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, betrayalOf dearest friends, all these I must relate.For these are all my glory and my pride.In one of Ireland's many islands IWas born, and much do I suspect that allThe 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 meetIn this world once again.LUDOVICO. Dost thou demandSo 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 placesIn the other world than those ofEverlasting pain and glory:Learn, O King, that there's another,Which is Purgatory; whitherFlies the soul that has departedIn a state of grace; but bearingStill some stains of sin upon it:For with these no soul can enterGod's pure kingdom—there it dwellethTill it purifies and burnethAll 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 existenceSome strong proof—some indication—Something tangible and certain—Which my hands may feel and grasp at.And since you appear so powerfulWith 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 remainethFor this task: this day you give usCertain proofs of pain or glory,Or you die: where we are standingLet your God display his wonders—And since we, perhaps, may meritNeither 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 HeavenMay 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, allowsEarth's great secrets to lie bare.Seek along this island groundFor 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 toldAll his faults, shall there behold
Where the soul is purged from sin.He shall see with mortal eyesHell itself—where those who dieIn 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 contritionEnters there to idly tryWhat the cave may be, doth goTo his death—he'll suffer woeWhile the Lord doth reign on high.Who this day shall set you freeFrom this poor world's weariness;
He shall grant to you, in pity,Bliss undreamed by mortal men—Making thee a denizenOf his own celestial city.He shall to the world proclaimHis 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, concealethMany mysteries of life and death,Not for him whose hardened bosom feelethNought of true repentance or true faith.But he who freely enters, who revealethAll his sins with penitential breath,Shall endure his Purgatory then,And return forgiven back again.
Later in the drama we find Ludovico desiring
"To enterInto Patrick's Purgatory;Humbly and devoutly keepingThus the promise that I gave him."
Again, he says:
"I have faith and firm relianceThat 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 spiritsI had known elsewhere, were gatheredInto 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 upliftedTowards the heavens, appeared imploringPity, and their sins lamenting.This, in truth, was Purgatory,Where the sins that are more venialAre 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 itLay a bridge, so slight and narrowThat 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 wretchesWho the passage were attemptingFall amid the sulphurous current,Where the snakes with teeth and talonsTore 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, herelates his meeting with "the resplendent, the most glorious, the greatPatrick, 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 concludedThe historic legend told usBy Dionysius, the great Carthusian,With Henricus Salteriensis,Cæsarius Heisterbachensis,Matthew Paris, and Ranulphus,Monbrisius, Marolicus Siculus,David Rothe, and the judiciousPrimate over all Hibernia,Bellarmino, Beda, Serpi,Friar Dymas, Jacob Sotin,Messingham, and in conclusionThe belief and pious feelingWhich 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."
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 liggeA 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 proweAnd 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 forlornOut of our baylie."—Minstrelsy of Scottish Border.
It will be of interest to quote the following passage from one ofShelley's best known works, "The Cenci," of which he himself says: "Anidea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime passage in 'ElPurgatorio 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."
[Footnote: The above lines apply with peculiar impressiveness to the funeral of General Grant, so lately occupying public attention.]
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?
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 ledThe holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.But now the whole Round Table is dissolvedWhich 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 doneMay He within Himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul.More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of.Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell!I am going a long wayWith 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 liesDeep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawnsAnd bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan.That, fluting a wild carol, ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs.Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLooked one black dot against the verge of dawn,And on the meer the wailing died away.
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.
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.
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."
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 theThrone Stands the great Angel of the Agony,The same who strengthened Him, what time He kneltLone in that garden shade, bedewed with blood.That Angel best can plead with Him for allTormented 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 myhold,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, clothesAnd circles round the Crucified, has seized,And scorch'd, and shrivell'd it; and now it liesPassive and still before the awful Throne.O happy, suffering soul! for it is safe,Consumed, yet quicken'd, by the glance of God.
SOUL. Take me away, and in the lowest deepThere let me be, And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,Told out for me.There, motionless and happy in my pain,Lone, not forlorn,—There will I sing my sad, perpetual strain,Until the morn.There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,Which ne'er can ceaseTo throb, and pine, and languish, till possess'dOf its Sole Peace.There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:—Take me away,That sooner I may rise, and go above,And see Him in the truth—of everlasting day.
