Chapter IX (8)

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.

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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. {170} 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. {171} 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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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: