Purgatory

Wrapped in lonely shadows late,

(Bleak November's midnight gloom),

As I kneel beside the grate

In the silent sitting-room:

Down the chimney moans the wind,

Like the voice of souls resigned,

Pleading from their prison thus,

"Pray for us! pray for us!

Gentle Christian, watcher kind,

Pray for us, oh! pray for us!"

Melt mine eyes with sudden tears-

Old familiar tones are there;

Dear ones lost in other years,

Breathing Purgatory's prayer.

Through my fingers pass the beads,

Tender heart, responsive bleeds,

As the wind, all tremulous,

"Pray for us! pray for us!"

Seems to murmur "Love our needs-

Pray for us! oh, pray for us!"

A LEGEND OF THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE.

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

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

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

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

THE DEAD MASS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"O fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east!

For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en;

And there to say Mass, till three days do pass,

For the soul of a Knight that is slayne."

He turned him round, and grimly he frowned;

Then he laughed right scornfully-

"He who says the Mass-rite for the soul of that Knight,

May as well say Mass for me."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron's brow,

From dark to the blood-red high;

"Now tell me the mien of the Knight thou hast seen,

For by Mary he shall die."

"O hear but my word, my noble lord,

For I heard her name his name,

And that lady bright, she called the Knight

Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

The bold baron's brow then chang'd, I trow,

From high blood-red to pale-

"The grave is deep and dark-and the corpse is stiff and stark-

So I may not trust thy tale.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drown'd the name,

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,

The night was well-nigh done,

When the lady looked through the chamber fair,

On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair,

By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there-

Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

"By Eildon-tree for long nights three,

In bloody grave have I lain,

The Mass and the death-prayer are said for me,

But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the baron's hand, near Tweed's fair stand,

Most foully slain I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon's height,

For a space is doom'd to dwell."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam,

His right upon her hand;

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

For it scorched like a fiery brand.

THE BEQUEST OF A SOUL, IN PURGATORY.

[From "A Collection of Spiritual Hymns and Songs on Various Religious

Subjects," published by Chalmers & Co., of Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1802.

Its quaint and touching simplicity, redolent of old-time faith, will

commend it to the reader]

From lake where water does not go,

A prisoner of hope below,

To mortal ones I push my groans,

In hopes they'll pity me.

O mortals that still live above,

Your faith, hope, prayers, and alms, and love,

Still merit place With God's sweet grace;

O faithful, pity me.

My fervent groans don't merit here,

Strict justice only doth appear,

My smallest faults,

And needless talks Heap chains and flames on me.

Though mortal guilt doth not remain,

I still am due the temp'ral pain, I did delay

To satisfy,

Past coldness scorcheth me.

Tepidity and good works done

With imperfections mixt, here come;

All these neglects

And least defects,-

Great anguish bring on me.

Though my defects here be not spared,

Yet endless glory for me's prepared,

I love in flames,

And hope in chains;

O friends, then, pity me!

My God, my Father, is most dear,

For me your sighs and prayers He'll hear;

Though just laws scourge,

His mercies urge,

That you would pity me.

Through pains and flames

I'll come to Him,

They purge me both from stain and sin;

When I'm set free,

Their friends I'll be

Who now do pity me.

The smallest thing that could defile

Keeps me from bliss in this exile.

God loves to see

That you me free;

For His love pity me!

For me who alms give, fast, or pray,

Great store of grace will come their way;

Try this good thought-

Great help is brought,

And souls from sin set free.

If you for me now do not pray,

The utmost farthing I must pay;

The time is hid

That I'll be rid,

Unless you pity me.

In mortal sin who yields his breath,

Pray not for him behind his death.

All mortal crime

I quit in time;

O faithful, pity me!

For me good works may be practised,

Thus some were for the dead baptized.

Suet pains endure

For me, and sure

You'll help and pity me!

For his good friend, as Scriptures say,

Onesiphorus, Paul did pray, [1]

His words, you see,

Urge, then, for me;

And thus you'll pity me.

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

This third place clear in writ you spy,

Where all your works the fire will try,

From death game rose,

Sure then all those

From third place were set free.

In hell there's no redemption found;

God ne'er degrades whom

He once crowned-These judgments both

Confirmed by oath

And absolute decree.

For all the Saints prayer should be made,

Who stand in need, alive or dead.

I stand in need

That you with speed

Should help and pity me.

In presence of our sweetest Lord,

For dead they, prayed, as all accord.

Christ did not blame

What I now claim;

Oh! haste and pity me!

To a third place Christ's soul did go.

And preached to spirits there below;

This in the Creed

And Writ you read,

That you may pity me.

When Christ on earth would stay no more,

These captives freed He brought to glore;

There I will be,

And soon set free,

If you would pity me.

Mind, then, Communion of the Saints;

All should supply each other's wants:

In pains and chains,

And scorching flames,

I languish; pity me!

Eternal rest, eternal glore,

Eternal light, eternal store,

To them accord,

O sweetest Lord!

There's mercy still with Thee!

Let mercy stay Thy just revenge,

Their scorching flames to glory change;

The precious flood

Of Thine own blood

For them we offer Thee!

ALL SOULS.

BY MARION MUIR.

FOR all the cold and silent clay

That once, alive with youth and hope,

Rushed proudly to the western slope-

O brothers, pray!

For all who saw the orient day

Rise on the plain, the camp, the flood,

The sudden discord drowned in blood-

O brothers, pray!

For all the lives that ebbed away

In darkness down the gulf of tears;

For all the gray departed years-

O brothers, pray!

For all the souls that went astray

In deserts hung with double gloom;

For all the dead without a tomb-

O brothers, pray!

For we have household peace; but they

Who led the way, and held the land,

Are homeless as the heaving sand-

Oh! let us pray!

THE DEAD.

(From the French of Octave Cremacie.)

ANNA T. SADLIER.

O dead, ye sleep within your tranquil graves;

No more ye bear the burden that enslaves

Us in this world of ours.

For you outshine no stars, no storms rave loud,

No buds has spring, the horizon no cloud,

The sun marks not the hours.

The while, with anxious thought oppress'd, we go,

Each weary day but bringing deeper woe,

Silently and alone

Ye list the sanctuary chant arise,

That downwards first to you, remounts the skies,

Sweet pity's monotone.

The vain delights whereto our souls incline,

Are naught beside the prayer to love divine,

Alms-giving of the heart,

Which reaching to you warms your chilly dust

And brings your name enshrined a sacred trust,

Swift to the throne of God!

Alas! love's warmest memory will fade

Within the heart, ere yet the mourning shade

Has ceased to mark the garb.

Forgetfulness, our meed to you, outweighs

The leaded coffin as it dully lays

Upon your lifeless bones.

Our selfish hearts but to the present look,

And see in you the pages of a book

Now laid aside long read.

For loving in our fev'rish joy or pain

But those who serve our hate, pride, love of gain,

No more can serve the dead.

To cold ambition or to joy's sweet store,

Ye dusty corpses minister no more,

We give to you neglect.

Nor reck we of that suff'ring world's pale bourne

Where you beyond the bridgeless barrier mourn

O'erpast the wall of death.

'Tis said that when our coldness grieves you sore,

Ye quit betimes that solitude's cold shore

Where ye forsaken dwell,

And flit about in darkness' sad constraint,

The while from spectral lips your mournful plaint

Upon the winds outswell.

