{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36700/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36700","id":"gutenberg_36700","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36700","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: History - Modern (1750+)","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Hunter Blair, David Oswald, Sir, 1853-1939"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Frontispiece: Oswald Hunter Blair]\n\n\n\n\n\nA NEW MEDLEY OF MEMORIES\n\n\nBY THE\n\nRIGHT REV. SIR DAVID HUNTER-BLAIR\n\nBT., O.S.B., M.A.\n\nTITULAR ABBOT OF DUNFERMLINE\n\n\n\n\nWITH PORTRAIT\n\n\n\n\nLONDON\n\nEDWARD ARNOLD & CO.\n\n1922\n\n\n[_All rights reserved_]\n\n\n\n\nTO THE\n\nMASTER AND SCHOLARS\n\nOF\n\nSAINT BENET'S HALL, OXFORD,\n\nIN MEMORY OF\n\nTEN HAPPY YEARS.\n\n\n\n\n{vii}\n\nFOREWORD\n\nSome kindly critics of my _Medley of Memories_, and not a few private\ncorrespondents (most of them unknown to me) have been good enough to\nexpress a lively hope that I would continue my reminiscences down to a\nlater date than the year 1903, when I closed the volume with my jubilee\nbirthday.\n\nIt is in response to this wish that I have here set down some of my\nrecollections of the succeeding decade, concluding with the outbreak of\nthe Great War.\n\nOne is rather \"treading on eggshells\" when printing impressions of\nevents and persons so near our own time.  But I trust that there is\nnothing unkind in these more recent memories, any more than in the\nformer.  There should not be; for I have experienced little but\nkindness during a now long life; and I approach the Psalmist's limit of\ndays with only grateful sentiments towards the many friends who have\nhelped to make that life a happy as well as a varied one.\n\nDAVID O. HUNTER-BLAIR, O.S.B.\n\nS. Paulo, Brazil,\n  _March_, 1922.\n\n\n\n\n{ix}\n\nCONTENTS\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n\nCHAPTER I.--1903-1904.\n\nThe Premier Duke--Oxford Chancellorship--A Silver Jubilee--In\n  Canterbury Close--Hyde Park Oratory--Oxford under Water--\"Twopence\n  each\" at Christ Church--Church Music--Gregorian Centenary in\n  Rome--Pope Pius X.--Pilgrims and Autograph--Cradle of the\n  Benedictine Order  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   1\n\n\nCHAPTER II.--1904.\n\n\"Sermons from Stones\"--_Alcestis_ at Bradfield--Whimsical\n  Texts--Old Masters at Ushaw--A Mozart-Wagner Festival--Bismarck\n  and William II.--\"Longest Word\" Competition--Medal-week at\n  St. Andrews--Oxford Rhodes Scholars--Liddell and Scott--Lord\n  Rosebery at the Union--Oxford Portraits--Wytham\n  Abbey--Christmas in Bute . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  19\n\n\nCHAPTER III.--1905.\n\nA \"Catholic Demonstration\"--Boy-prodigies--Spring Days in\n  Naples--\"C.-B.\" at Oxford--Medical Sceptics--Blenheim\n  Hospitality--A Scoto-Irish Wedding--Dunskey\n  Transformed--Lunatics up-to-date--Eton War Memorial--Four\n  Thousand Guests at Arundel--At Exton Park--Abbotsford and\n  Blairquhan--Lothair's Bride  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  37\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.--1905-1906.\n\nModern Gothic--Contrasts in South Wales--Chamberlain's Last\n  Speech--A Catholic Dining-club--Lovat Scouts' Memorial--A Tory\n  _debacle_--Hampshire Marriages--On the _Cote d'Azur_--Three\n  Weddings--An Old Irish Peer--Guernsey in June--A Coming of Age\n  on the Cotswolds--The Warwick Pageant--Bank Holiday at\n  Scarborough  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  56\n\n\nCHAPTER V.--1906-1907.\n\nMelrose and Westminster--Newman Memorial Church--The Evil\n  Eye--Catholic Scholars at Oxford--Grace before Meat--A\n  Literary Dinner--A Jamaica Tragedy--An Abbatial\n  Blessing--Deaths of Oxford friends--Robinson Ellis--A Genteel\n  Watering-place--Visit to Dover--Pageants at Oxford and\n  Bury--Hugh Benson  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  74\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.--1907-1908.\n\nBenedictine Honours at Oxford--Anecdotes from Sir\n  Hubert--Everingham and Bramham--Early Rising--Mass in a\n  Deer-forest--A Bishop's Visiting-cards--A Miniature College--Our\n  New Chancellor--Bodley's Librarian--Dean Burgon--A Welsh\n  Bishop--Illness and Convalescence--H.M.S. _Victory_  . . . . . .  94\n\n\n{x}\n\nCHAPTER VII.--1908.\n\nMiss Broughton at Oxford--Notable Trees--An Infantile\n  Rest-cure--Equestrians from Italy--\"The Colours\"--A\n  Parson's Statistics--Two Anxious Mammas--\"Let us Kill\n  Something\"--Scottish Dessert--A Highland Bazaar--I Resign\n  Mastership of Hall--Notes on Newman--Scriptural\n  Heraldry--Myres Macership--Scots Catholic Judge--At a\n  _chateau_ in Picardy--Excursions from Oxford--St. Andrew's\n  Day at Cardiff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.--1908-1909.\n\nChristmas at Beaufort--_Annus mirabilis_--Kenelm Vaughan--A\n  \"Heathen Turk\"--Sven Hedin--Centenary of Darwin--Oxford\n  and Louvain--Hugh Cecil on the House of Commons--Arundel\n  itself again--The Bridegroom's Father weeps--Cambridge\n  Fisher Society--Bodleian Congestion--Shackleton at Albert\n  Hall--Oakamoor, Faber, and Pugin--Welsh Pageant--Hampton\n  Court--Father Hell and Mr. Dams!--A Bishop's\n  Portrait--Gleann Mor Gathering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.--1909-1910.\n\nThe White Garden at Beaufort--Andrew Lang--A Holy Well--The\n  new Ladycross--\"My terrible Great-uncle!\"--Off to\n  Brazil---King's Birthday on Board---The New City\n  Beautiful--Arrival at S. Paulo---An Abbey\n  Rebuilding--Cosmopolitan State and City--College of S.\n  Bento--Stray Englishmen--Progressive Paulistas--Education in\n  Brazil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151\n\n\nCHAPTER X.--1910.\n\nProvost Hornby--Christmas in Brazil--Architecture in S.\n  Paulo--The Snake-farm--Guests at the Abbey--End of the\n  Isolation of Fort Augustus--A Benedictine Festival--Sinister\n  Italians--Death of Edward VII.--Brazilian Funerals--Popular\n  Devotion--\"Fradesj estrangeiros\"--Football in the\n  Tropics--Homeward Voyage--Santos and Madeira--Sir John Benn  . . 170\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.--1910-1911.\n\nA Wiesbaden Eye Klinik--The Rhine in Rain--Cologne and\n  Brussels--Wedding in the Hop-Country--The New Departure at\n  Fort Augustus--St. Andrew's without Angus--Oxford\n  Again--Highland Marriage at Oratory--One Eye _versus_\n  Two--Cambridge _versus_ Oxford---A Question of Colour--Ex-King\n  Manuel--A Great Church at Norwich--_Ave Verum_ in the\n  Kirk--Fort Augustus Post-bag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.--1911.\n\nMonks and Salmon--FitzAlan Chapel--April on Thames-side--My\n  sacerdotal Jubilee--Kinemacolor--Apparition at an\n  Abbey--St. Lucius--Faithful Highlanders--Hay Centenary--Nuns\n  for S. Paulo--A Brief Marriage Ceremony--Pagan\n  Mass-music--Seventeen New Cardinals--Doune Castle--A Quest\n  for our Abbey Church--Great Coal Strike--at Stonyhurst and\n  Ware--Katherine Howard--Twentieth-Century Chinese--An\n  Anglo-Italian Abbey  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208\n\n\n{xi}\n\nCHAPTER XIII.--1912-1913.\n\nA Concert for Cripples--Queen Amelie--May at Aix-les-Bains--A\n  Sample Savoyards--Hautecombe--A \"Picture of the Year\"--A\n  Benedictine O.T.C.--Pugin's \"Blue Pencil\"--My nomination\n  as Prior--Fort Augustus and the Navy--Work in the\n  Monastery--Ladies in the Enclosure--A Bishop's Jubilee--A\n  Modern Major Pendennis--My Election to Abbacy--Installation\n  Ceremonies--Empress Eugenie at Farnborough--A Week at Monte\n  Cassino--Fatiguing Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.--1913-1914.\n\nSt Anselm's, Rome--Election of a Primate--My Uncle's\n  Grave--Milan and Maredsous--Canterbury Revisited--An Oratorian\n  Festival--Poetical Bathos--A Benedictine Chapter--King of\n  Uganda at Fort Augustus--Threefold Work of our Abbey--Funeral\n  of Bishop Turner--Bute Chapel at Westminster--A\n  Patriarchal Lay-brother--Abbot Gasquet a Cardinal--Corpus\n  Christi at Arundel--Eucharistic Congress at Cardiff--The Great\n  War--Conclusion  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX I.  _Novissima Verba_ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267\n         II. Darwin's _Credo_  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269\n\nINDEX  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271\n\n\n\n\n{1}\n\nA NEW MEDLEY OF MEMORIES\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n1903-1904\n\nI take up again the thread of these random recollections in the autumn\nof 1903, the same autumn in which I kept my jubilee birthday at St.\nAndrews.  I went from there successively to the Herries' at Kinharvie,\nthe Ralph Kerrs at Woodburn, near Edinburgh, and the Butes at\nMountstuart, meeting, curiously enough, at all three places Norfolk and\nhis sister, Lady Mary Howard--though it was not so curious after all,\nas the Duke was accustomed to visit every autumn his Scottish relatives\nat these places, as well as the Loudouns in their big rather\nout-at-elbows castle in Ayrshire.  He had no taste at all either for\nshooting, fishing, or riding, or for other country pursuits such as\nfarming, forestry, or the like; but he made himself perfectly happy\nduring these country house visits.  The least exacting of guests, he\nnever required to be amused, contenting himself with a game of croquet\n(the only outdoor game he favoured), an occasional long walk, and a\ndaily romp with his young relatives, the children of the house, who\nwere all devoted to him.  He read the newspapers perfunctorily, {2} but\nseldom opened a book: he knew and cared little for literature, science,\nor art, with the single exception of architecture, in which he was\nkeenly interested.  The most devout of Catholics, he was nothing of an\necclesiologist: official and hereditary chief of the College of Arms,\nhe was profoundly uninterested in heraldry, whether practically or\nhistorically:[1] the head of the nobility of England, he was so little\nof a genealogist that he was never at pains to correct the\nproof--annually submitted to him as to others--of the preposterous\ndetails of his pedigree as set forth in the pages of \"Burke.\"  I seem\nto be describing an ignoramus; but the interesting thing was that the\nDuke, with all his limitations, was really nothing of the kind.  He\ncould, and did, converse on a great variety of subjects in a very\nclear-headed and intelligent way; there was something engaging about\nhis utter unpretentiousness and deference to the opinions of others;\nand he had mastered the truth that the secret of successful\nconversation is to talk about what interests the other man and not what\ninterests oneself.  No one could, in fact, talk to the Duke much, or\nlong, without getting to love him; and every one who came into contact\nwith him in their several degrees, from princes and prelates and\npoliticians to cabmen and crossing-sweepers, did love him.  \"His Grace\n'as a good 'eart, that's what 'e 'as,\" said the old lady who used to\nkeep the crossing nearly opposite Norfolk House, and sat against the\nrailings {3} with her cat and her clean white apron (I think she did\nher sweeping by deputy); \"he'll never cross the square, whatever 'urry\n'e's in, without saying a kind word to me.\"  One sees him striding down\nPall Mall in his shabby suit, one gloveless hand plucking at his black\nbeard, the other wagging in constant salutation of passing friends, and\nhis kind brown eyes peering from under the brim of a hat calculated to\nmake the late Lord Hardwicke turn in his grave.  A genuine\nman--earnest, simple, affable, sincere, and yet ducal too; with a\ncertain grave native dignity which sat strangely well on him, and on\nwhich it was impossible ever to presume.  Panoplied in such dignity\nwhen occasion required, as in great public ceremonies, our homely\nlittle Duke played his part with curious efficiency; and it was often\nremarked that in State pageants the figure of the Earl Marshal was\nalways one of the most striking in the splendid picture.\n\nThe only country seat which the premier Duke owned besides Arundel\nCastle was Derwent Hall, a fine old Jacobean house in the Derwent\nvalley, on the borders of Yorkshire and Derbyshire.  The Duke had lent\nthis place for some years past to his only brother as his country\nresidence (he later bequeathed it to him by will); and herein this same\nautumn I paid a pleasant visit to Lord and Lady Edmund Talbot, on my\nway south to Oxford.  In London I went to see the rich and sombre\nchapel of the Holy Souls just finished in Westminster Cathedral, at the\nexpense of my old friend Mrs. Walmesley (nee Weld Blundell).  The\nArchbishop's white marble _cathedra_ was in course of erection in the\nsanctuary, and preparations were going forward {4} for his\nenthronement.[2]  Eight immense pillars of onyx were lying on the\nfloor, and the great painted rood leaned against the wall.  I was glad\nto see some signs of progress.\n\nOur principal domestic interest, on reassembling at Oxford for\nMichaelmas Term, was the prospect of exchanging the remote and\nincommodious semi-detached villa, in which our Benedictine Hall had\nbeen hitherto housed, for the curious mansion near Folly Bridge, built\non arches above the river, \"standing in its own grounds,\" as\nauctioneers say (it could not well stand in any one else's!), and known\nto most Oxonians as Grandpont House.  Besides the Thames bubbling and\nswirling at its foundations, it had a little lake of its own, and was\n(except by a very circuitous _detour_) accessible only by punt.  Rather\nfascinating! we all thought; but when the pundits from Ampleforth Abbey\ncame to inspect, the floods happened to be out everywhere, and our\nprospective Hall looked so like Noah's Ark floating on a waste of\nwaters, that they did not \"see their way\"[3] to approve of either the\nsite or the house.\n\nOxford was preoccupied at this time with the question of who was to\nsucceed to the Chancellorship {5} vacant by the death of Lord\nSalisbury.  I attended a meeting of the Conservative caucus summoned to\ndiscuss the matter at the President's lodgings at St. John's.  These\ngatherings were generally amusing, as the President (most unbending of\nold Tories) used to make occasional remarks of a disconcerting kind.\nOn this occasion he treated us to some reminiscences of the great\nChancellors of the past, adding, \"I look round the ranks of prominent\nmen in the country, including cabinet ministers and ex-ministers, and I\nsee few if any men of outstanding or even second-rate ability\"--the\npoint of the joke being that next to him was seated the late Chancellor\nof the Exchequer, Sir Michael Hicks Beach, whose presence and counsel\nhad been specially invited.  The names of Lords Goschen, Lansdowne,\nRosebery, and Curzon were mentioned, the first-named being evidently\nthe favourite.  \"Scholar, statesman, financier, educationalist,\" I\nwrote of him in the _Westminster Gazette_ a day or two later, \"a\ndistinguished son of Oriel, versatile, prudent and popular....  The\nFates seem to point to Lord Goschen as the one who shall sit in the\nvacant chair.\"[4]\n\nAnother less famous Oriel man, my old friend Mgr. Tylee, was in Oxford\nthis autumn, on his annual visitation of his old college, and came to\nsee me several times.  He gravely assured me that he had \"preached his\nlast sermon in India\"; but this was {6} a false alarm.  The good\nmonsignore was as great a \"farewellist\" as Madame Patti or the late Mr.\nSims Reeves, and at least three years later I heard that he was\nmeditating another descent on Hindostan; though why he went there, or\nwhy he stayed away, I imagine few people either knew or cared.[5]\n\nWe were all interested this term in the award of the senior Kennicott\nHebrew scholarship to a Catholic, Frederic Ingle of St. John's, who had\nalready, previous to his change of creed, gained the Pusey and Ellerton\nPrize, and other honours in {7} Scriptural subjects.  One could not\nhelp wondering whether it came as a little surprise to the Anglican\nexaminers to find that they had awarded the scholarship to a young man\nstudying for the Catholic priesthood at the Collegio Beda in Rome, an\ninstitution specially founded for the ecclesiastical education of\nconverts to the Roman Church.  The \"Hertford\" this year, by the way,\nthe Blue Ribbon of Latin scholarship, was also held by a Catholic, a\nyoung Jesuit of Pope's Hall--Cyril Martindale, the most brilliant\nscholar of his time at Oxford, who carried off practically every\nclassical distinction the university had to offer.  The \"Hertford\" was\nwon next year (1904) by another Catholic, Wilfrid Greene, scholar of\nChrist Church.\n\nI celebrated in 1903 not only my fiftieth birthday, but the silver\njubilee of my entrance into the Benedictine Order; and I went to keep\nthe latter interesting anniversary at Belmont Priory in Herefordshire,\nwhere twenty-five years before (December 8, 1878) I had received the\nnovice's habit.  Two or three of the older members of the community,\nwho had been my fellow-novices in those far-off days, were still in\nresidence there; and from them and all I received a warm welcome and\nmany kind congratulations.  These jubilees, golden and silver, are apt\nto make one moralize; and some words from an unknown or forgotten\nsource were in my mind at this time:\n\n\nSuch dates are milestones on the grey, monotonous road of our lives:\nthey are eddying pools in the stream of time, in which the memory rests\nfor a moment, like the whirling leaf in the torrent, until it is caught\nup anew, and carried on by the resistless current towards the\neverlasting ocean.\n\n\n{8}\n\nSoon after the end of term I made my way northwards, to spend\nChristmas, as so many before, with the Lovats at Beaufort, where the\ntopic of interest was the engagement, just announced, of Norfolk to his\ncousin, elder daughter of Lord Herries.  We played our traditional game\nof croquet in the sunshine of Christmas Day, and spent a pleasant\nfortnight, of which, however, the end was saddened for me by the\npremature death of my niece's husband, Charles Orr Ewing, M.P.  They\nhad only just finished the beautiful house they had built on the site\nof my old home, Dunskey, and were looking forward to happy years there.\n\nI was at Arundel for a few days after New Year, and found the Duke very\nbusy with improvements, inspecting new gardening operations, and so on;\n\"and after all,\" he said, \"some one will be coming by-and-by who may\nnot like it!\"  From Arundel I dawdled along the south coast to\nCanterbury, and paid a delightful visit to my old friends Canon and\nMrs. Moore at their charming residence (incorporating the ancient\nmonastic guest-house) in the close.  I spent hours exploring the\nglorious cathedral--the most interesting (_me judice_) if not the most\nbeautiful in England.  The close, too, really is a close, with a\nwatchman singing out in the small hours, \"Past two o'clock--misty\nmorning--a-all's we-e-ell!\" and the enclosure so complete that though\nwe could hear the Bishop of Dover's dinner-bell on the other side of\nthe wall, my host and hostess had to drive quite a long way round,\nthrough the mediaeval gate-house, to join the episcopal dinner-party.\nTheir schoolboy son invited me that night to accompany the watchman (an\nold {9} greybeard sailor with a Guy Fawkes lantern, who looked himself\nlike a relic of the Middle Ages) in his eleven o'clock peregrination\nround the cathedral.  A weird experience! the vast edifice totally\ndark[6] save for the flickering gleam of the single candle, in whose\nwavering light pillars and arches and chantries and tombs peered\nmomentarily out of the gloom like petrified ghosts.\n\nI saw other interesting things at Canterbury, notably St. Martin's old\nchurch (perhaps the most venerable in the kingdom),[7] and left for\nLondon, where, walking through Hyde Park on a sunshiny Sunday morning,\nI lingered awhile to watch the perfervid stump-orators wasting their\neloquence on the most listless of audiences.  \"Come along, Mary Ann,\nlet's give one of the other blokes a turn,\" was the prevailing\nsentiment; but I did manage to catch one gem from a Free Thought\nspouter, whose advocacy of _post mortem_ annihilation was being\nviolently assailed by one of his hearers.  \"Do you mean to tell me,\"\nshouted the heckler, \"that when I am dead I fade absolutely away and am\ndone with for ever?\"--to which query came the prompt {10} reply, \"I\nsincerely hope so, sir!\"[8]  Lord Cathcart (a great frequenter of the\nPark), to whom I repeated the above repartee, amused me by quoting an\nunconsciously funny phrase he had heard from a labour orator near the\nMarble Arch: \"What abaht the working man?  The working man is the\nbackbone of this country--and I tell you _strite_, that backbone 'as\ngot to come to the front!\"[9]\n\nI left Paddington for Oxford in absolutely the blackest fog I had ever\nseen: it turned brown at Baling, grey at Maidenhead, and at Didcot the\nsun was shining quite cheerfully.  I found the floods almost\nunprecedentedly high, and the \"loved city\" abundantly justifying its\nplayful sobriquet of \"Spires and Ponds.\"  A Catholic freshman, housed\nin the ground floor of Christ Church Meadow-buildings, described to me\nhis dismay at the boldness and voracity of the rats which invaded his\nrooms from the meadows when the floods were out.  The feelings of Lady\nBute when she visited Oxford about this time, and found her treasured\nson--who had boarded at a private tutor's at Harrow, and had never\nroughed it in his life--literally immured in an underground cellar\nbeneath Peckwater Quad, may be {11} better imagined than described.  It\nis fair to add that the youth himself had made no complaint, and\nshouted with laughter when I paid him a visit in his extraordinary\nsubterranean quarters in the richest college in Oxford.\n\nThe last words remind me of a visit paid me during this term by Dom\nFerotin and a colleague from Farnborough Abbey.  Escorting my guests\nthrough Christ Church, I mentioned the revenue of the House as\napproximately L80,000 a year, a sum which sounded colossal when\ntranslated into francs.  \"Deux millions par an! mais c'est incroyable,\"\nwas their comment, as we mounted the great Jacobean staircase.\n\"Twopence each, please,\" said the nondescript individual who threw open\nthe hall door.  It was an anti-climax; but we \"did\" the pictures\nwithout further remark, and I remember noticing an extraordinary\nresemblance (which the guide also observed) to the distinguished French\nBenedictine in the striking portrait of Dr. Liddon hanging near the\nfireplace.  We lunched with my friend Grissell in High Street, meeting\nthere the Baron de Bertouche, a young man with a Danish father and a\nScottish mother, born in Italy, educated in France, owning property in\nBelgium, and living in Wales--too much of a cosmopolitan, it seemed to\nme, to be likely to get the commission in the Pope's Noble Guard which\nappeared at that time to be his chief ambition.[10]\n\n{12}\n\nI remember two lectures about this time: one to the Newman Society\nabout Dickens, by old Percy Fitzgerald, who almost wept at hearing\nirreverent undergraduates avow that the Master's pathos was \"all\npiffle,\" and that Paul Dombey and Little Nell made them sick; the other\na paper on \"Armour\" (his special hobby) by Lord Dillon.  I asked him if\nhe could corroborate what I had heard as a boy, that men who took down\ntheir ancestral armour from their castle walls to buckle on for the\ngreat Eglinton Tournament, seventy years ago, found that they could not\nget into it!  I was surprised that this fact (if it be a fact) was new\nto so great an authority as Lord Dillon; but we had no time to discuss\nthe matter.  Mr. Justice Walton, the Catholic judge, also came down and\naddressed the \"Newman,\" I forget on what subject; but I remember his\nbeing \"heckled\" on the question as to whether a barrister was justified\nin conscience in defending (say) a murderer of whose guilt he was\npersonally convinced.  The judge maintained that he was.\n\nFebruary 15 was Norfolk's wedding-day--a quiet and pious ceremony,\nafter his own heart, in the private chapel at Everingham.  I recollect\nthe date, because I attended that evening a French play--Moliere's _Les\nFemmes Savantes_--at an Oxford convent school.  It was quite well done,\nentirely by girls; but the unique feature was that the \"men\" of the\ncomedy were attired as to coats, waistcoats, wigs and lace _jabots_ in\nperfectly correct Louis XIV. style, but below the waist--in petticoats!\nthe result being that they ensconced themselves as far as possible,\nthroughout the play, behind {13} tables and chairs, and showed no more\nof their legs than the Queen of Spain.\n\nGoing down to Arundel for Holy Week and Easter, I read in _The Times_\nHugh Macnaghten's strangely moving lines on Hector Macdonald,[11] whose\ntragic death was announced this week.  Easter was late this year, the\nweather balmy, and the spring advanced; and the park and the whole\ncountryside starred with daffodils and anemones, primroses and\nhyacinths.  Between the many church services we enjoyed some delightful\nrambles; and the Duke's marriage had made no difference to his love of\ncroquet and of the inevitable game of \"ten questions\" after dinner.\nThe great church looked beautiful on Easter morning, with its wealth of\nspring flowers; and the florid music was no doubt finely rendered,\nthough I do not like Gounod in church at Easter or at any other time.\nI refrained, however, when my friend the organist asked me what I\nthought of his choir, from replying, as Cardinal Capranica did to a\nsimilar question from Pope Nicholas V.--\"that it seemed to him like a\nsack of young swine, for he heard a great noise, but could distinguish\nnothing articulate!\"[12]\n\n{14}\n\nAll the clergy of St. Philip's church dined at the castle on Easter\nSunday evening; and the young Duchess, wearing her necklace of big\ndiamonds (Sheffield's wedding present), was a most kind and pleasant\nhostess.  Two days later my friend Father MacCall and I left England\n_en route_ for Rome, crossing from Newhaven to Dieppe in three-quarters\nof a gale.  _Infandum jubes_....  The boat was miserable, so was the\npassage; but we survived it, hurried on through France and Italy (our\n_direttissimo_ halting at all kinds of unnecessary places), and reached\nRome at the hour of Ave Maria, almost exactly twenty-six years since my\nprevious visit.  What memories, as from our modest _pension_ in the Via\nSistina we looked once again on the familiar and matchless prospect!\nMy companion hurried off at once to the bedside of a fever-stricken\nfriend; and my first pilgrimage was of course to St. Peter's.  I felt,\nas I swung aside the heavy \"baby-crusher,\"[13] {15} and entered, almost\nholding my breath, that strange sense of exhilaration which Eugenie de\nFerronays described so perfectly.[14]  Preparations were on foot for\nthe coming _festa_,[15] and the \"Sanpietrini\" flying, as of old, a\nhundred feet from the floor, hanging crimson brocades--a fearsome\nspectacle.  On Sunday we Benedictines kept the Gregorian festival at\nour own great basilica of St. Paul's; but the chief celebration was\nnext day at St. Peter's, where Pope Pius X. himself pontificated in the\npresence of 40,000 people, and a choir of a thousand monks (of which I\nhad the privilege of being one) rendered the Gregorian music with\nthrilling effect.  All was as in the great days of old--the Papal March\nblown on silver trumpets; the long procession up the great nave of\nabbots, bishops, and cardinals, conspicuous among them Cardinals\nRampolla, with his fine features and grave penetrating look, and Merry\ndel Val (the youthful Secretary of State), tall, dark, and strikingly\nhandsome; the Pontifical Court, chamberlains in their quaint mediaeval\ndress; and, finally, high on his _sedia gestatoria_, with the white\npeacock-feather fans waving on right and left, the venerable figure of\nthe Pope, mitred, and wearing his long embroidered _manto_: turning\nkind eyes from side to side on the vast concourse, and {16} blessing\nthem with uplifted hand as he passed.  His Holiness celebrated the Mass\nwith wonderful devotion, as quiet and collected as if he had been alone\nin his oratory.  High above our heads, at the Elevation, the silver\ntrumpets sounded the well-known melody, and the Swiss Guards round the\naltar brought down their halberts with a crash on the pavement.[16]\nAfter the great function I lunched with the Giustiniani Bandinis in the\nForo Trajano, where three generations of the princely family were\nliving together, in Roman patriarchal fashion.  But (_quantum\nmutatus!_) the old Prince had sold his historic palace in the\nCorso;[17] and his heir, Mondragone, who talked to me of sending his\nson to Christ Church as the Master of Kynnaird, seemed to shy at the\nexpense.[18]  They had all been at St. Peter's, in the tribune of the\n\"Patriciato,\" that morning, and were unanimous (so like Romans!) in\ntheir {17} verdict that the glorious Gregorian music would have been\nmuch more appropriate to a funeral!\n\nI was happy to enjoy a nearer view of the Holy Father before leaving\nRome, in a private audience which he gave to the English Catholic\nUnion.  A slightly stooping figure, bushy grey hair, a rather care-worn\nkind face, a large penetrating eye--this was my first impression.  His\nmanner was wonderfully simple and courteous; and by his wish\n(\"s'accommodarsi\") we sat down in a little group around him.  This\nabsence of formality was, I thought, no excuse for the bad manners of a\nlady of rank, who pulled out a fountain pen, and asked his Holiness to\nsign the photograph of her extensive family.[19]  The Pope looked at\nthe little implement and shook his head.  \"Non capisco queste cose de\nnuova moda,\" he said; and we followed him into another room--I think\nhis private library--where he seated himself before a great golden\ninkstand, and with a long quill pen wrote beneath the family group a\nverse from the hundred and twenty-seventh Psalm.[20]  I had an\nopportunity of asking, not for an autograph, but for a blessing on our\nOxford Benedictines, and on my mother-house at Fort Augustus.\n\nNext day my friend and I left Rome for Monte Cassino--my first visit to\nthe cradle of our venerable Order.  I was deeply impressed, and felt,\nperhaps, on the summit of the holy mount, nearer heaven, both\nmaterially and spiritually, than I had ever {18} done before.  To\ncelebrate Mass above the shrine of Saint Benedict, at an altar designed\nby Raphael, was my Sunday privilege.  The visitors at the abbey and a\ndevout crowd of _contadini_ (many of them from the foot of the\nmountain) were my congregation; and the monks sang the plain-chant mass\ngrouped round a huge illuminated _Graduale_ on an enormous lectern.\nThree memorable days here, and I had to hasten northward, halting very\nbriefly to renew old enchanting memories of Florence and Milan, and\nreaching Oxford just in time for the opening of the summer term.\n\n\n\n[1] Lord Bute once told me that it was from him that the Earl Marshal\nfirst learned the meaning and origin of the honourable augmentation\n(the demi-lion of Scotland) which he bore on his coat-armorial.\n\n[2] One of the first acts of Pope Pius X. had been to translate Bishop\nBourne of Southwark to the metropolitan see of Westminster, in\nsuccession to Cardinal Vaughan, who had died on June 19.  Archbishop\nBourne became a Cardinal in 1911.\n\n[3] My father used to hate this \"new-fangled phrase,\" as he called it.\n\"'See my way'!  What does the man mean by 'see my way'?   No, I do\n_not_ 'see my way,'\" he used to protest when a request for a\nsubscription or donation was prefaced by this unlucky formula, and the\nappeal was instantly consigned to the waste-paper basket.\n\n[4] Lord Goschen was elected on November 2 without a contest, the only\nother candidate \"in the running\" (Lord Rosebery) having declined to\nstand unless unopposed.  Our new Chancellor lived to hold the office\nfor little more than three years, dying in February, 1907.\n\n[5] Tylee's sole connection with India was that he had once been\ndomestic chaplain to Lord Ripon, who, however (much to his chagrin),\nleft him behind in England when he went out as Viceroy.  When the\nmonsignore preached at St. Andrews, as he occasionally did when\nvisiting George Angus there, the latter used to advertise him in the\nlocal newspaper as \"ex-chaplain to the late Viceroy of India,\" which\npleased him not a little.  He was fond of preaching, and carried about\nwith him in a tin box (proof against white ants) a pile of sermons,\nmostly translated by himself from the great French orators of the\neighteenth century, and laboriously committed to memory.  I remember\nhis once firing off at the astonished congregation of a small seaside\nchapel, _a propos des bottes_, Bossuet's funeral oration on Queen\nHenrietta Maria.\n\nThrough a friend at the Vatican, Tylee got a brief or rescript from the\nPope, who was told that he went to preach in India, and commended him\nin the document, with some reference to the missionary labours of St.\nFrancis Xavier in that country.  The monsignore was immensely proud of\nthis.  \"Haven't you seen my Papal Bull?\" he would cry when India\ncropped up in conversation, as it generally did in his presence.  The\nfact was that when in India the good man used to stay with a\nCommissioner or General commanding, and deliver one of his famous\nsermons in the station or garrison church, to a handful of British\nCatholics or Irish soldiers.  He never learned a word of any native\nlanguage, and did no more missionary work in India than if he had\nstayed at home in his Kensington villa.\n\n[6] The Dean, my host told me, whilst prowling about the crypt in\nsemi-darkness once noticed one of the chapels lit up by a rosy gleam.\nThe Chapter was promptly summoned, and the canon-sacrist interrogated\nas to how and why a votive red lamp had been suspended before an altar\nwithout decanal authority.  The crypt verger was called in to explain\nthe phenomenon.  \"Bless your heart, Mr. Dean,\" said the good man, \"that\nain't no red lamp you saw--only an old oil stove which I fished up and\nput in that chapel to try and dry up the damp a bit.\"\n\n[7] I suppose that there had been a Christian church on the site for\nthirteen centuries.  On the day of my visit it was locked and\nbarred--discouraging to pilgrims.\n\n[8] The converse of this story is that of the orthodox but sadly prosy\npreacher who was demonstrating at great length the certainty of his own\nimmortality.  \"Yes, my brethren, the mighty mountains shall one day be\ncast into the sea, but I shall live on.  Nay, the seas themselves, the\nvast oceans which cover the greater part of the earth, shall dry up;\nbut not I--not I!\"  And the congregation really thought that he never\nwould!\n\n[9] One more instance of Park repartee I must chronicle: the Radical\npolitician shouting, \"I want land reform--I want housing reform--I want\neducation reform--I want----\" and the disconcerting interruption,\n\"Chloroform!\"\n\n[10] His mother, though a Catholic like himself, was a devotee of\n\"Father Ignatius,\" and lived at Llanthony.  She travelled about\neverywhere with the visionary \"Monk of the Church of England,\" acting\nas pew-opener, money-taker, and general mistress of the ceremonies at\nhis lectures, and had published an extraordinary biography of him.\n\n[11] Have they ever been reprinted?  I know not.  Here they are:--\n\n    \"Leave him alone:\n  The death forgotten, and the truth unknown.\n    Enough to know\n  Whate'er he feared, he never feared a foe.\n    Believe the best,\n  O English hearts! and leave him to his rest.\"\n\n[12] These words were penned in 1449 by one whom a contemporary layman\ndescribed on his death as \"the wisest, the most perfect, the most\nlearned, and the holiest prelate whom the Church has in our day\npossessed.\"  His beautiful tomb is in the Minerva church in Rome.\nExactly a century later (1549) Cirillo Franchi wrote on the same\nsubject, and in the same vein, to Ugolino Gualteruzzi: \"It is their\ngreatest happiness to contrive that while one is saying _Sanctus_, the\nother should say _Sabaoth_, and a third _Gloria tua_, with certain\nhowls, bellowings, and guttural sounds, so that they more resemble cats\nin January than flowers in May!\"\n\nWho recalls now Ruskin's famous invective against modern Italian music,\nin which, after lauding a part-song, \"done beautifully and joyfully,\"\nwhich he heard in a smithy in Perugia, he goes on: \"Of bestial howling,\nand entirely frantic vomiting up of hopelessly damned souls through\ntheir still carnal throats, I have heard more than, please God, I will\nendeavour to hear ever again, in one of his summers.\"  It is fair to\nsay that the reference here is probably not to church music.\n\n[13] The name which we English used playfully to give to the great\nheavy leather curtains which hang at the entrance of the Roman churches.\n\n[14] Speaking of the impression of _triumph_ which one receives on\nentering St. Peter's, she continues: \"Tandis que dans les eglises\ngothiques, l'impression est de s'agenouiller, de joindre les mains avec\nun sentiment d'humble priere et de profond regret, dans St. Pierre, au\ncontraire, le mouvement involuntaire serait d'ouvrir les bras en signe\nde joie, de relever la tete avec bonheur et epanouissement.\"--_Recit\nd'une Soeur_, ii. 298.\n\n[15] The thirteenth centenary of St. Gregory the Great (d. March 12,\n1904).\n\n[16] It was at this supreme moment that an Englishman of the baser sort\nonce rose to his feet, and looking round exclaimed, \"Is there no one in\nthis vast assemblage who will lift up his voice with me, and protest\nagainst this idolatry?\"  \"If you don't get down in double quick time,\"\nretorted an American who was on his knees close by, \"there's one man in\nthis vast assemblage who will lift up his foot and kick you out of the\nchurch!\"\n\n[17] A day or two after writing these lines (1921) I heard that this\nfamous palazzo had been acquired as an official residence by the\nBrazilian Ambassador to the Quirinal.\n\n[18] The Scottish Earldom of Newburgh (1660), of which Kynnaird was the\nsecond title, had been adjudged to Prince Bandini's mother by the House\nof Lords in 1858.  The Duca Mandragone consulted me as to the expense\nof three years at Oxford for his son.  He thought the sum I named very\nreasonable; but I really believe he supposed me to be quoting the\nfigure in _lire_, not in pounds sterling, which he found quite\nimpossible.\n\n[19] Would Lady X---- (who was familiar with Courts) have acted thus in\nan audience granted her by King Edward VII.?  I rather think not.\n\n[20] Verse 4.  \"Filii tui sicut noveliae olivarum, in circuitu mensae\ntuae.\"\n\n\n\n\n{19}\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n1904\n\nAbbot Gasquet, who had many friends in Oxford, was much in residence\nthere during the summer of 1904, as he was giving the weekly\nconferences to our undergraduates.  His host, Mgr. Kennard, usually\nasked me to dinner on Sundays, \"to keep the Abbot going,\" which\nreleased me from the chilly collation (cold mutton and cold rhubarb\npie), the orthodox Sabbath evening fare in so many households.[1]  I\nrecall the lovely Sundays of this summer term, and the crowds of\nperipatetic dons and clerics in the parks and on the river bank: many\nof them, I fancy, the serious-minded persons who would have thought it\ntheir duty, a year previously, to attend the afternoon university\nsermon, lately abolished.  The afternoon discourse had come to be\nallotted to the second-rate preachers; and I had heard of a clergyman\nwho, when charged with walking in the country instead of attending at\nSt. Mary's, defended himself by saying that he preferred \"sermons from\nstones\" to sermons from \"sticks!\"[2]\n\n{20}\n\nThe biggest clerical gathering I ever saw in Oxford was on a bright May\nafternoon in 1904, when hundreds of parsons were whipped up from the\ncountry to oppose the abolition of the statute restricting the\nhonour-theology examinerships to clergymen.  Scores of black-coats were\nhanging about the Clarendon Buildings, waiting to go in and vote; and\nthey \"boo'd\" and cat-called in the theatre, refusing to let their\nopponents be heard.  They carried their point by an enormous\nmajority.[3]\n\nKennard took me to London, on another day in May, to see the\nAcademy--some astonishing Sargents, Mrs. Wertheimer all in black, with\ndiamonds which made you wink, and the Duchess of Sutherland in arsenic\ngreen, painted against a background of dewy magnolia-leaves,\nextraordinarily vivid and brilliant.  I was at Blenheim a few days\nlater, and admired there (besides the wonderful tapestries and a\nroomful of Reynolds's) two striking portraits--one by Helleu, the other\nby Carolus-Duran--of the young American Duchess of Marlborough.\n\nAn enjoyable event in June was the quadrennial open-air Greek play at\nBradfield College--_Alcestis_ on this occasion, not so thrilling as\n_Agamemnon_ four years ago, but very well done, and the death of the\nheroine really very touching.  A showery {21} garden party at beautiful\nOsterley followed close on this: the Crown Prince of Sweden, who was\nthe guest of honour, had forgotten to announce the hour of his arrival,\nwas not met at the station, and walked up in the rain.  I sat for a\ntime with Bishop Patterson and the old Duke of Rutland (looking very\ntottery), and we spoke of odd texts for sermons.  The Bishop mentioned\na \"total abstinence\" preacher who could find nothing more suitable than\n\"The young men who carried the _bier_ stood still\"!  The Duke's\ncontribution was the verse \"Let him that is on the housetop not come\ndown,\" the sermon being against \"chignons,\" and the actual text the\nlast half of the verse--\"Top-knot come down\"!  They were both pleased\nwith my reminiscence of a sermon preached against Galileo, in 1615,\nfrom the text, \"Viri Galilaei, quid statis aspicientes in coelum?\"\n\nAs soon as I could after term I went north to Scotland, where I was\nengaged to superintend the Oxford Local examinations at the Benedictine\nconvent school at Dumfries.  It was a new experience for me to preside\nover school-girls!  I found them much less fidgety than boys, but it\nstruck me that the masses of hair tumbling into their eyes and over\ntheir desks must be a nuisance: however, I suppose they are used to it.\nThe convent, founded by old Lady Herries, was delightfully placed atop\nof a high hill, overlooking the river Nith, the picturesque old Border\ntown, and a wide expanse of my native Galloway.  My work over, I went\non to visit the Edmonstoune-Cranstouns at their charming home close to\nthe tumbling Clyde.  I found them entertaining a party of Canadian\nbowlers and their ladies; {22} and in the course of the day we were all\ndecorated with the Order of the Maple-leaf!  I went south after this to\nspend a few days with my good old friend Bishop Wilkinson, at Ushaw\nCollege, near Durham, of which he was president.  An old Harrovian, and\none of the few survivors of Newman's companions at Littlemore, he was\nhimself a Durham man (his father had owned a large estate in the\ncounty), and had been a keen farmer, as well as an excellent parish\npriest, before his elevation to the bishopric of Hexham.  He showed me\nall over the finely equipped college (which he had done much to\nimprove), and pointing out a Dutch landscape, with cattle grazing,\nhanging in a corridor, remarked, \"That is by a famous 'old master.'  I\ndon't know much about pictures, but I do know something about cows; and\nGod never made a cow like that one!\"[4]  The good old man held an\nordination during my visit, and was quite delighted (being himself a\nthorough John Bull) that \"John Bull\" happened to be the name of one of\nhis candidates for the priesthood.  \"Come again soon,\" he said, when I\nkissed his ring as I took my leave; \"they give us wine at table when\nthere is a guest, and I do like a glass of sherry with my lunch.\"  The\nold bishop lived for nearly four years longer, but I never saw him\nagain.\n\nI was delighted with a visit I paid a little later to Hawkesyard\nPriory, the newly acquired property {23} of the Dominicans in\nStaffordshire: a handsome modern house (now their school) in a\nfinely-timbered park, and close by the new monastery, its spacious\nchapel, with carved oak stalls, a great sculptured reredos recalling\nAll Souls or New College, and an organ which had been in our chapel at\nEton in my school days.  I made acquaintance here with the young\nBlackfriar who was to matriculate in the autumn at our Benedictine\nHall--the first swallow, it was hoped, of the Dominican summer, the\nrevival of the venerable Order of Preachers _in gremio\nuniversitatis_.[5]\n\nA kind and musical friend[6] insisted on carrying me off this August to\nMunich, to attend the Mozart-Wagner festival there.  We stayed at the\nfamous old \"Four Seasons,\" and I enjoyed renewing acquaintance, after\nmore than thirty years, with a city which seemed to me very like what\nit was in 1871.  The Mozart operas (at the small Residenz-theater) were\nrather disappointing.  The title-role in _Don Giovanni_ was perfectly\ndone by Feinhals; but Anna and Elvira squalled, not even in tune.  The\nenchanting music of Zauberfloete hardly compensated for the tedious\nstory; and no one except the {24} Sarastro (one Hesch, a Viennese) was\nfirst-class.  The Wagner plays, in the noble new Prinz Regenten\ntheatre, pleased me much more: Knote and Van Rooy were quite excellent,\nand Feinhals even better as the Flying Dutchman than as Don Giovanni.\nI heard more Mozart on the Assumption in our Benedictine basilica of\nSt. Boniface--the Twelfth Mass, done by a mixed choir in the gallery!\nI preferred the Sunday high mass at the beautiful old Frauenkirche,\nwith its exquisite stained glass, and its towers crowned with the\ncurious renaissance cupolas which the Muencheners first called \"Italian\ncaps,\" and later \"masskruege,\" or beer-mugs.  I admired the attention\nand devotion of the great congregation at the cathedral: a few stood,\nnearly all knelt, throughout the long service, but no one seemed to\nthink of sitting.\n\nWe made one day the pleasant steamer trip round Lake Starnberg, with\nits pretty wooded shores, and the dim mysterious snow-clad Alps\n(Wetterstein and other peaks) looming in the background.  A middle-aged\nGraf on board (I think an ex-diplomatist) talked interestingly on many\nsubjects, Bismarck among others.  He said that the only serious attempt\nat reconciliation between him and the Kaiser, ten years before, had\nbeen frustrated not by the latter but by Bismarck himself, who was\nconstantly ridiculing the young Emperor both in public and in private.\nIt was odd, he added, how the number _three_ had pervaded Bismarck's\nlife and personality.  His motto was \"In Trinitate robur\": he had\nserved three emperors, fought in three wars, signed three treaties of\npeace, established the Triple Alliance, had three children and three\nestates; and {25} his arms were a trefoil and three oak-leaves.\nTalking of Austria, our friend quoted a dictum of Talleyrand (very\ninteresting in 1921)--\"Austria is the House of Lords of Europe: as long\nas it is not dissolved it will restrain the Commons.\"  Dining together\nin our hotel at Munich, he told us that the \"Four Seasons\" possessed,\nor had possessed, the finest wine in Europe, having bought up Prince\nMetternich's famous cellar (including his priceless Johannisberger and\nSteinberger Cabinet hocks) at his death.  Of Metternich he said it was\na fact that in 1825 Cardinal Albani was instructed by the Pope to sound\nthe great statesman as to whether he desired a Cardinal's hat--\"in\nwhich case,\" added his Holiness, \"I will propose him in the next Secret\nConsistory.\"\n\nWe were much amused at reading in a local newspaper the result of a\n\"longest word\" competition.  The prize-winners were\n\"Transvaaltruppentropentransport\ntrampelthiertreibentrauungsthraenentragoedie,\" and\n\"Mekkamuselmannenmeuchelmoerdermohrenmuttermarmormonumentenmacher\"![7] I\nhad hitherto considered the longest existing word to be the Cherokee\n\"Winitawigeginaliskawlungtanawneletisesti\"; it was given me by a French\nmissionary to that North American tribe, whom I once met at the Comte\nde Franqueville's house in Paris, {26} and who said it meant,\n\"They-will-now-have-finished-their-compliments-to-you-and-to-me\"!  I\nremember the same good priest telling me that when the first French\nmissionary bishop went to New Zealand, he found the natives incapable\nof pronouncing the word \"eveque\" or \"bishop,\" their language consisting\nof only thirteen letters, mostly vowels and liquids.  He therefore\ncoined the word _picopo_, from \"episcopus,\" which the natives applied\nto all Catholics.  English Catholics they called _picopo poroyaxono_,\nfrom Port Jackson (Sydney), which most of them had visited in trading\nships; while French Catholics were known as _picopo wee-wee_, from the\nconstantly-heard words, \"Oui, oui.\"\n\nOur pleasant sojourn at Munich over, we made a bee-line home (as we had\ndone from England to Bavaria), without stopping anywhere _en route_, as\nI was bound to be present at certain religious celebrations at\nWoodchester Priory, in the Vale of Stroud.  I was always much attracted\nby the Gloucestershire home of the Dominican Order: it was built of the\nwarm cream-coloured stone of the district, and with its gables, low\nspire, and high-pitched roofs looked as if it really belonged to the\npretty village, and was not, like most modern monasteries, a mere\naccretion of incongruous buildings round an uninteresting\ndwelling-house.[8]  From Woodchester I went over one day to Weston\nBirt, a vast ornate neo-Jacobean mansion set in the loveliest gardens,\nand a not unworthy country pendant to the owner's {27} palace in Park\nLane, to which (as I told my hostess) I once adjudged the second place\namong the great houses of London.[9]\n\nI spent the rest of the Long Vacation at Fort Augustus, whither the\nsummer-like autumn had attracted many visitors, and where a golf-course\nhad been lately opened.  Golf, too, and nothing but golf, was in the\nair during my annual visit to St. Andrews, which coincided with the\nMedal Week there.  A lady told me that, looking for a book to give her\ngolfing daughter on her birthday, she was tempted by a pretty volume\ncalled _Evangeline, Tale of a Caddie_, and was disappointed to find\nthat Longfellow meant something quite different by \"Acadie!\"  \"Medal\nDay\" was perfect, and the crowd enormous.  I was passing the links as\ntwo famous competitors (Laidlaw and Mure Fergusson) came in--a cordon\nround the putting-green, and masses of spectators watching with bated\nbreath.  No cheers or enthusiasm as at cricket or football--a curious\n(and _I_ thought depressing) spectacle.  In the club I came on old Lord\n---- (of Session), anathematizing his luck and his partner, as his\nmanner was.  Some one told me that it was only at golf that he really\nlet himself go.  Once in Court he addressed a small boy, whose head\nhardly appeared above the witness-box, with dignified solicitude: \"Tell\nme, my boy, do you understand the nature of an {28} oath?\"  \"Aye, my\nlord,\" came the youngster's prompt response, \"ain't I your caddie?\"\n\nI think that it was at the climax of the medal-week festivities that\nthe news came of the sudden death (in his sleep) of Sir William\nHarcourt at Nuneham, to which he had only lately succeeded.  He had\nsurvived just ten years the crowning disappointment of his life, his\npassing-over for the premiership on the final resignation of Gladstone.\nHe had long outlived (no small achievement) the intense unpopularity of\nhis early years; and it seemed almost legendary to recall how three\nmembers of parliament had once resolved to invite to dinner the\nindividual they disliked most in the world.  Covers were laid (as the\nreporters say) for six; but only one guest turned up--Sir William\nVernon Harcourt, who had been invited by all three!\n\nI reached Oxford in October to find our Benedictine Hall migrated from\nthe suburbs to a much more commodious site in dull but rather dignified\nBeaumont Street.[10]  The proximity of a hideous \"Gothic\" hotel, and of\nthe ponderous pseudo-Italian Ashmolean Galleries, did not appeal to us;\nbut the site was conveniently central, and was moreover holy ground,\nfor we were within the actual enclosure of the old Carmelite Priory,\nand close to Benedictine {29} Worcester, beyond which Cistercian Rowley\n(on the actual site of whose high altar now stands the bookstall of the\nL.N.W.R. station!) and Augustinian Oseney had stretched out into the\ncountry.  One of my first guests in Beaumont Street was Alfred Plowden,\nthe witty and genial Metropolitan magistrate, then just sixty, but as\ngood-looking as ever, and full of amusing yarns about his Westminster\nand Brasenose days.  I think he was the best _raconteur_ I ever met,\nand one of the most eloquent of speakers when once \"off\" on a subject\nin which he was really interested.  On this occasion he got started on\nJamaica, where he had been private secretary to the Governor after\nleaving Oxford; and his description of his experiences in that\nfascinating island was delightful to listen to.\n\nLord Ralph Kerr's son Philip, who got his First Class in history in\nJune, came up this term to try for an All Souls fellowship.  There is a\nsharp competition nowadays for these university plums; and the\nqualification is no longer, as the old jibe ran, \"bene natus, bene\nvestitus, medocriter doctus.\"  I prefer the older and sounder\nstandard--\"bene legere, bene construere, bene cantare.\"  There seemed,\nby the way, a certain whimsicality in some cases in the qualifications\nfor the Rhodes Scholarships here.  I had a call about this time from\nthe Archbishop of St. John's, Newfoundland, who wished to interest me\nin a scholar from that colony (called Sidney Herbert!) who was coming\nup after Christmas.  His Grace said that the youth had been required to\npass three \"tests\"--a religious one from his parish priest, an\nintellectual one, from the authorities of his college, and a social\none, from {30} his classmates; and I felt some curiosity as to the\nnature of the last-named.[11]  Amusing stories were current at this\ntime about the Rhodes Scholars.  One young don told me that an American\nscholar had replied, when asked what was his religion, \"Well, sir, I\ncan best describe myself as a _quasi_-Christian scientist.\"--\"Do you\nthink,\" the don asked me, \"he meant the word '_quasi_' to apply to\n'Christian' or to 'scientist'?\"  Another young American drifted into\nKeble, but never attended chapel--a circumstance unheard-of in that\nexclusively Anglican preserve.  Questioned as to whether he was not a\nmember of the \"Protestant Episcopal Church\" (if not, what on earth was\nhe doing at Keble?), he rejoined, \"Certainly not; he was a 'Latter-day\nSaint'!\"  He was deported without delay to a rather insignificant\ncollege, where it was unkindly said that the Head was so delighted to\nget a saint of any kind that he welcomed him with open arms.[12]\n\nA Rhodes Scholar, who had been also a fellow of his university in\nU.S.A., showed himself so lamentably below the expected standard, that\nhis Oxford tutor expressed his surprise at a scholar {31} and a fellow\nknowing so little.  \"I think you somewhat misapprehend the position,\"\nwas the reply.  \"In the University of X---- fellowships are awarded for\npurely political reasons.\"  To another college tutor, who voiced his\ndisappointment that after a complete course at his own university a\nRhodes Scholar should be so deplorably deficient in Greek and Latin,\ncame the ready explanation: \"In the university where _I_ was raised,\nsir, we only _skim_ the classics!\"  A Balliol Rhodes Scholar, who had\nfailed to present the essential weekly essay, replied to his tutor's\nexpostulation, in the inimitable drawl of the Middle West: \"Well, sir,\nI have not found myself able to com-pose an essay on the theme\nindicated by the college authorities; but I have brought you instead a\nfew notes of my own on the po-sition of South Dakota in American\npolitics.\"\n\nThe mention of classics reminds me that the question of the retention\nor abolition of compulsory Greek was a burning one at this time.\nCongregation had voted for its abolition in the summer of 1904; but on\nNovember 29 we reversed that decision by a majority of 36.  I met Dean\nLiddell's widow at dinner that week, and said that I supposed that she,\nlike myself, was old-fashioned enough to want Greek retained.  \"_Of\ncourse_ I am,\" said the old lady: \"Think of the Lexicon!\" which I had\nin truth forgotten for the moment, as well as the comfortable addition\nwhich it no doubt made to her jointure.  Rushforth of St. Mary Hall, to\nwhom I repeated this little dialogue after dinner, told me that he\npossessed a letter from Scott to Liddell, calling his attention to\nAristoph. Lys., v. 1263, and {32} adding, \"Do you think that [Greek:\nchunage parsene] in this line means 'a hunting parson'?\" Talking of\nGreek, I interested my friends by citing two lines from the _Ajax_,\nwhich (I had never seen this noticed) required only a change from\nplural to singular to be a perfect invocation to the Blessed Virgin:\n\n  [Greek: Kalo darogon ten te parthena,\n          aei th horonta panta ten brotois pathe.][13]\n\n\nA distinguished visitor to Oxford this autumn was Lord Rosebery, who\ncame up to open--no, that is not the word: to unveil--but I do not\nthink it was ever veiled: let us say to inaugurate, Frampton's fine\nbust of Lord Salisbury in the Union debating-hall.  To pronounce the\npanegyric of a political opponent, with whose principles, practice, and\nideals he had always been profoundly at variance, was just the task for\nLord Rosebery to perform with perfect tact, eloquence and taste.  His\nspeech was a complete success, and so was his graceful and polished\ntribute to the young president of the Union, W. G. Gladstone, whose\nlikeness, with his high collar and sleekly-brushed black hair, to the\nyouthful portrait of his illustrious grandfather, immediately behind\nhim, was quite noticeable.\n\nA whimsical incident in connection with this visit of the ex-premier\nmay be, at this distance of time, recalled without offence.  I had\nrepeated to his Oxford hostess a story told me by the Principal of a\nScottish university, of how Lord Rosebery, engaged to speak at a great\nLiberal meeting in a {33} northern city, found himself previously\ndining with a fanatically teetotal Provost, who provided for his guests\nno other liquid refreshment than orangeade in large glass jugs.  As\nthis depressing beverage circulated, the Liberal leader's spirits fell\nalmost to zero; and it was by the advice of my friend the principal\nthat, between the dinner and the meeting, he drove _ventre a terre_ to\nan hotel, and quaffed a pint of dry champagne before mounting the\nplatform and making a speech of fiery eloquence, which the good provost\nattributed entirely to the orangeade!  The lady, unknown to me, passed\non this delectable story to one of the Union Committee, who took it\nvery seriously: the result being that when Lord Rosebery reached the\ncommittee-room, just before the inauguration ceremony, a grave young\nman whispered to him confidentially: \"There are tea and coffee here;\nbut I have got your pint of cha[oe]pagne behind that screen: _will you\ncome and have it now?