Purgatory: Doctrinal, Historical, and Poetical Part 34

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

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

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

And then, too, my grief! There were many deeds of my life to which I had given but casual regret. When the minister would counsel us to confess our sins to G.o.d, I had knelt in the church and gone through the form; but here, where the height and depth and breadth of G.o.d's perfection dawned upon me, and grew hourly clearer, they seemed to rend my heart, and to far outweigh any little good I might have done. Oh!

why did no one ever preach the justice of G.o.d to me, and the necessity of personal atonement! Why had they only taught me, "Believe, and you shall be saved?"

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

"Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord!"

"And let perpetual light s.h.i.+ne upon them!"

"May they rest in peace!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL.

_Founded on an old French Legend_.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away; Not all Love's pa.s.sionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay.

And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And turn so deathly pale?

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

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

GENeRADE, THE FRIEND OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

J. COLLIN DE PLANCY.

ST. AUGUSTINE reckoned among his friends the physician Generade, highly honored in Carthage, where his learning and skill were much esteemed.

But by one of those misfortunes of which there are, unhappily, but too many examples, while studying the admirable mechanism of the human body, he had come to believe matter capable of the works of intelligence which raise man so far above other created beings. He was, therefore, a materialist; and St. Augustine praying for him, earnestly besought G.o.d to enlighten that deluded mind.

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

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

"Knowest thou me?"

"Very well," answered Generade.

"And wherefore knowest thou me?"

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

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