. St. Bernard, too, is mentioned in connection with it, and so are several others; but as it is hardly necessary to mention all, we shall only say that, after Cardinal Orsini, the claims to it on the part of Thomas de Celano, of the Order of Franciscans Minor, are the greatest. There is very little reason for attributing it to Father Humbert, the fifth general of the Dominicans in 1273; and hardly any at all for accrediting it to Augustinus de Biella, of the Order of Augustinian Eremites. A very widely circulated opinion is that the "Dies Iræ," as it now stands, is but an improved form of a Sequence which was long in use before the age of any of those authors whom we have cited. Gavantus gives us, at page 490 of his "Thesaurus of Sacred Rites," a few stanzas of this ancient sequence. [1]

[Footnote 1: We subjoin this Latin stanza: Cum recordor moriturus, Quid post mortem sum futurus Terror terret me venturus, Queru expecto non securus.]

* * * * *

To repeat what learned critics of every denomination under heaven have said in praise of this marvellous hymn, would indeed be a difficult task. One of its greatest encomiums is, that there is hardly a language in Europe into which it has not been translated; it has even found its way into Greek and Hebrew--into the former, through an English missionary of Syria, named Hildner; and into the latter, by Splieth, a celebrated Orientalist. Mozart avowed his extreme admiration of it, and so did Dr. Johnson, Sir Walter Scott, and Jeremy Taylor, besides hosts of others. The encomium passed upon it by Schaff is thus given in his own words: "This marvellous hymn is the acknowledged master-piece of Latin poetry and the most sublime of all uninspired hymns. The secret of its irresistible power lies in the awful grandeur of the theme, the intense earnestness and pathos of the poet, the simple majesty and solemn music of its language, the stately metre, the triple rhyme, and the vocal assonances, chosen in striking adaptation--all combining to produce an overwhelming effect, as if we heard the final crash of the universe, the commotion of the opening graves, the trumpet of the archangel summoning the quick and the dead, and saw the King 'of tremendous majesty' seated on the throne of justice and mercy, and ready to dispense everlasting life, or everlasting woe." (See "Latin Hymns," Vol. I. p. 392, by Prof. March, of Lafayette College, Pa.)

The music of this hymn formed a chief part in the fame of Mozart; and it is said, and not without reason, that it contributed in no small degree to hasten his death, for so excited did he become over its awe- enkindling sentiments while writing his celebrated "Mass of Requiem," that a sort of minor paralysis seized his whole frame, so

Terret dies me terroris, Dies irae, ac furoris, Dies luctus, ac moeroris, Dies ultrix peccatoris, Dies irae, dies illa, etc, etc.

that he was heard to say: "I am certain that I am writing this Requiem for myself. It will be my funeral service." He never lived to finish it; the credit of having done so belongs to Sussmayer, a man of great musical attainments, and a most intimate friend of the Mozart family.-- _Dublin Review_, Vol. I., May, 1836.

The allusion to the sibyl in the third line of the first stanza, "Teste David cum Sybilla," [1] has given rise to a good deal of anxious inquiry; and so very strange did it sound to French ears at its introduction into the sacred hymnology of the Church, that the Parisian rituals substituted in its place the line, _Crucis expandens vexilla_. The difficulty is, however, easily overcome if we bear in mind that many of the early Fathers held that Almighty God made use of these sibyls to promulgate His truths in just the same way as He did of Balaam of old, and many others like him. The great St. Augustine has written much on this subject in his "City of God;" and the reader may form some idea of the estimation in which these sibyls were held, when he is told that the world-renowned Michael Angelo made them the subject of one of his greatest paintings.... In the opinions of the ablest critics it was the Erythrean sibyl who uttered the celebrated prediction about the advent of our Divine Lord and His final coming at the last day to judge the living and the dead.... The part of the sibyl's response which referred particularly to the Day of Judgment was written (as an acrostic) on the letters of Soter, or Saviour. It is given as follows in the translation of the "City of God" of St. Augustine:

[Footnote 1: As David and Sibyls say.]

"Sounding, the archangel's trumpet shall peal down from heaven, Over the wicked who groan in their guilt and their manifold sorrows, Trembling, the earth shall be opened, revealing chaos and hell. Every king before God shall stand on that day to be judged; Rivers of fire and of brimstone shall fall from the heavens."

DANTE'S "PURGATORIO."

The bright sun was risen More than two hours aloft; and to the sea My looks were turned. "Fear not," my master cried. "Assured we are at happy point. Thy strength Shrink not, but rise dilated. Thou art come To Purgatory now. Lo! there the cliff That circling bounds it. Lo! the entrance there, Where it doth seem disparted."...

Reader! thou markest how my theme doth rise; Nor wonder, therefore, if more artfully I prop the structure. Nearer now we drew, Arrived whence, in that part where first a breach As of a wall appeared. I could descry A portal, and three steps beneath, that led For inlet there, of different color each; And one who watched, but spake not yet a word, As more and more mine eye did stretch its view, I marked him seated on the highest step, In visage such as past my power to bear. Grasped in his hand, a naked sword glanced back The rays so towards me, that I oft in vain My sight directed. "Speak from whence ye stand," He cried; "What would ye? Where is your escort? Take heed your coming upward harm ye not."

"A heavenly dame, not skilless of these things," Replied the instructor, "told us, even now, 'Pass that way, here the gate is.'" "And may she, Befriending, prosper your ascent," resumed The courteous keeper of the gate. "Come, then, Before our steps." We straightway thither came.

The lowest stair was marble white, so smooth And polished, that therein my mirrored form Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block Cracked lengthwise and across. The third, that lay Massy above, seemed porphyry, that flamed Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein. On this God's Angel either foot sustained, Upon the threshold seated, which appeared A rock of diamond. Up the trinal steps My leader cheerily drew me. "Ask," said he, "With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt." Piously at his holy feet devolved I cast me, praying him, for pity's sake, That he would open to me; but first fell Thrice on my bosom prostrate. Seven times The letter that denotes the inward stain, He, on my forehead, with the blunted point Of his drawn sword, inscribed. And "Look," he cried, "When entered, that thou wash these scars away." Ashes, or earth ta'en dry out of the ground, Were of one color with the robe he wore. From underneath that vestment forth he drew Two keys, of metal twain; the one was gold, Its fellow, silver. With the pallid first, And next the burnished, he so plyed the gate, As to content me well. "Whenever one Faileth of these that in the key-hole straight It turn not, to this alley then expect Access in vain." Such were the words he spake. "One is more precious, but the other needs Skill and sagacity, large share of each, Ere its good task to disengage the knot Be worthily performed. From Peter these I hold, of him instructed that I err Rather in opening, than in keeping fast; So but the suppliant at my feet implore."

Then of that hallowed gate he thrust the door. Exclaiming, "Enter, but this warning hear: He forth again departs who looks behind."

As in the hinges of that sacred ward The swivels turned, sonorous metal strong. Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily Rocked the Tarpeian when by force bereft Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss To leanness doomed. Attentively I turned, Listening the thunder that first issued forth; And "We praise Thee, O God," methought I heard, In accents blended with sweet melody. The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound Of choral voices, that in solemn chant With organ mingle, and, now high and clear Come swelling, now float indistinct away.--_Canto IX_.

* * * * *

Hell's dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark, Of every planet reft, and palled in clouds, Did never spread before the sight a veil In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense So palpable and gross. Entering its shade, Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids; Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide, Offering me his shoulder for a stay.

As the blind man behind his leader walks, Lest he should err, or stumble unawares On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy; I journeyed through that bitter air and foul, Still listening to my escort's warning voice,

"Look that from me thou part not." Straight I heard Voices, and each one seemed to pray for peace, And for compassion to the Lamb of God That taketh sins away. The prelude still Was "Agnus Dei;" and, through all the choir, One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seemed The concord of their song. "Are these I hear Spirits, O Master?" I exclaimed; and he, "Thou aim'st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath."--_Canto_ XVI.

* * * * *

Forthwith from every side a shout arose So vehement, that suddenly my guide Drew near, and cried: "Doubt not, while I conduct thee." "Glory!" all shouted (such the sounds mine ear Gathered from those who near me swelled the sounds), "Glory in the highest be to God!" We stood Immovably suspended, like to those, The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem's field That song: till ceased the trembling, and the song Was ended: then our hallowed path resumed, Eyeing the prostrate shadows, who renewed Their customed mourning. Never in my breast Did ignorance so struggle with desire Of knowledge, if my memory do not err, As in that moment; nor, through haste, dared I To question, nor myself could aught discern. So on I fared, in thoughtfulness and dread.--_Canto XX._

* * * * *

Now the last flexure of our way we reached; And, to the right hand turning, other care Awaits us. Here the rocky precipice Hurls forth redundant flames; and from the rim A blast up-blown, with forcible rebuff Driveth them back, sequestered from its bound.

Behooved us, one by one, along the side, That bordered on the void, to pass; and I Feared on one hand the fire, on the other feared Headlong to fall: when thus the instructor warned: "Strict rein must in this place direct the eyes. A little swerving and the way is lost."

Then from the bosom of the burning mass, "O God of mercy!" heard I sung, and felt No less desire to turn. And when I saw Spirits along the flame proceeding, I Between their footsteps and mine own was fain To share by turns my view. At the hymn's close They shouted loud, "I do not know a man;" [1] Then in low voice again took up the strain.-_Canto XXV_.

[Footnote 1: _I do not know a man._ St. Luke, i. 34.]

* * * * *

Now was the sun [1] so stationed, as when first His early radiance quivers on the heights Where streamed his Maker's blood; while Libra hangs Above Hesperian Ebro; and new fires, Meridian, flash on Ganges' yellow tide. So day was sinking, when the Angel of God Appeared before us. Joy was in his mien. Forth of the flame he stood--upon the brink; And with a voice, whose lively clearness far Surpassed our human, "Blessed are the pure In heart," he sang; then, near him as we came, "Go ye not further, holy spirits," he cried, "Ere the fire pierce you; enter in, and list Attentive to the song ye hear from thence." I, when I heard his saying, was as one Laid in the grave. My hands together clasped, And upward stretching, on the fire I looked, And busy fancy conjured up the forms, Erewhile beheld alive, consumed in flames.--_Canto XXVII._

[Footnote 1: At Jerusalem it was dawn, in Spain midnight, and in India noonday, while it was sunset in Purgatory]

HAMLET AND THE GHOST.

SHAKESPEARE.

HAMLET. Where wilt thou lead me? Speak, I'll go no further. GHOST. Mark me. HAM. I will. GHOST. My hour is almost come, When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames Must render up myself. HAM. Alas! poor ghost! GHOST. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold. HAM. Speak, I am bound to hear. GHOST. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. HAM. What? GHOST. I am thy father's spirit; Doomed for a certain time to walk the night; And, for the day, confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood; Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine; But this eternal blason must not be To ears of flesh and blood.

CALDERON'S "PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK."

In a work of this nature, it is essential to its purpose that the compiler should take cognizance of the many legends, wild and extravagant as some of them are, which have been current at various times and amongst various peoples, on the subject of Purgatory. For they have, indeed, a deep significance, proving how strong a hold this belief in a middle state of souls has taken on the popular mind. They are, in a certain sense, a part of Catholic tradition, and have to do with what is called Catholic instinct. They prove that this dogma of the Church has found a home in the hearts of the people, and become familiar to them, as the tales of childhood whispered around the winter hearth. If it appear now and then, in some such uncouth disguise, as that which we, are about to present to our readers, we see, nevertheless, through it all the truth, or rather the fragments of truth, such as is often found floating about through Europe on the breath of tradition. The curious legend has been turned by Calderon from dross into precious gold. He presents it to us in his "Purgatory of St. Patrick" with a beauty that divests it of much of its native wildness. He presumably drew his materials for the drama from a work, "The Life and Purgatory of St. Patrick," published in Spain in 1627 by Montalvan, a Spanish dramatist. It was translated into French by a Franciscan priest and doctor of theology, François Bouillon; as also into Portuguese by Father Manuel Caldeira. When this work was issued Calderon was wish the army in Flanders. He must have seen it, his brilliant imagination at once taking hold of it as the groundwork for a splendid effort of his genius.

We cite here an extract from an introduction by Denis Florence MacCarthy to his translation of Calderon's "Purgatory of St. Patrick." It will be of interest as following the thread of this weird legend:

The curious history of Ludovico Enio, on which the principal interest of this play depends, has been alluded to, and given more or less fully by many ancient authors. The name, though slightly altered by the different persons who have mentioned him, can easily be recognized as the same in all, whether as Owen, Oien, Owain, Eogan, Euenius, or Ennius. Perhaps the earliest allusion to him in any printed English work is that contained in 'Ranulph Hidgen's Polychronicon,' published at Westminster by Wynkin de Worde, in 1495: 'In this Steven's tyme, a knyght that hyght Owen wente into the Purgatory of the second Patrick, abbot, and not byshoppe. He came agayne and dwelled in the abbaye of Ludene of Whyte Monks in Irlonde, and tolde of joycs and of paynes that he had seen.'

The history of Enio had, however, existed in manuscript for nearly three centuries and a half before the Polychronicon was printed; it had been written by Henry, the Monk of Salterey, in Huntingdonshire, from the account which he had received from Gilbert, a Cistercian monk of the Abbey of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Luden, or Louth, above mentioned. [1] Colgan, after collating this manuscript with two others on the same subject, which he had seen, printed it nearly in full in his "Trias." ... Matthew Paris had, however, before this, in his "History of England," under date 1153, given a full account of the adventures of OEnus in the Purgatory. ... Sir Walter Scott mentions, in his "Border Minstrelsy," that there is a curious Metrical Romance in the Advocates' Library of Edinburgh, called "The Legend of Sir Owain," relating his adventures in St. Patrick's Purgatory; he gives some stanzas from it, descriptive of the knight's passage of "The Brig o' Dread;" which, in the legend, is placed between Purgatory and Paradise. This poem is supposed to have been written early in the fourteenth century.

[Footnote 1: Colgan's "Trias Thanmaturgæ," p. 281, Ware's "Annals of Ireland," A.D. 1497.]

A second extract on the subject, taken from the Essay by Mr. Wright on the "Purgatory of St. Patrick," published in London in 1844, gives still further information with regard to it.

"The mode," he says, "in which this legend was made public is thus told in the Latin narrative. Gervase (the founder and first Abbot of Louth, in Lincolnshire) sent his monk, Gilbert, to the king, then in Ireland, to obtain a grant to build a monastery there. Gilbert, on his arrival, complained to the king, Henry II., that he did not understand the language of the country. The king said to him,' I will give you an excellent interpreter,' and sent him the knight Owain, who remained with him during the time he was occupied in building the monastery, and repeated to him frequently the story of his adventures in Purgatory. Gilbert and his companions subsequently returned to England, and there he repeated the story, and some one said he thought it was all a dream, to which Gilbert answered: 'That there were some who believed that those who entered the Purgatory fell into a trance, and saw the vision in the spirit, but that the knight had denied this, and declared that the whole was seen and felt really in the body.' Both Gilbert, from whom Henry of Salterey received the story, and the bishop of the diocese, assured him that many perished in this Purgatory, and were never heard of afterwards." It is clear from the allusion to it in Cæsarius of Heisterbach, that already, at the beginning of the thirteenth century, St. Patrick's Purgatory had become famous throughout Europe. 'If any one doubt of Purgatory,' says this writer, 'let him go to Scotland (i. e., Ireland, to which this name was anciently given), and enter the Purgatory of St. Patrick, and his doubts will be expelled.' This recommendation was frequently acted upon in that, and particularly in the following century, when pilgrims from all parts of Europe, some of them men of rank and wealth, repaired thither. On the patent rolls in the Tower of London, under the year 1358, we have an instance of testimonials given by the king, Edward III., on the same day, to two distinguished foreigners, one a noble Hungarian, the other a Lombard, Nicholas de Becariis, of their having faithfully performed this pilgrimage. And still later, in 1397, we find King Richard II. granting a safe conduct to visit the same place to Raymond, Viscount of Perilhos, Knight of Rhodes, and Chamberlain of the King of France, with twenty men and thirty horses. Raymond de Perilhos, on his return to his native country, wrote a narrative of what he had seen, in the dialect of the Limousin (_Lemosinalingna_), of which a Latin version was printed by O'Sullivan in his '_Historia Catholica Ibernica.' ... This is a mere compilation from the story of 'Henry of Salterey,' and begins, like that, with an account of the origin of the Purgatory. He represents himself as having been first a minister to Charles V. of France, and subsequently the intimate friend of John I. of Aragon, after whose death (in 1395) he was seized with the desire of knowing how he was treated in the other world, and determined, like a new Æneas, to go into St. Patrick's Purgatory in search of him. He saw precisely the same sights as the knight, Owain, but (as in Calderon) only twelve men came to him in the hall instead of fifteen, and in the fourth hall of punishments he saw King John of Aragon, and many others of his friends and relations.

We will now select from the drama of "Calderon" a few characteristic passages, to show how this subject was treated by the glowing pen and fervid fancy of the greatest of all the poets of Catholic Spain, whose poetry, indeed, is deserving of more widespread appreciation than it has yet received at the hands of the Catholic reading public. We will begin with those lines in which Ludovico Enio, the hero of the tale, makes known his identity to King Egerio.

LUDOVICO. Listen, most beautiful divinity, For thus begins the story of my life. Great Egerio, King of Ireland, I

Am Ludovico Enio--a Christian also-- In this do Patrick and myself agree, And differ, being Christians both, And yet as opposite as good from evil. But for the faith which I sincerely hold (So greatly do I estimate its worth), I would lay down a hundred thousand lives-- Bear witness, thou all-seeing Lord and God.

. . . . . . All crimes, Theft, murder, treason, sacrilege, betrayal Of dearest friends, all these I must relate. For these are all my glory and my pride. In one of Ireland's many islands I Was born, and much do I suspect that all The planets seven, in wild confusion strange, Assisted at my most unhappy birth.

He proceeds with a catalogue of his crimes, most dark, indeed, and relates how St. Patrick, who was present, had saved him from shipwreck. The King, however, who is a pagan, takes the Knight into his service, while he bids the Saint begone. Before they part Patrick asks of him a favor:

PATRICK. This one boon I ask-- LUDOVICO. What is it? PATRICK. That, alive or dead, we meet In this world once again. LUDOVICO. Dost thou demand So strange and dread a promise from me? PATRICK. Yes. LUDOVICO. I give it to thee then. PATRICK. And I accept it.

What follows is from a conversation between Patrick and the King, wherein are explained many of the truths of faith, including the existence of heaven and of hell. Thus the Saint:

PATRICK. There are more places In the other world than those of Everlasting pain and glory: Learn, O King, that there's another, Which is Purgatory; whither Flies the soul that has departed In a state of grace; but bearing Still some stains of sin upon it: For with these no soul can enter God's pure kingdom--there it dwelleth Till it purifies and burneth All the dross from out its nature; Then it flieth, pure and limpid, Into God's divinest presence.

KING. So you say, but I have nothing, Save your own words, to convince me; Give me of the soul's existence Some strong proof--some indication-- Something tangible and certain-- Which my hands may feel and grasp at. And since you appear so powerful With your God, you can implore him, That to finish my conversion, He may show some real being, Not a mere ideal essence, Which all men can touch; remember, But one single hour remaineth For this task: this day you give us Certain proofs of pain or glory, Or you die: where we are standing Let your God display his wonders-- And since we, perhaps, may merit Neither punishment nor glory, Let the other place be shown us, Which you say is Purgatory.

PATRICK then prays, concluding with the words:

"I ask, O Lord, may from Thy hand be given, That Purgatory, Hell, and Heaven May be revealed unto those mortals' sight."

An Angel then descends and speaks as follows:

ANGEL. Patrick, God has heard thy prayer, He has listened to thy vows; And as thou hast ask'd, allows Earth's great secrets to lie bare. Seek along this island ground For a vast and darksome cave, Which restrains the lake's dark wave, And supports the mountains round; He who dares to go therein, Having first contritely told All his faults, shall there behold

Where the soul is purged from sin. He shall see with mortal eyes Hell itself--where those who die In their sins forever lie, In the fire that never dies. He shall see, in blest fruition, Where the happy spirits dwell. But of this be sure as well-- He who without true contrition Enters there to idly try What the cave may be, doth go To his death--he'll suffer woe While the Lord doth reign on high. Who this day shall set you free From this poor world's weariness;

He shall grant to you, in pity, Bliss undreamed by mortal men-- Making thee a denizen Of his own celestial city. He shall to the world proclaim His omnipotence and glory, By the wondrous Purgatory, Which shall bear thy sainted name.