_\"  \"Well, do you know?\" said the great man with\nhis usual tact,[14] \"I think for once in a way I will have a cup of\ncoffee!\"  I do not suppose he ever knew exactly why this untimely pint\nof champagne was proffered to him by his undergraduate hosts; and he\nprobably thought no more about the matter.\n\nLunching with my friend Bishop Mitchinson, the {34} little Master of\nPembroke, I was shown his new portrait in the hall--quite a good\npainting, but not a bit like him, though not in that respect singular\namong our Oxford portraits.  The supposed picture of Devorguilla,\nfoundress of Balliol, is, I have been assured, the likeness of an\nOxford baker's daughter, who was tried for bigamy in the eighteenth\ncentury.  An even more barefaced imposture is the \"portrait\" of\nEgglesfield (chaplain to Queen Philippa, wife of Edward III, and\nfounder of Queen's), which hangs, or hung, in the hall of that college.\nIt is really, and manifestly, the likeness of a seventeenth-century\nFrench prelate--probably Bossuet--in the episcopal dress of the time of\nLouis XIV!  Most of our Magdalen portraits are, I think, authentic; but\nthen they do not profess to represent personages of the early Middle\nAges!  The best and most interesting portraits at Oxford belong to the\nnineteenth century.  I always enjoyed showing my friends those of Tait\nand Manning, side by side in Balliol Hall, and recalling how their\ncollege tutor once remarked, when they had left his room after a\nlecture: \"Those two undergraduates are worthy and talented young men: I\nhope I shall live to see them both archbishops!\"  His prophetic wish\nwas duly fulfilled, though he had probably never dreamt of Canterbury\nand Westminster!\n\nI remember pleasant visits this autumn to the Abingdons at Wytham\nAbbey, their fine old place, set in loveliest woods, within an easy\ndrive of Oxford.  \"Why Abbey?\" I asked my host, who did not seem to\nknow that the place had never been a monastery, though part of the\nhouse was of the fifteenth century.  Lord Abingdon himself was a kind\n{35} of patriarch,[15] with a daughter married four and twenty years,\nand a small son not yet four.  He was trying to dispose of some of his\nland for building, but without great success.  The Berkshire side of\nthe Thames (to my mind far the most beautiful and attractive) was not\nthe popular quarter for extensions from Oxford, which was spreading far\nout towards the north in the uninteresting directions of Banbury and\nWoodstock.\n\nTerm over, I went north to spend Christmas with the Butes at\nMountstuart, where I found my young host, as was only natural, much\ninterested in a recent decision of the Scottish Courts, which had\ndiverted into his pocket L40,000 which his father had bequeathed to two\nof the Scottish Catholic dioceses.[16]  My Christmas here (the first\nfor many years) was saddened by old memories; for I missed at every\nturn the pervading presence of my lost friend, to whose taste and\ngenius the varied beauty of his island home was so largely due.\nHowever, our large party of young people gave the right note {36} of\nhilarity to the time; and if there was little sunshine without (I noted\nthat we had never a gleam from Christmas to New Year), there was plenty\nof warmth and brightness and merriment within.  The graceful crypt (all\nthat was yet available) of the lovely chapel was fragrant and bright\nwith tuberoses, chrysanthemums and white hyacinths; and the religious\nservices of the season were carried out with the care and reverence\nwhich had been the rule, under Lord Bute's supervision, for more than\nthirty years.  The day after New Year, young Bute left home for London\nand Central Africa (the attraction of the black man never seemed to\npall on him), and I made my way to our Highland Abbey to spend the\nremainder of the Christmas vacation.\n\n\n\n[1] \"Do you very much mind dining in the middle of the day?\" a would-be\nhostess at St. Andrews once asked George Angus.  \"Oh, not a bit,\" was\nhis reply, \"as long as I get another dinner in the evening!\"\n\n[2] It was, I think, a Scottish critic who suggested an emendation of\nthe line, \"Sermons from stones, books in the running brooks.\"\nObviously, he said, the transposition was a clerical error, the true\nreading being, \"Sermons from books, stones in the running brooks!\"\n\n[3] Another attempt, nine years later, to abolish the same statute was\ndecisively defeated; but in 1920 the restriction of degrees in divinity\nto Anglican clergymen was removed by a unanimous vote, though the\nexaminerships are still confined to clergymen.\n\n[4] \"Well, now, that is not my idea of an owl,\" said a casual visitor\nto a bird-stuffer's shop, looking at one sitting on a perch in a rather\ndark corner.  \"Isn't it?\" replied the bird-stuffer dryly, peering up\nover his spectacles.  \"Well, it's God's, anyhow.\"  The owl was a live\none!\n\n[5] The \"young Blackfriar\" obtained (in History) the first First Class\ngained in our Hall, rose to be Provincial of his Order in England, and\nhad the happiness of seeing, on August 15, 1921, the foundation stone\nof a Dominican church and priory laid at Oxford.\n\n[6] Music was his hobby: by profession he was a chemist, and the City\nAnalyst of Oxford.  I introduced him as such to dear Mgr. Kennard, who\npromptly asked us both to dinner, and during the meal laboriously\ndiscussed the mediaeval history of Oxford, which he had carefully\n\"mugged up\" beforehand.  He had understood me to say that my friend's\nposition was that of City _Annalist_!\n\n[7] The English of these uncouth concatenations, which are at least\nevidence of the facility with which any number of German words can be\nstrung together into one, appears to be (as far as I can unravel them):\n1. \"The tearful tragedy of the marriage of a dromedary-driver on the\ntransport of Transvaal troops to the tropics.\"  2. \"The maker of a\nmarble monument for the Moorish mother of a wholesale assassin among\nthe Mussulmans at Mecca.\"  Pro-dee-gious!\n\n[8] Such were nearly all our Benedictine priories in England--a\ncircumstance which added to their historic interest, if not to their\narchitectural homogeneity.\n\n[9] I was once invited to write an article on the \"six finest houses in\nLondon.\"  The word \"finest,\" of course, wants defining.  However, my\nselection, in order of merit, was:--Holland House (perhaps rather a\ncountry house in the metropolitan area than a London house),\nDorchester, Stafford, Bridgewater, and Montagu Houses, and Gwydyr\nHouse, Whitehall.  How many Londoners know the last-named?\n\n[10] Built about a century previously, to provide proper access to\nWorcester College, then and long afterwards dubbed (from its remoteness\nand inaccessibility) \"Botany Bay.\"  The only approach to it had been by\na narrow lane, across which linen from the wash used to hang, and once\nimpeded the dignified progress of a Vice-Chancellor.  \"If there is a\ncollege there,\" cried the potentate in a passion, \"there must be a road\nto it.\"  And the result was Beaumont Street!\n\n[11] Oxonians know the tradition that an All Souls candidate is invited\nto dinner at high table, and given cherry pie; and that careful note is\ntaken as to the manner in which he deals with the stones!\n\n[12] A subsequent legend related that the undergraduates of his new\ncollege were greatly interested in discovering (from reference to an\nencyclopaedia) that a Latter-day Saint was equivalent to a Mormon.\n\"Where were the freshman's wives?\" was the natural inquiry.  Answer\ncame there none; but the excitement grew intense when it was rumoured\nthat he had applied to a fellow of Magdalen for six ladies' tickets for\nthe chapel service.\n\n[13] \"And I call to my assistance her who is ever a Virgin\n     And who ever looks on all the sufferings among men.\"\n              --SOPH. AJAX. v. 835.\n\n[14] \"My lord! my lord!\" a Midlothian farmer (who had just been served\nwith an iced souffle) whispered to his host at a tenants' dinner at\nDalmeny: \"I'm afraid there's something wrang wi' the pudden: it's stane\ncauld.\"  Lord Rosebery instantly called a footman, and spoke to him in\nan undertone.  \"No, do you know?\" he said, turning to his guest with a\nsmile, \"it is quite right.  I find that this kind of pudding is _meant_\nto be cold!\"\n\n[15] Less so, however, than the then Earl of Leicester (the second),\nbetween whose eldest daughter (already a grandmother) and youngest\nchild there was an interval of some fifty years.  Lord Ronald Gower\nonce told Queen Victoria (who liked such titbits of family gossip) the\nastonishing, if not unique, fact that Lord Leicester married exactly a\ncentury after his father.  The Queen flatly refused to believe it; and\nas the Court was at the moment at Aix-les-Bains, Lord Ronald was for\nthe time unable to adduce documentary evidence that he was not \"pulling\nher Majesty's leg.\"  The respective dates were, as a matter of fact,\n1775 and 1875.\n\n[16] Lord Bute could never do anything quite like other people; and his\nlegacies to Galloway and Argyll had been hampered by conditions to\nwhich no Catholic bishop, even if he accepted them for himself, could\npossibly bind his successor.\n\n\n\n\n{37}\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n1905\n\nThere had been an official visitation, by Abbot Gasquet, of our abbey\nat Fort Augustus in January, 1905.  I had been unable to attend it, but\nthe news reached me at Oxford that one of its results had been the\nresignation of his office by the abbot.  This was not so important as\nit sounded; for the Holy See did not \"see its way\" (horrid phrase!) to\naccept the proffered resignation, and the abbot remained in office.\n\nI attended this month a Catholic \"Demonstration,\" as it was called (a\nword I always hated), in honour of the Bishop of Birmingham--or the\n\"Catholic Bishop of Oxford,\" as an enthusiastic convert, who had set up\na bookshop in the city, with a large portrait of Bishop Ilsley in the\nwindow, chose to designate him.  The function was in the town hall, and\nFather Bernard Vaughan made one of his most florid orations, which got\nterribly on the nerves of good old Sir John Day (the Catholic judge),\nwho sat next me on the platform.  \"Why on earth doesn't somebody stop\nhim?\" he whispered to me in a loud \"aside,\" as the eloquent Jesuit \"let\nhimself go\" on the subject of the Pope and the King.  On the other\nhand, I heard the Wesleyan Mayor, who was in the chair, murmur to _his_\n{38} neighbour, \"This is eloquence indeed!\"  \"Vocal relief\" (as the\nreporters say at classical concerts) was afforded by a capital choir,\nwhich sang with amazing energy, \"Faith of our Fathers,\" and Faber's\nsentimental hymn, the opening words of which--\"Full in the pant\" ...\nare apt to call forth irreverent smiles.\n\nI took Bernard Vaughan (who knew little of Oxford) a walk round the\ncity on Sunday afternoon.  We looked into one of the most \"advanced\"\nchurches, where a young curate, his biretta well on the back of his\nhead, was catechising a class of children.  \"Tell me, children,\" we\nheard him say, \"who was the first Protestant?\"  \"The Devil, Father!\"\ncame the shrill response.  \"Yes, quite right, the Devil!\" and we left\nthe church much edified.\n\nThere was good music to be heard in Oxford in those early days of the\nyear; and I attended some enjoyable concerts with a music-loving member\nof my Hall.  The boy-prodigies, of whom there were several above the\nhorizon at this time, generally had good audiences at Oxford; and I\nused to find something inexplicably uncanny in the attainments and\nperformances of these gifted youngsters--Russian, German and English.\nAstonishing technique--as far as was possible for half-grown\nfingers--one might fairly look for; but whence the _sehnsucht_, the\npassionate yearning, that one seemed to find in some, at least, of\ntheir interpretations?  That they should feel it appears incredible:\nyet it could not have been a mere imitative monkey-trick, a mere echo\nof the teaching of their master.  And why should there be this\nprecocious development in music alone, of all the arts?  These things\nwant {39} explaining psychologically.  I was amused at one of these\nrecitals to hear the eminent violinist Marie Hall (who happened to be\nsitting next me) say that the boy (it was the Russian Mischa Elman)\ncould not possibly play Bazzini's _Ronde des Lutins_ (he did play it,\nand admirably), and also that he had suddenly \"struck,\" to the dismay\nof his _impresario_, against appearing as a \"wunderkind\" in sailor kit\nand short socks, and had insisted on a dress suit!\n\nThe Torpids were rowed in icy weather this year; I took Lady\nGainsborough and her daughter on to Queen's barge; and Queen's (in\nwhich they were interested) made, with the help of two Rhodes Scholars,\ntwo bumps, amid shouts of \"Go it, _Quaggas_!\"--a new _petit nom_ since\nmy time, when only the Halls had nicknames.  Tuckwell, of an older\ngeneration than mine, reports in his reminiscences how St. Edmund Hall,\nin his time, was encouraged by cries from the bank of \"On, St. Edmund,\non!\" and not, as in these degenerate days, \"Go it, Teddy!\"  It was a\nnovelty on the river to see the coaching done from bicycles instead of\nfrom horseback.  But bicycles were ubiquitous at Oxford, and doubtless\nof the greatest service; and my young Benedictines and I went far\nafield awheel on architectural and other excursions.  Passing the\nbroken and battered park railings of beautiful Nuneham (not yet\nrepaired by Squire \"Lulu\"[1]), my companion commented on their\ncondition; and I told him the legend of the former owner, who was so\n{40} disconsolate at the death of his betrothed (a daughter of Dean\nLiddell) on their wedding-day, that he never painted or repaired his\npark railings again!\n\nI heard at the end of February of the engagement (concluded in a\nbeauty-spot of the Italian Riviera) of my young friend Bute--he would\nnot be twenty-four till June--to Augusta Bellingham.  A boy-and-girl\nattachment which had found its natural and happy conclusion--that was\nthe whole story, though the papers, of course, were full of impossibly\nromantic tales about both the young people.  They went off straight to\nRome, in Christian fashion, to ask the Pope's blessing on their\nbetrothal; and I just missed them there, for I had the happiness this\nspring of another brief visit to Italy, at the invitation of a\nNeapolitan friend.  I spent two or three delightful weeks at the\nBertolini Palace, high above dear dirty Naples, with an entrancing view\nover the sunlit bay, and Vesuvius (quite quiescent) in the background.\nI found the city not much changed in thirty years, and, as always, much\nmore attractive than its queer and half-savage population.  Watching\nthe cab-drivers trying to urge their lumbering steeds into a canter, I\nthought how oddly different are the sounds employed by different\nnations to make their horses go.  The Englishman makes the well-known\nuntransferable click with his tongue: the Norwegian imitates the sound\nof a kiss: the Arab rolls an r-r-r: the Neapolitan coachman _barks_\nWow! wow! wow!  The subject is worth developing.\n\nI met at Naples, among other people, Sir Charles Wyndham, with his\nunmistakable \"Criterion\" voice, and as cynically amusing off the stage\nas he generally {41} was on it.  He reminded me of what I had\nforgotten--that I had once shown him all over our Abbey at Fort\nAugustus.  I told him of a lecture Beerbohm Tree had recently given at\nOxford, and showed him my copy of a striking passage[2] which I had\ntranscribed from a shorthand note of the lecture.  \"Noble words,\" the\nveteran actor agreed, \"I know them well; but they were not written for\nhis Oxford lecture.  I remember them a dozen or more years ago, in an\naddress he gave (I think in 1891) to the Playgoers' Club; and the last\nclause ran--'to point _in the twilight of a waning century_ to the\ngreater light beyond.'  Those words would not of course be applicable\nin 1904.\"\n\nI had looked forward to a day in the museum, with its wonderful\nsculptures and unique relics of Pompeii; but I was lost there, for the\nwhole collection was being rearranged, and no catalogue available.  The\nCathedral too was closed, being under restoration--for the sixth time\nin six centuries!  Some of the Neapolitan churches seemed to me sadly\nwanting in internal order and cleanliness, an exception being a\nspotless and perfectly-kept convent chapel on the hill, conveniently\nnear me for daily mass.  The German Emperor made, with his customary\nsuddenness, a descent on Naples during {42} my stay.  The quays and\nstreets were hastily decorated, and there was a ferment of excitement\neverywhere; but I fled from the hurly-burly by cable-railway\n(_funicoli-funicola!_) to the heights of San Martino, to visit the\ndesecrated and abandoned Certosa, now a \"national monument\": tourists\ntrampling about the lovely church with their hats on.  It made me sick,\nand I told the astonished guide so.  The cloister garth, with its sixty\nwhite marble columns, charmed and impressed me; but all _molto triste_.\nThree old Carthusian monks, I heard, were still permitted to huddle in\nsome corner of their monastery till they dropped and died.[3]\n\nA day I spent at Lucerne on my way home, in fog, snow, and sleet (no\nsign of spring), I devoted partly to the \"Kriegs-und-Frieden\"\nMuseum--chiefly _kriegs!_ with an astonishingly complete collection of\nall things appertaining to war.  I went to Downside on my arrival in\nEngland, had some talk with the kind abbot on Fort Augustus affairs,\nand admired the noble church, a wonderful landmark with its lofty\ntower, choir now quite complete externally, and _chevet_ of flanking\nchapels.  I got to Arundel in time for the functions of Holy Week, and\nthought I had seen nothing more beautiful in Italy than St. Philip's\ngreat church on Maundy Thursday, its \"chapel of repose\" bright with\nlilies, azaleas and tulips, tall silver candlesticks and hangings of\nrose-coloured velvet.  I had landed in {43} England speechless with a\ncold caught at Lucerne, and could neither sing nor preach.  Summer Term\nat Oxford opened with a snowstorm, and May Day was glacial.  I found I\nhad been elected to the new County Club, a good house with a really\ncharming garden, and (to paraphrase Angelo Cyrus Bantam) \"rendered\nbewitching by the absence of ---- undergraduates, who have an\namalgamation of themselves at the Union.\"  The most noteworthy visitor\nto the Union this term was Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman (then leader of\nthe Opposition), who made a somewhat vitriolic speech, lasting an hour,\nagainst the Government.  The 550 undergraduates present listened,\ncheered frequently--and voted against him by a large majority, a good\ndeal (I heard afterwards) to the old gentleman's chagrin.\n\nThe Archbishop of Westminster (Dr. Bourne) came to Oxford in May as the\nguest of Mgr. Kennard, who illuminated in his honour the garden and\nquad of his pretty old house in St. Aldate's, and gave a dinner and big\nreception, at neither of which I could be present, being laid up from a\nbicycle-accident.  It was Eights-week, and his Grace saw the races one\nevening, and I think was also present at a Newman Society debate, when\na motion advocating the setting up of a Catholic University in Ireland\nby the Government was rejected by a considerable majority.[4]  I was\nable to hobble to Balliol a few days later, when Sir Victor Horsley\ndelivered {44} the Boyle lecture to a crowded and distinguished\naudience.  I noted down as interesting one thing he said (I fancy it\nwas a quotation from somebody else[5]): \"Every scientific truth passes\nthrough three stages: in the first it is decried as absurd; in the\nsecond it is said to be opposed to revealed religion; in the third\neverybody knew it before!\"  Sir Victor's lecture left me, rightly or\nwrongly, under the impression that he was something of a sceptic; and I\nasked my neighbour, a clerical don of note, from Keble, why so many\nmedical bigwigs seemed inclined to atheism.  He answered (oddly enough)\nthat it was only what David had prophesied long ago when he asked\ndespairingly (Psalm lxxxvii. 11), _Numquid medici suscitabunt et\nconfitebuntur tibi?_ (\"Shall the physicians rise up and praise\nThee?\")--a curious little bit of exegesis from an Anglican.[6]\n\nJune 16 was a busy day--a garden party at Blenheim, with special trains\nfor the Oxford guests; the Duchess, in blue and white and a big black\nhat, welcoming her guests in her low, sweet, and curiously un-American\nvoice, and the little Duke rather affable in khaki (he was encamped\nwith the Oxfordshire Hussars in the park).  We sat about under the big\ncedars, and there was organ-music in the cool {45} white library, where\nI noticed that Sargent's very odd group of the ducal family had been\nhung--with not altogether happy effect--as a pendant to the famous and\nbeautiful group painted by Reynolds.  I got back to Oxford just in time\nfor the festival dinner of the Canning and Chatham Clubs, at which my\nold schoolfellow Alfred Lyttelton, Hugh Cecil, and other Tory\nnotabilities, were guests.  Alfred spoke admirably: Hugh, though loudly\ncalled upon, refused to speak at all.  The President of Magdalen, by\nwhom I sat, told me in pained tones how some Christ Church\nundergraduates, _suadente diabolo_, had recently scaled the wall into\nMagdalen deer-park, had dragged (Heaven knew how) over the wall two of\nour sacrosanct fallow deer, and had turned the poor brutes loose in the\n\"High\"--an outrage without precedent in the college annals.  I duly\nsympathized.\n\nA feature of Catholic and Benedictine interest in this year's\nCommemoration was the conferring of the honorary doctorate of letters\non my old friend and fellow-novice, Dom Germain Morin, the\ndistinguished patristic scholar.[7]  I did _not_ attend the hot and\ntiresome Encaenia, but I went to the Magdalen concert, where I found\nmyself talking between the songs to Lady Winchilsea, whose husband and\nbrother-in-law had been friends of mine at Eton, and had acted with me,\nI think, in more than one school play.  The lady was born a Harcourt,\n{46} and talked interestingly about beautiful Nuneham in the days of\nher girlhood.  I met her again next day at Radley College, where the\nannual \"gaudy\" was always a pleasant wind-up to the summer term.  It\nturned wet, and the usual concert was given, not _al fresco_, but in\nthe fine old panelled schoolroom with its open roof, once Sir George\nBowyer's barn.[8]  Two days later I kept yet another \"silver jubilee\"\n(following naturally on that of my receiving the Benedictine habit),\nnamely the anniversary of my religious profession.  Being in London, I\nspent the day with what piety was possible, in the Dominican monastery\nat Haverstock Hill, attending high mass in the beautiful church, dining\nwith the good friars, and sitting awhile in their pretty shady garden.\nOne of the fathers told me of a notice he had personally seen affixed\nto a pillar in Milan Cathedral in 1899.  I copied it forthwith, as one\nof the funniest things of the kind which I had ever seen.  Here it is\n_verbatim_:--\n\n\nAPPELE TO CHARITABLES.--The Brothers (so-called of Mercy) ask some\nslender Arms for their Hospital They harbour all kinds of diseases, and\nhave no respect for religion.\n\n\nI met this evening my nephew Kelburne, R.N., who had just been\nappointed first lieutenant on {47} H.M.S. _Renown_ (which was to take\nthe Prince and Princess of Wales to India); he was looking forward to a\ngood spell of leave and plenty of sport in the East.  He seemed very\nkeen on polo, and amused me with a yarn about his (naval) team having\nbeen offered L50 if they would kill Winston Churchill in their coming\nmatch against the House of Commons![9] The event of July was Bute's\nwedding in Ireland on the 6th.  I travelled straight to Castle\nBellingham two days previously, with Bute's Scots pipers in my train,\nmuch admired by the populace.  I found, of course, the little Louth\nvillage, and indeed the whole countryside, _en fete_.  The bride-elect,\nin inviting me, had spoken about \"a quiet wedding at home\"; but how was\nthat possible? for the day could not be other than a popular festival\nto the warm-hearted folk among whom \"Miss Augusta\" had spent all her\nlife.  The wedding guests, bidden and unbidden, converged on the little\ncountry church in every imaginable conveyance, from special trains and\nmotor-cars to the humble donkey-cart.  The marriage service was simple\nand devout, the officiant being neither cardinal nor bishop, but the\nbride's own parish priest, while the music was grave plain-chant,\nperfectly rendered, with an exquisite motett by Palestrina.  The royal\nStuart tartan worn by the bridegroom, and the vivid St. Patrick's blue\nof the bridesmaids' cloaks and hoods, made a picturesque splash of\ncolour against the masses of pure white lilies and marguerites with\nwhich the church was {48} decorated.  Most picturesque of all was the\ngoing-away of the happy pair from the little fishing-harbour, whither\nthey were preceded, accompanied, and followed by troops of friends.\nEmbarking in a white barge manned by oarsmen in the Bellingham\nliveries, they were rowed out to the steamer which was to take them\nacross the sea to their honeymoon in Galloway.  The pipers, following\nin another barge, played \"Johnnie Stuart's gone awa'\"; the band on the\npier struck up \"Come Back to Erin\"; and amid cheers and tears and\nacclamations and blessings the white boat turned the corner of the\npierhead and glided out over the rippling sunlit waters.  We were\nregaled afterwards with some delightful part-singing by a famous Dublin\nchoir on the castle lawn.  Next day I departed with the Loudouns for\nBelfast, where it rained as it _can_ rain only in Ireland, and I\nthought of one of Lady Dufferin's charming letters from the south of\nFrance to her Irish relatives:--\n\n\n\"O that I could transport a bit of that Provence sky which I have been\nenjoying, over your dear, dripping heads in Ireland!  It is a terrible\ndrawback on the goods of life at home to lead a web-foot existence.  I\nsometimes fancy that I could put up with any amount of despotic\nmonarchy taken warm, with Burgundy, rather than the British\nconstitution, with all that cold water!\"\n\n\nWe crossed to Stranraer in rain and mist, but found the sun shining in\nGalloway.  The Loudouns went on to Ayrshire, and I to visit my niece at\nDunskey, the new house which already looked old, with much dark oak,\ngood pictures, and fine old prints everywhere.  I liked the long and\nlofty terrace in front, commanding a beautiful view of the blue {49}\ncurve of the Irish Sea, the Mourne Mountains in the background, and,\nfar to the south-westward, the Isle of Man[10] hanging like an azure\ncloud on the horizon.  Everywhere round my dear old home,[11] in farms\nand village, gardens and woods, were signs of the changes and\nimprovements wrought by the late owner, who had barely lived to see\nthem.  _Sic vos non vobis_, I sadly said to myself, as I stood on the\npoint between the two bays at the foot of Dunskey Glen (his chosen\nresting-place), and looked at the simple granite cross rising above the\nbrackens and heather.  Portpatrick I found changed out of knowledge,\nwith its red-roofed houses, electric light, golf-course, and big hotel\non the brow of the hill.  _Tout passe_.  I had loved the quiet\nold-world village of my childhood, but I could not grudge the place its\nnew prosperity, and all was full of interest to me.  From Dunskey I\nwent on to Kelburne and Loudoun Castle--the latter big, imposing and\nbare, and a little suggestive of Castle Carabas! though new pictures\nand redecoration did much, later on, to improve the interior.  My\nexamination-week at the Dumfries convent followed, diversified by an\ninteresting visit to the local madhouse (euphemistically known as the\n\"Crichton Royal Institution\"), {50} said to be the finest lunatic\nasylum in Britain; with splendid buildings, in perfect condition, 800\nacres of fertile land, and the same number of patients, from country\ngentlemen to paupers.  The high wall round the establishment was being\nreplaced by a hedge, and the attendants were kept out of sight as much\nas possible, in accordance with the modern theory of not letting\nlunatics know that they were under restraint.[12]  The luxuriousness of\nthe whole place, in comparison with the home surroundings of most of\nthe inmates, was very noticeable; and the spectacle of a \"doited\"\nfarm-labourer seated in an arm-chair in a carpeted lounge, reading the\n_Graphic_ upside down, was certainly curious, if not instructive.\n\nI paid a visit to Eton this summer, on the occasion of the laying of\nthe foundation of the South African war memorial by Princess Alexander\nof Teck (her husband and brother were both Etonians), who looked\ncharming all in ivory white, with a long plume of Eton blue in her hat.\nThe school O.T.C. formed the guard of honour, the only _contretemps_\nbeing that several of the youthful warriors were overcome by the heat,\ndropping down in the ranks one after another, like so many ninepins.\nThe new building was to occupy the site of \"m' tutors\" (\"the tallest\nhouse in college,\" he had said to me on my first arrival, \"as I am the\ntallest master!\"), and I walked {51} through the hideous building for\nthe last time--_memor temporis acti_--before going on to the head\nmaster's party in his charming garden sloping down to the river--a\nfarewell function, as Dr. Warre was resigning the head mastership to\nEdward Lyttelton this half, and several masters were leaving with him.\nI went to London from Eton to attend Hyde's marriage to Miss Somers\nCocks, and (though the season was over) met many friends afterwards at\nLady Dudley's house in Carlton-gardens, where the wedding guests\nforegathered.\n\nA visit to Arundel a little later was signalized by great festivities\nin honour of the birth of the Duke's little daughter.  The four\nthousand guests who, as the fancy took them, danced in the tilting-yard\n(converted into a great open-air ballroom), listened to martial music\nfrom military bands, roamed through the beautiful state-rooms, or gazed\nadmiringly at the myriad fairy lamps which glowed many-coloured on\ncastle walls, battlements, and towers, were literally of every class.\nPeers and peeresses, officers and deans and doctors, and Sussex county\nmagnates, mingled freely with the farmers, artisans, and workmen who\nwere their fellow-guests.  The fete wound up with a grand display of\nfireworks in the park, and the host and hostess (the latter looking\nvery nice in her white summer frock, with flowing crimson sash and a\nstring of great pearls round her neck), made every one happy with their\naffability and kindness.\n\nOn my way north I stayed a few days with the Gainsboroughs at Exton,\nnear Oakham--my first visit to the little shire of Rutland.  A most\nattractive place, I thought: a charming modern Jacobean {52} house (the\nruins of the Elizabethan hall, burnt down a century before, stood close\nby): beautiful gardens and a nobly-timbered park, in which stands the\nfine old parish church with its singularly graceful spire.  Tennis, _al\nfresco_ teas, and much music, occupied a few days very agreeably; and I\nthen went on to St. Andrews for my usual autumn sojourn, which I always\nenjoyed.  But my most memorable Scottish visit this autumn was to\nAbbotsford, which, curiously enough, I had never yet seen, though I had\nknown its owners for thirty years.  My grandfather and Sir Walter Scott\nhad been friends for many years: they were planning and building at the\nsame time their respective homes in the western and eastern Lowlands,\nand often exchanged visits and letters.  Here is a little note\n(undated) in which Sir Walter acknowledged, with an apt Shakespearian\nreference, a gift of game from Blairquhan:--\n\n\nMy Dear Sir David,--\n\nI thank you much for your kind present.  The pheasants arrived in\nexcellent condition, and showing, like Shakespeare's Yeomen, \"the\nmettle of their pasture.\"[13]\n\nWhen are you and Lady Blair going to take another run down Tweed?\n\nYour obliged humble servant,\n  WALTER SCOTT.\n\n\nMy father had stayed at Abbotsford as a little boy, before he entered\nthe Navy, and two or three years before Sir Walter's death in 1832.  He\nhad not the customary reminiscence of having sat on {53} the great\nman's knee;[14] but he remembered a beautiful collie which lay outside\nthe study door, and refused to let any one enter in his master's\nabsence.  We were all brought up on Scott--his _Tales of a\nGrandfather_, his novels and poems.  My father seemed to know the\nlatter all by heart: he would reel them off (with fine elocution, too)\nby the hour, and we children loved the stirring music of the Border\nsongs, the _Lady of the Lake_ and the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, which\nonly in our later and more sophisticated days suggested the answer to a\nflippant conundrum.[15]\n\nTo me, of course, Abbotsford had, and has, a special and peculiar\ncharm, as having been for more than sixty years one of the \"Catholic\nHomes of Scotland.\"[16]  The \"incongruous pile\" sneered at by Ruskin,\nthe bizarre architecture which, I suppose, made Dean Stanley describe\nit as a place to be visited once and never again, are open to criticism\nand easily criticized.  I prefer the judgment of Andrew Lang, that \"it\nis hallowed ground, and one may not judge it by common standards.\"  To\n{54} Catholics it is doubly hallowed--as a Catholic centre in the sweet\nBorder-land which Scott knew and loved so well, and as the \"darling\nseat\" of one who by the magic of his writings made the Catholic past of\nScotland live again, and the last words on whose dying lips were lines\nfrom two of the noblest and most sacred hymns in the Catholic\nliturgy.[17]\n\nThe Dowager Lady Bute was the occupant of Abbotsford during my visit\nthere, and had hoped to make it her home for some time; but her stay\nwas cut short by a serious motor accident, in which she and her\ndaughter sustained rather severe injuries.  I was at the time at\nDumfries House, where Bute and his bride were happily settled for the\nautumn; and there was of course great concern at the Abbotsford\ndisaster, which fortunately turned out less grave than was at first\nfeared.  I was interested in the recent additions to Dumfries House,\nincluding a fine Byzantine chapel, a saloon lit from the roof for the\nStair tapestries,[18] and a new library-billiard-room, all so cleverly\ntucked in by the architect behind the existing wings, that the\nbeautiful Adam front remains as it was.  Lady Bute, smartly frocked,\nand twinkling with diamonds, sapphires, and ropes of pearls, was quite\n\"Lothair's bride.\"  On Sunday we had the regulation walk to the lovely\nold garden, stables, farm, and poultry-yard.  A great {55} \"wale\" of\ncocks and hens,[19] among which our hostess dropped one of her\npriceless earrings, and we had a long hunt for it.  Reading my Glasgow\npaper in the train next day, on my way south, I came on a paragraph\nannouncing the \"reception into the Roman Church\" of the Professor of\nGreek (J. S. Phillimore) at Glasgow University--a Christ Church man,\nand a scholar of the highest distinction.  What (I thought) will the\n\"unco guid\" of Glasgow say now?[20]\n\n\n\n[1] Sir William Harcourt's son, commonly known as \"Lulu\" (now Viscount\nHarcourt), had lately inherited Nuneham on the death of his father.\n\n[2] It ran as follows: \"In an age when faith is tinged with philosophic\ndoubt, when love is regarded but as a spasm of the nervous system, and\nlife itself as but the refrain of a music-hall song, I believe that it\nis still the function of art to give us light rather than darkness.\nIts teaching should not be to prove that we are descended from monkeys,\nbut rather to remind us of our affinity with the angels.  Its mission\nis not to lead us through the fogs of doubt into the bogs of despair,\nbut to point us to the greater light beyond.\"\n\n[3] On what principle, I could not help asking myself, are\nBenedictines, Dominicans, Franciscans, and Jesuits (all engaged in\nactive work, and therefore _ex hypothesi_ dangerous), freely tolerated\nin Rome, and Carthusians (whose only occupation is prayer) expelled\nfrom Naples?\n\n[4] On a previous occasion our Catholic Society had voted on the same\nmotion in precisely the contrary sense.  But the opinions of the\n\"Newman,\" as of all university debating societies (not excluding the\nUnion), were quite fluid and indeterminate on almost every subject.\n\n[5] Sir Charles Lyell, I am inclined to believe.  But I cannot \"place\"\nthe quotation.\n\n[6] Curious; because the Authorized translation (presumably used at\nKeble) ignores the _medici_ altogether, its version being \"Shall the\ndead arise and praise Thee?\"  There is, I fancy, some authority for my\nfriend's interpretation; still, the context seems to show clearly that\n_suscitabunt_ means \"rise from the dead,\" and that what the words\nconvey is that dead doctors, like other dead men, are done with\npraising God anyhow in this world.\n\n[7] A monk of the abbey of Maredsous, in Belgium, but by birth a\nNorman, a native of Caen.  He was somewhat of the destructive school of\npatristic critics, and I once heard it said that Dom Germain would not\ndie happy until he had proved to his own satisfaction that all the\nsupposed writings of St. Augustine were spurious!\n\n[8] Radley House, his birthplace, had been sold to the college some\nyears before by Sir George Bowyer, the eminent Catholic jurist and\nwriter, who had preceded Manning into the Church in 1850, and who built\nthe beautiful church annexed to the Catholic Hospital in Great Ormond\nStreet (removed later to St. John's Wood).  I well remember in my early\nCatholic days (I think about 1876) the excitement caused by the\nexpulsion of Sir George--whose strongly-expressed views on the Roman\nquestion and other matters were highly distasteful to British\nLiberals--from the Reform Club.\n\n[9] I think I heard afterwards that the sailors got him off his pony\nonce or twice; but the reward was not earned, and he lived to become\nFirst Lord of the Admiralty just three years later!\n\n[10] Only visible in the clearest weather.  From a point farther south\n(the Mull of Galloway) could be descried also, across the Solway Firth,\nthe Cumberland hills; and my grandfather, standing there, used to say\nthat he could see five kingdoms--the kingdom of Scotland, the kingdom\nof Ireland, the kingdom of England, the kingdom of Man, and the kingdom\nof Heaven!\n\n[11] I had inherited Dunskey nearly fifty years before, on my\ngrandfather's death (1857).  The place was bought in 1900 by Charles\nOrr Ewing, M.P., who married my niece, the Glasgows' eldest daughter.\n\n[12] A theory which, reduced to practice, had its disadvantages.  I\nremember Lord Rosebery writing to the papers complaining that the\nlunatics of Epsom, finding no difficulty, under the new and improved\nsystem, in escaping from duress, used occasionally to saunter from the\nlocal asylum into his grounds, and, I think, even his house, near by.\n\n[13] The reference, of course, is to _King Henry V._, Act iii., Sc. 2:\n\n            \"And you, good yeomen,\n    Whose limbs were made in England, show us here\n    The mettle of your pasture.\"\n\n[14] My dear old cousin Felicia Skene, whose father had been one of\nScott's closest friends, told me that this had been her privilege.  So\nalso did the late George Boyle, sometime Dean of Salisbury, who,\nhowever, in his autobiography, speaks merely of having once seen Sir\nWalter (looking very old and ill) when he came to call on his (the\nDean's) father.\n\n[15] \"If you happened to find an egg on a music-stool, what poem would\nit remind you of?\"\n\n[16] James Hope Scott, the eminent parliamentary lawyer, friend of\nNewman, Manning and Gladstone, and husband of Sir Walter's\ngranddaughter and eventual heiress, made his submission to Rome in\n1851.  His daughter Mary Monica (afterwards Hon.  Mrs. Joseph Maxwell\nScott), inherited Abbotsford at his death; and it is now owned by her\nson, General Walter Maxwell Scott.\n\n[17] The _Dies Irae_ and the _Stabat Mater_.  See Lockhart, _Life of\nWalter Scott_ (2nd Ed.), vol. x., p. 215.\n\n[18] From the looms of Gobelin: presented by Louis XIV. to an Earl of\nStair, British Ambassador in Paris.  They had come into the Dumfries\n(Bute) family through the marriage of a son of the first Earl of Stair\nto Penelope, Countess of Dumfries in her own right.  It was a standing\ngrievance of our old friend the tenth Earl of Stair that these\ntapestries were not at Lochinch.\n\n[19] \"Wale\"=choice, or selection.  A Fife laird, driving home across\nMagus Moor after dining not wisely but too well, fell out of his gig,\nand his wig fell off, but was recovered by his servant.  \"It's no' ma\nwig, Davie, it's no' ma wig,\" he moaned as he lay in the mire,\nthrusting the peruke away.  \"You'd best take it, sir,\" said the\nserving-man dryly; \"_there's nae wale o' wigs on Magus Moor_.\"\n\n[20] They said much that was nasty, but they could not oust the\nprofessor (though they tried their best) from his professorship.  _Au\ncontraire_, he received promotion soon afterwards, being elected to the\nChair of Humanity; and a protest organized by certain bigots was\nallowed to \"lie on the table\"--i.e., went into the waste-paper basket.\n\n\n\n\n{56}\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n1905-1906\n\nAn event of Benedictine interest in the autumn of 1905, and one which\nattracted many visitors to Downside, our beautiful abbey among the\nMendip Hills, was the long-anticipated opening of the choir of the\ngreat church.  Special trains, an overflowing guest-house, elaborate\nservices, many congratulatory speeches, and much monastic hospitality,\nwere, as customary on such occasions, the order of the day.\nArchitecturally, I confess that I found the new choir disappointing: it\nbut confirmed the impression (which after many years had become a\nconviction with me) that the art of building a real Gothic church on a\ngrand scale is lost, gone beyond hope of recovery.  _Ecce signum!_\nDesign, material, workmanship all admirable, and the result, alas!\nlifeless, as lifeless as (say) the modern cathedrals of Truro and\nLiverpool and Edinburgh, the nave of Bristol, and the great church of\nOur Lady at Cambridge.  I have seen Downside compared with Lichfield:\nnay, some one (greatly daring) placed pictures of them side by side in\nsome magazine.  Vain comparison!  Lichfield, built long centuries ago,\nis _alive_ still--instinct with the life breathed into it by its\nunknown creators in the ages of faith; but these great modern Gothic\nchurches seem to me {57} to have never lived at all, to have come into\nexistence still-born.  No: Gothic architecture, in this century of\nours, is dead.  Such life as it has is a simulated, imitative,\ngalvanized life, which is no more real life than the tunes ground out\nof a pianola or a gramophone are real living music.[1]  \"'Tis true,\n'tis pity: pity 'tis, 'tis true.\"\n\nAnother engagement which I had in the west about this time was to\npreach at the opening of the new Benedictine church at Merthyr Tydvil.\nBishop Hedley and I travelled thither together from Cardiff, through a\ncountry which God made extremely pretty, with its deep glens and hills\ncovered with {58} bracken and heather, but which man, in search of\ncoal, has blackened and defaced to an incredible extent: the whole\ndistrict, of course, a hive of industry.  Lying in bed at night, I saw\nthrough my blindless window the flames belching from a score of\nfurnace-chimneys down the valley, and thought what it must be to spend\none's life in such surroundings.  A curious change to find oneself next\nday in the verdant environment of Cardiff Castle, where, once within\nthe gates, one might be miles away from coalpits and from the great\nindustrial city close by.  My room was the _quondam_ nursery, of which\nthe walls had been charmingly decorated by the fanciful genius of\nWilliam Burges (the restorer of the castle), with scenes from\nchildren's fairy stories--Jack the Giant-killer and Cinderella and Red\nRiding-hood and the rest, tripping round in delightful procession.  The\nWelsh metropolis was _en fete_ on the day of my arrival, in honour of\nthe town having become a city, and its mayor a lord-mayor; and Lord\nBute was giving a big luncheon to civic and other magnates in the\nbeautiful banqueting hall, adorned with historic frescoes and rich\nstained glass.  The family was smiling gently, during my visit, at the\nnews published \"from a reliable source,\" that my young host was to be\nthe new Viceroy of Ireland.  Another report, equally \"reliable\" (odious\nword!) published, a little later, his portrait and not very eventful\nbiography, as that of the just-appointed Under-Foreign Secretary.  Why\nnot Lord Chancellor or Commander-in-chief at once? one was as likely as\nthe other.\n\nThe reference to the commander-in-chief reminds me that the Oxford\nUnion was honoured this {59} (October) term by a visit from Lord\nRoberts, who gave us a very informing lecture, illustrated with many\nmaps, on the N.W. frontier of India and was received by a crowded house\nwith positive shouts of welcome.[2]  Almost equally well received, a\nweek later, was Lord Hugh Cecil, who had held no office in the Union in\nhis undergraduate days, but had often since taken part in its debates.\nHis theme on this occasion was the interminable fiscal question; and\nthe curiously poignant and personal note in his oratory appealed, as it\nalways did, to his youthful hearers, who supported him with their votes\nas well as their applause.\n\nA little later there was a great audience in the Town Hall, to hear Joe\nChamberlain inveigh against the new Government,[3] and preach _his_\nfiscal gospel.  He was in excellent form, and looked nothing like\nseventy, though his long speech--his last, I think, before his great\nbreak-down--certainly aged him visibly.  A little incident at the\nopening showed his undiminished aptitude for ready repartee.  He\nannounced his intention of treating Tariff Reform from the Imperial\nstandpoint, adding, \"I am not going to deal with the subject from the\neconomic side\"; and then, as a derisive \"Yah!\" broke from some\ndisgruntled Liberals at the back of the hall, going on without a\nmoment's hesitation--\"not, however, for the reason which I see suggests\nitself to some of the _acuter_ minds among my audience!\"\n\n{60}\n\nS---- H----, whom I found waiting to see me when I got home from the\nTown Hall, told me that after two years in the Catholic Church he was\nthinking of returning to the flesh-pots of Anglicanism, and said (among\nother foolish things) that he had \"a Renaissance mind!\"  I ventured to\nremind him that he had also an immortal soul.  How to increase his\nincome seemed his chief preoccupation; and he did not \"see his way\"\n(that fatal phrase again!) to do this as a \"practising\" Catholic.\n\nWilfrid Ward, the Editor of the _Dublin Review_, had recently started a\n\"dining-and-debating-club\" in London with a rather interesting\nmembership; and I went up in November to read a paper on \"Catholics at\nthe National Universities.\"  I was less \"heckled\" than I expected; but\nthere was some \"good talk\" (as old Johnson would have said), and I\nenjoyed the evening.  Less enjoyable was another evening spent with our\nArchitectural Society at Oxford, to hear a lecture by Wells (fellow and\nfuture Warden) of Wadham, on \"Tudor Oxford\" an interesting topic, and\ntreated by a man who knew his subject, but disfigured by strongly\nProtestant interpolations about monks, Jesuits, and \"Bloody Mary,\" much\nout of place in an address to a quite \"undenominational\" society.  It\nrecalled another paper read to us on the inoffensive subject of\n\"Bells.\"  The reader on that occasion adroitly founded on the text of\nthe inscriptions on church bells a violent diatribe against the\ninvocation of saints and other \"mediaeval corruptions,\" to the intense\nannoyance of my little friend the Master of Pembroke (himself an\nAnglican bishop), who sat next me, and whom I with difficulty\nrestrained until {61} the end of the lecture from rising to protest, as\nhe ultimately did with some warmth, against \"turning an archaeological\naddress into a polemical sermon.\"\n\nTerm over, I made my way north to Beaufort, arriving there just in time\nto assist at the unveiling in the village square of Beauly, of the\nLovat Scouts' Memorial, for which I had written the inscription.[4]  A\npretty function, with much local enthusiasm, an excellent speech from\nThe Mackintosh, our new Lord Lieutenant, and of course the inevitable\n\"cake and wine\" banquet, at which I toasted Lovat.  Christmas followed,\nwith a big and merry family party, the usual seasonable revels, and\nsome delightful singing from the wife of a Ross-shire laird, an\nAmerican lady with a well-trained voice of astonishing sweetness and\ncompass.  The New Year found the whole country agog about the coming\nGeneral Election; and at Arundel, whither I went from Beaufort, I heard\nLady Edmund Talbot falsify Johnson's cynical dictum[5] by making an\nexcellent {62} speech on behalf of her husband, who was laid up in\nLondon.  He retained his seat for Chichester by a good majority; and\n\"dear little Wigtownshire\" remained faithful to a lost cause, returning\nLord Stair's eldest son.[6]  But on the whole the \"Radical reaction,\"\n\"turn of the tide,\" \"swing of the pendulum\"--whichever you liked to\ncall it--was complete, the very first victim of the _debacle_ being my\nbrother-in-law, Charles Dalrymple, who was dismissed at Ipswich, after\ntwenty years' service, by nearly 2,000 votes.  He had been given a\nPrivy Councillorship by the outgoing Government; but this poorly\ncompensated him for being ousted from the House of Commons, which had\nbeen his \"nursing mother\" for nearly forty years.[7]  Manchester was\nabsolutely swept by the Liberals, poor Sir James Fergusson going to\njoin his brother in limbo, and Arthur Balfour being beaten by a larger\nmajority than either of them.  The final result showed--Radical members\nreturned, 378, against 156 Unionists.  The new Ministry put educational\nreform in the front of their programme; and we Catholics, with a\nsection of Anglicans (for they were by no means united on the subject),\norganized meetings in advance against the nefarious projects of the\nGovernment.  I attended some of them, and heard many speeches, {63}\nsome of them terribly long and \"stodgy.\"  A Hampshire parson, by whom I\nsat at one of these dreary meetings, told me, by way of illustrating\nthe educational standard of his peasant parishioners, that a bridegroom\nwould thus render the promise in the marriage-service: \"With my body I\nthee wash up, and with all my hurdle goods I thee and thou!\"  While the\nbride's version of _her_ promise would be: \"To 'ave an' to 'old from\nthis day fortnight for betterer 'orse, for richerer power, in\nsiggerness 'ealth, to love cherries and to bay!\"  I copied these\ninteresting formulas into my note-book on the spot.\n\nI was happily able to escape, at the end of term, from these political\nalarums and excursions to the Continent.  I longed for Italy; but the\nfriend who accompanied me (and financed us both) insisted on carrying\nme to Nice--a place I never loved; and it proved sunless, the palms\nshivering in a mistral and we shivering in sympathy.  I used to escape\nthe odious Promenade des Anglais (much more a Promenade des Allemands)\nby climbing the steep steps into old-world Nizza, and talking to the\ngood simple folk, who (so the parish priest assured me) remained devout\nand pious, and wonderfully little affected by the manners and morals of\nthe objectionable crowd which haunts Nice more than any other spot on\nthe _Cote d'Azur_, except, I suppose, Monte Carlo.  The latter resort\nwe eschewed (my friend and host was no gambler), but we had many\nstrolls through the toy-city of Monaco, where the tourist is little in\nevidence.  I noticed, crowning the picturesque promontory, the new\ncathedral built by M. Blanc out of casino profits, which the\necclesiastical {64} authorities accepted, I suppose, on the principle\nof the good old maxim, _Non olet!_[8]  We took a run to Milan before\nturning homewards, and after an hour in the cathedral--impressively\nvast, but not (to my thinking) impressively beautiful, either without\nor within--spent a long day in exploring the far more interesting\nchurches of SS. Maurizio, Maria delle Grazie, Vittore, Lorenzo,\nGiorgio, and Ambrogio, every one well worth visiting, and the\nlast-named unique, of course, in charm and interest.[9]  Turin, where\nwe stayed a day, was wet and cold; but the arcades which line the chief\nstreets at least keep the rain off.  At Paris the sun was actually\nshining, and the trees on the boulevards sprouting greenly.  I read in\nthe English papers here of the engagement of my nephew Kelburn (the\nfamily had only recently dropped the final e from both the title and\nthe castle)[10] to a Miss Hyacinth Bell, whose pretty floral name\nconveyed nothing to me.  The {65} new Minister of Education[11] had\nalso published his \"Birreligious\" Bill (as some wags nicknamed it): it\nseemed to satisfy nobody--least of all, of course, Catholics.\n\nI spent Easter, as usual, at Arundel, where a gathering of Maxwells\n(the Duchess's young relatives) made the big house cheerful and\nhomelike.  The summer term at Oxford was an uneventful one, the most\ninteresting event that I recall being our annual Canning and Chatham\ndinner, with a more distinguished gathering than usual.  Lord Milner\nmade a remarkable and interesting speech in reply to the toast of \"The\nEmpire,\" and \"Smith of Wadham,\" M.P. (the future Lord Chancellor), was\nalso very eloquent.  The Duke of Leinster (then up at Balliol), who sat\nnext me, spoke of the hereditary good relations between his family and\nMaynooth College, and amused me by saying that he thought it must be\n\"much more interesting\" to be a Catholic in England than in Ireland!  I\nmotored some of my young Benedictines over to Blenheim one day; and we\nwere, with other sight-seers, escorted over the show-part of the\npalace.  The little Duke burst in on us in one state-room, and retired\nprecipitately, banging the door with an audible \"D--n!\"  \"His Grace the\nDook of Marlborough!\" announced, without turning a hair, the solemn\nbutler who was acting as showman; and our party was, of course, duly\nimpressed.\n\n{66}\n\nI was summoned this summer to three weddings, all of interest to me,\nthe first being that of my nephew Kelburn, a pretty country function in\nSurrey.  The Bishop of Worcester tied the knot--\"impressively,\" as the\nreporters say (but why cannot an Anglican dignitary read the Bible\nwithout \"mouthing\" it?), and I afterwards found in his wife, Lady\nBarbara Yeatman-Biggs, an old friend of my childhood.[12]  Many\nrelatives, of course, were present here, and also, ten days later, in\nthe Chelsea church where Archdeacon Sinclair (\"genial and impressive,\"\nthe newspapers called _him_) united my younger sister, _en secondes\nnoces_, to Captain Cracroft Jarvis.  I spent the evening of her wedding\nin the House of Commons, where I had a mind to see our famous new\nRadical Parliament-men gathered together.  A very \"scratch lot\" they\nseemed to me to be; and Archbishop Walsh of Dublin, whom I found beside\nme in the D.S.G., seemed as little impressed as myself by their\n\"carryings-on.\"  His Grace was so pleased with Carlyle's definition, or\ndescription, of the House, which I quoted to him (he was apparently\nunfamiliar with it), that he promptly copied it down in his note-book:\n\"a high-soaring, hopelessly-floundering, ever-babbling, inarticulate,\ndumb dark entity!\"\n\nMy third wedding was a picturesque Irish {67} one--that of Ninian\nCrichton Stuart to Lord Gormanston's only daughter, with, of course, a\nlarge party of Butes and Prestons gathered at Gormanston Castle, a huge\npile mostly modern; but the quaint little chapel, Jacobean Gothic\nwithout and Empire style within, gaily adorned with lilies,\nmarguerites, and trailing smilax, dates from 1687.[13]  It was far too\nsmall to hold the wedding guests, who perforce remained on the lawn\noutside.  I walked with our host, later in the day, in the splendidly\ntimbered park, and the great picturesque untidy Irish garden; and he\nheld forth on the hardship of having to live uncomfortably in Ireland\nafter the luxury of Colonial governorships.  \"_Ireland!_ a rotten old\ncountry, only fit, as some one said, to dig up and use as a\ntop-dressing for England!\" was the summing-up of his lordship, whose\nancestors had owned the land on which we were walking for some seven\ncenturies.[14]  I thought his bemoanings rather pathetic; but he amused\nme by his recital of a prescription for \"The Salvation of Ireland\"\nwhich once appeared (anonymously) in a northern newspaper.  \"Drain your\nBogs--Fat more Hogs--Lots more Lime--Lots more Chalk--LOTS MORE\nWORK--LOTS LESS TALK!\"\n\nI returned to Oxford in time for Commemoration, at {68} which Lord\nMilner and Mgr. Duchesne, two of our be-doctored guests, were very\nwarmly received; attended the big luncheon in All Souls' library, where\nthe agreeable ladies who sat on my right and left were totally unknown\nto me; and drank coffee in the sunlit quad, where a band played and I\nmet many friends.  Next day I took ship at Southampton (a noisy, shaky,\ncreaky ship it was) for Guernsey, on a visit to my brother, who was in\ncommand of the Gunners there.  I thought the approach to the island\nvery pretty on a still summer morning: quaint houses and church towers\nclimbing the hill among trees and gardens, with a foreground of white\nsails and blue sea.  Very pretty too was \"Ordnance House\" and its old\ngarden, with hedges of golden calceolarias and other attractions.  I\nspent a pleasant week here, delighted with the rocky coast (reminding\nme of my native Wigtownshire) and the luxuriant gardens, especially\nthat of the Lieutenant-Governor, whose charming house (he occupied Lord\nde Saumarez's seat) was full, as was to be expected,[15] of beautiful\nnaval prints and other relics.  Of a morning I would walk down to Fort\nCornet--part of it of great antiquity--and watch my brother's guns at\nsea-target practice, till my head ached with the roar and concussion.\nThe shooting was excellent, but the electric firing-apparatus\noccasionally went wrong, which might be awkward in battle!  I was\ninterested in the fine fifteenth-century parish church of St.\nPeter-Port, of flamboyant Gothic: the effect of the interior {69}\nnave-arches rising almost from the ground, with hardly any pillars, is\nmost singular.\n\nI had to hurry back to \"the adjacent island of Great Britain\" (as the\nCumbrae minister put it),[16] to attend the jubilee dinner in London of\nSt. Elisabeth's Catholic Hospital, with Norfolk in the chair: a great\nsuccess, owing, I think, to the unusual circumstance that dinner and\nwine were provided gratis, the result being much-enhanced subscriptions\nfrom the grateful banqueters.  I was present a little later at the\ncoming-of-age celebrations of Lord Gainsborough's son and heir at\nCampden, the beautiful Jacobean family seat on the Cotswold slopes.  We\nsat down seventy to dinner on the evening of Campden's birthday; and\nthe youth acquitted himself excellently of what I consider (and I have\nhad some experience of majority banquets, including my own) one of the\nmost embarrassing tasks which can fall to any young man's lot.  I,\nbeing unexpectedly assigned the easier duty of replying for the\nvisitors, utilized the admirably appropriate opening which I had heard\nnot long before from the witty and eloquent American Ambassador,[17] at\nthe dinner of the Royal Literary Fund, and which was _not_ a \"chestnut\"\nthen, whatever it may be now.\n\nFrom Campden I went on to Leamington to visit {70} another brother, who\nhad invited me to witness the Warwick Pageant, I think the first, and\ncertainly the most effective and successful, of these spectacles, for\nwhich the craze was just beginning to spread through England.  The\ndramatic episodes at Warwick were not always dramatic, and the dialogue\nand acting were perhaps not quite worthy of the superb surroundings;\nbut the setting of the spectacle was absolutely perfect.  Behind us the\ntowers and battlements of the feudal castle rose above the woods: on\nour right the giant oaks of the park, in their glorious midsummer\nfoliage: to our left the Avon glistening like a ribbon of burnished\nsilver; and in front, beyond a great expanse of verdant lawn (the\n\"stage\" of the pageant), a prospect of enchanting wooded glades and\nlong-drawn sylvan avenues, down which came the long processions of\nplayers, mounted and afoot, with singular and striking effect.  Lord\nand Lady Willoughby de Broke, who appeared (with the splendidly mounted\nmembers of their hunt) as Louis XI. and Margaret of Scotland, were\nconspicuous, if only because the former acted his part and spoke his\nlines best of the whole company.  The concerted singing was quite\ncharming; and charming, too, the spectacle of the hundred boys of the\nfamous old Warwick Grammar-school, in their pretty dresses of russet\nand gold, and their masters costumed as old-world pedagogues.\nAltogether a delightful and notable entertainment, which I was very\nglad to have seen; and in other respects I enjoyed my visit, my brother\ntaking me to Kenilworth, Stoneleigh, Charlecote, and other interesting\nplaces in that most interesting country.  The August Bank-holiday found\nme at Scarborough, {71} of all places in the world, spending the day\nthere with the two schoolboy sons of my host at a country house in the\nEast Riding.  I recall, at the aquarium there, my interest on\ndiscovering a \"fact not generally known\"--namely that fishes can, and\ndo, yawn.  We saw a turbot yawn twice, and a cod once.  The cod's yawn\nwas remarkable chiefly for its width, but the turbot's was much more\nnoteworthy.  It begins at the lips, which open as if to suck in\nwater;[18] then the jaws distend themselves and so the yawn goes on,\nworks through the back of the head, stretching the plates of the skull\nalmost to cracking point, and finally comes out at the gills, which\nopen showing their red lining, and are inflated for a moment; and then,\nwith a gasping kind of shiver, the fish flattens out again, until, if\nunusually bored, as it appeared to be by our presence, it relieves its\nfeelings by another yawn.  I left my young friends to enjoy the varied\nhumours of the front; and climbing up (as I had done at Nice) \"far from\nthe madding crowd,\" discovered many quaint and charming bits of old\nScarborough.  A policeman told me that they reckoned that at least\n120,000 visitors were in the town that day; and they all seemed\ncollected together to view the evening firework display above the Spa.\nThe biggest crowds I had ever seen were at Epsom on Derby Day, between\nMortlake and Putney on Boat-race Day, and in St. Peter's Square at Rome\non the election-day of Leo XIII.: but this great _congeries_ at\nScarborough surpassed them all in impressiveness.  I {72} turned my\nback on the \"set pieces\" and Roman candles, gazed almost awestruck at\nthe vast sea of upturned white faces on the beach below, lit up from\ntime to time by the lurid glow of coloured fires, and listened to the\ncry \"Ah-h-h!\" of the great multitude as the rockets shrilled up into\nthe starlit sky.  _Mirabile visu et auditu!_ it somehow made me think\n(at Scarborough on Bank Holiday evening!) of the Last Day and the\nValley of Jehoshaphat.  From Scarborough, before going north to\nScotland, I went for a few days to Longridge Towers, Sir Hubert\nJerningham's beautiful place near Berwick, with views on every side\nover the rolling Border country.  \"Norham's castle steep,\" built nine\ncenturies before by Flambard, the \"Magnificent\" Bishop of Durham, was\non the Longridge property; and I spent some delightful hours there with\nmy accomplished host, who was a charming companion, and (as became a\n_bachelier-es-lettres_ of Paris University) could tell a good story as\nwell in French as he could in English.  He showed me among many\ncuriosities a letter from an early Quaker which I thought worth\ncopying:--\n\n\nFRIEND JOHN,--\n\nI desire thee to be so kind as to go to one of those sinful men in the\nflesh called an attorney, and let him take out an instrument, with a\nseal fixed thereto, by means whereof we may seize the outward\ntabernacle of George Green, and bring him before the lambskin men at\nWestminster, and teach him to do as he would be done by; and so I rest\nthy friend in the light,\n\n  M.D.\n\n\nMountstuart claimed me for a short visit when I had got across the\nBorder; and I found the big house very cheerful under the new and\nyouthful regime, and my hostess, now a happy mother, driving the baby\nLady Mary about the island and exhibiting {73} her to the admiring\nfarmers' wives.  I made my way up the West coast to Fort Augustus to\nspend the rest of the Oxford \"Long,\" travelling thence in September to\nAberdeen to read a paper at the annual conference of the Catholic Truth\nSociety.  There was a large attendance, Lady Lovat doing hostess at a\nbig reception one evening; and it was pleasant to find oneself in a\ngenuinely Scottish, as well as Catholic, gathering, presided over by a\nHighland bishop (AEneas Chisholm of beloved memory), as patriotic and\npopular as he was pious and pleasant.  My paper, on \"The Holy See and\nthe Scottish Universities,\" was very well received, and the local\nnewspapers did me the honour of reprinting it verbatim next morning,\nwhile the _Scotsman_ devoted a leading article to it.  Our principal\nmeeting, in the largest hall of the city, wound up not only with \"Faith\nof our Fathers\" but \"God save the King.\"  \"Is this necessary?\"\nwhispered a prelate of Nationalist leanings to the presiding bishop, in\nthe middle of the loyal anthem.  \"It may not be necessary,\" replied\nBishop Chisholm, in a very audible \"aside,\" \"but it is very right and\nextremely proper.\"  _O si sic omnes!_\"[19]\n\n\n\n[1] Such seeming exceptions as the noble churches of St. John at\nNorwich and St. Philip at Arundel, the Duke of Newcastle's sumptuous\nchapel at Clumber, the impressive church of the Irvingites in Gordon\nSquare, are only satisfactory in so far as they are more or less exact\nimitations of mediaeval Gothic.  The cloisters of Fort Augustus Abbey\nare beautiful because they are reproductions, from A. W. Pugin's\nnote-books, of real live fifteenth-century tracery.  The more the\nmodern Gothic architect strives to be original (a hard saying, but a\ntrue one), the more certainly he fails.  And to see how feebly\nineffective even his imitations can be, one need only look at the\nentrance tower of St. Swithun's Quad at Magdalen, and compare it with\nthe incomparable Founder's Tower immediately opposite.\n\nLet me add that I have no animus against Downside in particular: it is\nmerely an instance taken at random to illustrate my thesis.  I had felt\njust the same, years before, about the first grandiose plans for our\nown church at Fort Augustus.  \"Go to Westminster Abbey--you can see it\nfrom your windows,\" I wrote to the architect, \"and get an inspiration\nfrom that glorious temple of _living_ Gothic.  Your elaborate designs\nhave no life, no reality.  If they were ever realized among our\nHighland hills, I should expect some genie of the Arabian Nights to\nswoop down one day and whisk the whole impossible structure back to\nVictoria Street!\"  I still recall the pleasure and approval with which\nDom Gilbert Dolan of Downside, one of the most distinguished of modern\nBenedictine architects, read this letter.\n\n[2] Who was the reporter who once announced (I believe it was really a\nprinter's error and not a little bit of malice) that \"the Conservatives\namong the audience received the candidate with welcoming snouts\"?\n\n[3] Arthur Balfour had resigned the premiership in the previous week,\nand Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman had succeeded him.\n\n[4] Not an easy task! for Lovat wanted the Scouts to have all the\nhonour, which _they_ wished assigned to him.  My inscription (I believe\ngenerally approved) ran: Erected by the Lovat Tenantry and Feuars of\nthe Aird and Fort Augustus Districts to Commemorate the Raising of the\nLovat Scouts for Service in South Africa by Simon Joseph, 16th Lord\nLovat, C.V.O., C.B., D.S.O., who Desired to Show that the Martial\nSpirit of their Ancestors still Animates the Highlanders of To-Day, and\nWhose Confidence was Justified by the Success in the Field of the\nGallant Corps Whose Existence was Due to His Loyalty and Patriotism.\nA.D. 1905.\n\n[5] \"A woman speaking in public is like a dog walking on its hind legs:\nit is not well done, but you are surprised to find it done at all.\"\n\n[6] My native county remained consistently and uninterruptedly Tory for\nfifty years--from 1868, when it returned Lord Garlics, until 1918, when\nits separate representation was taken from it by the new Redistribution\nAct.\n\n[7] Sir Charles had sat in Parliament continuously, except for a few\nweeks, since 1868, when he was first elected for Buteshire.  It was\nonly this very slight break which prevented him from being at one time\nthe Father of the House of Commons.\n\n[8] I heard an odd story to the effect that at the Anglican Church at\nMonte Carlo no one had ever heard any hymn before No. 37 announced to\nbe sung; the reason being that the mention of any one from 1 to 36\nwould instantly have sent a quota of the congregation racing down to\nstake their money on that number!  It was, and is, a current\nsuperstition that a number suggested by something as remote as possible\nfrom gambling is likely to prove a lucky one.\n\n[9] Due, I think, largely to the fact that though the greater part of\nthe church is ninth and tenth century work, it has the air of being\nvery much older, and seems to recall the days of St. Ambrose himself.\n\n[10] \"Kelburn\" was, I believe, the old spelling.  About the same time\nthe Duke of Athole dropped _his_ final _e_ also; and the name-board at\nthe well-known station, at his castle gates, displayed, as I observed\non my next journey to the Highlands, the legend \"Blair Atholl,\" instead\nof \"Blair Athole\" as formerly.\n\n[11] Augustine Birrell, the distinguished essayist, whose literary\nmethod, easy, witty, and urbane, has evoked the word \"birrelling.\"  He\nsucceeded Mr. Bryce a little later as Irish Secretary, and retained\nthat office (in which he was no more successful than most of his\npredecessors) under Mr. Asquith.\n\n[12] _Nee_ Legge: one of a crowd of sisters (Ladies Louisa, Octavia,\nWilhelmina, Barbara, Charlotte, and I know not how many more) with whom\nI made friends as a small boy when staying with my parents at\nAix-la-Chapelle; and we saw much of them afterwards.  We children used\nto call them the \"Lady-legs.\"  Their brother Augustus, who was also a\nfriend of my childhood, became Bishop of Lichfield in 1891.\n\n[13] Built in James II.'s reign (the original castle was of Henry\nVII.'s), when the accession of a Catholic King enabled Catholics,\nBritish and Irish, to emerge for a short time from the Catacombs.\n\n[14] Lord Gormanston, like Lord Talbot de Malahide and a few others,\nrepresented the Anglo-Irish landowners of the time of Henry VII., \"Lord\nof Ireland.\"  My friend Lord Kenmare was typical of the enriched\nElizabethan settlers in the country, while Sir Henry Bellingham was one\nof the seventeenth-century group of immigrants popularly known as\n\"Cromwell's Drummers.\"  Three out of the four mentioned were Catholics.\n\n[15] The first baronet and Baron de Saumarez was second in command at\nthe Battle of the Nile, and was raised to the peerage by William IV.\n\n[16] It was the parish minister of Millport, in Cumbrae (off the coast\nof Ayrshire) who habitually prayed at Divine Service for the\n\"inhabitants of the Greater and the Lesser Cumbraes, and the adjacent\nislands of Great Britain and Ireland!\"\n\n[17] The late Mr. Choate.  \"When I came into this assembly this\nevening, I felt very much like the prophet Daniel when he got into the\nlion's den.  When Daniel looked around, and saw the company in which he\nwas, 'Well,' he said, '_whoever's got to do the after-dinner speaking,\nit won't be me!_'\"\n\n[18] A turbot's mouth is twisted on one side, rather as if it had\nbelonged to a round fish which some one had accidentally trodden on,\nand had squashed half-flat.\n\n[19] My friend Lord Ralph Kerr had, some time previously, refused to\npreside at a meeting of the same Society (of which he was president) in\nanother Scottish city, on learning that the local committee would not\npermit the National Anthem to be sung at the close.  The reason\nalleged, that \"the Irish in the audience would not stand it,\" did not,\nnaturally, strike the gallant Scottish general as an adequate one.\n\n\n\n\n{74}\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n1906-1907\n\nBefore returning to Oxford for the autumn term of 1906, I spent a\npleasant ten days at Abbotsford with my old friends the Lane Foxes, and\nvisited with them Dryburgh Abbey, Galashiels, and other interesting\nplaces.  Melrose, too, we thoroughly explored, agreeing that (_pace_\nSir Walter) the time for seeing it \"aright\" was _not_ \"by the pale\nmoonlight,\" but on a sunlit afternoon, which alone does justice to the\nmarvellous colouring--grey shot with rose and yellow--of the old stone.\nModern textbooks talk of the \"decadence\" of its architecture, but it\nhas details of surpassing beauty nevertheless.  It was ill exchanging\nthe beauties of Tweedside in perfect September weather for foggy\nLondon.  I arrived there on a Sunday morning, just in time for high\nmass at Westminster Cathedral, of which a fog rather enhances the\ncharm, softening the raw brick walls and imparting a mysterious and\nshadowy splendour to the great spaces under the lofty domes.  The grave\npolyphonic music, perfectly rendered, greatly pleased me; but the\nacoustics of the building seemed to be defective.[1]  A noted preacher\nwas discoursing {75} to an immense congregation on \"Pessimism\"--so the\nnotice-boards informed me; but it might as well have been on Optimism\nfor anything I could hear of it.  Walking homewards to Regent's Park, I\nlooked in at a Ritualistic church in Red Lion Square, where a singular\nfunction was in progress in presence of the (schismatic) Archbishop of\nSinai, under the auspices of a body styling itself \"The Anglican and\nOrthodox Churches Union.\"[2]  As I entered, a clergyman was just\nremarking from the pulpit that as there was no visible Church on earth,\nor as, at any rate, it was temporally broken to bits, there was no use\nin looking for a visible head! a theory which his audience may or may\nnot have found satisfactory.[3]\n\nI lingered for a day at Birmingham, on my way to Oxford, to attend the\nopening of the nave of the Newman Memorial Church.  It was the\nsixty-first anniversary of Newman's reception into the Church at\nLittlemore, as well as the sixth of the death of Lord Bute, whose\nconversion was a fruit of the Oxford movement, of which Newman was the\ninspiring genius.  I was pleased with the simplicity, even austerity,\nof the building, relieved to some extent by the beautiful tints of the\ndouble row of marble monoliths, and by the warm russet of the coved\nroof of Spanish chestnut.  Eight or ten prelates (the Archbishop of\nWestminster was the preacher) gave dignity to the function, which {76}\nwas followed by a rather higgledy-piggledy luncheon at the \"Plough and\nHarrow\" next door.  The Norfolk family were of course present in force\nat their beloved Oratory, the Duke, with sisters, brothers-in-law,\nnephews and nieces, being prominent among the large gathering.  Lord\nRalph Kerr's boy, a pupil of the Fathers, showed me over the school;\nand I rather marvelled to see an educational establishment of such\ndeserved repute housed in so quaint a collection of lean-to's and\nshanties, the only thing worth looking at being the fine refectory of\nthe Oratory, which the schoolboys used as their dining-room.\n\nI found Oxford swept and garnished for the new term, and my old friend\nthe President of Magdalen installed as Vice-chancellor, and performing\nhis multifarious duties (which included the matriculation of my two\nBenedictine freshmen) with the mingled dignity and urbanity which\ncharacterized him.  Grissell, who was in residence this term, invited\nme to luncheon to meet \"a Roman Prince,\" and a lady who had, he said,\nbeen miraculously cured by the Madonna of Pompeii.  The cure,\nunfortunately, had been incomplete or temporary, for the lady had had a\nrelapse, was in bed, and could not turn up.  The Roman Prince, or\nprinceling, proved to be Don Andrea Buoncompagni-Ludovisi, descendant\nof two Popes,[4] and a freshman at Merton; a pleasant youth, {77} but\nhis English, though fluent, was vulgar rather than princely.  I\nwondered where he had picked it up.  A different type of Italian whom I\nmet the same week was the distinguished South Italian violinist, Signor\nSimonetti.  He had been fiddling at our Musical Club on the previous\nevening--_roba Napolitana_, but clever and interesting.  Our\nconversation, however, turned not on music but on the \"Evil Eye,\" as I\nwas anxious to know to what extent the belief in this still prevailed\nin Italy.  He said it was as persistent as ever, especially in the\nsouth, and told us how the most famous advocate in Naples, in quite\nrecent times, was so universally accredited with this mysterious power,\nthat when the leader opposed to him in an impending lawsuit died on the\neve of the case coming on, another lawyer was only with the greatest\ndifficulty found to take his place.  _He_ was killed by an accident on\nthe very morning of the trial; and the dreaded advocate was face to\nface with the judge, who was in fear and trembling, as he expected to\nhave to give judgment against him.  The story went that when the judge\nrose to speak, his spectacles accidentally fell out of place.  \"I am\nstruck blind!\" he cried out; \"forgive me, Signor Avvocato--I have not\nyet pronounced against you.\"  Suddenly his spectacles fell across his\nnose again.  \"Forgive me again,\" he said; \"I can see after all!\"  The\nNeapolitans laughed, but they believed all the same.  When this\nredoubtable advocate fell ill, half Naples was praying fervently for\nhis death; and if one reproached them for desiring the death of a\nfellowman, the answer was, \"Non e un uomo, e un _jettatore_!\"  Signor\nSimonetti, I felt pretty sure, himself {78} sympathized with this\nsentiment, although he passed it off as a joke.  I contributed a tale\nof a certain Count who had been pointed out to me, during my visit to\nNaples in the previous year, as the most dreaded _jettatore_ in the\ncity.  He was dining alone at a restaurant, and I was told that no one,\nif they could avoid it, would sit down in his company.  Meeting his\ncousin, the old Duca di M----, in the street, he gave him his arm.  The\nDuca suddenly slipped, fell, and broke his leg.  He was stunned by the\nshock; and his first words, on recovering consciousness, were whispered\n(in confidential Neapolitan patois) into the ear of his formidable\nkinsman: \"Grazie, perche tu me putive accidere, e te si cuntentate de\nm'arruinare!\" (\"Thanks; for you might have killed me, and you contented\nyourself with laming me!\")[5]\n\nSome of us went over to Radley College for the usual All Saints' play,\nthe _Frogs_ of Aristophanes, in Greek; and it _was_ Greek, no doubt, to\nthe majority of the audience.  Books of the words in English were,\nhowever, supplied--\"an attention,\" remarked a local paper, \"which the\nladies received with unconcealed satisfaction, and the gentlemen with\nsatisfaction which they vainly endeavoured to conceal.\"  Some of the\nundergraduates present doubtless, like the schoolboy in _Vice Versa_,\n\"recognized several words from the Greek Grammar\"; but what pleased me\nwas an elderly clergyman who declined to share his wife's copy of the\ntranslation.  \"No, no, my {79} dear,\" he said, \"I can follow the Greek\nquite sufficiently well!\" but before the end of the first act they were\nboth very contentedly looking over the English version together.\n\nMichaelmas Term is not of course the time for triumphs in the Schools;\nbut we were all delighted with the final achievement of the invincible\nCyril Martindale, S.J., who this autumn crowned his previous\nsuccesses--first classes in Moderations and \"Greats,\" the Hertford and\nCraven Scholarships, and the Chancellor's and Gaisford Prizes for Latin\nand Greek Verse--by carrying off the Derby Scholarship for the year.\nAnother Jesuit much in evidence at Oxford at this time was Bernard\nVaughan, who was preaching sermons, giving lectures, and attending\ndiscussions and debates with characteristic energy.  Colum Stuart and I\nheard him deliver himself, at a full-dress meeting of the Union, on the\nsubject of Egotism.  His perfervid oratory made one occasionally\n_squirm_ (it is the only word); but he was very well received by his\nyoung audience, and carried the House with him.\n\nTo the Jesuits and Benedictines, already domiciled in Oxford, were\nadded this winter the Franciscan Capuchins, who opened with some\nceremony their church and \"seraphic college\"[6] at Cowley.  It was\nsomething of an historic event, this returning of the Friars to Oxford\nafter a rustication of 367 years; and it evoked general and kindly\ninterest {80} quite outside Catholic circles.  Sir Hubert Jerningham\naccompanied me to the inaugural function, and to dinner later at Mgr.\nKennard's.  We spoke of the decay of the good old custom, universal in\nmy youth, of grace before meals.  Our host recalled a country squire\nwho, perfunctorily looking round his table, would mutter, \"No parson?\nThank God!\"[7] and hastily seat himself.  I told of a Scots farmer on a\nCaledonian Canal steam-boat, who, invited to \"return thanks,\" delivered\nhimself of this sentiment, \"O Lord, we're all floating down the stream\nof time to the ocean of eternity, for Christ's sake, Amen!\" and Sir\nHubert had a family story of the chaplain who, if he espied\nchampagne-glasses on the table, would begin his grace with \"Bountiful\nJehovah!\" but if only sherry-glasses, \"We are not worthy of the least\nof these Thy mercies.\"  We all remembered Mr. Mallock's canon, who,\nglancing with clasped hands at the _menu_, beginning with two soups,\ncomprising three _entrees_, and ending with Strasburg pate, began, \"O\nThou that sittest between the Cherubim, whose glory is so exceeding\nthat even they veil their faces before Thee; consecrate to their\nappointed use these poor morsels before us, and make them humble\ninstruments in the great scheme of our sanctification.\"  I took Sir\nHubert next day over the Clarendon Press, which I had never myself\nseen.  We were both struck by two things: all the machinery was\nAmerican, and there was no electric light, the whole place being lit by\nflaring {81} gas-jets.[8]  We had planned that evening to go and hear\nGeorge Wyndham speak at the Union; but it occurred to us, as a happy\nthought, to stay comfortably at home on a foggy November night, and\nread his speech in next day's _Times_.  The only important politician I\nheard speak this term was Bonar Law, by whom I sat at the Conservative\nClub dinner one evening.  I found him a very pleasant neighbour, and he\nmade as good a speech as I ever heard at a gathering of the kind.\n\nI made my way northward to Beaufort for Christmas, feeling a bit of a\nwreck after a sharp bout of influenza, and enjoyed to the full the\nbreezy sunshine which so often prevails there in mid-winter.  There was\na shooting-party at New Year, with pleasant _al fresco_ luncheons in\nsheltered corners of leafless woods, and of an evening music, and ghost\nstories round a great fire of beechen logs.  Of telepathy between the\ndying and the living Lord Hamilton gave me a striking instance.  He had\nserved in South Africa; and at dawn, sleeping on the veldt, was aroused\nby an unmistakable voice thrice calling his name.  The voice was his\nfather's, of whose death he heard next day by cable.  The quiet\nconviction with which he narrated this little incident impressed me\nmuch.\n\nStaying at an uncle's in Edinburgh on my way south, I met at dinner\nLord Dunedin and some other interesting people; and there was some\n\"good {82} talk\" on books and poetry.  Some one quoted Swinburne's\nopinion that the two finest lines in the language[9] were Browning's--\n\n  \"As the king-bird, with ages on his plumes,\n  Travels to die in his ancestral glooms.\"\n\nThree unhackneyed images, from the _City of the Soul_, I noted as\nadmirable:\n\n  \"The distant rook's faint cawing, harsh and sweet.\"\n\n  \"Black was his hair, as hyacinths by night.\"\n\n  \"Wet green eyes, like a full chalk stream.\"\n\nThe mention of Mallock reminded me of some of his delectable similes:\n\n\n\"Miss Drake dropped a short curtsey, which resembled the collapse of a\nconcertina.\"\n\n\"Above them a seagull passed, like the drifting petals of a magnolia.\"\n\n\"She advanced slowly towards the group, moving along the carpet like a\nclockwork mouse on wheels.\"\n\n\"Her eyes had the brown moisture that glimmers on a slug's back.\"\n\n\nA cousin of mine at this dinner, lately returned from China, amused me\nby the information that the pigeon-English word, or phrase, for a\nbishop was \"Number one topside heaven pidgin-man!\"\n\nOn the evening of my arrival in London, a geographical friend carried\nme to a notable meeting of his Society at Queen's Hall--the sailor Duke\nof the Abruzzi lecturing, in quaint staccato {83} Italian-English, on\nhis ascent of Ruanzori, in Equatorial Africa.  The King (with the\nPrince of Wales) was on the platform--stout, grey-bearded, and rather\nbored, I fancied, at being deprived of his after-dinner cigar: he made\na nice little speech of thanks and appreciation.  A day or two later\ncame the startling news of the great earthquake in Jamaica, the only\nEnglishman who lost his life being my dear old friend Sir James\nFergusson, whose body was found beneath the ruins of a tobacconist's\nshop in Kingston.  He was a man of many gifts and many friends, who had\nserved his country with distinction in almost every part of the Empire;\nand his death was a real tragedy, as well as a very real grief to me.\nIt was followed very shortly by that of another old friend, Susan Lady\nSherborne; and two very pleasant houses in Cornwall Gardens and Brook\nStreet, where I had spent many happy hours, were thus closed to me.\nThere was some talk, a little later, of a memorial to Sir James, the\nAnglican Bishop of the West Indies suggesting that this should take the\nform of subscriptions to his church restoration scheme.  I ventured\nstrongly to deprecate this proposal in the columns of _The Times_, and\nmy objections were emphatically endorsed by Mr. Fleming, the well-known\nPresbyterian minister in Belgravia.[10]\n\nTwo more deaths I may note in the early spring of 1907--the first that\nof Professor Pelham, president {84} of Trinity; a gentleman and a\nscholar, a real loss to Oxford, and (incidentally) one of my kindest\nfriends among college heads, just as his brother Sidney (famous slow\nbowler and future archdeacon) had been thirty years before, when I was\na feather-headed freshman at Magdalen.  In the same week died our\nworthy Chancellor, Lord Goschen, after little more than three years of\noffice.  Lords Rosebery and Curzon of Kedleston emerged as the\nfavourites among the many candidates \"in the air\"; but dining with a\nlarge party at Lord Teignmouth's a little later, I heard it confidently\nsaid that the country parsons would almost certainly \"bring Curzon in.\"\nThey came up, as a matter of fact, in such swarms that they practically\nswamped the election, Lord Curzon obtaining 1,101 votes against Lord\nRosebery's 440.  I sat, by the way, at Lord Teignmouth's dinner next an\nAmerican \"scientist\" (odious word!) of some kind, who told me some odd\nthings about the Lower Mississippi.  That river, he said, had, in 176\nyears, shortened itself by 242 miles--an average of about l 1/10 miles\nper year.  From this it followed that in the old Oolitic-Silurian\nperiod, some 100,000 years ago, the lower Mississippi was upwards of\n1,300,000 miles long, and stuck out over the Gulf of Mexico like a\nfishing-rod!\n\nI went to Downside in March, for the solemn blessing of the new abbot,\nmy kind and learned friend Dom Cuthbert Butler.  The elaborate ceremony\ntook nearly three hours: we were mercifully spared a sermon, but, _en\nrevanche_, the episcopal and abbatial speeches at the subsequent\nluncheon were long and rather wearisome.  At Fort Augustus, {85}\nwhatever the occasion, we never in those days derogated from the good\nold monastic usage of silence, and public reading, in the refectory.\n_Summum ibi fiat silentium_, said Saint Benedict: \"let no _mussitatio_\n[delicious Low Latin word for \"whispering\"] be heard there, or any\nvoice save that of the reader alone.\"  The custom was one, I think, as\ncongenial to our guests as to their monastic hosts.\n\nI was preoccupied at this time with the rapidly-failing health of my\noldest Oxford friend, H. D. Grissell of Brasenose, who spent half his\nyear in Rome, and the other half in what seemed a bit of old Rome\ntransported to Oxford.  He was the most pertinacious and indefatigable\n_collector_ I ever knew: coins, books and bindings, brass-rubbings,\nautographs, book-plates, holy relics, postage-stamps, even birds'\neggs--all was fish that came to his far-flung net; and he laboured\nincessantly to make all his collections, as far as possible, complete.\nI found the old man at this time, rather pathetically, trying to\ncomplete the collection of eggshells which he had begun as a Harrow boy\nsixty years before.  He insisted on exhibiting every drawer of his\ncabinet, and was greatly pleased with the motto which, I told him, Sir\nWalter Trevelyan had inscribed on _his_ egg-cabinet: \"Hic Argus esto,\nnon Briareus\"; or, in plain English, \"Look, but don't touch!\"[11]\nGrissell said he would like to affix this classical caution to all his\ncollections of curios; but he did not live to do this, or indeed to do\nmuch else of {86} any kind.  He left England before Easter for Rome;\nand there (as perhaps he would have wished) he died very suddenly a few\nweeks later.  By his own desire his body was brought back to England,\nat great trouble and cost (these _post mortem_ migrations never\nappealed to me), and was laid near his parents' graves in the pretty\ncountry churchyard of Mickleham, in Surrey.  There was a large\ngathering in the pouring rain, Professor Robinson Ellis and I\nrepresenting his many Oxford friends.  As his literary executor, I came\ninto possession of a great number of curious and interesting letters\nand documents, dealing chiefly with Roman matters and the early days of\nthe Ritual movement at Oxford and elsewhere.\n\nThe Corpus Professor of Latin, old Robinson Ellis, and I saw\nsubsequently (perhaps drawn together by the loss of our common friend)\na good deal of one another.  At \"meat tea,\" a meal he dearly loved, we\nused to sit long together, and talk classics, the only subject in which\nhe seemed in the least interested.  I wish I had noted down all the odd\nbits of erudition with which he used to entertain me.  Cicero's last\nwords, he said (I cannot imagine on what authority) were \"Causa\ncausarum, miserere mei!\"[12]  A curious story (perhaps mediaeval) of\nOvid was of how two monks visited his tomb, and in gratitude for the\nnoble line--the best, in his own opinion, that he had ever\nwritten--\"Virtus est licitis abstinuisse bonis,\" began reciting Paters\nand Aves for his soul.  The poet's spirit, unhappily, {87} was\nunappreciative of their charity; and a voice was heard from the tomb\ndeclaiming the irreverent pentameter: \"Nolo Paternoster: carpe, viator,\niter!\"  The professor told me that in his opinion the best elegiac\ncouplet ever written in English was:\n\n  \"Three Patagonian apes with their arms extended akimbo:\n  Three on a rock were they--seedy, but happy withal.\"\n\nHe said that one of Dr. Johnson's acutest literary criticisms was his\nremark that Tacitus seemed rather to have made notes for a historical\nwork than to have written a history.  The word \"jour,\" he pointed out\nto me, was derived from \"dies\" (though every single letter was\ndifferent) through the Italian--\"dies, diurnus, giorno, jour.\"  He\nasked if I could tell him the authorship of the striking couplet--\n\n  \"Mors mortis! morti mortem nisi morte dedisses,\n  AEternae vitae janua clausa foret.\"\n\n\nThis I was unable to do: on the other hand, I evoked a chuckle\n(whimsical etymologies always pleased him) by telling him how a\nfifteenth-century writer[13] had rendered the \"Royal Collegiate Church\nof Windsor\" into Latin as \"Collegium Domini Regis de _Ventomorbido_!\"\n\nAt the end of Lent Term I spent a few days at Eastbourne, which struck\nme (as the Honourable Mrs. Skewton struck Mr. Dombey) as being\n\"perfectly genteel\"--no shops on the front, no minstrels or pierrots or\ncockshys or vulgarity.  The hill behind seemed to swarm with schools:\nmy host took me to one where he had two sons--a fine {88} situation,\ncapital playgrounds, and the head a pleasant capable-seeming little\nman, who trotted briskly about on his little Chippendale legs, clad in\nknickerbockers, and was as keen on his Aberdeen terriers as on his\nyoung pupils.  I remember at Eastbourne a quite appallingly ugly Town\nHall, and a surprisingly beautiful fourteenth-century church, I suppose\nthe only bit of old Eastbourne left.  I went on to Arundel for my usual\npleasant Easter-tide visit; and after hearing much florid church-music\nthere, I enjoyed, on Low Sunday, the well-rendered plain-chant at\nWestminster Cathedral; but I did not enjoy a terrible motett composed\nby an eminent Jew--the words unintelligible and the music frankly\npagan.  My nephew Kelburn and his wife ran me down one day to Chatham\nin their new motor--cream-colour lined with crimson, very smart indeed.\nHe had been lately posted as first lieutenant to H.M.S. _Cochrane_, and\ntook us all over the great grey monster, vastly interesting.  We buzzed\nhome through Cobham and Rochester, stopping to look over the grand old\nNorman cathedral.  \"How strange,\" observed the simple sailor, looking\nat the sculptured images round the west doorway, \"to see all these old\nRoman Catholic saints in a Protestant cathedral!\"  How I wished some of\nmy young Oxford friends had been by to hear him!  Our whole drive to\ntown was of course redolent of Dickens and \"Pickwick\"--to me, but not\nto my modern nephew and niece.\n\nFor the last week of the vacation a friend was bent on taking me to\nBelgium; but great guns were blowing when we reached the coast, so we\nalighted at Dover and stayed there! finding it quite {89} an\ninteresting place of sojourn.  I was astonished at the antiquity,\nextent, and interest of the Castle, especially of its church, once a\nRoman barrack, and its tower, the ancient Pharos or lighthouse.\nGilbert Scott and the Royal Engineers between them had done their best\n(or their worst) in the way of \"restoration,\" disjoining the Pharos\nfrom the main building, and adding an Early English (!) front, windows,\nand door; but it still was, and is, by far the oldest edifice in\nEngland used for religious worship, and of the greatest antiquarian\ninterest.\n\nThe event of the summer at Oxford was the installation of our new\nChancellor, Lord Curzon, who was by no means content, like the Duke of\nWellington, Lord Salisbury, and others of his not indistinguished\npredecessors, to be quietly inducted into office by the university\nofficials at his own country residence.  There was a great function at\nthe Sheldonian, and a Latin harangue from my lord which was both\nelegant and well delivered, though it was thought by some that his\nemotional reference to his late wife was a little out of place.\n\nOxford had caught the pageant-fever which was this summer devastating\nEngland; and a great part of the term was spent (some cynics said\nwasted) in the extensive preparations for our own particular show.\nWhen they were all but complete, one of the historic \"rags\" by which\nChrist Church has from time to time distinguished itself broke out, in\nconsequence of the House becoming head of the river; and among other\nexcesses, some damage was done to the pageant-stands already erected in\nthe meadows.  A few days after this _emeute_ a description of it, which\nis really too good to be lost, {90} appeared in the _Corriere della\nSera_ of Milan, \"telephoned by our London correspondent.\"  I translate\nliterally from the Italian:--\n\n\nRecently the students of Oxford were beaten by those of Cambridge in\nthe great annual regatta: the other day they were defeated by the\nsportive group (_il gruppo sportivo_) of Merton College; finally, they\nallowed themselves to be vanquished by the sportive section (_la\nsezione sportiva_) of the Society of Christ Church, to whom was\nadjudged the primacy of the Thames.  Yesterday, profoundly moved in\ntheir _amore proprio_, the students of Oxford permitted themselves to\nproceed to deplorable excesses, even to the point of applying fire to\nthe _stands_ erected on the riverside by the rival Societies.  They set\nfire also to the tent of the Secretariat of Christ Church, feeding the\nflames with the chairs which they discovered in the vicinity.[14]\n\n\nI believe that our Oxford pageant (in spite of the wet summer) proved\nfinancially successful, if not altogether so artistically.  A few of\nthe scenes were very pretty, especially the earliest (St. Frideswide),\nand also the one representing Charles I. and his family at Oxford.  And\nthe ecclesiastical and monastic episodes were instructive, if only as\nshowing the incompetence of twentieth-century Anglicanism to reproduce\neven the externals--much more the spirit--of the Catholicism of old\nEngland.  Even more deplorable was the \"comic\" scene (written by the\nChichele professor of modern history!) in which the _clarum et\nvenerabile nomen_ of one of Oxford's saintliest sons was dragged in the\nmud: Roger Racon being depicted as a mountebank cheap-jack, hawking\nquack medicines from a {91} motor-bicycle![15]  My brother, who had\nentertained me at Warwick, came as my guest to witness the Oxford\neffort; and we had the rather interesting experience of viewing it in\nthe company of Rudyard Kipling and Mark Twain.  They were both pleased\nand interested; but it was impossible to deny that the poetic glamour\nof the Warwick pageant (largely due to the romantic beauty of its\nsetting) was almost wholly wanting at Oxford.\n\nOf the other pageants which were sprouting up all over the country\nduring this summer (unhappily one of the wettest on record), I attended\nonly one--that held at Bury St. Edmunds, which attracted me as being\nmainly concerned with Benedictines.  The setting was almost as fine as\nat Warwick--verdant lawns, big trees and the majestic ruins of our\nfamous abbey all \"in the picture\"; and the \"monks,\" mostly represented\nby blameless curates, were at least presentable, not unkempt\nragamuffins as at Oxford.[16]  The appearance of \"Abbot Sampson\"\n(played, I was told, by a local archdeacon) was grotesque enough: he\nwore throughout a purple chasuble over a black cassock, with a white\nmitre, and strode about brandishing a great wooden crosier! but he\nspoke his lines very well.  Everything, however, was spoilt by the\npitiless rain, which {92} fell unceasingly.  A clever black-haired lady\nwho played Boadicea (I believe the wife of an Ipswich dentist) had to\nabandon her chariot and horses and appear on foot, splashing through\nseveral inches of mud; and some of the \"early British\" matrons and\nmaidens sported umbrellas and mackintoshes!  I had to leave half-way\nthrough the performance, chilled to the bone, and firmly convinced that\nopen-air drama in England was a snare and a delusion.\n\nMark Twain, whom I have mentioned above, was one of the miscellaneous\ncelebrities, including Prince Arthur of Connaught and \"General\" Booth,\nwhom our Chancellor nominated for honorary degrees at his first\nEncaenia.  I met Mrs. Whitelaw Reid (the American Ambassadress) at\ndinner at Magdalen on Commemoration evening, and lunched with her a few\ndays later at Dorchester House.  One of the attaches was told off to\nshow me the famous \"old Masters,\" about which I found he knew a good\ndeal less than I did!  The same agreeable young American accompanied me\na little later to Bradfield, to see the boys play _Antigone_: a real\nsummer's day, for once, and the performance was admirable, especially\nthat of the title-role, the youth who played the part proving himself a\ngenuine tragedian.  The comments of a lady just behind us, who was\nprofoundly bored most of the time, were amusingly fatuous.[17]\n\n{93}\n\nI was in spiritual charge this term of our Catholic undergraduates\n(fifty or so), their chaplain having gone off on an invalid's holiday,\nand left his flock in my care.  I was delighted to have the company\nevery week-end of Robert Hugh Benson, who was giving the Sunday\nconferences in our chapel.  \"Far from being the snake-like gloomy type\nof priest so common in fiction,\" a weekly paper said of him about this\ntime, \"Father Benson is a thorough man of the world, liberal, amiable,\nand vivacious.\"  He was, of course, all this and a great deal more; and\nI greatly appreciated the opportunity which these summer weeks afforded\nme of becoming really intimate with him.  It was the beginning of a\ngenuine friendship, which was only interrupted (not, please God,\nbroken) by his premature and lamented death seven years later.[18]\n\n\n\n[1] \"Very satisfactory, I think, from an architectural point of view,\"\nsaid the alderman to his colleague, as they surveyed together the\ninterior of the new town hall; \"but I fear the acoustics are not\nexactly what they ought to be.\"  His companion sniffed several times.\n\"Do you think not?\" he said.  \"I don't notice anything myself!\"\n\n[2] [Greek: Henosis tes anglichanes chai tes Orthodoxou Echchlesias.]\n\n[3] It was at least a convenient method of disposing of the Pope and\nhis claims.\n\n[4] Collaterally, of course: Gregory XIII. (Buoncompagni), 1572-1585;\nand Gregory XV. (Ludovisi), 1621-1623.  I interested Don Andrea by\ntelling him that Gregory XIII. (reformer of the Julian Calendar and\nbuilder of the Quirinal) was probably the last Pope officially prayed\nfor at Oxford, and that in his own college chapel.  Mass certainly\ncontinued to be celebrated in Merton Chapel well into the Pontificate\nof Gregory XIII.\n\n[5] The possession of the Evil Eye has never been considered\nincompatible with the highest moral excellence.  Pius IX., who was\nvenerated by his people as a saint, was nevertheless regarded by many\nof them as an undoubted _jettatore_.\n\n[6] The traditional name given by the Franciscans to their monastic\nschools.  But they had, if I remember rightly, sufficient sense of\nhumour not to apply it to their Cowley seminary.\n\n[7] Nearly, but not quite, the shortest grace on record.  That palm,\nperhaps, belongs to the north country farmer wiping his mouth with the\nback of his hand after a plentiful meal, and ejaculating the single\nword, \"Then!\"\n\n[8] Perhaps for the same reason as was given me by a Christ Church don,\nwho rashly prophesied that Wolsey's great hall would never be lighted\nby electricity, as the additional heat given by the gas-jets was\nabsolutely essential by way of supplement to the huge fireplaces.\n\n[9] A large assumption; but Swinburne was doubtless better qualified\nthan most people to make it.  The lines are from _Sordello_ (ed. 1863,\np. 464).\n\n[10] My own idea, suggested by a proposed memorial to Goschen at Rugby\nschool, where James Fergusson had been his school-fellow, was that the\nmemory of the latter also should be perpetuated there in some fitting\nmanner.  I received letters cordially approving this suggestion; but I\nnever heard whether it was carried out in the case of either, or both,\nof these distinguished public servants.\n\n[11] Is it necessary to explain that Argus Panoptes, the all-seeing\nguardian of Io, had a hundred eyes, and Briareus, the pugnacious son of\nEarth and Heaven, a hundred arms?  Sir Walter's application of these\nmyths was distinctly neat.\n\n[12] Authentic or not, I added them to the collection of _novissima\nverba_ of famous men which I had been long compiling.  See Appendix.\n\n[13] Clement Maydeston, in his _Directorii Defensorium_ (A.D. 1495).\n\"Windsor,\" of course, means the \"winding shore,\" not the \"sick wind!\"\n\n[14] The truth underlying the last sentence of this delectable report\nis that some of the wilder rioters chucked the Secretary of the\nPageant's desk (containing all his papers) into the Cherwell; but it\nwas rescued so speedily by two of their more sober comrades that no\nharm was done.\n\n[15] This particular episode was really regarded by many people as\nalmost an outrage; and an article called \"A Blot on the Pageant,\" which\nI devoted to it in a weekly review, elicited many expressions of\nsympathy and approval in Oxford and elsewhere.\n\n[16] The Master of the Oxford Pageant, to whom I protested emphatically\nagainst the scandalous caricatures of the Benedictines of Abingdon,\ncalmly told me that the British public looked on a monk as a comic kind\nof creature, and would think itself defrauded unless he were so\nrepresented!\n\n[17] The lines (vv. 824-826):\n\n    [Greek: echousa ... tan phrygian xenan\n                tan, chissos os atenes,\n            petraia blasta davasen]\n\nseemed to strike the good lady particularly--the sound, that is, not\nthe sense of them.  \"Kisson----blast her--d--n her!  Dear me!\" she\nremarked; \"what language, to be sure!  I had no idea that Antigone\n[pronounced _Antigoan_] was that kind of young person!\"\n\n[18] The Rev. R. H. Benson died on October 19, 1914.\n\n\n\n\n{94}\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n1907-1908\n\nThe opening of the Long Vacation of 1907 was pleasantly signalized for\nus Benedictines by the gratifying successes in the Final Schools of our\nlittle Hall, which secured two first classes (in \"Greats\" and History),\nand a second class in Theology.  The _Oxford Magazine_ was kind enough\nto point out that this was a remarkable achievement for a Hall\nnumbering nine undergraduates, and compared favourably with the\npercentage of honours at any college in the university.  I was given to\nunderstand that my young theologian would also have secured his \"first\"\nhad he not objected to the matter and form of some of the questions set\nhim, and declined to answer them!\n\nThis cheerful news sent me in good spirits up to Dumfries for my usual\nweek's examinations at the Benedictine convent school there.  I found\nalmost eighty nuns in residence, including the exiled community of the\nmother house of Arras, whom (the Prioress was eighty-five, and there\nwere several old ladies on crutches) the great French Republic had\ndriven out of house and home as a \"danger to the State!\"  I had several\ninteresting talks with \"Madame la Prieure,\" who had been professed in\nthe reign of Louis Philippe, and who bore her cruel {95} uprootal with\ntrue French (and Christian) resignation and cheerfulness.  I do not\nknow if the tradition about St. Swithun holds good in Scotland; but\nthese days succeeding his festival (July 15) were certainly almost\ncontinuously wet.  One of the French nuns said that in her country\n(Picardy) St. Medard was credited with a similar influence, and quoted\nthe lines--\n\n  Quan ploon per San Medar,\n  Ploon quarante jhiours pus tard;\n\nand I recalled the Italian distich about St. Bibiana (December 2)--\n\n  Se piove il giorno di Santa Bibiana,\n  Piovera per quaranta giorni ed una settimana.\n\n\nI spent a few days at Longridge Towers, Sir Hubert Jerningham's Border\ncastle, when my work at Dumfries was finished, and found my host, as\nusual, excellent company, and full of anecdotes, both French and\nEnglish.  Speaking of a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Edmund at\nPontigny in which he had joined some years before, he said that an\nEnglish newspaper described an open-air benediction given by the\n\"Bishops of Estrade and Monte\"; the reporters having doubtless been\ninformed that the bishops would _mount_ on the _platform_ to give the\nblessing!  He showed us a cutting from another English newspaper,\nstating that MM. Navire, Chavire, and Bourrasque had been shipwrecked\nand drowned at sea!  Sir Hubert had a complete set of the _Revue des\nDeux Mondes_ in his library; and I hunted up for his delectation a\npassage in which M. Forgues, writing on English clerical life, _a\npropos_ of George Eliot's first book, {96} gave an original etymology\nfor the word _tract_.  \"Il [Rev. Amos Barton] a sa _Track Society_, qui\nva mettre en Fair toutes les bonnes femmes du pays, enregimentees pour\ndepister (track) les pauvres heres susceptibles de conversion.\"  The\nsame writer rendered the epithet \"Gallio-like\" (applied by the minister\nto the parishioners of Shepperton) by \"pareils a des Francais!\"\n\nYorkshire, after Northumberland, claimed me for two pleasant\nvisits--the first to the Herries' at Everingham, with its beautiful\nchapel copied from the Maison Carree at Nimes, and its famous\ndeer-park, one of the oldest in England (so Lord Herries told me), and\na very different thing, as one of Disraeli's country squires in\n_Lothair_ remarks, from a mere park with deer in it.  The weather was\nbright and hot; and it was a pretty sight to see the droves of\nfallow-deer, bucks and does together, clustering for shade under the\ngreat trees near the house.  From Everingham I went on to Bramham,\nwhere George Lane Fox was spending a happy summer in his old home.  He\ntook me everywhere, through the lovely gardens laid out by Lenotre, and\n(in a brougham drawn by an ancient hunter and driven by a stud-groom\nnot less ancient) all over the park, and up the noble beech avenue\ncalled Bingley's Walk.  My friend had lost his splendid inheritance for\nconscience' sake; and it was pleasant to see him, in old age and\nenfeebled health, passing happy days, through his nephew's hospitality\nand kindness, at the well-loved home of his boyhood and youth.\n\nI was glad to find myself settled for some golden weeks of August and\nSeptember at our abbey among {97} the Highland hills, where we were\nthis autumn favoured with almost continuous sunshine.  Our many guests\ncame and went--some of them busy city men, enjoying to the full the\npure air, lovely surroundings, and quiet life in our guest-house, all\nto the accompaniment of chiming bells and chanted psalms.  Whether they\nfound our \"brown Gregorians\" as devotional as the sentimentalist of Mr.\nHichens's novel[1] I know not; but anyhow to me our monastic\nplain-chant was restful and pleasant after the odd stuff in the way of\n\"church music\" which had elsewhere assailed my ears.  I confess that\nafter our more normal Oxford hours (though I hope we were not sluggards\nat our Hall), I reconciled myself with difficulty to \"the hour of our\nuprising\" in the monastery.  The four o'clock matin-bell had always\nbeen more or less of a penance to me (as I suppose it was to most of my\nbrethren), though I tried to fortify myself with Dr. Johnson's\nargument--a purely academic one in the case of that lie-abed old\nsage--that \"it is no slight advancement to obtain for so many more\nhours the _consciousness of being_\"; but an American guest of ours, to\nwhom I cited this dictum, countered it by a forcibly-expressed opinion\n\"on the other side\" by one of the most eminent living specialists in\ninsanity.[2]\n\n{98}\n\nOne recalls delicious rambles with our brethren or our guests during\nthose sunlit autumn days: sometimes among the verdant Glengarry woods,\nsometimes at our outlying \"chapel-of-ease,\" some miles up the most\nbeautiful of the glens which run from Central Inverness-shire to the\nsea.  A veritable oasis this among the hills, with its green meadows,\nwaving pines, and graceful bridge spanning the rushing river; and all\nframing the humble chapel, its eastern wall adorned with a fresco (from\nthe brush of one of our artist monks[3]) which the little flock--sadly\ndiminished of late years by emigration--greatly admired and venerated.\nA week-end was sometimes spent pleasantly and not unprofitably at some\nremote shooting-lodge, saying mass for Catholic tenants, and perhaps a\nhandful of faithful {99} Highlanders.  One such visit I remember this\nautumn at a lodge in Glencarron, a wild wind-swept place, with the\nsurrounding hilltops already snow-coated, which Lord Wimborne (for some\nyears Lovat's tenant at Beaufort) had recently acquired.  Although in\nthe heart of the forest, the lodge was but two hundred yards from the\nrailway; there was no station, but the train would obligingly stop when\nsignalled by the wave of a napkin from the front door!  A crofter's cow\nstrayed on the line one day of my stay, was, by bad luck, run over by\none of the infrequent trains, and (as a newspaper report once said of a\nsimilar mischance) \"cut literally into _calves_.\"[4]  The night before\nI left Glencarron, we were all wakened, and some of us not a little\nperturbed, by two very perceptible shocks of earthquake--a phenomenon\nnot unusual in the district.  We heard afterwards that at Glenelg, on\nthe west coast, the shocks had been more severe, and some damage had\nbeen done; but, as a witty member of our party remarked, Glenelg might\nhave been turned inside out, or upside down, without suffering any\nappreciable change.[5]  On my way back to Fort Augustus I stayed a day\nat Beaufort to wish _bon voyage_ to Lovat's brother-in-law and sister,\nwho were just off {100} to visit another married sister at our Embassy\nin Japan, and (incidentally) to travel round the world.  I met on the\nsteamer on my way home one of my Wauchope cousins, a spinster lady who\nhad gone some time before to live in Rome, and had asked me for letters\nof introduction to \"two or three Cardinals.\"  Tired of Rome, she was\nnow making for the somewhat different _milieu_ of Rotherhithe, with\nsome work of the kind popularly called \"slumming\" in view.\n\nI visited, on my way south, a married brother at his charming home in\nBerwickshire, where there was much tennis, and pleasant expeditions by\nmotor to interesting spots on both sides of the Border.  One lovely\nautumn day we spent at Manderston, where our hostess had her brother,\nmy lord chancellor of Oxford University, staying with her.  The great\nman was very affable, and asked me to go and see him in Michaelmas\nTerm, when he would be in residence at the \"Judge's Lodgings\" in St.\nGiles's.  I joined a family gathering at Newhailes, a few days later,\nfor the pretty wedding of my niece, Christian Dalrymple--\"a very\ncomposed bride,\" remarked one of the reporters present, \"as befitted a\nlady who had acted as hostess to the leading lights of the Conservative\nparty ever since she left the schoolroom.\"[6]  Her uncle, the Bishop of\nBath and Wells, tied the knot (of course \"impressively\"), and I was\nglad to find myself at Newhailes in his always pleasant {101} company.\nDriving with him to pay a call or two in the neighbourhood, I amused\nhim with an _a propos_ story of the bishop who rode out on a long round\nof leaving-calls, attended by his groom, who was sent into the house,\nbefore starting, to get some cards.  When they reached the last house,\nthe order came, \"Leave two cards here, James\"; and the unexpected reply\nfollowed: \"I can't, my lord; there's only the ace of spades left!\"\n\nAfter a few days at Niddrie Marischal, the fascinating old seat of the\nWauchopes near Edinburgh (General \"Andie\" Wauchope's widow had lived\nthere since her husband's gallant death at Magersfontein), I went to\nCumbrae to visit Lady Bute at the Garrison, her home on that quaint\nisland in the Firth of Clyde.  The house, too, was quaint though\ncomfortable, built in semi-ecclesiastical Gothic, with a sunk garden in\nfront, and a charming moonlight view from my window of the broad Firth,\nwith the twinkling lights of the tiny town in the foreground.  Millport\nwas a favourite \"doon-the-water\" resort for Glasgow folk on holiday;\nand I had quite a congregation at my Sunday mass in the little chapel\nin the grounds, as well as a considerable catechism-class afterwards.\nWinifred Lady Howard of Glossop, my lady's stepmother, was paying her a\nvisit, and as an inveterate globe-trotter (if the word may be\nrespectfully applied to an elderly peeress) kept us entertained by\nstories of men and things in many lands.  I spent one afternoon at the\ncollege and \"cathedral\" of the Isles, the quaint group of buildings,\nredolent of Butterfield and looking like an Oxford college and chapel\nthrough the wrong end of a telescope, which the sixth Earl of Glasgow\n(my {102} brother-in-law's predecessor) had more or less ruined himself\nin erecting.  Provost Ball, whom I found at tea with his sisters,\nreceived me kindly, and showed me the whole establishment, which looked\nrather derelict and neglected (I fancy there was very little money to\nkeep it going); and the college had been closed for some years.  Some\nof us crossed the Firth next day in an absurd little cockle of a\nmotor-boat (unsuitable, I thought, for those sometimes stormy seas),\nand I was glad to find myself on _terra firma_, in a comfortable White\nsteam-car--my first experience of that mode of propulsion--which\nwhirled us smoothly and swiftly to Glasgow, in time for me to take the\nnight train to London and Oxford.\n\nIn university circles I found a certain amount of uneasy trepidation\nowing to the official presence of Lord Curzon.  A resident Chancellor\nwas a phenomenon unprecedented for centuries, and one unprovided for in\nthe traditional university ritual, in which the first place was\nnaturally assigned to the Vice-chancellor.  There was much talk as to\nwhen, and in what direction, the new broom would begin to sweep, and\namusing stories (probably _ben trovati_) of dignified heads of houses\nbeing called over the coals at meetings of the Hebdomadal Council.\nPersonally the Chancellor made himself very agreeable, entertaining\neverybody who was anybody at his fine old mansion, once the \"town\nhouse\" of the Dukes of Marlborough.  It was all, perhaps, a little\nVice-regal for us simple Oxonians, who were not accustomed to write our\nnames in a big book when we made an afternoon call, or to be received\nby a secretary or other underling instead of by our host when we went\nout to luncheon or dinner.  