When nightingales their woodland nests have left,

The autumn sky of gray, white-capped, cloud-reft,

Prepares the shroud which Winter soon shall spread

On frozen fields; there comes a day thrice blest,

When earth forgetting, all our musings rest

On those who are no more the dreamless dead.

The dead their graves forsake upon this day,

As we have seen doves mount with joyous grace,

Escape an instant from their prison drear,

Their coming brings us no repellent fear.

Their mien is dreamy, passing sweet their face,

Their fixed and hollow eyes cannot betray.

When spectral coming thus unseen they gaze

On crowds who, kneeling in the temple, pray

Forgiveness for them, one faint, joyful ray,

As light upon the opal, glittering plays,

On faces pale and calm an instant rests,

And brings a moment's warmth to clay-cold breasts.

They, the elect of God, with souls of saints,

Who bear each destined load without complaints,

Who walk all day beneath God's watching eye,

And sleep the night 'neath angels' ministry,

Nor made the sport of visions that arise

To show th' abyss of fire to dreaming eyes.

All they who while on earth, the pure of heart,

The heav'nly echoes hear, and who in part

Make smooth for man rude ways he has to tread,

And knowing earthly vanity, outspread

Their virtue like a carpet rich and rare,

And walk o'er evil, touching it nowhere.

When come sad guests from off that suff'ring shore,

Which Dante saw in dream sublime of yore,

Appearing midst us here that day most blessed,

'Tis but to those; for they alone have guessed

The secrets of the grave; alone they understand

The pallid mendicants, who ask for heav'n.

Of Israel's King the psalms, inspired cries,

With Job's sublime distress, commingled rise;

The sanctuary sobs them through the naves

While wak'ning subtle fear, the bell's deep toll

With fun'ral sounds, demanding pity's dole

For wand'ring ghosts, as countless as the waves.

Give on this day, when over all the earth

The Church to God makes moan for parted worth;

Your own remorse, regret at least to calm

Awak'ning memory's dying flame, give balm,

Flow'rs for their graves, and prayer for each loved soul,

Those gifts divine can yet the dead console.

Pray for your friends, and for your mother pray,

Who made less drear for you life's desert way,

For all the portions of your heart that lie

Shut in the tomb, alas, each youthful tie

Is lost within the coffin's close constraint,

Where, prey of worms, the dead send up their plaint

For exiles far from home and native land,

Who dying hear no voice, nor touch no hand

In life alone, more lonely still in death.

With none for their repose, to breathe one prayer,

Cast alms of tears upon an alien grave,

Or heed the stranger lonely even there;

For those whose wounded souls when here below,

But anxious thought and bitter fancies know,

With days all joyless, nights of dull unrest;

For those who in night's calm find all so blest

And meet, in place of hope with morning beams,

A horrid wak'ning to their golden dreams;

For all the pariahs of human kind

Who, heavy burdens bearing, find

How high the steeps of human woe they scale.

Oh, let your heart some off'ring make to these,

One pious thought, one holy word of peace,

Which shall twixt them and God swift rend the veil.

The tribute bring of prayers and holy tears,

That when your hour draws nigh of nameless fears,

When reached their term shall be your numbered days,

Your name made known above with grateful praise,

By those whose suff'rings it was yours to end,

Arriving there find welcome as a friend!

Your loving tribute, white-winged angels take,

Ere bearing it unto eternal spheres,

An instant lay it on the grass-grown graves,

While dying flow'rs in church-yards raise each head

To life, refreshed by breath of prayer, awake

And shed their fragrance on the sleeping dead.

A REQUIEM.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

No sound was made, no word was spoke,

Till noble Angus silence broke;

And he a solemn sacred plight

Did to St. Bryde of Douglas make,

That he a pilgrimage would take

To Melrose Abbey, for the sake

Of Michael's restless sprite.

Then each, to ease his troubled breast,

To some blessed saint his prayers addressed-

Some to St. Modan made their vows,

Some to St. Mary of the Lowes,

Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,

Some to our Lady of the Isle;

Each did his patron witness make,

That he such pilgrimage would take,

And monks should sing, and bells should toll,

All for the weal of Michael's soul,

While vows were ta'en, and prayers were prayed.

Most meet it were to mark the day

Of penitence and prayer divine,

When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array,

Sought Melrose, holy shrine.

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest,

And arms enfolded on his breast,

Did every pilgrim go;

The standers-by might hear aneath,

Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath.

Through all the lengthened row;

No lordly look, no martial stride,

Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,

Forgotten their renown;

Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide,

To the high altar's hallowed side,

And there they kneeled them down;

Above the suppliant chieftains wave

The banners of departed brave;

Beneath the lettered stones were laid

The ashes of their fathers dead;

From many a garnished niche around,

Stern saint and tortured martyr frowned,

And slow up the dim aisle afar,

With sable cowl and scapular,

And snow-white stoles, in order due,

The holy Fathers, two and two,

In long procession came;

Taper, and host, and book they bare,

And holy banner, flourished fair

With the Redeemer's name;

Above the prostrate pilgrim band

The mitred Abbot stretched his hand,

And blessed them as they kneeled;

With holy cross he signed them all,

And prayed they might be sage in hall,

And fortunate in field.

The Mass was sung, and prayers were said,

And solemn requiem for the dead;

And bells tolled out their mighty peal,

For the departed spirit's weal;

And ever in the office close

The hymn of intercession rose;

And far the echoing aisles prolong

The awful burthen of the song-

Dies Irae, Dies Illa,

Salvet S?lum in Favilla;

While the pealing organ rung,

Thus the holy father sung:

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

The day of wrath, that dreadful day,

When heaven and earth shall pass away,

What power shall be the sinner's stay?

How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,

The flaming heavens together roll;

While louder yet, and yet more dread,

Swells the high trump that wakes the dead;

O! on that day, that wrathful day,

When man to judgment wakes from clay,

Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay,

Though heaven and earth shall pass away.

THE PENANCE OF ROBERT THE DEVIL.

COLLIN DE PLANCY.

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

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

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

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

But there is another tradition which we cannot omit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Whither goest thou?' He answered: 'I bring thy crimes before the

Lord, that they may bear testimony against thee.'

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

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

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

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

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

ALL SOULS' EVE.

Where the tombstones gray and browned,

And the broken roods around,

And the vespers' solemn sound,

Told an old church near;

I sat me in the eve,

And I let my fancy weave

Such a vision as I leave

With a frail pen here.

Methought I heard a trail

Like to slowly-falling hail

And the sadly-plaintive wail

Of a misty file of souls,

As they glided o'er the grass,

Sighing low: "Alas! alas!

How the laggard moments pass

In purgatorial doles!"

Through their garments' glancing sheen,

As if nothing were between,

Pierced the moon's benignant beam

To a grove of stunted pines;

In whose distant lightsome shade,

With their gilded coats arrayed,

Danced a fairy cavalcade,

To a fairy poet's rhymes.

Then a cloud obscured the moon,

And the fairy dance and rune

Faded down behind the gloom

Which along the upland fell,

And my ears could only hear,

In the church-yard lone and drear,

The tinkle soft and clear

Of the morning Mass's bell.

It eddied through the air,

And it seemed to call to prayer

All the waiting spirits there

Which the moon's beams showed,

But each tinkle sank to die

In a heart-distressing sigh,

And no worshippers drew nigh

With the penitential word.

