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

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

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

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

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

THE QUEEN OF PURGATORY.

BY FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, D. D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DEAD PRIEST BEFORE THE ALTAR.

REV. A. J. RYAN.

Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all?

No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast, When the evening shadows fall.

Let him rest alone--unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy Hosts on their humble throne Will watch him through the night.

The doors were closed--he was still and fair, What sound moved up the aisles?

The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces wearing smiles.

And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch o'er you to-night; Your life was beautiful, fair and young, Not a cloud upon its light.

To-morrow--to-morrow you will rest With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."

Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud.

Ah! the happy, happy years!

They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Ma.s.s Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The altars cried and the people wept, The fairest flower in the Church's vale Ah me! how soon we pa.s.s!

In the vase of his coffin slept. _--From In Memoriam._

MEMORIALS OF THE BEAD.

R. R. MADDEN. [1]

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

'Tis not alone in "hallowed ground,"

At every step we tread Midst tombs and sepulchres, are found Memorials of the dead.

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

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

Memorials of the dead.

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

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

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

A CHILD'S REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

_ELIZA ALLEN STARR_.

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

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

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

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

THE SOLITARY SOUL.

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

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

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

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

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