But it {103} was all rather novel and\ninteresting; and in any case the little ripples caused on the surface\nof Oxford society by our Chancellor's sayings and doings soon subsided;\nfor, as far as I remember, his term of residence did not exceed a month\nor so altogether.  I was kept busy all this autumn term by the\nconsiderable work I had undertaken (the contribution of nearly eighty\narticles) for the American _Catholic Encyclopaedia_.  One of the longest\nwas on Cambridge; and I felt on its completion that I knew much more\nabout the \"sister university\" than about my own!  Most of my work was\ndone in the Bodleian Library; and it was a pleasant and welcome change\nto find oneself installed in the new, well-lighted and comfortable\nreading-room arranged in one of the long picture-galleries, instead of\n(as heretofore) in an obscure and inconvenient corner of Duke\nHumphrey's mediaeval chamber.  The then Bodley's Librarian was a bit of\nan oddity, and perhaps not an ideal holder of one of the most difficult\nand exacting offices in the university; but he was always kindness\nitself to me, and, whatever his preoccupations, was always ready to put\nat my service his unrivalled knowledge of books and their writers.  His\nmemory was stored with all kinds of whimsical rhymes: sometimes he\nwould stop me in the street, and--at imminent peril of being run over,\nfor he was extraordinarily short-sighted--would peer in my face through\nhis big spectacles, and say, \"Did you ever hear of\n\n      ----the learned Archdeacon of York,\n  Who _would_ eat his soup with a knife and a fork:\n  A feat which he managed so neatly and cleverly,\n  That they made him the Suffragan Bishop of Beverley!\"\n\n{104} Or it would be, perhaps, \"Listen to this new version of an old\nsaw:\n\n  Teach not your parent's mother to extract\n    The embryo juices of an egg by suction:\n  The aged lady can the feat enact\n    Quite irrespective of your kind instruction.\"\n\nAnd before I had time to smile at the quip I would be dragging my\nfriend off the roadway on to the pavement to escape the oncoming\ntramcar, bicycle or hansom cab.  Sometimes we walked together, usually\nin quest of some relic of antiquity in the neighbourhood, in which he\nwould display the most lively interest, though I really believe it was\nall but invisible to his bodily eyes.  One such walk was to inspect the\nold lepers' chapel of St. Bartholomew, in the fields near Cowley--a\nlovely derelict fragment of the ages of faith, which the local Anglican\nclergy had expressed their intention of \"restoring to the ancient\nworship.\"  \"_You_,\" said my friend the librarian, with his ironic\nsmile, \"will doubtless regard this promise as what our friend Dean\nBurgon would have called 'polished banter,'\" the allusion being to a\nphrase in a sermon preached by the future Dean of Chichester at St.\nMary's at the time when the spread of the so-called \"aesthetic movement\"\nwas causing some concern to sensible people.  \"These are days,\" he\ncried, \"when we hear men speak, not in polished banter, but in sober\nearnest, of 'living up to their blue china!'\"  I heard him speak these\nwords myself; and recalling that inimitable tone and accent, can\nimagine the impression made by a more memorable utterance from the same\npulpit, when the new doctrines of Darwin were in the air, and the\nalleged affinity of man with monkey was {105} fluttering orthodox\ndovecotes.  \"O ye men of science!  O ye men of science!  leave me my\nancestors in Paradise, and I will willingly leave you yours in the\nZoological Gardens!\"\n\nI had the pleasure in November of paying a short visit to the wise and\ngood Bishop of Newport, for a church-opening at Cardiff.  A profit as\nwell as a pleasure, one may hope; for indeed no one could spend any\ntime in Dr. Hedley's company without instruction as well as\nedification.  We spoke of the late Lord Bute's remarkable philological\ngifts; and I asked the Bishop if he had found his ignorance of Welsh\nany practical hindrance to the work of his diocese.  \"No,\" was his\nreply.  \"Fortunately for me (for I am no Mezzofanti) I find English a\ngood enough means of communication with my people, the majority of whom\nare neither Welsh nor English, but Irish.\"  I told him, much to his\namusement, of the advice once given to an Englishman appointed to a\nWelsh (Anglican) see, as to the proper pronunciation of the Welsh\ndouble _l_.  \"May it please your lordship to place your episcopal\ntongue lightly against your right reverend teeth, and to hiss like a\ngoose!\"  A young Oxford friend of mine whom I met at Cardiff carried me\nthence to Lichfield to stay a night at the Choristers' House of which\nhis father was master.  It chanced to be \"Guy Fawkes Day,\" and I\nassisted at the fireworks and bonfires of the little singing-boys, who\n(I was rather interested to find) did not associate their celebration\nin the slightest degree with the old \"No Popery\" tradition.  The merry\nevening concluded with some delightful part-singing.\n\nI recall a week-end at Arundel when term was over: a large and cheerful\nparty, and the usual {106} \"parlour games\" after dinner, including\ndumb-crambo, in which I was almost the only spectator; for everybody\nelse was acting, the Duke being a polar bear rolled up in a white\nhearthrug!  My customary Christmas was spent at Beaufort, in a\nmuch-diminished family circle.  Lord Lovat was on his way home from\nSouth Africa, one brother absent on a sporting tour in Abyssinia,\nanother gold-mining in Rhodesia; his second sister with her husband in\nJapan, and two others still _en voyage_ round the world.  Some\nschoolboy nephews, however, and their young sisters, were a cheerful\nelement in our little party, and there was a great deal of golf, good,\nbad, and indifferent, on the not exactly first-class course recently\nlaid out in the park.[7]  I had to go south soon after New Year, to tie\nthe knot and preach the wedding sermon at a marriage in Spanish Place\nChurch.[8]  A thoroughly Scottish function it was, with Gordon\nHighlander sergeants lining the long nave, the bridegroom's kilted\nbrother-officers forming a triumphal arch with their claymores, and a\nbig gathering of friends from the north afterwards at the Duchess of\nRoxburghe's pretty house in Grosvenor Street.  I attended next evening\nat our Westminster dining-club, and heard {107} Father Maturin read a\nclever, if not quite convincing paper, on \"The Broad and Narrow Mind,\"\nsome of his paradoxes provoking a lively subsequent discussion which I\nfound very interesting.  I had a stimulating neighbour in Baron Anatole\nvon Huegel.\n\nThe opening of the Lent Term of 1908 at Oxford was dreary enough, with\na succession of the dense white fogs which only the Thames valley\ngenerates in perfection.  It is not cheering to come down morning after\nmorning to find what looks like a huge bale of dirty cotton-wool piled\nup against one's window-panes; and the news at this time was as\ndepressing as the weather.  We heard early in February of the brutal\nmurder of the King and Crown Prince of Portugal, before the eyes of\nwife and mother; and I was saddened in the same month by the death of\nan exemplary member of our community at Fort Augustus, though that had\nbeen long expected.  I was myself on the sick-list, and recall little\nof interest during these weeks, except a most excellent lecture--of\ncourse on boy scouts--given by General Baden-Powell, which I only\nwished could have been heard, not by dons, ladies, and undergraduates,\nbut by the cigarette-slobbering, street-corner-loafing lads who were, I\nthink, more in evidence at Oxford than anywhere else.  Early in March I\nwas in London, for the wedding of my old pupil, Charles Vaughan of\nCourtfield, to the pretty niece of the Duke of Newcastle.  I got to\nWestminster Cathedral an hour before the appointed time: the\nchapter-mass was being celebrated, and waves of sonorous plain-song\nfloating about the great misty domes overhead.  After the ceremony I\njoined the wedding guests at the Ritz for a short time, and, amid the\n_frou-frou_ {108} and _va-et-vient_ of all the smart people, managed to\nimpart to a few intimate friends the news that I was going into\nhospital in a few days, with no very certain prospect of coming out\nalive!\n\nThe next fortnight or so was of course taken up with inevitable\nworries--giving up work for an indefinite period, resigning for a time\n(it turned out to be for good) the mastership of my Hall, and finding a\n_locum tenens_ letter-writing to a host of inquiring friends, and all\nthis when physically fit to do nothing.  I spent the last days of\nfreedom at Arundel, receiving from the good people there every possible\nkindness; and on March 18, under the patronage of the Archangel Gabriel\n(saint of the day), betook myself to my nursing home in Mandeville\nStreet.  Nurses (mine were most kind and devoted), surgeons and\nanaesthetists soon got to work; and for a time at least (in the almost\nclassic words of Bret Harte) \"the subsequent proceedings interested me\nno more.\"\n\nA critical operation, followed by a slow and difficult convalescence,\nranks, of course, among the deeper experiences of a man's life.  \"We\nwere all anxious,\" said an Oxford friend some weeks later, a good old\nchemist whom I had known for years; \"for we heard that you were passing\nthrough very deep waters.\"  The expression was an apt one; and I\nsuppose no one rises from such waters quite the same man as he was\nbefore.  This is not the place to dwell on such thoughts; but one\nreflection which occurs to me is that in such a time as I am now\nrecalling one realizes, as perhaps one had never done before, how many\nkind people there are in the world, and appreciates what true\nfriendship is.  During {109} my long stay in hospital my nearest\nrelations chanced to be greatly scattered, some of them in very remote\nparts of the world.  This made me all the more grateful for the\nextraordinary kindness and attention I received, not only from approved\nfriends, but from many others whom I had hardly ventured to count as\nsuch.  I remember a little later compiling a kind of _libro d'oro_,\nwith a list of the names of all who had been good to me in word or deed\nduring those weary weeks.  Some of them I have hardly ever seen since:\nmany have passed beyond the sphere of one's gratitude here on earth;\nbut I still sometimes con my list, and thank the dead as well as the\nliving for what they did for me then.\n\nI remember my first drive--round Regent's Park, on a perfect May day,\nin the steam-car of which I have already spoken; and very tiring I\nfound it.  After a lazy fortnight at St. John's Lodge, and daily\ntrundles in a Bath chair among the gay flower-beds of the park, I was\nable to get down into the country; and after a sojourn with Lady\nEncombe and her two jolly little boys near Rickmansworth (a wonderfully\nrural spot, considering its nearness to London), I made my way to\nArundel, where it was pleasant to meet the Herries's and other kind\nfriends.  The great excitement there was the hoped-for advent of a son\nand heir, who made a punctual and welcome appearance before the end of\nthe month, and was received, of course, with public and private\njubilations in which I was happy to be able to participate.  After this\nI paid quite a long visit to my soldier brother at Kneller Court, the\npretty place near Fareham which he was occupying while commanding the\nArtillery in that district.  There were plenty of {110} pleasant\nneighbours, who treated me to pleasant motor-drives through a charming\ncountry little known to me; and the elm-shaded hall (I believe Sir\nGodfrey Kneller had really lived there once), with its gay old garden\nand excellent tennis-lawn, was a popular resort for young officers from\nPortsmouth and elsewhere, who dropped in almost daily to luncheon, tea,\nor dinner, and doubtless found the society of a kind hostess and her\ntwo pretty daughters a welcome diversion from their naval and military\nduties.  One June day we spent in Portsmouth, lunching with Sir Arthur\nand Lady Fanshawe at Admiralty House, a big, cool roomy mansion like a\nFrench chateau, full of fine old portraits.  We went out afterwards on\nthe flag-captain's launch to see the _Victory_, a visit full of\ninterest, though I was unequal to climbing the companions connecting\nthe five decks.  A man whom I sat next at tea in the Admiral's garden\nsaid he was connected with the Patent Office (I do not think he was\nactually Comptroller-General, but he was something high up in that\nrather mysterious department of the Civil Service), and told me some\nentertaining yarns about early patents and monopolies.[9]  One was\ngranted in 1618 to two men called Atkinson and Morgan, \"to find out\nthings in monasteries!\"  Another man, about the same time, secured the\nexclusive right of importing lobsters, which had hitherto cost a penny;\nbut the patentee bought them out at sea from Dutch fishermen, and {111}\nsold them at threepence.  In Charles I.'s reign a \"doctour in phisick\"\ncalled Grant got a patent for a \"fishe-call, or looking-glass for\nfishes in the sea, very useful for fishermen to call all manner of\nfishes to their netts, seins, or hooks.\"  In the same reign it was made\ncompulsory to bury the dead in woollen in order to encourage the wool\nmanufacture; and ten years later Widow Amy Potter got a (rather\ngruesome) patent for the elegant woollen costume she devised for this\npurpose.[10]\n\nI went from Kneller to spend a breezy week at Brighton with Captain\nFrank Grissell, to whom his brother, my old Oxford friend, had left\npractically all his possessions and collections, and who had just\npurchased a pretty villa in Preston Park in which to house them.  No\nbrothers were ever more dissimilar or more devoted than Hartwell, whose\nwhole interests in life had been ecclesiastical and Roman, and his\nbrother Frank, ex-cavalry officer, to whom horses and hunting, racing\nand coaching, were the salt of life.  He had arranged his brother's\nmiscellaneous treasures, in one or two spacious rooms, with great care\nand pains; and it was a curious experience to pass out of an atmosphere\nand environment of religious paintings, Roman bookbindings, panels from\ncardinals' coaches, Papal coins and medals, Italian ecclesiological\nliterature, and what the {112} French call _objets de piete_ of every\ndescription, to the ex-lancer's own cheerful living-rooms: the walls\nhung with pictures of hunters, steeplechasers, coaching and sporting\nscenes; stuffed heads, tiger-skins, and other trophies of the chase\neverywhere about, and the windows looking out on a pretty garden, in\nthe improvement and cultivation of which the owner was promising\nhimself unfailing interest and occupation.\n\n\"Doctor Brighton\" (was not this affectionate sobriquet the invention of\nThackeray?) did much for the restoration of my health and strength; and\nI was able to get to Oxford before the end of summer term, to spend a\nfortnight with kind Monsignor Kennard at his charming old house in St.\nAldate's, where I had a room so close to Tom Tower that the \"Great Bell\nof Tom\" sounded as if it were tolling at my bedside![11]  In his pretty\nchapel (of which the open roof was said to be a relic of Oseney Abbey),\nI had the happiness, on Trinity Sunday, of celebrating Mass for the\nfirst time for more than three months--a greatly-appreciated privilege.\n\n\n\n[1] \"A brown Gregorian is so devotional....  Gregorians are obviously\nof a rich and sombre brown, just as a Salvation Army hymn is a violent\nmagenta.\"\n\n[2] Dr. Selden Talcott, of the State Asylum, Middleton, New York;\naccording to whom early rising is the most prolific cause of madness.\n\"A peremptory command to get up, when one's sleep is as yet unfinished,\nis a command which grinds the soul, curdles the blood, swells the\nspleen, destroys all good intentions, and disturbs all day the mental\nactivities, just as the tornado disturbs and levels with advancing ruin\nthe forest of mighty pines....  The free and lazy savage gets up when\nhe feels ready, and rarely or never becomes insane.\"  Dr. Talcott\nquotes the percentage of lunacy among country people as compared with\nprofessional men.  The latter, almost without exception, get up\ncomparatively late, whereas our manual labourers all leave their beds\nlong before they should.  \"The early morning hours, when everything is\nstill, are peculiarly fitted for sleep; and it is a _gross violation of\nNature's laws_ to tear human brains out of the sound rest they enjoy at\nthis time.\"  A weighty utterance, no doubt: still, it is but fair to\npoint out that among monks, who perhaps, as a class, get up earlier\nthan any men living, the number of those whose good intentions are\ndestroyed and mental activities disturbed, and who finally become\nlunatics, is really not alarmingly large.\n\n[3] Dom Paulinus Gorwood, who had been a choirboy at Beverley Minster,\nand draughtsman in a great shipbuilding yard, and had studied religious\nart in the famous Beuron Benedictine school at Prague.  He had industry\nas well as talent; and there were specimens of his handiwork in places\nas remote from one another as the Highland Catholic Church at Beauly,\nand the college chapel at St. Augustine's Abbey, Ramsgate.\n\n[4] This printer's feat somehow reminds me of the statement in an\nEdinburgh paper that a certain eminent tenor, who had had a bad fall\nalighting from the train, was nevertheless \"able to appear that evening\nat the concert in several pieces.\"  But the funniest printer's slip\nwhich I remember in connection with trains was an announcement in a\nHampshire newspaper that \"The Express Engine was seriously indisposed,\nand confined to bed.\"  The distinguished invalid was really the Empress\nEugenie!\n\n[5] The word Glenelg is, of course, a palindrome, reading backwards and\nforwards alike.\n\n[6] Randolph Churchill, Joseph Chamberlain, and Arthur Balfour were\nonly a few among the political magnates who had enjoyed my\nbrother-in-law's hospitality in the fine old Georgian mansion where\nLord Hailes had entertained Dr. Johnson.  Newhailes was, of course, a\nvery convenient \"jumping-off\" place for meetings in the Scottish\nmetropolis.\n\n[7] About as good, perhaps, as a certain English nine-hole course over\nwhich the secretary invited (partly by way of advertising his club) a\nfamous golfer to play.  \"Well, what do you think of our course?\" asked\nthe secretary with some trepidation when the game was over.  \"Oh well,\nit might be worse,\" was the great man's answer.  \"How do you mean\nexactly, might be worse?\"  \"Well,\" said the eminent golfer, \"there\nmight be eighteen holes!\"\n\n[8] That of Alister Gordon, of the Gordon Highlanders, to a sister of\nCharles Edmonstoune-Cranstoun, an old pupil of mine.  The bridegroom\nwas a fine soldier, became Brigadier-General in the European War, and\nfell gallantly at Ypres in July, 1917.\n\n[9] My well-informed friend told me, if I remember right, that statutes\nhaving been passed in more recent times, limiting the grant of patents\nto actual new inventions, scientific or otherwise, nothing so amusing\nas the instances he quoted were to be found in their modern records.\n\n[10] Not more gruesome, perhaps, than an exhibition organized at\nStafford House, in my young days about London, by Anne Duchess of\nSutherland, of _wicker-work coffins_.  They were spread about the\ngarden, where tea was likewise provided; and a dapper and smiling young\nman (I suppose the patentee) was in attendance to point out the\nadvantages--sanitary, economic, and aesthetic--of his invention to the\nDuchess's interested guests.\n\n[11] I could not claim the concession (I believe unique) granted to an\nold Captain De Moleyns, who lived--and died--close to Christ Church,\nand during whose last days the immemorial ringing of \"Tom\" was\nsuspended.  He was a man of very advanced age, and used to tell how as\na little boy he was rowed across Plymouth Harbour to see Napoleon\nstanding on the deck of the _Bellerophon_!\n\n\n\n\n{113}\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n1908\n\nI passed the closing days of the summer term of 1908 very pleasantly at\nOxford, receiving many kindnesses from old friends, mingled with\nexpressions of regret that my official connection with the university\nwas approaching its close.  I recall an interesting dinner-party at\nBlack Hall, the Morrells' delightful old house in St. Giles's, where my\nneighbour was Miss Rhoda Broughton, at that time resident near Oxford.\nWe talked, of course, of her novels; and the pleasant-faced,\ngrey-haired lady was amused to hear that my sisters were not allowed to\nread _Cometh Up as a Flower_, and _Red as a Rose is She_[1] (considered\nstrong literary food in the early 'seventies), until they \"came out.\"\nMrs. Temple, the archbishop's widow, was also a fellow-guest: she had\ntaken a house in Oxford, close to \"dear Keble\"; but said that the noise\nand uproar emanating at night from the college of \"low living and high\nthinking\" was so great that she thought she would have to move.  A\nmember of the lately-established {114} Faculty, or Institute, of\nForestry, who was of our party, told us some \"things not generally\nknown\" about trees, which I noted down.  The biggest tree known in the\nworld was, he said, not in America (what a relief!), but the great\nchestnut at the foot of Mount Etna, called the Chestnut of a Hundred\nHorses, with a trunk over 200 ft. round, and a hole through it through\nwhich two carriages can drive abreast.  The biggest orange-tree known\nwas, said our oracle, in Terre Bonne, Louisiana: 50 ft. high, 15 ft.\nround at base, and yielding 10,000 oranges annually.  Finally, the most\nvaluable tree in existence was the plane-tree in Wood Street, in the\nCity, occupying a space worth, if rented, L300 a year--a capital value\nof L9,000 or thereabouts.  All these facts I thought curious.\n\nTerm over, I stayed for a little time with a sister in Kensington Gore,\nvery handy for Kensington Gardens, where I sat an hour or two every\nmorning enjoying the fresh air and verdure of that most charming of\n\"London's lungs,\" and surrounded by frolicking children, including my\nsmall nephew.  One of his little playfellows, a grandson of Lord\nPortman, suddenly disappeared from the gay scene; I inquired where he\nwas, and was told that he had gone for a rest-cure.  \"Great heavens!\" I\nsaid, \"a child of three!--but why, and where?\"--\"Oh,\" was the reply,\n\"Master Portman was taking too much notice of the busses and motor-cars\nand such-like, and wouldn't go to sleep; so he is taking a rest-cure in\nhis nursery at the top of the house, looking over the chimney-pots!\"\nThe modern child! but then I do not of course profess to understand\ninfants and their ways and needs.\n\n{115}\n\nThe White City, with its Irish village, and a notable exhibition of\nFrench and English pictures, was a great attraction this summer.  A\nkind cousin motored me thither once or twice; and I met a little later\nat her house some pleasant Italian cavalry officers, smart in their\nEton blue uniforms, who were going to jump at the horse-show at\nOlympia.  I went, at their urgent invitation, to see their performance,\nand was both interested and impressed.  As an exhibition of the art of\nshow-jumping it seemed to me unsurpassable.  The horse answered the\nvery slightest movement of the leg or body of its rider, who, as he\nrose to each leap, was so perfectly pivoted on the insides of his knees\nthat his balance remained absolutely unaffected.  The French\ncompetitors combined pace and dash with their excellent horsemanship;\nand the finest horses were certainly those ridden by the English.  But\nthe cool, quiet, scientific, deliberate riding of the Italians, trained\nin the finest school in the world, made all their rivals seem, somehow,\na little rough and flurried and amateurish; and they gained, as they\nundoubtedly deserved, the chief honours of the show.\n\nThe heat in July was great; and I was so depressed, visiting the great\nNational Rose Show in the Botanic Gardens, by the spectacle of 100,000\nonce lovely blossoms hopelessly wilted and shrivelled, that I fled from\nLondon to a brother's shady river-side home near Shepperton.  It was\nreposeful under the big elms overhanging his garden, to watch the\nboat-laden Thames gliding past; and another pleasure which I enjoyed\nwhilst there was a quite admirable organ-recital given at a\nneighbouring church--Littleton, I think it was.  The kind rector showed\nus round {116} and gave us tea; and the sight of the many tattered\nregimental colours (Grenadier Guards and others) hanging on the church\nwalls drew down upon him the following lines, which I sent him next day\nin acknowledgment of his courtesy:--\n\n\n  THE COLOURS\n\n  (Hung in churches: no longer [1908] taken into action.)\n\n  That rent is Talavera; that patch is Inkerman:\n  A hundred times in a hundred climes the battle round them ran.\n  But that is an ended chapter--they will not go to-day:\n  Hang them above as a link of love, where the people come to pray.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\n  Perhaps when all is quiet, and the moon looks through the pane,\n  Under that shred the splendid dead are marshalled once again,\n  And hear the guns in the desert, and see the lines on the hill,\n  And follow the steel of the lance, and feel that England is\n        England still.\n\n\nI found it very little cooler in Yorkshire than in London; but there\nwere noble trees and welcome shade in the beautiful park of Langdon,\nnear Northallerton, where I spent some July days, in an atmosphere a\nthought too equine for my taste; however, my kind hosts (the Fifes)\nwere as fond of their flowers as of their horses, and were busy adding\nwildernesses and rockeries and other informal beauty-spots to the\nformal gardens of their new home, which they had recently bought from\nLord Teignmouth.  I was driven over one day to see the Hospital of St.\nJohn of God at Scorton, where a hundred inmates, all crippled or\ndisabled, were tended with admirable care and devotion by a religious\nbrotherhood.  A local clergyman, I remember, dined with us that evening\nat Langdon--a man whose mission, or hobby, seemed to be to collect and\nretail such odd and out-of-the-way facts as one finds in the {117}\nstatistical column of _Tit-Bits_.  In the course of the evening he\ninformed us (1) that a pound of thread spun by a silkworm will make a\nthread 600 miles long; (2) that there are in the skin of the average\nman 2,304,000 pores; and (3) that about 30,000 snails are eaten every\nday in the city of Paris.  What one feels about such facts, dumped down\non one promiscuously, is that they do not lead anywhere, or afford any\nkind of opening for rational conversation.\n\nI had rather hoped to escape the burden of my Oxford Local Examination\nwork this summer; but as it was apparently difficult to replace me, I\nwent up to Dumfries for my usual week in July.  Our Convent-school\nbeing the only centre in the district for these examinations, there\nwere, as usual, several candidates from outside.  Among them were two\npairs of Protestant sisters (Wedderburn-Maxwells and Goldie-Scotts),\nwhose mamma and governess respectively sat all day in the corridor\noutside the big schoolroom, keeping watch and ward, it was understood,\nagainst the danger of their children being \"got at\" between the papers\nby the nuns--or possibly the Benedictine examiner!--and influenced in\nthe direction of Popery.  Our children were much amused by the way in\nwhich these little girls were whisked away, during the intervals, from\nany possible contact with their \"Roman\" fellow-candidates; but the\nlittle girls themselves looked somewhat disconsolate, having perhaps\nhad pleasant anticipations of games, between examination-hours, in the\nwell-equipped playground of the school.\n\nThe kind abbot of Fort Augustus would not let me return to the\nmonastery, as I had expected to do when my Dumfries work was over, but\n{118} suggested instead some further rest (for I was still far from\nrobust) with my own people in the west of Scotland.  I spent a few\npleasant days first at Mountstuart, and was rather amused on the first\nof August (the end of the \"close season\" for small birds) to see my\nyoung host sally forth--a sailor, an architect, and an artist in his\nwake--on a shooting-expedition, with as much ceremony and preparation\nas if it had been the Twelfth![2]  We motored out after them, and\nlunched on one of the highest points of the island; drinking in, as we\nate our Irish stew, an entrancing prospect of the blue Firth, the long\nsinuous Ayrshire coast, and the lofty serrated peaks of Arran.  From\nBute I went on to Dunskey, a place full to me always--even under its\nnew, altered, and improved conditions--of a hundred happy memories.\nThere was an _al fresco_ entertainment--tea, music, and dancing on the\nlawn--given by my niece to the tenants and their families one\nafternoon; and I (mindful of old days) was happy to watch her and her\nboy, the little heir, welcoming their guests.  Some of their names,\nThorburns, Withers and MacWilliams, recalled the past; and they greeted\nme with the friendly simple cordiality characteristic of Galloway folk.\nOne of our house-party had just arrived (by yacht) from the Isle of\nMan, where he had been staying for some weeks.  He had stories of the\nquaint customs of the Men of Man, and wrote down for me the oath\nadministered in their courts.  {119} The closing simile is delightfully\nunconventional:--\n\n\nBy this book, and by the holy contents thereof, and by the wonderful\nworks that God has miraculously wrought in heaven above and in the\nearth beneath in six days and seven nights, I do swear that I will,\nwithout respect of favour or friendship, love or gain, consanguinity or\naffinity, execute the laws of this isle, and between party and party as\nindifferently as the herring's backbone doth lie in the middle of the\nfish.\n\n\nAt Blairquhan I found a large party assembling for August 12: naval\ncronies of my sailor brother (including the captain of H.M.S.\n_Britannia_), the master of the Whaddon Chase Hunt, Selby Lowndes, with\nhis wife and daughter, and other pleasant people.  Shooting, dancing,\nbridge and golf filled up their days agreeably enough.  I essayed the\nlast-named sport, but was mortified to find myself still as weak as a\nkitten.  The weather was glorious, but my brother complained that the\nlong drought had left not a fruit in the garden; whereupon I suggested\nthe substitute mentioned by Captain Topham in his _Letters from\nEdinburgh_ a century and a half ago:--\n\n\nThe little variety of fruit which this climate brings to perfection is\nthe cause that the inhabitants set anything on their tables, after\ndinner, that has the appearance of it; and I have often observed at the\nhouses of principal people a dish of small turnips, which they call\nneeps, introduced in the dessert, and ate with as much avidity as if\nthey had been fruit of the first perfection.\n\n\nThe perfect summer weather accompanied me north to Beaufort, which was\ndoubly fortunate, as a great party was gathered there for a gigantic\nbazaar, organized by one of the daughters of the house to raise funds\nfor a county sanatorium for consumption, in which she was greatly\ninterested.  The difficulty of attracting _men_ to a show of the kind,\n{120} especially in the shooting season, was cleverly met by including\namong the attractions a novel and unique exhibition of stags' heads,\nlent from all the great Highland forests.  The interest of this drew\nsportsmen from far and near to Beaufort, where a notable company was\nassembled, including the whole Lovat family, most of the Chiefs of\nclans and their wives, and, last not least, Ranguia, a genuine\nchieftain from New Zealand, clad in what was understood to be his\nnative dress, and gifted with an astonishing voice (_tenore\nrobustissimo_), in which he sang Maori songs of love and war in the\ngreat gallery at intervals during the two days of the bazaar.  The most\ncharming of British Duchesses opened the proceedings with a speech of\nenticing eloquence: sales were brisk, the weather perfect, and the\nattendance enormous; and the profits, if I remember right, were\nsomething like L4,000, so that the affair was altogether a success.  We\nrecreated ourselves, after these fatiguing days, by a pleasant motor\ndrive to Oromarty, to see the splendid fleet (the Fifth Cruiser\nSquadron (and some battleships of the Home Fleet) mustered in the\nFirth.  We went all over the _Dreadnought_, and drank tea on Kelburn's\nship, the _Cochrane_, burst a tyre on our way home and took refuge at\nBalnagowan, where Lady Ross gave us dinner and sang to us perfectly\ndelightfully: a full and interesting day.\n\nAmpleforth Abbey having now Masters of Arts of its own qualified to\ntake over the Mastership of its Oxford Hall, I took the occasion of my\nenforced temporary retirement to resign the office which I had held for\nnearly ten years.  The inevitable regrets were tempered by the kind\ntributes I received {121} both from Ampleforth and from the\nVice-chancellor of the University; and also by my friend Mgr. Kennard's\nurgent invitation (which I was authorized to accept) that I should\nreturn to Oxford for a time as his guest and assistant-chaplain.  This\nsettled, I went south to visit the Loudouns at Loudoun Castle,\ncheerfully repainted and decorated in honour of the arrival of the\nfamily pictures, an accession to Loudoun since his brother Paulyn\nHastings' death.  At Woodburn, whither I went from Loudoun, I found\nPhilip Kerr at home from Johannesburg (where he was, I think, Secretary\nto the High Commissioner)--looking as young as ever, the cynosure of\nhis adoring family and of a circle of admiring friends, one or two of\nwhom (I think old schoolfellows at Edgbaston) were staying at Woodburn.\nThe talk turned, as so often in this house, on Newman and the Oratory;\nand Lord Ralph Kerr read a striking passage written by Coventry\nPatmore[3] soon after the great Cardinal's death:--\n\n\nThe steam-hammer of that intellect which could be so delicately\nadjusted to its task as to be capable of either crushing a Hume or\ncracking a Kingsley is no longer at work: that tongue which had the\nweight of a hatchet and the edge of a razor is silent.\n\n\nI recalled a characteristic sentence or two (half jest, half earnest),\nfrom one of Bishop Samuel Wilberforce's letters to Mrs. Sarjent:--\n\n\nNewman was at Ryder's, but I thought it best not to see him.  I heard\nthat unmistakable voice like a volcano's roar, tamed into the softness\nof the flute-stop, and got a glimpse (may I say it to you?) of the\nserpentine form through an open door--the Father Superior!\n\n\n{122}\n\nIn lighter vein Philip told us some odd Johannesburg stories.  One was\nof a man who had arrived there some years before with absolutely no\nassets except a tin of condensed milk and a needle.  He spread a report\nthat smallpox was on its way through the country, gave out that he was\na surgeon, and vaccinated the entire community with his needle and\ncondensed milk, at 5_s._ a head!  From this beginning he rose to be a\nwealthy capitalist, with the monopoly of selling liquor within the\nprecincts of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange.\n\nWoodburn was admirably handy for the Edinburgh libraries, in which I\nput in several days' work (much belated during my illness) for the\n_Encyclopaedia_.  September I spent happily at St. Andrews, where my\nfriend and host George Angus, though now a good deal of an invalid, was\nas kind and pleasant as ever.  We had talks on heraldry, a favourite\nsubject with us both; and I remember his rubbing his hands with delight\non reading (on the authority of Juliana Berners, prioress of Sopewell),\nthat the four Evangelists were \"gentlemen come by the right line of\nthat worthy conqueror Judas Maccabaeus\"; and also that the Four Latin\nDoctors, Jerome, Ambrose, Augustine, and Gregory, were  gentlemen of\nblood and coat-armour.\"[4]  I copied from one of his early heraldic\nbooks the arms anciently assigned to:--\n\n\n_Adam_ (before the Fall)--a shield gules, whereon a shield argent borne\non an escutcheon of pretence [arms of _Eve_, she being an heiress].\n\n_Do._ (after the Fall)--paly tranche, divided every way, and tinctured\nof every colour.\n\n{123}\n\n_Joseph_--chequy, sable and argent.\n\n_David_--argent a harp or.\n\n_Gideon_--sable, a fleece argent, a chief azure gutte d'eau.\n\n_Samson_--gules, a lion couchant or, within an orle argent, seme of\nbees sable.\n\n\nI saw something at St. Andrews of another old acquaintance, Jock\nDalrymple, now Stair, who had some little time before succeeded his\nfather (the kind old friend of my youth), and had grown grey, portly,\nand rather solemn since coming into his kingdom.  He was Captain of the\nRoyal and Ancient this year; and although he boasted of \"hating\npolitics,\" and would not trouble to vote in Parliament on the most\nvital Imperial question, would sit for hours in the chair at a club\nmeeting, discussing the minutiae of golfing rules with a zest and\npatience that never failed.  Men are curiously made!\n\nI went, while at St. Andrews, to spend a weekend with the Fairlies at\ntheir neighbouring castle of Myres (set in the most enchanting old\nScottish garden), and said mass in a billiard-room converted by my\nfriend into a decorous chapel, just as had been done by Bishop Hedley\nin his episcopal villa near Cardiff.  I noticed with interest the mace\nsculptured on one of the angular turrets.  Thereby hung a tale--and a\ngrievance; and my host told me how the presentation of a macership in\nthe Court of Session went with the ownership of Myres, i.e. of the\ncastle, as he maintained.  But though he had bought the castle, my Lord\nBute had bought the estate (marching with his lands of Falkland); and\n_his_ contention was that the estate, not the castle, carried with it\nthe macership.[5]  _Hinc illae lacrymae_.\n\n{124}\n\nI left St. Andrews early on a bright autumn morning, my kind old\nfriend, who had insisted on getting up to serve my mass, waving me\ngood-bye under his hospitable porch--a last good-bye it proved to be,\nfor I never saw him again.[6]  Before going south I spent a few days at\nAberdeen, having some business with our good bishop.  I stayed with\nMalcolm Hay of Seaton (one of my very few Catholic relations) at his\npretty old place on Donside.  From the windows one looked across the\nriver, and up a wooded brae, to the venerable towers of St. Machar's\nCathedral.  Malcolm motored me one day to Blairs College; I had not\nbefore seen the new buildings and church of our Scottish seminary,\nquite an imposing pile as viewed from the much-frequented Deeside road.\nWe found the Archbishop of St. Andrews (Mgr. Smith) at tea with the\nRector and his professorial staff, who were all most kind and civil.  I\nheard here of the elevation of the eminent advocate, Campbell of\nSkerrington, to the Scottish Bench--the first Catholic Lord of Session\nfor generations, if not centuries.\n\nI was due in Oxford before the opening of the autumn term, in view of\nmy prospective \"flitting\" from our Benedictine Hall; but I first\nfulfilled a long {125} overdue engagement to pay a visit to some French\nfriends (the Marquis de Franquetot and his wife) in Picardy.  Their\npretty chateau, embowered in big chestnut-trees, was some ten miles\nfrom Boulogne, and we drove thither on Sunday to high mass at St.\nNicholas-in-the-Market, as my host wanted me to hear the French\nBishops' joint pastoral (the first they had been permitted to issue for\na great number of years) on Christian education.  M. de Franquetot said\nit had been prepared under the roof of my old friend Lady Sophia\nPalmer, Comtesse de Franqueville, who, with her excellent husband, had\nentertained the whole hierarchy for a week at their beautiful hotel in\nthe Bois de Boulogne.  The congregation at St. Nicholas was very large\nand devout, comprising, as I was pleased to observe,[7] many men of all\nranks and ages; and the long pastoral, addressed \"aux peres et meres de\nfamille,\" and interspersed with admirable comments from the good cure,\nwas listened to with close attention, and approval, which the \"peres de\nfamille\" occasionally showed by thumping the floor with sticks or\numbrellas, and muttering--not always _sotto voce_--\"Tres bien\ndit,\"--\"ils ont bien raison,\" and so on.  I was very glad to have been\npresent.  Boulogne seemed full of British trippers; and I was amused,\nas we drove along the sea-front, to see the number of unmistakably\nFrench eating-houses which labelled themselves by such enticing titles\nas the \"Royal English Chop {126} House\" and the \"Margate Bar.\"  Some,\nmore accommodating still, announced in their windows that \"Messrs. the\nBritannic tourists who arrive furnished with their own provisions may\neat them here gratuitously.\"  Could the _Entente_ go further?  I had\nhardly seen the pleasant town since I had lived for a year in its\nenvirons with my family as a little boy; and the narrow bustling\nstreets looked to me much as they used to under the Empire, when my\nfather would point out to us the gallant Chasseurs d'Afrique swaggering\nalong--\"the finest soldiers in the world, sir--fought beside us in the\nCrimea,\"--six short years before the _debacle_ of 1870.  We passed\nthrough Pont-de-Brique, and asked for the Chateau Neuf, the big\nrambling house in an unkempt garden which had been our home; but no one\ncould point it out to us.\n\nMy French visit was brought to an agreeable close by a trip across the\nChannel (\"Why do you call it the _English_ Channel, you others?\" my\nhostess asked me; \"to us it is only La Manche!\") in a beautiful\nschooner yacht belonging to a friend of the de Franquetots.  We scudded\nalong the English coast in bright sunshine, before a strong\nsouth-easterly breeze, finally landing at Southampton, whence I made my\nway to Kneller Court, which I found as friendly and hospitable as ever:\nAdmiral Sir Percy and Lady Scott at luncheon with my kind\nsister-in-law, and subalterns and sub-lieutenants dropping in later for\ntennis and tea.  My brother drove me up to Fort Nelson, and showed me\nhis 60-pounders and the interior of the fort, one of the chain erected\nat enormous cost by Palmerston fifty years before, and now absolutely\nuseless except as barracks.  {127} Next day I escorted my pretty niece\nby dogcart, train and tram to Hilsea, to see the Gunners'\nsports--gun-driving, tent-pegging, wrestling on horseback, and so\nforth.  It was my fifty-fifth birthday, and my health was pledged at\ndinner, with musical honours, by the merry party of relatives and\nfriends.  On October 1 I reached Oxford, superintended the transport of\nmy effects from Beaumont Street (where my successor, Dom Anselm Parker,\nwas already installed as Master of our Hall) to St. Aldate's, and\nreceived a kind welcome there from my host and new \"chief,\" Mgr.\nKennard.  He was suffering from the peculiar constitutional\ndisturbance--I believe a form of suppressed gout (King Edward was in\nhis last years a victim to it) which keeps people always on the move;\nand this chronic restlessness took him away so constantly from Oxford\nthat a great deal of his pastoral work--the spiritual superintendence\nof fifty or sixty Catholic undergraduates, scattered all over the\nuniversity, at once devolved to great extent on me.  The experiment of\nsending Catholic boys to Oxford (and Cambridge) had by this time passed\nout of the experimental stage, and had on the whole justified the\nanticipations of those to whose initiative it had been due.  There\nwere, of course, a few failures and a few wastrels among our small\ncontingent of undergraduates; but on the whole they were a good lot of\nyoung fellows, who did credit to the various Catholic schools where\nthey had been trained.  And their personal kindness to me was such that\nit was a real pleasure to find oneself in fairly intimate relations\nwith them, and to be of any service to them that one could.\n\n{128}\n\nThe good Monsignore hardly ever returned from his many absences without\nbringing a friend or two with him; and his great recreation at this\ntime was driving his guests about in a fine motor (a new toy) which he\nhad lately bought from his nephew Fritz Ponsonby, the King's equerry.\nFritz and his charming wife stayed with us this autumn, as did also our\nhost's brother, Colonel Hegan Kennard, who was considerably the older,\nbut much the more vigorous and energetic of the two.[8]  He attended\nservice on Sunday at the Evangelical church close by, and came back\nindignant.  \"By George, sir, I never saw anything so slovenly and\nslipshod in my life; disgraceful, sir, positively disgraceful!\"  I took\nhim to hear Mrs. Garrett-Fawcett speak at a woman-suffrage debate at\nthe Union--a most plausible lady, but we voted against her by a large\nmajority.  I found the motor an agreeable means of visiting various\nplaces of interest in the neighbourhood--Dorchester Abbey, an epitome\nof architecture from Early Norman to Late Perpendicular, but the\ninterior spoilt by the bad taste of the Ritualistic fittings; the grand\nold Augustinian minster of Burford; and Cuddesdon, a miniature\ncathedral, with its western porch and massive central tower.  It was\nover this porch that the ladies of Cuddesdon, in years gone by, wishing\nto do honour on some feast-day to their beloved diocesan Samuel\nWilberforce, and not less beloved Archdeacon Alfred Pott, displayed\ntheir joint initials wrought in evergreens.  \"S.O.A.P.,\" read {129} the\nBishop as he paused before the western gable.  \"Surely an enemy hath\ndone this,\" he sorrowfully muttered, and proceeded on his way.\n\nAn excursion or two from Oxford I remember this autumn: one to\nDownside, where it was always a happiness to go and spend a\nchurch-festival with my Benedictine brethren; another to Eton, where I\ngazed with dismay on the new school-hall with its unsightly dome, and\nwondered if this was really the best the Committee of Taste could\nachieve by way of South African War Memorial.[9]  I met afterwards\nquite a contingent of Scotsmen (Arthur Hay, the Duke of Roxburghe's\nbrother, etc.) at luncheon with the Irish Guards at Victoria Barracks,\nwhere I used to breakfast of a Sunday morning--a dissipation forbidden,\nI believe, to modern Etonians--with an uncle in the Scots Fusilier\nGuards, in my own school days.  I went to London that evening to dine\nwith, and read afterwards a paper on \"Jerusalem of To-day\" to, the\nGuild of SS. Gregory and Luke, my host being Sir John Knill, Sheriff of\nLondon, who was two years later to occupy the civic chair, as his\nexcellent father had done before him.  On another evening I attended\nour Westminster Dining-club, to hear Fr. R. H. Benson read us an essay\non \"The Value of Fiction\"--interesting, as coming from a successful\nnovelist, and of course brilliant; but I agreed with only about half of\nit.\n\nNinian Crichton Stuart had engaged me to go and {130} support him at\nthe St. Andrew's Day banquet of the Caledonian Society of Cardiff, the\nsuffrages of which city he was at that time wooing as Conservative\ncandidate, much assisted by his clever and charming wife.  I stayed\nwith them at their pretty home near Llandaff, and we motored in to the\npatriotic banquet, which began at 6.30 and lasted nearly five hours!  I\nproposed the principal toast, and had of course no difficulty in\nshowing (as one of the newspaper reports remarked) that all the chief\nposts in the Empire--political, ecclesiastical, legal and\nadministrative, were, with the most insignificant exceptions, held by\nScotsmen.  Bagpipes, of course, skirled and whisky flowed freely; and\nthe national enthusiasm reached its height when the haggis was borne\nround the hall in procession, carried by the white-clad chef and\npreceded by the pipe-major, playing his best and loudest in honour of\nthe \"chief of pudding race.\"  I left Llandaff next morning, Ringan,\nLady Ninian's pretty baby, crowing good-bye to me from his mother's\narms,[10] and spent an hour or two in Cardiff with Bishop Hedley, who\nexpressed his hope that I would help Kennard at Oxford as long as I\ncould, and would ultimately succeed him as chaplain.  We visited\ntogether the new and splendid town-hall, the finest municipal building\nI had ever seen.  The Oxford term ended in the following week, {131}\nand I made my way north to Fort Augustus, where I found discussion in\nprogress as whether we should or should not sell our house and estate\nof Ardachie, for which we had several good offers.  I said yes; for the\nplace, though not without its attractions, had been altogether more of\na burden than a profit to us for a good many years.[11]  Whilst at Fort\nAugustus, I addressed, by desire of the community, letters to the\nAbbot-Primate in Rome, as well as to our own bishop, urging, for many\nweighty reasons, the reincorporation of our abbey into the English\nBenedictine Congregation, from which it had been separated for just\ntwenty-six years.\n\n\n\n[1] Parodied in _Punch_ (I think by that inveterate punster the then\neditor, F. C. Burnand), under the titles of _Goeth Down as an Oyster_\nand _Red in the Nose is She_.  It is the Scottish hero of one of these\nromances, I forget which (I mean, of course, the original, not the\nparody), who shows his emotion at a critical moment by \"cramming half a\nyard of yellow beard into his mouth!\"\n\n[2] The bag consisted of an assortment of miscellaneous fowl.  Bute was\nat this period of his career something of the typical Briton whose idea\nof happiness, according to some French observer, is more or less summed\nup in the formula: \"My friends, it is a fine day: let us go out and\nkill something!\"\n\n[3] In the preface to _Rod, Root, and Flower_.  The passage was quite\nnew to me.\n\n[4] From the _Boke of St. Albans_ (1486).\n\n[5] An antique privilege of the kind would appeal irresistibly to\nBute--_tenaci propositi viro_; he stuck to his guns, not only claiming\nthe right of presentation, but actually exercising it at the next\nvacancy.  I am not qualified to pronounce on the vexed question; but my\nexperience is that in such matters the big man usually gets his way,\nand the smaller has to go to the wall.  What was settled after Bute's\ndeath I know not.  Anyhow--the last Lord of Falkland lies among the\nlilies in a war cemetery in France; and the memorial chapel in his\npark, near by the House of Falkland, was designed by the present laird\nof Myres.\n\n[6] George Angus, for nearly a quarter of a century resident priest at\nSt. Andrews, died there on St. Patrick's Day (March 17), 1909.\n\n[7] Less pleasing was it to notice the outside walls and very doors of\nthe old church plastered all over with flaring _affiches_ of music-hall\nperformances, pictures of ballet-dancers, etc.  \"Cette canaille de\nRepublique!\" murmured in my ear, as we drove off, my friend and host,\nwhose sympathies were entirely with the _ancien regime_.\n\n[8] More of a man, in short.  \"Dear old Charlie,\" he said to me, \"was\ngood at games when he was at Harrow, and a capital runner.  All the\nsame, he was always a bit of an old woman, and always will be!\"\n\n[9] I wrote, I fear, rather heatedly to good old Ainger (Secretary of\nthe War Fund), on what seemed to me the painful incongruity of the\nbuilding with its surroundings.  \"Many people, I believe,\" he replied\nwith admirable restraint, \"feel quite as you do on this matter; but no\none has expressed himself quite so strongly!\"\n\n[10] Poor little Ringan! (his name was the ancient \"pet\" form of\n\"Ninian,\" the saint of Galloway).  On the election-day, a year or so\nafterwards, the burgesses of Cardiff smiled to see him driving through\nthe streets in a motor from which flew a bannerette recommending them\nto \"Vote for Daddy!\"  There was universal regret, a few days later, at\nthe sad news that the little electioneerer had succumbed to a chill\ncaught on the occasion of his first public appearance, when less than\ntwo years old.  See _post._ page 176.\n\n[11] The actual tenant, Colonel Campbell, whose wife was a Catholic,\neventually bought the property.\n\n\n\n\n{132}\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n1908-1909\n\nI spent the Christmas of 1908, as usual, very pleasantly at Beaufort.\nFor the first time for many years the family was absolutely _au\ncomplet_: the services of the season in the beautiful chapel were well\nattended; and I sympathized with the happiness of my kind hostess, as\nshe knelt at the altar at midnight mass surrounded by all her children,\nwithout exception.  There were grandchildren, too, of all ages, who\namused themselves vastly in spite of appalling weather, rain, snow,\nfrost, thaw, and gales, following one another in rapid and unwelcome\nsuccession.  The children acted a pretty and touching miracle-play, the\nhand-painted programme whereof still adorns my scrap-book; and there\nwere seasonable revels of various kinds.  At New Year somebody\nannounced that 1909 was to be a great year of anniversaries, 1809\nhaving been _annus mirabilis_.  We remembered (with difficulty) eight\ncelebrities born that year--Mendelssohn, E. Barrett Browning, Darwin,\nTennyson, O. Wendell Holmes, Lord Houghton, W. E. Gladstone, and\nAbraham Lincoln, but could think of no others.  This reminded some one\nelse that I. Disraeli called thirty-seven the \"fatal age of genius,\"\nfour great men (among others) who died at that age having been Raphael,\nMozart, {133} Byron and Burns.  I wound up with a statement new, I\nthink, to everybody, viz., that Saturday was the fatal day of the week\nto the English Royal Family (Hanoverian Line).  I have not followed the\nmatter down to quite recent times; but it is undoubtedly singular that\nWilliam III., Queen Anne, George I., II., III., and IV., the Duchess of\nKent, the Prince Consort, and Princess Alice all died on a Saturday.\n\nI stayed at Loudoun Castle on my way south, finding there a big party\nof young men and maidens--Howards of Glossop, Hastings', Bellasis',\nBeauclercs, and Bethells, gathered for an Eglinton Hunt Ball (recalling\nthe days of my youth).  Nearly all were Catholics, so I had quite a\ncongregation in the little chapel, redecorated (with the rest of the\ncastle) since my previous visit.  I was back in Oxford before the\nmiddle of January for the Lent term, to me always a more interesting\nperiod than the golden weeks of summer, when everybody's heads seemed\nto be full of nothing but amusement and sport.  Our Sunday conferences\nwere given this term by Father Kenelm Vaughan (the late Cardinal's\nmissionary brother), who used to arrive for the week-ends with no\nluggage save a little well-worn Bible hanging from the girdle of his\ncassock and (possibly) a toothbrush in his pocket.  If there ever was a\nman who lived entirely in \"a better country, and that an heavenly,\" it\nwas Kenelm.  Like all the Vaughans, he was of striking appearance; and\nhis personality, as well as his appealing eloquence, made a great\nimpression on his young hearers, although his unconventional sayings\nand doings had an occasionally disconcerting effect on our good host\nand his guests, which used to remind me of {134} Jerome's \"Man in the\nThird Floor Back.\"  Wilfrid Ward was with us for a day or two, with a\ngreat flow of conversation, chiefly about himself.  He read an\ninteresting paper to our Newman Society on \"The Writing of the\nApologia\"--anticipatory gleanings, of course (if the phrase is\npermissible), of his great forthcoming biography, and including several\nof the Cardinal's unpublished letters.  There was a record meeting of\nthe Society a little later, to hear W. H. Mallock on (or \"down on\")\nSocialism.  Many dons of note were present, and there was a brisk\ndebate, W. H. M. holding his own very well.  At supper afterwards I\nventured to remind him of two sentences of his (I forget from which of\nhis writings) which had given me much pleasure:--\n\n\n\"The Catholic Church is the Columbus of modern society, who will guide\nus eventually to the new moral continent which other explorers are\ntrying in vain to reach.\"\n\n\"An aristocracy is the best of all possible orders, in the worst of all\npossible worlds.\"\n\n\nOur good Monsignore was nominally at home during these weeks, but in a\nrestless and excitable state.  He would exhaust himself by feverish\nenergy at golf for a day or two, then rush off in his motor, \"for\nchange,\" with valet and chauffeur, and return more tired than he had\ngone away.  He attended one evening a big golfing-dinner at the Master\nof University's: dined well (according to his own account), drank hock,\nold port, and Benedictine, came home and rolled about all night in\nindescribable agony.  Most of his duties he delegated to me, including,\nsometimes, the task of \"interviewing\" bewildered Catholic parents, to\nwhom Oxford university life was an absolute _terra incognita_, and who\n{135} were puzzled or anxious about their sons' doings.  Poor Lady\nE---- B----!  I remember still the dismay with which she came to tell\nme how her boy had made friends in college with an Egyptian Moslem (\"an\nunbaptized heathen Turk,\" was her description of him), and was bent on\ntaking \"digs\" (lodgings) with him in the following term.  I felt\nsympathy with the Catholic mother in her instinctive dislike to this\nprospect; but I felt none with the indignation of another parent (a\ndistinguished diplomatist) at the refusal of one of the most\nsought-after colleges to admit his son.  The fact was, as I had, after\ndue inquiry, to explain tactfully to the aggrieved parent, that the\nyouth (a pupil of one of our smaller Catholic schools) gave himself, at\nthe preliminary interview with the college authorities, such\n\"confounded airs\" (as one of the dons expressed it) that they would\nhave nothing to say to him.  Probably the poor lad's \"airs\" were only\none of the many forms in which extreme shyness manifests itself; anyhow\nit is fair to add that this was an exceptional case, and that our\nCatholic freshmen, as a whole, made a favourable impression by their\ngood manners and modesty of demeanour.  One Head, who had no sympathy\nat all with the Catholic religion, told me that so pleased was he with\nthe Catholic contingent in his college, that he would willingly admit\nas many more as I cared to recommend to him.\n\nOf events of general interest this spring, I recall a fascinating\nlecture by Sven Hedin on his Tibetan travels.  The eminent explorer had\na bumper audience and a great reception, and was given an honorary\ndegree by Convocation next day.  Kennard and I agreed in resenting his\narrogant and bumptious {136} manner; and the tone of some of his\nremarks might have prepared us for the outburst of anti-English\nfanaticism for which he made himself notorious a few years later.\nThere was a big gathering at the Schools one evening in celebration of\nthe centenary of Darwin.  The oratorical tributes and panegyrics were,\nas usual, so lengthy as to become wearisome; but an interesting feature\nwas the presence of three of Darwin's sons, of whom one (Sir George)\ngave us some pleasant personal details and reminiscences of his\ndistinguished father.  His affectionate loyalty to a parent's memory\none can sympathize with and understand; but I confess that, reading the\n\"pulpit references\" to the centenary that week, I was puzzled to\ncomprehend how Christian ministers could \"let themselves go\" in\nindiscriminating panegyric of a man of whom I hope it is not\nuncharitable, as it is certainly not untrue, to say that he was, if any\nman ever was, a self-confessed unbeliever in revelation and in\nChrist.