Mute as statue, on each knoll

Stood a thin, transparent soul,

While the fresh breeze stole

From its long night's rest,

Till it bore upon its tongue,

Like a snatch of sacred song,

All the peopled graves among,

Ite Missa est!

Then a cry, as Angels raise

In an ecstasy of praise,

When the Godhead's glowing rays

To their eager sight is given,

Shook the consecrated ground,

And the souls it lost were found

From their venial sins unbound,

In the happy fields of heaven!

Where the tombstones gray and browned,

And the broken roods around,

And the vespers' solemn sound,

Told an old church near;

I sat me in the eve,

And I let my fancy weave

Such a vision as I leave

With a frail pen here.

ELEVENTH MONTH, NOVEMBER: THE HOLY SOULS.

COMMEMORATION OF ALL SOULS.

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

O faithful church! O tender mother-heart,

That, 'neath the shelter of thy deathless love,

Shieldest the blood-bought charge thy Master gave;

Laving the calm, unfurrowed infant brow

With the pure wealth of Heaven's cleansing stream;

Breathing above the sinner's grief-bowed head

The mystic words that loose the demon-spell,

And bid the leprous soul be clean again;

Decking the upper chamber of the heart

For the blest banquet of the Lord of love;

Binding upon the youthful warrior's breast

The buckler bright, the sacred shield of strength,

The fair, celestial gift of Pentecost,

Borne on the pinions of the holy Dove!

And when, at last, life's sunset hour is near,

And the worn pilgrim-feet stand trembling on

The shadowy borders of the death-dark vale,

At thy command the priestly hand bestows

The potent unction in the saving Name,

And gives unto the parched and pallid lip

The blest Viaticum, the Bread of Life,

As staff and stay for that drear pilgrimage!

Thy prayers ascend, with magic incense-breath,

From the lone couch, where, fainting by the way,

The frail companion of the deathless soul

Parteth in pain from its immortal guest.

And when, at last, the golden chain is loosed,

And through the shadows of that mystic vale

The ransomed captive floateth swiftly forth,

In solemn tones thy De Profundis rings

O'er all the realms of vast eternity;

Thy tender litanies call gently down

The angel-guides, the white-robed band of Saints,

To lead the wanderer to "the great White Throne,"

To plead, with Heaven's own pitying tenderness,

For life and mercy at the judgment-seat.

The account is given, the saving sentence breathed,

Yet He who said that nought by sin defiled

Can take at once its blessed place amid

The spotless legion of His shining Saints,

Will find, upon the white baptismal robe,

Full many a blemish; stains too lightly held,

Half-cleansed by an imperfect sorrow's flood.

"The Christian shall be saved, yet as by fire;"

So, to the pain-fraught, purifying flame

The robe is given, till every blighting spot

Hath faded from its primal purity;

Still, faithful Church, thy blest Communion binds

Each suffering child unto thy mother's heart.

Full well thou know'st the wondrous power of prayer-

That 'tis a holy and a wholesome thought

To plead for those who in the drear abode

Of penance linger, "that they may be loosed

From all their sins;" that on each spotless brow

Love's shining hand may place the starry crown.

And so the holy Sacrifice ascends,

A sweet oblation for that wailing band

Thy regal form in mourning hues is draped,

Thy pleading Miserere ceaseth not

Till, at its blest entreaty, Love descends,

As erst, from His rent tomb, to Limbo's realm,

And leads again the freed, exultant throng,

Within the gleaming gates of gold and pearl,

To bask in fadeless splendor, where the flow

Of the "still waters" by the "pastures green"

Faints not, nor slackens, through the endless years.

O Christians, brethren by that holy tie

That links the living with the ransomed dead!

Children of one fond mother are ye all,

White-robed in heaven, militant on earth,

And sufferers 'mid the purifying flame.

O ye who tread the highway of our world,

Join now your voices with that mother's sigh!

And while the mournful autumn wind laments,

And sad November's ceaseless tear-drops fall

Upon "the Silent City's" marble roofs,

O'er lonely graves amid the pathless wild,

Or where the wayworn pilgrim sank to rest

In some lone cavern by the crested sea-

List to the pleading wail that e'er ascends

From the dark land of suffering and woe:

"Our footsteps trod your fair, sun-lighted paths,

Our voices mingled in your joyous songs,

Our tears were blended in one common grief;

Perchance our erring hearts' excessive love

For you, the worshipped idols of our lives,

Hath been the blemish on our bridal robes.

Plead for us, then, and let your potent prayer

Unlock the golden gates, that we who beat

Our eager wings against these prison bars,

May wing our flight to endless liberty!"

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FATHER FABER

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

Oh! it is sweet to think

Of those that are departed,

While murmured Aves sink

To silence tender-hearted-

While tears that have no pain

Are tranquilly distilling,

And the dead live again

In hearts that love is filling.

Yet not as in the days

Of earthly ties we love them;

For they are touched with rays

From light that is above them;

Another sweetness shines

Around their well-known features;

God with His glory signs

His dearly-ransomed creatures.

Yes, they are more our own,

Since now they are God's only;

And each one that has gone

Has left one heart less lonely.

He mourns not seasons fled,

Who now in Him possesses

Treasures of many dead

In their dear Lord's caresses.

Dear dead! they have become

Like guardian angels to us;

And distant Heaven like home,

Through them begins to woo us;

Love that was earthly, wings

Its flight to holier places;

The dead are sacred things

That multiply our graces.

They whom we loved on earth

Attract us now to Heaven;

Who shared our grief and mirth

Back to us now are given.

They move with noiseless foot

Gravely and sweetly round us,

And their soft touch hath cut

Full many a chain that bound us.

O dearest dead! to Heaven

With grudging sighs we gave you;

To Him-be doubts forgiven!

Who took you there to save you:-

Now get us grace to love

Your memories yet more kindly,

Pine for our homes above

And trust to God more blindly.

THE HOLY SOULS.

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

O Mary, help of sorrowing hearts,

Look down with pitying eye

Where souls the spouses of thy Son,

In fiery torments lie;

Far from the presence of their Lord

The purging debt they pay,

In prisons through whose gloomy shades

There shines no cheering ray.

The fire of love is in their hearts,

Its flame burns fierce and keen;

They languish for His Blessed Face,

For one brief moment seen;

Prisoners of hope, their joy is there

To wait His Holy Will,

And, patient in the cleansing flames,

Their penance to fulfil.

But dark the gloom where smile of thine,

Sweet Mother, may not fall,

Oh, hear us, when for these dear souls

Thy loving aid we call!

Thou art the star whose gentle beam

Sheds joy upon the night,

Oh, let its shining pierce their gloom

And give them peace and light.

The sprinkling of the Precious Blood

From thy dear hand must come,

Quench with its drops their cruel flames,

And call them to their home;

Freed from their pains, and safe with thee,

In Jesu's presence blest,

Oh, may the dead in Christ receive

Eternal light and rest!

THE PALMER'S ROSARY.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

No coral beads on costly chain of gold

The Palmer's pious lips at Vespers told;

No guards of art could Pilgrim's favor win,

Who only craved release from earth and sin.

He from the Holy Land his rosary brought;

From sacred olive wood each bead was wrought,

Whose grain was nurtured, ages long ago,

By blood the Saviour sweated in His woe;

Then on the Holy Sepulchre was laid

This crown of roses from His passion made;

The Sepulchre from which the Lord of all

Arose from death's dark bed and icy thrall.