ANGEL. Now let the golden prison ope its gates,Making sweet music, as each fold revolvesUpon its ready hinge.And ye, great powers,Angels of Purgatory, receive from meMy charge, a precious soul, until the day,When from all bond and forfeiture released,I shall reclaim it for the courts of light.
1. Lord, Thou hast been our refuge: in every generation;
2. Before the hills were born, and the world was: from age to age, Thou art God.
3. Bring us not, Lord, very low: for Thou hast said, Come back again, ye sons of Adam!
4. A thousand years before Thine eyes are but as yesterday: and as a watch of the night which is come and gone.
5. The grass springs up in the morning: at evening-tide it shrivels up and dies.
6. So we fall in Thine anger: and in Thy wrath are we troubled.
7. Thou hast set our sins in Thy sight: and our round of days in the light of Thy countenance.
8. Come back, O Lord! how long: and be entreated for Thy servants.
9. In Thy morning we shall be filled with Thy mercy: we shall rejoice and be in pleasure all our days.
10. We shall be glad according to the days of our humiliation: and the years in which we have seen evil.
11. Look, O Lord, upon Thy servants and upon Thy work: and direct their children.
12. And let the beauty of the 'Lord our God be upon us: and the work of our hands, establish Thou it.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son: and to the Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen.
ANGEL. Softly and gently, dearly-ransom'd soul, In my most loving arms I now enfold thee, And, o'er the penal waters, as they roll, I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee.
And carefully I dip thee in the lake, And thou, without a sob, or a resistance, Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take, Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance.
Angels, to whom the willing task is given, Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest; And Masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven, Shall aid thee at the throne of the Most High.
Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear, Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow; Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here, And I will come and wake thee on the morrow.
In a little picture in the Bologna Academy he is seen praying before a tomb, on which is inscribed "TRAJANO IMPERADOR;" beneath are two angels, raising the soul of Trafan out of flames. Such is the usual treatment of this curious and poetical legend, which is thus related in the "Legenda Aurea": "It happened on a time, as Trajan was hastening to battle at the head of his legions, that a poor widow flung herself in his path, and cried aloud for justice, and the emperor stayed to listen to her; and she demanded vengeance for the innocent blood of her son, killed by the son of the emperor. Trajan promised to do her justice when he returned from his expedition. 'But, sire', answered the widow, 'should you be killed in battle, who will then do me justice?' 'My successor,' replied Trajan. And she said, 'What will it signify to you, great emperor, that any other than yourself should do me justice? Is it not better that you should do this good action yourself than leave another to do it?' And Trajan alighted, and having examined into the affair, he gave up his own son to her in place of him she had lost, and bestowed on her likewise a rich dowry. Now, it came to pass that as Gregory was one day meditating in his daily walk, this action of the Emperor Trajan came into his mind, and he wept bitterly to think that a man so just should be condemned to eternal punishment. And entering a church, he prayed most fervently that the soul of the good emperor might be released from torment. And a voice said to him, 'I have granted thy prayer, and I have spared the soul of Trajan for thy sake; but because thou hast supplicated for one whom the justice of God had already condemned, thou shalt choose one of two things: either thou shalt endure for two days the fires of Purgatory, or thou shalt be sick and infirm for the remainder of thy life.' Gregory chose the latter, which sufficiently accounts for the grievous pains and infirmities to which this great and good man was subjected, even to the day of his death."
This story of Trajan was extremely popular in the Middle Ages; it isillustrative of the character of Gregory…. Dante twice alludes to it.He describes it as being one of the subjects sculptured on the walls ofPurgatory, and takes occasion to relate the whole story.
"There was storied on the rock Th'exalted glory of the Roman Prince, Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn This mighty conquest—Trajan the Emperor. A widow at his bridle stood attired In tears and mourning. Round about them troop'd Full throng of knights: and overhead in gold The eagles floated, struggling with the wind The wretch appear'd amid all these to say: 'Grant vengeance, sire! for woe, beshrew this heart, My son is murder'd!' He, replying, seem'd: 'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one Made hasty by her grief: 'O, sire, if thou Dost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is, May right thee.'—'What to thee is others' good, If thou neglect thine own?'—'Now comfort thee,' At length he answers: 'It beseemeth well My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence. So justice wills and pity bids me stay.'"—Purg. Canto X.
It was through the efficacy of St. Gregory's intercession that Dante afterwards finds Trajan in Paradise, seated between King David and King Hezekiah.—Purg. Canto XX.