Polonia, the King's daughter, whom Ludovico had married and deserted, having first tried to kill her, appears upon the scene just as the King, Patrick, and some others, who have set out upon their quest for the Purgatory, have reached a gloomy mountain and a deep cave. Polonia relates the wonders and the terrors of the cavern through which she has passed. Patrick then speaks as follows:

PATRICK. This cave, Egerio, which you see, concealeth Many mysteries of life and death, Not for him whose hardened bosom feeleth Nought of true repentance or true faith. But he who freely enters, who revealeth All his sins with penitential breath, Shall endure his Purgatory then, And return forgiven back again.

Later in the drama we find Ludovico desiring

"To enter Into Patrick's Purgatory; Humbly and devoutly keeping Thus the promise that I gave him."

Again, he says:

"I have faith and firm reliance That you yet shall see me happy, If in God's name blessed Patrick,

"Aid me in the Purgatory."

Having confessed his sins and made due preparation, he enters the cave. On his return hence, the Priest, or Canon as he is called, bids him relate the wonders he has seen. He finds himself first "in thick and pitchy darkness," he hears horrid clangor, and falls down at length into a hall of jasper, where he meets with twelve grave men, who encourage him, and bid him keep up his courage amid the fearful sights he is to behold later on. At length he reaches the Purgatory:

"I approached another quarter; There it seemed that many spirits I had known elsewhere, were gathered Into one vast congregation, Where, although 'twas plain they suffered, Still they looked with joyous faces, Wore a peaceable appearance, Uttered no impatient accents, But, with moistened eyes uplifted Towards the heavens, appeared imploring Pity, and their sins lamenting. This, in truth, was Purgatory, Where the sins that are more venial Are purged out."

He then alludes to that Bridge or "Brig o' Dread," to which allusion will be made in another portion of our volume. As this passage is celebrated, it is well to give it in full:

LUDOVICO. To a river did they lead me, Flowers of fire were on its margin, Liquid sulphur was its current, Many-headed hydras--serpents-- Monsters of the deep were in it; It was very broad, and o'er it Lay a bridge, so slight and narrow That it seem'd a thin line only. It appear'd so weak and fragile, That the slightest weight would sink it. "Here thy pathway lies," they told me, "O'er this bridge so weak and narrow; And, for thy still greater horror, Look at those who've pass'd before thee." Then I look'd, and saw the wretches Who the passage were attempting Fall amid the sulphurous current, Where the snakes with teeth and talons Tore them to a thousand pieces. Notwithstanding all these horrors, I, the name of God invoking, Undertook the dreadful passage, And, undaunted by the billows, Or the winds that blew around me, Reached the other side in safety. Here within a wood I found me, So delightful and so fertile, That the past was all forgotten. On my path rose stately cedars, Laurels--all the trees of Eden.

After having described some of the glories of this abode of bliss, he relates his meeting with "the resplendent, the most glorious, the great Patrick, the Apostle"--and was thus enabled to keep his early promise. The poem ends with the following somewhat confused list of authorities:

"For with this is now concluded The historic legend told us By Dionysius, the great Carthusian, With Henricus Salteriensis, Cæsarius Heisterbachensis, Matthew Paris, and Ranulphus, Monbrisius, Marolicus Siculus, David Rothe, and the judicious Primate over all Hibernia, Bellarmino, Beda, Serpi, Friar Dymas, Jacob Sotin, Messingham, and in conclusion The belief and pious feeling Which have everywhere maintained it."

From Alban Butler's notes to "Lives of the Saints," Vol. I. p. 103, we subjoin the following:

"St. Patrick's Purgatory is a cave on an island in the Lake Dearg (Lough Derg), in the County of Donegal, near the borders of Fermanagh. Bollandus shows the falsehood of many things related concerning it. Upon complaint of certain superstitious and false notions of the vulgar, in 1497, it was stopped up by an order of the Pope. See Bollandus, 'Tillemont,' p. 287, Alemand in his 'Monastic Hist. of Ireland,' and Thiers, 'Hist. des. Superst.' I. 4 ed. Nov. It was soon after opened again by the inhabitants; but only according to the original institution, as Bollandus takes notice, as a penitential retirement for those who voluntarily chose it, probably in imitation of St. Patrick, or other saints, who had there dedicated themselves to a penitential state. They usually spent several days here, living on bread and water, lying on rushes, praying and making stations barefoot."

THE BRIG O' DREAD.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

In connection with the extracts which we have given from the celebrated Drama of Calderon, the "Purgatory of St. Patrick," and in particular of that one which relates to the passage of Ludovico over the bridge which leads from Purgatory to Paradise, it will be interesting to quote the following from Sir Walter Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border:"

"There is a sort of charm, sung by the lower ranks of Roman Catholics, in some parts of the north of England, while watching a dead body previous to interment. The tone is doleful and monotonous, and, joined to the mysterious import of the words, has a solemn effect. The word sleet, in the chorus, seems to be corrupted from selt or salt; a quantity of which, in compliance with a popular superstition, is frequently placed on the breast of a corpse. The mythologic ideas of the dirge are common to various creeds. The Mahometan believes that, in advancing to the final judgment seat, he must traverse a bar of red-hot iron, stretched across a bottomless gulf. The good works of each true believer, assuming a substantial form, will then interpose between his feet and this 'Bridge of Dread;' but the wicked, having no such protection, fall headlong into the abyss." Passages similar to this dirge are also to be found in "Lady Culross' Dream," as quoted in the second Dissertation, prefixed by Mr. Pinkerton to his select Scottish Ballads, 2 vols. The dreamer journeys towards heaven, accompanied and assisted by a celestial guide:

"Through dreadful dens, which made my heart aghast, He bore me up when I began to tire. Sometimes we clamb o'er craggy mountains high, And sometimes stay'd on ugly braes of sand.

"They were so stay that wonder was to see; But when I fear'd, he held me by the hand. Through great deserts we wandered on our way-- Forward we passed a narrow bridge of trie, O'er waters great, which hideously did roar."

Again, she supposes herself suspended over an infernal gulf:

"Ere I was ware, one gripped me at the last, And held me high above a flaming fire. The fire was great, the heat did pierce me sore; My faith grew-weak; my grip was very small. I trembled fast; my faith grew more and more."

A horrible picture of the same kind, dictated probably by the author's unhappy state of mind, is to be found in Brooke's "Fool of Quality." The Russian funeral service, without any allegorical imagery, expresses the sentiment of the dirge in language alike simple and noble: "Hast thou pitied the afflicted, O man? In death shalt thou be pitied. Hast thou consoled the orphan? The orphan will deliver thee. Hast thou clothed the naked? The naked will procure thee protection."-- _Richardson's "Anecdotes of Russia."_

But the most minute description of the Brig o' Dread occurs in the legend of Sir Owain, No. XL. in the MS. collection of romances, W. 4. I, Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. Sir Owain, a Northumbrian knight, after many frightful adventures in St. Patrick's Purgatory, at last arrives at the bridge, which, in the legend, is placed betwixt Purgatory and Paradise:

"The fendes han the Knight ynome, To a stink and water thai ben ycome, He no seigh never er non swiche; It stank fouler than ani hounde, And mani mile it was to the grounde, And was as swart as piche.

"And Owain seigh ther ouer ligge A swithe, strong, naru brigge: The fendes seyd tho; Lo, Sir Knight, sestow this, This is the brigge of Paradis, Here ouer thou must go.

"And we the schul with stones prowe And the winde the schul ouer blow, And wirche the ful wo; Thou no schalt for all this unduerd, Bot gif thou falle a midwerd, To our fewes [1] mo.

[Footnote 1: Sir Walter Scott says probably a contraction of "fellows."]

"And when thou art adoun yfalle, Than schal com our felawes alle, And with her hokes the hede; We schul the teche a newe playe: Thou hast served ous mani a day, And into helle the lede.

"Owain biheld the brigge smert, The water ther under blek and swert, And sore him gan to drede; For of othing he tok yeme, Never mot, in sonne beme, Thicker than the fendes yede.

"The brigge was as heigh as a tower, And as scharpe as a rasour, And naru it was also;

"And the water that ther run under, Brend o' lighting and of thonder, That thocht him michel wo.

"Ther nis no clerk may write with ynke, No no man no may bithink, No no maister deuine; That is ymade forsoth ywis, Under the brigge of paradis Halven del the pine.

"So the dominical ous telle, Ther is the pure entrae of helle, Seine Poule [1] verth witnesse; Whoso falleth of the brigge adown, Of him nis no redempcion, Neither more nor lesse.

[Footnote 1: St. Paul.]

"The fendes seyd to the Knight tho, 'Ouer this brigge might thou nowght go, For noneskines nede; Fie peril sorwe and wo, And to that stede ther thou com fro, Wel fair we schul the lede.'

"Owain anon began bithenche, Fram hou mani of the fendes wrenche, God him saved hadde; He sett his fot opon the brigge, No feld he no scharpe egge, No nothing him no drad.

"When the fendes yseigh tho, That he was more than half ygo, Loude thai gun to crie: Allas! Allas! that he was born! This ich night we habe forlorn Out of our baylie."--_Minstrelsy of Scottish Border._

SHELLEY AND THE PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK.

It will be of interest to quote the following passage from one of Shelley's best known works, "The Cenci," of which he himself says: "An idea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime passage in 'El Purgatorio de San Patricio,' of Calderon."

"But I remember, Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow, And winds with short turns down the precipice; And in its depths there is a mighty rock Which has, from unimaginable years, Sustained itself with terror and with toil Over the gulf, and with the agony With which it clings seems slowly coming down; Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour, Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans; And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss In which it fears to fall; beneath this crag Huge as despair, as if in weariness, The melancholy mountain yawns."

ON A GREAT FUNERAL. [1]

[Footnote: The above lines apply with peculiar impressiveness to the funeral of General Grant, so lately occupying public attention.]

AUBREY DE VERE.

No more than this? The chief of nations bears Her chief of sons to his last resting-place; Through the still city, sad and slow of pace, The sable pageant streams; and as it nears That dome, to-day a vault funereal, tears Run down the gray-hair'd veteran's wintry face; Deep organs sob and flags their front abase; And the snapt wand the rite complete declares. Soul, that before thy Judge dost stand this day, Disrobed of strength and puissance, pomp and power; O soul! defrauded at thine extreme hour Of man's sole help from man, and latest stay, Swells there for thee no prayer from all that host, And is this burial but a nation's boast?

"MORTE D'ARTHUR."

TENNYSON.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways. Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell! I am going a long way With these thou seest--if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow; Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan. That, fluting a wild carol, ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the meer the wailing died away.

GUIDO AND HIS BROTHER.

COLLlN DE PLANCY.

The brother who forgets his brother is no longer a man, he is a monster.--Sr. John Chrysostom.

Peter the Venerable relates the story of a lord of his time, named Guy or Guido, who had lost his life in battle; this was very common in the Middle Ages, when the nobles were beyond all else great warriors. As this Guido had not been able to make his last confession, he appeared fully armed, to a priest, some time after his death.

"Stephanus," said he (that was the name of the priest), "I pray thee go to my brother Anselm; thou shalt tell him that I conjure him to restore an ox which I took from a peasant," naming him; "and also to repair the damage I did to a village which did not--belong to me, by wrongfully imposing taxes thereupon. I was unable to confess, or to expiate these two sins, for which I am grievously tormented. As an assurance of what I tell thee," continued the apparition, "I warn thee that, when thou returnest to thy dwelling, thou shalt find that the money thou hast saved to make the pilgrimage of St. James has been stolen."

The priest, on his return, actually found that his strongbox had been broken open and his money carried off; but he could not discharge his commission, because Anselm was absent.

A few days after, the same Guido appeared a second time, to reproach Stephanus for his neglect. The good priest excused himself on the impossibility of finding Anselm; but learning that he had returned to his manor, he repaired thither, and faithfully fulfilled his commission.

He was received very coolly. Anselm told him that he was not obliged to do penance for the sins of his brother; and with these words he dismissed him.

The dead man, who experienced no relief, appeared a third time, and bemoaning his brother's harshness, he besought the worthy servant of God to have compassion himself on his distress, and assist him in his extremity. Stephanus, much affected, promised that he would, He restored the price of the stolen ox, gave alms to the wronged village, said prayers, recommended the deceased to all the good people he knew, and then Guido appeared no more.

BERTHOLD IN PURGATORY.

COLLIN DE PLANCY.

Miseremini mei, miseremini mei, saltem vos, amici moi.--JOB xix.

A short time after the death of Charles the Bald, there is found in Hincmar a narrative which it may be well to introduce here; it is the journey of Berthold, or Bernold, to Purgatory in the spirit.

Berthold was a citizen of Rheims, of good life, fulfilling his Christian duties and enjoying public esteem. He was subject to ecstasies, or syncope, which sometimes lasted a good while. Then, whether he had visions, or that his soul transported itself or was transported out of his body--an effect which, is evidently produced in our days by magnetism--he made, in his ecstasies, several journeys into Purgatory.

Having fallen seriously ill when already well advanced in age, he received all the sacraments which console the conscience; after which he remained four entire days in a sort of ecstasy, during which he took no nourishment of any kind. At the end of the fourth day he had become so weak that there was hardly any breath in him. About midnight, however, he begged his wife to send quickly for his confessor. He afterwards remained motionless. But, at the end of a quarter of an hour, he said to his wife:

"Place a seat here, for the priest is coming."

He entered the moment after, and recited the beautiful prayers for the departing soul, to which Berthold responded clearly and exactly. After this he had again a moment of ecstasy; and, coming out of it, he related his several visits to Purgatory, and the commissions wherewith he had been charged by many suffering souls.

He was conducted by a spirit, an Angel doubtless. Amongst those who were being purified, in ice or in fire, he found Ebbon, Archbishop of Rheims; Pardule, Bishop of Laon; Enée, Bishop of Paris, and some other prelates, clothed in filthy garments, torn and rusty. Their faces were wrinkled, haggard, and sallow. Ebbon besought him to ask the clergy and people of Rheims to pray for him and his companions, who made him the same request. He charged himself with all these commissions.

He found, farther on, or in another visit, the soul of Charles the Bald, extended in the mud and much exhausted. The ex-king asked Berthold to recommend him to Archbishop Hincmar and the princes of his family, acknowledging that he was principally punished for having given ecclesiastical benefices to courtiers and worldly laics, as had been done by his ancestor, Charles Martel. Berthold promised to do what he could.

Farther on, and perhaps also on another occasion, he saw Jesse, Bishop of Orleans, in the hands of four dark spirits, who were plunging him alternately into a well of boiling pitch and one of ice-cold water. Not far from him, Count Othaire was in other torments. The two sufferers recommended themselves, like the others, to the pious offices of Berthold, who faithfully executed the commissions of the souls in pain. He applied, on behalf of the bishops, to their clergy and people; for King Charles the Bald, to Archbishop Hincmar. He wrote besides--for he was a lettered man--to the relatives of the deceased monarch, making known to them the state wherein he had seen him. He went to urge the wife of Othaire, his vassals and friends, to offer up prayers and give alms for him; and in a last visit which he was permitted to make, he learned that Count Othaire and Bishop Jessé were delivered; King Charles the Bald had reached the term of his punishment; and he saw the Bishops Ebbon, Enée, and Pardule, who thanked him as they went forth from Purgatory, fresh and robed in white.

After this account, whereto Berthold subjoined that his guide had promised him some more years of life, he asked for Holy Communion, received it, felt himself cured, left his bed on the following day, and his life was prolonged for fourteen years.

A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS.

Let us quote here, says Collin de Plancy, a good English religious whose journey has been related by Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, and by Denis the Carthusian. This traveller speaks in the first person:

"I had St. Nicholas for a guide," he says; "he led me by a level road to a vast horrible space, peopled with the dead, who were tormented in a thousand frightful ways. I was told that these people were not damned, that their torment would in time come to an end, and that it was Purgatory I saw. I did not expect to find it so severe. All these unfortunates wept hot tears and groaned aloud. Since I have seen all these things I know well that if I had any relative in Purgatory, I would suffer a thousand deaths to take him out of it.

"A little farther on, I perceived a valley, through which flowed a fearful river of fire, which rose in waves to an enormous height. On the banks of that river it was so icy cold that no one can have any idea of it. St. Nicholas conducted me thither, and made me observe the sufferers who were there, telling me that this again was Purgatory."

"DREAM OF GERONTIUS."

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

ANGEL. Thy judgment now is near, for we are come Into the veiled presence of our God.

SOUL. I hear the voices that I left on earth.

ANGEL. It is the voice of friends around thy bed, Who say the "Subvenite" with the priest. Hither the echoes come; before the Throne Stands the great Angel of the Agony, The same who strengthened Him, what time He knelt Lone in that garden shade, bedewed with blood. That Angel best can plead with Him for all Tormented souls, the dying and the dead.

ANGEL OF THE AGONY. Jesu! by that shuddering dread which fell on Thee; Jesu! by that cold dismay which sicken'd Thee; Jesu! by that pang of heart which thrill'd in Thee; Jesu! by that mount of sins which crippled Thee; Jesu! by that sense of guilt which stifled Thee; Jesu! by that innocence which girdled Thee; Jesu! by that sanctity which reign'd in Thee; Jesu! by that Godhead which was one with Thee; Jesu! spare these souls which are so dear to Thee; Who in prison, calm and patient, wait for Thee; Hasten, Lord, their hour, and bid them come to Thee, To that glorious Home, where they shall ever gaze on Thee.

SOUL. I go before my Judge. Ah! ...

ANGEL. ... Praise to His Name! The eager spirit has darted from my hold, And, with the intemperate energy of love, Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel; But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity, Which, with its effluence, like a glory, clothes And circles round the Crucified, has seized, And scorch'd, and shrivell'd it; and now it lies Passive and still before the awful Throne. O happy, suffering soul! for it is safe, Consumed, yet quicken'd, by the glance of God.

SOUL. Take me away, and in the lowest deep There let me be, And there in hope the lone night-watches keep, Told out for me. There, motionless and happy in my pain, Lone, not forlorn,--There will I sing my sad, perpetual strain, Until the morn. There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast, Which ne'er can cease To throb, and pine, and languish, till possess'd Of its Sole Peace. There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:--Take me away, That sooner I may rise, and go above, And see Him in the truth--of everlasting day.

ANGEL. Now let the golden prison ope its gates, Making sweet music, as each fold revolves Upon its ready hinge. And ye, great powers, Angels of Purgatory, receive from me My charge, a precious soul, until the day, When from all bond and forfeiture released, I shall reclaim it for the courts of light.

SOULS IN PURGATORY

1. Lord, Thou hast been our refuge: in every generation;

2. Before the hills were born, and the world was: from age to age, Thou art God.

3. Bring us not, Lord, very low: for Thou hast said, Come back again, ye sons of Adam!

4. A thousand years before Thine eyes are but as yesterday: and as a watch of the night which is come and gone.

5. The grass springs up in the morning: at evening-tide it shrivels up and dies.

6. So we fall in Thine anger: and in Thy wrath are we troubled.

7. Thou hast set our sins in Thy sight: and our round of days in the light of Thy countenance.

8. Come back, O Lord! how long: and be entreated for Thy servants.

9. In Thy morning we shall be filled with Thy mercy: we shall rejoice and be in pleasure all our days.

10. We shall be glad according to the days of our humiliation: and the years in which we have seen evil.

11. Look, O Lord, upon Thy servants and upon Thy work: and direct their children.

12. And let the beauty of the 'Lord our God be upon us: and the work of our hands, establish Thou it.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son: and to the Holy Ghost.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen.

ANGEL. Softly and gently, dearly-ransom'd soul, In my most loving arms I now enfold thee, And, o'er the penal waters, as they roll, I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee.