Yet not complete that wreath of joy and pain,

Which for the dead must sweet indulgence gain;

The pendant cross, on which with guileless art,

Some hand had graved what touches every heart,

The image of the Lamb for sinners slain,

From Bethlehem's crib, now shrine, his prayers obtain;

And tears and kisses tell the holy tale

Of pilgrim love and penitential wail.

The love, the tears, which fed his pious flame,

May well be thine, my heart, in very same;

Since bead and cross, by Palmer prized so well,

At vesper-hour, these fingers softly tell,

And press, through them, each dear and sacred spot

Where God once walked, "yet men received Him not."

And still, with pious Palmer gray, of yore,

Thy lips can kiss the ground He wet with gore,

Still at the Sepulchre with her delay,

Who found Him risen ere the break of day;

And hover round the crib with meek delight

Where shepherds hasted from their flocks by night,

To there adore Him whom a Virgin blessed,

Bore in her arms and nourished at her breast.

My Rosary dear! my Bethlehem Cross so fair!

No rose, no lily can with thee compare;

No gems, no gold, no art, or quaint device

Could be my precious Rosary's priceless price;

For Heaven's eternal joys at holier speed,

I trust to win through every sacred bead;

And still for suffering souls obtain release

From cleansing fires to everlasting peace.

A LYKE WAKE DIRGE.

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

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,

Every nighte and alle;

Fire and sleet, and candle lighte,

And Christe receive thye saule.

When thou from hence away are paste,

Every nighte and alle;

To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste;

And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon;

Every nighte and alle;

Sit thee down and put them on;

And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane,

Every nighte and alle,

The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane;

And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir, when thou mayest passe,

Every nighte and alle;

To Brig o' Dread thou comest at laste;

And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brig o' Dread when thou mayest passe,

Every nighte and alle;

To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste;

And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink,

Every nighte and alle,

The fire shall never make thee shrinke;

And Christe receive thye saule.

If meat or drink thou never gavest nane,

Every nighte and alle;

The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;

And Christe receive thye saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,

Every nighte and alle;

Fire and sleet, and candle lighte,

And Christe receive thye saule.

ALL SOULS' DAY.

SECOND VESPERS OF ALL SAINTS.

From "Lyra Liturgica."

What means this veil of gloom

Drawn o'er the festive scene;

The solemn records of the tomb

Where holy mirth hath been:

As if some messenger of death should fling

His tale of woe athwart some nuptial gathering?

Our homage hath been given

With gladsome voice to them

Who fought, and won, and wear in heaven

Christ's robe and diadem;

Now to the suffering Church we must descend,

Our "prisoners of hope" with succor to befriend.

They will not strive nor cry,

Nor make their pleading known;

Meekly and patiently they lie,

Speaking with God alone;

And this the burden of their voiceless song,

Wafted from age to age, "How long, O Lord, how long?"

O blessed cleansing pain!

Who would not bear thy load,

Where every throb expels a stain,

And draws us nearer GOD?

Faith's firm assurance makes all anguish light,

With earth behind, and heaven fast opening on the sight.

Yet souls that nearest come

To their predestin'd gain,

Pant more and more to reach their home:

Delay is keenest pain

To those that all but touch the wish'd for shore,

Where sin, and grief that comes of sin, shall fret no more.

And O-O charity,

For sweet remembrance sake,

These souls, to God so very nigh,

Into your keeping take!

Speed them by sacrifice and suffrage, where

They burn to pour for you a more prevailing prayer.

They were our friends erewhile,

Co-heirs of saving grace;

Co-partners of our daily toil,

Companions in our race;

We took sweet counsel in the house of God,

And sought a common rest along a common road.

And had their brethren car'd

To keep them just and pure,

Perchance their pitying God had spar'd,

The pains they now endure.

What if to fault of ours those pains be due,

To ill example shown, or lack of counsel true?

Alas, there are who weep

In fierce, unending flame,

Through sin of those on earth that sleep,

Regardless of their shame;

Or who, though they repent, too sadly know

No help of theirs can cure or soothe their victim's woe.

Thanks to our God who gives,

In fruitful Mass or prayer,

To many a friend that dies, yet lives,

A salutary share;

Nor stints our love, though cords of sense be riven,

Nor bans from hope the soul that is not ripe for heaven.

Feast of the Holy Dead!

Great Jubilee of grace!

When angel guards exulting lead

To their predestin'd place

Souls, that the Church shall loose from bonds to-day

In every clime that basks beneath her genial sway.

THE SUFFERING SOULS.

BY E. M. V. BULGER.

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

In some quiet hour at the close of day,

When your work is finished and laid away,

Think of the suffering souls, and pray.

Think of that prison of anguish and pain,

Where even the souls of the Saints remain,

Till cleansed by fire from the slightest stain.

Think of the souls who were dear to you

When this life held them; still be true,

And pray for them now; it is all you can do.

Think of the souls who are lonely there,

With no one, perchance, to offer a prayer

That God may have pity on them and spare.

Think of the souls that have longest lain

In that place of exile and of pain,

Suffering still for some uncleansed stain.

Think of the souls who, perchance, may be

On the very threshold of liberty-

One "Ave Maria" may set them free!

Oh, then, at the close of each passing day,

When your work is finished and folded away,

Think of the suffering souls, and pray!

Think of their prison, so dark and dim,

Think of their longing to be with Him

Whose praises are sung by the cherubim!

As you tell the beads of your Rosary,

Ask God's sweet Mother their mother to be;

Her immaculate hands hold Heaven's key.

Oh, how many souls are suffering when

You whisper "Hail Mary" again and again,

May see God's face as you say "Amen!"

-Ave Maria, November 24, 1883.

THE VOICES OF THE DEAD.

'Twas the hour after sunset,

And the golden light had paled;

The heavy foliage of the woods

Were all in shadow veiled.

Yet a witchery breathed through the soft twilight,

A thought of the sun that was set,

And a soft and mystic radiance

Through the heavens hung lingering yet.

The purple hills stood clear and dark

Against the western sky,

And the wind came sweeping o'er the grass

With a wild and mournful cry:

It swept among the grass that grows

Above the quiet grave,

And stirred the boughs of the linden-trees

That o'er the church-yard wave.

And the low murmur of the leaves

All softly seemed to say,

"It is a good and wholesome thought

For the dead in Christ to pray."

Earth's voices all are low and dim;

But a human heart is there,

With psalms and words of holy Church,

To join in Nature's prayer.

A Monk is pacing up and down;

His prayers like incense rise;

Ever a sweet, sad charm for him

Within that church-yard lies.

Each morning when from Mary's tower

The sweet-toned Ave rings,

This herdsman of the holy dead

A Mass of Requiem sings.

And when upon the earth there falls

The hush of eventide,

A dirge he murmurs o'er the graves

Where they slumber side by side.

"Eternal light shine o'er them, Lord!

And may they rest in peace!"

His matins all are finished now,

And his whispered accents cease.

But, hark! what sound is that which breaks

The stillness of the hour?

Is it the ivy as it creeps

Against the gray church tower?

Is it the sound of the wandering breeze,

Or the rustling of the grass,

Or the stooping wing of the evening birds

As home to their nests they pass?

