Part 5 — 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 IRÆ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which death and gaping hell prepare.

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

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

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

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

AUTHORSHIP OF THE DIES IRÆ.

O'BRIEN. [1]

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: As David and Sibyls say.]

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

DANTE'S "PURGATORIO."

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

HAMLET AND THE GHOST.

SHAKESPEARE.

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

CALDERON'S "PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PATRICK then prays, concluding with the words:

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

An Angel then descends and speaks as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

Later in the drama we find Ludovico desiring

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

Again, he says:

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

"Aid me in the Purgatory."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BRIG O' DREAD.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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

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

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

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

Again, she supposes herself suspended over an infernal gulf:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: St. Paul.]

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

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

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

SHELLEY AND THE PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK.

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

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

ON A GREAT FUNERAL. [1]

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

AUBREY DE VERE.

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

"MORTE D'ARTHUR."

TENNYSON.

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

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

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

GUIDO AND HIS BROTHER.

COLLlN DE PLANCY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BERTHOLD IN PURGATORY.

COLLIN DE PLANCY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS.

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

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

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

"DREAM OF GERONTIUS."

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

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

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

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

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

SOUL. I go before my Judge. Ah! …

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

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

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

SOULS IN PURGATORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ST. GREGORY RELEASES THE SOUL OF THE EMPEROR TRAJAN

MRS. JAMESON.

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

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

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

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

ST. GREGORY AND THE MONK

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

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

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

THE LEGEND OF GEOFFROID D'IDEN.

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

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

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

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

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

THE QUEEN OF PURGATORY.

BY FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, D. D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DEAD PRIEST BEFORE THE ALTAR.

REV. A. J. RYAN.

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

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

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

MEMORIALS OF THE BEAD.

R. R. MADDEN. [1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A CHILD'S REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

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

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

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

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

THE SOLITARY SOUL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord!"

"And let perpetual light shine upon them!"

"May they rest in peace!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL.

Founded on an old French Legend.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And turn so deathly pale?

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

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

GENÉRADE, THE FRIEND OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

J. COLLIN DE PLANCY.

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

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

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

"Knowest thou me?"

"Very well," answered Genérade.

"And wherefore knowest thou me?"

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

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

"It was in a dream."

"Where is your body now?"

"In my bed."

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

"I know it."

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

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

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

ST. THOMAS AQUINAS AND FRIAR ROMANUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas then asked him in what state he found himself.

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

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

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

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

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

With these words he left St. Thomas greatly consoled.

THE KEY THAT NEVER TURNS.

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

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

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

THE BURIAL.

THOMAS DAVIS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

NEWMAN.

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

Those holy souls, they suffer on,

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

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

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

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

THE TWO STUDENTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PENANCE OF DON DIEGO RIEZ.

A Legend of Lough Derg. [1]

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

T. D. MCGEE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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