And carefully I dip thee in the lake, And thou, without a sob, or a resistance, Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take, Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance.

Angels, to whom the willing task is given, Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest; And Masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven, Shall aid thee at the throne of the Most High.

Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear, Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow; Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here, And I will come and wake thee on the morrow.

ST. GREGORY RELEASES THE SOUL OF THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

MRS. JAMESON.

In a little picture in the Bologna Academy he is seen praying before a tomb, on which is inscribed "TRAJANO IMPERADOR;" beneath are two angels, raising the soul of Trafan out of flames. Such is the usual treatment of this curious and poetical legend, which is thus related in the "Legenda Aurea": "It happened on a time, as Trajan was hastening to battle at the head of his legions, that a poor widow flung herself in his path, and cried aloud for justice, and the emperor stayed to listen to her; and she demanded vengeance for the innocent blood of her son, killed by the son of the emperor. Trajan promised to do her justice when he returned from his expedition. 'But, sire', answered the widow, 'should you be killed in battle, who will then do me justice?' 'My successor,' replied Trajan. And she said, 'What will it signify to you, great emperor, that any other than yourself should do me justice? Is it not better that you should do this good action yourself than leave another to do it?' And Trajan alighted, and having examined into the affair, he gave up his own son to her in place of him she had lost, and bestowed on her likewise a rich dowry. Now, it came to pass that as Gregory was one day meditating in his daily walk, this action of the Emperor Trajan came into his mind, and he wept bitterly to think that a man so just should be condemned to eternal punishment. And entering a church, he prayed most fervently that the soul of the good emperor might be released from torment. And a voice said to him, 'I have granted thy prayer, and I have spared the soul of Trajan for thy sake; but because thou hast supplicated for one whom the justice of God had already condemned, thou shalt choose one of two things: either thou shalt endure for two days the fires of Purgatory, or thou shalt be sick and infirm for the remainder of thy life.' Gregory chose the latter, which sufficiently accounts for the grievous pains and infirmities to which this great and good man was subjected, even to the day of his death."

This story of Trajan was extremely popular in the Middle Ages; it is illustrative of the character of Gregory.... Dante twice alludes to it. He describes it as being one of the subjects sculptured on the walls of Purgatory, and takes occasion to relate the whole story.

"There was storied on the rock Th'exalted glory of the Roman Prince, Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn This mighty conquest--Trajan the Emperor. A widow at his bridle stood attired In tears and mourning. Round about them troop'd Full throng of knights: and overhead in gold The eagles floated, struggling with the wind The wretch appear'd amid all these to say: 'Grant vengeance, sire! for woe, beshrew this heart, My son is murder'd!' He, replying, seem'd: 'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one Made hasty by her grief: 'O, sire, if thou Dost not return?'--'Where I am, who then is, May right thee.'--'What to thee is others' good, If thou neglect thine own?'--'Now comfort thee,' At length he answers: 'It beseemeth well My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence. So justice wills and pity bids me stay.'"--_Purg. Canto X_.

It was through the efficacy of St. Gregory's intercession that Dante afterwards finds Trajan in Paradise, seated between King David and King Hezekiah.--_Purg. Canto XX_.

ST. GREGORY AND THE MONK

There was a monk who, in defiance of his vow of poverty, secreted in his cell three pieces of gold. Gregory, on learning this, excommunicated him, and shortly afterwards the monk died. When Gregory heard that the monk had perished in his sin, without receiving absolution, he was filled with grief and horror, and he wrote upon a parchment a prayer and a form of absolution, and gave it to one of his deacons, desiring him to go to the grave of the deceased and read it there: on the following night the monk appeared in a vision, and revealed to him his release from torment.

This story is represented in the beautiful bas-relief in white marble in front of the altar of his chapel; it is the last compartment on the right.

In chapels dedicated to the Service of the Dead, St. Gregory is often represented in the attitude of supplication, while on one side, or in the background, angels are raising the tormented souls out of the flames.--_Sacred and Legendary Art, Vol. I._

THE LEGEND OF GEOFFROID D'IDEN.

It is related by Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, that, in the first half of the twelfth century, the Lord Humbert, son of Guichard, Count de Beaujeu, in the Maçonnais, having made war on some other neighboring lords, Geoffroid d'Iden, one of his vassals, received in the fight a wound which instantly killed him. Two months after his death, Geoffroid appeared to Milon d'Ansa, who knew him well; he begged him to tell Humbert de Beaujeu, in whose service he had lost his life, that he was in Purgatory, for having aided him in an unjust war and not having expiated his sins by penance, before his unlooked-for death; that he besought him, therefore, most urgently, to have compassion on him, and also on his own father, Guichard, who, although he had led a religious life at Cluny in his latter days, had not entirely satisfied the justice of God for his past sins, and especially for a portion of his wealth, which, as his children knew, was ill gained; that, in consequence thereof, he prayed him to have the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass offered for him and for his father, to distribute alms to the poor, and to recommend both sufferers to the prayers of good people, in order to shorten their time of penance. "Tell him," added the apparition, "that if he hear thee not, I must go myself to announce to him that which I have now told to thee."

The lof Ansa (now Anse) faithfully discharged the task imposed upon him. Humbert was frightened; but he neither had prayers nor Masses offered up, made no reparation, and distributed no alms.

Nevertheless, fearing lest Guichard his father or Geoffroid d'Iden might come to disturb him, he no longer dared to remain alone, especially by night; and he always had some of his people around him, making them sleep in his chamber.

One morning, as he was still in bed, but awake, he saw appear before him Geoffroid d'Iden, armed as on the day of the battle. Showing him the mortal wound which he had received, and which appeared still fresh, he warmly reproached him for the little pity he had for himself and for his father, who was groaning in torment; and he added: "Take care lest God may treat thee in His rigor, and refuse thee the mercy thou dost not grant to us; and for thee, give up thy purpose of going to the war with Amadeus. If thou goest thither, thou shalt lose thy life and thy possessions."

At that moment, Richard de Marsay, the Count's squire, entered, coming from Mass; the, spirit disappeared, and thenceforward Humbert de Beaujeu went seriously to work to relieve his father and his vassal, after which he made the journey to Jerusalem to expiate his own sins.

THE QUEEN OF PURGATORY.

BY FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, D. D.

Oh! turn to Jesus, Mother! turn, And call Him by His tenderest names; Pray for the Holy Souls that burn This hour amid the cleansing flames.

Ah! they have fought a gallant fight; In death's cold arms they persevered; And, after life's uncheery night, The harbor of their rest is neared.

In pains beyond all earthly pains Fav'rites of Jesus, there they lie, Letting the fire wear out their stains, And worshipping God's purity.

Spouses of Christ they are, for He Was wedded to them by His blood; And angels o'er their destiny In wondering adoration brood.

They are the children of thy tears; Then hasten, Mother! to their aid; In pity think each hour appears An age while glory is delayed!

See, how they bound amid their fires, While pain and love their spirits fill; Then, with self-crucified desires, Utter sweet murmurs, and lie still.

Ah me! the love of Jesus yearns O'er that abyss of sacred pain; And, as He looks, His bosom burns With Calvary's dear thirst again.

O Mary! let thy Son no more His lingering spouses thus expect; God's children to their God restore, And to the Spirit His elect.

Pray then, as thou hast ever prayed; Angels and Souls all look to thee; God waits thy prayers, for He hath made Those prayers His law of charity.

THE DEAD PRIEST BEFORE THE ALTAR.

REV. A. J. RYAN.

Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all? No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast, When the evening shadows fall. Let him rest alone--unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy Hosts on their humble throne Will watch him through the night.

The doors were closed--he was still and fair, What sound moved up the aisles? The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces wearing smiles. And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch o'er you to-night; Your life was beautiful, fair and young, Not a cloud upon its light. To-morrow--to-morrow you will rest With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."

Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud. Ah! the happy, happy years! They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The altars cried and the people wept, The fairest flower in the Church's vale Ah me! how soon we pass! In the vase of his coffin slept. _--From In Memoriam._

MEMORIALS OF THE BEAD.

R. R. MADDEN. [1]

[Footnote 1: Author of "Lives and Times of United Irishmen."]

'Tis not alone in "hallowed ground," At every step we tread Midst tombs and sepulchres, are found Memorials of the dead.

'Tis not in sacred shrines alone, Or trophies proudly spread On old cathedral walls are shown Memorials of the dead.

Emblems of Fame surmounting death, Of war and carnage dread, They were not, in the "Times of Faith," Memorials of the dead.

From marble bust and pictured traits The living looks recede, They fade away: so frail are these Memorials of the dead.

On mural slabs, names loved of yore Can now be scarcely read; A few brief years have left no more Memorials of the dead.

Save those which pass from sire to son, Traditions that are bred In the heart's core, and make their own Memorials of the dead.

A CHILD'S REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

_ELIZA ALLEN STARR_.

With the gray dawn's faintest break, Mother, faithfully I wake, Whispering softly for thy sake _Requiescat in pace_!

When the sun's broad disk at height Floods the busy world with light, Breathes my soul with sighs contrite, _Requiescat in pace_!

When the twilight shadows lone Wrap the home once, once thine own, Sobs my heart with broken moan, _Requiescat in pace_!

Night, so solemn, grand, and still, Trances forest, meadow, rill; Hush, fond heart, adore His will, _Requiescat in pace_!

THE SOLITARY SOUL.

I died; but my soul did not wing its flight straight to the heaven- nest, and there repose in the bosom of Him who made it, as the minister who was with me said it would. Good old man! He had toiled among us, preaching baptizing, marrying, and burrying, until his hair had turned from nut-brown to frost-white; and he told me, as I lay dying, that the victory of the Cross was the only passport I needed to the joys of eternity; that a life like mine would meet its immediate reward. And it did; but, O my God! not as he had thought, and I had believed.

As he prayed, earth's sights and sounds faded from me, and the strange, new life began. The wrench of agony with which soul and body parted left me breathless; and my spirit, like a lost child, turned frightened eyes towards home.

I stood in a dim, wind-swept space. No gates of pearl or walls of jacinth met my gaze; no streaming glory smote my eyes; no voice bade me enter and put on the wedding garment. Hosts of pale shapes circled by, but no one saw me. All had their faces uplifted, and their hands--such patient, pathetic hands--were clasped on their hearts; and the air was heavy with the whisper, "Christ! Christ!" that came unceasingly from their lips.

Above us, the clouds drifted and turned; about us, the horizon was blotted out; mist and grayness were everywhere. A voiceless wind swept by; and as I gazed, sore dismayed and saddened, a rent opened in the driving mass, and I saw a man standing with arms upraised. He was strangely vestured; silver and gold gleamed in his raiment, and a large cross was outlined upon his back. He held in his hands a chalice of gold, in which sparkled something too liquid for fire, too softly brilliant for water or wine.

As this sight broke on our vision, two figures near me uttered a cry, whose rapturous sweetness filled space with melody; and, like the up- springing lark, borne aloft by the beauty of their song, they vanished; and those about me bowed their heads, and ceased their moan for a moment.

"What is it?" I cried. "Who is the man? What was it he held in his hand?"

But there was none to answer me, and I drove along before the wind with the rest, helpless, bewildered.

How long this lasted I do not know; for there was neither night nor day in the sad place; and a fire of longing burnt in my breast, so keen, so strong, that all other sensation was swallowed up.

And then, too, my grief! There were many deeds of my life to which I had given but casual regret. When the minister would counsel us to confess our sins to God, I had knelt in the church and gone through the form; but here, where the height and depth and breadth of God's perfection dawned upon me, and grew hourly clearer, they seemed to rend my heart, and to far outweigh any little good I might have done. Oh! why did no one ever preach the justice of God to me, and the necessity of personal atonement! Why had they only taught me, "Believe, and you shall be saved?"

Time by time, the shapes about me rose and vanished with the same cry as the two I saw liberated in my first hour; and sometimes--like an echo--the sound of human voices would go through space--some choked with tears, some low with sadness, some glad with hope.

"Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord!"

"And let perpetual light shine upon them!"

"May they rest in peace!"

And the "Amen" tolled like a silver bell, and I would feel a respite.

But no one called me by name, no one prayed for my freedom. My mother's voice, my sister's dream, my father's belief--all were that I was happy before the face of God. And friends forgot me, except in their pleasures.

At seasons, through the mist would loom an altar, at which a man, in black robes embroidered with silver, bowed and bent. The chalice, with its always wonderful contents, would be raised, and a disc, in whose circle of whiteness I saw Christ crucified. From the thorn-wounds, the Hands, the Feet, the Side, shot rays of dazzling brightness; and my frozen soul, my tear-chilled eyes, were warmed and gladdened; for the man who held this wondrous image would himself sigh: "For _all_ the dead, sweet Lord!" And to me, even me, would come hope and peace.

But, oh! the agony, oh! the desolateness, to be cut off from the sweet guerdon of immediate release! Oh! the pain of expiating every fault, measure for measure! Oh, the grief of knowing that my own deeds were the chains of my captivity, and my unfulfilled duties the barriers that withheld me from beholding the Beatific Vision!

Sometimes a gracious face would gleam through the mist--a face so tender, so human, so full of love, that I yearned to hear it speak to _me_, to have those radiant eyes turned on _me_. My companions called her "Mary!" and I knew it was the Virgin of Nazareth. Often she would call them by name, and say: "My child, my Son bids thee come home."

Why had I never known this gentle Mother! Why could I not catch her mantle, and clinging to it, pass from waiting to fulfilment!

Once when I had grown grief-bowed with waiting, worn with longing, I saw again the vision of the Church. At a long railing knelt many young girls, and they received at the hands of the priest what I had learned to discern as the Body of the Lord. One--God bless her tender heart!-- whispered as she knelt: "O dearest Lord, I offer to Thee this Holy Communion for the soul _that has no one to pray for her_."

And through the grayness rang at last _my_ name, and straight to heaven I went, ransomed by that mighty price, freed by prayer from prison.

O you who live, who have voices and hearts, for the sake of Christ and His Holy Mother; by the love you bear your living, and the grief you give your dead, pray for those whose friends do not know how to help them; for the suddenly killed; for the executed criminal; and for those who, having suffered long in Purgatory, need one more prayer to set them free.--_Ave Maria_, November 10, 1883.

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL.

_Founded on an old French Legend_.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

The fettered spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet, on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release, For the great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease; And the name of these brief respites Is called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once--so runs the legend-- When the Archangel came, And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name, One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, I This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke: So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke:--

I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain; I prize Our Lady's blessing, Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair.

"The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away; Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay. And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him-- If I could only go And speak one word of comfort And solace--then, I know He would endure with patience, And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered: "Your time of pain is brief, And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief; Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief,

"Then, through a special mercy, I offer you this grace-- You may seek him who mourns you And look upon his face, And speak to him of Comfort, For one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended, Return here and remain A thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain; Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain."

The lime-trees shade at evening Is spreading broad and wide; Beneath their fragrant arches Pace slowly, side by side, In low and tender converse, A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly, No other sound is there Except their happy voices:-- What is that cold bleak air That passes through the lime-trees, And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wail Of some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale-- Why dogs the Bridegroom shudder

And turn so deathly pale?

Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant Angels wait; It was the great St. Michael Who closed that gloomy gate, When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate.

"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel: "Heaven's joy is deep and vast; Pass on, pass on, poor spirit, For Heaven is yours at last; In that one minute's anguish, Your thousand years have passed."

GENÉRADE, THE FRIEND OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

J. COLLIN DE PLANCY.

ST. AUGUSTINE reckoned among his friends the physician Genérade, highly honored in Carthage, where his learning and skill were much esteemed. But by one of those misfortunes of which there are, unhappily, but too many examples, while studying the admirable mechanism of the human body, he had come to believe matter capable of the works of intelligence which raise man so far above other created beings. He was, therefore, a materialist; and St. Augustine praying for him, earnestly besought God to enlighten that deluded mind.

One night while he slept, this doctor, who believed, as some do still, that "when one is dead, all is dead"--we quote their own language--saw in his dreams a young man, who said to him: "Follow me." He did so, and was conducted to a city, wherein he heard, on the right, unknown melodies, which filled him with admiration. What he heard on the left he never remembered. But on awaking he concluded, from this vision, that there was, somewhere, something else besides this world.

Another night he likewise beheld in sleep the same young man, who said to him:

"Knowest thou me?"

"Very well," answered Genérade.

"And wherefore knowest thou me?"

"Because of the journey we made together when you showed me the city of harmony."

"Was it in a dream, or awake, that you saw and heard what struck you then?"

"It was in a dream."

"Where is your body now?"

"In my bed."

"Knowest thou well that thou now seest nothing with the eyes of the body?"

"I know it."

"With what eyes, then, dost thou see me?"

As the physician hesitated, and could not answer, the young man said to him:

"Even as thou seest and hearest me, now that thine eyes are closed and thy senses benumbed, so, after thy death, thou shalt live, thou shalt see, thou shalt hear--but with the organs of the soul. Doubt, then, no more!"

ST. THOMAS AQUINAS AND FRIAR ROMANUS.

WE are about to treat of facts concerning which our fathers never had any hesitation, because they had faith. Nowadays, the truths which are above the material sight have been so roughly handled that they are much diminished for us. And if the goodness of God had not allowed some rays of the mysteries which He reserves for Himself to escape, if some gleams of magnetism and the world of spirits occupying the air around us had not a little embarrassed those of our literati who make a merit of not believing, we would hardly dare, in spite of the grave authorities on which they rest, to represent here some apparitions of souls departed from this world. We shall venture to do so, nevertheless.

One day, when St. Thomas Aquinas was praying in the Church of the Friars, Preachers, at Naples, the pious friar Romanus, whom he had left in Paris, where he replaced him in the chair of Theology, suddenly appeared beside him. Thomas, seeing him, said:

"I am glad of thine arrival. But how long hast thou been here?"

Romanus answered: "I am now out of this world. Nevertheless, I am permitted to come to thee, because of thy merit."

The Saint, alarmed at this reply, after a moment's recollection, said to the apparition: "I adjure thee, by Our Lord Jesus Christ, tell me simply if my works are pleasing to God!"

Romanus replied: "Persevere in the way in which thou art, and believe that what thou doest is agreeable unto God."

Thomas then asked him in what state he found himself.

"I enjoy eternal life," answered Romanus. "Nevertheless, for having carelessly executed one clause of a will which the Bishop of Paris gave me in charge, I underwent for fifteen days the pains of Purgatory."

St. Thomas again said: "You remind me that we often discussed the question whether the knowledge acquired in this life remain in the soul after death. I pray you give me the solution thereof."

Romanus made answer: "Ask me not that. As for me, I am content with seeing my God."

"Seest thou him face to face?" went on Thomas.

"Just as we have been taught," replied Romanus, "and as I see thee."

With these words he left St. Thomas greatly consoled.

THE KEY THAT NEVER TURNS.

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

"In Purgatory, dear," I said to-day, Unto my pet, "the fire burns and burns, Until each ugly stain is burned away--And then an Angel turns A great, bright key, and forth the glad soul springs Into the presence of the King of kings."

"But in that other prison?" "Sweetest love! The same fierce fire burns and burns, but thence None e'er escapes." The blue eyes, raised above, Were fair with innocence. "Poor burning souls!" she whispered low, "ah me! No Angel ever comes to turn _their_ key!"

THE BURIAL.

THOMAS DAVIS.

"ULULU! ululu! wail for the dead, Green grow the grass of Fingal on his head; And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing, And shamrocks grow thick on the martyr for Erin. Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew On the feet and the head of the martyred and true."

For a while they tread In silence dread-- Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, And again the wail comes wild and loud.

"Ululu! ululu! kind was his heart! Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part. The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.

"By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling, To God with the raised cross appealing-- He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, And the sins of the dying seem passing away.

"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary, Our constant consoler, he never grew weary; But he's gone to his rest, And he's now with the blest, Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest-- Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead! Ululu! ululu! here is his bed."

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, Deep was the silence, and every head bare; The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. Kneeling and motionless.-- "Dust unto dust."

"He died as becometh the faithful and just-- Placing in God his reliance and trust;"

Kneeling and motionless-- "Ashes to ashes"-- Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes; Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they-- Stern and standing--oh! look on them now! Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow.

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

NEWMAN.

Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made, The souls to Thee so dear, In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.

Those holy souls, they suffer on,

Resign'd in heart and will, Until Thy high behest is done, And justice has its fill. For daily falls, for pardon'd crime, They joy to undergo The shadow of Thy cross sublime, The remnant of Thy woe.

Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made, The souls to Thee so dear, In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.

Oh! by their patience of delay, Their hope amid their pain, Their sacred zeal to burn away Disfigurement and stain; Oh! by their fire of love, not less In keenness than the flame, Oh! by their very helplessness, Oh! by Thy own great Name,

Good Jesu, help! sweet Jesu, aid The souls to Thee most dear, In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.

THE TWO STUDENTS.

The Abbé de Saint Pierre, says Collin de Plancy, has given a long account, in his works, of a singular occurrence which took place in 1697, and which we are inclined to relate here:

In 1695, a student named Bezuel, then about fifteen years old, contracted a friendship with two other youths, students like himself, and sons of an attorney of Caen, named D'Abaquène. The elder was, like Bezuel, fifteen; his brother, eighteen months younger. The latter was named Desfontaines. The paternal name was then given only to the eldest; the names of those who came after were formed by means of some vague properties....

As the young Desfontaines' character was more in unison with Bezuel's than that of his elder brother, these two students became strongly attached to each other.

One day during the following year, 1696, they were reading together a certain history of two friends like themselves, who had promised each other, with some solemnity, that he of the two who died first would come back to give the survivor some account of his state. The historian added that the dead one really did come back, and that he told his friend many wonderful things. Young Desfontaines, struck by this narrative, which he did not doubt, proposed to Bezuel that they should make such a promise one to the other. Bezuel was at first afraid of such an engagement. But several months after, in the first days of June, 1697, as his friend was going to set out for Caen, he agreed to his proposal.

Desfontaines then drew from his pocket two papers in which he had written the double agreement. Each of these papers expressed the formal promise on the part of him who should die first to come and make his fate known to the surviving friend. He had signed with his blood the one that Bezuel was to keep. Bezuel, hesitating no longer, pricked his hand, and likewise signed with his blood the other document, which he gave to Desfontaines.

The latter, delighted to have the promise, set out with his brother. Bezuel received some days after a letter, in which his friend informed him that he had reached his home in safety, and was very well. The correspondence between them was to continue. But it stopped very soon, and Bezuel was uneasy.

It happened that on the 31st of July, 1697, being about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, in a meadow where his companions were amusing themselves with various games, he felt himself suddenly stunned and taken with a sort of faintness, which lasted for some minutes. Next day, at the same hour, he felt the same symptoms, and again on the day after. But then-- it was Friday, the 2d of August--he saw advancing towards him his friend Desfontaines, who made a sign for him to come to him. Being in a sitting posture and under the influence of his swoon, he made another sign to the apparition, moving on his seat to make place for him.

The comrades of Bezuel moving around saw this motion, and were surprised.

As Desfontaines did not advance, Bezuel arose to go to him. The apparition then took him by the left arm, drew him aside some thirty paces, and said:

"I promised you that, if I died before you, I would come to tell you. I was drowned yesterday in the river at Caen, about this hour. I was out walking; it was so warm that we took a notion to bathe. A weakness came over me in the river, and I sank to the bottom. The Abbé de Menil-Jean, my companion, plunged in to draw me out; I seized his foot; but whether he thought it was a salmon that had caught hold of him, or that he felt it actually necessary to go up to the surface of the water to breathe, he shook me off so roughly that his foot gave me a great blow in the chest, and threw me to the bottom of the river, which is there very deep."

Desfontaines then told his friend many other things, which he would not divulge, whether the dead boy had prayed him not to do so, or for other reasons.

Bezuel wanted to embrace the apparition, but he found only a shadow. Nevertheless, the shadow had squeezed his arm so tightly, that it pained him after.

He saw the spirit several times, yet always a little taller than when they parted, and always in the half-clothing of a bather. He wore in his fair hair a scroll on which Bezuel could only read the word _In_. His voice had the same sound as when he was living, he appeared neither gay nor sad, but perfectly tranquil. He charged his friend with several commissions for his parents, and begged him to say for him the Seven Penitential Psalms, which had been given him as a penance by his confessor, three days before his death, and which he had not yet recited.

The apparition always ended by a farewell expressed in words which signified: "Till we meet again! (_Au revoir!_)" At last, it ceased at the end of some weeks; and the surviving friend, who had constantly prayed for the dead, concluded from this that his Purgatory was over.

This Monsieur Bezuel finished his studies, embraced the ecclesiastical state, became _curé_ of Valogne, and lived long, esteemed by his parishioners and the whole city, for his good sense, his virtuous life, and his love of truth.

THE PENANCE OF DON DIEGO RIEZ.

_A Legend of Lough Derg._ [1]

[Footnote 1: Lough Derg, in Donegal, was a place famous for pilgrimage from a very early period, and was much resorted to out of France, Italy, and the Peninsula, during the Middle Ages, and even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In Mathew Paris, and Froissart, as well as in our native annals, and in O'Sullivan Beare, there are many facts of its extraordinary history.]

T. D. MCGEE.

There was a knight of Spain--Diego Riaz, Noble by four descents, vain, rich and young, Much woe he wrought, or the tradition lie is, Which lived of old the Castilians among; His horses bore the palm the kingdom over, His plume was tall, costliest his sword, The proudest maidens wished him as a lover, The _caballeros_ all revered his word

But ere his day's meridian came, his spirit Fell sick, grew palsied in his breast, and pined-- He fear'd Christ's kingdom he could ne'er inherit, The causes wherefore too well he divined. Where'er he turns, his sins are always near him, Conscience still holds her mirror to his eyes, Till those who long had envied came to fear him, To mock his clouded brow and wintry sighs.

Alas! the sins of youth are as a chain Of iron, swiftly let down to the deep, How far we feel not--till when, we'd raise't again We pause amid the weary work and weep. Ah, it is sad a-down Life's stream to see. So many agèd toilers so distress'd, And near the source--a thousand forms of glee Fitting the shackle to Youth's glowing breast.

He sought peace in the city where she dwells not, He wooed her amid woodlands all in vain, He searches through the valleys, but he tells not The secret of his quest to priest or swain, Until, despairing evermore of pleasure, He leaves his land, and sails to far Peru; There, stands uncharm'd in caverns of treasure, And weeps on mountains heavenly high and blue.

Incessant in his ears rang this plain warning-- "Diego, as thy soul, thy sorrow lives"; He hears the untired voice, night, noon, and morning, Yet understanding not, unresting grieves. One eve, a purer vision seized him, then he Vow'd to Lough Derg, an humble pilgrimage-- The virtues of that shrine were known to many, And saving held even in that skeptic age.

With one sole follower, an Esquire trustful, He pass'd the southern cape which sailors fear, And eastward held: meanwhile his vain and lustful Past works more loathsome to his soul appear. Through the night-watches, at all hours o' day, He still was wakeful as the pilot, and For grace, his vow to keep, doth always pray, And for his death to lie in the saints' land.

But ere his eyes beheld the Irish shore, Diego died. Much gold he did ordain To God and Santiago--furthermore, His Esquire plighted, ere he went to Spain, To journey to the Refuge of the Lake; Before St. Patrick's solitary shrine, A nine days' vigil for his rest to make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine. [1]

[Footnote 1: The brackish water of the lake, boiled, is called wine by the pilgrims.]

The vassal vow'd; but, ah! how seldom pledges Given to the dying, to the dead, are held! The Esquire reach'd the shore, where sand and sedge is O'er melancholy hills, by paths of eld; Treeless and houseless was the prospect round, Rock-strewn and boisterous the lake before; A Charon-shape in a skiff a-ground-- The pilgrim turned, and left the sacred shore.

That night he lay a-bed hard by the Erne-- The island-spangled lake--but could not sleep-- When lo! beside him, pale, and sad, and stern, Stood his dead master, risen from the deep. "Arise," he said, "and come." From the hostelrie And over the bleak hills he led the sleeper, And when they reach'd Derg's shore, "Get in with me," He cried; "nor sink my soul in torments deeper."

The dead man row'd the boat, the living steer'd, Each in his pallor sinister, until The Isle of Pilgrimage they duly near'd-- "Now hie thee forth, and work thy master's will!" So spoke the dead, and vanish'd o'er the lake, The Squire pursued his course, and gain'd the shrine, There, nine days' vigil duly he did make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine.

The tenth eve shone in solemn, starry beauty, As he, rejoicing, o'er the old paths came, Light was his heart from its accomplished duty, All was forgotten, even the latest shame-- When these brief words some disembodied voice Spoke near him: "Oh, keep sacred, evermore, Word, pledge, and vow, so may you still rejoice, And live among the Just when Time is o'er!"

THE DAY OF ALL SOULS.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

FROM the far past there comes a thought of sweetness, From the far past a thought of love and pain; A voice, how dear! a look of melting kindness, A voice, a look, we ne'er shall know again.

A fresh, young face, perchance of boyish gladness, An aged face, perchance of patient love; My heart-strings fail, I sob in utter anguish, As past my eyes these lovely spectres move.

The chill morn breaks, the matin star still flaming; The hushed cathedral's massive door stands wide; Through the dim aisles I pass, in silent weeping, From mortal eyes my sorrowing tears to hide.

Already morn has touched the painted windows; The yellow dawn creeps down the storied panes; Already, in the early solemn twilight, The sanctuary's taper softly wanes.

My faltering step before the altar pauses; My treasur'd dead I see remembered here; All climes, all nations, lost on land or ocean, They on whose grave none ever drop a tear.

The Church, their single mourner, drapes in sorrow The festal shrines she loves with flowers to dress; And "Kyrie! Kyrie!" sighs, while lowly bending To Thee, O God! to shorten their distress.

"_Dies iræ, dies illa,_" sobs the choir; "_In pace, pace,_" from the altar rises higher; "_Lux æterna;_" daylight floods the altar, Priest and choir take up the holy psalter. "_Requiescant in pace!" Amen, amen, in pace!_

THE MESSAGE OF THE NOVEMBER WIND.

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

I.

Wrapped in lonely shadows late, (Bleak November's midnight gloom), As I kneel beside the grate In the silent sitting-room: Down the chimney moans the wind, Like the voice of souls resigned, Pleading from their prison thus, "Pray for us! pray for us! Gentle Christian, watcher kind, Pray for us, oh! pray for us!"

II.

Melt mine eyes with sudden tears-- Old familiar tones are there; Dear ones lost in other years, Breathing Purgatory's prayer. Through my fingers pass the beads, Tender heart, responsive bleeds, As the wind, all tremulous, "Pray for us! pray for us!" Seems to murmur "Love our needs-- Pray for us! oh, pray for us!"

A LEGEND OF THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE.

We read in the _Gesta Caroli Magni_ that Charlemagne had a man-at- arms who served him faithfully till his death. Before breathing his last he called a nephew of his, to make known to him his last will:

"Sixty years," said he, "have I been in the service of my prince; I have never amassed the goods of this world, and my arms and my horse are all I have. My arms I leave to thee, and I will that my horse be sold immediately after my death; I charge thee with the care of this matter, if thou wilt promise me to distribute the full price amongst the poor."

The nephew promised to execute the will of his uncle, who died in peace, for he was a good and loyal Christian. But when he was laid in the earth the young man, considering that the horse was a very fine one, and well-trained, was tempted to keep him for himself. He did not sell him, and gave no money to the poor. Six months after, the soul of the dead man appeared to him and said: "Thou hast not accomplished that which I had ordered thee to do for the welfare of my soul, and for six months I have suffered great pains in Purgatory. But behold God, the strict Judge of all things, has decreed, and His angels will execute the decree, that my soul be placed in eternal rest, and that thine shall undergo all the pains and torments which I had still to undergo for the expiation of my sins."

Thereupon the nephew, being instantly seized with a violent disease, had barely time to confess to a priest, who had just been announced. He died shortly after, and went to pay the debt he had undertaken to discharge.

THE DEAD MASS.

It has been, and still is believed, that the mercy of God sometimes permits souls that have sins to expiate, to come and expiate them on earth. Of this the following is an example:

Polet, the principal suburb of Dieppe, is still inhabited almost exclusively by fishermen, who, in past times, more especially, have ever been solid and faithful Christians. The Catholic worship was formerly celebrated with much solemnity in their church, consecrated under the invocation of "Our Lady of the Beach" (Notre Dame des Grèves); and the mothers of the worthy fishermen who give to Polet an aspect so picturesque, have forgotten only the precise date of the adventure we are about to relate.

The sacristan of Notre Dame des Grèves dwelt in a little cottage quite close to the church. He was an exact and pious man; he had the keys of the sacred edifice and the care of the bells. Several worthy priests were attached to the lovely church; the earliest Masses were never rung except by the honest sacristan. Now, one morning, during the Christmas holydays, he heard, before day, the tinkle of one of his bells announcing a Mass. He rose immediately and ran to the window. The snow- covered roofs enabled him to see objects so distinctly that he thought the day was beginning to dawn. He hastened to put on his clothes and go to the church. The total solitude and silence reigning all around him made him understand that he was mistaken and that day was not yet breaking. He tried to go into the church, however, but the door was closed.

How, then, could he have heard the bell? If robbers had got in, they would certainly have taken good care not to touch the bell. He listens; not the slightest noise in the holy place. Should he return home? Not so, for having heard the bell, he must go in.

He opens a little door leading into the sacristy; he passes through that, and advances towards the choir.

By the light of the small lamp burning before the tabernacle and that of a taper already lighted, he perceives, at the foot of the altar, a priest robed in a chasuble, and in the attitude of a celebrant about to commence Mass. All is prepared for the Holy Sacrifice. He stops in dismay. The priest, a stranger to him, is extremely pale; his hands are as white as his alb; his eyes shine like the glow-worm, the light going forth, as it were, from the very centre of the orbits.

"Serve my Mass," he said gently to the sacristan.

The latter obeyed, spell-bound with terror. But if the pallor of the priest and the singular fire of his eyes frightened him, his voice, on the contrary, was mild and melancholy.

The Mass goes on. At the elevation of the Sacred Host the limbs of the priest tremble and give forth a sound like that of dry reeds shaken by the wind. At the _Domine, non sum dignus_, his breast, which he strikes three times, sounds like the coffin when the first shovel-full of earth is cast upon it by the grave-digger. The Precious Blood produces in his whole body the effect of water which, in the silence of the night, falls drop by drop from the roof.

When he turns to say _Ita Missa est_, the priest is only a skeleton, and that skeleton speaks these words to the server:

"Brother, I thank thee! In my life-time, I was a priest; I owed this Mass at my death. Thou hast helped me to discharge my debt; my soul is freed from a heavy burden."

The spectre then disappeared. The sacristan saw the vestments fall gently at the foot of the altar, and the burning taper suddenly went out. At that moment, a cock crowed somewhere in the neighborhood. The sacristan took up the vestments, and passed the rest of the night in prayer.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"O fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east! For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say Mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a Knight that is slayne."

He turned him round, and grimly he frowned; Then he laughed right scornfully-- "He who says the Mass-rite for the soul of that Knight, May as well say Mass for me."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron's brow, From dark to the blood-red high; "Now tell me the mien of the Knight thou hast seen, For by Mary he shall die."

"O hear but my word, my noble lord, For I heard her name his name, And that lady bright, she called the Knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

The bold baron's brow then chang'd, I trow, From high blood-red to pale-- "The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- So I may not trust thy tale.

"The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name, For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, When the lady looked through the chamber fair, On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

"By Eildon-tree for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain, The Mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the baron's hand, near Tweed's fair stand, Most foully slain I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, His right upon her hand; The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorched like a fiery brand.

THE BEQUEST OF A SOUL, IN PURGATORY.

[From "A Collection of Spiritual Hymns and Songs on Various Religious Subjects," published by Chalmers & Co., of Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1802. Its quaint and touching simplicity, redolent of old-time faith, will commend it to the reader]

From lake where water does not go, A prisoner of hope below, To mortal ones I push my groans, In hopes they'll pity me.

O mortals that still live above, Your faith, hope, prayers, and alms, and love, Still merit place With God's sweet grace; O faithful, pity me.

My fervent groans don't merit here, Strict justice only doth appear, My smallest faults, And needless talks Heap chains and flames on me.

Though mortal guilt doth not remain, I still am due the temp'ral pain, I did delay To satisfy, Past coldness scorcheth me.

Tepidity and good works done With imperfections mixt, here come; All these neglects And least defects,-- Great anguish bring on me.

Though my defects here be not spared, Yet endless glory for me's prepared, I love in flames, And hope in chains; O friends, then, pity me!

My God, my Father, is most dear, For me your sighs and prayers He'll hear; Though just laws scourge, His mercies urge, That you would pity me.

Through pains and flames I'll come to Him, They purge me both from stain and sin; When I'm set free, Their friends I'll be Who now do pity me.

The smallest thing that could defile Keeps me from bliss in this exile. God loves to see That you me free; For His love pity me!

For me who alms give, fast, or pray, Great store of grace will come their way; Try this good thought-- Great help is brought, And souls from sin set free.

If you for me now do not pray, The utmost farthing I must pay; The time is hid That I'll be rid, Unless you pity me.

In mortal sin who yields his breath, Pray not for him behind his death. All mortal crime I quit in time; O faithful, pity me!

For me good works may be practised, Thus some were for the dead baptized. Suet pains endure For me, and sure You'll help and pity me!

For his good friend, as Scriptures say, Onesiphorus, Paul did pray, [1] His words, you see, Urge, then, for me; And thus you'll pity me.

[Footnote 1: II. Tim., i. 16, 18.]

This third place clear in writ you spy, Where all your works the fire will try, From death game rose, Sure then all those From third place were set free.

In hell there's no redemption found; God ne'er degrades whom He once crowned--These judgments both Confirmed by oath And absolute decree.

For all the Saints prayer should be made, Who stand in need, alive or dead. I stand in need That you with speed Should help and pity me.

In presence of our sweetest Lord, For dead they, prayed, as all accord. Christ did not blame What I now claim; Oh! haste and pity me!

To a third place Christ's soul did go. And preached to spirits there below; This in the Creed And Writ you read, That you may pity me.

When Christ on earth would stay no more, These captives freed He brought to glore; There I will be, And soon set free, If you would pity me.

Mind, then, Communion of the Saints; All should supply each other's wants: In pains and chains, And scorching flames, I languish; pity me!

Eternal rest, eternal glore, Eternal light, eternal store, To them accord, O sweetest Lord! There's mercy still with Thee!

Let mercy stay Thy just revenge, Their scorching flames to glory change; The precious flood Of Thine own blood For them we offer Thee!

ALL SOULS.

BY MARION MUIR.

FOR all the cold and silent clay That once, alive with youth and hope, Rushed proudly to the western slope- O brothers, pray!

For all who saw the orient day Rise on the plain, the camp, the flood, The sudden discord drowned in blood- O brothers, pray!

For all the lives that ebbed away In darkness down the gulf of tears; For all the gray departed years- O brothers, pray!

For all the souls that went astray In deserts hung with double gloom; For all the dead without a tomb- O brothers, pray!

For we have household peace; but they Who led the way, and held the land, Are homeless as the heaving sand- Oh! let us pray!

THE DEAD.

(From the French of Octave Cremacie.)

ANNA T. SADLIER.

O dead, ye sleep within your tranquil graves; No more ye bear the burden that enslaves Us in this world of ours. For you outshine no stars, no storms rave loud, No buds has spring, the horizon no cloud, The sun marks not the hours.

The while, with anxious thought oppress'd, we go, Each weary day but bringing deeper woe, Silently and alone Ye list the sanctuary chant arise, That downwards first to you, remounts the skies, Sweet pity's monotone.

The vain delights whereto our souls incline, Are naught beside the prayer to love divine, Alms-giving of the heart, Which reaching to you warms your chilly dust And brings your name enshrined a sacred trust, Swift to the throne of God!

Alas! love's warmest memory will fade Within the heart, ere yet the mourning shade Has ceased to mark the garb. Forgetfulness, our meed to you, outweighs The leaded coffin as it dully lays Upon your lifeless bones.