There was a monk who, in defiance of his vow of poverty, secreted in his cell three pieces of gold. Gregory, on learning this, excommunicated him, and shortly afterwards the monk died. When Gregory heard that the monk had perished in his sin, without receiving absolution, he was filled with grief and horror, and he wrote upon a parchment a prayer and a form of absolution, and gave it to one of his deacons, desiring him to go to the grave of the deceased and read it there: on the following night the monk appeared in a vision, and revealed to him his release from torment.
This story is represented in the beautiful bas-relief in white marble in front of the altar of his chapel; it is the last compartment on the right.
In chapels dedicated to the Service of the Dead, St. Gregory is often represented in the attitude of supplication, while on one side, or in the background, angels are raising the tormented souls out of the flames.—Sacred and Legendary Art, Vol. I.
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 Maçonnais, having made war on some other neighboring lords, Geoffroid d'Iden, one of his vassals, 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 compassion 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 God 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 Mass 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 Masses 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 God 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 Mass; the, spirit disappeared, and thenceforward Humbert de Beaujeu went seriously to work to relieve his father and his vassal, after which he made the journey to Jerusalem to expiate his own sins.
Oh! turn to Jesus, Mother! turn,And call Him by His tenderest names;Pray for the Holy Souls that burnThis 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 painsFav'rites of Jesus, there they lie,Letting the fire wear out their stains,And worshipping God's purity.
Spouses of Christ they are, for HeWas wedded to them by His blood;And angels o'er their destinyIn wondering adoration brood.
They are the children of thy tears;Then hasten, Mother! to their aid;In pity think each hour appearsAn 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 yearnsO'er that abyss of sacred pain;And, as He looks, His bosom burnsWith Calvary's dear thirst again.
O Mary! let thy Son no moreHis lingering spouses thus expect;God's children to their God restore,And to the Spirit His elect.
Pray then, as thou hast ever prayed;Angels and Souls all look to thee;God waits thy prayers, for He hath madeThose prayers His law of charity.
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 throneWill 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 restWith the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."
Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowdBowed down their heads in tearsO'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud.Ah! the happy, happy years!They are dead and gone, and the Requiem MassWent 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 valeAh me! how soon we pass!In the vase of his coffin slept.—From In Memoriam.
[Footnote 1: Author of "Lives and Times of United Irishmen."]
'Tis not alone in "hallowed ground,"At every step we treadMidst tombs and sepulchres, are foundMemorials of the dead.
'Tis not in sacred shrines alone,Or trophies proudly spreadOn old cathedral walls are shownMemorials 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 traitsThe living looks recede,They fade away: so frail are theseMemorials of the dead.
On mural slabs, names loved of yoreCan now be scarcely read;A few brief years have left no moreMemorials of the dead.
Save those which pass from sire to son,Traditions that are bredIn the heart's core, and make their ownMemorials of the dead.
With the gray dawn's faintest break,Mother, faithfully I wake,Whispering softly for thy sakeRequiescat in pace!
When the sun's broad disk at heightFloods the busy world with light,Breathes my soul with sighs contrite,Requiescat in pace!
When the twilight shadows loneWrap 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!
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 passport I needed to the joys of eternity; that a life like mine would meet its immediate reward. And it did; but, O my God! 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 space. 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 mass, 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 space 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.
"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 God, I had knelt in the church and gone through the form; but here, where the height and depth and breadth of God'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 God 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 space—some choked with tears, some low with sadness, some glad with hope.
"Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord!"
"And let perpetual light shine 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 God. 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: "Forallthe 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 tome, to have those radiant eyes turned onme. 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, pass 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—God bless her tender heart!— whispered as she knelt: "O dearest Lord, I offer to Thee this Holy Communion for the soulthat has no one to pray for her."
And through the grayness rang at lastmyname, 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.
Founded on an old French Legend.
The fettered spirits linger In purgatorial pain,With penal fires effacingTheir last faint earthly stain,Which Life's imperfect sorrowHad tried to cleanse in vain.
Yet, on each feast of MaryTheir sorrow finds release,For the great Archangel MichaelComes down and bids it cease;And the name of these brief respitesIs called "Our Lady's Peace."
