The cathedral at Burgos, with the exception of Toledo, is the most

beautiful Gothic building in Spain. It was begun by Bishop Maurice, an

Englishman, and a great friend of St. Ferdinand's, in the year 1220. The

spires, with their lacework carving; the doorways, so rich in sculpture;

the rose-windows, with their exquisite tracery; the beautiful

lantern-shaped clerestory; the curious double staircase of Diego de Siloe;

the wonderful "retablos" behind the altars, of the finest wood-carving; the

magnificent marble and alabaster monuments in the side chapels, vying with

one another in beauty and richness of detail; the wonderful wood-carving of

the stalls in the choir; the bas reliefs carved in every portion of the

stone; in fact, every detail of this glorious building is equally perfect;

and even in Southern Spain, that paradise for lovers of cathedrals, can

scarcely be surpassed. The finest of the monuments are those of the Velasco

family, the hereditary high-constable of Castile. They are of Carrara

marble, resting upon blocks of jasper: at the feet of the lady lies a

little dog, as the emblem of "Fidelity." Over the doorway of this chapel,

leading to a tiny sacristy, are carved the arms of Jerusalem. In the large

sacristy is a Magdalen, by Leonardo da Vinci; and some exquisite church

plate, in gold and enamel, especially a chalice, a processional cross, a

pax, etc. In the first chapel on the right, as you enter by the west door,

is a very curious figure of Christ, brought from the Holy Land, with real

hair and skin; but painful in the extreme, and almost grotesque from the

manner in which it has been dressed. This remark, however, applies to

almost all the images of Christ and of the Blessed Virgin throughout Spain,

which are rendered both sad and ludicrous to English eyes from the

petticoats and finery with which modern devotion has disfigured them.

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This crucifix, however, is greatly venerated by the people, who call it

"The Christ of Burgos," and on Sundays or holidays there is no possibility

of getting near it, on account of the crowd. In the Chapel of the

Visitation are three more beautiful monuments, and a very fine picture of

the Virgin and Child, by Sebastian del Piombo. But it was impossible to

take in every portion of this cathedral at once; and so our travellers went

on to the cloisters, passing through a beautiful pointed doorway, richly

carved, which leads to the chapter-house, now a receptacle for lumber, but

containing the chest of the Cid, regarding which the old chronicle says:

"He filled it with sand, and then, telling the Jews it contained gold,

raised money on security." In justice to the hero, however, we are bound to

add, that when the necessities of the war were over, he repaid both

principal and interest. Leaving, at last, the cloisters and cathedral, and

taking leave of the kind archbishop, our party drove to the Town Hall,

where, in a walnut-wood urn, are kept the bones of the Cid, which were

removed twenty years ago from their original resting-place at Cardena. The

sight of them strengthened their resolve to make a pilgrimage to his real

tomb, which is in a Benedictine convent about eight miles from the town.

Starting, therefore, in two primitive little carriages, guiltless of

springs, they crossed the river and wound up a steep hill till they came in

sight of _Miraflores_, the great Carthusian convent, which, seen from

a distance, strongly resembles Eton College Chapel. It was built by John

II. for a royal burial-place, and was finished by Isabella of Castile.

Arriving at the monastery, from whence the monks have been expelled, and

which is now tenanted by only one or two lay brothers of the order, they

passed through a long cloister, shaded by fine cypresses, into the church,

in the chancel of which is that which may really be called one of the seven

wonders of the world. This is the alabaster sepulcher of John II. and his

wife, the father and mother of Queen Isabella, with their son, the Infante

Alonso, who died young. In richness of detail, delicacy of carving, and

beauty of execution, the work of these monuments is perfectly

unrivalled--the very material seems to be changed into Mechlin lace. The

artist was Maestro Gil, the father of the famous Diego de Siloe, who carved

the staircase in the cathedral. He finished it in 1493; and one does not

wonder at Philip II.'s exclamation when he saw it: "_We_ have done

nothing at the Escurial." In the sacristy is a wonderful statue of St.

Bruno, carved in wood, and so beautiful and life-like in expression that it

was difficult to look at anything else.

Leaving Miraflores, our travellers broke tenderly to their coachmen their

wish to go on to Cardena. One of them utterly refused, saying the road was

impassable; the other, _moyennant_ an extra gratuity, undertook to try

it, but stipulated that the gentlemen should walk, and the ladies do the

same, if necessary. Winding round the convent garden walls, and then across

a bleak wild moor, they started, and soon found themselves involved in a

succession of ruts and sloughs of despond which more than justified the

hesitation of their driver. On the coach-box was an imp of a boy, whose

delights consisted in quickening the fears of the most timid among the

ladies by invariably making the horses gallop at the most difficult and

precipitous parts of the road, and then turning round and grinning at the

fright he had given them. It is needless to say that the carriage was not

his property. At last, the horses came to a stand-still; they could go no

further, and the rest of the way had to be done on foot. But our travellers

were not to be pitied; for the day was lovely, and the path across the moor

was studded with flowers. At last, on climbing over a steep hill which had

intercepted their view, they came on a lovely panorama, with a background

of blue mountains tipped with snow; a wooded glen, in which the brown

convent nestled, and a wild moor foreground, across which long strings of

mules with gay trappings, driven by peasants in Spanish costumes, exactly

as represented in Ansdell's paintings, were wending their way toward the

city.

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Tired as some of our party were, this glorious view seemed to give them

fresh strength, and they rapidly descended the hill by the hollow path

leading to the convent. Over the great entrance is a statue of the Cid,

mounted on his favorite horse, "Babicca," who bore him to his last

resting-place, and was afterward buried beside the master he loved so well.

But the grand old building seemed utterly deserted, and a big mastiff,

fastened by an ominously slight chain to the doorway, appeared determined

to defy their attempts to enter. At last, one of them, more courageous than

the rest, tempting the Cerberus with the remains of her luncheon, got past

him, and wandered through the cloister, up a fine staircase to a spacious

corridor, in hopes of finding a guide to show them the way to the chapel,

where lay the object of their expedition, that is, the monument of the Cid.

But she was only answered by the echo of her own footsteps. The cells were

empty; the once beautiful library gutted and destroyed; the refectory had

nothing in it but bare walls--the whole place was like a city of the dead.

At last, she discovered a staircase lending down to a cloister on the side

opposite the great entrance, and there a low-arched door, which she found

ajar, admitted her into the deserted church. The tomb of the Cid has been

removed from the high altar to a side Chapel; and there is interred

likewise, his faithful and devoted wife Ximena, and their two daughters. On

his shield is emblazoned the "tizona," or sparkling brand, which the

legends affirm he always carried in his hand, and with which he struck

terror into the hearts of the infidels. This church and convent, built for

the Benedictines by the Princess Sancho, in memory of her son Theodoric,

who was killed out hunting, was sacked by the Moors in the ninth century,

when 200 of the monks were murdered. A tablet in the south transept still

remains, recording the massacre; but the monument of Theodoric has been

mutilated and destroyed. The Christian spoilers have done their work more

effectually than the Moslem! Sorrowfully our travellers left this beautiful

spot, thinking bitterly on the so-called age of progress which had left the

abode of so much learning and piety to the owls and the bats; and partly

walking, partly driving, returned without accident to the city. One more

memento of the Cid at Burgos deserves mention. It is the lock on which he

compelled the king, Alonso VI., to swear that he had had no part in his

brother Sancho's assassination at Zamora. All who wished to confirm their

word with a solemn oath used to touch it, till the practice was abolished

by Isabella, and the lock itself hung up in the old church of St. Gadea, on

the way to the castle hill, where it still rests. This is the origin of the

peasant custom of closing the hand and raising the thumb, which they kiss

in token of asseveration; and in like manner we have the old Highland

saying: "There's my thumb. I'll not betray you."

Another charming expedition was made on the following day to Las Huelgas,

the famous Cistercian nunnery, built in some gardens outside the town by

Alonso VIII. and his wife Leonora, daughter of our King Henry II.

When one of the ladies had asked the cardinal for a note of introduction to

the abbess, be had replied laughing: "I am afraid it would not be of much

use to you. She certainly is not under my jurisdiction, and I am not sure

whether she does not think I am under hers!" No lady abbess certainly ever

had more extraordinary privileges. She is a Princess Palatine--styled "By

the grace of God"--and has feudal power over all the lands and villages

round. She appoints her own priests and confessors, and has a hospital

about a mile from the convent, nursed by the sisters, and entirely under

her control.

{166}

After some little delay at the porter's lodge, owing to their having come

at the inconvenient hour of dinner, our party were ushered into the parlor,

and there, behind a grille, saw a beautiful old lady, dressed in wimple and

coif, exactly like a picture in the time of Chaucer. This was the

redoubtable lady abbess. There are twenty-seven choir nuns and twenty-five

lay sisters in the convent, and they follow the rule of St. Bernard. The

abbess first showed them the Moorish standard, beautifully embroidered,

taken at the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa, in 1180. A curious old fresco

representing this battle remains over the arch of the church. She then took

them to the choir, which is very rich in carving, and contains the tombs of

the founders, Alonso and Leonora, and also of a number of infantas, whose

royal bodies are placed in richly carved Gothic sepulchres, resting on

lions, on each side of the choir. In the church is a curious hammered iron

gilt pulpit, in which St. Vincent de Ferrer preached. Here St. Ferdinand

and Alonso XI. knighted themselves, and here our own king, Edward I.,

received the honor of knighthood at the hands of Alonso el Sabio.

The church is a curious jumble of different dates of architecture; but

there is a beautiful tower and doorway, some very interesting old

monuments, and a fine double rose-window. The cloisters are very beautiful,

with round-beaded arches, grouped pillars, and Norman capitals. The lady

abbess then ordered one of the priests of the convent to take her English

visitors to see their hospital, called "Del Rey," the walk to which from

the convent is through pleasant fields like English meadows. It is

admirably managed and nursed by the nuns. Each patient has a bed in a

recess, which makes, as it were, a little private room for each, and this

is lined with "azulejos," or colored tiles, up to a certain height, giving

that clean bright look which distinguishes the Spanish hospitals from all

others. At the end of each ward was a little altar, where mass is daily

performed for the sick. There are fifty men and fifty women, and the

surgical department was carefully supplied with all the best and newest

instruments, which the surgeon was eager to show off to the doctor, the

only one of the party worthy of the privilege. The wards opened into a

"patio," or court, with seats and bright flowers, where the patients who

could leave their beds were sitting out and sunning themselves. Altogether,

it is a noble institution; and one must hope that the ruthless hand of

government will not destroy it in common with the other charitable

foundations of Spain.

Madrid.

But the cold winds blew sharply, and our travellers resolved to hurry

south, and reserve the further treasures of Burgos for inspection on their

return. The night train conveyed them safely to Madrid, where they found a

most comfortable hotel in the "Ville de Paris," lately opened by an

enterprising Frenchman, in the "Puelta del Sol;" and received the kindest

of welcomes from the English minister, the Count T. D., and other old

friends. It was Sunday morning, and the first object was to find a church

near at hand. These are not wanting in Madrid, but all are modern, and few

in good taste: the nicest and best served is undoubtedly that of "St. Louis

des Français," though the approach to it through the crowded market is

rather disagreeable early in the morning. The witty writer of "Les Lettres

d'Espagne" says truly: "Madrid _ne me dit rien:_ c'est moderne,

aligné, propre et civilisé." As for the climate, it is detestable: bitterly

cold in winter, the east wind searching out every rheumatic joint in one's

frame, and pitilessly driving round the corners of every street; burning

hot in summer, with a glare and dust which nearly equal that of Cairo in a

simoom.