Our selfish hearts but to the present look, And see in you the pages of a book Now laid aside long read. For loving in our fev'rish joy or pain But those who serve our hate, pride, love of gain, No more can serve the dead.

To cold ambition or to joy's sweet store, Ye dusty corpses minister no more, We give to you neglect. Nor reck we of that suff'ring world's pale bourne Where you beyond the bridgeless barrier mourn O'erpast the wall of death.

'Tis said that when our coldness grieves you sore, Ye quit betimes that solitude's cold shore Where ye forsaken dwell, And flit about in darkness' sad constraint, The while from spectral lips your mournful plaint Upon the winds outswell.

When nightingales their woodland nests have left, The autumn sky of gray, white-capped, cloud-reft, Prepares the shroud which Winter soon shall spread On frozen fields; there comes a day thrice blest, When earth forgetting, all our musings rest On those who are no more the dreamless dead.

The dead their graves forsake upon this day, As we have seen doves mount with joyous grace, Escape an instant from their prison drear, Their coming brings us no repellent fear. Their mien is dreamy, passing sweet their face, Their fixed and hollow eyes cannot betray.

When spectral coming thus unseen they gaze On crowds who, kneeling in the temple, pray Forgiveness for them, one faint, joyful ray, As light upon the opal, glittering plays, On faces pale and calm an instant rests, And brings a moment's warmth to clay-cold breasts.

They, the elect of God, with souls of saints, Who bear each destined load without complaints,

Who walk all day beneath God's watching eye, And sleep the night 'neath angels' ministry, Nor made the sport of visions that arise To show th' abyss of fire to dreaming eyes.

All they who while on earth, the pure of heart, The heav'nly echoes hear, and who in part Make smooth for man rude ways he has to tread, And knowing earthly vanity, outspread Their virtue like a carpet rich and rare, And walk o'er evil, touching it nowhere.

When come sad guests from off that suff'ring shore, Which Dante saw in dream sublime of yore, Appearing midst us here that day most blessed, 'Tis but to those; for they alone have guessed The secrets of the grave; alone they understand The pallid mendicants, who ask for heav'n.

Of Israel's King the psalms, inspired cries, With Job's sublime distress, commingled rise; The sanctuary sobs them through the naves While wak'ning subtle fear, the bell's deep toll With fun'ral sounds, demanding pity's dole For wand'ring ghosts, as countless as the waves.

Give on this day, when over all the earth The Church to God makes moan for parted worth; Your own remorse, regret at least to calm Awak'ning memory's dying flame, give balm, Flow'rs for their graves, and prayer for each loved soul, Those gifts divine can yet the dead console.

Pray for your friends, and for your mother pray, Who made less drear for you life's desert way, For all the portions of your heart that lie Shut in the tomb, alas, each youthful tie Is lost within the coffin's close constraint, Where, prey of worms, the dead send up their plaint

For exiles far from home and native land, Who dying hear no voice, nor touch no hand In life alone, more lonely still in death. With none for their repose, to breathe one prayer, Cast alms of tears upon an alien grave, Or heed the stranger lonely even there;

For those whose wounded souls when here below, But anxious thought and bitter fancies know, With days all joyless, nights of dull unrest; For those who in night's calm find all so blest And meet, in place of hope with morning beams, A horrid wak'ning to their golden dreams;

For all the pariahs of human kind Who, heavy burdens bearing, find How high the steeps of human woe they scale. Oh, let your heart some off'ring make to these, One pious thought, one holy word of peace, Which shall twixt them and God swift rend the veil.

The tribute bring of prayers and holy tears, That when your hour draws nigh of nameless fears, When reached their term shall be your numbered days, Your name made known above with grateful praise, By those whose suff'rings it was yours to end, Arriving there find welcome as a friend!

Your loving tribute, white-winged angels take, Ere bearing it unto eternal spheres, An instant lay it on the grass-grown graves, While dying flow'rs in church-yards raise each head To life, refreshed by breath of prayer, awake And shed their fragrance on the sleeping dead.

A REQUIEM.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

No sound was made, no word was spoke, Till noble Angus silence broke; And he a solemn sacred plight Did to St. Bryde of Douglas make, That he a pilgrimage would take To Melrose Abbey, for the sake Of Michael's restless sprite. Then each, to ease his troubled breast, To some blessed saint his prayers addressed- Some to St. Modan made their vows, Some to St. Mary of the Lowes, Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, Some to our Lady of the Isle; Each did his patron witness make, That he such pilgrimage would take, And monks should sing, and bells should toll, All for the weal of Michael's soul, While vows were ta'en, and prayers were prayed.

Most meet it were to mark the day Of penitence and prayer divine, When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array, Sought Melrose, holy shrine. With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, And arms enfolded on his breast, Did every pilgrim go; The standers-by might hear aneath, Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath. Through all the lengthened row; No lordly look, no martial stride, Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,

Forgotten their renown; Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide, To the high altar's hallowed side, And there they kneeled them down; Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave; Beneath the lettered stones were laid The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnished niche around, Stern saint and tortured martyr frowned, And slow up the dim aisle afar, With sable cowl and scapular, And snow-white stoles, in order due, The holy Fathers, two and two, In long procession came; Taper, and host, and book they bare, And holy banner, flourished fair With the Redeemer's name; Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred Abbot stretched his hand, And blessed them as they kneeled; With holy cross he signed them all, And prayed they might be sage in hall, And fortunate in field.

The Mass was sung, and prayers were said, And solemn requiem for the dead; And bells tolled out their mighty peal, For the departed spirit's weal; And ever in the office close The hymn of intercession rose; And far the echoing aisles prolong The awful burthen of the song-- _Dies Irae, Dies Illa, Salvet SÆlum in Favilla;_ While the pealing organ rung, Thus the holy father sung:

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

The day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day? When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll; While louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead; O! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay, Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away.

THE PENANCE OF ROBERT THE DEVIL.

COLLIN DE PLANCY.

In Normandy, the most sinister associations still remain connected with the name of Robert the Devil. By the people, who change historical details, but yet preserve the moral thereof, it is believed that Robert is undergoing his penance here below, on the theatre of his crimes, and that, after a thousand years, it is not yet ended. Messrs. Taylor and Charles Nodier have mentioned this tradition in their "Voyage Pittoresque de l'Ancienne France" ("Picturesque Journey through Old France").

"On the left shore of the Seine," say they, "not far from Moulineaux, are seen the colossal ruins, which are said to be the remains of the castle, or fortress, of Robert the Devil. Vague recollections, a ballad, some shepherd's tales--these are all the chronicles of those imposing ruins. Nevertheless, the fame of Robert the Devil's doings still survives in the country which he inhabited. His very name still excites that sentiment of fear which ordinarily results only from recent impressions.

"In the vicinity of the castle of Robert the Devil every one knows his misdeeds, his violent conquests, and the rigor of his penance. The cries of his victims still reecho through the vaults, and come to terrify himself in his nocturnal wanderings, for Robert is condemned to visit the ruins and the dungeons of his castle.

"Sometimes, if the old traditions of the country are to be believed, Robert has been seen, still clad in the loose tunic of a hermit, as on the day of his burial, wandering in the neighborhood of his castle, and visiting, barefoot and bareheaded, the little corner of the plain where the cemetery must have been. Sometimes, a shepherd straying through the adjoining copse in search of his flock, scattered by an evening storm, has been frightened by the fearful aspect of the phantom, seen by the glare of the lightning, flitting about amongst the graves. He has heard him, in the pauses of the tempest, imploring the pity of their mute inhabitants; and on the morrow he shunned the place in horror, because the earth, freshly turned up, had opened on every side to terrify the murderer."

But there is another tradition which we cannot omit.

A band of those Northmen who, during the troubled reign of Charles III. of France--without any sufficient reason called Charles the Simple--had invaded that part of Neustria where Robert the Devil was born; a group of these fierce warriors were one evening warming themselves around a fire of brambles, and, joyous in a country more genial than their own, they sang, to a wild melody, the great deeds of their princes, when they saw, leaning against the trunk of a tree, an old man poorly clad, and of a sad, yet resigned aspect. They called to him as he passed along before the fortress of Robert the Devil, then only half ruined.

"Good man," said they, "sing us some song of this country."

The old man, advancing slowly, chanted in an humble yet manly voice, the beautiful prose of St. Stephen. It told how the first of the martyrs paid homage till the end to Jesus Christ, Our Lord; and how, expiring under their blows, he besought Heaven to forgive his murderers.

But this hymn displeased the rude band, who began brutally to insult the old man. The latter fell on one knee and uttered no complaint.

At this moment appeared a young man, before whom all the soldiers rose to their feet. His lofty mien and his tone of authority indicated the son of a mighty lord.

"You who insult a defenceless old man," said he, "your conduct is base and cowardly. Away with you! those who insult women or old men are unworthy to march with the brave. For you, good old man, come and share my meal. It is for the chief to repair the wrong-doings of those he commands."

"Young man," said the stranger, "what you have just done is pleasing to God, who loveth justice; but it concerneth not me, who can bear no ill- will to any one."

He then told his name; related the hideous story of his crimes, then his conversion through the prayers of his mother, and his penance, which was to last yet a long time. He showed how the grace of faith and of repentance had entered into his heart.

"Exhausted with emotion," said he, "I sat down on a stone amid some ruins; I slept. Oh! blessed be my good angel for having sent me that sleep! Scarcely had I closed mine eyes when I had a vision. It seemed to me that the mountain on which rises the Castle of Moulinets darted up to heaven and formed a staircase. Up the steps went slowly a crowd of phantoms, in which I, alas! recognized my crimes. There were women and young maidens, whose death was my doing, hardworking vassals dishonored, old men driven from their dwellings, and forced to ask the bread of charity. I saw thus ascending not only men, but things, houses burned, crops destroyed, flocks, the hope and the care of a whole life of toil, sacrificed at a moment in some wild revel.

"And I saw an angel rising rapidly. Then did my limbs quiver like the leaves of the aspen. I said to that ascending angel:

"'Whither goest thou?' He answered: 'I bring thy crimes before the Lord, that they may bear testimony against thee.'

"Then all my members became as it were burning grass. 'O good angel!' I cried, 'could I not at least efface some of these images?' He replied: 'All, if thou wilt.' 'And how?' 'Confess them; the breath of thy avowal will disperse them. Weep them in penance, and thy tears will efface even the traces thereof.'"

The old man then told how he had made his confession, and what penance he did, wandering about in rags, without other food than that which he shared with the dogs.

"I had known," he added, "all the pleasures of the earth, and had known some of its joys. But I found them still more in the miseries, the life-long fatigue, the hard humiliations of penance, because they were expiating my faults. Thus, then, O strangers, whatever fate Heaven may decree for you, if you desire happiness, find Our Lord Jesus Christ, and practice His justice."

The old man was silent; the barbarians remained motionless. He, however, taking the young chief by the hand, led him to the esplanade of the castle, and showing him all that vast country which is watered by the Seine: "Young man," said he, "for as much as thou hast protected a poor old man, God will reward the noble heart within thee. Thou seest these lands so rich--they were once mine; and even now, after God, they have no other lawful owner. I give them to thee; make faith and equity reign there. I will rejoice in thy reign."

Now this chief, to whom the penitent Robert thus bequeathed his faith and his inheritance, was Rollo, first Duke of the Normans.

ALL SOULS' EVE.

Where the tombstones gray and browned, And the broken roods around, And the vespers' solemn sound, Told an old church near; I sat me in the eve, And I let my fancy weave Such a vision as I leave With a frail pen here.

Methought I heard a trail Like to slowly-falling hail And the sadly-plaintive wail Of a misty file of souls, As they glided o'er the grass, Sighing low: "Alas! alas! How the laggard moments pass In purgatorial doles!"

Through their garments' glancing sheen, As if nothing were between, Pierced the moon's benignant beam To a grove of stunted pines; In whose distant lightsome shade, With their gilded coats arrayed,

Danced a fairy cavalcade, To a fairy poet's rhymes.

Then a cloud obscured the moon, And the fairy dance and rune Faded down behind the gloom Which along the upland fell, And my ears could only hear, In the church-yard lone and drear, The tinkle soft and clear Of the morning Mass's bell. It eddied through the air, And it seemed to call to prayer All the waiting spirits there Which the moon's beams showed, But each tinkle sank to die In a heart-distressing sigh, And no worshippers drew nigh With the penitential word.

Mute as statue, on each knoll Stood a thin, transparent soul, While the fresh breeze stole From its long night's rest, Till it bore upon its tongue, Like a snatch of sacred song, All the peopled graves among, _Ite Missa est!_

Then a cry, as Angels raise In an ecstasy of praise, When the Godhead's glowing rays To their eager sight is given, Shook the consecrated ground, And the souls it lost were found From their venial sins unbound, In the happy fields of heaven!

Where the tombstones gray and browned, And the broken roods around, And the vespers' solemn sound, Told an old church near; I sat me in the eve, And I let my fancy weave Such a vision as I leave With a frail pen here.

ELEVENTH MONTH, NOVEMBER: THE HOLY SOULS.

COMMEMORATION OF ALL SOULS.

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

O faithful church! O tender mother-heart, That, 'neath the shelter of thy deathless love, Shieldest the blood-bought charge thy Master gave; Laving the calm, unfurrowed infant brow With the pure wealth of Heaven's cleansing stream; Breathing above the sinner's grief-bowed head The mystic words that loose the demon-spell, And bid the leprous soul be clean again; Decking the upper chamber of the heart For the blest banquet of the Lord of love; Binding upon the youthful warrior's breast The buckler bright, the sacred shield of strength, The fair, celestial gift of Pentecost, Borne on the pinions of the holy Dove! And when, at last, life's sunset hour is near, And the worn pilgrim-feet stand trembling on The shadowy borders of the death-dark vale, At thy command the priestly hand bestows The potent unction in the saving Name, And gives unto the parched and pallid lip The blest Viaticum, the Bread of Life, As staff and stay for that drear pilgrimage! Thy prayers ascend, with magic incense-breath, From the lone couch, where, fainting by the way, The frail companion of the deathless soul Parteth in pain from its immortal guest. And when, at last, the golden chain is loosed, And through the shadows of that mystic vale The ransomed captive floateth swiftly forth, In solemn tones thy _De Profundis_ rings O'er all the realms of vast eternity; Thy tender litanies call gently down The angel-guides, the white-robed band of Saints, To lead the wanderer to "the great White Throne," To plead, with Heaven's own pitying tenderness, For life and mercy at the judgment-seat. The account is given, the saving sentence breathed, Yet He who said that nought by sin defiled Can take at once its blessed place amid The spotless legion of His shining Saints, Will find, upon the white baptismal robe, Full many a blemish; stains too lightly held, Half-cleansed by an imperfect sorrow's flood. "The Christian shall be saved, yet as by fire;" So, to the pain-fraught, purifying flame The robe is given, till every blighting spot Hath faded from its primal purity; Still, faithful Church, thy blest Communion binds Each suffering child unto thy mother's heart. Full well thou know'st the wondrous power of prayer-- That 'tis a holy and a wholesome thought To plead for those who in the drear abode Of penance linger, "that they may be loosed From all their sins;" that on each spotless brow Love's shining hand may place the starry crown. And so the holy Sacrifice ascends, A sweet oblation for that wailing band Thy regal form in mourning hues is draped, Thy pleading _Miserere_ ceaseth not Till, at its blest entreaty, Love descends, As erst, from His rent tomb, to Limbo's realm, And leads again the freed, exultant throng, Within the gleaming gates of gold and pearl, To bask in fadeless splendor, where the flow Of the "still waters" by the "pastures green" Faints not, nor slackens, through the endless years. O Christians, brethren by that holy tie That links the living with the ransomed dead! Children of one fond mother are ye all, White-robed in heaven, militant on earth, And sufferers 'mid the purifying flame. O ye who tread the highway of our world, Join now your voices with that mother's sigh! And while the mournful autumn wind laments, And sad November's ceaseless tear-drops fall Upon "the Silent City's" marble roofs, O'er lonely graves amid the pathless wild, Or where the wayworn pilgrim sank to rest In some lone cavern by the crested sea-- List to the pleading wail that e'er ascends From the dark land of suffering and woe: "Our footsteps trod your fair, sun-lighted paths, Our voices mingled in your joyous songs, Our tears were blended in one common grief; Perchance our erring hearts' excessive love For you, the worshipped idols of our lives, Hath been the blemish on our bridal robes. Plead for us, then, and let your potent prayer Unlock the golden gates, that we who beat Our eager wings against these prison bars, May wing our flight to endless liberty!"

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FATHER FABER

[This poem scarcely comes within the scope of the present work, yet it is, by its nature, so closely connected therewith, and is, moreover, so exquisitely tender and pathetic, so beautiful in its mournful simplicity, that I decided on giving it a place amongst these funereal fragments.]

Oh! it is sweet to think Of those that are departed, While murmured Aves sink To silence tender-hearted-- While tears that have no pain Are tranquilly distilling, And the dead live again In hearts that love is filling.

Yet not as in the days Of earthly ties we love them; For they are touched with rays From light that is above them; Another sweetness shines Around their well-known features; God with His glory signs His dearly-ransomed creatures.

Yes, they are more our own, Since now they are God's only; And each one that has gone Has left one heart less lonely. He mourns not seasons fled, Who now in Him possesses Treasures of many dead In their dear Lord's caresses.

Dear dead! they have become Like guardian angels to us; And distant Heaven like home, Through them begins to woo us; Love that was earthly, wings Its flight to holier places; The dead are sacred things That multiply our graces.

They whom we loved on earth Attract us now to Heaven; Who shared our grief and mirth Back to us now are given. They move with noiseless foot Gravely and sweetly round us, And their soft touch hath cut Full many a chain that bound us.

O dearest dead! to Heaven With grudging sighs we gave you; To Him--be doubts forgiven! Who took you there to save you:-- Now get us grace to love Your memories yet more kindly, Pine for our homes above And trust to God more blindly.

THE HOLY SOULS.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS AND SCHOLARS."

O Mary, help of sorrowing hearts, Look down with pitying eye Where souls the spouses of thy Son, In fiery torments lie; Far from the presence of their Lord The purging debt they pay, In prisons through whose gloomy shades There shines no cheering ray.

The fire of love is in their hearts, Its flame burns fierce and keen; They languish for His Blessed Face, For one brief moment seen; Prisoners of hope, their joy is there To wait His Holy Will, And, patient in the cleansing flames, Their penance to fulfil.

But dark the gloom where smile of thine, Sweet Mother, may not fall, Oh, hear us, when for these dear souls Thy loving aid we call! Thou art the star whose gentle beam Sheds joy upon the night, Oh, let its shining pierce their gloom And give them peace and light.

The sprinkling of the Precious Blood From thy dear hand must come, Quench with its drops their cruel flames, And call them to their home; Freed from their pains, and safe with thee, In Jesu's presence blest, Oh, may the dead in Christ receive Eternal light and rest!

THE PALMER'S ROSARY.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

No coral beads on costly chain of gold The Palmer's pious lips at Vespers told; No guards of art could Pilgrim's favor win, Who only craved release from earth and sin. He from the Holy Land his rosary brought; From sacred olive wood each bead was wrought, Whose grain was nurtured, ages long ago, By blood the Saviour sweated in His woe; Then on the Holy Sepulchre was laid This crown of roses from His passion made; The Sepulchre from which the Lord of all Arose from death's dark bed and icy thrall.

Yet not complete that wreath of joy and pain, Which for the dead must sweet indulgence gain; The pendant cross, on which with guileless art, Some hand had graved what touches every heart, The image of the Lamb for sinners slain, From Bethlehem's crib, now shrine, his prayers obtain; And tears and kisses tell the holy tale Of pilgrim love and penitential wail.

The love, the tears, which fed his pious flame, May well be thine, my heart, in very same; Since bead and cross, by Palmer prized so well, At vesper-hour, these fingers softly tell, And press, through them, each dear and sacred spot Where God once walked, "yet men received Him not." And still, with pious Palmer gray, of yore, Thy lips can kiss the ground He wet with gore, Still at the Sepulchre with her delay, Who found Him risen ere the break of day; And hover round the crib with meek delight Where shepherds hasted from their flocks by night, To there adore Him whom a Virgin blessed, Bore in her arms and nourished at her breast. My Rosary dear! my Bethlehem Cross so fair!

