Among the pious customs which owe their existence to the fertile spirit of Catholic devotion is that which dedicates the month of November to the Suffering Souls in Purgatory. It would seem as though the annual circle of commemorative devotion were incomplete without this crowning fulfilment of charity.

Some years since, I met with a graphic description of a spectacle in the Catholic Cemetery of New Orleans. It was the 2d of November, when the friends and relatives of the dead came to scatter emblematic wreaths and sweet-scented flowers on their graves. This custom was observed by the French Catholics and their descendants; and the writer, although a Protestant, was deeply impressed with its beauty and significance. He asked why, among Americans, there was so little of this eloquent affection for the dead. He might have found an answer in the fact that the principle of faith was wanting—of that vivid and active faith which seeks and finds by such means its outward manifestation.

We, also, are the children of the Saints. We have inherited from them the same faith in all its integrity, and how does our practice correspond with it? What are we doing for that army of holy captives who cannot leave their prison till the uttermost farthing be paid? Let us not imitate those tepid Christians who are satisfied with erecting costly monuments, and observing, with scrupulous exactness, the usual period of "mourning," while the poor souls are left to pine forgotten, if they have gone with some-lingering stains—some earthly tarnish on their nuptial garment. Ah! there is so much that might be done if we would only reflect, and let our hearts be softened by the intense eloquence of their mute appeal....

These are a few of the thoughts suggested by the late solemnity, and perhaps they cannot be concluded more appropriately than by introducing the following poem, found in an old magazine. If the theme be sufficient to inspire thus one who had but faint glimmerings of divine truth, what should be expected of us, who rejoice in the fullness of that light? I twine, then, this flower of the desert with the leaves I have gathered, and offer my humble wreath as a tribute of faith and affection on the altar dedicated to the dear departed.

November, 1859.

LITANY OP THE DEPARTED.

It is, therefore, a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.— II. Mach. xii. 26.

For the spirits who have fled From the earth which once they trod; For the loved and faithful dead, We beseech the living God! Oh! receive and love them! By the grave where Thou wert lying, By the anguish of Thy dying, Spread Thy wings above them; Grant Thy pardon unto them, Dona eis requiem!

Long they suffered here below, Outward fightings, inward fears; Ate the cheerless bread of woe,— Drank the bitter wine of tears:— Now receive and love them! By Thy holy Saints' departures, By the witness of Thy martyrs, Spread Thy wings above them. On the souls in gloom who sit, Lux eterna luceat!

Lord, remember that they wept, When Thy children would divide; Lord, remember that they slept On the bosom of Thy Bride; And receive and love them! By the tears Thou couldst not smother; By the love of Thy dear Mother, Spread Thy wings above them. To their souls, in bliss with Thee, Dona pacem, Domini!

Grant our prayers, and bid them pray, O thou Flower of Jesse's stem; Lend a gracious ear when they, Plead for us, as we for them. Deus Angelorum, Dona eis requiem, Et beatitudinem. Cordibus eorum Jesu, qui salutam das Micat lumen animas!

—Acolytus.

ALL SOULS' DAY [1]

[Footnote 1: New York Tablet, Nov. 12, 1864.]

MRS. J. SADLIER.

Nothing in the whole grand scheme of Religion is more beautiful than the tender care of the Church over her departed children. Not content with providing for their spiritual wants during their lives, and sending them into eternity armed with and strengthened by the last solemn Sacraments, blessing their departure from, as she blessed their entrance into, this world, her maternal solicitude follows them beyond the grave, and penetrates to the dreary prison in the Middle State where, happily, they may be, as the Apostle says, "cleansed so as by fire." With the tender compassion of a fond mother, the Church, our mother, yearns over the sufferings of her children, all the dearer to her because they suffer in the Lord, and by His holy will.

By every means within her power she aids these blessed souls who are at once so near Heaven, and so far from it; by solemn prayers, by sacrifice, by continual remembrance of them in all her good works, she gives them help and comfort herself, while encouraging the faithful to imitate her example in that respect by numerous and great Indulgences, and by the crown of eternal blessedness she holds out to those who perform faithfully and in her own proper spirit this Seventh Spiritual Work of Mercy—"to pray for the living and the dead." In every Mass that is said the long year round on each of her myriad altars, a solemn commemoration is made for the Dead immediately after the Elevation of the Sacred Host, the great Atoning Sacrifice of the New Law; in all the other public offices of the Church, "the faithful departed" are tenderly remembered, and, to crown the efforts of her maternal charity, the second day of November of every year is set apart for the solemn remembrance of these her most beloved and most afflicted children, for whose benefit and relief all the Masses of that day throughout the whole Catholic world are specially offered up. Nay, more than that, the entire month of November is devoted to the Souls in Purgatory, and the good works and pious prayers of all the holy communities who spend their lives in commune with God are offered up with that benign intention during the month.

In Catholic countries, the faithful are touchingly reminded of this sad though pleasing duty to their departed brethren, by the tolling of the several convent and church bells at eight o'clock in the evening, at which time the different communities unite in reciting the solemn De Profundis, and other prayers for the dead. Solemn and sonorous we have heard that passing-bell, year after year, booming through the darkness and storm of the November night in a northern land [1] where the pious customs of the best ages of France, transplanted over two centuries ago, flourish still in their pristine beauty and touching fervor.

[Footnote 1: Eastern, or French Canada, now known as the Province of Quebec]

But, though all Catholics may not hear the De Profundis bell of November nights, nor all households kneel at evening hour to join in spirit with the pious communities who are praying then for the faithful departed, yet all Catholics know when, on the first of November, they celebrate the great and joyous festival of All Saints, that the next day will bring the mournful solemnity of All Souls, when the altars of the Church will be draped with black, and her ministers robed in the same sombre garb, whilst offering the "Clean Oblation" of the New Law for the souls who are yet in a state of purgation in the other life.

To the deep heart of Catholic piety nothing can be more sensibly touching than "the black Mass" of All Souls' Day. If the feast be not celebrated by the laity as it so faithfully is by the Church, it certainly ought to be, if the spirit of the faith be still amongst them. The funereal solemnity of the occasion touches the deepest, holiest sympathies in every true Catholic heart, reminding each of their loved and lost, and filling their souls with the soothing hope that the Great Sacrifice then offered up for all the departed children of the Church may release one or more of their nearest and dearest from the cleansing fires of Purgatory. Then, while the funeral dirge fills the sacred edifice, and the mournful Dies Irae thrills the hearts of all, each one thinks of his own departed ones, and recalls with indescribable sadness other just such celebrations in the years long past, when those for whom they now invoke the mercy of Heaven were still amongst the living. Then comes, too, the solemn thought that some, perhaps many, of those then present in life and health may be numbered with the dead before All Souls' Day comes round again, and a voice from the depths of the Christian heart asks, "May not I, too, be then with the dead?"

When noting with surprise and regret how many Catholics neglect the celebration of All Souls' Day, we have often endeavored to account for such strange apathy. Surely, if the charity of the Church do not inspire them—if they do not feel, with the valiant Macchabeus of old, that "it is a holy and a wholesome thought to pray for the Dead that they may be loosed from their sins"—if natural affection, even, do not move them to think of the probable sufferings of their own near and dear—sufferings which they may have it in their power to alleviate—at least, a motive of self-interest ought to make them reflect that when they themselves are with the dead, retributive justice may leave them forgotten by their own flesh and blood, as they forget others now. But to those who do faithfully unite with the Church in her solemn commemoration of the faithful departed on All Souls' Day, nothing can be more soothing to the deep heart of human sadness, as nothing is more imposing, or more strikingly illustrative of that Catholic charity, that all-embracing charity which has its life and fountain within the Church.



CEMETERIES.

THE respect due to cemeteries is too closely connected with the doctrine of Purgatory for us to omit observing here that those asylums of the dead, being the objects of pious reverence, even amongst infidels, ought to be still more so amongst us. It was in this connection that Mgr. Pelletan, Arch-priest of the Cathedral of Algiers, wrote thus on the 13th of March, 1843:

"Here in Algiers, do we not see, every Friday, the Mussulman Arab, wandering pensively through his cemetery, placing on some venerated and beloved grave bouquets of flowers, branches of boxwood; wrapped in his bornouse, he sits for hours beside it, motionless and thoughtful; lost in gentle melancholy, it would seem as though he were holding intimate and mysterious converse with the dear departed one whose loss he deplores....

"But for us, Christians, nourished, enlightened by the truth of God, what special homage, what profound reverence we should manifest towards the remains of our fathers, our brethren who died in the same faith! Oh, let us remember the first faithful—the martyrs—the catacombs! The cemetery is for us the land where grows invisibly the harvest of the elect; it is the sleeping world of intelligence; sheltered are its peaceful slumbers in the bosom of nature ever young, ever fruitful; the crowd of the dead pressed together beneath those crosses, under those scattered flowers, is the crowd that will one day rise to take possession of the infinite future, from which it is only separated by some sods of turf.

"Hence how lively, how motherly has ever been the solicitude of the Church in this respect! She wishes that the ground wherein repose the remains of her children be blessed and consecrated ground; she purifies it with hyssop and holy water; she calls down upon it by her humble supplications, the benediction of Him who disposes according to His will of things visible and invisible, of souls and of bodies; she wishes that the cross should rise in its midst, that her children may rest in peace in its shade while awaiting the grand awaking; even as a temple and a sanctuary, she banishes from it games, noise of all kinds, and even all that savors of levity or irreverence."—Dictionnaire d'Anecdotes Chretiens, p. 993.

OPINIONS OF VARIOUS PROTESTANTS.

Some say, like Lessing in his "Treatise on Theology," "What hinders us from admitting a Purgatory? as if the great majority of Christians had not really adopted it. No, this intermediate state being taught and recognized by the ancient Church, notwithstanding the scandalous abuses to which it gave rise, should not be absolutely rejected."

Others, with Dr. Forbes (controv. pontif. princip., anno 1658): "Prayer for the dead, MADE USE OF FROM THE TIMES OF THE APOSTLES, cannot be rejected as useless by Protestants. They should respect the judgment of the primitive Church, and adopt a practice sanctioned by the continuous belief of so many ages. We repeat that prayer for the dead is a salutary practice."

Several others, rising to our point of view, drawing their inspiration from the sources of Catholic charity, tell you, with the theologian Collier (Part II. p. 100): "Prayer for the dead revives the belief in the immortality of the soul, withdraws the dark veil which covers the tomb, and establishes relations between this world and the other. Had it been preserved, we should probably not have had amongst us so much incredulity. I cannot conceive why our Church, which is so remote from the primitive times of Christianity, should have abandoned or disdained a custom that had never been interrupted; which, on the contrary, as we have reason to believe from Scripture, existed in ancient times; which was practiced in the Apostolic age, in the time of miracles and revelations; introduced amongst the articles of faith, and never rejected, except by Arius."

"It was evidently in use in the Church in the time of St. Augustine, and down to the sixteenth century. If we do nothing for our dead, if we omit to occupy ourselves with them and pray for them, as was formerly done in the Holy Supper, we break off all intercourse with the Saints; and then, how could we dare to say that we remain in communion with the blessed? And if we break off in this way from the most noble part of the universal Church, may it not be said that we mutilate our belief and reject one of the articles of the Christian faith?"

"Yes," says the German Sheldon, in his turn, "prayer for the dead is one of the most ancient and most efficacious practices of the Christian religion."

You have just heard the sound of some bells; listen again and you shall hear something different.

You think, then, that there are Protestants who admit Purgatory and others who deny it? You are mistaken! There are some who at once admit and do not admit it. This is difficult to comprehend, but it is so, nevertheless, and this is how they take it:

On the one side, they will have nothing but hell, pure and simple; this is the Catholic side; but on the other is the philosophic side, the eternity of horrible pains is something too hard; and then, why not a hell that will end a little sooner, or a little later? For, in fine, there are small criminals and great criminals. So that their temporary hell—that is to say, having an end—being, after all, nothing more than one Purgatory, it follows that, having broken with us because they did not want Purgatory, they broke off again because they wanted Purgatory only.—Dictionnaire d'Anecdotes, 998-9.