No; 'tis a voice like one in dreams,

Half solemn and half sad,

Freed from the weariness of earth,

Not yet with glory clad;

Full of the yearning tenderness

Which nought but suffering gives;

Too sad for angel-tones-too full

Of rest for aught that lives.

They are the Voices of the Dead

From the graves that lie around,

And the Monk's heart swells within his breast,

As he listens to the sound.

"Amen! Amen!" the answer comes

Unto his muttered prayer;

"Amen!" as though the brethren all

In choir were standing there.

The living and departed ones

On earth are joined again,

And the bar that shuts them from his ken

For a moment parts in twain.

Over the gulf that yawns beneath,

Their echoed thanks he hears

For the Masses he has offered up,

For his orisons and tears.

And as the strange responsory

Mounts from the church-yard sod,

Their mingled prayers and answers rise

Unto the throne of God. [1]

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

-M. R., in "The Lamp," Oct. 31, 1863.

THE CONVENT CEMETERY.

REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.

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

Thus."]

And years and years, and weary years passed on

Into the past; one autumn afternoon,

When flowers were in their agony of death,

And winds sang "De Profundis" o'er them,

And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk

Where, in a resting-place as calm as sweet,

The dead were lying down; the autumn sun

Was half-way down the west-the hour was three,

The holiest hour of all the twenty-four,

For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died.

He walked alone amid the Virgins' graves,

Where calm they slept-a convent stood near by,

And from the solitary cells of nuns

Unto the cells of death the way was short.

Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave,

While in the hollows 'twixt them sweet flowers grew,

Entwining grave with grave. He read the names

Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace"

Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name

A cross was graven on the lowly stone.

He passed each grave with reverential awe,

As if he passed an altar, where the Host

Had left a memory of its sacrifice.

And o'er the buried virgin's virgin dust

He walked as prayerfully as though he trod

The holy floor of fair Loretto's shrine.

He passed from grave to grave, and read the names

Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names

By which this world had known them into names

Of sacrifice known only to their God;

Veiling their faces they had veiled their names.

The very ones who played with them as girls,

Had they passed there, would know no more than he,

Or any stranger, where their playmates slept.

And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts,

Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams,

Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears.

He wondered at the stories that were hid

Forever down within those simple graves.

ONE HOUR AFTER DEATH.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

Oh! I could envy thee thy solemn sleep,

Thy sealed lid, thy rosary-folding palm,

Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep

The "Bona Mors" sublime, unfathomed calm.

I sigh to wear myself that burial robe

Anointed hands have blessed with pious care:

What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe

Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare?

Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust

Shall rest serenely through the night of time;

Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust,

But, fresh as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime

Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray

Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam;

I see it break! the pure, celestial day,

And stars of mortal hope already dim.

"In pace" Lord, oh! let her sweetly rest

In Paradise, this very day with Thee:

Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed,

Then let her soul Thy risen glory see!

A PRAYER FOR THE DEAD.

T. D. MCGEE.

Let us pray for the dead!

For sister and mother,

Father and brother,

For clansman and fosterer,

And all who have loved us here;

For pastors, for neighbors,

At rest from their labors;

Let us pray for our own beloved dead!

That their souls may be swiftly sped

Through the valley of purgatorial fire,

To a heavenly home by the gate called Desire!

I see them cleave the awful air,

Their dun wings fringed with flame;

They hear, they hear our helping prayer,

They call on Jesu's name.

Let us pray for the dead!

For our foes who have died,

May they be justified!

For the stranger whose eyes

Closed on cold alien skies;

For the sailors who perished

By the frail arts they cherished;

Let us pray for the unknown dead.

Father in heaven, to Thee we turn,

Transfer their debt to us;

Oh! bid their souls no longer burn

In mediate anguish thus.

Let us pray for the soldiers,

On whatever side slain;

Whose white bones on the plain

Lay unclaimed and unfathered,

By the vortex-wind gathered,

Let us pray for the valiant dead.

Oh! pity the soldier,

Kind Father in heaven,

Whose body doth moulder

Where his soul fled self-shriven.

We have prayed for the dead;

All the faithful departed,

Who to Christ were true-hearted;

And our prayers shall be heard,

For so promised the Lord;

And their spirits shall go

Forth from limbo-like woe-

And joyfully swift the justified dead

Shall feel their unbound pinions sped,

Through the valley of purgatorial fire,

To their heavenly home by the gate called Desire,

By the gate called Desire,

In clouds they've ascended-

O Saints, pray for us,

Now your sorrows are ended!

THE DE PROFUNDIS BELL. [1]

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

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

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

The day was dead; from purple summits faded

Its last resplendent ray,

And softly slept the wearied earth, o'ershaded

By twilight's dreamy gray;

Then flowed deep sound-waves o'er silence holy

Of nature's calm repose,

As from its lofty dome, outpealing slowly

Through the still gloaming, rose

The deep and dirge-like swell

Of De Profundis bell.

To heedful hearts each solemn cadence falling

Through twilight's misty veil,

An echo seemed of spirit-voices calling

With sad, beseeching wail;

And thus outspake the mournful intonation:

"Plead for us, brethren, plead!"

From the drear depths of woe and desolation

Our cry of bitter need

Floats upward in the swell

Of De Profundis bell.

Then bowed each knee, the plaintive summons heeding,

And rose the blended sigh.

As incense-breath of fond, united pleading

E'en to the throne on high:

"Hear, Lord, the cry of fervent supplication

Earth's children lift to Thee;

And from the depths of long and dread purgation

Thy faithful captives free,

Ere dies on earth the swell

Of De Profundis bell.

"If, in Thy sight, scarce e'en the perfect whiteness

Of seraph-robe is pure,

Shall mortals brave Thine eye's eternal brightness?

Shall man its search endure?

Ah! trusting hope may meet the dazzling splendor

Of those celestial rays,

For with Thee, Lord, is pardon sweet and tender,

When contrite sorrow prays.

Ay, Thou wilt lead, from desert-waste of sadness,

Thine Israel's chosen band;

And Miriam's song of pure, triumphant gladness

Shall, in Thy promised land,

Succeed the dirge-like swell

Of De Profundis bell."

NOVEMBER.

ANNA. T. SADLIER.

Robed in mourning, nave and chancel,

In the livery of the dead,

Hymns funereal are chanted.

Services sublime are read.

Sounds the solemn Dies Ir?,

Fraught with echoes from the day

When the majesty of Heaven

Shall appear in dread array.

Next the Gospel's weird recital,

Full of mystery and dread;

Holding message for the living,

Bringing tidings of the dead.

With its resurrection promised-

Resurrection unto life,

With its full and true fruition,

And immunity from strife.

Blest immunity from sorrow,

Primal man's unhappy dower;

While the evil shall find judgment

In the resurrection hour.

To the Lord, the King of Glory,

Goes the voiceless, tuneless prayer,

From the deep pit to deliver,

From eternal pains to spare.

All who wait the holy coming,

Wait the dawning of a day

That shall ope the gates of darkness,

Shall illume the watcher's way.

May the holy Michael lead them

To the fullness of the light

That of old, in prophet visions,

Burst on Adam's dazzled sight.

May they pass from death to living-

Message that the Master's voice

Gave to Abraham the faithful,

Bade his exiled soul rejoice.