Yet once—so runs the legend—When the Archangel came,And all these holy spiritsRejoiced at Mary's name,One voice alone was wailing,Still wailing on the same.
And though a great Te DeumThe happy echoes woke, IThis one discordant wailingThrough 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 vainTo still my bitter anguish,Or quench my ceaseless pain.
"On earth a heart that loved meStill lives and mourns me there,And the shadow of his anguishIs more than I can bear;All the torment that I sufferIs the thought of his despair.
"The evening of my bridalDeath took my Life away;Not all Love's passionate pleadingCould gain an hour's delay.And he I left has sufferedA whole year since that day.
"If I could only see him—If I could only goAnd speak one word of comfortAnd solace—then, I knowHe would endure with patience,And strive against his woe."
Thus the Archangel answered:"Your time of pain is brief,And soon the peace of HeavenWill give you full relief;Yet if his earthly comfortSo much outweighs your grief,
"Then, through a special mercy,I offer you this grace—You may seek him who mourns youAnd look upon his face,And speak to him of Comfort,For one short minute's space.
"But when that time is ended,Return here and remainA thousand years in torment,A thousand years in pain;Thus dearly must you purchaseThe comfort he will gain."
The lime-trees shade at eveningIs spreading broad and wide;Beneath their fragrant archesPace slowly, side by side,In low and tender converse,A Bridegroom and his Bride.
The night is calm and stilly,No other sound is thereExcept their happy voices:—What is that cold bleak airThat passes through the lime-trees,And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?
While one low cry of anguish,Like the last dying wailOf some dumb, hunted creature,Is borne upon the gale—Why dogs the Bridegroom shudder
And turn so deathly pale?
Near Purgatory's entranceThe radiant Angels wait;It was the great St. MichaelWho closed that gloomy gate,When the poor wandering spiritCame back to meet her fate.
"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel:"Heaven's joy is deep and vast;Pass on, pass on, poor spirit,For Heaven is yours at last;In that one minute's anguish,Your thousand years have passed."
ST. AUGUSTINE reckoned among his friends the physician Genérade, 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 God 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 Genérade.
"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?"
"It was in a dream."
"Where is your body now?"
"In my bed."
"Knowest thou well that thou now seest nothing with the eyes of the body?"
"I know it."
"With what eyes, then, dost thou see me?"
As the physician hesitated, and could not answer, the young man said to him:
"Even as thou seest and hearest me, now that thine eyes are closed and thy senses benumbed, so, after thy death, thou shalt live, thou shalt see, thou shalt hear—but with the organs of the soul. Doubt, then, no more!"
WE are about to treat of facts concerning which our fathers never had any hesitation, because they had faith. Nowadays, the truths which are above the material sight have been so roughly handled that they are much diminished for us. And if the goodness of God had not allowed some rays of the mysteries which He reserves for Himself to escape, if some gleams of magnetism and the world of spirits occupying the air around us had not a little embarrassed those of our literati who make a merit of not believing, we would hardly dare, in spite of the grave authorities on which they rest, to represent here some apparitions of souls departed from this world. We shall venture to do so, nevertheless.
One day, when St. Thomas Aquinas was praying in the Church of the Friars, Preachers, at Naples, the pious friar Romanus, whom he had left in Paris, where he replaced him in the chair of Theology, suddenly appeared beside him. Thomas, seeing him, said:
"I am glad of thine arrival. But how long hast thou been here?"
Romanus answered: "I am now out of this world. Nevertheless, I am permitted to come to thee, because of thy merit."
The Saint, alarmed at this reply, after a moment's recollection, said to the apparition: "I adjure thee, by Our Lord Jesus Christ, tell me simply if my works are pleasing to God!"
Romanus replied: "Persevere in the way in which thou art, and believe that what thou doest is agreeable unto God."
Thomas then asked him in what state he found himself.
"I enjoy eternal life," answered Romanus. "Nevertheless, for having carelessly executed one clause of a will which the Bishop of Paris gave me in charge, I underwent for fifteen days the pains of Purgatory."
St. Thomas again said: "You remind me that we often discussed the question whether the knowledge acquired in this life remain in the soul after death. I pray you give me the solution thereof."
Romanus made answer: "Ask me not that. As for me, I am content with seeing my God."
"Seest thou him face to face?" went on Thomas.
"Just as we have been taught," replied Romanus, "and as I see thee."
With these words he left St. Thomas greatly consoled.