Mr. Thorndike, a Protestant theologian, says: "The practice of the Church of interceding for the dead at the celebration of the Eucharist, is so general and so ancient, that it cannot be thought to have come in upon imposture, but that the same aspersion will seem to take hold of the common Christianity."

The Protestant translators of Du Pin observe, that St. Chrysostom, in his thirty-eighth homily on the Philippians, says, that to pray for the faithful departed in the tremendous mysteries, was decreed by the Apostles.

The learned Protestant divine, Dr. Jeremy Taylor, writes thus: "We find by the history of the Machabees, that the Jews did pray and make offerings for the dead, which appears by other testimonies, and by their form of prayer still extant, which they used in the captivity. Now, it is very considerable, that since our Blessed Saviour did reprove all the evil doctrines and traditions of the Scribes and Pharisees, and did argue concerning the dead and the resurrection, yet He spake no word against this public practice, but left it as He found it; which He who came to declare to us all the will of His Father would not have done, if it had not been innocent, pious, and full of charity. The practice of it was at first, and was universal: it being plain both in Tertullian and St. Cyprian, and others."

"Clement," says Bishop Kaye, "distinguishes between sins committed before and after baptism: the former are remitted at baptism, the latter are purged by discipline.... The necessity of this purifying discipline is such, that if it does not take place in this life, it must after death, and is then to be effected by fire, not by a destructive, but a discriminating fire, pervading the soul which passes through it."—Clem., ch. xii.

SOME THOUGHTS FOR NOVEMBER.

I stood upon an unknown shore, A deep, dark ocean, rolled beside; Dear, loving ones were wafted o'er That silent and mysterious tide.

To most persons, the idea of Purgatory is simply one of pain; they try to avoid thinking about it, because the subject is unpleasant, and people's thoughts do not naturally revert to painful subjects; they feel that it is a place to which they must go at least, if they escape worse; they must suffer, they cannot help it, and so the less they think about it beforehand, the better. Purgatory and suffering are to them synonymous terms; perhaps fear keeps them from some sins which, without this salutary apprehension, they would readily fall into; but, on the whole, they take their chance, and hope for the best. This, perhaps, is the view of a large class of people, and of those who will scarcely own to themselves what they think on the subject; but their lives are the tell-tales, and we cannot but fear that to escape hell is the utmost effort of many who apparently are good Catholics. Still, we would not say that they do not love God, that they are not in many ways pleasing to Him; but, oh! how many there are who only want a little more generosity to become Saints! Then, there is another class, further on in their heavenward journey—souls who do love God, who do seek only to please Him, who are generous, often even noble-hearted, in their Master's service; souls who can say, "Our Father," and look up with child-like love to Heaven; but even with such, and perhaps with almost all, the feeling about Purgatory is much the same; it is a sort of necessary evil; a something that must be endured. They feel strongly all that justice demands; their very sanctity and goodness lead them to desire that that which is evil in them should be taken out, even by fire; but still there are few that do really see the deep, deep love of Purgatory. We are very far from wishing to hinder people from thinking less of its sufferings—nay, rather their very intenseness and severity only pleads our case more strongly. All that has been revealed to the Saints, all that has been made known to us by the Church or tradition, proclaims the same fact. Suffering, intense, unearthly anguish, is the portion of those most blessed souls; and it has been said that the pains of Purgatory only differ in duration from those of hell. Still, there is this difference—oh! blessed be God, there is this difference, and it is all we could ask: in hell, the damned blaspheme their Master with the demons that torment them; in Purgatory, the holy souls love their God with the angelic choirs who await their entrance to the land of bliss. If the souls of the damned could love, hell would cease to be hell; if the souls of the blessed ones in prison could cease to love, Purgatory would be worse to them than a thousand such hells.