{167}

The Gallery, however, compensates for all. Our travellers had spent months

at Florence, at Rome, at Dresden, and fancied that nothing could come up to

the Pitti, the Uffizi, or the Vatican--that no picture could equal the "San

Sisto;" but they found they had yet much to learn. No one who has not been

in Spain can so much as imagine what Murillo is. In England he is looked

upon as the clever painter of picturesque brown beggar-boys: there is not

one of these subjects to be found in Spain, from St. Sebastian to

Gibraltar! At Madrid, at Cadiz, but especially at Seville, one learns to

know him as he is--that is, the great mystical religious painter of the

seventeenth century, embodying in his wonderful conceptions all that is

most sublime and ecstatic in devotion, and in the representation of divine

love. The English minister, speaking of this one day to a lady of the

party, explained it very simply, by saying that the English generally only

carried off those of his works in which the Catholic feeling was not so

strongly displayed. It would be hopeless to attempt to describe all his

pictures in the Madrid Gallery. The Saviour and St. John, as boys, drinking

out of a shell, is perhaps the most delicate and exquisite in coloring and

expression; but the "Conception" surpasses all. No one should compare it

with the Louvre pictures of the same subject. There is a refinement, a

tenderness, and a beauty in the Madrid "Conception" entirely wanting in the

one stolen by the French. Then there is Velasquez, with his inimitable

portraits; full of droll originality, as the "AEsop;" or of deep historical

interest, as his "Philip IV.;" or of sublime piety, as in his

"Crucifixion," with the hair falling over one side of the Saviour's face,

which the pierced and fastened hands cannot push aside: each and all are

priceless treasures, and there must be sixty or seventy in that one long

room. Ford says that "Velasquez is the Homer of the Spanish school, of

which Murillo is the Virgil." Then there are Riberas, and Zurbarans, Divino

Morales, Juan Joanes, Alonso Caño, and half-a-dozen other artists, whose

very names are scarcely known out of Spain, and all of whose works are

impregnated with that mystic, devotional self-sacrificing spirit which is

the essence of Catholicism. The Italian school is equally magnificently

represented. There are exquisite Raphaels, one especially, "La Perla," once

belonging to our Charles I., and sold by the Puritans to the Spanish king;

the "Spasimo," the "Vergin del Pesce," etc.; beautiful Titians, not only

portraits, but one, a "Magdalen," which is unknown to us by engravings or

photographs in England, where, in a green robe, she is flying from the

assaults of the devil, represented by a monstrous dragon, and in which the

drawing is as wonderful as the coloring; beautiful G. Bellinis, and Luinis,

and Andrea del Sartos (especially one of his wife), and Paul Veronese, and

others of the Venetian and Milanese schools. In a lower room there are

Dutch and Flemish chefs-d'oeuvre without end: Rubens, and Vandyke, and

Teniers, and Breughel, and Holbein, and the rest. It is a gallery

bewildering from the number of its pictures, but with the rare merit of

almost all being good; and they are so arranged that the visitor can see

them with perfect comfort at any hour of the day. In the ante-room to the

long gallery are some pictures of the present century, but none are worth

looking at save Goya's pictures of the wholesale massacre of the Spanish

prisoners by the French, which are not likely to soften the public feeling

of bitterness and hostility toward that nation.

There is nothing very good in sculpture, only two of the antiques being

worth looking at; but there is a fine statue of Charles V., and a

wonderfully beautiful St. John of God, carrying a sick man out of the

burning hospital on his back, which is modern, but in admirable taste.

{168}

Neglected, in some side cupboards, and several of them broken and covered

with dust and dirt, are some exquisite tazzas of Benvenuto Cellini,

D'Arphes, and Beceriles, in lapis, jade, agate, and enamel, finer than any

to be seen even in the Grüne Gewölbe of Dresden. There is a gold mermaid,

studded with rubies, and with an emerald tail, and a cup with an enamelled

jewelled border and stand, which are perfectly unrivalled in beauty of

workmanship. Then, in addition to this matchless gallery, Madrid has its

"Academia," containing three of Murillo's most magnificent conceptions. One

is "St. Elizabeth of Hungary," washing the wounds of the sick, her fair

young face and delicate white hands forming a beautiful contrast with the

shrivelled brown old woman in the foreground. The expression of the saint's

countenance is that of one absorbed in her work and yet looking beyond it.

[Footnote 41] The other is the "Dream," in which the Blessed Virgin appears

to the founder of the church of St. Maria della Neve (afterward called St.

Maria Maggiore) and his wife, and suggests to them the building of a church

on a spot at Rome, which would be indicated to them by a fall of snow,

though it was then in the month of August. In the third picture the founder

and his wife are kneeling at the feet of the Pope, telling him of their

vision, and imploring his benediction on their work. These two famous

pictures were taken by Soult from Seville, and are of a lunette shape,

being made to fit the original niche for which they were painted: both are

unequalled for beauty of color and design, and have recently been

magnificently engraved, by order of the government.

[Footnote 41: This picture was stolen from the Carldad, at Seville, by

the French, and afterward sent back to Madrid, where it still remains.]

But apart from its galleries, Madrid is a disappointment; there is no

antiquity or interest attached to any of its churches or public buildings.

The daily afternoon diversion is the drive on the Prado; amusing from the

crowd, perhaps, but where, with the exception of the nurses, all national

costume has disappeared. There are scarcely any mantillas; but Faubourg

St.-Germain bonnets, in badly assorted colors, and horrible and exaggerated

crinolines, replacing the soft, black, flowing dresses of the south. It is,

in fact, a bad _réchauffé_ of the Bois de Boulogne. The queen, in a

carriage drawn by six or eight mules, surrounded by her escort, and

announced by trumpeters, and the infantas, following in similar carriages,

form the only "event" of the afternoon. Poor lady! how heartily sick she

must be of this promenade! She is far more pleasing-looking than her

pictures give her credit for, and has a frank kind manner which is an

indication of her good and simple nature. Her children are most carefully

brought up, and very well educated by the charming English authoress,

Madame Calderon de la Barca, well known by her interesting work on Mexico.

On Saturdays, the queen and the royal family always drive to Atocha, a

church at the extreme end of the Prado, in vile taste, but containing the

famous image of the Virgin, the patroness of Spain, to whom all the

royalties are specially devoted. It is a black image, but almost invisible

from the gorgeous jewels and dresses with which it is adorned.

One of the shows of Madrid is the royal stables, which are well worth a

visit. There are upward of two hundred and fifty horses, and two hundred

fine mules; the backs of the latter are invariably shaved down to a certain

point, which gives them an uncomfortable appearance to English eyes, but is

the custom throughout Spain. One lady writer asserts that "it is more

modest!" There is a charming little stud belonging to the prince imperial,

which includes two tiny mules not bigger than dogs, but in perfect

proportions, about the size required to drag a perambulator. Some of the

horses are English and thoroughbred, but a good many are of the

heavy-crested Velasquez type. The carriages are of every date, and very

curious. Among them is one in which Philip I. (le Bel) was said to have

been poisoned, and in which his wife, Jeanne la Folle, still insisted on

dragging him out, believing he was only asleep.

{169}

More interesting to some of our party than horses and stables were the

charitable institutions in Madrid, which are admirable and very numerous.

It was on the 12th of November, 1856, that the Mère Dévos, afterward Mère

Générale of the order of St. Vincent de Paul, started with four or five of

her sisters of charity to establish their first house in Madrid. They had

many hardships and difficulties to encounter, but loving perseverance

conquered them all. The sisters now number between forty and fifty,

distributed in three houses in different parts of the city, with more than

one thousand children in their schools and orphanages, the whole being

under the superintendence of the Soeur Gottofrey, the able and charming

French "provincial" of Spain. The queen takes a lively interest in their

success, and most of the ladies of her court are more or less affiliated to

them. There are branch houses of these French sisters at Malaga, Granada,

Barcelona, and other towns; and they are now beginning to undertake

district visiting, as well as the care of the sick and the education of

children--a proceeding which they were obliged to adopt with caution, owing

to the strong prejudice felt in Spain toward any religious order's being

seen outside their "clausura," and also toward their dress, the white

cornette, which, to eyes unaccustomed to anything but black veils, appeared

outrageous and unsuitable. The Spanish sisters of charity, though

affiliated to them, following the rule of St. Vincent, and acknowledging N.

T. H. Père Étienne as their superior, still refuse to wear the cornette,

and substitute a simple white cap and black veil. These Spanish sisters

have the charge of the magnificent Foundling Hospital, which receives

upward or one thousand children; of the hospital called Las Recogidas, for

penitence; of the General Hospital, where the sick are admirably cared for

and to which is attached a wing for patients of an upper class, who pay a

small sum weekly, and have all the advantages of the clever surgery and

careful nursing of the hospital (an arrangement sadly needed in our English

hospitals); of the Hospicio de St. Maria del Cármen, founded by private

charity, for the old and incurables; of the infant school, or "salle

d'asile," where the children are fed as well as taught; and of the Albergo

dei Poveri, equivalent to what we should call a workhouse in England, but

which we cannot desecrate by such a name when speaking of an establishment

conducted on the highest and noblest rules of Christian charity, and where

the orphans find not only loving care and tender watchfulness, but

admirable industrial training, fitting them to fill worthily any

employments to which their natural inclination may lead them. The Sacré

Coeur have a large establishment for the education of the upper classes at

Chaumartin de la Rosa, a suburb of Madrid, about four miles from the town.

It was founded by the Marquesa de Villa Nueva, a most saint-like person,

whose house adjoins, and in fact forms part of the convent--her bedroom

leading into a tribune overlooking the chapel and the blessed sacrament.

The view from the large garden, with the mountains on the one hand, and the

stone pine woods on the other, is very pretty, and unlike anything else in

the neighborhood of Madrid. The superior, a charming person, showed the

ladies all over the house, which is large, commodious, and airy, and in

which they have already upward of eighty pupils. They have a very pretty

chapel, and in the parlor a very beautiful picture of St. Elizabeth, by a

modern artist.

One more "lion" was visited before leaving Madrid, and that was the armory,

which is indeed well worth a long and careful examination. The objects it

contains are all of deep historical interest.

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There is a collar-piece belonging to Philip II., with scenes from the

battle of St. Quentin exquisitely carved; a helmet taken from the

unfortunate Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada; beautiful Moorish

arms and Turkish banners taken at the battle of Lepanto, in old Damascus

inlaid-work; the swords of Boabdil, and of Ferdinand and Isabella; the

armor of the Cid, of Christopher Columbus, of Charles V., of St. Ferdinand,

and of Philip II.; the carriage of Charles V., looking like a large

bassinet; exquisite shields, rapiers, swords, and helmets; some very

curious gold ornaments, votive crowns, and crosses of the seventh century;

and heaps of other treasures too numerous to be here detailed. But our

travellers were fairly exhausted by their previous sight-seeing, and gladly

reserved their examination of the rest to a future day. At all times, a

return to a place is more interesting than a first visit; for in the latter

one is oppressed by the feeling of the quantity to be seen and the short

time there is to see it in, and so the intense anxiety and fatigue destroy

half one's enjoyment of the objects themselves. That evening they were to

leave the biting east winds of Madrid for the more genial climate of sunny

Malaga; and so, having made sundry very necessary purchases, including

mantillas and chocolate, and having eaten what turned out to be their last

good dinner for a very long time, they started off by an eight o'clock

train for Cordova, which was to be their halting place midway. On reaching

Alcazar, about one o'clock in the morning, they had to change trains, as

the one in which they were branched off to Valencia; and for two hours they

were kept waiting for the Cordova train. Oh! the misery of those wayside

stations in Spain! One long low room filled with smokers and passengers of

every class, struggling for chocolate, served in dirty cups by uncivil

waiters, with insufficient seats and scant courtesy: no wonder that the

Spaniards consider our waiting-rooms real palaces. You have no alternative

in the winter season but to endure this foetid, stifling atmosphere, and be

blinded with smoke, or else to freeze and shiver outside, where there are

no benches at all, and your only hope is to get a corner of a wall against

which you can lean and be sheltered from the bitter wind. The arrival of

the up train brought, therefore, unmixed joy to our party, who managed to

secure a compartment to themselves without any smokers (a rare privilege in

Spain), and thus got some sleep for a few hours. At six o'clock the train

stopped, the railroad went no further; so the passengers turned out

somewhat ruefully, in the cold, and gazed with dismay at the lumbering

dirty diligences, looking as if they had come out of the Ark, which were

drawn up, all in a row, at the station door, with ten, twelve, or fourteen

mules harnessed to each, and by which they and their luggage were to be

conveyed for the next eight hours. The station master was a Frenchman, and

with great civility, during the lading of the diligences, gave up to the

ladies his own tiny bedroom, and some fresh water to wash themselves a

little, and make themselves comfortable after their long night journey, for

there was no pretence of a waiting-room at this station.