May perpetual light descending

Touch their foreheads, dark with fear-

Dark with deadly torments suffered;

Sign them with the glory near!

May they rest, O Lord, forever

In a peace that, unexpressed,

Shall bestow upon the pilgrims

Dual crowns of light and rest!

Death's weird canticle is ringing

In its supplication strong-

In its far cry to the heavens,

Couched in wild, unearthly song.

Ay, this Libera o'ercomes us,

Requiem, at once, and dirge-

Makes this life with life immortal

In our consciousness to merge.

FOR THE SOULS IN PURGATORY.

ANONYMOUS.

Ye souls of the faithful who sleep in the Lord,

But as yet are shut out from your final reward,

Oh! would I could lend you assistance to fly

From your prison below to your palace on high!

O Father of Mercies! Thine anger withhold,

These works of Thy hand in Thy mercy behold;

Too oft from Thy path they have wandered aside,

But Thee, their Creator, they never denied.

O tender Redeemer, their misery see,

Deliver the souls that were ransomed by Thee;

Behold how they love Thee, despite all their pain;

Restore them, restore them to favor again!

O Spirit of Grace! O Consoler divine!

See how for Thy presence they longingly pine;

Ah! then, to enliven their sadness descend,

And fill them with peace and with joy in the end!

O Mother of Mercy! dear soother in grief!

Send thou to their torments a balmy relief;

Oh! temper the rigor of justice severe,

And soften their flames with a pitying tear.

Ye Patrons, who watched o'er their safety below,

Oh! think how they need your fidelity now;

And stir all the Angels and Saints in the sky

To plead for the souls that upon you rely!

Ye friends, who once sharing their pleasure and pain,

Now hap'ly already in Paradise reign,

Oh! comfort their hearts with a whisper of love,

And call them to share in your pleasures above!

O Fountain of Goodness! accept of our sighs:

Let Thy mercy bestow what Thy justice denies;

So may Thy poor captives, released from their woes,

Thy praises proclaim, while eternity flows!

All ye who would honor the Saints and their Head,

Remember, remember to pray for the dead-

And they, in return, from their misery freed,

To you will be friends in the hour of your need!

-Garland of Flowers.

ALL SOULS' EVE.

'Twas All Souls' Eve; the lights in Notre Dame

Blazed round the altar; gloomy, in the midst,

The pall, with all its sable hangings, stood;

With torch and taper, priests were ranged around,

Chanting the solemn requiem of the dead;

And then along the aisles the distant lights

Moved slowly, two by two; the chapels shone

Lit as they pass'd in momentary glare;

Behind the fretted choir the yellow ray,

On either hand the altar, blazing fell.

She thought upon the multitude of souls

Dwelling so near and yet so separate.

With dawn she sought Saint Jacques; the altars there

Had each its priest; the black and solemn Mass,

The nodding feathers of the catafalque,

The flaring torches, and the funeral chant,

And intercessions for the countless souls

In Purgatory still. With pity new

The Pilgrim pray'd for the departed. Long

She knelt before the Blessed Sacrament,

Beside Our Lady's altar. Pictured there,

She saw, imprisoned in the forked flames,

The suffering souls who ask the alms of prayer;

Her taper small an aged peasant lit,

To burn before Our Lady, that her voice,

Mother of mercy as she is, might plead

For one who left her still on earth to pray.

. . . . . Sable veils

Soon hid the altars; all things spoke of death,

And realms where those who leave the upper air

Wait till the stains of sin are cleansed, and pant

Amid the thirsty flames for Paradise. [1]

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

OUR NEIGHBOR.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

Set it down gently at the altar rail,

The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;

Long have we seen that pious face, so pale,

Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.

These many years her heart was hidden where

Nor moth, nor rust, nor craft of man could harm;

The blue eyes, seldom lifted, save in prayer,

Beamed with her wished-for heaven's celestial calm.

As innocent as childhood's was the face,

Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart;

Each trouble came as winged by special grace,

And resignation saved the wound from smart.

On bead and crucifix her finger kept,

Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold;

"My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept,

The placid brow, the gentle hand grew cold.

The choicely ripening cluster, ling'ring late

Into October on its shrivelled vine,

Wins mellow juices, which in patience wait

Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.

Then set it gently at the altar rail,

The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;

How can we hope, if such as she can fail

Before th' Eternal God's high judgment-seat?

PURGATORY.

OLD BELLS.

Ring out merrily,

Loudly, cheerily,

Blithe old bells from the steeple tower.

Hopefully, fearfully,

Joyfully, tearfully,

Moveth the bride from her maiden bower.

Cloud there is none in the bright summer sky,

Sunshine flings benison down from on high;

Children sing loud as the train moves along,

"Happy the bride that the sun shineth on."

Knell out drearily,

Measured out wearily,

Sad old bells from the steeple gray.

Priests chanting slowly,

Solemnly, slowly,

Passeth the corpse from the portal to-day.

Drops from the leaden clouds heavily fall,

Drippingly over the plume and the pall;

Murmur old folk, as the train moves along,

"Happy the dead that the rain raineth on."

Toll at the hour of prime,

Matin and vesper chime,

Loved old bells from the steeple high;

Rolling, like holy waves,

Over the lowly graves,

Floating up, prayer-fraught, into the sky.

Solemn the lesson your lightest notes teach,

Stern is the preaching your iron tongues preach;

Ringing in life from the bud to the bloom;

Ringing the dead to their rest in the tomb.

Peal out evermore-

Peal as ye pealed of yore, Brave old bells, on each holy day.

In sunshine and gladness,

Through clouds and through sadness,

Bridal and burial have both passed away.

Tell us life's pleasures with death are still rife;

Tell us that death ever leadeth to life;

Life is our labor and death is our rest,

If happy the living, the dead are the blest.

-Popular Poetry.

O HOLY CHURCH!

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

O holy Church! thy mother-heart

Still clasps the child of grace;

And nought its links of love can part,

Or rend its fond embrace.

Thy potent prayer and sacred rite

Embalm the precious clay,

That waits the resurrection-light-

The fadeless Easter day.

And loving hearts, by faith entwined,

True to that faith shall be,

And keep the sister-soul enshrined

In tender memory;

Shall bid the ceaseless prayer ascend,

To win her guerdon blest;

The radiant day that hath no end,

The calm, eternal rest.

AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Again he faced the battle-field-

Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.

"Now then," he said, and couch'd his spear,

"My course is run, the goal is near;

One effort more, one brave career,

Must close this race of mine."

Then, in his stirrups rising high,

He shouted loud his battle-cry,

"St. James for Argentine!"

* * * * *

Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done,

To use his conquest boldly won:

And gave command for horse and spear

To press the Southern's scatter'd rear,

Nor let his broken force combine,

When the war-cry of Argentine

Fell faintly on his ear!

"Save, save his life," he cried. "O save

The kind, the noble, and the brave!"

The squadrons round free passage gave,

The wounded knight drew near.

He raised his red-cross shield no more,

Helm, cuish, and breast-plate stream'd with gore.

Yet, as he saw the King advance,

He strove even then to couch his lance-

The effort was in vain!

The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse;

Wounded and weary, in 'mid course

He tumbled on the plain.

Then foremost was the generous Bruce

To raise his head, his helm to loose:-

"Lord Earl, the day is thine!

My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate,

Have made our meeting all too late;

Yet this may Argentine,

As boon from ancient comrade, crave-

A Christian's Mass, a soldier's grave."