No rose, no lily can with thee compare; No gems, no gold, no art, or quaint device Could be my precious Rosary's priceless price; For Heaven's eternal joys at holier speed, I trust to win through every sacred bead; And still for suffering souls obtain release From cleansing fires to everlasting peace.

A LYKE WAKE DIRGE.

[From Sir Walter Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Border," we take this fragment. The dirge to which the eminent author alludes in a before- quoted extract from his work, and which he erroneously styles "a charm," is here given in full. The reader will observe that it partakes not the least of the nature of a charm. It would seem to have some analogy with the "Keen," or Wail of the Irish peasantry.]

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle; Fire and sleet, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

When thou from hence away are paste, Every nighte and alle; To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon; Every nighte and alle; Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thye saule. If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir, when thou mayest passe, Every nighte and alle; To Brig o' Dread thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brig o' Dread when thou mayest passe, Every nighte and alle; To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every nighte and alle, The fire shall never make thee shrinke; And Christe receive thye saule.

If meat or drink thou never gavest nane, Every nighte and alle; The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle; Fire and sleet, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

ALL SOULS' DAY.

SECOND VESPERS OF ALL SAINTS.

_From "Lyra Liturgica."_

What means this veil of gloom Drawn o'er the festive scene; The solemn records of the tomb Where holy mirth hath been: As if some messenger of death should fling His tale of woe athwart some nuptial gathering?

Our homage hath been given With gladsome voice to them Who fought, and won, and wear in heaven Christ's robe and diadem; Now to the suffering Church we must descend, Our "prisoners of hope" with succor to befriend.

They will not strive nor cry, Nor make their pleading known; Meekly and patiently they lie, Speaking with God alone; And this the burden of their voiceless song, Wafted from age to age, "How long, O Lord, how long?"

O blessed cleansing pain! Who would not bear thy load, Where every throb expels a stain, And draws us nearer GOD? Faith's firm assurance makes all anguish light, With earth behind, and heaven fast opening on the sight.

Yet souls that nearest come To their predestin'd gain, Pant more and more to reach their home: Delay is keenest pain To those that all but touch the wish'd for shore, Where sin, and grief that comes of sin, shall fret no more.

And O--O charity, For sweet remembrance sake, These souls, to God so very nigh, Into your keeping take! Speed them by sacrifice and suffrage, where They burn to pour for you a more prevailing prayer.

They were our friends erewhile, Co-heirs of saving grace; Co-partners of our daily toil, Companions in our race; We took sweet counsel in the house of God, And sought a common rest along a common road.

And had their brethren car'd To keep them just and pure, Perchance their pitying God had spar'd, The pains they now endure. What if to fault of ours those pains be due, To ill example shown, or lack of counsel true?

Alas, there are who weep In fierce, unending flame, Through sin of those on earth that sleep, Regardless of their shame; Or who, though they repent, too sadly know No help of theirs can cure or soothe their victim's woe.

Thanks to our God who gives, In fruitful Mass or prayer, To many a friend that dies, yet lives, A salutary share; Nor stints our love, though cords of sense be riven, Nor bans from hope the soul that is not ripe for heaven.

Feast of the Holy Dead! Great Jubilee of grace! When angel guards exulting lead To their predestin'd place Souls, that the Church shall loose from bonds to-day In every clime that basks beneath her genial sway.

THE SUFFERING SOULS.

BY E. M. V. BULGER.

It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.--II Mac. xii. 46.

In some quiet hour at the close of day, When your work is finished and laid away, Think of the suffering souls, and pray.

Think of that prison of anguish and pain, Where even the souls of the Saints remain, Till cleansed by fire from the slightest stain.

Think of the souls who were dear to you When this life held them; still be true, And pray for them now; it is all you can do.

Think of the souls who are lonely there, With no one, perchance, to offer a prayer That God may have pity on them and spare.

Think of the souls that have longest lain In that place of exile and of pain, Suffering still for some uncleansed stain.

Think of the souls who, perchance, may be On the very threshold of liberty-- One "_Ave Maria_" may set them free!

Oh, then, at the close of each passing day, When your work is finished and folded away, Think of the suffering souls, and pray!

Think of their prison, so dark and dim, Think of their longing to be with Him Whose praises are sung by the cherubim!

As you tell the beads of your Rosary, Ask God's sweet Mother their mother to be; Her immaculate hands hold Heaven's key.

Oh, how many souls are suffering when You whisper "Hail Mary" again and again, May see God's face as you say "_Amen!_"

--_Ave Maria_, November 24, 1883.

THE VOICES OF THE DEAD.

'Twas the hour after sunset, And the golden light had paled; The heavy foliage of the woods Were all in shadow veiled.

Yet a witchery breathed through the soft twilight, A thought of the sun that was set, And a soft and mystic radiance Through the heavens hung lingering yet.

The purple hills stood clear and dark Against the western sky, And the wind came sweeping o'er the grass With a wild and mournful cry:

It swept among the grass that grows Above the quiet grave, And stirred the boughs of the linden-trees That o'er the church-yard wave.

And the low murmur of the leaves All softly seemed to say,

"It is a good and wholesome thought For the dead in Christ to pray."

Earth's voices all are low and dim; But a human heart is there, With psalms and words of holy Church, To join in Nature's prayer.

A Monk is pacing up and down; His prayers like incense rise; Ever a sweet, sad charm for him Within that church-yard lies.

Each morning when from Mary's tower The sweet-toned _Ave_ rings, This herdsman of the holy dead A Mass of Requiem sings.

And when upon the earth there falls The hush of eventide, A dirge he murmurs o'er the graves Where they slumber side by side.

"Eternal light shine o'er them, Lord! And may they rest in peace!" His matins all are finished now, And his whispered accents cease.

But, hark! what sound is that which breaks The stillness of the hour? Is it the ivy as it creeps Against the gray church tower?

Is it the sound of the wandering breeze, Or the rustling of the grass, Or the stooping wing of the evening birds As home to their nests they pass? No; 'tis a voice like one in dreams, Half solemn and half sad, Freed from the weariness of earth, Not yet with glory clad;

Full of the yearning tenderness Which nought but suffering gives; Too sad for angel-tones--too full Of rest for aught that lives.

They are the Voices of the Dead From the graves that lie around, And the Monk's heart swells within his breast, As he listens to the sound.

"Amen! Amen!" the answer comes Unto his muttered prayer; "Amen!" as though the brethren all In choir were standing there.

The living and departed ones On earth are joined again, And the bar that shuts them from his ken For a moment parts in twain.

Over the gulf that yawns beneath, Their echoed thanks he hears For the Masses he has offered up, For his orisons and tears.

And as the strange responsory Mounts from the church-yard sod, Their mingled prayers and answers rise Unto the throne of God. [1]

[Footnote 1: There is a story recorded of St. Birstan, Bishop of Winchester, who died about the year of Christ 944, how he was wont every day to say Mass and Matins for the dead; and one evening, as he walked in the church-yard, reciting his said Matins, when he came to the _Requiescat in Pace_, the voices in the graves round about him made answer aloud, and said, "Amen, Amen!"--_From the "English Martyrology" for October 22_]

--_M. R., in "The Lamp," Oct. 31, 1863._

THE CONVENT CEMETERY.

REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.

[This is an extract from Father Ryan's poem, "Their Story Runneth Thus."]

And years and years, and weary years passed on Into the past; one autumn afternoon, When flowers were in their agony of death, And winds sang "_De Profundis_" o'er them, And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk Where, in a resting-place as calm as sweet, The dead were lying down; the autumn sun Was half-way down the west--the hour was three, The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died. He walked alone amid the Virgins' graves, Where calm they slept--a convent stood near by, And from the solitary cells of nuns Unto the cells of death the way was short.

Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, While in the hollows 'twixt them sweet flowers grew, Entwining grave with grave. He read the names Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace" Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name A cross was graven on the lowly stone. He passed each grave with reverential awe, As if he passed an altar, where the Host Had left a memory of its sacrifice. And o'er the buried virgin's virgin dust He walked as prayerfully as though he trod The holy floor of fair Loretto's shrine. He passed from grave to grave, and read the names Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names By which this world had known them into names Of sacrifice known only to their God; Veiling their faces they had veiled their names. The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they passed there, would know no more than he, Or any stranger, where their playmates slept. And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears. He wondered at the stories that were hid Forever down within those simple graves.

ONE HOUR AFTER DEATH.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

Oh! I could envy thee thy solemn sleep, Thy sealed lid, thy rosary-folding palm, Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep The "_Bona Mors_" sublime, unfathomed calm.

I sigh to wear myself that burial robe Anointed hands have blessed with pious care: What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare?

Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust Shall rest serenely through the night of time; Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust, But, fresh as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime

Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam; I see it break! the pure, celestial day, And stars of mortal hope already dim.

"_In pace_" Lord, oh! let her sweetly rest In Paradise, this very day with Thee: Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed, Then let her soul Thy risen glory see!

A PRAYER FOR THE DEAD.

T. D. MCGEE.

Let us pray for the dead! For sister and mother, Father and brother, For clansman and fosterer, And all who have loved us here; For pastors, for neighbors, At rest from their labors; Let us pray for our own beloved dead! That their souls may be swiftly sped Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To a heavenly home by the gate called Desire!

I see them cleave the awful air, Their dun wings fringed with flame; They hear, they hear our helping prayer, They call on Jesu's name.

Let us pray for the dead! For our foes who have died, May they be justified! For the stranger whose eyes Closed on cold alien skies; For the sailors who perished By the frail arts they cherished; Let us pray for the unknown dead.

Father in heaven, to Thee we turn, Transfer their debt to us; Oh! bid their souls no longer burn In mediate anguish thus. Let us pray for the soldiers, On whatever side slain; Whose white bones on the plain Lay unclaimed and unfathered, By the vortex-wind gathered, Let us pray for the valiant dead.

Oh! pity the soldier, Kind Father in heaven, Whose body doth moulder Where his soul fled self-shriven.

We have prayed for the dead; All the faithful departed, Who to Christ were true-hearted; And our prayers shall be heard, For so promised the Lord; And their spirits shall go Forth from limbo-like woe-- And joyfully swift the justified dead Shall feel their unbound pinions sped, Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To their heavenly home by the gate called Desire,

By the gate called Desire, In clouds they've ascended-- O Saints, pray for us, Now your sorrows are ended!

THE DE PROFUNDIS BELL. [1]

[Footnote 1: Among the many beautiful and pious customs of Catholic countries, none appeals with more tender earnestness to the pitying heart than that of the _De Profundis_ bell. While the shades of night are gathering over the earth, a solemn, dirge like tolling resounds from the lofty church towers. Instantly every knee is bent, and countless voices, in city and hamlet, from castle and cottage, repeat, with heartfelt earnestness, the beautiful psalm, "_De Profundis_," or, "Out of the depths," etc., for the souls of the faithful departed. Thus is illustrated, in a most touching manner, the blessed doctrine of the Communion of Saints. Thus does the Church Militant clasp, each day anew, the holy tie which binds her to the suffering Church of Purgation.

The compassionate heart of the Christian is stirred to its inmost depths by the plaintive call of that warning bell; and as, in the holy hush of nightfall, he obeys its tender appeal, how fully does he realize that "it is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead."]

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

The day was dead; from purple summits faded Its last resplendent ray, And softly slept the wearied earth, o'ershaded By twilight's dreamy gray; Then flowed deep sound-waves o'er silence holy Of nature's calm repose,

As from its lofty dome, outpealing slowly Through the still gloaming, rose The deep and dirge-like swell Of _De Profundis_ bell.

To heedful hearts each solemn cadence falling Through twilight's misty veil, An echo seemed of spirit-voices calling With sad, beseeching wail; And thus outspake the mournful intonation: "Plead for us, brethren, plead!" From the drear depths of woe and desolation Our cry of bitter need Floats upward in the swell Of _De Profundis_ bell. Then bowed each knee, the plaintive summons heeding, And rose the blended sigh. As incense-breath of fond, united pleading E'en to the throne on high: "Hear, Lord, the cry of fervent supplication Earth's children lift to Thee; And from the depths of long and dread purgation Thy faithful captives free, Ere dies on earth the swell Of _De Profundis_ bell.

"If, in Thy sight, scarce e'en the perfect whiteness Of seraph-robe is pure, Shall mortals brave Thine eye's eternal brightness? Shall man its search endure? Ah! trusting hope may meet the dazzling splendor Of those celestial rays, For with Thee, Lord, is pardon sweet and tender, When contrite sorrow prays. Ay, Thou wilt lead, from desert-waste of sadness, Thine Israel's chosen band; And Miriam's song of pure, triumphant gladness Shall, in Thy promised land, Succeed the dirge-like swell Of _De Profundis_ bell."

NOVEMBER.

ANNA. T. SADLIER.

Robed in mourning, nave and chancel, In the livery of the dead, Hymns funereal are chanted. Services sublime are read.

Sounds the solemn _Dies Iræ_, Fraught with echoes from the day When the majesty of Heaven Shall appear in dread array.

Next the Gospel's weird recital, Full of mystery and dread; Holding message for the living, Bringing tidings of the dead.

With its resurrection promised-- Resurrection unto life, With its full and true fruition, And immunity from strife.

Blest immunity from sorrow, Primal man's unhappy dower; While the evil shall find judgment In the resurrection hour.

To the Lord, the King of Glory, Goes the voiceless, tuneless prayer, From the deep pit to deliver, From eternal pains to spare.

All who wait the holy coming, Wait the dawning of a day That shall ope the gates of darkness, Shall illume the watcher's way. May the holy Michael lead them To the fullness of the light That of old, in prophet visions, Burst on Adam's dazzled sight.

May they pass from death to living-- Message that the Master's voice Gave to Abraham the faithful, Bade his exiled soul rejoice.

May perpetual light descending Touch their foreheads, dark with fear-- Dark with deadly torments suffered; Sign them with the glory near!

May they rest, O Lord, forever In a peace that, unexpressed, Shall bestow upon the pilgrims Dual crowns of light and rest!

Death's weird canticle is ringing In its supplication strong-- In its far cry to the heavens, Couched in wild, unearthly song.

Ay, this _Libera_ o'ercomes us, Requiem, at once, and dirge-- Makes this life with life immortal In our consciousness to merge.

FOR THE SOULS IN PURGATORY.

ANONYMOUS.

Ye souls of the faithful who sleep in the Lord, But as yet are shut out from your final reward, Oh! would I could lend you assistance to fly From your prison below to your palace on high!

O Father of Mercies! Thine anger withhold, These works of Thy hand in Thy mercy behold; Too oft from Thy path they have wandered aside, But Thee, their Creator, they never denied.

O tender Redeemer, their misery see, Deliver the souls that were ransomed by Thee; Behold how they love Thee, despite all their pain; Restore them, restore them to favor again!

O Spirit of Grace! O Consoler divine! See how for Thy presence they longingly pine; Ah! then, to enliven their sadness descend, And fill them with peace and with joy in the end!

O Mother of Mercy! dear soother in grief! Send thou to their torments a balmy relief; Oh! temper the rigor of justice severe, And soften their flames with a pitying tear.

Ye Patrons, who watched o'er their safety below, Oh! think how they need your fidelity now; And stir all the Angels and Saints in the sky To plead for the souls that upon you rely!

Ye friends, who once sharing their pleasure and pain, Now hap'ly already in Paradise reign, Oh! comfort their hearts with a whisper of love, And call them to share in your pleasures above! O Fountain of Goodness! accept of our sighs: Let Thy mercy bestow what Thy justice denies; So may Thy poor captives, released from their woes, Thy praises proclaim, while eternity flows!

All ye who would honor the Saints and their Head, Remember, remember to pray for the dead-- And they, in return, from their misery freed, To you will be friends in the hour of your need!

--_Garland of Flowers_.

ALL SOULS' EVE.

'Twas All Souls' Eve; the lights in Notre Dame Blazed round the altar; gloomy, in the midst, The pall, with all its sable hangings, stood; With torch and taper, priests were ranged around, Chanting the solemn requiem of the dead; And then along the aisles the distant lights Moved slowly, two by two; the chapels shone Lit as they pass'd in momentary glare; Behind the fretted choir the yellow ray, On either hand the altar, blazing fell. She thought upon the multitude of souls Dwelling so near and yet so separate. With dawn she sought Saint Jacques; the altars there Had each its priest; the black and solemn Mass, The nodding feathers of the catafalque, The flaring torches, and the funeral chant, And intercessions for the countless souls In Purgatory still. With pity new The Pilgrim pray'd for the departed. Long She knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, Beside Our Lady's altar. Pictured there, She saw, imprisoned in the forked flames, The suffering souls who ask the alms of prayer; Her taper small an aged peasant lit, To burn before Our Lady, that her voice, Mother of mercy as she is, might plead For one who left her still on earth to pray. . . . . . Sable veils Soon hid the altars; all things spoke of death, And realms where those who leave the upper air Wait till the stains of sin are cleansed, and pant Amid the thirsty flames for Paradise. [1]

[Footnote 1: These verses are taken from an anonymous metrical work called "The Pilgrim," published in England in 1867.]

OUR NEIGHBOR.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

Set it down gently at the altar rail, The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet; Long have we seen that pious face, so pale, Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.

These many years her heart was hidden where Nor moth, nor rust, nor craft of man could harm; The blue eyes, seldom lifted, save in prayer, Beamed with her wished-for heaven's celestial calm.

As innocent as childhood's was the face, Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart; Each trouble came as winged by special grace, And resignation saved the wound from smart.

On bead and crucifix her finger kept, Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold; "My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept, The placid brow, the gentle hand grew cold.

The choicely ripening cluster, ling'ring late Into October on its shrivelled vine, Wins mellow juices, which in patience wait Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.

Then set it gently at the altar rail, The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet; How can we hope, if such as she can fail Before th' Eternal God's high judgment-seat?

PURGATORY.

OLD BELLS.

Ring out merrily, Loudly, cheerily, Blithe old bells from the steeple tower. Hopefully, fearfully, Joyfully, tearfully, Moveth the bride from her maiden bower. Cloud there is none in the bright summer sky, Sunshine flings benison down from on high; Children sing loud as the train moves along, "Happy the bride that the sun shineth on."

Knell out drearily, Measured out wearily, Sad old bells from the steeple gray. Priests chanting slowly, Solemnly, slowly, Passeth the corpse from the portal to-day. Drops from the leaden clouds heavily fall, Drippingly over the plume and the pall; Murmur old folk, as the train moves along, "Happy the dead that the rain raineth on."

Toll at the hour of prime, Matin and vesper chime, Loved old bells from the steeple high; Rolling, like holy waves, Over the lowly graves, Floating up, prayer-fraught, into the sky. Solemn the lesson your lightest notes teach, Stern is the preaching your iron tongues preach; Ringing in life from the bud to the bloom; Ringing the dead to their rest in the tomb.

Peal out evermore-- Peal as ye pealed of yore, Brave old bells, on each holy day. In sunshine and gladness, Through clouds and through sadness, Bridal and burial have both passed away. Tell us life's pleasures with death are still rife; Tell us that death ever leadeth to life; Life is our labor and death is our rest, If happy the living, the dead are the blest.

--_Popular Poetry_.

O HOLY CHURCH!

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

O holy Church! thy mother-heart Still clasps the child of grace; And nought its links of love can part, Or rend its fond embrace.

Thy potent prayer and sacred rite Embalm the precious clay, That waits the resurrection-light-- The fadeless Easter day.

And loving hearts, by faith entwined, True to that faith shall be, And keep the sister-soul enshrined In tender memory;

Shall bid the ceaseless prayer ascend, To win her guerdon blest; The radiant day that hath no end, The calm, eternal rest.

AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Again he faced the battle-field-- Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield. "Now then," he said, and couch'd his spear, "My course is run, the goal is near; One effort more, one brave career, Must close this race of mine." Then, in his stirrups rising high, He shouted loud his battle-cry, "St. James for Argentine!"