Reader, did you ever go in a Spanish diligence? It was the first experience

of most of our party of this means of locomotion, and at first seemed

simply impossible. The excessive lowness of the carriages, the way in which

the unhappy passengers are jammed in, either into the _coupé_ in

front, or into the square box behind, unable to move or sit upright in

either; while the mules plunge and start off in every direction but the

right one, their drivers every instant jumping down and running by the side

of the poor beasts, which they flog unmercifully, vociferating in every

key; and that, not at first starting, but all the way, up hill and down

dale, with an energy which is as inexhaustible as it is despairing, till

either a pole cracks or a trace breaks, or some accident happens to a

wheel, and the whole lumbering concern stops with a jerk and a lurch which

threaten to roll everything and everybody into the gorge below.

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Each diligence is accompanied by a "mayoral," or conductor, who has charge

of the whole equipage, and is a very important personage. This functionary

is generally gorgeously dressed, with embroidered jacket, scarlet sash

round the waist, gaiters with silver buttons and hanging leather strips,

and round his head a gay-colored handkerchief and a round black felt hat

with broad brim and feather, or else of the kind denominated "pork pie" in

England; he is here, there, and everywhere during the journey, arranging

the places of the passengers, the stations for halts, and the like. Besides

this dignitary, there is the "moto" or driver, whose business is to be

perpetually jumping down and flogging the far-off mules into a trot, which

he did with such cruelly that our travellers often hoped he would himself

get into trouble in jumping up again, which, unfortunately, he was always

too expert to do. Every mule has its name, and answers to it. They are

harnessed two abreast, a small boy riding on the leaders; and it is on his

presence of mind and skill that the guidance and safety of the whole team

depend. On this occasion, the "mayoral" and "moto" leant with their backs

against what was left of the windows of the _coupé_, which they

instantly smashed, the cold wind rushed in, and the passengers were

alternately splashed from head to foot with the mud cast up in their faces

by the mules' heels, or choked and blinded with dust. For neither

misfortune is there either redress or sympathy. The lower panels of the

floor and doors have holes cut in them to let out the water and mud; but

the same agreeable arrangement, in winter, lets in a wind which threatens

to freeze off your feet as you sit. A small boy, who, it is to be supposed,

was learning his trade, held on by his eyelids to a ledge below, and was

perpetually assisting in screaming and flogging. A struggle at some kind of

vain resistance, and then a sullen despair and a final making up one's mind

that, after all, it can't last forever, are the phases through which the

unhappy travellers pass during these agreeable diligence journeys. It was

some little time before our party could get sufficiently reconciled to

their misery to enjoy the scenery. But when they could look about them,

they found themselves passing through a beautiful gorge, and up a zigzag

road, like the lower spurs of an Alpine pass, over the Sierra Morena. Then

began the descent, during which some of the ladies held their breath,

expecting to be dashed over the parapet at each sharp turn in the road; the

pace of the mules was never relaxed, and the unwieldy top-heavy mass

oscillated over the precipice below in a decidedly unpleasant manner. Then

they came into a fertile region of olives and aloes, and so on by divers

villages and through roads which the late rains had made almost impassable,

and in passing over which every bone in their bodies seemed dislocated in

their springless vehicle, till, at two o'clock in the afternoon, they

reached the station, where, to their intense relief, they again came upon a

railroad. Hastily swallowing some doubtful chocolate, they established

themselves once more comfortably in the railway carriage; but after being

in the enjoyment of this luxury for half an hour, the train came, all of a

sudden, to a stand-still; and the doors being opened, they were politely

told that they must _walk_, as a landslip had destroyed the line for

some distance. Coming at last to a picturesque town with a fine bridge over

the Guadalquiver, they were allowed once more to take their seats in the

carriages, and finally arrived at Cordova at eight o'clock at night, after

twenty-four hours of travelling, alternating from intense cold to intense

heat, very tired indeed, horribly dusty and dirty, and without having had

any church all day.

To be continued

--------

{172}

From All the Year Round.

Looking Down The Road.

In the early spring-time

My long watch began;

Through the daisied meadows

Merry children ran;

Happy lovers wandered

Through the forest deep,

Seeking mossy corners

Where the violets sleep.

I in one small chamber

Patiently abode--

At my garret window

Looking down the road.

Watching, watching, watching,

For what came not back!

Summer marked in flowers

All her sunny track,

Hid the dim blue distance

With her robe of green,

Bathed the nearer meadows

In a golden sheen.

Full the fierce sure arrows

Glanced and gleamed and glowed

On my garret window

Looking down the road.

Watching, watching, watching,

Oh! the pain of hope!

Autumn's shadows lengthened

On the breezy slope;

Groups of tired reapers

Led the loaded wains

From the golden meadows,

Through the dusky lanes;

Home-returning footsteps

O'er the pathway strode--

Not the one I looked for.

Coming down the road.

{173}

Winter stripped the branches

Of the roadside tree:

But the frosty hours

Brought no change for me--

Save that I could better,

Through the branches brown.

See the tired travellers

Coming from the town.

Pitiless December

Rained and hailed and snowed.

On my garret window

Looking down the road.

At the last I saw it

(Not the form I sought),

Something brighter, purer,

Blessed my sleeping thought.

'Twas a white-robed angel--

At his steadfast eyes

Paled the wild-fire brightness

Of old memories.

Nearer drew the vision,

While with bated breath

Some one seemed to whisper,

The Deliverer, "Death."

Then my dreaming spirit,

Eased of half its load,

Saw the white wings lessen

Down the dusty road.

God has soothed my sorrow,

He has purged my sin;

Earthly hopes have perished--

Heavenly rest I win.

Dull and dead endurance

Is no portion here;

I am strong to labor,

And my rest is near.

Lifting my dull glances

From the fields below,

So the light of heaven

Settles on my brow.

O my God. I thank thee,

Who that angel showed,

From my garret window

Looking down the road.

--------

{174}

Original.

Father Ignatius of St. Paul,[Footnote 42]

Hon. and Rev. George Spencer.

[Footnote 42: Life of F. Ignatius of St. Paul, Passionist. By the Rev.

F. Pius a Sancto, Passionist. 1 vol. 12mo. Dublin, James Duffy.]

Fresh from the perusal of this book, we would gladly convey to others the

agreeable impression it has left on our imagination. It is an interesting

and impartial biography, full of pleasant incidents, simply narrated; with

the view of throwing light upon the character of F. Ignatius, and not upon

the personal views of his biographer. But we would rather dwell upon its

value as the life of a saintly man, whose circumstances were so nearly akin

to those of common Christians that no one can assert the impossibility of

imitating his example. We have observed, in reading the lives of the

saints, that one must himself be a saint to appreciate them aright.

Generally severed from us (to our shame be it spoken) by time, race, and

national habits, we are startled by strange details, and while wondering

over individual idiosyncrasies we lose sight of the heroic purity of

intention that hallowed almost every action of their mature lives.

In F. Ignatius we have a warm-hearted, frank, humorous Englishman, whose

memory is fresh in the hearts of thousands now living. Though belonging to

one of the noblest families in England, his training was simple, and his

position as rector in a country parish was not so dazzling as to set him

above the sympathies of those who read his life. His natural virtues were

weighed down by a love of approbation that has ruined many a soul before

now. He was accomplished, but not learned. Keen, sympathetic, and

perceptive, but neither a philosopher nor a logician. In short, he was not

set apart from the rest of humanity by any natural endowment; and yet one

lays down his biography with a sense of having made acquaintance with one

of the remarkable men of this century. Why? We cannot but suppose that it

was because he placed every faculty under the guidance of God, who worked

wonders with capacities by no means rare; and from an unready utterance

brought forth fruits of conversion that probably surprised no one so much

as the preacher himself.

Hon. George Spencer was the youngest child of John George, Earl Spencer,

and Lavinin, daughter of Sir Charles Bingham, afterward Earl of Lucan.

Earl Spencer was successively member of parliament, one of the lords of the

treasury, and first lord of the admiralty, succeeding Lord Chatham in the

last-named office in the year 1794. It was while Earl Spencer was lord of

the admiralty, in London, December 21, 1799, that the subject of our

narrative first saw the light, or what goes by the name of light, during a

December in London.

His first recollections, oddly enough, are of his six-year-old birthday,

when his sister's governess, a Swiss lady, took him aside as for serious

conversation, and told him of the existence of God, and some other truths

of religion. Possibly he had heard these things before, but the room at

Althorp where the scene took place, and the tender solicitude of the lady's

manner, were ever after imprinted on his memory as if connected with a

momentous occasion.

{175}

At nine years old, with his favorite brother, Frederick, be was carried in

a grand equipage to Eton, and placed under the charge of a private tutor,

the Rev. Richard Godley, who lived at the "Wharf," about half a mile from

the college buildings. Mr. Godley's rule was a severe but blessed one, and

young Spencer owed four years of marvellous innocence to its restrictions.

"Egyptian bondage" he thought it, poor little fellow, that several times a

day, summer and winter, be must run across the playgrounds to report

himself to the tutor. He lived between two fires: the wrath of elder boys

who called upon him to fag for them as he rushed through the

cricket-ground, and the terror of Mr. Godley's awful countenance if he and

Frederick arrived a few minutes late. "As might be expected," he says, in

his autobiography, "the more we were required to observe rules and customs

different from others, the more did a certain class of big bullies in the

school seem to count it their especial business to watch over us, as though

they might be our evil geniuses. A certain set of faces, consequently, I

looked upon with a kind of mysterious dread, and I was under a constant

sense of being as though in an enemy's country, obliged to guard against

dangers on all sides. Shrinking and skulking became my occupation beyond

the ordinary lot of little schoolboys, and my natural disposition to be

cowardly and spiritless was perhaps increased. I say perhaps, for other

circumstances might have made me worse; for what I was in the eyes of the

masters of public opinion in the school I really was--a chicken-hearted

creature, what in Eton language is called a _sawney_. It may be that

had I been from the first in free intercourse among the boys, instead of

being a good innocent one I might have been, what I suppose must be

reckoned one of the worst varieties of public school characters, a mean,

dishonorable one."

The experiment of close contact with other boys was too soon to be tried.

Mr. Godley's influence appeared to be dangerously evangelical. "The

Pilgrim's Progress" and "Alleine's Alarm" were recommended to George by his

tutor's sisters, and did not find favor at Althorp in the holidays. We next

hear of him at the Rev. ----'s, performing most of the duties of a footman

to one or two big boys, and enduring initiation in the iniquities of public

school-life. Everyone knows how valuable a prize to youthful tyrants is a

child in whom innocence and moral cowardice are combined; and such a prize

was George Spencer, blushing at immodest words, and ignorant of the nice

distinction between thieving and orchard robbing that exists in the minds

of school-boys only. Evening after evening the little boys' rooms were

invaded, their occupations broken up, and persecution carried on against

one or other of their set. For a little while Spencer used to find a little

time of peace when, after such a turmoil, be got into bed, said his

prayers, and cried himself to sleep. But the atmosphere was anti-religious,

and in the course of ten days be had given up all attempt to pray. A moment

of bitter self reproach awaited him. One day he was present when one of the

rudest of his tormentors was dressing himself. "To my surprise," he says,

"he turned to me, and with his usual civility said some such words as 'Now

hold your jaw,' and then, down on his knees near the bed, and his face

between his hands, said his prayers. I then saw for a moment to what I had

fallen, when even this fellow had more religion than unhappy I had

retained, but I had no grain of strength now left to rise. ..."