Bruce pressed his dying hand-its grasp

Kindly replied; but, in his clasp

It stiffen'd and grew cold-

And, "O farewell!" the victor cried,

Of chivalry the flower and pride,

The arm in battle bold,

The courteous mien, the noble race,

The stainless faith, the manly face!

Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine,

For late-wake of De Argentine.

O'er better knight on death-bier laid,

Torch never gleamd, nor Mass was said! [1]

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

-From "The Lord of the Isles"

PRAY FOE THE MARTYRED DEAD.

Pray for the Dead! When, conscienceless, the nations

Rebellious rose to smite the thorn-crowned Head

Of Christendom, their proudest aspirations

Ambitioned but a place amongst the dead.

Pray for the Dead! The seeming fabled story

of early chivalry, in them renewed,

Shines out to-day with an ascendent glory

Above that field of parricidal feud.

The children of a persecuted mother,

When nations heard the drum of battle beat,

Through coward Europe, brother leagued with brother,

Rallied and perished at her sacred feet.

O Ireland, ever waiting the To-morrow,

Lift up thy widowed, venerable head,

Exultingly, through thy maternal sorrow,

Not comfortless, like Rachel, for thy dead.

For, where the crimson shock of battle thundered,

From hosts precipitated on a few,

Above thy sons, outnumbered, crushed and sundered,

Thy green flag through the smoke and glitter flew.

Lift up thy head! The hurricane that dashes

Its giant billows on the Rock of Time,

Divests thee, mother, of thy weeds and ashes,

Rendering, at least, thy grief sublime.

For nations, banded into conclaves solemn,

Thy name and spirit in the grave had cast,

And carved thy name upon the crumbling column

Which stands amid the unremembered Past.

Pray for the Dead! Cold, cold amid the splendor

Of the Italian South our brothers sleep;

The blue air broods above them warm and tender,

The mists glide o'er them from the barren deep.

Pray for the Dead! High-souled and lion-hearted,

Heroic martyrs to a glorious trust,

By them our scorned name is re-asserted,

By them our banner rescued from the dust.

-Kilkenny Journal.

IN WINTER

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

How lonely on the hillside look the graves!

The summer green no longer o'er them waves;

No more, among the frosted boughs, are heard

The mournful whip-poor-will or singing bird.

The rose-bush, planted with such tearful care,

Stands in the winter sunshine stiff and bare;

Save here and there its lingering berries red

Make the cold sunbeams warm above the dead.

Through all the pines, and through the tall, dry grass,

The fitful breezes with a shiver pass,

While o'er the autumn's lately flowering weeds

The snow-birds flit and peck the shelling seeds.

Because those graves look lonely, bleak and bare,

Because they are not, as in summer, fair,

O turn from comforts, cheery friends, and home,

And 'mid their solemn desolation roam!

On each brown turf some fresh memorial lay;

O'er each dear hillock's dust a moment stay,

To breathe a "Rest in Peace" for those who lie

On lonely hillsides 'neath a wintry sky.

OSEMUS.

MARY E MANNIX

Welcome, ye sad dirges of November,

When Indian summer drops her brilliant crown

All withered, as in clinging mantle brown

She floats, away to die beneath the leaves;

Pressed are the grapes, gathered the latest sheaves;

O wailing winds! how can we but remember

The loved and lost? O ceaseless monotones!

Hearing your plaints, counting your weary moans

Like voices of the dead, like broken sighs

From stricken souls who long for Paradise,

We will not slight the message that ye bear,

Nor check a pitying thought, nor guide a prayer.

They have departed, we must still remember;

Welcome, ye sad, sad dirges of November!

FUNERAL HYMN.

From the French of Theodore Nisard

A. T. SADLIER

The bell is tolling for the dead,

Christians, hasten we to prayer,

Our brothers suffer there,

Consumed in struggles vain.

Have pity, have pity on them,

In torturing flames immersed,

The stains their souls aspersed

Retain them far from heav'n.

Since God has giv'n us power,

Oh, let us their woes relieve;

Their hope do not deceive,

Our protectors they will be.

For these suff'ring ones we pray,

Lord Jesus, Victim blest,

Take them from pain to rest,

Thy children, too, are they.

* * * * *

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

CHANT FUNèBRE.

NISARD

La cloche tinte pour les morts

Chrétiens, mettons nous en prières!

Ceux qi gemissent sont des frères,

Se consumant en vains efforts.

Pitié pour eux! Pitié pour eux!

Ils tourbillonnent dans la flamme;

Les taches qui souillent leur ames,

Les tiennent captifs loin des cieux.

Mettons un terme à leur douleurs,

Dieu nous en donne la puissance;

Ne trompons point leur espérance,

Puis ils seront nos protecteurs.

Disons pour nos fières souffrants:

Sauveur Jésus, Sainte Victime,

Tirez nos frères de l'abime,

Car, eux aussi, sont vos enfants.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE

O Father, give them rest-

Thy faithful ones, whose day of toil is o'er,

Whose weary feet shall wander never more

O'er earth's unquiet breast!

The battle-strife was long;

Yet, girt with grace, and guided by Thy light,

They faltered not till triumph closed the fight,

Till pealed the victor's song.

Though drear the desert path,

With cruel thorns and flinty fragments strewn,

Where fiercely swept, amid the glare of noon.

The plague-wind's biting wrath.

Still onward pressed their feet;

For patience soothed with sweet celestial balm,

And, from the rocks, hope called her founts to calm

The Simoom's venom-heat.

Their march hath reached its close,

Its toils are o'er, its Red Sea safely passed;

And pilgrim feet have cast aside at last

Earth's sandal-shoon of woes.

Thou blissful promised land!

One rapturous glimpse of matchless glory caught,

One priceless vision, with thy beauty fraught,

Hath blessed that way-worn band.

And to thy smiling shore

Their ceaseless messengers of longing went,

And blooms of bliss and fruitage of content,

Returning, gladly bore.

Yet sadly still they wait;

For, past idolatries to gods of clay,

And past rebellions 'gainst the Master's sway,

Have barred the golden gate.

The magic voice of prayer,

The saving rite, the sacrifice of love,

The human tear, the sigh of Saints above,

Blent in one off'ring fair-

These, these alone, can win

The boon they crave: glad entrance into rest,

The fadeless crown, the garment of the blest,

Washed pure from stain of sin.

Hear, then, our eager cry.

O God of mercy! bid their anguish cease;

To prisoned souls, ah! bring the glad release,

And hush the mourner's sigh.

Mother of pitying love!

On sorrow's flood thy tender glances bend,

And o'er its dark and dreadful torrent send

The olive-bearing dove.

Thy potent prayer shall be

An arch of peace, a radiant promise-bow,

To span the gulf, and shed its cheering glow

O'er the dread penance-sea.

And on its pathway blest

The ransomed throng, in garments washed and white,

May safely pass to love's fair realm of light,

To heaven's perfect rest.

THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS IS THE COUNTRY.

From the French of Fontanes. [1]

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

ANNA T. SADLIER

E'en now doth Sagittarius from on high,

Outstretch his bow, and ravage all the earth,

The hills, and meadows where of flowers the dearth

Already felt, like some vast ruins lie.

The bleak November counts its primal day,

While I, a witness of the year's decline,

Glad of my rest, within the fields recline.