[1]  The utterances on such an occasion of a distinguished\noccupant of the university pulpit a generation earlier[2] would\ncertainly have been pitched in a different key; and so would those of\nmy old friend Dr. Frederick George Lee, whose summary of the logical\nresult of Darwin's teaching was--\n\n\nThe Incarnation is but a dream, the Supernatural a delusion.  Our only\nduties are to feed and to breed.  Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow\nwe die.\n\n\nI received into the Church this term an undergraduate of one of the\nsmaller colleges, who was reading {137} for natural science honours and\nrowed in his college boat; but he had evidently had time for reading\nand reflection as well, and had thought the whole matter out so\ncarefully that I had little left to do.  In order to keep him back at\nthe eleventh hour, his tutor (an Anglican divine of some repute) kept\npropounding to him historical difficulties such as \"How was it that\nHenry of Navarre was allowed by the Pope to have two wives at once?\"\nand so on.  My young friend used to bring me these nuts to crack, and\nwe had a good deal of fun over them.\n\nIt was proposed, and decided, before Easter that Oxford should send a\nrepresentative to Louvain in the summer, to take part in the jubilee\ncelebrations of the Catholic University.  Cambridge, London, Glasgow,\nAberdeen, and, I believe, other universities, had all elected, as a\ncompliment to Louvain, to send a Catholic representative on this\noccasion; and the senior proctor told me that my name had been\nmentioned before the Council in this connection.  Oxford, however,\ndeclined to associate itself with the other universities in this\ngraceful act of courtesy--one which, as I heard privately from Louvain,\nwas very highly appreciated there.  A clergyman of the Church of\nEngland was nominated as the Oxford representative; and to a letter of\nremonstrance which (after consulting one or two of our resident\nmasters) I sent to the Vice-chancellor, he replied by a\ncourteously-worded note of explanation--which explained nothing.\n\nEarly in March I paid an interesting little visit to Douai Abbey, in\nthe beautiful wooded country about Pangbourne, and lectured to the\ncommunity and their eighty pupils on Jerusalem.  I had a warmly {138}\nBenedictine welcome here, and was glad to see additions being made to\nthe buildings of the former diocesan college of Portsmouth, which the\nbishop had made over to the monks when they were expelled from their\nbeloved home at Douai, by decree of the French Government dated April\n3, 1903.  Term over, I went up to Yorkshire to spend St. Benedict's\nfestival with my brethren at Ampleforth, where I found myself deputed\nthat evening to present the football colours in the college.  They were\nscarlet and black; but while reminding the young players that those\nwere the traditional colours of Mephistopheles, I disclaimed any\nintention of suggesting a common origin.  My stay here was saddened by\nthe rather unexpected news of the death of my dear old friend George\nAngus of St. Andrews.  He had long been the only Catholic member of his\nOxford Hall; and exactly a week before his death I had had, by a\nconsoling coincidence, the pleasure of reconciling to the Catholic\nChurch an undergraduate of the same venerable foundation.\n\nI stayed a night in London, on my way to Arundel, to hear Lord Hugh\nCecil discourse at our Westminster Dining-club, with his usual\nperfervid rhetoric, on \"Some Diseases of the House of Commons.\"  Two of\nour University Members, Sir William Anson and Professor Butcher, joined\nin the interesting subsequent discussion.  A friend next morning\ninsisted on carrying me off to Selfridge's, the huge new emporium in\nOxford Street, and showing me all over it.  He amused me by a story of\nhow there, or in some other Brobdingnagian London store, the electric\nlight suddenly went out, just at the busiest hour of the evening.\n\"There they were--thousands of {139} 'em,\" the narrator of the incident\nis supposed to have said, \"pinching the goods right and left--'aving\nthe time of their lives, with not a light in the 'ole place; and there\nwas _I_--just my blooming luck--where do you think? _in the grand piano\ndepartment!_\"\n\nI went for the week-end to Rickmansworth, to stay with Lady Encombe,\nwho had a little party for the laying of the foundation-stone of the\nnew church of the Assumptionists.  The Bishop of Kimberley (S.A.) gave\na nice address.  I preached next day (Sunday) in the old church, and in\nthe evening we all listened to a quaint Franco-English sermonette from\ngood Fr. Julian, the superior.  Monday was Jack Encombe's tenth\nbirthday: I gave him _Jorrocks_, with coloured plates, which delighted\nhim; saw him and his brother start hunting on their ponies (their\nmother following them awheel); and then left for Arundel, where I was\nvery glad to find myself (though not yet fully robust) able to take my\nshare in the solemn Easter services.  I found the castle grounds at\nlength \"redd up\" and in perfect order; the hordes of workmen vanished,\nand lawns and terraces and shrubberies and flower-beds twinkling in the\nApril sunshine.  It was a joy to see the beautiful home of the Howards\nlooking itself again after all these years of reconstruction and\nupheaval.  The Duke had told me that he was determined to get the place\nshipshape within a year of his second marriage, or (like Trelawny)\n\"know the reason why!\" and he had been as good as his word.  I heard\nwith pleasure in Easter week that my nephew had got his first in\nmoderations at Balliol; and with sorrow of the death of my kind old\nfriend Bishop {140} Wilkinson, successor of St. Cuthbert as Bishop of\nHexham, and a shining example of loyalty and devotion to his Church and\nhis country.  I lunched in London, on my way to Oxford, with Lady\nMaple, at Clarence House, the pretty residence in Regent's Park left to\nher by Sir Blundell Maple.  Telephoning previously to \"Clarence House\"\nto inquire the luncheon-hour, I was informed in haughty tones that\n\"their Royal 'Ighnesses were in Egypt, and that nothing was known about\nany luncheon!\"  It turned out that I was in communication with the\nother Clarence House, the St. James's residence of the Duke of\nConnaught.\n\nMy first duty, on returning to Oxford, was to marry my cousin John\nSimeon,[3] until recently an undergraduate of the House, to Miss\nAdelaide Holmes a Court.  My little sermon at the Jesuit church (which\nwas almost filled with the wedding guests) was not intended to be\notherwise than cheerful, and I was surprised in the course of it to\nobserve the unusual phenomenon of the bridegroom's father dissolved in\ntears!  The happy couple motored off later to North Wales in a downpour\nof rain, which (I heard) never once stopped during their brief\nhoneymoon.\n\nFather Maturin (whose repute as an orator had been long established in\nOxford) was giving our weekly conferences this term, and I was greatly\nstruck with them--packed close with thought and luminous argument, and\nscintillating besides with {141} genuine eloquence.  I had heard many\nof his pulpit orations, but I thought this series of lectures the\nfinest thing he had ever done, though perhaps slightly over the heads\nof his undergraduate auditors.  I was myself fully occupied at this\ntime with a long article (biographical and critical) on St. Gregory\nNazianzene,[4] which, by a happy coincidence, I completed on May 9, the\nfeast-day of that great saint and doctor.  I took two days off for a\nvisit to Cambridge (my first for fourteen years) in connection with the\nFisher Society dinner, at which I represented Oxford and the \"Newman.\"\nSome distinguished guests--a Cardinal, a judge, an author, and a\nstatesman--failed us at the last moment; but the gathering was cheery\nand successful and the after-dinner oratory much less wearisome than\nusual.  I visited, of course, while at Cambridge, the really noble\nCatholic church of Our Lady--finer, I thought (as I had thought\nbefore), and more impressive outside than in.  I remembered that the\ngreat church of St. John at Norwich had given me precisely the contrary\nimpression.\n\nI was always bidden to (and pleased, when I could to attend) the\nnumerous weddings of my youthful relatives.  One, in these early summer\ndays, was that of my pretty cousin, Eleanor Bowlby, to a Dorrien-Smith,\nheir-apparent to the \"King of Scilly,\" as his sobriquet was, though I\nbelieve his proper local title was \"Lord Proprietor.\"  I sat at the\nceremony next to my brother-in-law Charles Dalrymple, who did not\napprove of the ever-popular \"O for the Wings of a Dove!\" which a little\nchorister warbled in the course of the service.  {142} \"Absurd and\nunreal!\" I heard him mutter.  \"They are going to Paris for their\nhoneymoon, and don't want doves' wings, or to be at rest either.\"[5]\nOn the same evening I attended, at the invitation of the genial head\nmaster of University College School (whom I had known when on the staff\nof Inverness College), an excellent presentation of _Alcestis_ in the\nfine oak-panelled hall of his school at Hampstead.  Not all the\naudience witnessed dry-eyed the death of the poor heroine; the\nsustained pathos, too, of Admetus was admirably portrayed; but the\nchief honours of the evening fell to a young hero of six-foot-four, who\nhad played great cricket for the school against the M.C.C., and was a\nmost doughty and convincing Herakles.  A very pleasant evening's\nentertainment, which I had to abandon not quite completed to catch the\nmidnight train to Oxford; for I was interested in a debate in\nConvocation next day, on the perennial problem of how and where to\nhouse the ever-increasing thousands of books accruing to the Bodleian\nLibrary.  There were some drastic suggestions thrown out--one, if I\nremember right, was to make a bonfire of all the obsolete works on\ntheology, philosophy and natural science! but our final decision was to\nadopt somebody's ingenious proposal to excavate underground chambers,\nwith room for a million or so volumes, under the grass-plots round the\nRadcliffe camera.  This point settled, I went to lunch with my friend\nHadow in his rooms at Worcester, the former calefactory or\nrecreation-room (so he said) of {143} our whilom Benedictine students,\nand looking out on a long narrow raised garden which there is reason to\nbelieve was once the monastic bowling-green.  I thought, as often\nbefore, of the many unknown nooks and corners in this dear Oxford of\nours, each bearing its silent witness to some phase of her \"strange\neventful history.\"\n\nA few interesting incidents in this--my last summer term in\nresidence--come back to me as I write.  I recall a crowded meeting at\nthe Town Hall enthusiastically cheering a vitriolic attack on the\nAdmiralty by \"Lieutenant Carlyon Bellairs, M.P., R.N.\" (a most\nun-sailor-like person); a paper, or rather a harangue, at the Newman\nSociety, from Hilaire Belloc on \"The Church and Reality,\" which left us\ngasping at his cleverness but rather doubtful as to his drift; and an\nodd meeting of dons and dignitaries at Hertford College, whereat Lord\nHugh Cecil was accepted as prospective Parliamentary candidate for the\nuniversity.  I have called it \"odd\"; for odd it certainly was to hear\nthe Master of University, who proposed Lord Hugh, assert that he did so\nin spite of his own profound disagreement with him on fiscal,\necclesiastical, and educational questions!  As a matter of fact, it\nmattered little what the Master of University or anybody else thought,\nsaid, or did; for as every one knew that the six hundred clerical\nmembers of Convocation would vote for Lord Hugh to a man, his election\nwas of course a foregone conclusion.\n\nMy last evening at Oxford was a happy one: a pleasant party gathered\nround the Vice-chancellor's hospitable table, and after dinner the\nCommemoration concert at Magdalen, Waynflete's ancient {144} hall\nechoing with old madrigals perfectly rendered by the unrivalled choir,\nand we guests, during the interval, flitting about the cloisters, dimly\nlit with Chinese lanterns, and set out with tables of refreshments.  I\nleft Oxford next day for Birmingham, for a jubilee celebration at the\nOratory School--a solemn memorial service in the fine church, an\nadmirable representation of Terence's _Phormio_ (as arranged by\nCardinal Newman), and a prize-distribution presided over by the Duke of\nNorfolk.  The Duke was next day the chief guest at an Oxford and\nCambridge Catholic graduates' dinner in London, and proposed the toast\nof Oxford University, to which I had the pleasure of replying.  I took\noccasion to point out our guest's new and close family connection with\nOxford, where he had recently had three nephews, while two more were\nshortly going up.  His own father, the previous Duke, had been a\nCambridge man.  London was so sultry during these midsummer days, that\nit was pleasant to find oneself transported to the Antarctic Circle,\nlistening (at the Albert Hall) to Shackleton's fascinating narrative of\nhis trip to the South Pole.  His great lantern pictures made one feel\nalmost cool: and the groups of solemn penguins, in their\nblack-and-white, pacing along the snowy shores, were quite curiously\nreminiscent of a gathering of portly bishops--say at a Pan-Anglican\nCongress.\n\nI refused to stay in London (as I had proposed doing) to attend an\ninternational anti-vivisection meeting in Trafalgar Square, when I\nfound that I was expected to speak (from the back of a lion?).  I fled\nto Surrey, to stay first with my sister at her {145} newly-acquired\nhome near Reigate, a pretty old house in a \"careless-ordered garden\" of\nwhich Tennyson would have approved; and then to the Kennards at their\ncharming Elizabethan manor-house of Great Tangley.  The Sunday of my\nvisit here I spent partly at the fine diocesan seminary of Wonersh, and\npartly at the Greyfriars monastery at Chilworth.  The same architect\nhad designed the chapels at both; and I admired the skill with which he\nhad achieved extremely effective results by entirely different methods\nof treatment.  From Surrey I travelled to Scotland, to preach a charity\nsermon at Saltcoats, in Ayrshire, for the excellent work of the Society\nof St. Vincent of Paul.  Saltcoats was within easy reach of Kelburn,\nand I went thither for a short visit, finding my sister enjoying what\nwas always one of the chief pleasures of her life--that of having\nhelped to secure the happy engagement of one of our numerous nieces,\nthe elder daughter of my third brother.\n\nMy Oxford Local Examination work lay this summer not among the little\nmaidens of Dumfries Convent School, but at St. Wilfrid's College at\nOakamoor, in the picturesque Staffordshire Highlands, a country quite\nnew to me.  My room commanded a lovely view of wooded glens and distant\npurple hills; and the place itself was full of interest, incorporating\nas it did the old house of Cotton Hall, given by Lord Shrewsbury fifty\nyears before to Faber and his \"Wilfridian\" community, most of whom\njoined the Oratory after their conversion to Catholicism.  I admired\nPugin's church, at once graceful and austere, with the famous east\nwindow which the architect told Lord Shrewsbury he \"could {146} die\nfor.\"[6]  I had a pleasant week here, presiding on the last day at the\nschool prize-distribution, and promising the boys a new set of Scott's\nnovels, to replace the one which, I was glad to see, was worn out with\nassiduous reading.\n\nGoing on to Cardiff from Staffordshire, I found Lady Bute entertaining\nthe Cymnodorion and other mysterious Welsh societies in the castle\ngrounds.  I was lodged in the lofty clock-tower, in one of Burges's\nwonderful painted chambers, and said mass for the family and large\nhouse-party on Sunday in the richly-decorated but tiny domestic\nchapel--so tiny (it has been the dressing-room of Bute's grandfather,\nwho died there) that most of my congregation were outside in the\npassage, and the scene recalled my mass in the Grotto of the Nativity\nat Bethlehem eight years before.  I had never thought to see a Pageant\nagain; but the Welsh one, for some reason, had been postponed to this\nsummer, and we all attended the opening representation on July 26, most\nof our house-party, indeed, taking part in the show.  Lady Bute was\nDame Wales, and Lady Ninian Stuart Glamorgan; but the great reception\nof the day was reserved for Lord Tredegar, veteran of Balaclava, and\nthe most popular magnate of Wales, who came on in full armour as Owen\nGlendower, with Lady Llangattock as Lady Glendower.  I thought the\nfinest feature of the Pageant the singing of the national hymn, \"Hen\nWlad fy nhadau,\" at the close, actors and audience all joining in the\nstirring chorus with thrilling effect.  Most of {147} the next day we\nspent at Caerphilly Castle, whither Princess Louise and the Duke of\nArgyll came to explore the imposing ruins.\n\nI spent a couple of nights, on leaving Cardiff, at Belmont Priory, full\nto me of old Benedictine memories; and in August I was once more my\nbrother's guest at his pleasant river-side home near Shepperton.  One\nday we devoted to a visit to Hampton Court--my first, curiously enough.\nWe saw everything conscientiously, great hall, state-rooms, pictures (I\nhad not expected so many good ones), big vine, and Dutch garden; but I\nthink I was most struck, entering Clock Court under the red turreted\ntower, with the almost uncanny likeness of the place to the familiar\nSchool-yard at Eton.[7]  From Shepperton I presently moved higher up\nthe river to Goring, to attend the local regatta, of which my kind host\nthere was secretary and treasurer.  He was likewise the leading\nCatholic of the little mission, and had given up his commodious\nboat-house to serve as a chapel till the pretty church was built.  The\n_padre_ at that time was a German priest called Hell (to which he later\nadded an e for euphony), while the name of the Anglican vicar, oddly\nenough, was Dams!  My host's son accompanied me up to town on an\nexcursion to the White City, where the outstanding attraction (how\nstrange it seems to-day!) was the aeroplane in which Bleriot had\nachieved the unprecedented feat of crossing the Channel.  London struck\nme as a curious place in mid-August: a city of aliens and country\nvisitors, French and German {148} chattered everywhere, and the only\nfamiliar face among the millions that of Simon Lovat, whom I came\nacross at Hatchard's buying books.\n\nGeorge Lane Fox claimed my services as chaplain, before I returned to\nScotland, at Monkhams, the pretty place near Waltham Cross where he was\nthen living with his family; the house stood atop of a high hill\n(pleasantly cool in these sultry August days), and was quite rural,\nthough the Lights o' London were clearly visible at night not many\nmiles away.  There was a tiny chapel for our daily services, and a big\nscouts' camp in the park close by, whence a quota of young worshippers\nturned up for Sunday mass.  George took me to see the noble church at\nWaltham (surely one of the finest Norman naves in England),[8] and,\nacross the Lea, the beautiful and still perfect Eleanor Cross in the\nmarket-place, before I went north to pay a few farewell visits to\nScottish relatives, in view of my approaching departure for South\nAmerica.  At Blairquhan I found my brother entertaining his customary\nAugust party, with, as usual, a considerable naval contingent.  The\nweather was \"soft\"--in other words, it rained every day and all day;\nbut people shot, fished, golfed, motored and played tennis quite\nregardless of the elements.  My brother had {149} developed a passion\nfor mechanical music; and the house was continuously resonant with the\nweird strains of pianolas, gramophones and musical boxes.  There was\nmusic, too, of a strenuous kind when I reached Dunskey in preparation\nfor an amateur concert for some good object (I forget what) at\nPortpatrick.  My brother-in-law, David Glasgow, sang a naval song or\ntwo with astonishing vigour and sweetness for a man of seventy-six; I\ncontributed \"The Baby on the Shore,\" which I had first sung on the old\n_Magdalena_ going out to Brazil in 1896; and the entertainment was so\nsuccessful that an overflow concert had to be arranged for the\nfollowing evening.  I was sorry to leave the merry and pleasant party;\nbut I was due at Aberdeen to assist at the presentation of his portrait\nto our kind old friend Bishop Chisholm, on the occasion of his\nsacerdotal golden jubilee.  The presentation ceremony took two hours,\nand the luncheon afterwards two hours more!  Why is there no time-limit\nto the oratory on such occasions?  I contrived to propose the health of\nthe whole Hierarchy of Scotland[9] in exactly six minutes (one minute\nfor each bishop); but the length of some of the speeches was appalling.\nNext day I went on to Fort Augustus, where I found myself, after a\nquarter of a century, \"presiding\" (as the phrase is) again at the\norgan, our organist being away on a walking tour among the hills.  In\nthe week after my return our local games (the Gleann Mhor Gathering)\ncame off in {150} glorious weather.  Motors from neighbouring lodges\noccupied the monastic lawns: the Chief of Glenmoriston and other noted\nhighlanders were acting as judges; and \"quite a special feature (so\nsaid one of the reporters) was given to the gay scene by the\nblack-robed monks, who flitted [I like that word] hither and thither\nwith a word of welcome for all.\"  As a matter of fact, one of our\ncommunity (a Macdonell, to wit) was the moving spirit of the Gathering,\nthe success of which was in great measure owing to his efforts and\nenthusiasm.\n\n\n\n[1] I would not venture to make such a statement except on the best\nauthority--Darwin's own words.  See Appendix.\n\n[2] Dean Burgon.  See _ante_, page 104.\n\n[3] His grandfather, Sir John Simeon, M.P. for the Isle of Wight, had\nmarried my father's cousin, one of the Colvilles of Culross.  They were\nboth converts to the Catholic Church.  Johnnie succeeded his father as\nfourth baronet in 1915.\n\n[4] For the _Catholic Encyclopaedia_ (vol. vii., pp. 10-14).\n\n[5] The most inappropriate wedding-anthem I ever heard was at a smart\nmarriage in Scotland; it was sung by a lady, and was called, \"With thee\nth' unsheltered moor I tread!\"\n\n[6] Pugin's ecstatic allusion was, of course, to the tracery of the\nwindow designed by himself, not to the (contemporary) stained glass,\nwhich is in truth _laid a faire fremir_.\n\n[7] The likeness was the more remarkable in view of the fact that there\nis a difference of eighty years in the respective dates (Eton _c._\n1440, Hampton Court, _c._ 1520) of the two buildings.\n\n[8] George was greatly amused with a description which I afterwards\nsent him from a fifty-year old church paper, of a Victorian\n\"restoration\" of this fine old church.  There were oak choir-stalls (so\nwrote the aggrieved reporter), but no choir, the stalls being occupied\nby fashionably-dressed ladies.  The only ornament of the restored\nsanctuary was a gigantic Royal Arms under the East Window--\"a work in\nwhich the treatment of the Unicorn's tail is especially remarkable for\nwhat Mr. Ruskin would call its 'loving reverence for truth.'\"\n\n[9] I amused the company, in this connection, with the tale of the\nundergraduate who was asked in an examination to enumerate the Minor\nProphets.  \"Well,\" said the youth after some hesitation, \"I really do\nnot care to make invidious distinctions!\"\n\n\n\n\n{151}\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n1909-1910\n\nSince my first visit to Brazil in 1896-97, my Benedictine friends\nlabouring in that vast country had frequently expressed the wish that I\nshould, if possible, return and help them in their great work of\nrestoration and reconstruction, for which more labourers were urgently\nneeded.  With health in great measure restored, and the headship of our\nOxford Hall, which I had held for ten years, passed into other hands,\nthe way to South America seemed once again open; and the autumn of 1909\nfound me fully authorized to make all necessary preparations for the\nvoyage.  I left Fort Augustus happy in the assurance that the long\nanticipated, and generally desired, reunion of our abbey with the\nEnglish mother-congregation was certain to be soon realized; and stayed\nat Beaufort for a few days before going south, meeting there \"Abe\"\nBailey (of South African renown), Hubert Jerningham, and some other\ninteresting people.  My last glimpse of the Highlands was a golden\nafternoon spent in the White Garden (the idea of one of the daughters\nof the house), and a vision of serried masses of white blossoms--I\nnever realized before how many shades of white there are--standing up\nin their pale beauty against the dark background of trees which\nencircle {152} one of the most beautiful of Scottish gardens.  From\nBeaufort I went to Kelburn to take leave of my sister, whom I found\nentertaining her Girls' Friendly Society, assisted by twenty\nbluejackets from a cruiser lying off Arran.  Their commander, Lord\nGeorge Seymour, had brought his sailors by express invitation to play\nabout and have tea with the Friendly Girls--an arrangement which seemed\nquite satisfactory to all parties!  I crossed the Firth next day to say\ngood-bye to Lady Bute, who was in residence at her pretty home in the\nIsle of Cumbrae, and went on the same afternoon to visit my hospitable\ncousin Mrs. Wauchope at beautiful Niddrie.  The Somersets and other\nagreeable folk were my fellow-guests there; and Andrew Lang arrived\nnext day, and seemed--shall I say it?--a little bit \"out of the\npicture.\"  I was accustomed to his small affectations and egotisms and\ncynical \"asides,\" which always seemed to me more or less of a pose; for\nthe eminent writer was really a very kind-hearted man, and I dare say\njust as humble-minded in reality as any of us.  The poor Duke of\nSomerset, however, who had no affectations or pretentions of any kind,\ncould not do with Mr. Lang at all; and I remember his imploring me\n(against my usual habit) to come and sit in the smoking-room at night,\nso that they should be on no account left _tete-a-tete_!  On Sunday we\nall walked to see the noble ruins of Craigmillar Castle, sadly\nreminiscent of poor Queen Mary, and admirably tended by their present\nowner, whom we chanced to meet there, and whom I interested by a tale\n(oddly enough he had never heard it) of a ghost-face on the wall of his\nown house at Liberton.\n\nAt Woodburn, where I spent the following Sunday, {153} and where Lord\nRalph and Lady Anne Kerr were always delighted to welcome a priest to\nofficiate in their tiny oratory, I found staying with Ralph his brother\nLord Walter, whose seventieth birthday we kept as a family festival,\nand who on the same day retired, as Admiral of the Fleet, from the Navy\nin which he had served for fifty-six years.  Our birthday expedition\nwas a most interesting pilgrimage to the Holy Well of St. Triduana,\nnear Restalrig, with its beautiful vaulted Gothic roof, recently\nrestored by the owner, Lord Moray.[1]  The unpretentious little\nCatholic chapel hard by pleased me more than the elaborate and\nexpensive new church recently erected at Portobello, which we also\nvisited.  I broke my journey south at Longridge Towers, and whilst\nthere motored over with Sir Brooke Boothby, our Minister in Chili (an\nagreeable and well-informed person) to see the poor remains of the\ngreat convent at Coldingham--sad enough, but wonderfully interesting.\nI made a farewell call at Ampleforth _en route_, lingering an hour at\nYork to admire the west front of the minster, from which all the\nscaffolding was at length down after years of careful and patient\nrepairs.  Hurrying through London, I travelled to Brighton and Seaford,\nfor the opening (by the Bishop of Southwark) of the new Ladycross\nschool, recently transferred from Bournemouth.  There was quite a\nnotable gathering of old pupils and friends, and I had a charming\nneighbour at luncheon in the person of Madame Navarro (Mary Anderson),\non my other {154} side being Count Riccardi-Cubitt, English-born, but a\nPapal Count in right of his wife.  The speeches, from the bishop, Lord\nSouthwell, and others, were for once commendably short.\n\nI was bidden to meet at luncheon in London next day Princess Marie\nLouise--a title unfamiliar to me: it had, in fact, been lately adopted\nto avoid confusion with an aunt and cousin, both also called Louise.\nWe spoke of the recent re-discovery of an abbey in Lincolnshire, of\nwhich literally not a single stone had been left above ground by the\niconoclasts of the sixteenth century.  \"My terrible great-uncle again,\nI suppose!\" said Her Highness with a deprecatory smile.  The reference\nwas to Henry VIII.! but I hazarded a conjecture that the work of\ndestruction dated from later and Puritan days.  I attended on this same\nafternoon the marriage of my old friend Herbert Maxwell's only son to\nthe youngest daughter of the House of Percy, at St. Peter's, Eaton\nSquare, the bright and ornate interior of which contrasted cheerfully\nwith the mirk and mire outside.  The Bishop of Peterborough, the\nbride's uncle, tied the knot; and the church, and the Duchess of\nNorthumberland's house in Grosvenor Place afterwards, were thronged\nwith Percys and Campbells and Glyns.\n\nAfter two busy days at Oxford, devoted to packing up and to taking\nhasty farewells of kind old friends (both things I detest), I went down\nto Hampshire to spend the Sunday previous to sailing with my brother at\nKneller Court.  The omens were inauspicious, for it blew hard all day,\nwith torrents of rain.  Next morning, however, was calm and bright as\nwe motored to Southampton, where I boarded {155} R.M.S.P. _Aragon_,\nnearly 5,000 tons bigger than the good old _Magdalena_.  We sailed at\nnoon, crossed to Cherbourg in perfect weather, and found the Bay of\nBiscay next day all smiles and dimples and sunshine.  I did not land at\nLisbon, having seen it all before, and having no friends there.  We\ndropped quietly down the Tagus at sundown, just when points of light\nwere breaking out over the city, and all the church bells seemed to be\nringing the Angelus.  We had a full ship, and our voyage was\ndiversified by the usual sports, of which I was an \"honorary\npresident,\" my colleagues in that sinecure office being a Brazilian\ncoffee-king, the President-elect of Argentina, and a Belgian Baron.\nThere were four Scotsmen at my table in the saloon, three of them\nDavids!  Somewhere about the Equator we kept the birthday of King\nEdward, whose health was pledged by Brazilians and Argentinos as\ncordially and enthusiastically as by the British.  I wrote to Fritz\nPonsonby to tell him of this, for His Majesty's information.[2]  Two\ndays later we sighted the low green shores of Brazil.  I looked with\ninterest at the well-remembered heights of Olinda, with the white walls\nof S. Bento shining {156} in the morning sun.  Somehow I did not\npicture myself stationed there again, though a newspaper which came\naboard at Pernambuco announced, I noticed, that \"o conhecido\neducationalista sr. David Hurter-blais\" was coming to that city \"afim\nde tratar da educacao religiosa das classes populares!\"  The passengers\nfor Pernambuco, I observed, were now chucked into the Company's lighter\nin a basket (in West African style), instead of having to \"shin\" down a\ndangerous companion in a heavy swell, as we used to do.  Two\nlank-haired red-brown Indians, who came on board here to sell feather\nfans and such things, interested me; and I recalled how Emerson had\ndescribed the aboriginals of North America as the \"provisional\nraces\"--\"the red-crayon sketch of humanity laid on the canvas before\nthe colours for the real manhood were ready.\"\n\nMy destination on this voyage was not, as thirteen years previously,\nthe steaming Equatorial State of Pernambuco, and the venerable\nhalf-derelict city of Olinda, whither our Benedictine pioneers had come\nout from Europe soon after the fall of the Brazilian Empire, just in\ntime, as it seemed, to save the Benedictine Order in that vast country\nfrom collapse and utter extinction.  From Olinda the arduous work of\nrevival and restoration had gone quietly and steadily on, including one\nby one the ancient and almost abandoned abbeys of the old Brazilian\nCongregation; and it was to one of these, the monastery of our Order in\nthe great and growing city of S. Paulo, that my steps were now turned.\nBahia, two days voyage from Pernambuco, is a city to which (like\nConstantinople) distance very decidedly lends enchantment, and I did\nnot land {157} there.  It was raining fast, and the fantastic hilltops\nwere wrapped in clouds, as we entered Rio Bay.  I was welcomed by a\nkind Belgian monk whom I had known at Olinda in 1896, and who drove me\nup to our fine old Portuguese abbey, standing on its own mount or\n_morro_ close to the sea, where I had paid my respects to the last of\nthe old Brazilian abbots a dozen years before.  A vigorous young\ncommunity now occupied the long-empty cells; and the conduct of a\nflourishing college, as well as pastoral work of various kinds outside,\ngave scope to their energy and zeal.\n\nThe weather next day was perfect, and my friend Dom Amaro devoted two\nor three hours to driving me round the City Beautiful.  Beautiful, of\ncourse, it had always been; but I was astounded at the transformation\nwhich had taken place in four short years.  From \"the cemetery of the\nforeigner,\" as Rio had been called when its name, like those of Santos,\nHavana and Panama, had been almost synonymous with pestilence and\ndeath, it had become one of the healthiest, as it had always been one\nof the loveliest, capitals in the world.  Four men--Brazilians\nall--minister of works, engineer, doctor, and prefect of the city,[3]\nhad undertaken in 1905 the gigantic task of the city's sanitation.  The\nextermination of the mosquitoes which caused yellow fever and malaria,\nthe destruction of their breeding-places, the widening of malodorous\nstreets, the demolition of thousands of buildings, the disinfection\n{158} and removal of tens of thousands of tons of garbage, the\nfilling-up of swamps and marshes, were only preliminary to the colossal\nwork of reconstruction of which I saw some of the results.  Right\nthrough the central city was pierced the new Avenida, a broad\nthoroughfare lined with noble buildings, of which the theatre, built at\nenormous cost, and rivalling the Paris Opera, struck me most.  More\nstriking still was the new Beira Mar, the unique sea-drive skirting the\nbay for four miles, and leading to the equally beautiful circular\nesplanade round the Bay of Botafogo.  Here I left cards and letters of\nintroduction on the British Minister (who, I may remark _en passant_,\nnever took the slightest notice of either,)[4]; and we drove homewards\nin a golden sunset, the whole city flushed with rosy light, and the\nheights of Corcovado and the Organ Mountains glowing purple--as purple\nas the evening tints of Hymettus and Pentelicus which gave to Athens\nthe immortal name of [Greek: Iostephanos], the violet-crowned.  Behind\nus the pointed Sugar-loaf rose grey and menacing into the opal sky; and\nI recalled the quaint Brazilian tradition which tells how the Creator,\nwhen He had made the Bay of Rio and found it very good, desired to call\nman's admiring attention to His masterpiece by a mark of exclamation.\nThe mark of exclamation is the Sugar-loaf!  We met in the Avenida,\nreturning from a grand _formatura_ (review) in honour of the day (it\nwas the anniversary of the foundation of the Republic), the\nPresident--a {159} mulatto, by the way--and his staff, in a none too\ngorgeous gala carriage.  I was told that he was extremely popular.\n\nTo reach S. Paulo from Rio I had the choice of two routes, the\npleasanter being that by sea to Santos, and an ascent thence to the\ninland city by one of the most wonderful of the world's railways.  But\nas I wished to see something of the country, I chose the twelve hours'\ntrain journey direct from the capital--and repented my choice; for\nthough the first part of the route was through fine scenery, as we\nclimbed the lofty Serra which stretches for miles along the Brazilian\ncoast, the dust, heat and jolting of the train soon grew almost\ninsufferable.  I was very glad to reach S. Paulo, where the air was\npleasantly cool and fresh (the city stands 2,100 feet above the sea,\nand just outside the tropical zone[5]), and where the kind abbot of S.\nBento, whom I had known up to then only by correspondence, met me at\nthe station.  We were soon at his monastery, which was well situated,\noccupying a whole side of one of the principal squares of the city, and\nof historic interest as built on the same spot where, three hundred and\nten years before, the first Benedictine foundation in the then village\nof S. Paulo had been made by Frei Mauro Texeira, a zealous and fervent\nmonk of Bahia.  The monastery, as I knew it in 1909, was an\nunpretentious building of the early eighteenth century, constructed not\nof stone but of _taipa_ (compressed earth), its long {160} whitewashed\nfront pierced by ten windows, and flanked by the facade of the church\nwith its low cupola'd tower.  My host, Abbot Miguel, who had been\nappointed prior of the restored abbey in 1900, and abbot seven years\nlater, had inaugurated in 1903 a school for boys, which numbered at my\narrival some 300 pupils.  For their accommodation, and for that of his\ngrowing community, he had done all that was possible with the old and\ninadequate buildings of the monastery, to which he had built on various\nadditions.  But he and his community had already decided that a\ncomplete reconstruction of both abbey and church was absolutely\nessential for the development of their educational and other work; and\nI found them all studying and discussing ornate and elaborate plans by\na well-known Bavarian architect, who had \"let himself go\" in a west\nfront apparently in English Elizabethan style (recalling Hatfield), and\na Byzantine church with Perpendicular Gothic details and two lofty\ntowers.[6]  The process of demolition, commencing with the choir of the\nold church, was started a few weeks after I reached S. Paulo; and I\nremember that we were nearly asphyxiated by the falling and crumbling\nwalls, which (as I have said) were built of a kind of adobe or dried\nmud, and broke into thick clouds of blinding yellow dust as they\ntumbled about our ears.\n\nThe rebuilding of the Benedictine Abbey was only {161} one feature, and\nnot the most considerable, of the architectural transformation which\nwas taking place before one's eyes in every part of S. Paulo, and was\ndeveloping it from an insignificant provincial capital into one of the\nlargest and most progressive cities of South America.  In twenty years\nthe population had increased tenfold--from fifty thousand to nearly\nhalf a million--and two facts struck me as both remarkable and\nencouraging, namely that the birth-rate was more than double the\ndeath-rate, and was (so I was told) more than double that of\nLondon--nearly thirty-six per thousand.  The State and city of S. Paulo\nwere alike cosmopolitan, 300,000 immigrants (more than half of them\nItalians) having entered the country in the year before my arrival, and\nmore than half the population being of foreign birth.  The vast\nmajority of the day-labourers in the city were Italians, on the whole\nan industrious and thrifty race (though not without obvious faults),\nwho assimilated themselves without difficulty to the country of their\nadoption.  The rapidly growing prosperity of S. Paulo was shown by the\nastonishing appreciation in a few years of the value of land in and\naround the city--exceeding, so I was assured by a prominent American,\nany phenomenon of the kind in the United States.  Our Abbot had, not\nlong before my arrival, acquired with wise prescience a fine country\nestate in the eastern outskirts, which was already worth at least ten\ntimes what he had expended on its purchase.  The _chacara_ (as such\nproperties are called) included a fine old house of Imperial days,\ngarden, farm, orchard, extensive woods, as well as a lake, football\nfields, playgrounds and a rifle-range; and here our young pupils spent\n{162} one day every week enjoying the open-air life and sports\nunattainable in the city.\n\nThe college, or _gymnasio_, of S. Bento had already taken its\nrecognised place among the best educational institutions of S. Paulo.\nThe fathers were assisted in the work of teaching by a competent staff\nof lay masters, but retained the religious, moral, and disciplinary\ntraining of their pupils entirely in their own hands; and I was pleased\nto see how eminently suited the paternal and family spirit\ncharacteristic of Benedictine education was to Brazilian boys, and how\nwell on the whole they responded to the efforts of their instructors to\ninstil into them those habits of obedience, self-control, and moral\nresponsibility, in which the home training of the children of Latin\nAmerica is often so deplorably deficient.  Naturally docile, pious, and\nintelligent, these little boys were brought under the salutary\ninfluence of S. Bento at an age when there seemed every hope that they\nwould be tided safely over the difficult years of early adolescence,\nand moulded, under solid Christian guidance, into efficient and worthy\ncitizens of their State and their country.[7]  English was taught by an\nAmerican priest, who was also an excellent musician, and trained our\nlittle choristers very successfully.  Several of the fathers spoke\nEnglish well; but I was the only British-born member of the community,\nand I was naturally glad of opportunities to meet the scattered English\n{163} Catholics who were to be found among the not very numerous\nBritish resident colony.  Our little old church, unattractive enough as\nto externals, was yet greatly frequented by those (and they were many)\nwho appreciated the careful reverence of the ceremonial and grave\nbeauty of the monastic chant.  Sermons in Portuguese and German were\nalready preached regularly at the Sunday masses; and to these was added\nsoon after my arrival an English sermon, which was very well attended.\nOne came sometimes in the hospitals of the city, which I visited\nregularly, on stray Englishmen of another class--an injured railwayman,\nperhaps, or a sick sailor from a British ship, who were glad enough,\neven if not Catholics, of a friendly visit from a countryman.  I\nremember a young Englishman from Warrington in Lancashire (this was one\nof the consoling cases), who was dying of some obscure tropical disease\nin the Santa Casa, the chief hospital of the city.  It was the hottest\ntime of year, and he suffered much, but never once murmured or\ncomplained.  He had been baptized by a Benedictine (but eighteen years\nbefore) in his native town in England, and he looked on it, as he said,\nas \"a bit of real luck\" to be tended by a Benedictine on his death-bed.\n\"O santinho inglez\" (the little English saint) his nurses called him;\nand his death--he was never free from pain to the last--was truly the\ndeath of the just, and made an ineffaceable impression on those who\nwitnessed it.  _Fiant novissima mea hujus similia!_\n\nI soon fell into the routine of our Brazilian monastic day, which\ndiffered a good deal (especially as to the hours for meals) from our\nEuropean time-tables.  {164} Coffee betimes; breakfast (\"almoco\")\nbefore noon; dinner at half-past five, after vespers, suited the school\nhours, and the busy life of the community.  We anticipated matins at\nseven p.m.; hurried to the refectory for a dish of scalding tea\n(smothered in sugar, no milk), or a glass of lemonade, then hastened\nback to choir for night prayers and sundry pious exercises.  This final\ncollation (if it may be so called) was really alarming: the scorching\ntea was gulped down with a reckless rapidity which reminded one of\nQuilp tossing off the hissing rum in his riverside arbour! and I used\nto return to choir positively perspiring.  But our commissariat was on\nthe whole good, if simple; we had no such privations to face as in old\ndays at Olinda, and as far as I was concerned the kind abbot was always\non the alert to see that I wanted for nothing.  Our chacara supplied us\nwith farm produce of the best; and great platters of green and purple\ngrapes, from the same source, were at this season served up at every\nmeal.\n\nThe abbot, on his first free day, drove me round the interesting city.\nWe visited a fine girls' school, conducted by Augustinian canonesses;\nthe superior was sister to an Anglo-Irish Benedictine, and another nun\nwas a Macpherson, with an accent of that ilk.  We saw, also, two\ninstitutions founded by the Abbot, St. Adalbert's Parochial schools,\nunder nuns of St. Catherine, and a hospital managed by sisters of the\nsame Order.  The hospital stood at the end of the Avenida Paulista, a\nnoble boulevard lined with handsome houses of every imaginable style of\narchitecture--Gothic, Renaissance, Moorish, Swiss, Venetian, classical,\nrococo, each one in its own glowing and luxuriant garden.  This,\nnaturally, was the rich {165} man's quarter; the working people had of\ncourse their own dwellings, chiefly in the populous industrial district\nof Braz.  But I saw no slums in S. Paulo, and nowhere the depressing\ncontrast between ostentatious luxury and poverty-stricken squalor which\nis the blot on so many European cities.  In S. Paulo there was, in\nfact, no poverty:[8] there was work and employment and food for all;\nand it is true to say there was no need for any man to be a pauper\nexcept through his own fault.  To any one with preconceived ideas of\nSouth American cities as centres of lethargy, indolence, and want of\nenterprise, the industrial activity and abounding prosperity of S.\nPaulo could not but appear as astonishing.  That prosperity, as most\npeople know, was mainly due to the foresight and energy with which the\nPaulistas had realised and utilised the fact that their famous _terra\nroxa_ was adaptable for coffee-culture on a scale truly gigantic.  Two\nyears before my arrival (in 1906-07) the production of coffee in Brazil\n(three-fourths of it grown in S. Paulo) had reached the amazing figure\nof twenty million sacks, five times what it had been a quarter of a\ncentury before.  Then, when the supply was found to exceed the demand,\nwhen prices fell by leaps and bounds, and financial disaster seemed\nimminent, the shrewd Paulistas conceived and adopted the\nmuch-criticised expedient of \"valorisation,\" the State itself\npurchasing an enormous quantity of the crop, and holding it up until\nprices became again normal.  It was in this and in many {166} other\nways that the Paulistas showed the clearsightedness and acumen which\njustly gained for their State and their capital the reputation of being\nthe most enterprising and progressive on the whole South American\ncontinent.\n\nThe abbot and I finished our afternoon's drive with a little expedition\nto Cantareira, a hollow among wooded hills, some twelve or fourteen\nmiles distant (the access is by a steam tramway), where, set in\ncharming gardens, are some of the spacious reservoirs feeding the city.\nWe drank our coffee in a rustic arbour, with bright-hued hummingbirds\nglancing and circling round our heads; and returning in the luminous\nviolet twilight (which struck me always as particularly beautiful in\nthis clear, high smokeless atmosphere), called to pay our respects to\nthe Archbishop of the province and diocese of S. Paulo.  A zealous\nparish priest in the city, where he had built a fine church (St.\nCecilia's), he had been made Bishop of Coritiba at only thirty, and\ntranslated to the metropolitan see two years later.  He was not yet\nthirty-eight.\n\nI assisted, before our school broke up for the three months' summer\nholidays, at some of the examinations, which were conducted in presence\nof a _fiscal_ (Government official), our college being at that time\nconsidered \"equiparado,\" i.e., equivalent to the State secondary\nschools, a condition of the privilege being some kind of more or less\nnominal Government inspection.  The school work, it struck me, had all\nbeen very thoroughly done, though perhaps of a somewhat elementary\nkind.  A distraction to us all during the last hour was the news of a\ngreat fire raging in the principal business street of the {167} city.\nA big German warehouse, the Casa Allema, was in fact burned to the\nground; and we surveyed the conflagration (said, but never proved, to\nbe the work of incendiaries) from the belfry of our church tower.\n\nThe North American element in S. Paulo, though much smaller than it\nbecame later, was already fairly numerous.  A great Canadian company\nwas responsible for the supply of light and power to S. Paulo as well\nas Rio; some of the leading officials in both cities were Catholics,\nand became my kind friends.  Another hospitable friend was a Scots\nbanker married to an American wife, whom he habitually addressed as\n\"Honey!\"[9]  There was, generally, a very friendly and hospitable\nspirit among the English-speaking residents; but (as usual in foreign\ncities) it was curiously confined to the circle of their own\ncountrymen.  Some of my Brazilian acquaintances used to express regret\nthat the English colony, for which they had much respect, never evinced\nthe least desire for any sort of intimacy with them; and it used to\nsurprise me to find English families which had been settled in the\ncountry for a whole generation or more, of which not a single member\nknew sufficient Portuguese to carry on a quarter of an hour's\nconversation with an educated Brazilian of their own class.\nPersonally, I found such Brazilians as I had the pleasure of meeting\n{168} almost uniformly extremely agreeable people--kind, courteous,\ncultivated, and refined; and I thought, and still think, the insular\naloofness of my countrymen from the people among whom it was their lot\nto live, a distinct disadvantage to themselves, and a mistake from\nevery point of view.\n\nIt was a curious fact, and one worthy of attention from several points\nof view, that at the time of which I am writing the public and official\ninterest of the Paulistas in educational matters, while undoubtedly\nexceeding that of any other community in the Republic, was in practice\nalmost confined to primary schools.  Nearly L400,000, a fifth of the\nwhole annual budget of the State, was devoted to their support and\nextension; many of the school buildings were of almost palatial\nappearance; the code was carefully thought out, and the teaching as a\nwhole efficient; and elementary education was, at least in principle,\nobligatory, though the provisions of the law of 1893, which had\nestablished a commission for bringing negligent parents to book and\nfining them for non-compliance with the law, were to a great extent a\ndead letter.  For secondary education, on the other hand, the public\nprovision was of the slenderest: there were in 1909 but three State\nsecondary schools in the State of S. Paulo--at Campinas and Ribeirao\nPreto, and in the capital; and the Lyceu in the last-named city (with a\npopulation of over 400,000) numbered less than 150 pupils.  The\nall-important work of the education of the middle and upper classes of\nchildren, both boys and girls, thus fell inevitably into the hands of\nprivate teachers, the best colleges for both sexes (mostly _internatos_\n{169} or boarding-schools) being conducted by foreign religious orders.\nThese institutions, receiving no State subvention of any kind, were\nregarded by the State with a tolerance due less to its appreciation of\nthe principles on which their education was based, than to an obvious\nsense of the economic advantage of leaving private associations to\nundertake a work which it neglected itself.  The net gain of this\npolicy of _laisser aller_ was that a large number of children,\nbelonging to the classes on which depended the future prosperity of the\ncountry, were being carefully educated on solid Christian foundations,\nwithout, as far as I could observe at S. Bento and elsewhere, any\nsacrifice of the patriotic principles which Brazil quite rightly\ndesired should be instilled into the rising generation of her sons and\ndaughters.\n\n\n\n[1] St. Trid's Well (as it was called before the Reformation) had the\nrepute of miraculously curing diseases of the eye.  A satirical\nsixteenth-century poet scoffs at the folk who flock to \"Saint Trid's to\nmend their ene.\"\n\n[2] The King (so his secretary wrote to me) was \"much surprised and\ngratified\" at hearing how the toast of his health had been received by\nthe foreign passengers on an English ship.  I sent on the letter from\nS. Paulo to the captain, who said it should be framed and hung up on\nboard, but I never heard if this was done.  Edward VII. died less than\nsix months later, and on December 30, 1917, the _Aragon_, whilst on\ntransport service in the Mediterranean, was torpedoed (together with\nher escort H.M.S. _Attack_), a few miles from Alexandria.  The ship\nwent down within half an hour of being struck, with a loss of more than\nsix hundred lives.\n\n[3] Their names are worthy of perpetuation--Lauro Muller, Paulo\nFrontin, Pareiro Passo (the Haussmann of Brazil), and Dr. Oswaldo Cruz,\na pupil of Pasteur, and popularly known as the _mata-mosquitos_\n(mosquito-killer).\n\n[4] This lapse from diplomatic courtesy on the part of Sir William\nHaggard was, I take pleasure in recalling, amply atoned for later by\nthe kindness I received from two of his successors as British\nrepresentative in Rio.\n\n[5] The Tropic of Capricorn passes through S. Paulo--I had even heard\nsaid, through the monastery garden of S. Bento.  \"Let us dig and look\nfor it,\" said one of my little pupils to whom I imparted this supposed\ngeographical fact.\n\n[6] When I saw S. Bento (after a long interval) eleven years later, the\nnew buildings (except for the internal decoration of the church) were\npractically complete.  Many of the details were no doubt open to\ncriticism, and were in fact rather severely criticised; but it was a\ntribute to the architect that the general effect of his work was\nrecognized as being both dignified and impressive.\n\n[7] When I returned to S. Paulo eleven years later, I heard with\npleasure from the parents of some of our former pupils of the\nsatisfactory way in which their sons had turned out--a happy result\nwhich they attributed to the excellence of their upbringing at S. Bento.\n\n[8] Let me note once for all that whatever I say about S. Paulo, here\nand elsewhere, is founded (facts and figures alike) on what I knew and\nlearned of the city in 1909-10.  A dozen years may, and do, bring many\nchanges!\n\n[9] \"Honey!\" said an American bride (returning from an early morning\nwalk) at a door--which she imagined to be that of the nuptial\nchamber--in the corridor of a big hotel; \"honey! it's me: let me in.\"\nNo response.  \"Honey! it's me, it's Mamie: open the door.\"  Still no\nanswer.  \"Honey! honey! don't you hear? it's me, honey.\"  Gruff\n(unknown) male voice: \"Madam, this is not a beehive, it's a bathroom!\"\n\n\n\n\n{170}\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n1910\n\nThe early days of December brought me news from England of the death of\nProvost Hornby, my old head master at Eton, aged well over eighty.  He\nhad birched me three times;[1] still, I bore him no malice, though I\ndid not feel so overcome by the news as Tom Brown did when he heard of\nthe death of _his_ old head master.[2]  An eminent scholar, a \"double\nblue\" at Oxford, of aspect dignified yet kindly, he had seemed to unite\nall the qualities necessary or desirable for an arch-pedagogue; yet\n{171} no head master had ever entered an office under a cloud of\ngreater unpopularity.  We were all Tories at Eton in the 'sixties; and\nthe rumoured association of the new head with the hated word _Reform_\n(which his predecessor Dr. Balston was said to have stoutly resisted)\naroused in our youthful breasts a suspicion and dislike which\nculminated in the words \"No Reform!\" being actually chalked on the back\nof his gown (I personally witnessed the outrage) as he was ascending\nthe stairs into Upper School.  _Tempora mutantur_: I dare say there are\nplenty of young Etonian Radicals nowadays; though I do seem to have\nheard of Mr. Winston Churchill having been vigorously hooted in School\nYard, on his first appearance at his old school after \"finding\nsalvation\" in the Radical camp.\n\nTwo or three weeks before Christmas our abbot found himself rather\nsuddenly obliged to sail for Europe on important business--leaving me a\nlittle forlorn, for he was my only real friend in our rather\ncosmopolitan community, though all were kindly and pleasant.  The\nmidsummer heat, too, was more trying than I had anticipated on this\nelevated plateau; and though the nights were sensibly cooler, they were\ndisturbed by mosquitoes, tram-bells in the square outside, _grillos_\nand _cigarras_ in our cloister garden beneath, our discordant church\nbells[3] striking every quarter above one's head, and our big\nwatch-dog, Bismarck, baying in the yard.  I accompanied the abbot to\nthe station, where the _dispedida_ (leave-taking) in this country was\nalways an affair of much demonstration and copious embracing.  When\n{172} he had gone we all settled down for a week's retreat, given by a\nvenerable-looking and (I am sure) pious, but extraordinarily grimy,\nRedemptorist father, who must have found it an uncommonly hard week's\nwork in the then temperature, for he \"doubled\" each of his Portuguese\nsermons by a duplicate German discourse addressed to the lay brethren.\nThis pious exercise over, we prepared for the Christmas festival, which\nI enjoyed.  It was my privilege to officiate at matins and lauds and\nthe solemn Mass, lasting from half-past ten till nearly two.  Our\nchurch (the demolition of which had not yet begun) was elaborately\nadorned and filled with a crowd of devout communicants, young and old;\nand when the long services were over, our good brothers gathered round\nthe Christmas crib, and sang immensely long and pious German songs far\ninto the small hours of morning.  Later in the day I went up to\nParadise (\"Paraiso,\" the name of one of our picturesque suburbs), and\nlunched with the kind Canadian family whose pleasant hospitality\nconstitutes one of the most agreeable souvenirs of my sojourn at S.\nPaulo, both at this time and ten years later.\n\nAfter New Year we had a sudden cool spell, with a southerly wind\nbringing refreshing airs from the Pole; and I profited by it to extend\nmy daily walk, visiting churches and other places of interest in and\nabout the city.  Such old Portuguese churches as the _Se_ (cathedral)\nhad a certain interest, though no beauty in themselves.  The side\naltars, surmounted by fat and florid saints boxed up in arbours of\nartificial flowers, were painfully grotesque; and the big church was\ndecked (for Christmastide) with {173} faded red damask which, like Mrs.\nSkewton's rose-coloured curtains, only made uglier what was already\nugly.  A scheme, however, was afoot for pulling the whole place down;\nand a model and plans for a great Gothic cathedral of white granite\nwere already on exhibition in a neighbouring window, and were exciting\nmuch attention.  