"When I had ceased attempting to maintain my pious feelings, the best

consolation I had was in the company of a few boys of a spirit congenial

to what mine was now become. All the time that I remained at Eton I never

learnt to take pleasure in the manly, active games for which it is so

famous. It is not that I was without some natural talent for such things.

{176}

I have since had my time of most ardent attachment to cricket, to tennis,

shooting, hunting, and all active exercises: but my spirit was bent down

at Eton; and among the boys who led the way in all manly pursuits, I was

always shy and miserable, which was partly a cause and partly an effect

of my being looked down upon by them. My pleasure there was in being with

a few boys like myself, without spirit for these things, retired apart

from the sight of others, amusing ourselves with making arbors and

catching little fishes in the streams; and many were the hours I wasted

in such childish things when I was grown far too old for them.

"Oh! the happiness of a Catholic child, whose inmost soul is known to one

whom God has charged with his salvation. Supposing I had been a Catholic

child in such a situation--if such a supposition be possible--the pious

feelings with which God inspired me would have been under the guidance of

a tender spiritual father, who would have supplied exactly what I needed,

when about to fall under the sense of unassisted weakness which I have

described. He would have taught me to be innocent and firm in the midst

of my trials, which would then have tended to exalt instead of oppressing

my character. I would have kept my character not only clear in the sight

of God, but honorable among my fellows, who soon would have given up

their persecution when they found me steadfast; and I might have brought

with me in the path of peace and justice many whom I followed in the dark

ways of sin. But it is in vain to calculate on what I might have been had

I been then a Catholic. God be praised, my losses I may yet recover, and

perhaps even reap advantages from them."

So much for the sad and puny childhood of one who in after-life freed

himself absolutely from the bondage of public opinion. He who can truly

say, "Tu solus Domine!" has reached the sublimest height of dignity and

freedom.

If George Spencer's early years gave small promise of moral heroism, still

less would his youth lead one to look for great virtues in him. His

autobiography tells us that he yielded to the degrading temptations of

student life at Cambridge, not from inclination so much as because other

men set him the example. Two years of misery he endured, too, from the fear

that a courteous and merited apology made by him to a gentleman whom he had

unwittingly offended might have laid him open to the charge of cowardice.

As a scholar he ranked high, and held, at the same time, a good place among

athletes; thus showing advance in mind and body, while his soul was still

cramped by the fear of ridicule.

Then comes the continental tour, made after a grand and uninteresting

fashion; courier, servants, maids, and family physician. George's journal

is full of the sneers with which a well-bred English tourist is wont to

exorcise the demon of popery. He is much amused at the street-preaching of

a passionist father in Terracina; little dreaming that one day he himself

would perform the duties of a _svegliarino_, and with only partial

success too.

One admires constantly the good sense and high tone of Lord and Lady

Spencer. Invaluable was the example they gave their children; wonderful to

an American reader, the sway they exercised over their grown-up sons.

Soon after returning to England, Mr. Spencer took orders and entered upon

the life of a country clergyman. By fulfilling in person the arduous duties

which are too often left to a curate, he gave evidence of true nobility of

character; but so deficient in judgment and in deference to superiors was

his general conduct, that the world wondered more at his lack of common

sense than at his courage. Viewed from the present time, the germs of

sanctity are plainly visible in these vague struggles after perfection. He

practised great mortifications, concealing them as far as was possible. He

inveighed against tepidity wherever shown with an independence as valiant

as it was unpleasant to the objects of his condemnation. No very

comfortable member of a diocese was the Hon. Mr. Spencer in those days.

Bishop Bloomfield, his former tutor, bore his vagaries with fatherly

patience, and, looking through the mist of Methodism that hung about his

views, acutely detected the true difficulty, and recommended as a cure The

Poor Man's Preservative against Popery, by Blanco White.

{177}

On one occasion when Dr. Bloomfield read prayers in his own church, St.

Botolph's, Bishopsgate, Mr. Spencer, who was invited to preach, took the

occasion to explain these evangelical views of religion, intimating that

the congregation were not in the habit of hearing the gospel fully and

faithfully expounded. The bishop was wounded, but he only said: "George,

how could you preach such a sermon as that? In future I must look over your

sermon before you go into the pulpit."

Here is a scrap from his journal about the same time, 1824, or thereabout:

"The Bishop of Bristol preached in the morning for the schools a sermon

worthy of Plato rather than St. Paul." And another day: "Went with all

speed to Craven chapel, where I heard Irving, the Scotch minister, preach

nearly two hours. I was greatly delighted with his eloquence and stout

Christian doctrine, though his manner is most blamably extravagant." And

again: "I went with Mr. A---- and Miss B---- to hear Mrs. Fry perform, and

was delighted to hear her expounding to the prisoners in Newgate."

Among evangelical believers, Mr. Spencer found an energy and a missionary

spirit which harmonized with his own zealous nature. In theological matters

he was dissatisfied whithersoever he turned. In 1822, soon after being made

deacon, his early tendencies to high church principles had received a blow

from which they never recovered. He shall tell the circumstances in his own

simple words.

"I was at the time living at Althorp, my Father's principal residence in

the country, serving as a curate to the parish to which it was attached,

though the park itself is extraparochial. Among the visitors who resorted

there was one of the most distinguished scholars of the day, to whom, as

to many more of the Anglican Church, I owe a debt of gratitude for the

interest which he took in me, and for the help I actually received from

him in the course of inquiry, which has happily terminated in the haven

of the true church. I should like to make a grateful and honorable

mention of his name, but as this has been found fault with I forbear,

[Footnote 43] I was one day explaining to him with earnestness the line

of argument which I was pursuing with dissenters, and my hopes from it; I

suppose I expected encouragement, such as I had received from many

others. But he simply and candidly said: 'These would be very convenient

doctrines if we could make use of them, but they are available only for

Roman Catholics; they will not serve us.' I saw in a moment the truth of

his remark, and his character and position gave it additional weight. I

did not answer him; but as a soldier who has received what he feels to be

a mortal wound will suddenly stand still, and then quietly retire out of

the mélée, and seek a quiet spot to die in, so I went away with my high

churchism mortally wounded in the very prime of its vigor and youth, to

die forever to the character of an Anglican high churchman. Why did not

this open my eyes, you will say, to the truth of Catholicity? I answer,

simply because my early prejudices were too strong. The unanswerable

remark of my friend was like a _reductio ad absurdum_ of all high

church ideas. If they were true, the Catholic would be so; which is

absurd, as I remember Euclid would say, 'Therefore,' etc. The grand

support of the high church system, church authority, having been thus

overthrown, it was an easy though gradual work to get out of my mind all

its minor details and accomplishments, one after another; such as regard

for holy places, for holy days, for consecrated persons, for

ecclesiastical writers; finally, almost all definite dogmatic notions. It

would seem that all was slipping away, when, coming to the conviction of

the truth of Catholicity, some years after, it was with extraordinary

delight I found myself picking up again the shattered dispersed pieces of

the beautiful fabric, and placing them now in better order on the right

foundation, solid and firm, no longer exposed to such a catastrophe as

had upset my card-castle of Anglican churchhmanship."

[Footnote 43: This distinguished scholar was Dr. Elmaly.]

The divided state of his own parish occupied Mr. Spencer's thoughts, and he

devoted himself to winning dissenters into the fold by other means than

high church arguments. He tried to stretch open the gates of the

establishment so as to admit all classes of religionists to her communion.

Another system seemed more likely to prove efficacious, namely, the

beautiful example he set of devotion in his parish; making great sacrifices

for the poor, and qualifying himself to perform the offices of a physician

to the body as well as to the soul.

{178}

But new difficulties were in store for him in matters of faith. The

Athanasian creed begins to disturb him, not because of its doctrines, but

because of the condemnatory clauses at the beginning and end. He is now

rector of Brington, with excellent prospects of advancement. Is he not

bound to resign his position, since he cannot agree in full with the

Establishment? "No," says the Bishop of Peterborough; "there is a

difference between an open attack upon the liturgy and thirty-nine

articles, and the entertaining of private doubts to be confided to a friend

with the hope of having them removed. It would have been a sufficient cause

for choosing another profession than that of the ministry; but, being

already in holy orders, it is not a sufficient reason for resignation."

"No," said Dr. Blomfield; "it is one thing to doubt the truth of a

doctrine, and another to believe it false. Besides, the Protestant Church

does not pretend to pronounce a sentence of condemnation like the Church of

Rome. These clauses are merely intended to assert the truth of certain

dogmas very emphatically."

That this line of argument was not convincing it is easy to see. The result

was that Mr. Spencer informed his superiors that he should give up reading

the Athanasian creed in his church. Then feeling certain that he was no

longer in danger of promotion, he threw himself with renewed ardor into the

work of reconciling all sects to each other.

His family as a last resource bethought them of marrying him to a lady who

had charmed him in his college days. No; his conviction was that he ought

not to marry. One pities the disappointment of Lord and Lady Spencer. This

son, whom they had placed in an admirable position in life, who had every

attraction of manner and person that could insure worldly success, seemed

determined to thwart their efforts for his happiness, and to disappoint

parental ambition. But they little imagined how far his reckless

unworldliness would finally carry him.

On the 23d of November, 1827, when he returned from his parochial

visitation, he found a letter purporting to come from a gentlemen in Lille,

who was "grievously troubled about the arguments for popery." Ever desirous

to strengthen the wavering, Rev. Mr. Spencer entered into a long

correspondence, which resulted in a promise on his own part to follow his

correspondent into the Catholic Church if he would acknowledge his true

name and pause awhile before joining the Catholics. He tells us:

"I heard no more of him till after my conversion and arrival at Rome,

when I discovered that my correspondent was a lady, who had herself been

converted a short time before she wrote to me. I never heard her name

before (Miss Dolling), nor am I aware that she had ever seen me; but God

moved her to desire and pray for my salvation, which she also undertook

to bring about in the way I have related. I cannot say that I entirely

approve of the stratagem to which she had recourse, but her motive was

good, and God gave success to her attempt, for it was this that first

directed my attention particularly to inquire about the Catholic

religion, though she lived not to know the accomplishment of her wishes

and prayers. She died at Paris, a year before my conversion, when about

to take the veil as a nun of the Sacred Heart; and I trust I have in her

an intercessor in heaven, as she prayed for me so fervently on earth."

Not being restrained, as was Mr. Spencer, by a sense of personal gratitude,

we may be allowed to express entire disapproval of the stratagem of the

"Maid of Lille." Like most other plots, it was quite unnecessary. Rev. Mr.

Spencer would have listened with profound attention to any person who

claimed to possess the truth, and it was offering him an indignity to trick

him into attention, as foolish mothers decoy their children to the

dentist's.

None the less, however, were Miss Dolling's arguments strong and

convincing: "That Scripture without tradition is quite insufficient for

salvation.

{179}

We cannot know anything about the Scriptures themselves, their composition,

inspiration, interpretation, without tradition. Besides, the New Testament

was not the text-book of the apostles. It is a collection of some things

they were inspired to write for the edification of the first Christians and

others who had not seen our Lord; and the epistles are a number of letters

from inspired men bound up together in one volume. The body of doctrine,

with its bearings, symmetry, extent, and obligation, was delivered orally

by the apostles, and the epistles must be consonant to that system as well

as explanatory of portions of it. Only by the unbroken succession of

pastors from the apostles to the present time can we have any safeguard as

to what we shall believe, and how we are to believe. The apostles and their

successors were 'to teach all nations,' and Christ promised them, and them

alone, the unerring guide of the Holy Spirit." She then assigns to

tradition the office of bearing testimony to what the doctrines of the

church have been and are at present. The definitions of councils are simple

declarations that such and such is the belief then, and from the beginning

of the Catholic Church. They state what is, not invent what is to be. Now,

history or written tradition, as contradistinguished from Scripture,

testifies to every simple tenet of the Catholic Church--her creeds,

liturgy, sacraments, jurisdiction. It testifies unerringly, too, even from

the objections of heretics, to the fact that this church has been always

believed divine in her origin, divine in her teaching, infallible and

unerring in her solemn pronouncements. This is fact, and who can gainsay

it?

Toward the end of the year 1829, Rev. Mr. Spencer made the acquaintance of

Mr. Ambrose Lisle Phillips, who was then seventeen years old. A few weeks

later he visited this new friend at Garendon Park, Loughbro', a visit the

result of which is best given in his own words:

"On Sunday, Jan. 24, 1830, I preached in my church, and in the evening

took leave of my family for the week, intending to return on the Saturday

following to my ordinary duties at home. But our Lord ordered better for

me. During the week I spent on this visit, I passed many hours daily in

conversation with Phillips, and was satisfied beyond all my expectations

with the answers he gave to the different questions I proposed about the

principal tenets and practices of the Catholics. During the week we were

in company with several other Protestants, and among them some

distinguished clergymen of the Church of England, who occasionally joined

in our discussions. I was struck with observing how the advantage always

appeared on his side in the arguments which took place between them,

notwithstanding their superior age and experience; and I saw how weak was

the cause in behalf of which I had hitherto been engaged; I felt ashamed

of arguing any longer against what I began to see clearly could not be

fairly disproved. I now openly declared myself completely shaken, and,

though I determined to take no decided step until I was entirely

convinced, I determined to give myself no rest till I was satisfied, and

had little doubt now of what the result would be. But yet I thought not

how soon God would make the truth clear to me. I was to return home, as I

have said, on Saturday. Phillips agreed to accompany me on the day

previous to Leicester, where we might have further conversation with

Father Caestryck, the Catholic missionary established in that place. I

imagined that I might take some weeks longer for consideration, but Mr.

Caestryck's conversation that afternoon overcame all my opposition. He

explained to me, and made me see, that the way to come at the knowledge

of the true religion is not to contend, as men are disposed to do, about

each individual point, but to submit implicitly to the authority of

Christ, and of those to whom he has committed the charge of his flock. He

set before me the undeniable but wonderful fact of the agreement of the

Catholic Church all over the world, in one faith, under one head; he

showed me the assertions of Protestants that the Catholic Church had

altered her doctrines were not supported by evidence; he pointed out the

wonderful, unbroken chain of the Roman pontiffs; he observed to me how in

all ages the church, under their guidance, had exercised an authority,

indisputed by her children, of cutting off from her communion all who

opposed her faith and disobeyed her discipline. I saw that her assumption

of this power was consistent with Christ's commission to his apostles to

teach all men to the end of the world; and his declaration that those who

would not hear the pastors of his church rejected him. What right, then,

thought I, had Luther and his companions to set themselves against the

united voice of the church?

{180}

I saw that he rebelled against the authority of God when he set himself

up as an independent guide. He was bound to obey the Catholic Church--how

then should I not be equally bound to return to it? And need I fear that

I should be led into error by trusting to those guides to whom Christ

himself thus directed me? No! I thought this impossible. Full of these

impressions, I left Mr. Caestryck's house to go to my inn, whence I was

to to return home next morning. Phillips accompanied me, and took this

last occasion to impress on me the awful importance of the decision which

I was called upon to make. At length I answered:

"'I am overcome. There is no doubt of the truth. One more Sunday I will

preach to my congregation, and then put myself into Mr. Foley's hands,

and conclude this business.'

"It may be thought with what joyful ardor he embraced this declaration,

and warned me to declare my sentiments faithfully in these my last

discourses. The next minute led me to this reflection: Have I any right

to stand in that pulpit, being once convinced that the church is

heretical to which it belongs? Am I safe in exposing myself to the danger

which may attend one day's travelling while I turn my back on the church

of God, which now calls upon me to unite myself to her forever? I said to

Phillips, 'If this step is right for me to take next week, it is my duty

to take it now. My resolution is made; to-morrow I will be received into

the church.' We lost no time in despatching a messenger to my father, to

inform him of this unexpected event. As I was forming my last resolution,

the thought of him came across me; will it not be said that I endanger

his very life by so sudden and severe a shock? The words of our Lord rose

before me and answered all my doubts: 'He that hateth not father and

mother, and brothers and sisters, and houses and lands, and his own life

too, cannot be my disciple.' To the Lord, then, I trusted for the support

and comfort of my dear father under the trial which, in obedience to his

call, I was about to inflict upon him. I had no further anxiety to

disturb me. God alone knows the peace and joy with which I laid me down

that night to rest. The next day, at nine o'clock, the church received me

for her child."

Far from finding himself harshly received by his family after his

conversion, Mr. Spencer's domestic relations remained quite undisturbed. It

was in the early days of conversions in England; Tractarianism was in its

very infancy, and Earl Spencer had always shown kindness to Catholics, as

to a vanquished enemy.

When his son returned from Rome as a priest in 1832 and took possession of

his parish at West Bromwich, one of the poorest in the diocese, Lord

Spencer made ample provision for his support. In 1834 this excellent

nobleman died, and with the legacy left by him to Father Spencer, several

churches and missions were established. It was a theory of Father Spencer's

that the evangelical counsels could be practiced as well in the world as in

a religious life. In order to carry out this experiment he placed all his

possessions at the command of Right Rev. Dr. Walsh, his bishop, who

appointed an _économe_ to supply his necessities and those of his

church.

That his conversion was not allowed to pass without sharp criticism from

Protestants can be easily imagined. He was pensive partly by nature,

partly, perhaps, from the feeling that his actions were misunderstood by

his old companions and friends. All the more attractive was the quaint

humor that lighted up his conversation. "One day when speaking with a

brother priest with sad earnestness about the spiritual destitution of the

poor people around him, who neither knew God nor would listen to those who

were willing to teach them, a poor woman knocked at the sacristy door, and

was ordered to come in; she fell on her knees very reverently to get Father

Spencer's blessing as soon as she approached him. His companion observed

that this poor woman reminded him of the mother of the sons of Zebedee, who

came to our Savior _adorans_. 'Yes,' replied Father Spencer, with a

very arch smile, 'and not only _adorans_, but _petens aliquid ab

eo_.'"

Though so harshly handled sometimes by Protestants, Mr. Spencer exercised a

forbearance toward them that all converts would do well to imitate.

Remembering his own honest delusions, he attributed sincerity to the

adherents of every sect.

{181}

"Some were supposing once in his presence that it was impossible for

followers of Joanna Southcote, and the like, not to be fully aware that

they were being deluded. Father Ignatius said it was not so, and related a

peculiar case that he witnessed himself. He happened to be passing through

Birmingham, and had occasion to enter a shop there to order something. The

shopkeeper asked him if he had heard of the great light that had arisen in

these modern times. He said no. 'Well, then,' repeated the shopman, 'here,

sir, is something to enlighten you,' handing him a neatly got up pamphlet.

He had not time to glance at the title when his friend behind the counter

ran on at a great rate in a speech something to the following effect: That

the four gospels were all figures and myths, that the epistles were only

faint foreshadowings of the real sun of justice that was now at length

arisen. The Messias was come in the person of a Mr. Ward, and he would see

the truth demonstrated beyond the possibility of a doubt by looking at the

gospel he held in his hand. While the shopman was expressing hopes of

converting him, he took the opportunity of looking at the pamphlet, and

found that all this new theory of religion was built upon a particular way

of printing the text: _'Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace

to--Ward's men._' On turning away in disgust from his fruitless

remonstrances with this specimen of _Ward's men_, he found some of

_Ward's women_, also, in the same place, and overheard them

exclaiming: 'Oh, little England knows what a treasure they have in ----

jail!' The pretended Messias happened to be in prison for felony at the

time." He declared that these poor creatures were entirely sincere and

earnest in the faith they had in this malefactor.

This belief in the genuineness of all kinds of religious convictions,

joined to his passionate love of country, led Father Spencer to engage in

the great work of his life--the forming of an Association of Prayers for

the Conversion of England. Mr. Phillips joined with him heartily in the

project, and it was a new element of joy in their beautiful friendship.

From the year 1838 to the day of his death, Father Spencer labored

unceasingly for this end. Many persons grew sick of the very sound of the

words, and did not hesitate to tell him so either; but through praise,

blame, success, or ridicule he labored unceasingly,--and works now, we may

be sure, in heaven this very day for the same end. Who can doubt that such

petitions will be granted?

After nine years of hardship, persecution, and loving labor as a parish

priest, Father Spencer was called to Oscott College to take charge of the

spiritual affairs of the students.

By education he was well suited to hold so distinguished a position. He was

admirably versed in the French, Italian, and German languages; a good

classical and mathematical scholar of course (having been a first-class

Cambridge man), and well read both in Protestant and Catholic theology. His

intercourse with the young men was very charming. He would make up a game

at cricket, go heartily into all their youthful sports, and even give

lessons to beginners. In spiritual matters he had a very fascinating way of

throwing a certain poetry into what is usually considered the prosaic part

of priestly duties. Between these two moods there was a third, in which,

with a kindly assumption of equality, as it were, he would take them into

his interests as genially as he entered into theirs.

In 1844 Father Spencer went abroad for his health, and accomplished much

for the Association of Prayers. In the following year he returned to

England, and entered at once into retreat under the direction of Father

Thomas Clarke, S.J., in Hodder place. From this retreat he came forth with

a fixed determination to join the order of the Passionists, lately

established in England by his friend Padre Domenico. How happy the results

of this decision were the following pages will show.

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The Congregation of the Passion was founded by Blessed Paul of the Cross

about the middle of the last century, and approved by Benedict XIV.,

Clement XIV., and Pius VI. Its object is to work for the sanctification of

the souls of the faithful; to which end it uses, not only preaching and the

sacraments, but the diffusion of devotion to the passion of Christ. This

work is accomplished by means of missions, retreats, and parish work in

passionist houses. If necessary, the fathers take charge of a parish;

otherwise they work in their own churches as missioners. They teach only

their own younger members, and they go on foreign missions when sent by the

Holy Father or the Propaganda.

"To keep the members of an order always ready for their out-door work,"

says F. Pius, "there are certain rules for their interior life which may

be likened to the drill or parade of soldiers in their quarters. This

discipline varies according to the spirit of each order.

"The idea of a passionist's work will lead us to expect what his

discipline must be. The spirit of a passionist is a spirit of atonement.

He says with St. Paul: 'I rejoice in my sufferings, and fill up those

things that are wanting of the sufferings of Christ in my flesh for his

body, which is the church.' Coloss. i.24. For this cause the interior

life of a passionist is rather austere. He has to rise shortly after

midnight from a bed of straw to chaunt matins and lauds, and spend some

time in meditation. He has two hours more meditation during the day, and

altogether about five hours of choir work in the twenty-four. He fasts

and abstains from flesh meat three times in the week, all the year round,

besides Lent and Advent. He is clad in a coarse black garment; wears

sandals instead of shoes; and practises other acts of penance of minor

importance.

"This seems rather a hard life; but an ordinary constitution does not

find the least difficulty in complying with the letter of the rule. It is

withal a happy, cheerful life; for it seems the nature of penance to make

the heart of the penitent light and gladsome, 'rejoicing in suffering.'"

The fathers are bound by these rules only when living in the houses of

their order. Outside they accommodate themselves to circumstances and take

life as they find it; not very easy, as we shall see by the experiences of

F. Ignatius. The superior has, moreover, the right to relax the rule for

those who are ill or overworked.

At forty-seven Hon. and Rev. George Spencer entered upon this austere life.

There was little to attract human nature to the order. Four foreigners,

living in a wretched house, friendless and nearly penniless, were the

principal occupants of Aston Hall, and even this unenviable position they

had reached only after four years of labor and trial.

The noble novice submitted to more than ordinary tests of vocation. Rank,

age, and education made him especially the object of distrust to F.

Constantine, master of novices, who knew that true kindness must turn the

rough side of discipline to a candidate for admission.

