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 FUNEBRE.

NISARD

La cloche tinte pour les morts Chretiens, mettons nous en prieres! Ceux qi gemissent sont des freres, Se consumant en vains efforts. Pitie pour eux! Pitie pour eux! Ils tourbillonnent dans la flamme; Les taches qui souillent leur ames, Les tiennent captifs loin des cieux. Mettons un terme a leur douleurs, Dieu nous en donne la puissance; Ne trompons point leur esperance, Puis ils seront nos protecteurs. Disons pour nos fieres souffrants: Sauveur Jesus, Sainte Victime, Tirez nos freres 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 AETERNAM.

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 moeror 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.

THE END