Chapter XXII: Part V: Legendary and Poetical (1)

Well beseems
That we should help them wash away the stains
They carried hence; that so, made pure and light,
They may spring upward to the starry spheres.
Ah! so may mercy tempered justice rid
Your burdens speedily; that ye have power
To stretch your wing, which e'en to your desire
Shall lift you.

--DANTE.

LEGENDARY AND POETICAL.

DIES IRÆ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which death and gaping hell prepare.

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

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

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

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

AUTHORSHIP OF THE DIES IRÆ.

O'BRIEN. [1]

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: As David and Sibyls say.]

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

DANTE'S "PURGATORIO."

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

HAMLET AND THE GHOST.

SHAKESPEARE.

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

CALDERON'S "PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PATRICK then prays, concluding with the words:

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

An Angel then descends and speaks as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

Later in the drama we find Ludovico desiring

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

Again, he says:

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

"Aid me in the Purgatory."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BRIG O' DREAD.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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

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

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

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

Again, she supposes herself suspended over an infernal gulf:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: St. Paul.]

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

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

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

SHELLEY AND THE PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK.

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

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

ON A GREAT FUNERAL. [1]

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

AUBREY DE VERE.

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

"MORTE D'ARTHUR."

TENNYSON.

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

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

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

GUIDO AND HIS BROTHER.

COLLlN DE PLANCY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BERTHOLD IN PURGATORY.

COLLIN DE PLANCY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS.

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

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

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

"DREAM OF GERONTIUS."

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

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

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

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

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

SOUL. I go before my Judge. Ah! ...

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