"A day or two after his arrival he was ordered to wash down an old dirty

flight of stairs. He tucked up his sleeves and fell to using his brush,

tub, and soapsuds with as much zest and good-will as if he had been a

maid-of-all-work. Of course he was no great adept at this sort of

employment, and probably his want of skill drew down some sharp rebukes

from his overseer. Some tender-hearted religious never could forget the

sight of this venerable ecclesiastic, trying to scour the crevices and

crannies to the satisfaction of his new master. He got through it well

and took the corrections so beautifully that in a few days he was voted

to the habit."

A little suffering there was for F. Ignatius (as we must now call him) from

homesickness and the difficulty of adapting himself to the small items of

novice discipline. Chilled feet, a hard bed, and meagre diet were not quite

easy to bear. But his hardest trial was the consideration of his

companions, who tried to spare him humiliations, and take upon themselves

works that seemed degrading for one of his standing. Austerities were soon

forgotten, but dispensations were true afflictions to one whose wish with

regard to life was ceaseless labor, and with regard to death "to die unseen

and unknown in a ditch."

{183}

The story of his fifteen years of religious life is beautifully told by his

biographer. Only under the restrain& of a religious role did his gifts and

virtues receive their right development. It was like a second youth, a

second training for life; undue impetuosity was restrained, zeal,

generosity, charity, tenderness, all found an object and a wise direction.

Surely never was sanctity made more attractive than in the person of the

noble and gentle F. Ignatius. Great was the rejoicing among postulants and

novices when his arrival was announced at any one of the passionist houses.

Anecdote, mirth, kind and sympathizing intercourse were in store for the

recreation wherever he appeared, clad in his coarse attire, with a brace of

rough drogget bags slung over his broad shoulders. The journey had been

made, they might be sure, in the third-class cars, "because there was no

fourth class." The spirit of holy poverty had grown to be a sort of passion

with him, only to be surpassed by his zeal for the salvation of souls. He

treated himself, and wished others to treat him, like a beggar; thankful

for any favor, but cheerfully submissive to refusal. When he had a long

journey before him, if anyone offered him a "lift" in a cart or wagon, he

gladly accepted it; if not, he was quite contented. He seldom refused a

meal when travelling, and would ask for something to eat at any house upon

the road, if necessary. At home he generally washed and mended his own

clothes, and when he was superior would allow no one to perform menial

offices for him. In dress he dreaded overnicety, and would as gladly wear a

cast-off tartan as anything else, if it did not tend to throw discredit

upon his order. For several years he wore an old mantle belonging to a

religious who had died, and only left it off at the desire of the

provincial. This was by no means his natural bent. Those who knew him as a

young man say that he would hunt through the hosiers' shops in a dozen

streets in London to find articles that could satisfy his fastidious taste.

But, to return to the pleasure which his presence in a community always

gave:

"His visits at home were like meteor flashes, bright and beautiful, and

always made us regret that we could not enjoy his edifying company for a

longer time. Those who are much away on the external duties of the order

find the rule a little severe when they return; to Father Ignatius it

seemed a small heaven of refreshing satisfaction. His coming home was

usually announced to the community a day or two before, and all were

promising themselves rare treats from his presence among them. It was

cheering to see the porter run in beaming with joy as he announced the

glad tidings, 'Father Ignatius is come!' The exuberance of his own

delight, as he greeted first one and then another of his companions,

added to our own joy. In fact the day Father Ignatius came home almost

became a holiday by custom. Those days were; and we feel inclined to tire

our readers by expatiating on them, as if writing brought them back.

"Whenever he arrived at one of our houses, and had a day or two to stay,

it was usual for the younger religious, such as novices and students, to

go to him, one by one, for conference. He liked this very much, and would

write to higher superiors for permission to turn off at Broadway, for

instance, on his way to London, in order to make acquaintance with the

young religious. His counsels had often a lasting effect; many who were

inclined to leave the life they had chosen remained steadfast after a

conference with him. He did not give commonplace solutions to

difficulties, but he had some peculiar phrase, some quaint axiom, some

droll piece of spirituality to apply to every little trouble that came

before him. He was specially happy in his fund of anecdote, and could

tell one, it was believed, on any subject that came before him. This

extraordinary gift of conversational power made the conferences

delightful. The novices, when they assembled for recreation, and gave

their opinions on F. Ignatius, whom many had spoken to for the first time

in their life, nearly all would conclude, 'If ever there was a saint,

he's one.'

"It was amusing to observe how they prepared themselves for forming their

opinion. They all heard of his being a great saint, and some fancied he

would eat nothing at all for one day, and might attempt a little

vegetables on the next. One novice, in particular, had made up his mind

to this, and to his great surprise he saw Father Ignatius eat an extra

good breakfast; and when about to settle into a rash judgment, he saw the

old man preparing to walk seven miles to a railway station on the

strength of his meal. Another novice thought such a saint would never

laugh or make anyone else laugh; to his agreeable disappointment, he

found that Father Ignatius brought more cheerfulness into the recreation

than had been there for some time.

{184}

We gathered around him, by a kind of instinct, and so entertaining was he

that one felt it a mortification to be called away from the recreation

room while Father Ignatius was in it. He used to recount with peculiar

grace and fascinating wit scenes he went through in his life. There is

scarcely an anecdote in this book we have not heard him relate. He was

most ingenuous. Ask him what question you pleased, he would answer it if

he knew it. In relating an anecdote he often spoke in five or six

different tones of voices; he imitated the manner and action of those he

knew to such perfection that laughter had to pass into admiration. He

seldom laughed outright, and even if he did he would very soon stop. If

he came across a number of Punch, he ran over some of the sketches at

once and then he would be observed to stop, laugh, and lay it down at

once as if to deny himself further enjoyment. It is needless to say there

was nothing rollicking or off-handed in his wit--never; it was subdued,

sweet, delicate, and lively. ... In fact, a recreation presided over by

Father Ignatius was the most innocent and gladsome one could imagine.

"In one thing Father Ignatius did not go against anticipation, he was

most exact in the observance of our rules. He would always be the first

in for midnight office. Many a time the younger portion of the community

used to make arrangements over night to be in before him, but it was no

use. Once, indeed, a student arrived in choir before him, and Father

Ignatius appeared so crestfallen at being beaten that the student would

never be in before him again, and would delay on the way if he thought

Father Ignatius had not yet passed. He seemed particularly happy when he

could light the lamps or gas for matins. He was child-like in his

obedience. He would not transgress the most trifling regulation. It was

usual with him to say, 'I cannot understand those persons who say, Oh! I

am all right if I get to purgatory. We should be more generous with

Almighty God. I don't intend to go to purgatory, and if I do I must know

what for.' 'But, Father Ignatius,' a father would say, 'we fall into so

many imperfections that it seems presumptuous to attempt to escape scot

free.' 'Well,' he would reply, 'nothing can send us to purgatory but a

wilful, venial sin, and may the Lord preserve us from such a thing as

that; a religious ought to die before being guilty of the least wilful

fault.'"

In the year 1850, Father Ignatius made the resolution of never being idle a

moment, and carried it out to the end of his life. Bergamo's Pensieri ed

Affetti he translated in railway stations while waiting for trains, before

and after dinner, and in intervals between confessions. Of letter-writing

he made a kind of duty, and on one occasion he wrote seventy-eight in the

course of two free days. Not mere notes, either, were his letters, but

epistles full of thought and sympathy for his correspondent.

"His days were indeed full days, and he scarcely ever went to bed until

he had shaken himself out of nodding asleep over his table three or four

times. No one ever heard him say that he was tired and required rest;

rest he never had, except on his hard bed or in his quiet grave. If any

man ever ate his bread in the sweat of his brow, it was Father Ignatius

of St. Paul, the ever-toiling passionist."

Illness, unless it kept him in his bed, never interfered with the

performance of his duties. When superior, he used his power to secure the

hardest work for himself. During the time of his rectorship in Sutton, he

would preach and sing mass after hearing confessions all the morning;

attend sick calls, preach in the evening at some distant parish, come home

perhaps at eleven o'clock, say his office, and be the first to come to

matins at two o'clock. The Father Provincial found him so ingenious in

eluding privileges that he placed him under obedience in matters of health

to one of the priests of his community, whom he strictly obeyed ever after.

Once a cramp or some accident had made him fall into a ditch where he got

drenched and covered with mud. On returning from the sick call which he was

attending, he found a friend at the house, who sympathized with his

especial interests. Down he sat for a good talk upon the conversion of

England, and at the end of two hours was frightened off by one of the

religious to change his clothes.

When giving a retreat somewhere in midwinter, the shameful carelessness of

his entertainers allowed him to sleep in a room where there was neither bed

nor fire, and where the snow drifted in under the door. In the morning it

occurred to some one that perhaps Father Ignatius had occupied this

apartment.

{185}

"A person ran down to see, and there was the old saint amusing himself by

gathering up the snow that came into his room, and making little balls of

it for kitten to run after. The kitten and himself seem to have become

friends by having slept together in his rug the night before, and both were

disappointed by the intrusion of the wandering visitor."

But though the good passionist was utterly forgetful of his "own rights,"

as the saying goes, he well knew how to administer a rebuke if justice

demanded it:

"Once he was fiercely abused when begging, and as the reviler came to a

full stop in his froward speech, Father Ignatius quietly retorted: 'Well,

as you have been so generous to me personally, perhaps you would be so

kind as to give me something now for my community.' This had a remarkable

effect. It procured him a handsome offering then, as well as many others

ever since."

On another occasion his knock was answered by a very superb footman. Father

Ignatius gave his errand and religious name, with a request to see the lady

or gentleman of the house. The servant returned in a moment with the

information that the gentleman was out and the lady engaged and also unable

to help him. "Perhaps she is not aware that I am the Honorable Mr.

Spencer," said the mendicant. Mercury bowed courteously and retired. In a

minute or two came a rustling of silks and the sound of quick steps

tripping down stairs. The lady entered with blush and courtesy and apology.

She had not known that it was he, and there were so many impostors. "But

what will you take, my dear sir?" she exclaimed, ringing the bell, before

he could accept or decline the proposal. Father Ignatius said that he did

not stand in need of anything to eat, and that he never took wine; but that

he was in need of money for a good purpose, and would be glad to accept

anything that she could give him of that kind. The lady instantly handed

him a five-pound note, with many regrets that she could not make it more.

He took the note, and, folding it carefully away in his pocket, made his

acknowledgments after this fashion: "Now, I am very sorry to have to tell

you that the alms you have given me will do you very little good. If I had

not been born of a noble family, you would have turned me away with

coldness and contempt. I take the money because it will be as useful to me

as if it were given from a good motive; but I would advise you for the

future, if you have any regard for your soul, to let the love of God, and

not human respect, prompt your almsgiving." Then taking his hat, he bade

his amazed benefactress good morning, and left her to meditate upon purity

of intention.

Notwithstanding his fortitude and independence of spirit, we may gather

from the following extract from his letters that begging cost him some

effort:

"My present life is pleasant when money comes kindly; but when I get

refused or walk a long way and find everyone out, it is a bit mortifying.

That is best gain for me I suppose, though not what I am travelling for.

... I should not have had the time this morning to write to you had it

not been for a disappointment in meeting a young man, who was to have

been my begging guide for part of the day; and so I had to come home and

stay until it is time to go and try my fortune in the enormous

market-house, where there are innumerable stalls with poultry, eggs,

fruit, meat, etc., kept in great part by Irishmen and women, on whom I

have to-day presently to go and dance attendance, as this is the great

market-day. I feel when going out on a job like this, as a poor child

going in a bathing machine to be dipped in the sea, _frissonnant_;

but the Irish are so good-natured and generous that they generally make

the work among them full of pleasure when once I am in it."

These expeditions extended not only through Great Britain, but even to the

Continent sometimes. As he was passing through Cologne one day, he met his

brother Frederick, then Earl Spencer. At first his lordship looked

wonderingly at him, and then, recognizing his features, exclaimed: "Hilloa,

George, what are you doing here?" "Begging," was the prompt reply, and then

the two fell into a friendly chat about old times.