* * * * *

Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, To use his conquest boldly won: And gave command for horse and spear To press the Southern's scatter'd rear, Nor let his broken force combine, When the war-cry of Argentine Fell faintly on his ear! "Save, save his life," he cried. "O save The kind, the noble, and the brave!" The squadrons round free passage gave, The wounded knight drew near. He raised his red-cross shield no more, Helm, cuish, and breast-plate stream'd with gore. Yet, as he saw the King advance, He strove even then to couch his lance-- The effort was in vain! The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse; Wounded and weary, in 'mid course He tumbled on the plain. Then foremost was the generous Bruce To raise his head, his helm to loose:-- "Lord Earl, the day is thine! My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, Have made our meeting all too late; Yet this may Argentine, As boon from ancient comrade, crave-- A Christian's Mass, a soldier's grave." Bruce pressed his dying hand--its grasp Kindly replied; but, in his clasp It stiffen'd and grew cold-- And, "O farewell!" the victor cried, Of chivalry the flower and pride, The arm in battle bold, The courteous mien, the noble race, The stainless faith, the manly face! Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine, For late-wake of De Argentine. O'er better knight on death-bier laid, Torch never gleamd, nor Mass was said! [1]

[Footnote 1: It is said that the body of Sir Giles de Argentine was brought to Edinburgh, and interred with the greatest pomp in St. Giles' Church. Thus did the royal Bruce respond to the dying knight's request.]

--_From "The Lord of the Isles"_

PRAY FOE THE MARTYRED DEAD.

Pray for the Dead! When, conscienceless, the nations

Rebellious rose to smite the thorn-crowned Head Of Christendom, their proudest aspirations Ambitioned but a place amongst the dead.

Pray for the Dead! The seeming fabled story of early chivalry, in them renewed, Shines out to-day with an ascendent glory Above that field of parricidal feud.

The children of a persecuted mother, When nations heard the drum of battle beat, Through coward Europe, brother leagued with brother, Rallied and perished at her sacred feet.

O Ireland, ever waiting the To-morrow, Lift up thy widowed, venerable head, Exultingly, through thy maternal sorrow, Not comfortless, like Rachel, for thy dead.

For, where the crimson shock of battle thundered, From hosts precipitated on a few, Above thy sons, outnumbered, crushed and sundered, Thy green flag through the smoke and glitter flew.

Lift up thy head! The hurricane that dashes Its giant billows on the Rock of Time, Divests thee, mother, of thy weeds and ashes, Rendering, at least, thy grief sublime.

For nations, banded into conclaves solemn, Thy name and spirit in the grave had cast, And carved thy name upon the crumbling column Which stands amid the unremembered Past.

Pray for the Dead! Cold, cold amid the splendor Of the Italian South our brothers sleep; The blue air broods above them warm and tender, The mists glide o'er them from the barren deep.

Pray for the Dead! High-souled and lion-hearted, Heroic martyrs to a glorious trust, By them our scorned name is re-asserted, By them our banner rescued from the dust.

--_Kilkenny Journal_.

IN WINTER

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

How lonely on the hillside look the graves! The summer green no longer o'er them waves; No more, among the frosted boughs, are heard The mournful whip-poor-will or singing bird.

The rose-bush, planted with such tearful care, Stands in the winter sunshine stiff and bare; Save here and there its lingering berries red Make the cold sunbeams warm above the dead.

Through all the pines, and through the tall, dry grass, The fitful breezes with a shiver pass, While o'er the autumn's lately flowering weeds The snow-birds flit and peck the shelling seeds.

Because those graves look lonely, bleak and bare, Because they are not, as in summer, fair, O turn from comforts, cheery friends, and home, And 'mid their solemn desolation roam!

On each brown turf some fresh memorial lay; O'er each dear hillock's dust a moment stay, To breathe a "Rest in Peace" for those who lie On lonely hillsides 'neath a wintry sky.

OSEMUS.

MARY E MANNIX

Welcome, ye sad dirges of November, When Indian summer drops her brilliant crown All withered, as in clinging mantle brown She floats, away to die beneath the leaves; Pressed are the grapes, gathered the latest sheaves; O wailing winds! how can we but remember The loved and lost? O ceaseless monotones! Hearing your plaints, counting your weary moans Like voices of the dead, like broken sighs From stricken souls who long for Paradise, We will not slight the message that ye bear, Nor check a pitying thought, nor guide a prayer. They have departed, we must still remember; Welcome, ye sad, sad dirges of November!

FUNERAL HYMN.

_From the French of Theodore Nisard_

A. T. SADLIER

The bell is tolling for the dead, Christians, hasten we to prayer, Our brothers suffer there, Consumed in struggles vain.

Have pity, have pity on them, In torturing flames immersed, The stains their souls aspersed Retain them far from heav'n. Since God has giv'n us power, Oh, let us their woes relieve; Their hope do not deceive, Our protectors they will be.

For these suff'ring ones we pray, Lord Jesus, Victim blest, Take them from pain to rest, Thy children, too, are they.

* * * * *

[As the translation is a very rude one, we add the French original, which, particularly when set to music, is full of a deep solemnity and pathos.]

CHANT FUNÈBRE.

NISARD

La cloche tinte pour les morts Chrétiens, mettons nous en prières! Ceux qi gemissent sont des frères, Se consumant en vains efforts. Pitié pour eux! Pitié pour eux! Ils tourbillonnent dans la flamme; Les taches qui souillent leur âmes, Les tiennent captifs loin des cieux. Mettons un terme à leur douleurs, Dieu nous en donne la puissance; Ne trompons point leur espérance, Puis ils seront nos protecteurs. Disons pour nos fières souffrants: Sauveur Jésus, Sainte Victime, Tirez nos frères de l'abime, Car, eux aussi, sont vos enfants.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE

O Father, give them rest-- Thy faithful ones, whose day of toil is o'er,

Whose weary feet shall wander never more O'er earth's unquiet breast!

The battle-strife was long; Yet, girt with grace, and guided by Thy light, They faltered not till triumph closed the fight, Till pealed the victor's song.

Though drear the desert path, With cruel thorns and flinty fragments strewn, Where fiercely swept, amid the glare of noon. The plague-wind's biting wrath.

Still onward pressed their feet; For patience soothed with sweet celestial balm, And, from the rocks, hope called her founts to calm The Simoom's venom-heat.

Their march hath reached its close, Its toils are o'er, its Red Sea safely passed; And pilgrim feet have cast aside at last Earth's sandal-shoon of woes.

Thou blissful promised land! One rapturous glimpse of matchless glory caught, One priceless vision, with thy beauty fraught, Hath blessed that way-worn band.

And to thy smiling shore Their ceaseless messengers of longing went, And blooms of bliss and fruitage of content, Returning, gladly bore.

Yet sadly still they wait; For, past idolatries to gods of clay, And past rebellions 'gainst the Master's sway, Have barred the golden gate.

The magic voice of prayer, The saving rite, the sacrifice of love, The human tear, the sigh of Saints above, Blent in one off'ring fair--

These, these alone, can win The boon they crave: glad entrance into rest, The fadeless crown, the garment of the blest, Washed pure from stain of sin.

Hear, then, our eager cry. O God of mercy! bid their anguish cease; To prisoned souls, ah! bring the glad release, And hush the mourner's sigh.

Mother of pitying love! On sorrow's flood thy tender glances bend, And o'er its dark and dreadful torrent send The olive-bearing dove.

Thy potent prayer shall be An arch of peace, a radiant promise-bow, To span the gulf, and shed its cheering glow O'er the dread penance-sea.

And on its pathway blest The ransomed throng, in garments washed and white, May safely pass to love's fair realm of light, To heaven's perfect rest.

THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS IS THE COUNTRY.

_From the French of Fontanes_. [1]

[Footnote 1: Louis, Marquis de Fontanes, Peer of France, and Member of the French Academy.]

ANNA T. SADLIER

E'en now doth Sagittarius from on high, Outstretch his bow, and ravage all the earth, The hills, and meadows where of flowers the dearth Already felt, like some vast ruins lie.

The bleak November counts its primal day, While I, a witness of the year's decline, Glad of my rest, within the fields recline. No poet heart this beauty can gainsay, No feeling mind these autumn pictures scorn, But knows how their monotonous charms adorn. Oh, with what joy does dreamy sorrow stray At eve, slow pacing, the dun-colored vale; He seeks the yellow woods, and hears the tale Of winds that strip them of their lonely leaves; For this low murmur all my sense deceives. In rustling forests do I seem to hear Those voices long since still, to me most dear. In leaves grown sere they speak unto my heart.

This season round the coffin-lid we press, Religion wears herself a mourning dress, More grand she seems, while her diviner part At sight of this, a world in ruins, grows. To-day a pious usage she has taught, Her voice opens vaults wherein our fathers dwell. Alas, my memory doth keep that thought. The dawn appeareth, and the swaying bell Mingles its mournful sound with whistling winds, The Feast of Death proclaiming to the air. Men, women, children, to the Church repair, Where one, with speech and with example binds These happy tribes, maintaining all in peace. He follows them, the first apostles, near, Like them the pastor's holy name makes dear.

"With hymns of joy," said he, "but yesterday We celebrated the triumphant dead Who conquer'd heav'n by burning zeal, faith-fed. For plaintive shades, whom sorrow makes his prey We weep to-day, our mourning is their bliss, All potent prayer is privileged in this, Souls purified from sin by transient pain It frees; we'll visit their most calm domain. Man seeks it, and descends there every hour. But dry our tears, for now celestial rays The grave's dim region swift shall penetrate; Yea, all its dwellers in their primal state Shall wake, behold the light in mute amaze. Ah, might I to that world my flight then wing In triumph to my God, my flock recovered bring."

So saying, offered he the holy rite, With arms extended praying God to spare, The while adoring knelt he humbly there. That people prostrate! oh, most solemn sight That church, its porticoes with moss o'ergrown, The ancient walls, dim light and Gothic panes, In its antiquity the brazen lamp A symbol of eternity doth stamp. A lasting sun. God's majesty down sent, Vows, tears and incense from the altars rise, Young beauties praying 'neath their mothers' eyes, Do soften by their voices innocent, The touching pomp religion there reveals; The organ hush'd, the sacred silence round, All, all uplifts, ennobles and inspires; Man feels himself transported where the choirs Of seraphim with harps of gold entone Low at Jehovah's feet their endless song. Then God doth make His awful presence known, Hides from the wise, to loving hearts is shown: He seeks less to be proved than to be felt. [1] From out the Church the multitudes depart, In separate groups unto th' abode they go Of tranquil death, their tears still silent flow. The standard of the Cross is borne apart, Sublime our songs for death their sacred theme, Now mixed with noise that heralds storms they seem; Now lower above our heads the dark'ning clouds, Our faces mournful, our funereal hymn Both air and landscape in our grief enshrouds.

Towards death's tranquil haven, on we fare, The cypress, ivy, and the yew trees haunt The spot where thorns seem growing everywhere. Sparse lindens rise up grimly here and there, The winds rush whistling through their branches gaunt. Hard by a stream, my mind found there exprest In waves and tombs a twofold lesson drest, Eternal movement and eternal rest.

Ah, with what holy joy these peasants fain Would honor parent dust; they seek with pride The stone or turf, concealing those allied To them by love, they find them here again. Alas, with us we may not seek the boon Of gazing on the ashes of our dead. Our dead are banish'd, on their rights we tread, Their bones unhonored at hap-hazard strewn. E'en now 'gainst us cry out their _Manes_ pale, Those nations and those times dire woes entail, 'Mongst whom in hearts grown weak by slow degree, The _cultus_ of the dead has ceased. Here, here, at least have they from wrong been free, Their heritage of peace preserving best. No sumptuous marbles burden names here writ, A shepherd, farmer, peasant, as is fit, Beneath these stones in tranquil slumber see; Perchance a Turenne, a Corneille they hide, Who lived obscure, e'en to himself unknown. But if from men he'd risen separate, Sublime in camps, the theatre, the state, His name by idol-loving worlds outcried, Would that have made his slumber here more sweet?

[Footnote 1: La Harpe said that these last twenty lines were the most beautiful verses in the French tongue. They necessarily lose considerably in the translation.]

REQUIEM ÆTERNAM.

T. D. MCGEE.

[This beautiful requiem, written March 6th, 1868 (St. Victor's Day), on the death of an intimate friend, acquires a new pathos and a new solemnity, from the fact that its gifted author met his death at the hands of an assassin but one month later, on the 7th of April of the same year. Like Mozart, he wrote his own requiem]

Saint Victor's Day, a day of woe, The bier that bore our dead went slow And silent gliding o'er the snow-- _Miserere Domine!_

With Villa Maria's faithful dead, Among the just we make his bed, The cross, he loved, to shield his head-- _Miserere Domine!_

The skies may lower, wild storms may rave Above our comrade's mountain grave, That cross is mighty still to save-- _Miserere Domine!_

Deaf to the calls of love and care, He bears no more his mortal share, Nought can avail him now but prayer-- _Miserere Domine!_

To such a heart who could refuse Just payment of all burial dues, Of Holy Church the rite and use? _Miserere Domine!_

Right solemnly the Mass was said, While burn'd the tapers round the dead, And manly tears like rain were shed-- _Miserere Domine!_

No more St. Patrick's aisles prolong The burden of his funeral song, His noiseless night must now be long-- _Miserere Domine!_

Up from the depths we heard arise A prayer of pity to the skies, To Him who dooms or justifies-- _Miserere Domine!_

Down from the skies we heard descend The promises the Psalmist penned, The benedictions without end-- _Miserere Domine!_

Mighty our Holy Church's will To shield her parting souls from ill, Jealous of Death, she guards them still-- _Miserere Domine!_ The dearest friend will turn away, And leave the clay to keep the clay, Ever and ever she will stay-- _Miserere Domine!_

When for us sinners at our need, That mother's voice is raised to plead, The frontier hosts of heaven 'take heed-- _Miserere Domine!_

Mother of Love! Mother of fear, And holy Hope, and Wisdom dear, Behold we bring thy suppliant here-- _Miserere Domine!_

His glowing heart is still for aye, That held fast by thy clemency, Oh! look on him with loving eye-- _Miserere Domine!_

His Faith was as the tested gold, His Hope assured, not over-bold, His Charities past count, untold-- _Miserere Domine!_

Well may they grieve who laid him there, Where shall they find his equal--where? Nought can avail him now but prayer-- _Miserere Domine!_

Friend of my soul, farewell to thee! Thy truth, thy trust, thy chivalry; As thine? so may my last end be! _Miserere Domine!_

APPENDIX

ASSOCIATION OF MASSES AND STATIONS OF THE CROSS FOR THE BELIEF OF THE HOLY SOULS.

It would be a great defect in a book such as this to omit all mention of an Association which exists in Montreal, Canada, for the special relief of the Souls in Purgatory. It is certain that there are Purgatorian societies, established in many other cities, both of Europe and America. But this Canadian one seems unique, in so far, that it has a triple aim: first, that of relieving the holy souls; second, that of the conversion of infidels; third, that of contributing to the support of the Mendicant Order of St. Francis. The money received is sent direct to these missionaries, by whom the Masses are said. Touching stories are told of the joy of these devoted apostles on receipt of such alms, which aid them so much in the various good works in which they are engaged.

The society has, as it were, two branches. In the first the associates merely bind themselves to make the Way of the Cross once a week, on a day fixed, with the primary object of relieving the holy souls, and particularly those most pleasing to God; and the secondary one of converting the infidels. At the end of this exercise, they make use of the following invocation: "Holy Souls in Purgatory, rest in peace, and pray for us."

The other branch has for its object the procuring of Masses for the deliverance of the suffering souls. Each associate must pay to the treasurer twenty-five cents a month, or three dollars a year; for which Masses will be said according to the intention of the subscriber, having always in view those souls which are most pleasing to God.

One may become a life member, on payment of twenty-five dollars. Foundations of Masses can also be made in connection with the Association. They are similar to those which came into existence at the time of the Crusades and at many other epochs in Christian history. Such foundations are sometimes made in wills. They are, of course, not within the reach of every one. It is necessary to pay five hundred dollars into the hands of the Society. Every necessary security for its proper use is given, and the donor is entitled in perpetuity to a certain yearly rental to be expended in Masses for his soul. The sum may be paid in instalments, or several persons may club together in making the foundation. It is a sublime thought that the Holy Sacrifice will thus continue to be said for us, long after our memory has passed away from earth. But as the three dollars a year which constitutes one a member of the Association is much more within the reach of most of us, it may be well to lay more stress upon the advantages which we shall thereby gain for ourselves and our deceased friends. It entitles us after death to a special Mass and a Way of the Cross every year from each associate. The number of associates is very great; besides a share in all the Masses and Stations, we have also a share in the good works of the missionaries of St. Francis, and can gain Indulgences which have been granted to the members. These Indulgences, plenary and partial, are attached to all the principal, and to some of the minor feasts of the year.

In connection with the work, an almanac both in French and English is published every year at Montreal, and sold for the moderate sum of five cents. In this pamphlet a full account is given of the Association, and there is besides a great deal of useful and interesting reading, such as anecdotes relating to the dead, the opinions of various spiritual authors on Purgatory, and letters from foreign countries, or from various individuals concerning, the society and its progress. [1]

[Footnote 1: To become an associate one must address himself to the chaplain, Rev. F. Reid, 401 St. Denis Street, or to the treasurer, Louis Ricard, Esq., 166 St. Denis St, Montreal, Canada.]

EXTRACTS FROM "THE CATHOLIC REVIEW." [1]

[Footnote 1: November, 1885.]

"The Month of the Holy Souls" is at hand. In Catholic lands November is specially devoted by the faithful to increased suffrages for the repose of the holy and patient dead. Many reports reach us from experienced priests showing that the practice of requesting Requiem Masses for the dead is not increasing. Priests have what is, in some respects, a natural objection to urge upon their people perseverance in this old Catholic practice of piety and gratitude. It is one which can be easily understood. Yet, largely owing to this nice delicacy, they are, after their own deaths, forgotten by many bound to them through spiritual gratitude. One of the most experienced priests in New York tells us that for five priests that have died in his house he has not known ten Masses to be said at the request of the laity. How does friendship serve others less public and less popular? It gives a big funeral, a long procession of useless carriages, but no alms to the poor, and no Masses for the dead.

What a pity it is that in drawing so much that is Catholic and beautiful from Ireland, we did not adopt its truly Christian devotion for the forgotten and neglected dead, which makes every priest recite the _De Profundis_ and prayers for the faithful departed, before he leaves the altar. We noticed some time ago that the Holy See sanctioned a Spanish practice of permitting to each priest three Masses on All Souls' Day as on Christmas Day. No doubt, were it properly petitioned, it would likewise extend to all the churches drawing their faith from St. Patrick's preaching, that privilege, as well as the beautiful custom that now has the force of law in Ireland, and that recalls so much of her devotion to the dead and of her suffering for the Catholic faith. That _De Profundis is one of the chapters of "fossil history," which in all future periods will recall the generous endowments that Ireland once provided for her dead, and the ruthless confiscations by which they were robbed.

Not a Catholic American paper that we have received this November has failed to argue ably, generously, and most Christianly, for suffrages for those who have gone before and are anticipating the advent of final peace.

The letters which come to a Catholic newspaper office are a very sure barometer of the waves of thought in the Catholic atmosphere of the country. From those that we have received we can affirm that no devotion would be much more popular with the people than that which was pronounced in the days of the Maccabees "a holy and wholesome thought."

Every day now there is an agreeable record in the daily papers of New York of Requiem services held in the various churches for the repose of the soul of the late Cardinal. Church after church seems to surpass its predecessors in the grateful devotion of the people, who show that they remember their prelate. In St. Gabriel's the Cardinal's private secretary, Mgr. Farley, had the satisfaction of witnessing an exceptionally large gathering to honor his illustrious chief. The Paulist Fathers had a Requiem service that was worthy of their Church and their affection for the dead, to whom they were bound by so many ties.

Rome, if the city of the soul, is also pre-eminently the city of the dead. So many great and illustrious deaths are reported to it daily from the ends of the earth that to it death and greatness are familiar and almost unnoticeable facts. It is, therefore, not undeserving of remark to find the newspapers of the Eternal City marking their notices of the passing of our Cardinal with unusual signs of mourning. Their comments on the great loss of the American Church are toned by the _gravis mœror_ with which the Holy Father received by Atlantic Cable the sad news.