A few of the other old churches in the city had\nalready been demolished to make way for new ones, mostly of an\nuninteresting German Romanesque type, planned by German architects.\nNative talent, however, was responsible for the splendid theatre, its\nfacade adorned with red granite monoliths; but the finest building in\nS. Paulo (perhaps in Brazil) was the creation of an Italian architect\n(Bezzi).  This was the noble palace at Ypiranga--a site dear to\nBrazilians as the scene of the Proclamation of Independence in\n1822--now used as a museum of ethnography and natural history, and\ncontaining collections of great and constantly increasing value and\nimportance.  S. Paulo in 1909 was--perhaps is even now, a dozen years\nlater--a city still in the making;[4] but the intelligence of its\nplanning, the zeal of its enterprising citizens for its extension and\nembellishment, and the noticeable skill and speed of the workmen\n(nearly all Italians) under whose hands palatial buildings were rising\non every side, were full of promise for the future.\n\nIn 1909 the Instituto Serumtherapico, now very adequately housed at\nButantan (popularly known {174} as the \"chacara dos serpentes,\" or\nsnake-farm), a mile or two from the city, was only beginning, after\nyears of patient and fruitful research, its remarkable work--a work of\nwhich (like the sanitation and reconstruction of Rio and the successful\ncampaign against yellow fever) the credit is due to Brazilians and not\nto the strangers within their gates.  The serums discovered by the\nfounder of the Institute, Dr. Vidal Brazil, for the cure of snake-bite\nare as important and beneficent, within the vast area where the\nmortality from this cause has hitherto been far greater than is\ngenerally known or supposed, as Pasteur's world-famous treatment for\nhydrophobia.  One serum is efficacious against the rattlesnake's bite,\nanother against the venom of the urutu, the jararaca, and other deadly\nspecies, while a third is an antidote to the poison of any snake\nwhatever.  Twenty-five per cent. of snake-bite cases have hitherto, it\nis estimated, proved fatal; when the serum is administered in time cure\nis practically certain.  To Dr. Brazil is also due the credit of the\ndiscovery of the mussurana, the great snake, harmless to man, which not\nonly kills but devours venomous reptiles of all kinds, even those as\nbig as, or bigger than, itself.  It was expected, I was told, that the\nencouragement of the propagation of this remarkable ophidian might lead\nin time to the extermination of poisonous serpents not only in the\nState of S. Paulo, but in every part of tropical Brazil.\n\nThe traditional Benedictine hospitality was never wanting at our abbey:\nthe guest-rooms were always occupied, and the guest-table in the\nrefectory was a kaleidoscope of changing colour--now the violet sash\nand cap of a bishop from some remote State, {175} now the brown of a\nFranciscan or bearded Capuchin, the white wool of a Dominican\nmissionary or a Trappist monk from the far interior, or the sombre\nhabit of one of our own brethren from some distant abbey on the long\nBrazilian coast.  Nor were the poorer claimants for rest and\nrefreshment forgotten.  I remember the British Consul, after seeing the\nwhole establishment, saying that what pleased him most was the noonday\nentertainment of the lame, blind, and halt in the entrance-hall, and\nthe spectacle of our good Italian porter, Brother Pio Brunelli,\ndispensing the viands (which the Consul thought looked and smelled\nuncommonly good) to our humble guests.  Our Trappist visitor mentioned\nabove was \"procurador\" of a large agricultural settlement in charge of\nhis Order; and I remember understanding so much of his technical talk,\nafter dinner, about their methods of hauling out trees by their roots,\nand their machinery for drying rice in rainy weather, as to convince me\nthat my Portuguese was making good progress!\n\nAll our cablegrams from England in these days were occupied with the\nGeneral Election, the result of which (275 Liberals to 273 Unionists)\nwas vastly interesting, leaving, as it appeared to do, the \"balance of\npower\" absolutely in the hands of the seventy Irish Nationalists.\nSeveral Catholic candidates (British) had been defeated, but nine were\nreturned to the new Parliament--five Unionists and four Rad.-Nat.-Libs.\n\nOf greater personal interest to me was the welcome and not unexpected\nnews that by a Roman Decree issued on the last day of 1909 our\nmonastery of Fort Augustus had been reunited with the English {176}\nBenedictine Congregation, our position of \"splendid isolation\" as a\nPontifical Abbey being thus at an end.  My letters informed me that the\nabbot's resignation had already been accepted, and Dom Hilary Willson\ninstalled in office by the delegate of the English Abbot-president,\nwith the good will of all concerned, and the special blessing of Pope\nPius X., conveyed in a telegram from Cardinal Merry del Val, the Papal\nSecretary of State.  The new superior's appointment was _ad nutum\nSanctae Sedis_, i.e. for an undetermined period; and the late abbot\n(whose health was greatly impaired) was authorised to retire, as he\ndesired, to a \"cell\"--a commodious house and chapel--belonging to our\nabbey, high among pine-woods near Buckie, in Banffshire.[5]\n\nMy mail brought me, too, tidings of the marriage of the sons and\ndaughters of quite a number of old friends--Balfour of Burleigh, North\nDalrymple (Stair's brother), the Skenes of Pitlour and All Souls,\nOxford; also of the engagement of Lovat's sister Margaret to Stirling\nof Keir, and of the death (under sad circumstances already referred\nto)[6] of Ninian Crichton Stuart's poor little son.  I heard with\npleasure from Abbot Miguel that he hoped shortly to return to us: he\nhad already cabled the single word \"Demoli\"; our poor old choir was\nunder the hands of the house-breakers; and we were saying office\ntemporarily in the chapter-room, lighted by such inefficient lamps\n{177} that I could read hardly a line of my breviary by their\nglimmer.[7]\n\n  \"Just a song at twilight,\n  When the lights are low,\"\n\nis all very well in its way; but the conditions are not suitable for\nmatins and lauds lasting an hour and a half!  After an interval of this\ndiscomfort, we get into our _corozinho provisorio_ (temporary little\nchoir), a hantle cut out of the nave, which was still standing; and\nthere we recited our office during the remainder of my stay.\n\nSt. Benedict's feast this year fell after Easter; and we kept it with\nsolemn services in our diminished church (which was packed to the\ndoors), an eloquent panegyric preached by the vicar-general, and a good\nmany guests in the refectory.  The fare was lavish--too lavish for the\ntemperature: there were soup, fish, oysters and prawns, three courses\nof meat, \"tarts and tidiness,\" and great platters of fruit, khakis\n(persimmons), mamoes, abacaxis (small pineapples), etc.  \"Oh!\nTodgers's could do it when it liked!\"[8]  I sat for a while afterwards\nwith our U.S.A. padre, just returned from a week's trip on an American\nsteamer.  He had grown restive under the sumptuary laws\n(cassock-wearing, etc.) of our archdiocese, and as soon as the school\nholidays began, had donned his straw hat and monkey-jacket, and gone\noff to enjoy himself on the _Vasari_.  He was very good company, and\nfull of quaint Yankee tales and reminiscences.  I recall one of his\nstories about a man who thought he could draw, and used {178} to send\nhis sketches to the editor of a picture-paper whom he knew.  Meeting\nhis friend one day, he asked him why his contributions were never used.\n\"Well, the fact is,\" said the editor, \"I have an aunt living in Noo\nJersey, who can _knit_ better pictures than yours!\"\n\nOn May 1 my friend Father Caton and I, desirous of seeing something of\none important element of the heterogeneous population of S. Paulo,\nwitnessed a procession of Garibaldians on their way to inaugurate a\nstatue of their hero in one of the public gardens.  A sinister crowd\nthey were, members of some fifty Italian clubs and associations here,\nSocialist, masonic, revolutionary and anti-Christian, whose gods are\nMazzini, Carducci, and their like.  Round the statue was gathered a\nmass of their countrymen--some ten or twelve thousand at least, mostly\nCalabrians of a low type,[9] who greeted with frantic applause a\nhysterical oration, with the usual denunciations of Popes and priests\nand kings, from a fanatical firebrand called Olavo Bilac.  A\nhumiliating spectacle on a May-day Sunday in the Catholic capital of a\nCatholic State; but a large proportion of these Italian immigrants were\nin truth the scum of their own country and of Christendom.  Our abbot,\nwhose zeal and charity extended to all nationalities in this\ncosmopolitan city, had established, with the help of some Brazilian\nladies, a free night-school for the crowds of little shoeblacks and\nnewspaper-sellers, practically all Italians.  He preached at their\nperiodical First Communion festivals, entertained them afterwards to a\njoyful breakfast (at which I {179} sometimes assisted with much\npleasure), and did his best to keep in touch with them as they grew up.\nI remember a great Italian audience (of the better sort) in our college\nhall one evening, witnessing with delighted enthusiasm three little\nplays, one in Portuguese and two in Italian, acted extremely well by a\ntroupe of the abbot's young Italian _proteges_.  With all his\ncharitable efforts, he could never, of course, touch more than the\nfringe of the question; but he never wearied of urging on the\necclesiastical authorities--nay, he had the opportunity at least once\nof forcibly representing to the Pope himself--the paramount necessity\nof some organised effort to evangelise these uninstructed masses of\nItalians who were annually pouring into the country.  No one realised\nbetter than he did that united and fervent prayer was at least as\npowerful a factor as pastoral labour in the work of Christianisation\nwhich he had so greatly at heart; and it was therefore with special joy\nthat he saw at this time the fruition of a scheme for which he had long\nbeen hoping, the establishment in S. Paulo of a community of enclosed\nnuns of our own Order.  I spent some interesting hours with him\nvisiting, with the chosen architect, various possible sites for the new\nfoundation in and about the city.  That matter settled, the rest soon\nfollowed; and he had the happiness of seeing the foundation-stone of\nthe new monastery laid in May, 1911, and six months later, the\ninauguration of community life and the Divine Office, under Prioress\nCecilia Prado.\n\nThe first week in May brought us news of the alarming illness of Edward\nVII., and twenty-four hours later of his death.  The universal and\n{180} spontaneous tributes to his memory in this foreign city were very\nremarkable: everywhere flags flying half-mast, and many shops and\nbusiness houses closed.  The newspaper articles were all most\nsympathetic in tone, with (of course) any number of quaint\nmis-spellings.  The \"Archbishop of Canter Cury\" figured in several\nparagraphs; but I could never make out what was meant by one statement,\nviz., that the King was \"successivamente alumno de Trinity, Oxford, e\nde Preoun Hall, Cambridge,\" and that he possessed intimate technical\nknowledge of the construction of fortresses.  The abbot and I called at\nthe British Consulate to express our condolence; and a large\ncongregation (including many Protestants) attended mass and my sermon\nat S. Bento a Sunday or two later, it having been understood that there\nwould be a \"pulpit reference\" to the national loss.  The Prefect of the\ncity was present, and called personally on me later to express his own\nsympathy and that of the municipality of S. Paulo.\n\nFuneral services in this Latin-American capital were not, as a rule,\nvery edifying functions.  I attended, with the Rector of our college,\nthe obsequies of an aged, wealthy and pious lady, Dona Veridiana Prado.\nA carriage and pair of fat white horses were sent to take us to her\nhouse, where there was a great concourse of friends and relatives; but\nneither there nor in the cemetery afterwards was there much sign of\nmourning, or even of respect, and not a tenth part of those present\npaid the slightest attention to the actual burying of the poor lady.\nWe walked afterwards through the great Consolacao cemetery, which\nstruck me as having little that was {181} consoling about it.  It was\nwell kept, and the monuments were--expensive, the majority of white\nmarble, but with far too many semi-nude weeping female figures,\napparently nymphs or muses: inscriptions from Vergil, Camoens, etc.,\nand such sentiments as \"Death is an eternal sleep,\" and \"An everlasting\nfarewell from devoted friends.\"  The most remarkable tomb I noticed was\na tribute to an eminent hat-maker--a large relief in bronze\nrepresenting a hat-factory in full blast!\n\nMuch more consoling than the funeral of poor Dona Veridiana was the\ngeneral manifestation of faith and devotion on the festival of Corpus\nChristi.  All business was suspended for the day (although it was not a\nstate holiday); and when our procession emerged from the church and\npassed slowly along one side of our busy square, I was pleased and\nedified to see how every head in the great expectant crowd was bared,\nand all, from cab-drivers, motor-men and police down to street arabs,\npreserved, during the passing of the _Santissimo_, the same air of\nhushed and reverent attention.  It was a joy to feel, as I felt then,\nthat these poor people, whatever their defects or shortcomings,\npossessed at least the crowning gift of faith.  A curious reason was\ngiven me by one of the clergy of the city for the unusual spirit of\ndevotion at that time manifest among the people.  Halley's Comet was\njust then a conspicuous object, blazing in the north-west sky.  The\nphenomenon, so said my informant, was very generally believed to\nportend the speedy end of the world--a belief which stimulated popular\ndevotion, and sent many spiritual laggards to their religious duties.\nHowever that may have been, a great deal of genuine popular {182} piety\nthere undoubtedly was in the big busy city.  It was not only at solemn\nfunctions on high festivals that our church was thronged by a silent\nand attentive crowd; but Sunday after Sunday, at every mass from dawn\nto noonday, the far too scanty space was filled by an overflowing\ncongregation, while the ever-increasing number of communions gave\nevidence of the solid piety underlying their real love for the services\nand ceremonies of the Church.\n\nOur abbot, who returned to us from Europe on the morrow of King\nEdward's death, had almost immediately to leave again for Rio, where\nour brethren of S. Bento there were being fiercely attacked in the\npublic press.  The French subprior in charge had not only refused leave\nto the Government to connect the Isle of Cobras (an important military\nstation) with the mainland, i.e. with St. Benedict's Mount, on which\nour abbey stood, but had revived an old claim of ownership to the Isle\nitself.  \"Very imprudent,\" thought Abbot Miguel, who knew well the risk\nof the old parrot-cry of \"frades estrangeiros\" (foreign monks) being\nrevived against us, and also shrewdly surmised that the young superior\nwas more or less in the hands of astute _advogados_, who (after the\nmanner of their tribe) were \"spoiling for a fight,\" and scenting big\nfees and profits for themselves if it came to litigation.  Dom Miguel\nleft us quite resolved, with the robust common-sense characteristic of\nhim, to meet the attacks of the newspapers, interview the Papal Nuncio,\nand (if necessary) the President of the Republic himself, talk over the\nsubprior, and give the lawyers a bit of his mind; and he did it all\nvery effectually!  When he returned a few {183} days later, the\nadvocates had been sent to the right-about, all claims had been waived\n(or withdrawn) to the Isle and the Marine Arsenal between our abbey and\nthe sea, which was also in dispute: the President and his advisers had\nexpressed their satisfaction with the patriotism and public spirit of\nthe monks: the Nuncio had sealed the whole transaction with the\nPontifical approval: the hostile press was silenced; and, in a word,\nthe \"incident was closed\"--and a very good thing too!\n\nAmong the fresh activities consequent on the new regime at Fort\nAugustus was the contemplated reopening of our abbey school, which had\nbeen closed for some years; and there was, I understood, some desire\nthat I should return home with a view of undertaking the work of\nrevival.  I ventured to express the hope that the task might be\nentrusted to a younger man; and Abbot Miguel had, whilst in Europe,\nbegged that I might be permitted to remain on in S. Paulo for at least\nanother year.  These representations had their due effect; and I was\nlooking forward contentedly to a further sojourn under the Southern\nCross, when the matter was taken out of our hands by a serious\naffection of the eyesight which threatened me with partial or total\nblindness.  There were plenty of oculists in S. Paulo; and after they\nhad peered and pried and peeped and tapped and talked to their hearts'\ncontent, generally ending up with \"Paciencia! come again to-morrow!\"\nthe youngest and most capable of them diagnosed (quite correctly, as it\nturned out), a rather obscure, unusual and interesting\nailment--interesting, _bien entendu_, to the oculists, not to the\npatient--which necessitated more or less drastic {184} treatment.  By\nthe advice of my friend the Consul (himself a medical man of\nrepute[10]), and with the concurrence of the abbot, I determined that\nthe necessary treatment should be undergone not in Brazil but at home.\nHasty preparations for departure, and the inevitable leave-takings,\nfully occupied the next fortnight.  I found time, however, to attend an\nexciting football match, the winning of which by our college team gave\nthem the coveted championship of the S. Paulo schools.  The game had\ntaken a wonderful hold of the Brazilian youth within the past few\nyears, very much to their physical and moral benefit; and many of these\nyoungsters, light of foot and quick of eye, shaped into uncommonly good\nplayers.  They had plenty of pluck too: in the last few minutes of the\nmatch of which I have been speaking one of our best players, a lively\npleasant youth with a face like a Neapolitan fisher-boy's, had the\nmisfortune to fall with his right arm under him, and broke it badly.\nHe bore the severe pain like a Trojan; and when I visited him next day,\nthough he confessed to a sleepless night, laughingly made light of his\ninjury.  His chief regret was being unable to join in the exodus of our\nhundred and fifty boarders, who departed with much bustle and many\ncheers for their month's holiday.  Their long three months' vacation\nwas in the hot season, from November to February.  {185} A few, who\nstayed with us for the winter holiday, hailed from remote corners of\nthe State, and some from even farther afield, from Goyaz, Pernambuco,\nor Matto Grosso.  Two I remember whose homes were in far Amazonas; and\nit took them a much longer time to journey thither (in Brazilian\nterritory all the time) than it would have done to reach London or\nParis.  One never ceased to wonder at the amazing vastness of Brazil,\nand to speculate on what the future has in store for the country when\nit begins to \"find itself,\" and seriously to develop its incomparable\nresources.\n\nAlmost my last visit in S. Paulo was to the newly-appointed English\nclergyman, whom I had met at a friend's house.  He entertained me\nhospitably at luncheon; but whilst helping me to prawn mayonnaise\nbegged me to say if \"I shared the official belief of my Church that he\nand all Protestants were irrevocably d----d.\"  I need not say that I\nevaded the question, not deeming the moment propitious for a course of\nthe Catechism of the Council of Trent; and we parted good friends.\n\nOn June 28 I left S. Paulo with many regrets, wondering whether I\nshould ever revisit the fair city and my kind friends, of whom many\nmustered at the station, according to the pleasant custom of the\ncountry, to speed the parting traveller.  The rapid drop down the\nserra--it was my first trip on the wonderfully-engineered \"English\nRailway,\" which enjoys the profitable monopoly of carrying passengers\nand coffee (especially coffee) to the busy port of Santos--was\nenjoyable and picturesque, with glimpses, between the frequent tunnels,\ninto deep wooded valleys, the dark uniform green of the _matto_ {186}\ninterspersed with the lovely azure and white blossoms of the graceful\nQuaresma, or Lent tree (_Tibouchina gracilis_), one of the glories of\nthe Brazilian forest.  The kind prior of S. Bento at Santos met me\nthere, and I rested for a while at his quaint and charming little\npriory, perched high above the city on its flight of many steps, and\nalmost unchanged in appearance since its foundation two centuries and a\nhalf before, though the buildings had, I believe, been restored early\nin the eighteenth century.  Higher still, and accessible only on foot,\nstood the famous shrine or hermitage of Our Lady of Montserrat, served\nby our Benedictine fathers ever since its foundation in 1655, and a\nmuch-frequented place of pilgrimage.  I had a drive, before going\naboard my ship, round the picturesque and prosperous little city, the\ntransformation of which, since I passed by it in 1896, had been almost\nmore rapid and astonishing than that of Rio.  From a haunt of\npestilence and death, yearly subject to a devastating epidemic of\nyellow fever, it had become a noted health-resort, its unrivalled\n_praia_, stretching for miles along the blue waves of the Atlantic,\nlined with modern hotels and charming villas standing in their own\nluxuriant gardens, whither the _fina flora_ of Paulista society came\ndown in summer with their families to enjoy the sea-bathing and the\nocean breezes.\n\nI was cordially welcomed on the _Araguaya_, a fine ship of over 10,000\ntons, by my old friend Captain Pope, with whom I had made my first\nvoyage to Brazil nearly a quarter of a century before.  There was a\nfull complement of passengers, including (at the captain's table with\nme) Sir John Benn, _ex_-chairman of the London County Council and {187}\nM.P. for Devonport, also Canon Valois de Castro, representative of S.\nPaulo in the Federal Parliament.  I landed at none of the Brazilian\nports, the ascent and descent of steep companions, sometimes in a heavy\nswell, being hardly compatible with my semi-blind condition.  Leaving\nPernambuco, I looked rather wistfully at the unforgotten heights of\nOlinda, and wondered if I should ever see Brazil's low green shores\nagain.  Sir John was my chief companion on deck: he was a clever\nartist, and kept me amused with his delightful sketches of famous\nParliamentarians--Disraeli, Gladstone, R. Churchill, Redmond, Parnell,\nHartington, and many others--as well as of some of the more eccentric\nof our fellow-passengers.  At our table was an agreeable captain of the\nBrazilian Navy, going to Barrow-in-Furness to bring out their new\nDreadnought, the _Sao Paulo_.  His 400 bluejackets were on board,\nsmartly dressed in British fashion; but he confided to us that most of\nthem were raw recruits, and that some had never seen the sea till they\nboarded the _Araguaya_!  As our voyage progressed he grew more and more\n_distrait_, lost, no doubt, in speculation as to how he and his\nheterogeneous crew were ever going to get their big new battleship from\nBarrow to Rio.  I never heard how they got on.[11]\n\nAt Madeira I went ashore to see the Consul (Boyle, a cousin of\nGlasgow's) and his pleasant wife, sat for an hour with them enjoying\nthe enchanting view, and returned on board in company (as I afterwards\ndiscovered) with three professional card-sharpers, who, having been\nwarned off Madeira, were returning more or less _incog._ to England.\nThe last days of {188} our voyage were made in a fog that never\nlifted--an anxious time for my friend the captain.  We never sighted\nUshant light at all, and steamed far past Cherbourg, to which we had to\nreturn dead slow, our dreary foghorn sounding continually all night\nlong.  However, it cleared quite suddenly, and we raced across the\nChannel in bright sunshine, but reached Southampton so late that a kind\nbrother who had come down to meet me there had been obliged to return\nto London.\n\n\n\n[1] Once quite unjustly--but that was not his fault, for he acted only\non \"information received.\"  This reminds me of Mr. Gladstone's story of\nhis schoolfellow Arthur Hallam (of _In Memoriam_ fame).  \"Hallam,\" said\nW. E. G., indulging in some Etonian reminiscences at his own table when\nnot far off ninety, \"was a singularly virtuous boy; but he was once\nflogged by Dr. Keat, though quite unjustly.  When we came into school\none day, the master, Mr. Knapp--(\"He was a sad scoundrel, and got into\nprison later,\" the old gentleman added in parenthesis, \"and I\nsubscribed to relieve his necessities\"),--said at once, 'Praepostor, put\nHallam's name in the bill for breaking my window.'--'Please, sir, I\nnever broke any window of yours,' cried Hallam, starting up.\n'Praepostor,' said Mr. Knapp, 'put Hallam's name in the bill for lying,\nand breaking my window.'--'Upon my sacred word of honour, sir,' said\nHallam, jumping up again, 'I never touched your window.'  But Mr. Knapp\nmerely said, 'Praepostor, put Hallam's name in the bill for swearing,\nand lying, and breaking my window!'\n\n[2] _Tom Brown's School Days_ (ed. 1839), pp. 370, 371.\n\n[3] Replaced in 1920 by a new and sonorous peal.  They still struck the\nquarters! but anyhow in tune.\n\n[4] \"Were the Vanderbilts as great a power in the American railway and\nfinancial world in your time as they are now?\" some one asked an\nEnglishman who had at one time spent some years in the United States.\n\"No,\" he replied; \"I think when I was out there they were only\nVanderbuilding!\"\n\n[5] His quiet sojourn at St. James's, which he had himself built and\ninaugurated five years previously, was a sadly short one.  I heard with\ndeep regret of his death there on St. Benedict's, Day (March 21) of\nthis year, 1910.\n\n[6] See _ante_, page 130, _note_.\n\n[7] This straining of the sight precipitated, I think, the affection of\nthe eyes which was to prove so troublesome.\n\n[8] Dickens, _Martin Chuzzlewit_, chap. ix.\n\n[9] \"La creme de la guillotine,\" as our Parisian monk, Dom Denis,\ndescribed them.\n\n[10] The O'Sullivan Beare, a graduate of Dublin University, had had an\ninteresting career.  He had served in the Egyptian War of 1885, had\nbeen medical officer on the Gold Coast and at Zanzibar, a Vice-consul\nin East Africa, engaged in the suppression of the slave-trade, and\nlater Consul at Bahia and S. Paulo.  He was Consul-general at Rio de\nJaneiro during a great part of the European War.  Col. O'Sullivan Beare\ndied in 1921.\n\n[11] See, however, _post_, page 202.\n\n\n\n\n{189}\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n1910-1911\n\nThe first news that reached me on my landing at Southampton on July 17,\n1910, was that my nephew, Alan Boyle, the intrepid young airman, had\nbeen seriously hurt at Bournemouth--not in the \"central blue,\" but\nthrough the wheels of his \"Avis\" catching in a clover-field.  His life\nhad probably been saved by the chance of his having borrowed (for he\nalways as a rule flew bareheaded) an inflated rubber cap from a friend\njust before the disaster; but, as it was, his head was badly\ninjured.[1]  After telegraphing sympathy and inquiries to the Glasgows,\nI went straight to London, to interview doctor and oculist, who both\nadvised consultation with the famous Wiesbaden specialist,\nPagenstecher.  My brother and I accordingly left England next day,\nstaying a night at Cologne to visit the Cathedral, which D. had never\nseen, and which, marvellous as it is, struck me once again as the most\nuninspired of all the great churches of Europe.  We reached Wiesbaden\nnext evening; and I was soon established {190} in the comfortable\n_klinik_ devoted to the cosmopolitan clients of the great oculist.  Our\nparty included patients from America, Australia, Mexico and Ceylon, as\nwell as from every country in Europe, and I found myself at table next\nto a wealthy Catholic gentleman from Yucatan, who told me much about\nthat little-known and marvellous country, and gave me an album of most\ninteresting photographs.  I had feared to be caged in a dark room, but\nescaped this fate, and was able to enjoy of an afternoon the excellent\nmusic in the Kurhaus gardens.  The internal decorations of the Kurhaus\nwere too hideous for words; but it stood charmingly among shady groves,\nlakes and fountains, and there were 350 newspapers in the huge rococo\nreading-room.  I had some pleasant walks with my new friend from\nYucatan--one to the top of the Neroberg, where we enjoyed a really\nmagnificent prospect, and partook of iced coffee and kirschen-kuechen in\na rustic summerhouse.  Another glorious view was from the Greek Chapel,\nerected by a Grand Duke of Nassau to the memory of his Russian wife,\nwith an extraordinarily sumptuous and beautiful interior: I was greatly\nstruck by it, though I could not help thinking that when the guide said\nit cost L700,000 he meant marks, for it is of no great size.\n\nMeanwhile I continued the prescribed \"treatment\" (unpleasant as it was)\nat the hands of the eminent oculist, a mysterious-seeming old gentleman\nwho reminded me uncomfortably of Uncle Silas in Le Fanu's\nblood-curdling novel.  Our party at the Klinik was a remarkably\ncheerful one, everybody seeming quite confident of being cured, or at\nleast greatly benefited.  Personally, I soon made up my mind {191} to\nthe permanent loss of one eye (even though, as Dickens remarked of Mr.\nSqueers, \"popular prejudice runs in favour of two\"); and in this\nanticipation I was confirmed by the verdict of Pagenstecher's clever\nson Adolf, a much more _simpatico_ person than his distinguished\nparent.  Anyhow I was out of the surgeons' hands (for this relief much\nthanks!), and to celebrate my emancipation I dined at the Kurhaus,\nlistened to the admirable \"Doppel-Orchester\" (it was an Italian Opera\nnight, recalling many memories), witnessed the illuminations, and felt\nquite dissipated.\n\nI was cheered, in the midst of these preoccupations, by a very hopeful\nletter from my sister, fortified by Sir Victor Horsley's favourable\nprognosis of Alan's case.[2]  Interesting news, too, came from Lady\nLovat (doubly interesting to me) that Simon, now nearly thirty-nine,\nwas engaged to my pretty young kinswoman Laura Lister.[3]  And on the\nsame day I heard of the betrothal of a favourite niece to a\nbrigadier-general, with a command in West Africa (whither, I imagine,\nhis bride could _not_ accompany him), and a little place in\nLincolnshire.  In both cases, curiously enough, the\nbridegroom-expectant was more than double the age of the bride-to-be;\nbut I saw no reason, if they knew their own minds, why this discrepancy\nshould militate against their happiness.\n\nBethinking myself that I had never yet gone down the Rhine by water, I\nboarded a steamer at Biebrich, {192} and steamed down the yellow turbid\nriver for eight hours in mist and rain, wishing all the time that I was\nin the train.  A female fellow-passenger introduced herself to me as a\nformer governess of the Glasgow children in the Antipodes, said she had\nlost her party _and_ her purse, and requested a small loan!  I spent\ntwo pleasant days at Cologne (Sunday and the _festa_ of August 15 next\nday), was edified by the immense and devout congregations and the\nbeautiful music in the vast cathedral, and pleased to see the simple\nholiday-making of the good Rhinelanders in their pretty river-side\ngardens.  Brussels, my next halting-place, was crammed with visitors to\nthe Exhibition, or rather to the smoking ruins of what had been the\nexhibition, the greater part of which had been burned down the night\nbefore my arrival.  I walked through the cheerful city, of which the\nonly new feature (to me) was the colossal Palace of Justice, which\nseemed to dominate Brussels as the heaven-piercing spires of the Dom\ndominate Cologne; but the gigantic mass of the Brussels building seemed\nrather to be heaven-defying, and too suggestive of the Tower of Babel\nto please me.\n\nLetters at Brussels told me of the long-hoped-for arrival of Kelburn's\nson and heir, godson to Queen Mary (her first since the King's\naccession).  He was named Maurice at the special wish of Her Majesty,\nwho (so I understood) was possessed with the odd idea that \"Maurice\"\nwas the masculine equivalent for \"Mary!\"  Crossing from Ostend to\nDover, I encountered a well-known Scottish peer of whose demise I had\nread in an English paper two days before.  He was on his way home from\nvisiting the Passion-play at Ober Ammergau, had seen no papers, {193}\nand had been surprised, and rather annoyed, at receiving letters and\ntelegrams at Brussels congratulating him on being still alive.  I\ncheered him up with a story of another man who saw his death announced\nin the morning papers, and calling up an intimate friend on the\ntelephone, said, \"Did you see in this morning's paper that I was dead?\"\n\"Yes,\" replied his friend, \"I did.  Where are you speaking from?\"  When\nI got to London, the same kind brother who had escorted me to Wiesbaden\ntook me (by way of consolation for my wasted month[4]) to lunch--on\nturtle soup and punch--at the \"Ship and Turtle\" in the City.  After a\nflying visit to my kind friends at Arundel and to my sister in Surrey,\nI came back to stay with him at his elm-shaded Thames-side home.  We\nmade some pleasant expeditions thence by land and water, motoring one\nday to quaint old Guildford, where we explored Archbishop Abbott's\ndelightfully picturesque old Jacobean almshouses, and drank tea in an\nalmost equally picturesque tea-shop, kept, I was carefully informed, by\n_real_ ladies!\n\nMy pretty niece Cicely insisted on my presence at her wedding to her\nBrigadier; and I journeyed down to Kent, on a piping August day, in the\ncompany of crowds of Irish hoppers bound for the same county.  The\nmarriage was from the Cranbrooks' nice place, Hemsted, in the very\nheart of the Garden of England, a big Victorian house full of the first\nEarl's[5] memorials of Queen Victoria, Beaconsfield, {194} and the\nother great Tory statesmen of his day.  Lady Jane Gathorne-Hardy did\nthe honours for the large house-party, as her parents were away taking\na \"cure\" somewhere; and the day after the pretty wedding in the pretty\nparish church (the vicar, an old Magdalen man, gave a very good\naddress), our kind hostess escorted the whole party up to town and\nentertained them to luncheon and a frivolous afternoon at the\n\"Follies.\"  I left London the same night for Scotland, and met at\nBeaufort, where I stayed _en route_, for our Highland abbey, Lovat's\nyouthful bride-elect--as tall, and I am sure as good, as the lady in\n_The Green Carnation_,[6] and already an accepted and affectionate\nmember of the large and merry family of Frasers and Maxwells.  I sailed\ndown our familiar canal to Fort Augustus on a marvellously still and\nbright autumn afternoon; and as we slid alongside the Fort Augustus\nquay and looked back on the panorama of azure lake and purple hills, a\nfriend and I agreed (as he colloquially put it) that it \"licked the\nRhine into fits.\"\n\nI found things externally little changed under the new, or restored,\nAnglo-Benedictine regime, the chief visible difference being that my\nbrethren now wore the flapping English hood, which gave them rather the\naspect of large nuns.  There was much coming and going to and from\nmissions and {195} locum-tenancies of vacant parishes; and our house\nseemed destined to become more and more a \"jumping-off place\" for that\nkind of work rather than a great centre of monastic life and\nobservance.  One aim was not of course incompatible with the other,\ngiven a large enough community; but ours was at this time small enough,\nand there were several more or less permanent absentees.  Most of the\nlatter, however, \"rolled up\" for the excellent retreat given us by our\ngood old friend Bishop Hedley, who had done us the same kindness just\ntwenty-one years before.  He was interested, after it was over, in\nhearing of our plans and hopes (then much \"in the air\") for re-starting\nthe suspended building of our much-needed church, of which the\nfoundation-stone had been laid nearly fifteen years previously.  A\nyoung architect (an \"old boy\" of the abbey school) was staying with us,\nand quite prepared to produce the most fascinating designs at the\nshortest notice.  But money, or the lack of it, was, as usual, the\ncrucial point; and we did not \"see our way\" (horrid phrase) to resume\noperations either then or in the immediate future.\n\nI went, in these golden October days, when a wonderful stillness so\noften broods over Highland hills and glens in their livery of autumnal\nrusset, to do chaplain for two Sundays to the Lovats, who had a large\nshooting-party at Beaufort--Seftons and Howicks and Gathorne-Hardys and\nsome others, including an A.D.C. to the Irish Viceroy, of whom he told\nme a good story.  An old peer from the country presented himself at a\nlevee at Dublin Castle; and his Excellency engaged him in conversation,\nstarting as usual with the weather.  {196} \"Wonderful rain we've been\nhaving: everything coming up out of the ground.\"--\"God forbid!\" said\nthe old peer.  \"I said that everything was coming up out of the\nground,\" repeated H.E., slightly raising his voice.  \"And _I_ said 'God\nforbid!'\" retorted the old gentleman: \"I've got three wives buried\nunder it!\"\n\nI went from Beaufort for a day or two to Nairn, which I remember hardly\nmore than a poor fishing village, frequented by ladies and children for\nsea-bathing, but which owes its present reputation and prosperity, like\nso many other places, to its excellent golf-links.  After a short stay\nat Kelburn, where I found my poor nephew Alan Boyle making good\nprogress to recovery, I could not resist an invitation to pass a few\ndays at St. Andrews, where the successor of my dear friend George Angus\nwas anxious for me to see his new church lately opened.  It was a\nrather effective building, in what a descriptive report called the\n\"Lombardic style, adapted to suit local conditions.\"  One of the\n\"adaptations\" was putting the tower at the wrong end, the \"local\ncondition\" being that the lady who had built the church, and who\ninhabited a villa close by, had objected to a western tower as blocking\nher view of the North Sea!  I strolled about the \"dear romantic town,\"\nmounting the East Neuk road as far as \"Rest and be thankful,\" and\nfeeling heavy-hearted enough, with Tennyson's lines constantly in my\nmind:\n\n  I climb the hill from end to end:\n    Of all the landscape underneath,\n    I find no place that does not breathe\n  Some gracious memory of my friend.\n\n{197}\n\n  For each has pleased a kindred eye,\n    And each reflects a happier day;\n    And leaving them to pass away,\n  I think once more he seems to die.\n\n\nI came home from my last walk by the old harbour, admiring, as I had\ndone a hundred times before, the wonderful lights on sea and land which\none associates with St. Andrews in autumn; but feeling that I never\ncared to see the place again.  Soon I went south, to Oxford, where Mgr.\nKennard, who was again threatening for the _n_th time to resign, for\nreasons of health, his office of chaplain, had begged me to come and\nhelp him for as much of the Michaelmas term as I could spare.  I found\nhim, as a matter of fact, rather exceptionally well, and ready and\nanxious to recount to an intelligent listener (which I fear I was\n_not_, on this subject) every one of his golfing achievements during\nthe past four months at Burnham, Westward Ho! North Berwick, and\nelsewhere.  Although quite incapable of talking \"golf shop,\" I\ncontributed one anecdote (new, I believed), which I had brought from\nNairn, and which pleased my old friend.  It concerned a young man and\nmaiden who were playing golf--the lady quite a novice--and had reached\na hole which was on the top of a little hill.  The youth ran up first\nto see the lie of the balls.  \"A stymie!\" he shouted: \"a dead stymie!\"\nThe young lady came up with a sniff.  \"Well, do you know?\" she said, \"I\n_thought_ I smelled something as I was walking up the hill!\"\n\nI had been invited to preach Lovat's wedding sermon on October 15; but\nthis, as well as much of the long choral service, had been\ncountermanded {198} at the eleventh hour.  I went up the day before to\nthe family residence in Grosvenor Gardens: presents still pouring in,\nand such unconsidered trifles as diamond pendants, silver salvers, gold\ncigarette-cases, telescopes, and illuminated addresses, lying\npromiscuously about.  A small army of newspaper-reporters (whom I was\ndeputed to interview) swarmed in after dinner.  There was a great\ngathering at the Oratory next morning, where the ample space beneath\nthe dome makes a most effective setting for a wedding pageant.  The\nbride's procession was a little late; and the stalwart bridegroom,\nsupported by his Scots Guards brother, was (shall I say \"the cynosure\nof all eyes\" or the \"observed of all observers\"?--both good old\n_cliches_) in the full dress bravery of a Highland chief.[7]  I went in\nafterwards to sign the register, while the _primo soprano assoluto_ of\nthe famous choir thrilled out the Bach-Gounod \"Ave Maria,\" as\ninevitable an accompaniment of Oratory weddings as \"O for the Wings of\na Dove\" is of those at Sloane Street or Eaton Square.  Mrs. Asquith\n(the bride's aunt) entertained us afterwards in the none too spacious\nreception rooms at 10, Downing Street, where the well-dressed mob,\n_more suo_, made play with their elbows in their quest for their own\nand other people's presents on the loaded tables.  There were\nrepresentatives from the bride's home in Ribblesdale, as well as a\ndeputation of farmers from distant Beaufort; {199} and one heard\nintermittently the broad accent of Lancashire and the slow soft\nHighland speech, mingling oddly with the London cackle.  The\nfestivities at an end, I escorted a party of youthful Maxwells to the\nZoo.  We saw a much-bored tiger, which gaped at us most rudely; also a\ngreatly vaunted American aloe, of the\n\"blooming-once-in-a-hundred-years\" kind, which we all thought a fraud.\n\nI had planned to finish while at Oxford my greatly belated work for the\n_Encyclopaedia_, but was (perhaps unduly) mortified to find how much my\nprogress was impeded by my altered conditions of eyesight.  Let me,\nhowever, record here, _pour encourager les autres_ similarly\nhandicapped, that the initial difficulty of _focussing_ (very serious\nand very discouraging at first to a one-eyed man) tends to disappear\nnot only quickly but completely.  \"Un poco paciencia,\" as we say in\nBrazil; kind Mother Nature steps in with her compensations, and one can\nonly feel grateful--I hope and believe that I did--at suffering so\nlittle from what seems, and after all is, so serious a privation.\n\nTwo of Lovat's nephews were now undergraduates at Trinity, Cambridge,\nwhither I went over to see them from Oxford.  They gave me luncheon in\ntheir quaint low-ceiled rooms in Trinity Street, took me to see their\nsister (a pupil in a convent school), and escorted me over some of the\n\"lions,\" wanting to know at every turn whether I did not admit that\nCambridge was infinitely superior to Oxford.  I handsomely owned that\nwe possessed nothing quite so fine, in their different ways, as King's\nChapel, the famous \"backs,\" and the Fitzwilliam Museum {200} (to say\nnothing of the Catholic church); and they were both pleased at this\ntribute, though it must be confessed that the absorbing interest of\ntheir lives at that period seemed less to be architectural masterpieces\nthan the internal mechanism of motor-bicycles, about which they, in\ncommon with many of their undergraduate friends, appeared to be quite\ncuriously infatuated.  I went on from Cambridge (an insufferably\ntedious journey) to Douai Abbey, our Berkshire monastery, where one was\nalways sure of a welcome of Benedictine heartiness, and where I gave a\nlantern-lecture on Brazil, of a popular and superficial kind, to the\ngood monks and their pupils.  This reminds me that, as a supposed\nauthority on negroes (many Englishmen, I firmly believe, are under the\nimpression that the population of Brazil is almost exclusively black!),\nI was invited by my friend the Warden of Wadham to meet the Master of\nPembroke at dinner, in order to discuss the advisability or otherwise\nof admitting black, brown and yellow men freely into the university.\nThe Warden (a Scotsman who had never, I think, been out of Britain) was\nall in favour of the \"open door\"; whereas the little Master of\nPembroke, who had been bishop of Barbadoes, and knew a thing or two\nabout blacks, was strongly for the \"keep 'em out\" policy, and I was\nentirely with him.  We had an interesting evening's talk; but the\nsolution of this not unimportant question (which the foundation of the\nRhodes Scholarships had brought much to the front) did not of course\nrest with us.  The mention of Rhodes reminds me that a conspicuous\nmemorial tablet had lately been erected to him in the Schools: the\ndesign was good and simple, but the lettering of the inscription (as\n{201} is too often the case on modern monuments) so deplorably bad as\nto spoil the whole effect.[8]\n\nWalking through Magdalen cloisters on a sombre November afternoon, I\ncame unexpectedly on the poor young King (or ex-King) of Portugal, who\nwas looking through the college with a single companion.  He looked\n(who could wonder)[9] pale, depressed and nervous; and I was shocked at\nthe change in his appearance since I had seen him at Blenheim on the\noccasion of his previous visit to England.  Professor Oman (who had\nbeen his guest in Portugal for the anniversary celebrations at Busaco)\nmet him, I believe, accidentally in High Street, and showed him all\nover All Souls and the Bodleian; but I heard that his listless and\napathetic demeanour underwent little change.  To be a \"Roi en exil\"\nalmost before reaching man's estate is about as dreary a lot as could\nfall to any man; and one could only hope that fate had something better\nin prospect for the young monarch so early and so tragically dethroned.\n\nI got to Ampleforth Abbey, on my way north, in time for our great\nBenedictine festival of All Saints of our Order; but the \"sweet vale of\nMowbray\" was wrapt in mist and rain, and the boys' holiday spoilt.  I\ngave a lecture to them that evening on the lighter side of Brazil, with\nstories of snakes and niggers; and another next evening on the work of\n{202} the religious orders, especially our Benedictines, in the\nevangelization of that vast country.  I lectured in the new college\ntheatre, a really fine room, and acoustically very satisfactory, though\nI did not care for the semi-ecclesiastical woodwork.  When I got back\nto Fort Augustus a few days later, I found Lovat, Lochiel, and other\nlocal magnates there, discussing the fate of our poor little railway,\nwhich the N.B. Company, tired of working it at a loss for several\nyears, had given notice to close after New Year.[10]  Two pieces of\nnews reached me soon after my arrival--one that Congregation at Oxford\nhad declined, by a good majority, to abolish compulsory Greek; the\nother that the Brazilian Navy was in full revolt, and the crews of\ntheir two new Dreadnoughts (one the _Sao Paulo_, whose captain and crew\nhad come to England with me) were firing their big guns from the\nharbour into the city!  I could only hope that our poor abbey, which\nmust have been in the direct line of fire, had not suffered.[11]\n\nMy own plans were almost matured for returning to Brazil early in 1911;\nbut it seemed prudent now to \"wait and see\" if this naval _emeute_\nreally portended anything like a general revolution.  Meanwhile I had\nbeen authorized to accept an invitation from the Norfolks to stay with\nthem at Norwich, for the opening of the great church which had been\nmany years a-building, at the Duke's expense, in his {203} titular\ncity.  He had taken the \"Maid's Head,\" a delightful old half-timbered\ninn, for our party, which pretty well filled it.  I said an early mass\non Our Lady's _festa_, December 8, in the lady-chapel (a memorial of\nthe Duke's first wife),[12] of the vast, austere, and splendid\nchurch--the only modern church in which I have ever felt as if I were\nin a mediaeval cathedral.  Breakfasting afterwards with the\nclergy--mostly Irish--the news of Ninian Crichton Stuart's victory at\nCardiff[13] (which came to us by wire) was a bit of a bombshell; but\nthe \"Maid's Head\" party were of course delighted.  The inaugural\nservices were very splendid, though unduly prolonged by a sermon an\nhour long; and though for once there was no after-luncheon oratory, the\nbishop preached for another full hour in the evening.  The tediousness\nof my long journey back to Scotland next day was aggravated by an\namateur politician (with a wheezy cough) in my carriage, who bored me\nalmost to tears with a _rechauffe_ of his speeches at various\nelection-meetings; but I consoled myself by reading in an evening paper\nthat the Unionist candidate for Ayr had increased his majority\nfive-fold.  At Edinburgh I came on my energetic old brother-in-law\nGlasgow, who had come in from Ayrshire (he was then not far off\nseventy-eight) to dine at a naval banquet and to vote for the\nRepresentative Peers.  I went for the week-end to the Kerrs at\nWoodburn, meeting {204} there a serious young publisher, who offered me\nvery good terms to write a detailed history--it has never yet been\nwritten--of Scottish Catholicism since the Reformation: a fascinating\nsubject, and one with which I should have loved to grapple, but life is\ntoo short to do all, or even half, that one would like to do.\n\nWith an hour or two to spare in Glasgow on my way to the Highlands, I\nlunched with my friend (the friendship was personal, not political) the\neditor of the _Observer_, at his Radical Club.  In the middle of the\nmeal a member rose with a long face, and announced an unexpected\nUnionist victory at Tavistock--whereat, to the consternation of every\none, I cheered loudly!  I reached Fort Augustus the same evening, to\nlearn of the death, at the advanced age of ninety-three, of our kind\nold friend and neighbour Mrs. Ellice of Invergarry, one of the last of\nthe great landladies who a few years before had by a curious\ncoincidence owned and managed (very capably, too) some of the largest\nestates in the North of Scotland.  The vast Glengarry property, once\nthe domain of the Macdonells, and stretching from the Caledonian Canal\nto the western seaboard, had been under Mrs. Ellice's sole control\nsince her husband's death more than thirty years before.  We at Fort\nAugustus, as well as the numerous Highland Catholics resident on her\nestate, and under our spiritual care, had always found in her a most\nfriendly, kind and considerate neighbour.\n\nTwo happenings I recall at Fort Augustus during these December\ndays--one a remarkably interesting lecture on the theory of\nlake-temperature from a Mr. Wedderburn, who had been recently on the\n{205} Scottish loch survey; and the other event was our all (that is,\nall the priests of the monastery) being called on to vow, promise,\nswear and sign, individually and collectively, our adherence to the\nCreed of Pope Pius IV., which _I_ had sworn to some thirty-six years\nbefore.[14]  This act of submission, enjoined on every Catholic priest\nin Christendom, was part of the vigorous campaign against Modernism\ninitiated by Pope Pius X.  Having discharged this duty, I betook myself\nto Keir, to spend Christmas with the Stirlings.  It was a family party,\nincluding the Lovats and a few others, and we spent the season in\nhomely Dickens fashion, with ghost-stories and snapdragon and a\npriceless Early Victorian conjurer in a crumpled dress suit, who\naccompanied tricks of really incredible antiquity with a \"patter\"\nalmost prehistoric.  One day we drove down to survey the grand old\ncathedral of Dunblane, very carefully restored (of course for\nPresbyterian worship) since I had last seen it.  As we entered, we\nheard the opening strains of Elgar's _Ave Verum_--\n\n[Illustration: Music fragment: Ave verum cor-pus na-tum Ex Ma-ri-a\nVir-gi-ne! etc.]\n\n(a Eucharistic hymn by a Catholic composer!) being played on a fine\norgan, and wondered what old John Knox would have thought about it all.\nMeanwhile the Catholics of Dunblane, a devout and fervent little flock\n(so I was told), had perforce to content themselves with a poor loft,\nwhere I preached {206} to them on two Sundays.  At Stirling, not far\ndistant, there was a new church designed by Pugin--a rather dismal and\nangular edifice, but anyhow spacious and well kept.  On my return\njourney to Fort Augustus, I found myself condemned, by the unholy\nrivalry of the Caledonian and North British Railways, to a four hours'\nwait at Crianlarich, where I found the temperature, on a frosty January\nmorning, quite as \"invigorating\" as did the fabled tourist.[15]  I had\na few busy days at the abbey preparing for my return to South America.\nMy passage was booked for the middle of January: I had devoted a week\nto farewells to relatives and friends--and then came the anti-climax!\nOn the very day on which (like the poor Sisters of Mercy) I was to have\n\"breasted the billows of the Atlantic\"[16] _en route_ for Brazil, I\nreceived so discouraging and peremptory a letter from my London\noculist, as to the risk to my remaining eye of a possibly stormy winter\nvoyage, that I had perforce to abandon the idea, and to return (like\nthe bad sixpence of poor Grissell's story)[17] to my {207} northern\nmonastery, where I received so brotherly a welcome home that I did not,\nafter the first disappointment, regret the change of plan.  I was\ninducted again into my old office of librarian (first entrusted to me\ntwenty-seven years before); and our young organist having gone into\nresidence at the Benedictine Hall at Oxford, I acted for a time as his\nsubstitute.  The post of subprior being presently vacated by the\ndeparture of the then holder of the office for a Liverpool mission,\nthat also was committed to me; and as our good prior was at this time\nto some extent invalided, I found myself pretty fully occupied, more\nespecially as I had in those days a curiously cosmopolitan\ncorrespondence (much of it on literary or antiquarian matters), which\ncould not be neglected.  I recall receiving by a single mail (on St.\nBenedict's Day, as it chanced), letters from India, North America,\nBrazil, Egypt, Germany, Belgium, Italy, and Soudan!\n\n\n\n[1] Alan, the Glasgows' youngest son, had taken up flying most\nenthusiastically, living in a shed at Brooklands (his mechanic acting\nas his cook), and practising continually with his Avis monoplane,\nwhich, like himself, was of purely Scottish origin.  He had been the\nthird flying-man to gain an aero-certificate on a machine of British\ndesign and build.\n\n[2] My nephew's recovery was slow and tedious; but he was ultimately\nrestored to health.\n\n[3] Her grandmother, Emma Lady Ribblesdale (born a Mure of Caldwell)\nwas my father's first cousin.\n\n[4] The word seems ungrateful: the time was not really wasted, for I\nhad done my best and knew the worst, and the suspense was anyhow over.\n\n[5] Gathorne Hardy, who turned Gladstone out of his seat for Oxford\nUniversity in 1865, and was afterwards successively Home Secretary and\nSecretary for War and for India.  His grandson the third Earl (my\nnephew by marriage) broke away from the Tory traditions of the family,\nsold Hemsted Park to one of the Harmsworths, and set up a new home for\nhimself in Suffolk.\n\n[6] \"I believe she is very tall and very religious--if you notice, it\nis generally short, squat people who are atheists.\"--_The Green\nCarnation_.\n\n[7] Possibly the last spectacle of the kind at the Oratory (but that\nwas in the old tin church) had been the apparition of the youthful Earl\nof Loudoun in Campbell tartan kilt and philabeg, acting as best man to\nhis cousin Lord Bute on the latter's memorable wedding-day, April 16,\n1872.\n\n[8] The stonemason of to-day imitates (usually very badly, and with\ndeplorable result) the printing of a book, not in the least realizing\nthat a lapidary inscription is something quite different from a\nsentence struck off movable metal types.\n\n[9] It was hardly a month since the Revolution of October 3, 1910, had\ndriven the unfortunate youth from the uneasy throne which he had\noccupied since the cruel murder of his father and brother, in the\nstreets of Lisbon, on February 1, 1908.\n\n[10] The negotiations resulted in a respite for six months, after which\nfinancial arrangements of some kind were made for keeping the line open\nfor the future.\n\n[11] It was, as a matter of fact, considerably damaged: moreover, one\nof the shells fired by the insurgents not only inflicted serious injury\non the Prior, Dom Joachim de Luna, but blew the poor tailor of the\nmonastery into atoms.\n\n[12] Artistically reminiscent of \"Duchess Flora\" were the elaborate\ncarvings in this chapel, conventional but very charming representations\nof English wild flowers.\n\n[13] A General Election--\"Peers _v._ People,\" as the Radicals called\nit--was at this time in progress.  Ninian's election for Cardiff came\nas a considerable surprise to the Liberals, as well as a triumph to the\nUnionists.\n\n[14] When I escaped from the City of Confusion into the Church of God,\nat Rome, on March 25, 1875.\n\n[15] \"Isn't this invigorating?\" exclaimed an English traveller, as he\nemerged from his stuffy carriage early on a breezy August day.  \"No,\nsir,\" said the stolid Highland station-master: \"it's just Crianlarich!\"\n\n[16] \"In May, 1842, Sisters Ursula, Frances, and Rose left the\nparent-house for the Far West--the first Sisters of Mercy who had ever\nbreasted the billows of the Atlantic.\"--_Annals of the Sisters of\nMercy_, vol. III., p. 16.  It really reads as though the good nuns had\nswum across!\n\n[17] \"In Italy,\" he said to me once, \"one is welcomed back with an\nembrace and a cordial 'Ben ritornato, signore!' but coming back here to\nOxford, I call to pay my respects to the good Jesuit Fathers; and the\nold brother who opens the door only grumbles out, 'Well, Mr. Grissell,\nhere you are, back again, _like sixpenn'orth of bad halfpennies!_'\"\n\n\n\n\n{208}\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n1911\n\nOur brothers had good success this year with the spring salmon-netting\nin Loch Ness; and I myself witnessed the landing one afternoon of nine\nclean fish, all scaling between fifteen and thirty pounds.  We had\nalways enjoyed the privilege of netting a certain number of salmon\nduring Lent; and I think it was this year that Lovat proposed, at a\nmeeting of the syndicate of riparian owners and tenants who had\nrecently assumed the control of the fishing, that this right should be\nconceded to us as heretofore.  It was agreed to with but one\ndissentient voice, that of a rather cantankerous neighbour of ours who\nwas only, I believe, an honorary member of the syndicate, having\npleaded that he was too poor to pay his subscription.  \"Certainly,\"\nsaid a noble duke who had leased for some years the best spring water\nin the vicinity; \"by all means let the poor monks (or was it \"poor\ndevils\"?) have their salmon: it's probably all they get to eat!\"\n\nLovat was kind enough to tell me, when he came down about this\nsalmon-fishing question, that he and others (unnamed) were \"pulling\nstrings\" in various quarters to get me appointed chaplain at Oxford in\nsuccession to our dear old Kennard, who (after numerous unheeded cries\nof \"Wolf!\") was, {209} it seemed, really resigning, and preparing to\nretire for life to a dull seaside town in Somerset.  I told him,\nhowever, that I was sure there was no chance of any monk or other\n\"regular\" being appointed: moreover I had heard that a priest hailing\nfrom Brighton, with the patent and obvious qualification of possessing\nL1,000 a year of his own, had been already chosen; and, finally, I\nhoped and expected to be allowed to return to Brazil, unless I received\nsome very clear and unmistakable indication that I was more wanted at\nhome.  Meanwhile the work immediately in front of me was organizing the\nBishop Hay centenary celebrations, which were to be kept at our abbey\nin the autumn on a considerable scale, and of which I had been named\ngeneral secretary.  Before tackling this business I was enabled to\nspend Holy Week and Easter, as so often before, happily at Arundel,\nwhere my visit this year coincided with the anniversary of Duchess\nMora's death.  I officiated at the memorial service for her in the\nFitzAlan chapel, always an impressive function among the venerable\nmonuments--some of them more than five centuries old--of bygone\nFitzAlans and Howards, touched by the chequered light from the great\neast window, in which the Duke and his little son are depicted in\nprayer before the altar.\n\nI went from Arundel to Brighton to see my friend Grissell, whom I found\nwrestling with census-papers, and with the difficulty of inducing his\nfemale domestics to admit (at least approximately) their real ages.  I\nhad not, of course, had the same trouble at Fort Augustus, where our\nresidents varied in age from sixteen to ninety-five, the latter being\nthe record of our good old Brother Nathalan, whom {210} we all hoped to\nsee reach his century.[1]  At the Union Club, whither Grissell carried\nme to lunch, I remember how we (members, guests, waiters and all)\ndeserted our tables and flocked to the window to see--a flying man!\nGustave Hamel swooping down on the Hove lawns after flying from Hendon\n(61 miles in 58 minutes), as steady as a rock on his Bleriot monoplane.\nIt was the first 'plane I had ever seen in the air!  I reached London\nnext morning in time to attend Linlithgow's pretty wedding at St.\nMargaret's, Westminster.  It was Primrose Day, and the crowds inside\nand outside the church were augmented by mobs gazing idly at Dizzy's\nbedecked statue in Parliament Square.  I squeezed in afterwards for a\nfew minutes at Hereford Gardens, congratulated the bridegroom's mother,\nand was amused to hear a dignified menial (who, I thought, must have\nbeen a City toastmaster hired for the occasion) shouting out the names\nof the distinguished guests in stentorian tones for the benefit of our\nexceedingly deaf host.  April was summerlike this year; and I was glad\nto escape from the noisy stuffy town to my brother's river-side home,\nwhere we sat in the violet twilight on the edge of Thames, watching the\ncrafts of all sorts and sizes gliding past in the gloaming, and\nlistening to the snatches of music (sometimes quite pretty and\neffective) coming to us from launch or wherry across the darkling\nwater.  \"That's a quiet pretty little thing,\" said my brother, looking\nadmiringly at an electrically-propelled canoe {211} \"made for two\"\nwhich was skimming up stream swiftly and silently.  But the susceptible\nyouth to whom the remark was addressed had eyes only for the vision of\nbeauty in the stern.  \"I don't think,\" he said knowingly, \"that you'd\nfind her quite so quiet if you knew her!\" and was surprised at the\nshout of laughter with which his remark was received.  I got back to\nFort Augustus just in time to vote at the School Board elections.  We,\nof course, all \"plumped\" for our Father Andrew Macdonell, who was duly\nelected, together with the local Established, United Free, and \"Wee\nFree\" ministers, and the Stratherrick priest--a curious clerical crowd.\nThe exceptionally fine summer attracted an unusual number of visitors\nto Fort Augustus; and we had quite a gathering for the local\ncelebration of King George's coronation-day, which was kept chiefly as\na children's holiday, with games, an enormous tea, and loyal and\npatriotic songs and speeches.  A more domestic festival, a few days\nlater, was the silver jubilee of my ordination, which I was glad to be\nable to celebrate with my brethren.  I received quite a sheaf of\nletters and telegrams--I had no idea that the anniversary would be so\ngenerally remembered--and had the pleasure of reading in a Scottish\nnewspaper that I was \"one of the most amiable, devout, and learned\necclesiastics of the day!\"  I was glad that among those present at my\njubilee Mass was one of my oldest Catholic friends, Lady Lovat,[2] who\nwas herself receiving congratulations this year on the birth of three\nnew grandchildren, including {212} sons and heirs to Lovat and the\nStirlings of Keir.  Arriving at Keir a few days later, _en route_ for\nmy examination-centre in Staffordshire, I found my host and hostess\nout, but made friends with the \"younger of Keir\"--_alias_ Billy\nStirling--(aged two months), who was reposing in his perambulator\n\"under a spreading chestnut tree\" on the lawn.\n\nMy \"Oxford Local\" work at Oakamoor College over, I went on to Oxford\nfor a few days, on the tiresome (and to me rather melancholy) business\nof finally packing up my goods and chattels there.  Although in Long\nVacation, I found a few kind friends still in residence: and the\nHassalls took me to see the renovated west front (Wolsey's) of Christ\nChurch.  The work, they said, had cost some L15,000, but was well worth\nit.  A few hours in London I devoted to taking a nephew to see the\nKinemacolor pictures--the Durbar and the Prince of Wales's investiture\nat Carnarvon.  By some new contrivance the primary colours, only, were\nreproduced on the films, giving us the blue sky, the green grass and\nthe scarlet uniforms, but everything else brownish-grey: the effect was\nperhaps more weird than beautiful or lifelike.  The popular young\nPrince was in a box with his sister, looking at his own doings at\nCarnarvon; and it was curious to see the audience cheering alternately\nthe filmed prince and the live one, who seemed rather embarrassed by\nthe attention paid to him.  On my northward journey I visited my\nfriends the Rector of Exeter College and his wife at their pretty\nWestmorland home, near Oxenholme; it was a district quite new to me,\nand I was delighted with the fine rolling country, and the noble view\nover Morecambe Bay and towards the distant Lakes.\n\n{213}\n\nI found, on my return to our abbey, extensive repairs going on in view\nof the expected influx of visitors in September, and the procurator in\ndespair at the dilatoriness of Highland workmen, recalling the famous\nplumber of Carstairs.[3]  All the shooting-lodges were full, and\nexpeditions to our monastery, when the shooters had an off-day, seemed\none of the regular attractions of the neighbourhood.  I remember one of\nour nearer neighbours, the shooting-tenant's wife from Glendoe, riding\ndown one day to call, with Lady Winifred Elwes--the ladies astride, in\nordinary frocks, on fat grey ponies, and our good lay-brother porter in\nspeechless astonishment at the apparition.  I was glad to welcome one\nday for an hour or two my old friends the Portsmouths, _en route_ for\ntheir remote castle of Guisachan: his lordship pompously pleasant as of\nold, and his wife equally pleasant without the pomposity.  I presented\nthem to the Bishop of Chur (or Coire), Mgr. Schmitt, at that time a\nguest in the abbey with his two chaplains.  I had visited Chur more\nthan thirty years before on my way to the Engadine (before the railway\nwas made under the Albula Pass), and had visited the cathedral in quest\nof the supposed relics of St. Lucius, the king of Britain who, Bede\nsays, wrote to Pope Eleutherius asking for instruction in the Christian\nfaith.  The Bishop had never heard this story; but he said that there\nwas a constant tradition at Chur that Lucius was a Welsh saint who had\ndied there after {214} spending many years in missionary labours among\nthe Rhaetian Alps.[4]\n\nI spent the last Sunday of August as chaplain to the Lovats at\nStronlairg, their remote lodge nestling under the great range of the\nMona Liadh hills, in the wildest part of Central Inverness-shire.  I\nhave called it, and Guisachan, \"remote\"; but no place is really so, if\naccessible by a decent road, in these motoring days; and \"neighbours\"\nfrom thirty or forty miles away thought nothing of dropping in casually\nto luncheon or tea.  Lady Derby, whose husband had one of Lovat's\nforests, came up one day with her daughter and her sister-in-law Lady\nIsobel Gathorne-Hardy, from whom I was sorry to hear a disquieting\naccount of the health both of my niece Dorothy Cranbrook and of her\nhusband.  With our house-party and the servants, I had quite a\ncongregation in our _chapelle provisoire_ on Sunday; and it was, as\nalways, a happiness to me to have the privilege of saying mass for a\nlittle flock of faithful Catholics in the splendid solitude of these\nHighland hills and glens.\n\nThe _triduo_, or three days' celebrations in honour of the centenary of\nBishop Hay, had been fixed for September 12-14; and we entertained more\nthan seventy guests in the abbey for the occasion.  All the Scottish\nbishops, except the aged Archbishop of Glasgow, were present, besides\nBishop Hedley, Abbot Gasquet, Monsignors, canons, heads of religious\norders, priests and devout laymen, including {215} Lovat and his\nbrother Alastair.  The weather was perfect throughout the week; and the\nreligious services, though naturally the chief feature of the\ncelebrations, were not so prolonged or so continuous as to prevent our\nvisitors from enjoying many pleasant excursions by land and water.  The\nfine portrait of the illustrious bishop by George Watson (first\npresident of the Scottish Academy), lent us by Blairs College, excited\nmuch interest; and my lantern-lecture on the Life and Times of Hay (a\ncollateral descendant of whom, by the way, was one of our guests), was\nvery well received by a distinguished audience.  Many of the visitors\nto the abbey and village stayed on a day or two for the local concert\nand Highland Gathering.  The Rotherhams, Bishop John Vaughan, Lady\nEdmund Talbot and her sister Lady Alice Reyntiens, were among those who\narrived in time for these later festivities.  I heard from Lord\nRotherham of the death of a very old friend, Sir William Farrer, whose\ndaughter had married my brother.  He and his wife, whom he had long\nsurvived (he was nearly ninety at his death) had shown to us all\nconstant kindness in the days of our childhood and ever since; and I\nrecalled pleasant days at his beautiful Berkshire home, where the\nlovely gardens were the delight and recreation of his busy professional\nlife.[5]\n\n{216}\n\nThe kind abbot of S. Paulo had come to England in order to escort to\nBrazil a little community of nuns for his newly-founded Benedictine\nconvent; and I had promised to attend their _dispedida_ at Southampton\nat the end of September.  I found myself at Inverness among the gay\ncrowds attending the Northern Meeting, of which the special feature\nthis year was a great rally of boy-scouts from all the northern\ncounties, in honour of their popular Chief, Sir Robert Baden-Powell.\nSeven hundred mustered, at least half of them kilted--a very pretty\nsight; and \"B. P.\" made them a stirring speech, with an interesting\naccount of the spread of the movement (\"Escotismo,\" they called it in\nBrazil, where it was very popular), in different parts of the world.  I\ntravelled from Edinburgh to London with the Archbishop of York, who had\nbeen officiating at the wedding of an Ayrshire Houldsworth.  We had\nlast met at Dunskey, my old home in Galloway, when he was, I think,\nvicar of Portsea.  I journeyed straight to Southampton, where good\nAbbade Miguel, an English Benedictine (Dom Sibley) who was accompanying\nhim to Brazil, and the seven nuns,[6] were all ready for their long\nvoyage.  I saw them on board the good old _Aragon_ (which looked very\nspick-and-span), \"waved my hands (like Nancy Lee) upon the quay,\" and\nrather wished that I was one of the party!  Meanwhile I had to get back\nto London, to help to marry (on a murky Saturday afternoon) my Irish\nGuards friend Tom {217} Vesey[7] to Lady Cicely Browne.  A \"mixed\nmarriage,\" as it is called, is always a short affair, with no vocal\nmusic, and of course no nuptial mass; but this was the briefest I ever\nremember, the whole ceremony, including a five minutes' sermon from\nFather Maturin, taking exactly a quarter of an hour!  There was the\nusual tiresome crowd afterwards at Lord Revelstoke's house in Carlton\nHouse Terrace; but I was glad to see some old friends, and to have a\npleasant chat with Lady Bigge,[8] who, by the way, had just become Lady\nStamfordham.  If there was no music at the Chelsea church, I came in\nfor more than I bargained for next day (Sunday), namely a performance\nby a famous London choir of Beethoven's Grand Mass, a composition which\nI would fain hear anywhere rather than in church.  It was, of course,\nexcellently rendered; but as I listened to the crashing chords, I could\nnot help recalling the appreciation of an eminently-qualified critic,\ntreating of this musical masterpiece:--\n\n\n\"The Christian sentiment has completely left him in the _Gloria_, where\nthere bursts forth, not the pure and heavenly melody of a hymn of\npraise and peace, but the shout of victory raised by human passions\ntriumphing over a conquered enemy.\"\n\n\nJourneying north to Ampleforth Abbey, where I {218} was engaged to give\nmy \"Bishop Hay\" lecture, I read in my morning paper (1) that old Sir\nWilliam Farrer had left L300,000 (I hoped my sister-in-law would\nbenefit), (2) that Lady Herbert of Lea, an outstanding figure in\nEnglish Catholic life for sixty years, and a very kind friend to me in\nmy own early Catholic days, had died at the age of nearly ninety; (3)\nthat the Pope had created seventeen Cardinals and two new English\narchbishoprics (Liverpool and Birmingham); but no Benedictine Cardinal,\nand none for Canada or Australia, although there were two\nIrish-Americans for U.S.A.!  I spent November 1 and 2 at Ampleforth: on\nAll Saints' Day I saw the college football team give a handsome\ndrubbing to a visiting school--a feat to be proud of, as they were\nthemselves quite novices at the Rugby game.  Next day, All Souls',\nthere were the usual solemn requiem services; but owing to the\nexigencies of the school classes, the poor monks had to crowd in before\nbreakfast matins, lauds, prime, meditation, October devotions, tierce,\nsext, none, and Pontifical high mass--with a full day's teaching to\nfollow! rather killing work, I should imagine.  The abbot told me that\nhe proposed sending two of his community to Western Canada, to\n\"prospect\" in view of founding a monastery and college there.[9]\n\nA long day's journey from Ampleforth took me to Keir, where I found the\nnew house-chapel, though far from complete, available for mass on\nSunday.  We drove over to Doune in the afternoon with the Norfolks (who\nwere my fellow-guests), and explored {219} the old castle of the Earls\nof Moray, partially restored by Lord Moray's grandfather.  The massive\nremains I thought very impressive; and the Duke, who was perhaps more\ninterested in architecture than in anything else, was much taken with\nthe old place.  He was also, however, interested in the Arundel\nparlour-game of \"ten questions,\" which we played after dinner, and in\nwhich he displayed, through years of practice, an almost diabolical\ncleverness.  I travelled north to Fort Augustus after a night of\nterrific gales, with fallen trees and snapped-off limbs lying\neverywhere along the railway--a melancholy sight.\n\nI had been endeavouring to interest our friends in the south in our\ndesire to reopen the Abbey School when feasible; but at a Council held\nat the abbey on my return it was decided to leave that project in\nabeyance, and to concentrate our efforts meanwhile on trying to replace\nthe ramshackle shed which served as our church by at least a part of\nthe permanent building.  Harrowing appeals in the Catholic press,\nembodying views of the shanty in question: a personal campaign\nundertaken by some of the fathers, and begging-letters of the most\ninsidiously-persuasive kind, were part of the plan of campaign, which\nmet with a fair measure of success.  There was some feeling in our\ncommunity in favour of a very much less ambitious (and expensive)\nchurch than originally planned; but I personally would be no party to\nany scheme involving the abandonment of our hopes to see built a real\nabbey church, worthy of the site and the surroundings, and the erection\ninstead of a neat, simple, and inexpensive R.C. chapel, which seemed\nthe ideal of some of the less {220} imaginative of our brethren.  I was\nreceiving invitations from various Scottish centres to repeat my Hay\nlecture; and this, we thought, might be judiciously combined with\nefforts on behalf of our building-fund.  I went to Blairs College,\noutside Aberdeen, for the old bishop's actual centenary (which we had\nanticipated at Fort Augustus), and lectured to the students and their\nprofessors there.  On my way back, I visited, for the first time, our\n\"cell\" at St. James's, high above the pretty prosperous sea-port of\nBuckie.  The place pleased me--a conveniently-planned house, standing\namong pine-woods and meadows, with a fine prospect over land and sea;\nand a nice chapel, simple and devout, with a gaily-gilt altar from\nTyrol.  I gave my lecture in three other places during these weeks of\nearly winter: at Motherwell, where my lantern failed me, and I was\ngrateful to my audience for listening to an hour's dry talk without\npictures; in Edinburgh, where I had a large and very appreciative\naudience; and in Glasgow, where a still bigger gathering filled the\nCity Hall, and was really enthusiastic.  It was all very fatiguing; and\nI was glad to get home and enjoy a little rest and peace before\nChristmas.  Beaufort, too, where I acted as Christmas chaplain as\nusual, was restful this year, with only a small family party, and the\nLovats getting ready for a trip to Egypt and Khartoum.  We had a long,\nsevere, and stormy winter in the Highlands: gale after gale, in which\nour poor wooden church swayed and shivered and creaked like the old\n_Araguaya_ in the Bay of Biscay; and then bitter frosts with the\nthermometer down in the neighbourhood of zero, and all the able-bodied\n{221} monks smashing the ice in the \"lade,\" in order to keep the\ncurrent going for our electric light.  Meanwhile we were cheered by the\ngeneral interest, even in far-off lands, in our church-building\ncrusade.  Our Maltese father brought a cheque from his island home; and\nsubscriptions came from my Yucatan friend, Senor Ygnacio Peon, and from\nAlastair Fraser in remote Rhodesia.  I went off on a campaign south of\nthe Tweed, with my lantern slides as a passport; and it was never\ndifficult, in lecturing on the straits and struggles of the Scottish\nChurch in the early nineteenth century, to pass to the needs and hopes\nof the Scottish Benedictines in the early twentieth.  I had, as always,\na kind reception and a sympathetic hearing from our brethren at Douai\nAbbey, but had the bad luck to be invalided immediately afterwards,\nfortunately in the pleasant Surrey home of my sister, who took me\ndrives, when I was convalescent, all among the queer-shaped hills of\nthe North Downs, intersected by the Pilgrims' Way to Canterbury.\n\nThe national coal-strike began whilst I was at Nutwood--a million men\n\"downing tools,\" and the end impossible to foresee.  Travelling, of\ncourse, became at once infinitely troublesome and tedious;[10] however,\nI made my way to Stonyhurst College, where I had a big and interested\naudience (there were many young Scots among the 400 pupils), and then\nmanaged to crawl back to London (one simply {222} sat in a station, and\nwaited for a train to come along some time), where I attended the\n\"house-warming\" dinner of our Caledonian Club--I was an original\nmember--transferred from Charles Street to Lord Derby's fine house\noverlooking St. James's Square.  There were, of course,\nself-congratulatory speeches; and a concert of Scottish music wound up\nthe evening agreeably.  I paid a flying visit to Oxford this week--a\nguest now in my old Hall, which had a full muster of monastic\nundergraduates.  The most conspicuous object in Oxford seemed to be our\n\"gracious tower\" at Magdalen--a mass of elaborate scaffolding from top\nto bottom:[11] spring-cleaning, I imagined, for the Prince of Wales,\nwho was going into residence there in October.  I called on the new\nUniversity chaplain, installed, but not yet, apparently, quite at home\nin, the old familiar house in St. Aldate's, and also managed to put in\na few hours at the Bodleian, to finish my article on William of\nWykeham, the last of eighty-three which I had written for the American\nEncyclopaedia.  It had been interesting work, of which some tangible\nresults were certain vestments, pictures, and other adornments which I\nhad been thus able to provide for the chapel of our Benedictine Hall.\n\nLunching at the new Caledonian, on my way through London, I found\nmyself next young Bute, dreadfully depressed about the coal-strike, and\n(not for the first time) looking forward to the workhouse for himself\nand family.  My next lecture was due at St. Edmund's College, Ware,\nwhere I had the honour of numbering among my audience the {223}\nbrand-new Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster,[12] imposing in his\nbrand-new rose-coloured robes, but as kind and gracious as ever.  In\nthe middle of my lecture (I had an audience of nearly 300) the \"divine\"\n(as the church students were called) in charge of the lighting startled\nus all by suddenly crying out, \"There is going to be an explosion!\" and\nthe next moment a flame shot up from the lantern almost to the ceiling.\n\"Only that and nothing more\"; but it was quite sufficiently alarming\nfor the moment.  Next day we enjoyed a motor-drive through the pretty\npastoral country, and saw in the course of it one curious sight--a\nsuffragist female (militant by the look of her) standing on a stool\njust outside the lychgate of a village church, and addressing an\napparently very unreceptive audience of open-mouthed Hertfordshire\nyokels.\n\nHoly Week and Easter found me again at Arundel, where there was a\nholiday gathering of many young people at the castle, the youngest\nmember of the party being the Duke's baby daughter, who was christened\nKatherine the day after my arrival.  \"_Absit omen!_\" whispered (not\nvery tactfully, I thought) the good vicar of Arundel, as we drank tea\nand nibbled the christening cake after the ceremony--looking up, as he\nspoke, at a portrait of the baby's luckless ancestress Queen Katherine\nHoward.  \"Il n'y a pas de danger,\" I whispered back; but I don't know\nwhether he understood French.  I was amused afterwards, talking to the\nnurse of the Duchess's small nephews and nieces, to hear _her_ opinion\nof the castle and its glories.  {224} \"A dreadful place for children,\n_I_ call it, with all these towers and battlements and dungeons and\nhiding-holes--one never knows where they'll get to next.  A London\nhouse for me, where there's children to look after!\"  The services were\njubilant, and the great church beautifully adorned on Easter Sunday,\nand the choir warbled what poor Angus[13] used to call the \"sensuous\nharmonies\" of Gounod in their best style.  Yet more children arrived\nafter Easter, including three tomboy great-nieces of our host; and\nthere were great games in the vast Baron's hall--roller-skating on the\nexpanse of polished floor, and dancing to the rather inadequate strains\nof a wheezy gramophone which had suffered from the depredatory\nexplorations of my lord of Arundel and Surrey and his sisters.\n\nThe Duke motored me up to London in Easter-week to attend Stafford's\nwedding in Eaton-square: masses of arums and Madonna lilies, tall\nupstanding plumes of Eton blue waving from the bridesmaids' heads, and\nthe inevitable and inappropriate \"O for the Wings of a Dove!\"  The\nPrimate of All Ireland began his sermon by addressing the happy pair,\nwith unnecessary intimacy, as \"Eilleen and George\";[14] and when he had\nfinished we all trooped off to Grosvenor House.  Duchess Millicent was\nin {225} great beauty, but I was sorry to see Sutherland, with whom I\ntalked for five minutes, looking very ill and almost voiceless.[15]  We\nhad a pleasant drive back to Arundel; and I was interested to notice\nwhat one never, of course, sees travelling by rail, how completely the\nscenery, the soil, even the appearance of the people, changed as we\ncrossed the border from Surrey into Sussex.\n\nI recall a luncheon about this time at a big London hotel--a snug\nlittle party of a hundred or so--with Lord Saye and Sele in the chair,\nand speeches from Lord William Cecil, Sir Henry Lunn, and others, about\nthe development of China, and especially the projected Chinese\nuniversity.  The novel toast of the \"President of the Chinese Republic\"\nwas replied to, in excellent English, by the Chinese Minister, Yew Luk\nLin, next to one of whose two agreeable daughters I was seated: they\nwere all three in Western garb.  Next day my brother motored me down to\nEton (always a pleasure to me) to see his boy there; we went on\nafterwards to Brooklands, and looked at the motors dashing round the\ntrack and the aeroplanes swooping round, rising and alighting, all new\nto me and very interesting.  Another interesting evening was spent at\nthe Albert Hall, at the annual demonstration of the Boys' Brigade, to\nwhich, after the drill and other performances, Prince Arthur of\nConnaught presented new colours, the gift of the Princess Royal.  After\nthis I had to go down to Ramsgate (though feeling far from fit) to give\nmy last lecture at the Benedictine school and abbey there.  I was\ninterested in the {226} church--Pugin's masterpiece, as he considered\nit himself, and thought it impressive, but so dark that I could not\nread my breviary in it at noonday.[16]  The observance of the good\nmonks was in some respects Italian (e.g. the reading in the refectory\nwas in that language); but the schoolboys seemed quite British, and\ncheered my lecture with British heartiness.  I should have liked to\nstay a little and enjoy the hospitality of my brethren in the pure air\nand sunshine of the Thanet coast; but I had to hurry back to London and\nsubmit to a serious medical overhauling, the net result of which was an\norder to go in for an immediate and drastic \"cure\"--if possible at\nAix-les-Bains.[17]  A friend's generosity made this feasible; and, duly\nauthorized, I prepared to pass three weeks at the famous Savoy\nwatering-place.\n\n\n\n[1] The old man died in his hundredth year, after spending nearly a\nquarter of a century as a professed lay-brother in our abbey, whither\nhe had come as a septuagenarian, by the advice of an episcopal cousin,\nto prepare for his end!  See _post_, page 260.\n\n[2] Our friendship had lasted uninterruptedly for nearly forty years,\nand had now extended to two generations of her descendants.\n\n[3] \"There was an old maid of Carstairs,\n    Whose villa required some repairs:\n      When she asked if the plumber\n      Could finish _next summer_,\n    He said he would be there for years!\"\n\n[4] My impression is that the \"king of Britain\" was a bit of a myth,\nand that the \"Lucius\" venerated at Chur was Saint Lucius of\nGlamorgan--called in Welsh \"Lleurwg\" or \"Lleurfer Mawr\"=the \"Great\nLight-bearer,\" who, according to the Welsh tradition, was the founder\nof the Church of Llandaff and of others in South Wales.\n\n[5] Sir William and some of his nearest relations formed a remarkable\ngroup of men who had won titles and honours in their various careers.\nHis brother was created Baron Farrer; one brother-in-law was Sir\nStafford Northcote, first Earl of Iddesleigh, and another was created\nBaron Hobhouse; his nephew was Lord Northcote, the first\nGovernor-General of Australia; and he himself was given his knighthood\nat the first Jubilee of Queen Victoria.\n\n[6] Three (of whom one, the destined Superior, unhappily died on the\nvoyage out) were English nuns from Stanbrook Abbey, near Worcester: the\nremaining four were Brazilians, who had passed through their novitiate\nin the same convent.\n\n[7] Our friendship had begun unconventionally.  An anonymous article of\nmine, in a weekly paper, on my Eton schoolfellows, had mentioned Tom's\nfather, Eustace Vesey, as \"the dearest of them all.\"  Tom, then himself\na small Etonian, wrote to me through the publisher: I of course\nreplied, and the friendship thus begun lasted through his school days,\nhis rather meteoric time at Christ Church, and afterwards.\n\n[8] Sister to my best and oldest Oxford friend, Willie Neville.  Sir\nArthur Bigge, private secretary successively to Queen Victoria, Edward\nVII., and George V., was raised to the peerage as Baron Stamfordham\nthis year (1911).\n\n[9] In the neighbourhood of Calgary.  Nothing, however, came of the\nscheme.\n\n[10] And domestic conditions, I may add, highly uncomfortable--far more\nso than in the prolonged strike some years later, for which people were\nmore or less prepared.  \"I wonder, my lord,\" said a lady, visiting a\nbishop in his vast and unwarmed palace, \"that you don't get some of\nthat nice Welsh coal for your big house.  I forget the exact name; I\nthink it is called _anti-christ_ coal!\"\n\n[11] It was said to be the finest bit of scaffold-work ever put up.  I\nsecured an excellent photograph of it.\n\n[12] Archbishop Bourne of Westminster had been created a Cardinal by\nPius X. in the Consistory of November 27, 1911.\n\n[13] \"I never hear Gregorian music on earth,\" he said to me once, \"but\nI trust I shall hear nothing else in heaven.  There are 'many mansions'\nthere, and I humbly hope that _my_ mansion will be as far removed as\npossible from 'Hummel in B flat'!\"\n\n[14] I mentioned this in my description of the wedding on our return to\nArundel.  The comment of one of our party, a lady rather \"slow in the\nuptake\" (as we say in Scotland) was, \"But what did he _mean_?  Whom was\nshe leaning _on_? was it _King_ George?\"\n\n[15] The Duke of Sutherland died about a year later.\n\n[16] Pugin justified his love for \"dim religious\" churches with his\nusual delightful inconsequence.  \"In the thirteenth century,\" he said\nin effect, \"no one thought of reading in church: they told their beads\nand made acts of faith and said their prayers.  _My_ church is a\nthirteenth-century church, to all intents and purposes--_ergo!_\"\n\n[17] It was a case of \"inflammatory gouty eczema,\" too long neglected.\n\n\n\n\n{227}\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n1912-1913\n\nThe Lovat family were all interested in St. Vincent's Home for\nCripples, near London, where a daughter of the house (a Sister of\nCharity) was a nurse; and I attended at their invitation a concert in\naid of it, the day before I left London, at Sunderland House.  The\nsumptuous ball-room, with its walls of Italian marble, heavily gilt\nceiling, and chandeliers of rock crystal, made a handsome setting for a\nbrilliant audience, which included Queen Amelie of Portugal.  Her\nMajesty honoured me with a short conversation during the afternoon, and\nseemed interested to hear of my sojourn, some years before, in a\nPortuguese monastery (Cucujaes), and of our charitable but eccentric\nneighbour there, the Condessa de Penha Longa.[1]  The concert, which\nincluded two woebegone recitations from Mrs. Patrick Campbell, and a\nfunny song written, composed, and sung by Cyril Maude--his first\neffort, he assured us, in that line[2]--was a success by which, I hope,\nthe poor cripples benefited considerably.  {228} Next day I made a\nbee-line for the south of France, going through Paris without stopping.\nThe season was hardly open in Aix-les-Bains; and the pretty town looked\na little _triste_, with many shops still shut up.  But the spring\nweather was fresh and bright, and I was much in the open air between\nthe stages of my \"cure,\" which was fairly severe.  I liked the friendly\nSavoyards, a pious and faithful race, though with such a reputation for\n_grumbling_ that their own king (Victor Amadeus II.) said of them, \"Ils\nne sont jamais contents: s'il pleuvait de sequins, ils dirait que le\nbon Dieu casse leurs ardoises!\"  They did not, however, grumble in my\nhearing; and the portly cure of the new church on the hill, with whom I\nmade friends, praised their simplicity and virtue.  He organized\nvarious attractions during May in his church, whither I used to conduct\nsome of my hotel-acquaintances after dinner, assuring them that they\nwould be better entertained there than in losing their money on the\n\"little horses\" in the stuffy casino.  One evening there would be\n_projections lumineuses_, lantern-views of some of Our Lady's loveliest\nchurches in France, or of the adventures of Joan of Arc, always with\nracy comments from his reverence; at another time a _conference\ndialoguee_--the _vicaire_ (disguised in a red muffler) propounding\nagnostic conundrums from a pew, and the _cure_ answering them\ntriumphantly from the pulpit, amid the plaudits of the congregation.\nHe was a really excellent preacher; and his series of May sermons\n(which I insisted on my friends staying to hear) on \"Les Peches d'un\nhomme d'affaires\"--\"de plaisir\"--\"d'Etat,\" and so on, were uncommonly\npractical as well as eloquent.  {229} Pentecost, a great popular\nfestival here, was kept with piety as well as merriment.  The church\nwas crowded with communicants from daybreak: later on the Cardinal\nArchbishop of Chambery (whom I had the pleasure of meeting at breakfast\nat the presbytery) came and confirmed a large number of children who\nhad made their first Communions on Ascension Day, after himself giving\nthem a pretty searching public examination in the catechism.  The\nafternoon and evening were devoted to festivity--dancing, gymnastics,\nmilitary _retraites_, fireworks, illuminations, and a sort of Greenwich\nFair; all very gay and harmless.\n\nThe exigencies of my cure would not permit of distant expeditions to\nAnnecy, the Grande Chartreuse, etc., which I should have liked to\nvisit.  One interesting excursion I managed, to the Cistercian Abbey of\nHautecombe, charmingly situated on a wooded promontory overlooking Lake\nBourget.  There was a resident community of thirty monks--the only one\nleft in France under the then anti-Christian regime.  They owed their\nexemption to the fact of their church being the Westminster Abbey of\nSavoy, containing some thirty tombs of the ancestors of the King of\nItaly, who had protested to the French Government against the expulsion\nof the guardians of the ashes of his ancestors; and so they were\nallowed to remain and serve God in peace.  Unfortunately the fine\ntwelfth-century church had been restored and re-restored in debased and\nflorid fashion, a single chapel being all that was left intact of the\npre-Revolution building.\n\nI left Aix, much the better for my visit, at the end of May, travelling\nstraight to Paris with two {230} ladies--one an extraordinarily voluble\nIrish widow, in my carriage.  The weather was hot; and I tired myself\nout with an exhaustive and exhausting visit to the Salon and the\nsculptures in the Champs Elysees.  The picture of the year (surrounded\nalways by a silent and interested crowd) was Jean Beraud's \"New Way of\nthe Cross,\"[3] which, if it made only a percentage of French men and\nwomen realize what the public renunciation of Christianity meant, was\ncalculated to do more good than many sermons.  A week later I was at\nKeir, where I found some anxiety caused by the serious illness of\nLovat, who was laid up with typhoid, and fretting at being unable, for\nthe first time since the raising of the Lovat Scouts a dozen years\nbefore, to take command of the corps at their annual training.  We\nenjoyed some lovely June weather at Keir, motoring one day to\nStirling's picturesque lodge on Loch Lubnaig, and lunching _al fresco_\namong stonecrops and saxifrages and pansies, on a bank overlooking the\nloch and the purple mass of Ben Ledi.  Another day we saw the smart\nlittle soldier-boys of Queen Victoria's School at Dunblane get their\nprizes from the Duchess of Montrose, with whose husband I had a chat\nabout our Etonian days together, _consule Planco_.\n\nI was bidden to Ampleforth for the jubilee celebrations there (their\nfine college had been opened in 1862), which was graced by the presence\nof {231} Cardinal Bourne--a stately figure with his long scarlet train\nsweeping over the green lawns in the great open-air procession which\nwas the central feature of the solemnities.  The college O.T.C. formed\nan uncommonly smart bodyguard to his Eminence, though they puzzled, and\neven shocked, some of the old Benedictines present by remaining covered\n(in military fashion) during the service.  The after-luncheon oratory\nwas neither more nor less tedious than usual; but we all enjoyed later\nan admirable presentment by the boys of _The Frogs_ of Aristophanes,\nwith Parry's delightful music.  I got back to Fort Augustus in time for\nthe canonical visitation of the monastery by the Abbot-president, to\nwhom I spoke of my hope that I might be allowed to return for a time to\nBrazil; but he replied to me, in effect, in the words of St. Sixtus to\nhis faithful deacon,[4] and I could only resign myself with what grace\nI could to the inevitable.  I learned on July 2, the thirty-second\nanniversary of my religious profession, that our prior's resignation of\noffice, owing to his almost continual ill-health, had been accepted,\nand that I was to be appointed in his place.  Meanwhile the Oxford\nLocal Examinations called me (for the last time) to North\nStaffordshire, where it was pleasantly cool among the hills and wooded\nglens of Oakamoor.  I spent a Sunday at Cheadle, in the valley below,\nand admired the graceful church which Pugin had been given _carte\nblanche_ by the \"Good Earl of Shrewsbury\" to build as he liked, with no\nfear of the \"accursed blue pencil\" (as he called it) {232} which so\noften mutilated his elaborate designs.[5]  \"As attractive an example of\nthe architect's skill as could be quoted,\" a severe critic[6] had\ncalled the Cheadle church; and the tribute was well deserved.  Two days\nafter my return to our abbey I was formally installed in office as\nprior, by my good friend the abbot of Ampleforth, with the same\nceremonial which I had witnessed thirty-four years previously, when Dom\nJerome Vaughan was inducted into office in the vaulted guard-room of\nthe old Fort, afterwards incorporated into the monastic guest-house.\nThe burden of superiorship, a heavy one enough, was lightened not only\nby the unanimous kindness of my own brethren, but by the cordiality\nwith which my appointment was greeted by friends outside, including the\nbishop and clergy of our diocese of Aberdeen, who were the guests of\nthe abbey for their annual retreat, a few days after my installation.\nA consoling message, too, came to me from the Holy Father himself\nthrough Pere Lepicier, who had come from Rome in the quality of\nApostolic Visitor to Scotland, and stayed with us for some days; a\nFranco-Roman diplomatist with the suavest possible manner and address,\nmasking (it struck me) no little acuteness and a strong personality.\nHis visit, and that of the diocesan clergy, coincided with {233} St.\nOswald's Day, which we kept very happily, many of our neighbours in the\nvillage and district, including my old friend the parish minister,\ndining with us in the monastic refectory.  A still older friend, George\nLane Fox, sent me a cordial telegram; and I was able to send one in\nreturn congratulating him on the handsome testimonial he had just\nreceived on his retirement from a quarter of a century's office as\nVice-chancellor of the Primrose League.  A grief to us both, only a few\ndays later, was the news of the death, at our abbey of Cesena in Italy,\nof his eldest son, who had been closely connected with Fort Augustus\nfrom his childhood, first as a little boy in the abbey-school, and\nlater as a monk and priest of our community.\n\nOne of my first works as prior was to organize a work which we had very\ngladly undertaken--that of ministering as naval chaplains to ships in\nScottish waters.  The chief naval stations were Lamlash (Arran) in the\nsouth-west and Cromarty in the northeast; and thither certain of our\nfathers journeyed every week, meeting as a rule with every kindness and\nconsideration from the captains and officers, and getting into touch\nwith the considerable number of Catholic bluejackets on the various\nships.  Sometimes, between the Sundays, they found time to prosecute\nthe quest, which was ever before us, for our church-building fund; and\nour good Father Odo, in particular, reaped quite a little harvest,\nduring his Lamlash chaplaincy, in my native diocese of Galloway, where\nthere were still kind friends who remembered me, and were glad to show\nsympathy with an object which I had so deeply at heart.  Dom Odo was\nnot only a zealous priest but an {234} equally zealous antiquarian and\nF.R.S.A. (Scot.).  He had specialized in artificial islands, about\nwhich he read an interesting paper this autumn at the British\nAssociation meeting at Dundee; and he was elected about the same time\npresident of the Inverness Field Club, the premier scientific society\nof the north of Scotland.  I record this with pleasure as an example\n(not, of course, an isolated one) of the Benedictine liberty which\npermits and encourages the members of our Order to cultivate\nfreely---apart from their professional studies and avocations--such\ntastes and talents as they may possess, and which, needless to say,\ngreatly adds to the interest and variety of their lives.\n\nMy own life was of course, after my entering on the office and duties\nof prior, much more confined than heretofore to the precincts of our\nScottish abbey.  This was no additional burden to me; for my life,\nwhether at Fort Augustus or Oxford or in Brazil, had always been a life\nin community; and I had always been happy and at home in the society of\nmy brethren in the monastery.  Perhaps the most tiring and trying\nfeature in my position as superior was the never-ceasing correspondence\nof all kinds which it involved, and with which one had personally to\ngrapple; but in other ways the wise subdivision of labour which\nprevails in a well-ordered religious house did much to lighten the\ndaily burden, and the ready willingness in all quarters to afford\nwhatever help and relief was needed was a constant solace and\nencouragement.  The busy days thus passed quickly by, varied by the\ncontinual influx of guests--always interested and sometimes\ninteresting--who were never wanting in our abbey.  {235} Our\nneighbours, too, were kind and friendly; and their motors were often at\none's disposal for an afternoon's drive up one or other of the\nbeautiful glens which ran westward from our Gleann Mhor, the Great Glen\nof all, to the sea.  Then there were duties connected with the parish\nand district Councils, to which I was elected soon after becoming\nprior; and the constant interest of directing the plan of campaign in\naid of our building-fund, and the satisfaction of seeing its steady\nincrease.  I recall, during those bright still days of late autumn\n(often the loveliest season of the Highland year), a retreat given us\nby an eloquent Dominican; and also a visit from Lady Lovat, who, as our\nfounder's widow, enjoyed the privilege of entering the monastic\nenclosure with her \"suite\" (in this case her daughter-in-law, Lovat's\nwife, and a friend)--a formal enough affair, but of course novel and\ninteresting to the ladies concerned.  According to the quaint antique\nprescription, the great bell was tolled when they entered the cloister,\nwarning the monks to remain in their cells: no meat nor drink could be\nserved to them within the enclosure: they were to visit only the\n\"public places\" of the monastery, and were enjoined \"not to gaze\ncuriously about them.\"  Lady Lovat would fain have lingered in our\nwell-furnished library; but our little procession swept on\nrelentlessly, and her literary longings remained ungratified.[7]\n\n{236}\n\nIt was not, I think, until November of this year that I spent a night\naway from Fort Augustus, being bidden to Liverpool to keep, with a\nlarge gathering of his friends, the golden jubilee of our kind old\nfriend Bishop Hedley.  There was a High Mass, a sermon, and (of course)\na festival dinner, with many speeches--prosy, melancholy,\nretrospective, or humorous, according to the mood or the idiosyncrasy\nof the several speakers.  My brief oration, conveying the thanks of the\nguests, included two funny stories, which so favourably impressed one\nof the reporters, that he announced in his paper next day that \"the\nhonours of the evening's oratory undoubtedly rested with a venerable\nand genial monk from the other side of the Border!\"  I stayed at\nGlasgow on my way north, to take the chair at the annual festival of\nthe Caledonian Catholic Association, an admirably beneficent\ninstitution in which I was glad to show my interest.[8]  After the\nconcert, and before the ball which followed, Stirling and I left for\nKeir in a hired motor-car, which broke down badly in the middle of\nCumbernauld Muir, leaving us _plantes-la_ till past midnight.  There\nwas the residuum of a big shooting-party at Keir; and we all attended\nnext day a vocal recital given in the old cathedral by \"Mlle.\nHommedieu\"--an odd-sounding name: I wondered if she was \"Miss Godman\"\nin private life.\n\nI had spent Christmas so often at Beaufort (no {237} less than eleven\ntimes since 1893) that it seemed strange to be absent from there this\nyear; but I had of course to preside at the solemnities in our own\nchurch, which (notwithstanding the appalling weather conditions) was\ncrowded to the doors for the midnight services.  We dined, as usual, in\nthe vacant school refectory, gaily decorated, with a blazing log fire:\nthere was an informal concert afterwards, and the festive evening was\nenjoyed by all.  I made a Christmas call on my old friend Sir Aubone\nFife,[9] whose annual quest for hinds had been interrupted by illness.\nHe rented the winter shooting of Inchnacardoch Forest from Lovat, and\nspent every Christmas and New Year _solus_ at our little hotel, content\nwith his sport, his own society, and an occasional visit from me!  He\nhad comfortable bachelor quarters in Jermyn Street: London for him was\nbounded by Pall Mall and Oxford Street: his home and recreation were in\nhis many clubs, and he always reminded me irresistibly of a\ntwentieth-century Major Pendennis.  I managed to put in two nights at\nBeaufort in Christmas week, receiving a hearty welcome from the merry\nparty of Frasers and Maxwells assembled there, and returned to the\nabbey for New Year's Day, in time to take part in the various holiday\nentertainments--Christmas trees, theatricals, etc., organised for our\ngood people.  Twelfth-day I spent at Keir, preaching {238} (_seated_,\nmy usual practice now),[10] to a good congregation in the beautiful\nprivate chapel, which was almost complete; and before returning home I\npaid a little visit to Kelburn, where I found my poor brother-in-law in\nbed with a broken crown (having fallen downstairs!) but my nephew the\nflying-man apparently quite recovered, I was glad to see, from _his_\nmore serious knock on the head at Bournemouth.  I was pleased to hear\nfrom my gunner brother, who was staying at Kelburn, of his\nappointment--an excellent berth--as A.A.G. at the War Office.\n\nThe closing weeks of our long northern winter were exceptionally bleak\nand stormy this year; but constant occupation made them pass quickly\nenough.  February 10 (St. Scholastica's Day), on which our good nuns\nkept high festival, and I officiated at their solemn services, was also\nthe opening day of our salmon-fishing; and in the first haul we landed\nfifteen fish weighing just 250 pounds, the heaviest a beautiful\n26-pounder.  A salmon was always an acceptable present to a kind friend\nin the south: some we ate fresh (a welcome variation of our Lenten\nfare), and the rest we tried to kipper.[11]  February 10 was otherwise\nmemorable this year, as on that day I learned that our community was to\nelect its abbot a month later.  We voted first on the important\nquestion whether the election should be for life, as provided in our\nConstitutions, {239} or (by special indult of Rome) for a fixed term of\nyears, which was the usual practice in the other houses of the\nCongregation.  The votes--some sent by post and telegraph--were almost\nequally divided; and it was finally settled that the election should be\nfor eight years.  Nearly all our absentee monks arrived from missions,\nchaplaincies, and elsewhere, for the _tractatus_, or discussions\npreliminary to the election, which was fixed for Thursday in Passion\nWeek, under the presidency of the abbot of Ampleforth.  It took place\nafter the customary mass of the Holy Spirit, and turned out a very\nbrief affair, as I was elected by more than the requisite number of\nvotes at the first \"scrutiny,\" as it was called.[12]  My confirmation\nand installation followed immediately--and then the letters and\ntelegrams began pouring in, all requiring to be answered; but the roads\nand railways were providentially blocked for some days before Easter,\nby a March snowstorm of almost unprecedented violence, and our mail\nservice was entirely suspended; so I got a little breathing time!  Thus\nundistracted, I officiated at all the services of the season,\ncelebrating on Easter Sunday amid rain, hail, and driving easterly\ngales that made the text of my Paschal sermon--\"Jam hiems transiit,\nimber abiit et recessit,\"[13] sound ironical enough.  I spent an\nEastertide Sunday at Keir, where spring had really set in, and while\nthere made an expedition or two with an archaeological {240} enthusiast\nwho was of our party: to Stirling Castle, much finer and more spacious\nthan I had imagined; to the scanty remains--only the massive church\ntower and the old monastic dove-cot!--of the grand old abbey of\nCambuskenneth; and to Doune Castle, where it was odd to come on workmen\ninstalling electric light in the venerable ruins in preparation for the\ncoming-of-age of my Lord Doune, son of the \"Bonnie Earl of Moray.\"  I\nreturned to Inverness just in time to attend the funeral of Andrew\nMacdonald, Sheriff-clerk of the county, a devout Catholic, and one of\nthe oldest and most faithful friends of our abbey and community.  There\nwas a great gathering in the church and at the grave-side, and all\nseemed impressed by the solemn rites, and by the chanting of our\nmonastic choir.\n\nWe were all busily occupied, during the next ten days, with\npreparations for the solemnity of my abbatial benediction, which took\nplace on April 9, in presence of a large assemblage of invited guests\nand interested onlookers.  It was a particular pleasure to me to\nreceive the Church's benison at the hands of a friend of many years'\nstanding, the venerable Bishop of Argyll and the Isles, whom I had\nknown in old happy days at Mountstuart, as parish priest of Rothesay.\nAbbots Gasquet and Smith assisted the bishop; and Lovat and other\nfriends were among the laymen who had their part in the august and\nimpressive ceremony, which lasted for fully three hours.  A hundred\nguests were entertained in our refectory; and I received many good\nwishes during the day, including telegrams from Cardinals Bourne and\nMerry del Val, Norfolk, Bute, and Charles Dalrymple, whose kind {241}\nmessage gratified me as the only one received from any member of my\nfamily.[14]  An informal concert in the evening, in the theatre-hall of\nthe college, was a pleasant close to a memorable day.\n\nAn earlier date than might otherwise have been the case had been fixed\nfor the abbatial election at Fort Augustus by the superiors of our\nOrder, who desired that our abbey should be represented by its\nduly-constituted head at the great Benedictine gathering which was to\ntake place in Italy this summer.  The object of this assemblage, to\nwhich every abbot of Black Monks (_Monachi Nigri_) in Christendom\nreceived an invitation, was two-fold: first to assist at the\nconsecration of the crypt of the church at Monte Cassino, the cradle of\nour venerable Order, after its complete restoration and decoration by\nthe Beuron School of Benedictine artists; and secondly, to elect, in\nRome, a coadjutor to the Abbot Primate of the Order, whose health had\nbroken down.  I went south in the last week of April, and after a\nflying visit to my sister in Surrey (where I said mass at the very\npretty and well-kept church at Redhill), went on to stay with the\nFrench Benedictines at Farnborough, where two members of our Fort\nAugustus community were at that time in residence.  They showed me much\nof interest, including the small museum of Napoleonic relics, and, of\ncourse, the crypt containing the massive granite sarcophagi containing\nthe bodies of Napoleon {242} III. and his only son.  It so chanced that\nthe aged Empress (then in her eighty-eighth year) had been praying in\nthe church when we entered it; and we saw her leaving in her carriage\nfor her chateau a few hundred yards away.  I thought, as I glanced at\nthe frail shrunken figure leaning on her staff, of a summer day in\nParis forty-eight long years before, when I had seen her, a radiant and\nbeautiful vision, walking in the Tuileries gardens with her little son,\namid the admiring plaudits of an apparently devoted people.  The young\nprince was mounted on a sort of two-wheeled hobby-horse, gaily painted\nand gilt, and I asked my companion (a French lady) what it might be.\n\"Ah!\" she replied, \"c'est une invention absolument nouvelle: cela\ns'appelle un' 've-lo-ci-pede'!\"  The only other occasion on which I\never saw the Empress was in Rome some ten years later, when she came,\nwidowed and dethroned, to pay her respects to the venerable Pontiff\nPius IX.  I have described elsewhere[15] this memorable visit, which I\nwas privileged to witness as being at that time a chamberlain on duty\nat the Vatican.\n\nMy friend MacCall, from Arundel, joined me at Dover, and we had a swift\nand uneventful journey to Venice (actually my first visit!) where I\nspent three crowded happy days--it was all I could spare--as the guest\nof an old Eton and Oxford friend in his delightful _palazzo_ on the Rio\nMarin.  I cannot attempt any description: what impressed me most\nvividly, perhaps, apart from the incomparable glories of S. Marco, was\nour visit, in the amber and purple twilight of a Venetian May-day, to\nour Benedictine {243} church of St. George--its monastery (alas! almost\nderelict) and graceful rose-red campanile reflected in the deep azure\nof the lagoon.  I regretfully left Venice that night, and travelling\nstraight through Rome, in the company of abbots of various lands and\nlanguages, reached Cassino about mid-day, and was driven up the sacred\nmountain in a motor-car (an innovation since my last pilgrimage\nhither!) passing, at various turns of the excellent road, groups of\npeasants toiling up the rugged immemorial path to the monastery.  We\nwere welcomed by the kind abbot at the foot of the great staircase; and\nI was soon installed in a pleasant cell, with a view that almost took\none's breath away over the wild and mountainous Abruzzi,[16] and the\nthin clear mountain air blowing in at one's window with delicious\nfreshness.\n\nI do not think I ever attended such a series of prolonged and stately\nchurch functions as during the week of our sojourn at Monte Cassino.\nThe chiefs of our Order in various countries officiated in turn at the\ndifferent solemnities; and we abbots (seventy or eighty of us) sat\nperched on hard and narrow benches, tier upon tier, on either side of\nthe high altar.  One day it was a solemn requiem mass for the deceased\nbenefactors of our Order: another, the consecration by the Cardinal\nLegate representing {244} the Pope,[17] assisted by two Benedictine\narchbishops, of the three altars in the crypt (this ceremony alone\nlasted five hours, and almost finished me!), whilst on Sunday his\nEminence conducted the solemn high mass and subsequent procession, the\ngreat church, _cortili_ beyond, and every available foot of space being\noccupied by an immense and devout crowd of gaily-dressed peasants, most\nof whom had slept on the bare ground in the open air on the previous\nnight.  On this crowning day we were more than three hundred in the\nvast refectory for dinner, at the end of which a choir of monks chanted\nwith thrilling effect the mediaeval _Laudes_, or Acclamations of\nHincmar, in honour of our illustrious guests.  Among these magnates was\nmy old friend of early days in Brazil, Bishop Gerard van Caloen, whom I\nhad not seen for sixteen years.[18]  He had grown a long grey beard,\nand his eyes looked out through his spectacles as sad and inscrutable\nas ever.[19]  I sat next him at the _ludus liturgico-scenicus_, one of\nthe diversions provided for us by the community: a grave musical\nsetting of the life and death of Saints Benedict and Scholastica, so\npathetic that I wept--to the surprise of my friend the bishop, who said\nhe never knew that I was so tender-hearted!  The play was presented by\nsome of the young monks {245} and their pupils (they had over two\nhundred in the abbey, including a lay boarding-school and two\nseminaries), and on another evening they gave us a really excellent\nconcert of vocal and instrumental music.  I do not know where space was\nfound for playgrounds for all these boys, for there seemed really very\nlittle room on the mountain top for anything except the extensive\nbuildings.  The abbot of Downside, who was a great advocate of\nexercise, used to walk half-way down the hill and up again every day\nafter dinner: it was, as far as I could discover, the only walk\npossible.  In any case the available time for recreation between the\nlong-drawn-out religious celebrations was short enough: it was a\nstrenuous week, though a very interesting one, and rendered enjoyable\nby the unwearied attention which the good monks, one and all, showed to\ntheir numberless and no doubt occasionally troublesome guests.  When\nall was over I left Monte Cassino in the pleasant company of my friend\nAbbot Miguel of S. Paulo, and travelled by an incredibly slow train to\nRome, where we found a second Benedictine welcome of not less\nheartiness in the international abbey of St. Anselm on the Aventine\nHill.\n\n\n\n[1] The lady supported an orphanage in her _castello_, and also an\nincredible number of dogs, and distributed her affections equally\nbetween the dogs and the orphans.