{186}

Strangely enough, the only member of the Spencer family who ever treated

Father Ignatius with the least harshness was this favorite brother, who, on

succeeding to the title, laid such conditions upon his visiting the family

estate that priestly dignity forbade his going home. "Twelve years have I

been an exile from Althorp," he said in 1857. But in that same year the

earl relented and invited his brother to make him a visit. The letter

joyfully accepting this tardy invitation was read by Lord Spencer upon his

death-bed. This bereavement was a grievous blow to Father Ignatius.

In 1862 he visited Althorp. The present earl carried out his father's good

resolutions to the utmost, and even restored a part of the annuity which

had been diverted from Father Ignatius to other objects. Before leaving the

community for this visit the religious saw him looking for a lock for one

of his bags, and asked why he was so very particular all at once. "Why,

don't you know," said he, "that the servant at the big house will open it,

in order to put my shaving tackle, brush, and so forth, in their proper

places? and I should not like to have a general stare at my beads, sandals,

and habit." But fashions had changed at Althorp. When the company who had

been invited, especially in his honor, went to dress for dinner, Father

Ignatius remarked to the countess that his full dress would perhaps, not be

quite in place at the table. "On the contrary," she answered,

good-humoredly, "all his old friends would be delighted to see a specimen

of the fashions he had adopted since his old days of whist and repartee in

the same hall." The volunteers were entertained by the earl during his

uncle's visit. The passionist appeared in full costume, and sat next Lord

Spencer, whom nothing would satisfy but a speech from the old man's lips. A

very patriotic speech it was too, and greeted by a cheer that gave pleasure

to both uncle and nephew.

And so one of the crosses of his life was gently removed, leaving many

others, however, to be endured. For a heart so tender, a conscience so

sensitive, a temperament so vivid and excitable as his, the world had many

trials. His simplicity was mistaken for egotism; his zeal looked to many

persons like unbridled impetuosity; his broad sympathies again seemed like

indifferentism, and even calumny dared to attack his spotless character.

All this he bore very patiently, but the suffering was often acute. A deep

abstraction of manner would come over him at such times, making him quite

unconscious of his own actions and of the impression they made upon those

around him. One day when he was going through the streets of Rome with a

brother religious, they passed a fountain. "He went over and put his hand

so far into one of the jets that he squirted the water over a number of

poor persons who were basking in in the sun a few steps beneath him. They

made a stir, and uttered a few oaths as the water kept dashing down on

them. The companion awoke Father Ignatius out of his reverie, and so

unconscious did he seem of the disturbance he had unwittingly created, that

he passed on without alluding to it."

But whoever might blame Father Ignatius for his projects and his peculiar

pertinacity in carrying them into execution, one consoler never failed him.

The Holy Father was ever ready to speak with him of the conversion of

England, merely requesting him to endeavor to interest persons to pray also

for all those separated from the faith in all countries. His Holiness has

granted an indulgence of three hundred days to any one who shall say a

devout prayer for the conversion of England. The preaching of Father

Ignatius was peculiar to himself; he could not be said to possess the gifts

of human eloquence in the highest degree, but there was something like

inspiration in his most commonplace discourse.

{187}

He put the point of his sermon clearly before his audience, and he proved

it most admirably. His acquaintance with the Scriptures was something

marvellous; not only could he quote texts in support of doctrines, but be

applied the facts of the sacred volume in such a happy why, with such a

flood of new ideas, that one would imagine he lived in the midst of them,

or had been told by the sacred writers what they were intended for. Besides

this, he brought a fund of illustrations to carry conviction through the

mind. His illustrations were taken from every phase of life and every kind

of employment; persons listening to him always found the peculiar gist of

his discourse carried into their very homestead; nay, the objections they

themselves were prepared to advance against it were answered before they

could have been thought out. To add to this, there was an earnestness in

his manner that made you see his whole soul, as it were, bent upon your

spiritual good. His holiness of life, which report published before

him--and one look was enough to convince you of its being true--compelled

you to set a value on what he said far above the dicta of ordinary priests.

His style was formed on the gospel. He loved the parables and the similes

of our Lord, and rightly judged that the style of his divine Master was the

most worthy of imitation. So far as the matter of his discourses was

concerned, he was inimitable; his manner was peculiar to himself, deeply

earnest and touching. He abstained from the rousing, thundering style, and

his attempts that way to suit the taste and thus work upon the convictions

of certain congregations, showed him that his forte did not lie there. The

consequence was, that when the words of what he jocosely termed a "crack"

preacher would die with the sound of his own voice or the exclamations of

the multitude, Father Ignatius's words lived with their lives, and helped

them to bear trials that came thirty years after they had heard him. Toward

the end of his life he became rather tiresome to those who knew not his

spirit; but it was the tiresomeness of St. John the Evangelist. We are told

that "the disciple whom Jesus loved" used to be carried in his old age

before the people, and that his only sermon was "My little children, love

one another." He preached no more and no less, but kept perpetually

repeating these few words. Father Ignatius, in like manner, was continually

repeating "the conversion of England." No matter what the subject of his

sermon was he brought this in. He told us often that it became a second

nature with him; that he could not quit thinking or speaking of it even if

he tried, and believed he could speak for ten days consecutively on the

conversion of England without having to repeat an idea.

"He got on very well in the missions: he took all the different parts as

they were assigned him; but he was more successful in the lectures than in

the great sermons of the evening. His confessional was always besieged with

penitents, and he never spared himself."

His last mission was given in the beautiful little church of St. Patrick,

Coatbridge (eight miles from Glasgow). Crowds came to hear the saintly old

father plead for the conversion of England and the sanctification of

Ireland. The first two days he heard confessions from six A.M. to eleven

P.M., excepting the time needed for devotions and meals. On the third day

he remained in the confessional until after midnight. When he came into the

house, his host said: "I am afraid, Father Ignatius, you are overexerting

yourself, and that you must feel tired and fatigued:' "No, no," he answered

with a smile, "I am not fatigued. There is no use in saying I am tired,

for, you know, I must be at the same work to-night in Leith." He was in the

confessional again at six o'clock in the morning, said mass at seven;

breakfasted at half-past eight, and left Coatbridge about nine o'clock.

{188}

Father O'Keefe remarked to him that he looked much better and younger in

secular dress than in his habit. This made him laugh heartily. "When Father

Thomas Doyle," he replied, "saw me in secular dress, he said, 'Father

Ignatius, you look like a broken-down old gentleman.'" And the frankness of

the observation seemed to amuse him immensely.

The rest is easily told. He reached Carstairs Junction at half-past ten,

and, leaving his luggage with the station-master, walked toward Carstairs

House, the residence of his friend and godson, Mr. Monteith. Half a mile

from the entrance to the estate, the long avenue is crossed at right angles

by a second, which leads to the grand entrance of the house. Father

Ignatius had just passed the "rectangle," when he turned off into a

by-path. Then seeing he had lost his way, he asked a child which was the

right road. He never spoke to mortal again. On a little corner in the

avenue, just within sight of the house, and about a hundred paces from the

door, he fell suddenly and yielded up his spirit into the hands of his

Creator. May we all die doing God's work, and as well prepared as Father

Ignatius of St. Paul! "It was God's will that angels instead of men should

surround his lonely bed of death." It was simply by an after-thought that

he had gone to Carstairs House to pass the time between the arrival and

departure of two trains, and thus died at the threshold of an old friend's

door, instead of in the station.

Very tenderly did Mr. Monteith receive the weary burden that the grand old

missionary laid down at his gates. The remains lay in religious state at

Carstairs House for the greater part of three days. Fathers came from

various retreats to look once more upon his beloved face, never so noble as

in its last repose; and looked with silent wonder on all that now remained

of one whom the world was not worthy of possessing longer. Everyone, on

hearing of his death, appeared to have lost a special friend; no one could

lament, for they felt that he was happy; few could pray for him, because

they were more inclined to ask his intercession. The greatest respect and

attention were shown by the railway officials all along the route, and

special ordinances were made in deference to the respected burden that was

carried.

Lord Spencer's letter with regard to his uncle's death is so pleasing that

we transcribe it entire. He was in Denmark, and could not reach England for

the obsequies:

Denmark, Oct. 16th, 1864

Rev. Sir: I was much shocked to hear of the death of my excellent Uncle

George. I received the sad intelligence last Sunday, and subsequently

received the letter which you had the goodness to write to me. My absence

from England prevented my doing what I should have wished to have done,

to have attended to the grave the remains of my uncle, if it had been so

permitted by your order.

I assure you that, much as I may have differed from my uncle on points of

doctrine, no one could have admired more than I did the beautiful

simplicity, earnest religion, and faith of my uncle. For his God he

renounced all the pleasures of the world; his death, sad as it is to us,

was, as his life, apart from the world, but with God.

His family will respect his memory as much as I am sure you and the

brethren of his order do.

I should be much obliged to you if you let me know the particulars of the

last days of his life, and also where he is buried, as I should like to

place them among family records at Althorp.

I venture to trouble you with these questions, as I suppose you will be

able to furnish them better than anyone else.

Yours faithfully,

Spencer.

Thus in the end did Father Ignatius, in the simple pursuance of his duties,

pierce through the prejudices of caste and tradition, harder to penetrate

in England than elsewhere.

Mr. Monteith has erected a cross on the corner of the avenue where his

saintly friend fell. It bears this inscription:

"On this spot the Hon. and Rev. GEORGE SPENCER,

in religion, Father Ignatius of St. Paul,

Passionist, while in the midst of his labors

for the salvation or souls, and the

restoration of his countrymen to the

unity of the faith, was suddenly

called by his heavenly Master

to his eternal home.

October 1st, 1864.

R. I. P."

--------

{189}

From Chambers's Journal.

A Naturalist's Home.

There is no place like England for a rich man to live in exactly as he

pleases. It is the appropriate exercising-ground for the hobbies of all

mankind. You may join an Agapemone, or you may live alone in dirt and

squalor, and call yourself a hermit. The whim of the late Charles Waterton,

naturalist, was a very innocent one, namely, to make his home a city of

refuge for all persecuted birds--a sanctuary inviolate from net and snare

and gun; and he effected his humane purpose. An intimate associate and

fervent admirer of his, one Dr. Richard Hobson, has given to the world

[Footnote 44] an account of this ornithological asylum; and it is certainly

very curious. The name of the place was Walton Hall, near Wakefield; and it

seems to have been peculiarly well adapted for the purpose to which it was

put. It was situated on an island, approachable only by an iron

foot-bridge, and having no other dwellings in its immediate neighborhood.

The lake in which it stood gave the means of harboring waterfowl of all

kinds, while the "packing" of carrion crows in the park exhibits a proof of

the protection afforded by even the mainland portion of the estate; it was

sufficiently extensive to allow of portions being devoted to absolute

seclusion, for those birds which are naturally disposed to avoid the haunts

of man. "Two thirds of the lake, with its adjacent wood and pasture land,

were kept free from all intrusion whatever for six successive months every

year; even visitors at the house, of whatever rank, being 'warned off'

those portions set apart for natural history purposes. Even the marsh

occupied by the herons was forbidden ground throughout the whole

breeding-season, unless in case of accident to a young heron by falling

from its nest; in which case aid was afforded with all the promptitude

exhibited by the fire escape conductors for the safety of human life."

[Footnote 44: Charles Waterton: his Home, Habits, and Handiwork. By

Richard Hobson, M.D.]

The surroundings of the mansion itself were quaint and exceptional,

exhibiting the eccentric character of their proprietor. Item, a magnificent

sundial--constructed, however, by a common mason in the

neighborhood--composed of twenty equilateral triangles, so disposed as to

form a similar number of individual dials, ten of which, whenever the sun

shone, and whatever its altitude, were faithful timekeepers. On these dials

were engraved the names of cities in all parts of the globe, placed in

accordance with their different degrees of longitude, so that the solar

time of each could be simultaneously ascertained. Near this sundial was a

subterraneous passage leading to two boat-houses, entirely concealed under

the island, furnished with arched roofs lined with zinc-plate, and

arrangements for slinging the boats out of water when they required

painting or repair. Four sycamores, with roosting branches for peahens, and

a fifth, whose decayed trunk was always occupied by jackdaws, screened the

house from the north winds. Close to the cast-iron-bridge entrance was a

ruin, on the top of whose gable, at the foot of a stone-cross, twenty-four

feet above the lake, a wild duck built her nest, and hatched her young for

years. A great yew-fence enclosed this ruin on one side, so that within its

barrier birds might find a secure place for building their nests and

incubation.