"In Purgatory, dear," I said to-day, Unto my pet, "the fire burns and burns, Until each ugly stain is burned away—And then an Angel turns A great, bright key, and forth the glad soul springs Into the presence of the King of kings."
"But in that other prison?" "Sweetest love! The same fierce fire burns and burns, but thence None e'er escapes." The blue eyes, raised above, Were fair with innocence. "Poor burning souls!" she whispered low, "ah me! No Angel ever comes to turntheirkey!"
"ULULU! ululu! wail for the dead,Green grow the grass ofFingal on his head;And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing,And shamrocks grow thick on the martyr for Erin.Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dewOn the feet and the head of the martyred and true."
For a while they treadIn silence dread—Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,And again the wail comes wild and loud.
"Ululu! ululu! kind was his heart!Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part.The faithful and pious, thePriest of the Lord,His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.
"By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling,To God with the raised cross appealing—He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray,And the sins of the dying seem passing away.
"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary,Our constant consoler, he never grew weary;But he's gone to his rest,And he's now with the blest,Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest—Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead!Ululu! ululu! here is his bed."
Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,Deep was the silence, and every head bare;The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.Kneeling and motionless.—"Dust unto dust."
"He died as becometh the faithful and just—Placing in God his reliance and trust;"
Kneeling and motionless—"Ashes to ashes"—Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they—Stern and standing—oh! look on them now!Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow.
Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made,The souls to Thee so dear,In prison, for the debt unpaidOf sins committed here.
Those holy souls, they suffer on,
Resign'd in heart and will,Until Thy high behest is done,And justice has its fill.For daily falls, for pardon'd crime,They joy to undergoThe shadow of Thy cross sublime,The remnant of Thy woe.
Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made,The souls to Thee so dear,In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.
Oh! by their patience of delay,Their hope amid their pain,Their sacred zeal to burn awayDisfigurement and stain;Oh! by their fire of love, not lessIn keenness than the flame,Oh! by their very helplessness,Oh! by Thy own great Name,
Good Jesu, help! sweet Jesu, aidThe souls to Thee most dear,In prison, for the debt unpaidOf sins committed here.
The Abbé de Saint Pierre, says Collin de Plancy, has given a long account, in his works, of a singular occurrence which took place in 1697, and which we are inclined to relate here:
In 1695, a student named Bezuel, then about fifteen years old, contracted a friendship with two other youths, students like himself, and sons of an attorney of Caen, named D'Abaquène. The elder was, like Bezuel, fifteen; his brother, eighteen months younger. The latter was named Desfontaines. The paternal name was then given only to the eldest; the names of those who came after were formed by means of some vague properties….
As the young Desfontaines' character was more in unison with Bezuel's than that of his elder brother, these two students became strongly attached to each other.
One day during the following year, 1696, they were reading together a certain history of two friends like themselves, who had promised each other, with some solemnity, that he of the two who died first would come back to give the survivor some account of his state. The historian added that the dead one really did come back, and that he told his friend many wonderful things. Young Desfontaines, struck by this narrative, which he did not doubt, proposed to Bezuel that they should make such a promise one to the other. Bezuel was at first afraid of such an engagement. But several months after, in the first days of June, 1697, as his friend was going to set out for Caen, he agreed to his proposal.
Desfontaines then drew from his pocket two papers in which he had written the double agreement. Each of these papers expressed the formal promise on the part of him who should die first to come and make his fate known to the surviving friend. He had signed with his blood the one that Bezuel was to keep. Bezuel, hesitating no longer, pricked his hand, and likewise signed with his blood the other document, which he gave to Desfontaines.
The latter, delighted to have the promise, set out with his brother. Bezuel received some days after a letter, in which his friend informed him that he had reached his home in safety, and was very well. The correspondence between them was to continue. But it stopped very soon, and Bezuel was uneasy.
It happened that on the 31st of July, 1697, being about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, in a meadow where his companions were amusing themselves with various games, he felt himself suddenly stunned and taken with a sort of faintness, which lasted for some minutes. Next day, at the same hour, he felt the same symptoms, and again on the day after. But then— it was Friday, the 2d of August—he saw advancing towards him his friend Desfontaines, who made a sign for him to come to him. Being in a sitting posture and under the influence of his swoon, he made another sign to the apparition, moving on his seat to make place for him.