No poet heart this beauty can gainsay,

No feeling mind these autumn pictures scorn,

But knows how their monotonous charms adorn.

Oh, with what joy does dreamy sorrow stray

At eve, slow pacing, the dun-colored vale;

He seeks the yellow woods, and hears the tale

Of winds that strip them of their lonely leaves;

For this low murmur all my sense deceives.

In rustling forests do I seem to hear

Those voices long since still, to me most dear.

In leaves grown sere they speak unto my heart.

This season round the coffin-lid we press,

Religion wears herself a mourning dress,

More grand she seems, while her diviner part

At sight of this, a world in ruins, grows.

To-day a pious usage she has taught,

Her voice opens vaults wherein our fathers dwell.

Alas, my memory doth keep that thought.

The dawn appeareth, and the swaying bell

Mingles its mournful sound with whistling winds,

The Feast of Death proclaiming to the air.

Men, women, children, to the Church repair,

Where one, with speech and with example binds

These happy tribes, maintaining all in peace.

He follows them, the first apostles, near,

Like them the pastor's holy name makes dear.

"With hymns of joy," said he, "but yesterday

We celebrated the triumphant dead

Who conquer'd heav'n by burning zeal, faith-fed.

For plaintive shades, whom sorrow makes his prey

We weep to-day, our mourning is their bliss,

All potent prayer is privileged in this,

Souls purified from sin by transient pain

It frees; we'll visit their most calm domain.

Man seeks it, and descends there every hour.

But dry our tears, for now celestial rays

The grave's dim region swift shall penetrate;

Yea, all its dwellers in their primal state

Shall wake, behold the light in mute amaze.

Ah, might I to that world my flight then wing

In triumph to my God, my flock recovered bring."

So saying, offered he the holy rite,

With arms extended praying God to spare,

The while adoring knelt he humbly there.

That people prostrate! oh, most solemn sight

That church, its porticoes with moss o'ergrown,

The ancient walls, dim light and Gothic panes,

In its antiquity the brazen lamp

A symbol of eternity doth stamp.

A lasting sun. God's majesty down sent,

Vows, tears and incense from the altars rise,

Young beauties praying 'neath their mothers' eyes,

Do soften by their voices innocent,

The touching pomp religion there reveals;

The organ hush'd, the sacred silence round,

All, all uplifts, ennobles and inspires;

Man feels himself transported where the choirs

Of seraphim with harps of gold entone

Low at Jehovah's feet their endless song.

Then God doth make His awful presence known,

Hides from the wise, to loving hearts is shown:

He seeks less to be proved than to be felt. [1]

From out the Church the multitudes depart,

In separate groups unto th' abode they go

Of tranquil death, their tears still silent flow.

The standard of the Cross is borne apart,

Sublime our songs for death their sacred theme,

Now mixed with noise that heralds storms they seem;

Now lower above our heads the dark'ning clouds,

Our faces mournful, our funereal hymn

Both air and landscape in our grief enshrouds.

Towards death's tranquil haven, on we fare,

The cypress, ivy, and the yew trees haunt

The spot where thorns seem growing everywhere.

Sparse lindens rise up grimly here and there,

The winds rush whistling through their branches gaunt.

Hard by a stream, my mind found there exprest

In waves and tombs a twofold lesson drest,

Eternal movement and eternal rest.

Ah, with what holy joy these peasants fain

Would honor parent dust; they seek with pride

The stone or turf, concealing those allied

To them by love, they find them here again.

Alas, with us we may not seek the boon

Of gazing on the ashes of our dead.

Our dead are banish'd, on their rights we tread,

Their bones unhonored at hap-hazard strewn.

E'en now 'gainst us cry out their Manes pale,

Those nations and those times dire woes entail,

'Mongst whom in hearts grown weak by slow degree,

The cultus of the dead has ceased.

Here, here, at least have they from wrong been free,

Their heritage of peace preserving best.

No sumptuous marbles burden names here writ,

A shepherd, farmer, peasant, as is fit,

Beneath these stones in tranquil slumber see;

Perchance a Turenne, a Corneille they hide,

Who lived obscure, e'en to himself unknown.

But if from men he'd risen separate,

Sublime in camps, the theatre, the state,

His name by idol-loving worlds outcried,

Would that have made his slumber here more sweet?

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

REQUIEM ?TERNAM.

T. D. MCGEE.

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

Saint Victor's Day, a day of woe,

The bier that bore our dead went slow

And silent gliding o'er the snow-

Miserere Domine!

With Villa Maria's faithful dead,

Among the just we make his bed,

The cross, he loved, to shield his head-

Miserere Domine!

The skies may lower, wild storms may rave

Above our comrade's mountain grave,

That cross is mighty still to save-

Miserere Domine!

Deaf to the calls of love and care,

He bears no more his mortal share,

Nought can avail him now but prayer-

Miserere Domine!

To such a heart who could refuse

Just payment of all burial dues,

Of Holy Church the rite and use?

Miserere Domine!

Right solemnly the Mass was said,

While burn'd the tapers round the dead,

And manly tears like rain were shed-

Miserere Domine!

No more St. Patrick's aisles prolong

The burden of his funeral song,

His noiseless night must now be long-

Miserere Domine!

Up from the depths we heard arise

A prayer of pity to the skies,

To Him who dooms or justifies-

Miserere Domine!

Down from the skies we heard descend

The promises the Psalmist penned,

The benedictions without end-

Miserere Domine!

Mighty our Holy Church's will

To shield her parting souls from ill,

Jealous of Death, she guards them still-

Miserere Domine!

The dearest friend will turn away,

And leave the clay to keep the clay,

Ever and ever she will stay-

Miserere Domine!

When for us sinners at our need,

That mother's voice is raised to plead,

The frontier hosts of heaven 'take heed-

Miserere Domine!

Mother of Love! Mother of fear,

And holy Hope, and Wisdom dear,

Behold we bring thy suppliant here-

Miserere Domine!

His glowing heart is still for aye,

That held fast by thy clemency,

Oh! look on him with loving eye-

Miserere Domine!

His Faith was as the tested gold,

His Hope assured, not over-bold,

His Charities past count, untold-

Miserere Domine!

Well may they grieve who laid him there,

Where shall they find his equal-where?

Nought can avail him now but prayer-

Miserere Domine!

Friend of my soul, farewell to thee!

Thy truth, thy trust, thy chivalry;

As thine? so may my last end be!

Miserere Domine!

APPENDIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXTRACTS FROM "THE CATHOLIC REVIEW." [1]

[Footnote 1: November, 1885.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A REQUIEM FOR THE CARDINAL IN PARIS.

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

A DUTY OF NOVEMBER.

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

(From the Texas Monitor.)

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

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

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

St. Augustine says, upon the same subject:

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

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

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

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

In doing away with the Christian practice of praying for the dead, the

Protestant sects have despised the voice of nature, the spirit of

Christianity, and the most ancient and respectable tradition.

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

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

PURGATORIAL ASSOCIATION.

A CARD FROM REV. S. S. MATTINGLY.

(from the Catholic Columbian)

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE HOLY FACE AND THE SUFFERING SOULS.

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

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

WHEN WILL THEY LEARN ITS SECRET?

HOW THE CARDINAL'S OBSEQUIES IMPRESSED A BAPTIST SPECTATOR.

(From the Baptist Examiner.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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