* * * * *

Yes; Purgatory is love, and if it be true that the love of God extends even to hell, because its torments might be worse, did not His infinite mercy temper His infinite justice, how much more truly may this be said of Purgatory! We have no wish to enter into any detailed account of what the pains of Purgatory are supposed to be; this is a subject for the pen of the theologian, or the raptures of the Saint. Awful and terrible we know they are. But there is one suffering which we wish to speak of, because we cannot but hope, if people reflected upon it seriously, that they would learn to think of Purgatory less as a necessary evil, and more as a most tender mercy, and be more inclined to enter into a hearty co-operation with those who are anxious to help the poor souls in this awful prison.

Surely, the one object of our whole lives is, not so much to get to Heaven because we shall be happy there, as to see Jesus forever and forever, to be near Him, to gaze on Him, and to love Him without fear; for then love will be fearless, because suffering and sin will have ceased.

And what will happen when we die? Oh! if we were sent to Purgatory without seeing Jesus, we might bear it better. There have been souls on earth privileged to suffer for months the pains of the holy souls, and they have lived and borne the pain, and longed, if it were possible, even for more; but they had not seen Jesus as we shall see Him at the moment of our death. The very thought makes us shudder and our life- blood run cold. What if we should indeed be saved, we who have so trembled and feared, and known not whether we were worthy of love or hatred? What if we should behold the face of Divinest Majesty gaze upon us even for one moment in tenderness? And yet, unless we see it in unutterable wrath, this will be. But what then? Shall we see it forever? Shall our eyes gaze on and on, and feast themselves on that sight for all eternity? ... Ah! not yet; we must lose sight of that vision of delight; it must be withdrawn from us—not, thank God, in anger, but in sorrow. Oh! what are the pains of Purgatory, what the burning of its fire, in comparison with the suffering which the soul endures when separated, even for a moment, from her God? Who can tell, who can understand, who can even faintly guess, what will be the anguish of longing which shall consume our very being? But why must this be? Why does love, infinite, tender love, inflict such intense pain? Why does the parent turn away from his child, and forbid him his presence for a time? Is it that he loves him less than when he lavished on him the tenderest caresses? ... Why, but because suffering is needed as an atonement to justice, because love cannot be perfected without fear. "It is here tried and purified, but hath in Heaven its perfect rest." Oh! the love of Purgatory! we shall never know it, or understand it, until we are there. Yes, we cannot but think that the greatest, the keenest suffering of the soul will be the remembrance of that which it has seen for a passing moment, and the pining to behold again and forever the face of God. It has been revealed to Saints that so intense is this desire, that the soul would gladly place itself even in the most fearful tortures, could it thus become more quickly purged from that which withholds it from the presence of God. Did we but well consider, and enter into this feeling, we should be much more careful about our imperfections and our venial sins.

* * * * *

The Saints have ever desired suffering, and consider it as the greatest favor which could be bestowed upon them; not that it is in itself desirable, but because it perfects love. Let us, then, we who are not Saints, think of Purgatory with more affection; let us rejoice that, if we are not privileged to have keen, unearthly anguish in this life, we shall yet suffer, and suffer intensely, in the next. Our love will be purified; our dross be purged away; the weary pain which we feel continually when we think how vile we are in the sight of God, how the eye of Jesus, with all its tenderness, must often turn from us in sorrow—the weary pain, the deep degradation of misery and sin, will one day cease; we shall not tremble under our Father's eye, or long to hide ourselves from our Father's countenance. Now we must often feel, when trying with our whole hearts to please God, how impure, how sullied we are before Him. Our pride, our vanity, our impatience, our self-love, are all there. God sees them; how can He, then, look on us as we desire He should? And often we almost long to be in those purging flames, even should it be for years and years, that this vileness might be burned away.



PART V.

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 IRAE.

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 IRAE.

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 Irae" 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. (Gaetano 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 Irae," 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, Francois 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 Thanmaturgae," 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 Caesarius 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 AEneas, 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, Caesarius 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; Enee, 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 Jesse were delivered; King Charles the Bald had reached the term of his punishment; and he saw the Bishops Ebbon, Enee, 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.