{190}

For the special encouragement and protection of the starling and the

jackdaw, there was erected within this fence a thirteen feet high

stone-and-mortar-built tower, pierced with about sixty resting-berths. To

each berth there was an aperture of about five inches square. A few, near

the top, were set apart for the jackdaw and the white owl. The remaining

number were each supplied at the entrance with a square loose stone, having

one of its inferior angles cut away, so that the starling could enter, but

the jackdaw and owl were excluded. The landlord of these convenient

tenements only reserved to himself the privilege of inspection, which he

could always effect by removing the loose stone.

The lake had an artificial underground sluice, which issuing out at a

little distance into sight, furnished the means of cultivating a knowledge

of the mysterious habits of the water-rat; this stream then passed through

one of the loveliest grottoes in England. Near this place were two

pheasantries, the central portion of each consisting of a clump of

yew-trees, while the whole mass was surrounded by an impenetrable holly

fence; the stable-yard was not far off; and hence the squire had infinite

opportunities of establishing the important fact, as he considered it, that

the game-cock always claps his wings and crows, whereas the cock-pheasant

always crows and claps his wings. Mr. Waterton's interest in natural

history was, however, by no means confined to the animal creation. He

concerned himself greatly with the culture of trees (though by no means of

land), and hailed any _lusus naturae_ that occurred in his grounds as

other men welcomed the birth of a son and heir. Walton Hall had at one time

its own corn-mill, and when that inconvenient necessity no longer existed,

the mill-stone was laid by in an orchard and forgotten. The diameter of

this circular stone measured five feet and a half, while its depth averaged

seven inches throughout; its central hole had a diameter of eleven inches.

By mere accident, some bird or squirrel had dropped the fruit of the

filbert tree through this hole on to the earth, and in 1812 the seedling

was seen rising up through that unwonted channel. As its trunk gradually

grew through this aperture and increased, its power to raise the ponderous

mass of stone was speculated upon by many. Would the filbert tree die in

the attempt? Would it burst the millstone? Or would it lift it? In the end,

the little filbert tree lifted the millstone, and in 1868 wore it like a

crinoline about its trunk, and Mr. Waterton used to sit upon it under the

branching shade. This extraordinary combination it was the great

naturalist's humor to liken to John Bull and the national debt.

In no tree-fancier's grounds was there ever one tenth of the hollow trunks

which were to be found at Walton Hall; the fact being that the owner

encouraged and fostered decay for the purposes of his birds' paradise.

These trees were protected by artificial roofs in order to keep their

hollows dry, and fitted thus for the reception of any feathered couple

inclined to marry and settle. Holes were also pierced in the stems, to

afford ingress and egress; and one really would scarcely be surprised if

they had been furnished with bells for "servants" and "visitors." In an ash

tree trunk thus artificially prepared, and set apart for owls (the squire's

favorite bird), an ox-eyed titmouse took the liberty of nesting, hatching,

and maturing her young. Mr. Waterton attached a door, hung on hinges, to

exactly fit the opening in the trunk, having a hole in its inferior portion

for the passage of the titmouse. The squire would daily visit the his

little tenant, and opening the door delicately draw his hand over the back

of the sitting bird, as though to assure it of his protection. But

unfortunately, after the bird had flown, one year, a squirrel took

possession of this eligible tenement, and although every vestige of the

lining of its nest was carefully removed, no titmouse or any other bird

ever occupied it again.

{191}

In May, 1862, the squire pointed out to the author no less than three

birds' nests in one cavity--a jackdaw's with five eggs; a barn-owl's with

three young ones, close to which lay several dead mice and a half grown

rat, as in a larder; and, eighteen inches above the owl's nest, a

redstart's, containing six eggs! Our author deduces from this circumstance,

that in an unreclaimed state birds, although of different species, are not

disposed to quarrel; and the fact that near this "happy family" a pair of

water-hens hatched their eggs in a perfectly exposed nest, under the very

eyes of two carrion crows who occupied the first floor of the same tree--an

alder--without the least molestation, seems to confirm this view.

In this Garden of Eden, however, all sorts of anomalous things seem to have

been done by birds. In a cleft branch of a fir tree, twenty-four feet from

the ground, a peahen built her nest, through which piece of ambition, since

falling is much easier to learn than flying, she lost all her young ones.

In the branch of an oak, twelve feet from the ground, a wild-duck nested

and brought down all her brood in safety to their natural element. A pair

of coots built their nest on the extreme end of a willow-branch closely

overhanging the water; but the weight of the materials, and especially of

the birds themselves, depressed it so that their habitation rested on the

very surface of the water, and its contents rose and fell with every

ripple; and, finally, another pair of coots, who had built their house upon

what they considered _terra firma_, found themselves altogether adrift

one stormy morning, and continued so, veering with the fickle breeze for

many days, until at last the eggs were hatched, and their young family

became independent, and could shift for themselves. All these minutiae were

carefully watched by the squire. An excellent telescope enabled him to

perceive from his drawing-room window the manoeuvres of both land and water

fowls. "You could carefully scrutinize their form, their color, their

plumage, the color of their legs, the precise form and hue of their

mandibles, and not unfrequently even the color of the iris of the eye: also

their mode of walking, of swimming, and of resting. You could distinctly

ascertain the various kinds of food on which they lived and fed their

young. .... You could see the herons, the water-hens, the coots, the

Egyptian and the Canada geese, the carrion crows, the ringdoves

(occasionally on their nests), the wild-duck, teal, and widgeon." No less

than eighty-nine descriptions of land-bird and thirty of water-fowl

sojourned in the grounds or about the lake of Walton Hall. In winter, when

the lake was frozen, it was literally a fact that the ice could sometimes

not be discerned, it was so crowded by the thousands of water-fowl that

huddled together upon it without sound or motion.

Mr. Waterton, it may be easily imagined, was himself no sportsman; but it

was his custom to supply his own table on a fast-day (he was a Roman

Catholic) with fish shot by himself with a bow and arrow. Otherwise, he

made war on no living creature, except the rat: the "Hanoverian" rat, as he

designated him with bitterness: and even him he preferred to exile rather

than destroy. But having caught a fine specimen of the "Hanoverian" in a

"harmless trap," he carefully smeared him over with tar, and let him

depart. This astonished and highly scented animal immediately scoured all

the rat-passages, and thus impregnated them with the odor of all others

most offensive to his brethren, who fled by hundreds in the night across

the narrow portion of the lake, and were no more seen. The squire was

indeed a most tolerant and tender-hearted man. He built a shelter upon a

certain part of the lake expressly for poor folks, who were permitted to

fish whether for purposes of sale or for their own dinners; and

notwithstanding that it was his custom to dress like a miser and a

scarecrow, and to live like an ascetic--sleeping upon bare boards with a

hollowed piece of wood for a pillow, and fasting much longer than was good

for him--he was very charitable and open-handed to others.

{192}

It must be confessed, however, we gather from this volume that the great

naturalist was, out of his profession, by no means a wise man, and

certainly not a witty one. He loved jokes of a schoolboy sort, and indulged

in sarcasms more practical than theoretical. The two knockers of his

front-door were cast, from bell-metal, in the similitude of human faces,

the one representing mirth, and the other misery. The former was immovably

fixed to the door, and seemed to grin with delight at your fruitless

efforts to raise it; the latter appeared to suffer agonies from the blows

you inflicted on it. In the vestibule was a singularly conceived model of a

nightmare, with a human face, grinning and showing the tusks of a wild

boar, the hands of a man, Satanic horns, elephant's ears, bat's wings, one

cloven foot, one eagle's talon, and with the tail of a serpent; beneath it

was the following motto:

"Assidens praecordiis

Pavore soinnos auferam." [Footnote 45]

[Footnote 45: Sitting on the region of the heart,

I take away sleep by fear.]

It was his humor, more than once, when between seventy and eighty years of

age, to welcome the author, when he came to dinner, by hiding on all-fours

under the hall-table, and pretending to be a doll. He made use of his

wonderful taxidermic talents to represent many individuals who took a

leading part in the Reformation by loathsome objects from the animal and

vegetable creation, and completed the artistic group with a sprinkling of

"composite" demons. He was seriously vexed at a stranger under his own

roof, who had profanely designated his favorite (stuffed) Bahia toad as "an

ugly brute." These and similar instances of bad taste we think Dr. Hobson

might have left unrecorded with advantage. Still, there was much to like as

well as to admire about the great naturalist. He could show good taste as

well as bad. No museum of natural history elsewhere could compare with the

beauty and finish of the specimens, prepared by the squire's own hand with

wonderful skill and patience, which adorned the inside of Walton Hall. "Not

even _living_ nature," says our author, "could surpass the

representations there displayed." In attitude, you had life itself; in

plumage, the lustrous beauty that death could not dim; "in anatomy, every

local prominence, every depression, every curve, nay, the slightest

elevation or depression of each feather." The great staircase glowed with

tropic splendor. At the top of it was the veritable cayman mentioned in the

Wanderings, on which the squire mounted in Essequibo, and a huge snake with

which he contended in single combat. Doubts have been thrown on both these

feats, but Dr. Hobson relates instances of presence of mind and courage

shown by the squire in his own presence quite as marvellous as these.

Wishing to make experiment as to whether his Woorali poison, obtained in

1812 from the Macoushi Indians, was more efficacious than the bite of the

rattlesnake, he got an American showman to bring him twenty-four of these

dangerous reptiles, and took them out of their cases, one by one, with his

own hand, while the Yankee fled from the room in terror, accompanied by

very many members of the faculty, who had assembled to witness the

operation. In his old age, he alone could be found to enter the cage of the

Borneo orangoutang at the Zoological Gardens, in order minutely to inspect

the palm of its hand during life, and also the teeth. It was with

difficulty he obtained permission to run this hazard, the keepers insisting

upon it that the beast would "make very short work of him." However,

nothing daunted, the squire entered the palisaded enclosure.

{193}

"The meeting of these two celebrities was clearly a case of love at first

sight, as the strangers embraced most affectionately, kissing one another

many times, to the great amusement of the spectators. The squire's

investigations were freely permitted, and his fingers allowed to enter his

jaws; his apeship then claimed a similar privilege, which was as

courteously granted; after which the orang-outang began an elaborate

_search_ of the squire's head."

The strength and activity of Waterton were equal to his physical courage,

notwithstanding that he was wont to indulge in venesection to a dangerous

extent, always performing that operation himself, even to the subsequent

bandaging. At eighty-one, the suppleness of his limbs was marvellous; and

at seventy-seven years of age our author was witness to his scratching the

back part of his head with the toe of his right foot! Death, however,

claimed his rights at last in the squire's eighty-third year.

Charles Waterton lies buried in a secluded part of his own beautiful

domain, at the foot of a little cross, with this inscription, written by

himself:

Orate

Pro anima Caroll Waterton,

Viatoris:

Cujus jam fessa

Juxta hanc crucem

Hic sepelluntur ossa.

Even those iron limbs of his, it seems, grew weary at last.

------

Original.

My Tears in Sleep.

"And He said: Weep not; the maid is not dead, but sleepeth."

"Whence come these tears upon thy face?

What sorrow craved these scalding drops of woe

In peaceful sleep?

Didst dream of pain or dire disgrace?

Sob not so bitterly. I fain would know

What made thee weep!"

"Not for the woes which life may bring--

The life, in sooth, that doth just now begin--

These tears were shed.

But memory hath a bitter sting,

And dreaming bade me mourn the time of sin

When I was dead."

--------

{194}

Translated from the French.

Robert; or, The Influence of a Good Mother.