Purgatory: Doctrinal, Historical, and Poetical Part 37

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

I.

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

Gentle Christian, watcher kind, Pray for us, oh! pray for us!"

II.

Melt mine eyes with sudden tears-- Old familiar tones are there; Dear ones lost in other years, Breathing Purgatory's prayer.

Through my fingers pa.s.s 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 ama.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 Ma.s.s.

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

Polet, the princ.i.p.al 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 Greves); 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 Greves 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 Ma.s.ses 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 Ma.s.s. 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 pa.s.ses 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 att.i.tude of a celebrant about to commence Ma.s.s. 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 Ma.s.s," 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 Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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 c.o.c.k crowed somewhere in the neighborhood. The sacristan took up the vestments, and pa.s.sed 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 Ma.s.s, till three days do pa.s.s, 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 Ma.s.s-rite for the soul of that Knight, May as well say Ma.s.s 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 n.o.ble 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 b.l.o.o.d.y grave have I lain, The Ma.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d, 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.