In the American College, Rev. Dr. O'Connell, the President, took immediate steps to pay to its illustrious patron the last homage that Catholic affection and loyalty can render to the great dead. From a letter to _The Catholic Review_ we learn that the celebrant of the Solemn Mass of Requiem was the rector, Rev. Dr. O'Connell; Rev. John Curley, deacon; Rev. Bernard Duffy, sub-deacon; Rev. Thomas McManus and William Guinon, acolytes; Mr. William Murphy, thurifer; and Rev. Messrs. Cunnion and Raymond, masters of ceremonies. All these gentlemen are students from the diocese of New York.

A REQUIEM FOR THE CARDINAL IN PARIS.

PARIS, _October_ 30.--A solemn funeral service of exceptional splendor was celebrated this morning at the Madeleine for the repose of the late Cardinal McCloskey, Archbishop of New York. The church was hung with black and was resplendent with lights. Outside the portico, on the steps, were two large funeral torches, with green flames. Similar torches were visible in many parts of the edifice, including the lofty upper galleries. The catafalque was of large dimensions, and was flanked on either side by numerous lights and torches as well as by marble images. Over all was a sable canopy, suspended from the ceiling. A Cardinal's hat, with its tassels, lay on the pall. The late Cardinal's motto, "In the hope of life eternal," was repeated frequently in the decorations.

A DUTY OF NOVEMBER.

"HAVE PITY ON ME, AT LEAST YOU, MY FRIENDS."

(_From the Texas Monitor_.)

We have often repeated in our morning and night prayers the words of the Creed: "I believe in the communion of saints," without thinking, perhaps, that we were expressing our belief in one of the most beautiful and consoling doctrines of the Holy Catholic Church. I believe in the communion of saints--that is, I believe in the holy communion of prayer and intercession which exists between all the members of the Mystical Body of Christ--the Church, be they fighting the battles of the Lord against the Devil, the Flesh, and the World, in the ranks of the Church Militant on earth, or enjoying in the happy mansions of Heaven their eternal reward, as members of the Church Triumphant, or finally waiting in the dark prison of Purgatory until they shall have paid their debt to the Eternal Justice "_to the last farthing_," and be saved "yet, so as by fire." I believe in the communion of saints--that is, I believe that there exists no barrier between the members of Christ. Death itself cannot separate us from our brethren, who have gone before us. We believe that we daily escape innumerable dangers, both spiritual and temporal, through the prayers of our friends of the Triumphant Church; and we believe also that it is within our power to help by our prayers and sacrifices our friends who are for a time in the middle place of expiation, because "nothing defiled can enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

It has always been the practice of the Catholic Church to offer prayers and other pious works in suffrage for the dead, as is abundantly proved by the writings of the Latin Fathers, Tertullian, St. Cyprian, St. Augustine, St. Gregory, and of the Greek Fathers, St. Ephrem, St. Basil, and St. John Chrysostom. St. Chrysostom says:

"It was not without good reason ordained by the Apostles that mention should be made of the dead in the tremendous mysteries, because they knew well that these would receive great benefit from it." By the expression "tremendous mysteries" is meant the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

St. Augustine says, upon the same subject:

"It is not to be doubted that the dead are aided by prayers of the Holy Church and by the salutary sacrifice, and by the alms which are offered for their spirits that the Lord may deal with them more mercifully than their sins have deserved. For this, which has been handed down by the Fathers, the Universal Church observes."

St. Augustine also tells us that Arius was the first who dared to teach that it was of no use to offer up prayers and sacrifices for the dead, and this doctrine of Arius lie reckoned among heresies. (Heresy 53.)

The Church has always made a memento of the dead in the holy sacrifice of the Mass, and exhorted the faithful to pray for them. She urges us to pray for the souls in Purgatory, because not being able to merit, they cannot help themselves in the least. To their appeals for mercy the Almighty answers that His Justice must be satisfied, and that the night in which no one can any longer work has arrived for them (St. John ix., v. 4), and thus these poor souls have recourse to our prayers. According to the pious Gerson we may hear their supplications: "Pray for us because we cannot do anything for ourselves. This help we have a right to expect from you, you have known and loved us in the world. Do not forget us in the time of our need. It is said that it is in the time of affliction that we know our true friends; but what affliction could be compared to ours? Be moved with compassion." Have pity on us, at least you, our friends!

The Church being aware of the ingratitude and forgetfulness of men, and the facility with which they neglect their most sacred duties, has set apart a day to be consecrated to the remembrance of the dead. On the 2d day of November, All Souls' Day, she applies all her prayers to propitiate the Divine Mercy through the merits of the Precious Blood of Jesus Christ, her Divine Spouse, to obtain for the souls in Purgatory the remission of the temporal punishment due to their sins, and their speedy admission into the eternal abode of rest, light, and bliss. How holy and precious is the institution of All Souls' Day! How full of charity! It truly demonstrates the love and solicitude of the Church for all her children. In the first centuries of the Church, while the faithful were most exact in praying for their deceased friends and relatives and in having the holy sacrifice of the Mass offered for them, the Church had not yet appointed a special day for all the souls in Purgatory. But in 998 St. Odilon, Abbot of Cluny, having established in all the monasteries of his order the feast of the commemoration of the faithful departed, and ordered that the office be recited for them all, this devotion which was approved by the Popes, soon became general in all the Western Churches.

In doing away with the Christian practice of praying for the dead, the Protestant sects have despised the voice of nature, the spirit of Christianity, and the most ancient and respectable tradition.

The most efficacious means to help the suffering souls in Purgatory are prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and above all the holy sacrifice of the Mass. By fasting we mean all sorts of mortifications to abstain from certain things in our meals, to deprive ourselves of lawful amusements, to suffer with resignation trials and contradictions, humiliations and reverses of fortune. The alms we give for the dead prompt the Lord to be merciful to them. The sacrifice of the Mass, which was instituted for the living and the dead, is the most efficacious means of delivering them from their pains. "If the sacrifices which Job," says St. John Chrysostom, "offered to God for his children purified them, who could doubt that, when we offer to God the Adorable Sacrifice for the departed, they receive consolation therefrom, and that the Blood of Christ which flows upon our altars for them, the voice of which ascends to heaven, brings about their deliverance."

Not only charity and gratitude demand that we should pray for the souls in Purgatory, but it is also for us a positive duty, which we are in justice bound to fulfill. Perhaps some of these poor souls are suffering on our account. Perhaps they are relatives or friends who have loved us too much, or who have been induced to commit sin by our words or example. We are also prompted to pray for them by our own interest. What consolation will it not be for us to know that we have abbreviated their sufferings! How great will their gratitude be after their deliverance! They will manifest it by praying for us, and obtaining for us the help which is so necessary in this valley of tears. In prosperity men forget those who have helped them in adversity; but it will not be so with the souls in Purgatory. After being admitted to the kingdom of heaven through the help of our prayers, "they will solicit," says St. Bernard, "the most precious gifts of grace in our behalf, and because the merciful shall obtain mercy, we will receive after our death the reward of whatever may have been done for the souls of Purgatory during our life. Others will pray for us, and we shall share more abundantly in the suffrages which the Church offers without ceasing, for those who sleep in the Lord."

PURGATORIAL ASSOCIATION.

A CARD FROM REV. S. S. MATTINGLY.

(from the Catholic Columbian)

We wish to call the attention of the members of this Association to the near approach of the commemoration of all the faithful departed, which takes place on Monday, the second day of next November. Our Association is in its fourth year of existence. Its numbers have increased beyond our expectations.

Just now, on account of the season, applications begin to come in more rapidly, hence we wish to give again the conditions for membership, and the benefits derived from it. The members say one decade of the beads, or one "Our Father" and ten "Hail Marys" every day. They may take what mystery of the Holy Rosary devotion may prompt, and retain or change it at their own will, without reference to us. This is all that is required, and, of course, the obligation cannot bind under pain of even venial sin. Those families which say the Rosary every day need not add another decade unless they choose, but may say the Rosary in union with the Purgatorial Association, and thus gain the benefits for themselves and the faithful departed.

The benefits are one Mass every week, which is said for the poor souls, for the spiritual and temporal welfare of the members, according to their intention, and for the same intention a memento is made every day during Holy Mass for them.

There are many kind priests who are associated with us in this good work, and they, we are sure, remember us all in the Holy Sacrifice. We thank and beg them to continue to be mindful of us associated and bound together in this most charitable work of shortening, by our prayers and good works, the time of purgation for the souls in Purgatory. Those who desire to become members may send their names, with a postal card directed to themselves, so that their application may be answered. The applications for membership are directed to Rev. S. S. Mattingly, McConnellsville, Morgan County, Ohio.

Some two or three times complaints have come to us, but in all cases the letters never came to hand. We have from time to time received letters not intended for us, and from this we judge our letters went elsewhere. We try to be prompt, though an odd time our absence on the mission may delay an answer.

Now, dear friends, there is another fact to which we must advert. Many of our dear associates, who were attracted by the charity of our work, are no longer among the living. Their friends have kindly reminded us of their death by letter, and we, grateful for this charity, always pray for them. Their day is passed. Our time is coming. Who can remember the kind faces which have gone out of our families and not shed tears at their absence? Their places are vacant. Love leaves the very chairs on which they sat unoccupied. We look around the room and at the places their forms filled within it. All these bring tears to our eyes, and make the heart too full for utterance. Thus fond imagination, sprung from love, wipes out the vacancy. We look through the mist of our tears and there again are the forms of our love, but alas! they do not speak to us. And days and months are run into years, yet our tears flow on; indeed we cannot and we do not want to forget them. We think of our sins and faults and how they caused theirs, and our cry of pardon for ourselves must come after or with that of mercy for them.

THE HOLY FACE AND THE SUFFERING SOULS.

The holy souls in Purgatory are ever saying in beseeching accents: "Lord, show us Thy Face," desiring with a great desire to see it; waiting, they longingly wait for the Divine Face of their Saviour. We should often pray for the holy souls who during life thirsted to see, in the splendor of its glory, the Human Face of Jesus Christ. We should often say the Litany of the Holy Face of Jesus, that our Lord may quickly bring these holy souls to the contemplation of His Adorable Countenance. We should pray to Mary, Mother All-Merciful, who, before all others, saw the Face of Jesus in His two-fold nativity in Bethlehem, and from the tomb, to plead for those holy souls; to St. Joseph, who saw the Face of Jesus in Bethlehem and Nazareth; to the glorious St. Michael, Our Lady's regent in Purgatory, one of the seven who stands before the throne and Face of God, who has been appointed to receive souls after death, and is the special consoler and advocate of the holy souls detained amidst the flames of Purgatory. We should also pray to St. Peter for the holy souls, he to whom Christ gave the keys of the kingdom of Heaven. The holy souls are suffering the temporal penalty due to sin. This Apostle had by his sin effaced the image of God in his soul, but Jesus turned His Holy Face toward the unfaithful disciple, and His divine look wounded the heart of Peter with repentant sorrow and love; also St. James and St. John, who with him saw the glory of the Face of Jesus on Mount Thabor, and its sorrow in Gethsemane, when, 'neath the olive trees, it was covered with confusion, and bathed in a bloody sweat for our sins. These great saints, dear to the Heart of Jesus, will surely hear our prayers in behalf of the holy souls. St. Mary Magdalen, who saw the Holy Face in agony on the cross, when its incomparable beauty was obscured under the fearful cloud of the sins of the world, and who assisted the Virgin Mother to wash, anoint, and veil the bruised, pale, features of her Divine Son; the saint, whose many sins were forgiven her because she had loved much, will lend heed to our prayers for the holy souls. We should also invoke, for the holy souls, the Virgin Martyrs, because of their purity, love, and the sufferings they endured to see in Heaven the Face of their King.

Yet nothing can help these souls so much as the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. By the "Blood of the Testament" these prisoners can be brought out of the pit. Even to hear Mass with devotion for the holy souls, brings them great refreshment. St. Jerome says: "The souls in Purgatory, for whom the priest is wont to pray at Mass, suffer no pain whilst Mass is being offered, that after every Mass is said for the souls in Purgatory some souls are released therefrom." Our Blessed Lady, the consoler of the afflicted, will always do much to aid the holy souls; in her maternal solicitude, she has _promised_ to assist and console the devout wearers of the Brown Scapular of Mount Carmel detained in Purgatory, and also to speedily release them from its flames, the Saturday after their death, if _some_ few conditions have been complied with during their life-time on earth. Bishop Vaughan says, "there can be no difficulty in believing thus, if we consider the meaning of a Plenary Indulgence granted by the Church, and applicable to the holy souls. The Sabbatine Indulgence is, in fact, a Plenary Indulgence granted by God, through the prayers of the Blessed Virgin Mary to the deceased who are in Purgatory, provided they have fulfilled upon earth certain specified conditions. The Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office by a Decree of February 13, 1613, forever settled any controversy that should arise on the subject of this Bull. St. Teresa, in the thirty-eighth chapter of her life, shows the special favor Our Lady exerts in favor of her Carmelite children and all who wear the Brown Scapular. She saw a holy friar ascending to Heaven without passing through Purgatory, and was given to understand, that because he had kept his rule well he had obtained the grace granted to the Carmelite Order by special bulls, as to the pains of Purgatory. So from their prison these waiting souls are ever crying out to us, patient and resigned, yet with a most burning desire, they are longing to be brought to the presence of God, and to gaze upon the glorified countenance of the Incarnate Word. They are far more perfectly members of the Mystical Body of Christ than we are, because they are confirmed in grace, and the doctrine of the Communion of Saints should hence prompt us to give the holy souls the charitable assistance of our alms, prayers, and good works. 'Bear ye one another's burdens, and so ye shall fulfill the law of Christ,' and thus one day with them enjoy the endless Vision of the Holy Face of Jesus Christ in its unclouded splendor in Heaven."

WHEN WILL THEY LEARN ITS SECRET?

HOW THE CARDINAL'S OBSEQUIES IMPRESSED A BAPTIST SPECTATOR.

(_From the Baptist Examiner._)

For the third time in a quarter of a century the streets have been thronged, and an unending procession has filed by the dead. Long lines reached many blocks, both up and down Fifth avenue, and they grew no shorter through the best part of three days. This recognition of the eminence and power of the Cardinal, John McCloskey, has been very general.

All classes have paid homage. And why? He was a gentleman. He was learned, politic, able, far-sighted, clean. His energy was without measure. The rise and reach of his influence and work have no chance for comparison with the accomplishment of any other American clergyman. There is none to name beside him. He was a burning zealot all his life. Elevation and honors came to him. He became a prince in his Church. He swept every avenue of power and influence within his grasp into that Church. He lived singly for it. In his death, his Church exalts herself. She gives, after her faith, prayers, Masses, glory. In his, life he spoke only for Rome. In his death his voice is intensified. His life was one long gain to his people. In his, death they suffer no loss. His time and character and personality are so exalted, that, "being dead he yet speaketh."

The Church of Rome stands alone. It is forever strange. It is a law to itself. Thus it comes that this funeral does not belong to America, or to the century. Rome and the Middle Ages conducted the obsequies. The canons are prescribed. They have never changed. Behold then in New York, what might have been seen in ruined Melrose Abbey in its ancient day of splendor.

The Cardinal lies in state in his cathedral, that consummate flower of all his ministry. Saw you ever a Roman Pontiff lying in state? The high catafalque is covered with yellow cloth. The body, decked in official robes, uncoffined, reclines aslant thereon. The head is greatly elevated. A mighty candle shines on the bier at either corner. The Cardinal's red hat hangs at his feet. His cape is purple, his sleeves are pink drawn over with lace, his shirt is crimson and white lace covered. Purple gloves are on his hands. On his head is his tall white mitre. His pectoral cross lies on his pulseless breast. His seal ring glitters on his finger. To me it was an awful and uncanny figure. The man was old and disease wasted. The lips were sunken over shrunken gums. The chin was sharp and far-protruding. The colors of the cloths were garish and loud. It was a gay lay figure, red and yellow and white and black and purple and pink. It made me shudder. Yet lying there under the very roof his hands had builded, that reclining figure was immensely impressive.

The work--the work, in light and strength and glory stands; but the skilled and cunning workman is brought low, and lies cold and silent. The crowded and glorious, almost living cathedral--the richly bedecked body dismantled, deserted, dead. Was ever contrast so wide or suggestive? The white, shining arches and pinnacles, up-pointing in architectural splendor. The architect lies under them prone, unconscious, decaying. The beautiful windows, all storied in colors almost supernatural, and telling their histories and honoring their place. But the temple of the Cardinal's soul is in ruins, the windows are broken, and its day is darkness and mold.

So, silent he lies in his house, surrounded by his faithful, whose cries and lamentations he hears not, his cold hands clasped, his dead face uncovered, as though looking above its high vaulted roof.

I seemed to see again the bedizened skeleton of old St. Carlo Borromeo in the crypt of the Cathedral of Milan, as lying in his coffin of glass, his bones all bleached and dressed. But the careless throngs go thoughtlessly, noisily on. Some weep, some laugh, and Thursday, the day of sepulture, comes. What masses of people! What platoons of police! The magnificent temple is packed by pious thousands. The four candles about the bier become four shining rows. The glitter of royal violet velvet and cloth of gold add to the gorgeous trappings of the dead. The waiting multitudes look breathlessly at the black draped columns, the emblems of mourning put on here and there. Without announcement a single voice cries out from the dusky chancel the first lines of the office for the dead. A great Gregorian choir of boys takes up the wail, and their shrill treble is by-and-by joined by the hoarser notes of four hundred priests, in the solemn music of the Pontifical Requiem Mass. It has never been given to mortal ears to listen to such marvels of musical sound in this country. Anon the great organs and the united choirs render the master's most mournful music for the dead. Then processions, then eulogy. And what eulogy! Schools, colleges, convents, asylums, protectories, palaces, cathedrals, churches. What a vast and impressive testimony!

What a company rises up to call him blessed! This imposing pageantry is not an empty show. It is Rome's display of her resources and power. Who else can have such processions and vestments and music? Who can so minister to the inherent, perhaps barbaric remnant, love for display? In the wide world where can the ear of man catch such harmonies? The music, as a whole, was a deluge of lofty and inspiring expressions. Anguish, despair, devotion, submission, elevation! Ah, how the lofty Gothic arches thundered! How they sighed and cried and melted. The great assembly was swayed, awe-struck, like branches of forest trees in gales or in zephyrs. The influence of those melodies will not die. Oh! Rome is old, Rome is new; Rome is wise. Rome is the Solomon of the Churches.

Mark this well. The Cardinal is dead. What happens? Does the machinery stagger? Has a great and irreparable calamity fallen on the churches? Are any plans abandoned? Is the policy affected? Will aggression cease? Nothing happens but a great and imposing funeral. The plans are not affected. The lines do not waver. No work begun will be suspended. Everything goes on. If only a deacon should die out of some Baptist church, alas! my brethren, the plate returns empty to the altar. The minister puts on his hat. Consternation jumps on the ridge-pole and languishing, settles down. When shall we learn? When shall we plan harmoniously, unite our counsels, work within the lines, cease wasting resources, carry forward a common work, and when some man falls, put a new man in his place, move up the line, and keep step? To-day, when a gap is made here, we try to mend it, after a time, by seeking how great a gap we can create somewhere else. What wonder that good men get tired and go where no such folly flies, and where the current flows on and on forever!

And the old Cardinal rests in the crypt, under the high white altar. He sleeps in the mausoleum of the great. He has the reward of his labors. He carried into his tomb the insignia of his high office. Sealed up in his coffin is a parchment which future ages may read, long after we are all forgot, giving a condensed record of his long and active career. The bishops and priests have gone home to their parishes; and their tireless labors go on. They are thinking of the mighty but gentle and kindly Cardinal; of the telegrams from the Papal Court, the College of Cardinals, the Pope, and of the imposing funeral; of his own words which they wrung from him amidst the rigors of death:

"I bless you, my children, and all the churches." It was the parting of a prophet. And the priests will live for the Church and mankind. They are whispering, "The faithful are rewarded! Effort is acknowledged! O, Rome has shaken the earth! Rome is putting her armor together again." Sometimes I hear the creaking of her coat of mail as she mightily moves herself in exercise.