\n\n[2] This, however, was probably a mere appeal _ad misericordiam_.\nCyril was no novice!\n\n[3] Representing Christ hounded along the road to Calvary by atheistic\ndeputies and anti-Christian schoolmasters, the latter inciting children\nto fling stones at Him.  On the opposite side of the way knelt a little\ngroup of believers, children and others, with arms outstretched towards\nthe Saviour.  Some of those looking at the picture were greatly\naffected, even to tears.\n\n[4] \"Majora tibi debentur pro fide Christi certamina.\"--_Office of St.\nLaurence_.\n\n[5] It was Pugin's constant grievance that the poverty of English\nCatholics prevented him from carrying out his grandiose ideas.  A\nbishop once wrote to him asking for plans for a cathedral, very\nspacious, extraordinarily handsome, and--above all--cheap, money being\nvery scarce.  Pugin lost his temper on seeing what was the sum\nsuggested.  \"My dear Lord,\" he wrote back, \"why not say 30s. more, and\nhave a tower and spire when you are about it?\"\n\n[6] Sir Charles Eastlake (_History of the Gothic Revival_, p. 154).\n\n[7] Queens Regnant (and I think Consort) have the _ex officio_ entree\nto monasteries; but Fort Augustus had never been so honoured, our only\n\"crowned head\" visitor having been King Leopold of Belgium.  I remember\nPrince Henry of Battenberg, who came in a yacht with Princess Beatrice,\nbeing put out at the latter being denied admission into the enclosure.\nThere was some talk of King Edward paying us a visit from Glenquoich,\nwhere he was Lord Burton's guest; but nothing came of it.\n\n[8] I had presided at a festival of the Association fifteen years\npreviously (in 1897).\n\n[9] A fine old soldier and sportsman, who had fought in Afghanistan and\nBurmah, and was afterwards appointed, first Clerk of the Cheque, and\nlater standard-bearer, in the King's Bodyguard.  He volunteered, when\nwell over seventy, for service in the Great War, and was given, I\nthink, some post in connection with the defences of the Forth Bridge.\n\n[10] \"I preach sitting,\" said Bateman: \"it is more conformable to\nantiquity and to reason to sit than to stand.\"--Newman, _Loss and Gain_\n(ed. 1876), page 70.  My friend George Angus had followed suit at St.\nAndrews.\n\n[11] I say \"tried\"; for our good Belgian _chef_, who _said_ he\nunderstood the process, used some mysterious pickle of his own\ninvention--with disastrous results!\n\n[12] In the event of no candidate receiving a sufficient number of\nvotes, the \"scrutiny\" was repeated again and again--often a very\nlengthy and tedious proceeding.\n\n[13] \"The winter is now past, the rain is over and gone.\"  It was never\nreally safe to quote these words at Fort Augustus before (say) the end\nof May.\n\n[14] My brother-in-law, Sir Charles Dalrymple, had been one of those\nwho most bitterly resented my change of religion in 1875, and still\nmore my entrance into the Benedictine Order.  But time had softened old\nasperities; and we had been on affectionate terms for many years past.\n\n[15] _A Medley of Memories_ (1st Series), pp. 81, 82.\n\n[16] Most of the Abruzzi was included in the extensive diocese of Monte\nCassino (one of the largest in Italy), which was under the\nadministration of the abbot, although he was not a bishop.  His\njurisdiction extended over no less than seven ancient dioceses--a fact\nsymbolized by the interesting and unique custom of his wearing, when he\ncelebrated pontifical high mass, seven different mitres in succession.\n\n[17] Cardinal Gasparri, at that time Secretary of State to the reigning\nPontiff, Benedict XV.\n\n[18] The pioneer of the Benedictine revival in Brazil, and my Superior\nat the abbey of Olinda seventeen years before.  See _A Medley of\nMemories_ (1st Series), chaps, xvi. and xvii.  Dom Gerard was\nconsecrated (titular) Bishop of Phocaea on April 18, 1906.\n\n[19] Like Dr. Firmin's in _Philip_.  \"Dreary, sad, as into a great\nblank desert, looked the eyes.\"--Thackeray, _Philip_, chap. iii.\n\n\n\n\n{246}\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n1913-1914\n\nThe object of the great gathering, in the summer of 1913, of\nBenedictine abbots in Rome, whither they had been especially summoned\nby the _Abbas Abbatum_, Pope Pius X., was not primarily devotional or\nliturgical, like the assemblage just held at Monte Cassino.  It was\nfirst and foremost a business meeting, called for the purpose of\nelecting a coadjutor (with right of succession) to the first Abbot\nPrimate of the Order, Dom Hildebrand de Hemptinne, the distinguished\nBelgian prelate, who, after a life entirely devoted to the interests of\nthe Church and of his brother-monks, had been compelled by impaired and\nenfeebled health to retire from all active work.  One of his most\nnotable achievements had been the planning and erection, at the\ninstance and with the generous help of Leo XIII., of the noble monastic\ncollege on the Aventine, which that Pontiff declared would be the\ngreatest material monument of his fifteen years' tenure of the see of\nPeter.  It was pathetic that, although in residence at St. Anselm's\nCollege (his own beloved foundation) when we assembled there for the\nbusiness in hand, Abbot de Hemptinne was quite unable to take any part\nin it, or even personally to welcome us to Rome.  He appeared only once\nin public during our stay {247} there--a mere wreck of the active\npersonality which had been so long associated with the interests and\nthe progress of our Order in every part of Christendom.  We at Fort\nAugustus owed much to his wisdom and sympathetic kindness; and I was\ntouched to see, during the few minutes' conversation which I had with\nhim, how his face lightened up, and something of the old alertness\nreawakened in his voice and bearing, as we spoke of new hopes and new\ndevelopments in connection with our Scottish abbey.[1]\n\nThere were at this time just a hundred _abbates regiminis_ (i.e. ruling\nabbots, excluding those holding merely titular rank) of Black Monks in\nthe Christian world; and of these I ranked last--for we took precedence\naccording to the date of appointment, not according to the antiquity of\nour respective abbeys.  Seventy-five were actually present in Rome and\nmost of the absentees had sent proxies to represent them.  Four (two\nfrom U.S.A., one Brazilian, and one Australian) were of episcopal rank,\nand six others, though not bishops, exercised episcopal jurisdiction.\nThere were ten Arch-abbots, or abbots-president, of various national\nCongregations; the rank and file being \"ruling abbots\" from every\ncountry in Christendom.  Latin was, of course, the official language at\nour meetings, and to some extent the medium also of private\nintercourse, though the variations of pronunciation made this a matter\nof some difficulty.  The great hall of the abbey where our sessions\nwere held was bad acoustically; and the magnates at the table of honour\n(some of them {248} prelates of great age) mumbled so inaudibly that\nwe, in our humble places at the end of the hall, raised a cry of\n\"Altius! loquimini altius! nihil audivimus!\" and others of the fathers\ntook up the cry of \"Nihil! nihil!\"  At the first scrutiny the abbot of\nEinsiedeln, in Switzerland, got eighty-four out of the ninety-eight\nvotes, which seemed decisive, and would have been so had he not, \"cum\nmagna gratitudine,\" but extremely emphatically, declared that nothing\nwould induce him to accept.  The Pope, who was appealed to, expressed\nhis regret, but declined to put any pressure on the reluctant abbot:\ntwo more scrutinies followed, and finally Abbot von Stotzingen, of\nMaria-laach, was elected by seventy-five votes.  _Causa finita est_.\nOur work finished, I had a few days to renew old happy memories of\nRome, greatly changed (I suppose materially for the better) since my\nfirst visit in 1875.  I went the round of the great basilicas, and\nexplored the vast cemetery of S. Lorenzo in quest of the grave of my\nuncle David,[2] laid to rest there fourty-four years before.  I found\nit in good repair, with flowering shrubs growing round it, and read\nwith interest the beautiful Latin epitaph, written by the scholarly pen\nof Archbishop Manning, who had received him into the Church, and\nafterwards officiated at his simple funeral.\n\nI celebrated the Whitsuntide solemnities in our own church of St.\nAnselm, much impressed by the virile and sonorous chant of the monastic\nchoir.  {249} I left Rome a few days later, travelling by night to\nMilan, where I said mass early in the duomo--more impressive than I had\never yet seen it in the dull morning light, with the vast spaces in\ndeep shadow, and the great jewelled windows gleaming faintly through\nthe murk.  From Milan a long and fatiguing journey brought me to\nMaredsous, the famous Belgian abbey which I had seen only once since I\nhad spent four months there as a young monk thirty years before.  The\nvast pile of building, of dark slate-coloured stone in the severest\nGothic, seemed to have altered little since 1883 (there is something\nsingularly, almost appallingly, unchangeable about these great\nmonasteries); but of course the trees about it had grown, and there\nwere additions near by--one the interesting school of arts and crafts\ndirected by the monks, where I saw excellent goldsmiths' and enamel\nwork done by the pupils, as well as fine embroideries.  Another new and\nstriking feature was the nuns' abbey, a quarter of a mile away, with a\nlarge and beautiful church open to the public.  I found here an English\nportress, with the English name of Sister Winifred; and the abbess, a\nsister of our good abbot-primate in Rome, spoke English well; but she\npersuaded me (after cake and wine) into giving a _conference_ in French\nto her community, about our doings at Monte Cassino and Rome.\n\nIt was interesting to pass straight, as I did, from a great modern\nabbey in being to the impressive remains of our cathedral priory at\nCanterbury, and to sleep in an Elizabethan bedroom constructed within\nthe ancient guest-hall of the monks.  My kind host, Canon Moore,\ndevoted a day to showing {250} me the wonders of his cathedral; and a\nparty of cathedral dignitaries (and their wives) were asked to meet me\nat dinner.  I had some talk with a pleasant, though minor, canon,[3]\nwho had been for a time in charge of our choir at Magdalen.  From\nCanterbury I went on to Douai Abbey, to preside at their school\nprize-giving, and then to keep St. Philip's _festa_ with the London\nOratorians, who had invited a Fort Augustus monk (Dom Maurus\nCaruana[4]) to preach this year the panegyric of their patron saint.  I\nlook back on these Oratory festivals as among the pleasantest of London\nsummer days--the marble altars in the great church aglow with roses and\nlilies and orchids; music of the best from the unrivalled choir:[5]\nsometimes a really eloquent sermon, and luncheon afterwards, in company\nwith all that was best in the Catholic society of the day, in the cool\nspacious refectory, hung round with portraits of Faber and Dalgairns\nand Knox and other eminent Oratorians.  I sat on this occasion next a\nkindly _litterateur_ and critic--so kindly a one that even when he does\nattack you (as Russell Lowell put it)\n\n      \"you doubt if the toes\n  That are trodden upon are your own or your foe's.\"\n\n{251} We spoke of printers' perennial errors; and he quoted two new to\nme--one from the prospectus of a new company: \"Six thousand _snares_ of\nfive pounds each\"; and the other from a speech of Lord Carnarvon:\n\"Every clergyman is expected nowadays to have the intellect and wisdom\nof a Jeremy Taylor\"--the last two words being transformed by a reporter\ninto \"journeyman tailor!\"  The word \"clergyman\" (in these days somewhat\ndiscredited) suggested to my friend Tennyson's dictum: \"The majority of\nEnglishmen think of God as an immeasurable clergyman in a white tie\";\nand to me a line from the same poet's \"May Queen,\" which had always\nseemed to me the _ne plus ultra_ of bathos:[6]\n\n\n\"And that good man, the clergyman, has spoken words of peace.\"\n\n\nI stayed a night at Kelburn on my way north to congratulate my\nbrother-in-law, as it was not only his eightieth birthday, but his\nfortieth wedding-anniversary also fell this year.  I was glad to find\nmyself at home again after five weeks' absence; but it was only for a\nfew weeks, as I had to go to Yorkshire in June, for the quinquennial\nGeneral Chapter of our Order at Ampleforth, where our first business\nwas to re-elect and install Abbot Gasquet as our abbot-president.[7]  I\nattended, a few days later, {252} a dinner of our Catholic Etonian\nAssociation.  Shane Leslie and (Mgr.) Hugh Benson both made capital\nspeeches, and I had the honour of proposing _Floreat Etona_.  George\nLane Fox (a _quondam_ captain of the boats) was our president; and it\nwas interesting to learn that among Catholic Etonians were three old\ncaptains of oppidans, Lords Abingdon and North, and Sir Francis\nBurnand.  I stayed for this function with the kind Oratorians, who\nalways had one or two Etonians in their community.[8]  Their spacious\nhouse was delightfully quiet, and the verdant shady garden might have\nbeen two miles, instead of a bare two hundred yards, from the bustle\nand traffic of Brompton Road.  I assisted next day in their church at\nthe marriage of another Etonian Catholic, Sir Joseph Tichborne, and\nlooked with interest on the smart young lifeguardsman, son of the baby\ndefendant in the famous lawsuit more than forty years before.  It is\nhard now to realize the _furore_ caused by the great \"Tichborne Case,\"\nwhich sapped old friendships and engendered lasting animosities among\npeople who had no earthly connection with it[9]--for the old English\nCatholic families, which _were_ {253} closely interested in the matter,\ntook it very quietly and never discussed it in public.  I have never\nknown since any popular excitement in the least like it.\n\nI was back at Fort Augustus before the end of June; and the summer and\nautumn (both wonderfully fine this year) passed quickly and happily.\nLong sunshiny days brought us, as always, many visitors, among the\nfirst being the large contingent of Glasgow Catholics who came as\nusual, during their \"Fair Week,\" to spend some days at our abbey,\npartly in pious exercises and partly in enjoyable excursions.  Our most\nnotable guest this year was perhaps the young King of Uganda (I believe\nhis proper title was not King but \"Kabaka\"), who came to Fort Augustus\nfor a week-end with his dusky suite, and spent some hours with us--a\ntall, graceful and agreeable, but very shy, youth in a lovely robe of\npeacock blue (he had arrived at the inn the night before wearing a\ndingy covert-coat over a sort of white cassock).  One of his\nfellow-chiefs, I think the only Catholic of the party, had a huge\nrosary slung round his neck during the visit to our monastery.  Another\ndistinguished visitor was Cardinal Bourne, whose clerical secretary had\nbeen driving him (_incog._) all over the Highlands, and over all sorts\nof roads, in a little two-seater motor.  This had to go into hospital\non their arrival; but through the kindness of an American neighbour I\nwas able to escort our guests in a roomy \"Fiat\" to Glengarry (our most\nnotable beauty-spot), and to the famous little inn, embowered in woods\non the edge of the amber rushing Garry, where there were many notable\nnames in the visitors' book, though {254} not, I think, up till then\nthe signature of a Prince of the Roman Church.  His Eminence's visit\nsynchronized with our Highland Games and annual concert, both of which\nhe honoured with his presence; and next day he and his faithful\nmonsignor trundled off westwards in their little car, much pleased (as\nwe all were also) with their brief sojourn in our abbey guest-house.\n\nApart from the normal duties incumbent on the head of a monastic\ncommunity, I had, from the time of first taking the reins, placed three\nobjects in the forefront of my hopes and aspirations, and had\nendeavoured never to lose sight of them.  These were, first, an\nincrease in our numbers by the admission of suitable aspirants to our\nlife; secondly, the renovation and utilization of the long derelict\nbuildings of the abbey-school, and the reopening of the school itself\nas soon as feasible; and thirdly, the hastening of the long anticipated\nday when work should be resumed on our abandoned church, and a part of\nit, at least, completed and opened for Divine Service.  Thanks to the\ngoodwill and support of my own brethren, and to the interested sympathy\nof many friends outside, I had the happiness of seeing all these hopes\nin a fair way to be realized within a twelvemonth of my receiving the\nabbatial benediction.  Four of our first year's batch of novices were\nultimately admitted to profession and to holy orders: they were joined\nby two priests from the Scottish mission, both of whom took their vows\nafter due probation; while there were also affiliated to our community\ntwo young English monks from a German monastery near Birmingham, as\nwell as a novice from the monastery of Caldey, in South {255} Wales,\nalmost all the members of which had, with their superior, made their\nsubmission to the Catholic Church in the previous year.[10]  We were\nall agreed in the wish and hope that the eminently Benedictine work of\nthe education of youth within our own abbey walls, discontinued for\nseveral years, should be resumed as soon as circumstances permitted.\nCarpenters and painters, plasterers and plumbers, were soon busily\nengaged at the much-needed work of repair and restoration.  The\nbuildings were practically ready for occupation in the summer of 1914;\nbut our hopes of reopening the school a few months later were\nfrustrated by the world-stirring events of July and August of that\nyear.  It was a great satisfaction to all of us to be able, a little\nlater, to place our renovated college at the disposal of the Red Cross,\nand to see it utilized as an Auxiliary Hospital, first for the wounded\nsoldiers of our gallant Belgian allies, and then for the wounded of our\nown armies.[11]\n\nThe date of resuming the long suspended work on the fabric of our\ngreatly-needed church, which I had at least as much at heart as the two\nother objects already mentioned, depended, of course, on the slow but\nsteady increase of our building-fund; and there were always willing\nhelpers, both within and without our community, toward the ingathering\nof a sum without which it would have been {256} imprudent to recommence\noperations.  Some of our fathers showed most commendable zeal and\nenergy in the not very pleasant or grateful task of begging: they\nplanted and watered, and God certainly sent the increase.  Among other\nefforts, a great garden fete was organized at Terregles, near Dumfries,\nthe beautiful old seat of the Maxwell-Stuarts.  I opened the\nproceedings: the day was lovely and the grounds thronged, and a very\nsubstantial sum was realized for our fund.  It was a great joy to us\nall when, thanks to the success of this and other schemes, we were at\nlength able to see our way (let me use the obnoxious phrase with\ngratitude for once!) to approve of the new plans--a modification of, or\nrather a complete departure from, Pugin's elaborate Gothic designs, and\nto see our massive Norman choir gradually rising in its severe and\nsolid beauty.  The actual commencement of the work was delayed by a\ncurious incident--the appearance on the far horizon of a supposed\nbenefactress, said to be prepared to provide funds to an untold amount\nfor the erection of our church, on a plan approved by herself.  I had\nactually to go to Harrogate to discuss this Utopian scheme--not with\nthe mysterious lady in person, but with a friend who was supposed to\nrepresent her.  I never even heard her name, but have every reason to\nsuppose that it was \"Mrs. Harris!\"  Anyhow the next thing I heard was\nthat she had sailed (I think) for China, and we never saw, as the\nsaying goes, the \"colour of her money.\"  I do not think that we had\never really expected to, so the disappointment was the less; and there\nwas no worse consequence than a little delay which we could very well\nput up with after waiting for {257} so many years to get the builders\nto work again.\n\nThe only event outside our own circle which I recall in the later\nmonths of 1913 was the solemn blessing of the new abbot of Douai (an\nold friend and fellow-novice of mine), at which I assisted in October.\nThe ceremony and subsequent luncheon lasted for nearly five solid\nhours, and I began to think that I was getting too old for such\nprotracted functions! though I found the monks of the Berkshire abbey,\nas always, most kind, considerate and hospitable.  Staying at Keir on\nmy way home, I found a big shooting-party assembled--Tullibardines,\nElphinstones, Lovats, Shaw Stewarts and others.  All day long they were\nbanging at pheasants (how remote those days of battues seem in 1922!)\nand in the evening there were ghost-stories and music, Lady\nTullibardine's piano-playing and singing (of very high quality indeed)\ngiving especial pleasure to her hearers.\n\nOn our national festival of St. Andrew I had the pleasure of admitting\ntwo novices to profession--the first ceremony of the kind since 1908.\nWe kept also this month the \"silver jubilee\" of two of our fathers, of\nwhom one had been born without an ear (in the musical sense), and had\nnever sung mass in his life, but on this unique occasion chanted the\nGospel as deacon.  December brought wild and stormy weather, which did\nnot, however, interfere with our customary activities; and many of our\nfathers were at this time out giving missions, or temporary assistance\nto invalided or absent priests.  One of my Boyle nephews--a flying-man\nlike his younger brother--was married this month {258} to the daughter\nof an Australian judge:[12] I could not be present, but telegraphed to\nhim, \"The best of luck to you on earth and in the air!\"  An unwelcome\nDecember visitant was an epidemic of gastric influenza, which\nprostrated some of our community for a week or two; but all were\nrecovered, and most of our wanderers returned, for the Christmas\nfestival--a real old-fashioned one as regarded the weather, with hard\nfrost and snow lying seven inches deep.  This was a rather unusual\nstate of things at Fort Augustus, where the comparatively high\ntemperature of Loch Ness (never known to freeze even in the hardest\nwinters) seemed to affect the whole district.[13]  Lochaber too, where\nwinter is as a rule wild and wet rather than cold, was this year\nfrostbound and snowed up; and our afternoon diversion, on a Sunday\nwhich I spent there, was to trudge a mile or two through the snow and\nsee the red deer fed by hand--a pretty and unusual spectacle.\n\nAmong the domestic incidents of the New Year was the opening of our\nvillage drill-hall, to be available to \"all denominations\" for\nrecreational purposes.  Hitherto the \"Churches\" had run their {259} own\nhalls on more or less exclusive lines; but in the new one the\nProtestant lion was to lie down, so to speak, with the Catholic lamb\n(or _vice versa_!) and all was to be harmony and peace.  I inaugurated\nthe new era by a lantern-lecture on \"Unknown Brazil,\" which a kindly\nnewspaper report described as \"brimful of information and sparkling\nwith anecdote and humour!\"  It was anyhow a successful start and the\nhall proved a really valuable addition to our village assets.  I was\nunable to attend the next lecture--a most interesting illustrated\nhistory of the old Fort--being called south to attend the funeral of\nthe Bishop of Galloway, an old and faithful friend of our house, with\nwhom I had been intimate for close on forty years.  The funeral\nprocession, with crucifix and choir, vested clergy and mitred prelates,\npassing through the streets of Dumfries thronged with silent mourners,\nwas one of the most remarkable spectacles I ever witnessed in Scotland.\nBishop Turner had long been on terms of close friendship with the Bute\nfamily; but Bute and his brothers, being all abroad, were represented\nby their brother-in-law Colin MacRae.  I went south from Dumfries,\nhaving some business with Cardinal Bourne, who talked, _inter alia_, of\nthe chapel (St. Andrew's) in his cathedral which was being adorned at\nBute's expense, and of the question whether the numerous texts should\nbe in Latin or English.  I was all for Latin in the metropolitan\ncathedral of the Empire, the resort of worshippers of every tongue and\nevery nation.  His Eminence, however, favoured English, and I (like Mr.\nAlfred Jingle) \"did not presume to dictate.\"[14]  I was elected this\n{260} week a member of the Oxford and Cambridge Club, of which the big,\nquiet, and well-furnished library was to me the chief attraction.  The\nProtestant drum had been, I was assured, if not beaten, at least\ndiscreetly tapped, by a small clique of members in connection with my\ncandidature--a curious fact in what somebody describes as \"the\nso-called twentieth century\"; but a gracefully-worded telegram from my\nproposer and seconder[15] informed me that the plot (if there ever was\none, which I rather doubted) had failed.  I went to Arundel for the\nLourdes festival, always kept solemnly there; found the kind Duke and\nDuchess encircled, as usual, by a cloud of youthful Maxwells, and heard\nBernard Vaughan (just returned from the U.S.A.) preach eloquently on\n\"The claims of the Church\" with a distinctly American accent, and,\nlater on, regale us in the smoking-room with a choice collection of\nAmerican chestnuts!\n\nI got back to our abbey just in time to give the last blessing to our\ngood old brother Nathalan, who died at the age of ninety-nine, the\npatriarch of the Benedictine Order in these islands and possibly in\nChristendom.  A native of Glengairn, he spoke the Aberdeenshire idiom\nof his mother-Gaelic with remarkable purity and fluency; and he could\ntalk for hours about beasts and birds, old smuggling adventures, second\nsight, and cognate subjects.  His grandfather had fought for Prince\nCharlie at Culloden; and he knew the name and history of {261} every\nGlengairn man who had taken part in that historic battle.  A man of\nrobust faith and deep practical piety, he was content and happy in the\nmonastery, which he had only entered when well over seventy.  He was\ntotally blind (though otherwise in good health) for some time before\nhis death; and morning after morning his bowed and venerable figure,\nsupported by a younger brother, might be seen wending its way to the\nchapel where he daily heard mass and received Holy Communion.  I was\nglad to be at home for the closing hours of the life of the good simple\nold man, whose death made a felt blank in the family circle of our\ncommunity.\n\nThe early months of the eventful year 1914 passed quickly and quietly\nenough at our Highland abbey.  We resolved soon after Easter to accept\nthe contract for the building of the choir of our church--a venture of\nfaith, for the necessary sum was not yet all in hand; but we felt that\nwe were justified in making a start.  A few days later came the\ninteresting and gratifying news that the elevation of Abbot Gasquet to\nthe Cardinalate--often rumoured in recent years--was actually decided\non.  This entailed an \"extraordinary\" meeting of Chapter in connection\nwith the Abbot-president's resignation of that office; and going south\nto attend it, I took the occasion of accepting an invitation to\nofficiate at the Corpus Christi procession at Arundel.  It was a\ncuriously impressive function in that old-world English town: the long\n_cortege_ of clergy and choristers and people, with the tall Venetian\nlanterns, scarlet and gold, waving above their heads as they passed\nslowly, to the sounds of sacred psalmody, under the grey walls of the\ncastle and back into the great church of {262} St. Philip.  I went on\nfrom Arundel to Oxford, to stay with Father Maturin, the acting\nCatholic chaplain there (his undergraduate flock now numbered nearly a\nhundred), and was delighted to see the good work he was doing.  One was\nalways sure of a good story from him; and _a propos_ of his wish to\nintroduce hymn-singing at his Sunday services, he told me of the\nSunday-school superintendent who, dissatisfied with the children's\ndead-alive singing of the well-known temperance hymn, \"Little Drops of\nWater,\" himself repeated the first line, adding, \"Now, please, put a\nlittle spirit into it!\"  My old tale of the don who objected to men\ncoming to church in slippers reminded him, he said, of a college dean\nhe had heard of in his Cowley days, who, to an undergraduate asking\nleave to go down to attend his great-aunt's funeral, replied after some\nhesitation, \"Well, you may go; but I must say I do wish it had been for\na nearer relation!\"[16]\n\nThe June of 1914 was exceptionally hot, and I found the long journey to\nthe Highlands so intolerably tedious and dusty that I could not resist\njumping out of the train at the head of Loch Lomond, and staying the\nnight there.  I wrote on a picture postcard to an editorial friend in\nLondon--\"not for publication,\" but just to tantalize him in his stuffy\nsanctum in Fleet Street:\n\n\n{263}\n\nDelightful little Highland inn.  Just dined--_puree aux pois_, a Loch\nLomond trout (pink and flaky), an excellent mutton chop, and gooseberry\npie.  Here is a view of Loch Lomond from my window, but the Ben has its\nlace nightcap on.  The colours are simply exquisite.[17]\n\n\nLater in the summer I attended a great gathering at Downside (fifteen\nbishops and ten abbots were guests of the abbey) for the solemn\nreception of Cardinal Gasquet at his mother-house.  There were imposing\nchurch functions, of course, concerts, speeches galore, and on the\nclosing day of the festivities a luncheon-party of six hundred, after\nwhich we (Cardinal, bishops, and abbots) motored off in clouds of dust\nfor Bristol and Cardiff, for the opening of the Eucharistic Congress\nthere.  I stayed for the week at the castle, where were also Cardinals\nBourne and Gasquet, the Gainsboroughs, and others; the Butes gave a\nbanquet one evening, followed by a great reception, in honour of the\nassembled dignitaries, who were also entertained by the Lord Mayor in\nthe splendid town hall.  Just a fortnight after the closing of the\nCongress, Germany declared war on Russia and France; and three days\nlater, on the midnight which ushered in the feast-day of Saint Oswald,\nthe English soldier-saint and martyr, Britain took up arms against\nGermany.  _Jacta est alea_!\n\nThe reverberations of the Great War were not unfelt even in our quiet\nhome among the Highland hills; and our life, like the life of every\nclass of the community in those years of storm and stress, was affected\nprofoundly, and in many ways, by the {264} struggle which for four long\nyears was rending the civilized world.  A detailed record of those\nyears of war, even so far as we were touched by it, would be out of\nplace in this chronicle of peaceful days.  Many of our former pupils,\nand some who had worn our habit and shared our life in the cloister,\nfought, and more than one died, for king and country: a band of devoted\npriests--few indeed, yet a large proportion of our total number--worked\nthroughout the war, at home and abroad, as chaplains in the army and\nthe navy, two of them being severely wounded, and two decorated by the\nKing for their good service; and, finally, we who perforce remained at\nhome had the consolation and satisfaction of receiving into our\nprovisional hospital a long succession of wounded soldiers, Belgian and\nBritish, and of co-operating with the good people of our village and\nneighbourhood in the work of tending and succouring them.  So,\naccording to our measure, we \"did our bit\" like the rest, and could\nfeel, when the day of peace at length dawned, that we had tried to\nrender service to our country at a time when she had a right to the\nservice of all her sons.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nI write down these closing memories in our monastery under the Southern\nCross, in the great South American city where my brethren in Saint\nBenedict, active and devoted men, but far too few for the ever-growing\nwork that lies ready to their hands, are leading the same life of\nprayer and liturgy, untiring, pastoral labour, and the education of the\nyoung in religion and letters, which has been the mission of our Order\nall through the Christian centuries.  It is high noon on this Brazilian\nsummer's {265} day, and the fierce sun beats down from a cloudless sky\non the luxuriant tropical garden which glows beneath the window of my\nquiet cell.  At the foot of the last page I inscribe the same words as\nthe monastic annalist inscribed of old beneath the laboriously-written\nmanuscript which had been the work of his life:\n\n  Explicit chronicon lx. annorum\n  Deus misericordie miserere miseri scriptoris.\n\nAnd then, as, my task completed, I lay down my weary pen, there come\ninto my mind some other words--those of a great thinker and a great\nwriter of our own time: \"Our life is planted on the surface of a\nwhirling sphere: our prayer is to find its tranquil centre, and revolve\nno more.\"\n\nSo may it be!\n\n\n\n[1] The good old abbot died three months later, on August 13, 1913.\n\n[2] Colonel David Hunter-Blair of the Scots Fusilier Guards, whose\nconversion to Catholicism, when I was a boy at Eton, had made a great\nimpression on me.  He died of consumption at Rome on March 31, 1869.\n\n[3] \"We implore Thy protection also,\" petitioned a certain Dean at\nfamily prayers, \"for the minor canons of this cathedral; for even they,\nO Lord, are Thy creatures.\"\n\n[4] Appointed Archbishop-bishop of Malta in 1914.\n\n[5] I liked to hear once-a-year (not oftener) the prolonged musical\nmasses which were the \"festival use\" at the Oratory.  Once, arriving\nrather late at the church, I found an old friend (a Gregorian-lover\nlike myself) waiting in the porch, and asked him how far the service\nhad progressed.  \"Thank God!\" said old W---- P---- devoutly, \"_the\nworst is over_--they have just finished the _Gloria_!\"\n\n[6] It can be matched, I think, by two lines from a university prize\npoem--not, of course, by a poet laureate!--on the \"Sailing of the\nPilgrim Fathers\":\n\n  \"Thus, ever guided by the hand of God,\n  They sailed along until they reached Cape Cod!\"\n\n[7] Nine months later he was elevated to the Cardinalate, when he had,\nof course, to resign his presidency of the English Benedictine\nCongregation.\n\n[8] At one time there were as many as eight; and I remember one of them\n(who had himself been \"in the Boats\" at Eton), saying that they wanted\nonly a ninth to complete the crew!\n\n[9] I recall one engagement broken off in consequence; and also a rift\nbetween two lifelong friends which still remained unhealed long after\nthe \"unhappy nobleman languishing in prison\" (as his most notorious\nsupporter used to call him) had been consigned to the limbo of penal\nservitude.  The cost of the two trials was said to be at least\nL200,000, and seriously crippled the valuable Tichborne estates for a\nwhole generation.  My father prohibited the public discussion of the\ncase at Blairquhan, either in dining-room or smoking-room, or even at a\nshooting-luncheon in the open air!\n\n[10] The Caldey novice, and one of the affiliated brothers from\nErdington Abbey, both left us, after the outbreak of the Great War, and\njoined the army; and the former was killed on active service.\n\n[11] The school was finally reopened under my successor, in 1920.\n\n[12] And an heiress--at least so a brother wrote to me.  The lady's\nname was Hodges; and he added (but I think this was mere banter) that\nthe question was, if Jack had to assume his wife's name, whether they\nwould be known as \"Boyle-Hodges\" or \"Hodges-Boyle\"!\n\n[13] Our first prior, Dom Jerome Vaughan, used to be at much pains to\nconvince his incredulous friends in the south of the mildness of the\nFort Augustus winter.  I remember his writing to the prior of Belmont,\nwhen I was a novice there, enclosing daisies picked on Christmas Day.\nUnluckily the same post brought another letter from Fort Augustus,\nmentioning that the frost was so severe that all the beer was frozen in\nthe cellar!\n\n[14] They were, as a matter of fact, inscribed in English, as were also\nthe names of the Scottish saints on the pictured walls.  The chapel was\nopened on St. Andrew's Day, 1915.\n\n[15] \"Many congratulations both to you and to the club,\" it ran.\n\n[16] It was a don of this type who was reported to have written, in a\nletter of condolence to the father of an undergraduate who had been\ndrowned in Sandford Lasher: \"As your son had unfortunately failed to\nsatisfy the examiners in Responsions, he would have had to go down in\nany case!\"  Poor Father Maturin! his love of a joke and other good\nqualities were extinguished (in this life) by the sinking of\n_Lusitania_ eleven months later.\n\n[17] My friend did print it in his paper, adding, \"To read this makes\none hungry for Highland air and Highland fare.\"\n\n\n\n\n{267}\n\nAppendix\n\nI.  PAGE 86.\n\nNOVISSIMA VERBA\n\n(LAST WORDS OF FORTY FAMOUS MEN)\n\n\nAdam, Alexander (the famous schoolmaster) ... \"It grows dark, boys: you\nmay go.\"\n\nAddison, Joseph ... \"See how a Christian can die!\"\n\nAlbert Prince Consort ... \"Liebes gutes Frauchen!\"\n\nAugustus (Emperor) ... \"Plaudite!\"\n\nBede (The Venerable) ... \"Consummatum est.\"\n\nBossuet, Benigne ... \"Fiat Voluntas Tua!\"\n\nBronte, Charlotte (to her husband) ... \"I am not going to die, am I?\nHe will not separate us, we have been so happy.\"\n\nByron (Lord) ... \"I think I will go to sleep.\"\n\nCharles II. (King) ... \"Don't let poor Nellie starve.\"\n\nCharles V. (Emperor) ... \"Ay, Jesus!\"\n\nChesterfield (Lord) ... \"Give Dayrolles a chair.\"\n\nCicero ... \"Causa causarum, miserere mei!\"\n\nDarwin, Charles B. ... \"I am not in the least afraid to die.\"\n\nDevonshire (8th Duke of) ... \"Well, the game is over, and I am not\nsorry.\"\n\nDisraeli, Benjamin ... \"I am overwhelmed!\"\n\n\"Eliot, George\" ... \"Tell the doctors that I have great pain in the\nleft side.\"\n\nEtty, William (painter) ... \"Wonderful--wonderful! this death.\"\n\nFrederick the Great ... \"La montagne est passee; nous irons mieux.\"\n\n{268}\n\nGeorge IV. (King) ... \"Watty, what is this?  It is death, my boy: they\nhave deceived me.\"\n\nGladstone, W. E. ... \"Prions--commencons--Our Father.\"\n\nGoethe, W. von ... \"Draw back the curtains, and let in more light.\"\n\nGoldsmith, Oliver (to the question, \"Is your mind at ease?\" in a\nmelancholy voice) ... \"No, it is not.\"\n\nHaydn, Joseph ... \"God preserve the Emperor!\"\n\nHood, Thomas (in a tone of relief) ... \"Dying--dying.\"\n\nHumboldt, A. von ... \"Wie herrlich diese Strahlen! sie schienen die\nErde zum Himmel zu rufen.\"\n\nJerrold, Douglas, asked how he felt, said \"he felt like one who was\nwaiting and was waited for.\"\n\nJohnson, Samuel ... \"God bless you!\"\n\nKeats, John ... \"I feel the flowers growing over me.\"\n\nKnox, John ... \"about 11 of the clock gave a deep sigh, exclaimed, 'Now\nit is come,' and presently expired.\"\n\nLacordaire, Henri ... \"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! ouvrez-moi, ouvrez-moi.\"\n\nMackintosh, Sir James ... \"Happy!\"\n\nMary Queen of Scots ... \"In Te, Domine, speravi.\"\n\nMathews, Charles ... \"I am ready.\"\n\nMezzofanti (Cardinal) ... \"Andiamo, andiamo presto in Paradiso!\"\n\nMirabeau, Victor ... \"Let me die to the sounds of delicious music.\"\n\nNapoleon Bonaparte ... \"Tete d'armee.\"\n\nPope, Alexander ... \"There is nothing meritorious but virtue and\nfriendship; and indeed friendship itself is but a part of virtue.\"\n\nRabelais ... \"Je vais querir le grand peut-etre.\"\n\nScott, Walter ... \"God bless you!\"\n\nTasso, Torquato ... \"In manus Tuas, Domine.\"\n\nWordsworth, William ... \"God bless you!\"\n\nXimenes, Cardinal ... \"In Te, Domine, speravi.\"\n\n\n\n\n{269}\n\nII.  PAGE 136.\n\nDARWIN'S CREDO\n\n\"Science and Christ have nothing to do with each other, except in as\nfar as the habit of scientific investigation makes a man cautious about\naccepting any proofs.  _As far as I am concerned, I do not believe that\nany revelation has ever been made_.  With regard to a future life,\nevery one must draw his own conclusions from vague and contradictory\nprobabilities.\"--(Letter to a Jena student, dated June 5th, 1879.)\n\n\"Mr. Darwin was much less reticent to myself than in his letter to\nJena.  He distinctly stated that, in his opinion, a vital or somatic\nprinciple, apart from the somatic energy, had no more _locus standi_ in\nthe human than in any other races of the animal kingdom--a conclusion\nthat seems a mere corollary of, and indeed a position tantamount with,\nhis essential doctrine of human and bestial identity of nature and\ngenesis.\"--(Dr. Robert Lewins, in the _Journal of Science_.)\n\nIt may be instructive to subjoin to the above _Credo_ of Darwin those\nof three other eminent Victorians, whom the present generation would\nprobably pronounce it unkind and ill-mannered to brand as atheistical\nor un-Christian.  Let them speak for themselves:--\n\n\n_Stuart Mill_: \"This world is a bungled business, in which no\nclear-sighted man can see any signs either of wisdom or of God.\"\n\n_Huxley_: \"Scepticism is the highest of duties: blind faith the one\nunpardonable sin.\"\n\n{270}\n\n_Matthew Arnold_: \"The existence of God is an unverifiable hypothesis.\"\n\n\nDr. Liddon, preaching in St. Paul's Cathedral on the Sunday after\nDarwin's death, devoted his matchless oratory to a eulogy in which\nthere was not the remotest reference to the fact that the subject of it\nwas a man who had formally repudiated not only Christianity but\nrevealed religion.  Here are the eloquent canon's opening words:--\n\n\n\"These reflections may naturally lead us to think of the eminent man,\nwhose death during the past week is an event of European importance;\nsince he is the author of nothing less than a revolution in the modern\nway of treating a large district of thought, while his works have shed\nhigh distinction on English science.\"\n\n\nDr. Laing, of Cambridge University, on the other hand, expressed with\nrefreshing candour his objections to the proposed interment of Darwin\nin Westminster Abbey:--\n\n\n\"They urged his claim to Abbey honours on the very ground of his having\nbeen the chief promoter of the atheistic mock-doctrines of evolution of\nspecies and the ape-descent of man.  It is, therefore, as the high\npriest of dirt-worship that the English nation has assigned to him the\nprivilege of being interred in a temple dedicated to the service of his\nCreator.\"\n\n\n\n\n{271}\n\nINDEX\n\n\nAbbotsford, 52, 54, 74\n\nAberdeen, Bishop (Chisholm) of, 73, 124, 139, 149\n\nAbingdon, 7th Earl of, 34, 252\n\nAbruzzi, Duca dei, 82\n\nAix-les-bains, visit to, 228\n\nAmelie of Portugal, Queen, 226\n\nAmpleforth Abbey, 120, 138, 153, 201, 217; jubilee of, 230, 251\n\nAnderson, Mary (Mme. Navarro), 153\n\nAngus, Rev. George, 19 _note_, 122; death of, 124 _note_, 138, 196,\n224, 238\n\nAnson, Sir William, M.P., 138\n\n_Aragon_, R.M.S.P., 155\n\nArgyll and the Isles, Bishop (Smith) of, 240\n\nArthur of Connaught, Prince, 92; Princess, 225\n\nArundel Castle, 3, 8, 13, 42, 51, 65, 105, 108, 109, 223, 260, 261\n\nAsquith, Mrs., 198\n\nAthole, Duke of, 64 _note_\n\n\nBailey, \"Abe,\" 151\n\nBalfour of Burleigh, Lord, 176\n\nBalfour, Arthur, 59 _note_, 62\n\nBall, Provost, 102\n\nBalston, Dr. Edward, 171\n\nBath and Wells, Bishop (Kennion) of, 100\n\nBattenberg, Prince and Princess Henry of, 237 _note_\n\nBeaufort Castle, 61, 81, 99, 106, 119, 132, 151, 195, 220, 227\n\nBeauly, Scouts' monument at, 61\n\nBeethoven's Grand Mars, 217\n\nBellairs, Lieut. Carlyon, M.P., 143\n\nBellingham of Castlebellingham, 47, 67 _note_\n\nBelloc, Hilaire, 143\n\nBelmont Priory, 7, 147\n\nBenedictine life and work in Brazil, 159-185\n\nBenn, Sir John, M.P., 186\n\nBenson, Robert Hugh, 93, 129\n\nBertouche, Baron de, 11\n\nBirrell, Augustine, 69 _note_\n\nBismarck, William II and, 24\n\nBlairquhan, 119, 149\n\nBlair's College, 124\n\nBlenheim Palace, 20, 44, 65\n\nBodley's Librarian, 103, 104\n\nBoulogne-sur-mer, 125, 126\n\nBooth, \"General,\" 92\n\nBoothby, Sir Brooke, 153\n\nBourne, Archbishop, 4 _note_, 43, 75; Cardinal, 223, 231, 240, 253,\n259, 263\n\nBowlby, Eleanor, 141\n\nBowyer, Sir George, 46 _note_\n\nBoyle, Hon. Alan, 189, 196\n\nBoyle, Dean George, 53 _note_\n\nBoyle, James (consul), 187\n\nBoyle, Hon. John, 257\n\nBradfield College, Greek plays at, 20, 92\n\nBramham Park, 96\n\nBrazil, Dr. Vidal, 174\n\nBroughton, Rhoda, 113\n\nBuckie, 220\n\nBuoncompagni-Ludovisi, Don Andrea, 77\n\nBurges, William, 58\n\nBurgon, Dean, 104, 136\n\nBury St. Edmunds, pageant at, 91, 92\n\nButcher, Professor, M.P., 138\n\nBute, 4th Marquis of, 1, 35, 40, 47, 54, 56, 62, 118, 146, 222, 240, 259\n\nBute, Dowager Marchioness of, 10, 54, 101, 152\n\nButler, Abbot, 84, 245\n\n\nCaerphilly Castle, 147\n\nCaldey Abbey, 255\n\nCaledonian Club, 222\n\nCaloen, Bishop Gerard van, 245\n\nCambridge, 141, 199\n\nCampbell of Skerrington, 124\n\nCampbell-Bannerman, Sir H., 43, 59 _note_\n\nCampden, Viscount, 69\n\nCanterbury, 8, 9, 249\n\nCardiff Castle, 59, 141, 263\n\nCaruana, D. Maurus, 250\n\nCastlebellingham, 47, 48\n\nCecil, Lord Hugh, 45, 49, 138, 143\n\nCecil, Lord William, 225\n\nChamberlain, Joseph, 59\n\nChambery, Cardinal Archbishop of, 229\n\nCheadle, church at, 231\n\nChoate, 69\n\nChurchill, Winston, 47, 171\n\nClumber, chapel at, 57 _note_\n\nCorehouse, 21\n\n_Corpus Christi_ at S. Paulo, 181; at Arundel, 261\n\nCraigmillar Castle, 152\n\nCranbrook, Earls of, 193, 194\n\nCrianlarich, 206\n\nCrichton-Stuart, Lord Colum, 79\n\nCrichton-Stuart, Lord Ninian, 10, 67, 129, 130, 176, 203\n\nCuddesdon College, 128\n\nCumbrae, Isle of, 69 _note_, 101, 152\n\nCurzon of Kedleston, Lord, 84, 89, 100, 102\n\n\nDalrymple, Sir Charles, 62, 141, 240, 241 _note_\n\nDalrymple, Hon. North, 176\n\nDarwin, Charles, 137, 267, 268\n\nDay, Sir John, 37\n\nDe Moleyns, Captain, 112\n\nDerwent Hall, 3\n\nDillon, 17th Viscount, 12\n\nDolan, Dom Gilbert, 57 _note_\n\nDorchester Abbey, 128\n\nDorrien-Smith, \"King of Scilly,\" 141\n\nDouai Abbey, 137, 200, 221, 250, 257\n\nDoune Castle, 218, 240\n\nDownside Abbey, 42, 56, 84, 129, 263\n\nDumfries, convent-school at, 21, 49, 94, 117; asylum at, 49\n\nDumfries House, 54\n\nDunblane, cathedral at, 205; Queen Victoria's School at, 230\n\nDunedin, Lord, 81\n\nDunskey, 9, 48, 118, 149\n\n\nEastbourne, 87\n\nEdmonstoune-Cranstouns, 21\n\nEdward VII, King, 83, 127, 155; death of, 179\n\nEllice, Mrs., of Invergarry, 204\n\nEllis, Professor Robinson, 86, 87\n\nElwes, Lady Winifride, 212\n\nEncombe, Viscountess, 109, 139; John Viscount, 139\n\nEton College, 50, 129, 147, 225\n\nEugenie, Empress, 99 _note_, 242\n\nEveringham Park, 12, 96\n\n\"Evil Eye,\" the, 77\n\nExton Park, 51\n\n\nFaber, Rev. F. W., 145, 250\n\nFanshawe, Admiral Sir Arthur, 120\n\nFarnborough, Benedictine Abbey at, 11, 241\n\nFarrer, Sir William, death of, 215, 218\n\nFairlie of Myers, 123\n\nFergusson, Sir James, 62; death of, 83\n\nFife, Colonel Sir Aubone, 237\n\nFitzgerald, Percy, 12\n\nFort Augustus Abbey: reunited with English Benedictines, 176; railway\nat, 202; election of abbot at, 239\n\nFranquetot, Marquis de, 125\n\nFranqueville, Comtesse de, 125\n\nFraser, Hon. Alastair, 215, 221\n\n\nGainsborough, 3rd Earl of, 39, 51, 69, 263\n\nGalloway, Bishop (Turner) of, 259\n\nGarrett-Fawcett, Mrs., 128\n\nGasquet, Abbot, 19, 37, 240, 251; Cardinal, 261, 263\n\nGiustiniani-Bandini, Prince, 16\n\nGladstone, W. E., at Eton, 170 _note_\n\nGlasgow, George, 6th Earl of, 101\n\nGlasgow, David, 7th Earl of, 149, 203\n\nGleann Mhor Gathering, 149, 254\n\nGlencarron, 99\n\nGordon, Brig.-Gen. Alister, 106 _note_\n\nGoring-on-Thames, 147\n\nGormanston, 15th Visct., 67\n\nGorwood, D. Paulinus, 98\n\nGoschen, Viscount, 5, 83, 84\n\nGower, Lord Ronald, 35 _note_\n\nGreene, Wilfrid, 7\n\nGrissell, Captain Frank, 111, 209\n\nGrissell, Hartwell, 11; death of, 86, 111, 206\n\nGuernsey, visit to, 68\n\n\nHadow, 142\n\nHaggard, Sir William, 158\n\nHallam, Arthur, at Eton, 170 _note_\n\nHamel, Gustave, 211\n\nHamilton of Dalzell, 2nd Lord, 81\n\nHampton Court, 147\n\nHarcourt, Sir William, death of, 28\n\nHautecombe, Abbey of, 229\n\nHawkesyard Priory, 23\n\nHay, Bishop George, centenary of, 215, 216\n\nHay, Malcolm, 124\n\nHedley, Bishop, 105, 130, 195, 236\n\nHemptinne, Abbot Hildebrand de, 246\n\nHemsted Park, 193\n\nHerbert of Lea, Lady, death of, 218\n\nHerries, 11th Lord, 1, 95, 109\n\nHexham and Newcastle, Bishop (Wilkinson) of, 23; death of, 140\n\nHicks-Beach, Sir Michael, 5\n\nHornby, Provost, death of, 170\n\nHorsley, Sir Victor, 43, 191\n\nHoward, Lady Katherine, 223\n\nHoward, Lady Mary, 1\n\nHoward of Glossop, Winifred Lady, 101\n\nHuegel, Baron Anatole von, 107\n\nHyde, Lord, 51\n\n\nItalian  cavalry officers, at Olympia, 115\n\n\nJarvis, Captain and Mrs. Cracroft, 66\n\nJerningham, Sir Hubert, 72, 80, 95, 151\n\n\nKeir, 205, 212, 218, 230, 236, 237, 239, 257\n\nKelburn, Viscount, R.N., 46, 65, 192\n\nKennard, Mgr. Canon, 19, 20, 23, 43, 80, 112, 121, 127, 135, 197, 208\n\nKennard, Colonel Hegan, 128, 145\n\nKerr, Philip, 29, 121\n\nKerr, General Lord Ralph, 1, 73 _note_, 76, 121, 153, 203; Admiral Lord\nWalter, 153\n\nKinharvie, 1\n\nKipling, Rudyard, at Oxford, 91\n\nKneller Court, 109, 126, 154\n\nKnill, Sir John, 129\n\nKruse, Abbot Miguel, 159, 176, 216, 245\n\n\nLadycross School, Seaford, 153\n\nLane Fox, George, 74, 96, 148, 233, 252\n\nLang, Andrew, 53, 132\n\nLangdon Park, 116\n\nLansdowne, 5th Marquis of, 5\n\nLaw, Bonar, 81\n\nLee, Dr. Frederick George, 136\n\nLegge, the Ladies, 66 _note_\n\nLeicester, 1st and 2nd Earls of, 35 _note_\n\nLeinster, 6th Duke of, 65\n\nLeo XIII, Pope, 246\n\nLepicier, Pere, 232\n\nLichfield, Augustus, Bishop of, 66; Choristers' House at, 105\n\nLiddell, Dean, 31\n\nLinlithgow, 2nd Marquis of, married, 210\n\nLister, Hon. Laura, 191, 194; married, 198\n\nLittleton Church, regimental colours in, 115\n\nLongridge Towers, 72, 95, 153\n\nLoudoun, 11th Earl of, 48, 49, 121, 133\n\nLouvain University, Jubilee of, 137\n\nLovat, 14th Lord, 61, 99, 106, 148, 191; married, 198, 208, 214, 220,\n240\n\nLovat, Alice Lady, 73, 132, 191, 211, 235\n\nLowndes, Selby, 119\n\nLucerne, visit to, 41\n\nLucius of Chur, St., 213, 214 _note_\n\nLyttelton, Hon. Alfred, 45\n\nLyttelton, Hon. Edward, 51\n\n\nMacCall, Rev. A. N. L., 14, 242\n\nMacdonald, Andrew, death of, 240\n\nMacdonald, General Hector, lines on, 13 _note_\n\nMacdonell, D. Andrew, 211\n\nMackintosh, The, 61\n\nMacRae, Colin, 259\n\nMadeira, visit to, 187\n\nMallock, W. H., 80, 135\n\nMan, Isle of, 49 _note_, 118\n\nManderston, 100\n\nManning, Archbishop, 248\n\nMaple, Lady, 146\n\nMaredsons, Abbey of, 249\n\nMarie Louise, Princess, 154\n\nMaryborough, 9th Duke of, 20, 44; Consuelo Duchess of, 20, 44\n\nMartindale, Cyril, S.J., 7, 79\n\nMaturin, Father, 106, 140, 217, 262\n\nMaxwell, Sir Herbert, 154\n\nMaxwell-Scott, Hon. Joseph and Mrs., 53 _note_\n\nMelrose Abbey, 74\n\nMerry del Val, Cardinal, 15, 240\n\nMerthyr Tydvil, 57\n\nMetternich, Prince, 25\n\nMilan, visits to, 18, 64, 249\n\nMilner, Lord, 65, 68\n\nMitchinson, Bishop, 33, 60, 200\n\nMonte Carlo, 63, 64\n\nMonte Cassino, 17, 243-245\n\nMontrose, Duke and Duchess of, 230\n\nMoore, Canon Edward, 8, 249\n\nMoray, 16th Earl of, 153, 219, 240\n\nMorin, D. Germain, O.S.B., 45\n\nMountstuart, 1, 35, 72, 118\n\nMunich, festival at, 23\n\nMyres Castle, 123\n\n\nNaples, visit to, 40\n\nNathalan, Brother, 209; death of, 260, 261\n\nNeville, Rev. William, 217 _note_\n\nNewburgh, Scoto-Italian of, 16 _note_\n\nNewhailes, 100\n\nNice, visit to, 63\n\nNiddrie-Marischal, 101, 152\n\nNorfolk, 15th Duke of, 1, 2, 8; married, 12, 69, 76, 139, 144, 202,\n219, 240\n\nNorfolk, Flora Duchess of, 203 _note_, 209\n\nNorfolk, Gwendolen Duchess of, 14, 65\n\nNorham Castle, 72\n\nNorwich, St. John's Church at, 202\n\nNuneham Park, 39\n\n\nOakamoor College, 145, 212, 231\n\nOdo, Father, O.S.B., 233, 234\n\nOlinda (Brazil), 153, 155, 157, 187\n\nOman, Professor, 90, 201\n\nOratory (Birmingham), 75, 121, 144\n\nOratory (London), 198, 250\n\nOrr-Ewing, Charles, M.P., 8\n\nOsterley Park, 21\n\nO'Sullivan Beare, The, 154 _note_\n\nOxford, Benedictine Hall at, 4; chancellor of, 5; floods at, 10;\nportraits at, 34; boy-prodigies at, 38; pageant at, 89-91\n\nOxford and Cambridge Club, 260\n\n\nPageant at Warwick, 70; Oxford, 89; Bury St. Edmunds, 91; Cardiff, 146\n\nParis, pictures at, 230\n\nParker, D. Anselm, 127\n\nPatterson, Bishop, 21\n\nPelham, Professor, death of, 83\n\nPenha Longa, Condessa de, 227\n\nPernambuco (Brazil), 156, 187\n\nPhillimore, Professor J. S., 55\n\nPius X, Pope, 15, 17, 205, 246\n\nPlowden, Alfred, 29\n\nPonsonby, Sir Frederick, 128, 153\n\nPortugal, murder of King of, 107\n\nPortugal, Ex-king Manoel of, 201\n\nPrado, Dona Veridiana, 180\n\nPugin, A. W., 57, 145, 226, 231\n\n\nRadley College, 47, 78\n\nRampolla, Cardinal, 15\n\nRamsgate, St. Augustine's Abbey at, 225\n\nRanguia, New Zealand chieftain, 120\n\nReid, Mrs. Whitelaw, 92\n\nRestabrig, St. Triduana's well at, 153\n\nRhodes Scholars at Oxford, 29-31, 200\n\nRickmansworth, 139\n\nRio de Janeiro, 157, 182, 202\n\nRipon, 1st Marquis of, 6 _note_\n\nRoberts, Earl, 59\n\nRome, Gregorian centenary at, 15; assembly of Abbots at, 246 _et seq._\n\nRosebery, 5th Earl of, 5, 33, 84\n\nRuskin, John, on music, 14 _note_; in Abbotsford, 53\n\nRutland, 7th Duke of, 21\n\n\nSt. Andrews, 27, 122, 196\n\nSt. Andrews, Archbishop (Smith) of, 124\n\nSt. Anselm's College, Rome, 246-8\n\nSalisbury, 3rd Marquis of, death of, 5, 33, 89\n\nSantos (Brazil), 186\n\nScarborough, Bank Holiday at, 71\n\nSchmitt, Mgr., Bishop of Chur, 213\n\nScorton, hospital at, 116\n\nScott, Sir Walter, 52\n\nShackleton, Ernest, 144\n\nSherborne, Susan Lady, death of, 83\n\nShrewsbury, 10th Earl of, 145\n\nSimeon, John, married, 140\n\nSimonetti, Signor, 77\n\nSinclair, Archdeacon John, 66\n\nSkene, Felicia, 53 _note_\n\n\"Smith of Wadham,\" F. E., 65\n\nSomerset, 15th Duke of, 152\n\nS. Paulo (Brazil), 156 _et seq._\n\nStafford, Marquis of, married, 224\n\nStair, 10th and 11th Earls of, 54 _note_, 123\n\nStirlings of Keir, 176, 205, 212, 236\n\nStonyhurst College, 221\n\nStotzingen, Abbot von, 248\n\nStronlairg, 214\n\nSutherland, 4th Duke of, 225\n\nSutherland, Anne Duchess of, 111 _note_; Millicent Duchess of, 20, 224\n\nSven Hedin, at Oxford, 135\n\n\nTalbot, Lord and Lady Edmund, 3, 61, 215\n\nTalcott, Dr. Selden, on early rising, 97 _note_\n\nTeck, Princess Alexander of, 50\n\nTemple, widow of Archbishop, 113\n\nTerregles, 256\n\nTichborne, Sir Joseph, 252\n\nTredegar, Viscount, 146\n\nTree, Beerbohm, 41\n\nTullibardine, Marchioness of, 257\n\nTwain, Mark, at Oxford, 91, 92\n\nTylee, Monsignor, 5, 6 _note_\n\n\nUganda, King of, at Fort Augustus, 253\n\nUniversity College School, 142\n\nUshaw College, 23\n\n\nVaughan, Father Bernard, 37, 79, 261; Prior Jerome, 258 _note_;\nCharles, married, 107; Bishop John, 215; Rev. Kenelm, 133\n\nVenice, visit to, 242\n\nVesey, Hon. T. E., married, 217\n\n_Victory_, H.M.S., 110\n\n\nWales, H.R.H. Prince of, 212, 222\n\nWalmesley, Mrs. Robert, 3\n\nWalsh, Archbishop, 66\n\nWaltham Abbey, 148\n\nWard, Wilfrid, 60, 134\n\nWare, St. Edmund's College, 222\n\nWarre, Dr. Edmond, 51\n\nWarwick, pageant at, 70\n\nWauchope of Niddrie, Mrs., 101, 152\n\nWells, J., 60\n\nWestminster Cathedral, 3, 74, 89, 107, 259\n\nWeston Birt, 26\n\nWiesbaden, visit to, 189-191\n\nWilberforce, Bishop Samuel, 121, 128\n\nWilkinson, Cicely Lady, 193\n\nWilliam II, Emperor, and Bismarck, 24; at Naples, 41\n\nWilloughby de Broke, Lord and Lady, 71\n\nWimborne, Lord, 99\n\nWinchilsea, Countess of, 45\n\nWoodburn, 1, 153, 203\n\nWoodchester Priory, 26\n\nWorcester, Bishop of, and Lady Barbara Yeatman-Biggs, 66\n\nWyndham, Sir Charles, 40\n\nWyndham, George, 81\n\nWytham Abbey, 35\n\n\nYew Luk Lin (Chinese Minister), 225\n\nYork, Archbishop (Lang) of, 216\n\n\n\n\n_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTelegrams:\n\n  \"Scholarly, Wesdo, London\"\n  41 and 43 Maddox Street,\n  Telephone: 1883 Mayfair.\n  London, W. 1.\n  _March_, 1922.\n\n\nMessrs. Edward Arnold & Co.'s\n\nSPRING ANNOUNCEMENTS, 1922\n\n\nMOUNT EVEREST\n\nThe Reconnaissance, 1921.\n\nBy LIEUT.-COLONEL C. K. HOWARD-BURY, D.S.O., AND OTHER MEMBERS OF THE\nEXPEDITION.\n\n_With 33 full-page illustrations and maps.  Medium 8vo._\n\n25s. net.\n\n_Also a Limited Large Paper Edition, with additional plates in\nphotogravure.  Demy 4to, each copy numbered._\n\nL5 5s. net.\n\n\nA journey through \"unknown country,\" with the highest mountain on earth\nas objective,--what visions of mystery and romance it conjures!  This\nis the first great piece of exploration attempted since pre-war days,\nand the expedition will doubtless rank with the classic Arctic and\ncontinental achievements that have made land-marks in the annals of\ndiscovery.\n\nThe book opens with a brilliant introduction by Sir Francis\nYounghusband, President of the Royal Geographical Society and Chairman\nof the Mount Everest Committee, by which the Expedition was organised.\nThen comes the fascinating narrative of the expedition itself, told by\nCol. Howard-Bury, the leader; he is followed by Mr. G. Leigh-Mallory\nwho describes the strenuous climbing which, after many failures and\ndisappointments, discovered what appears to be a feasible route to the\nsummit.  Mr. A. F. Wollaston, another member of the expedition,\nenlarges upon the remarkable fauna and flora of the Tibetan plateau and\nvalleys, and the valuable Survey work undertaken is summarized by Major\nO. E. Wheeler.  The Geological results are dealt with by Dr. A. M.\nHeron.  Especially interesting, in view of the coming season's\nexpedition, is a chapter by Prof. Norman Collie, President of the\nAlpine Club, upon the difficulties of mountaineering at such\nunprecedented altitudes and the prospects of reaching the summit of\nMount Everest in 1922.\n\nThe illustrations, taken from the magnificent series of photographs\nbrought back by the expedition, are visions of beauty and grandeur, and\nthe Maps display for the first time the topography and general features\nof a vast region hitherto unexplored.  The hill-shaded map of the mass\nof Mount Everest itself on a scale of 1/100,000, will enable readers to\ntrace the progress of the climbing parties in 1922, while showing in\ndetail the assaults made upon the great mountain during the\nreconnaissance.\n\n\n\nGENERAL ASTRONOMY.\n\nBy H. SPENCER JONES, M.A., B.Sc.,\n\nCHIEF ASSISTANT AT THE ROYAL OBSERVATORY, GREENWICH.\n\nAbout 400 pages, with 103 diagrams and 24 plates.\n\nDemy 8vo.  Cloth.  About 21s. net.\n\nMr. Spencer Jones, who is the leader of this year's British Eclipse\nExpedition to Christmas Island, has written a book covering the general\naspects of Astronomy.  The subject matter is treated from the\nscientific standpoint in the light of modern theories.  At the same\ntime the exposition is not too recondite and is such as to stimulate\nthe general reader who is interested in the study of the Heavens.\nWhenever possible the argument is simplified by reference to a diagram,\nand throughout the book mathematics have only been used where essential\nfor the elucidation of any problem.\n\nThe book is fully illustrated and has twenty-four magnificent plates\ndepicting comets, nebulae, planets, etc., being the pick of the\nobservations of the different Observatories.\n\n\n\nA NEW MEDLEY OF MEMORIES.\n\nBY THE\n\nRIGHT REV. SIR DAVID HUNTER BLAIR, BT., O.S.B.,\n\nTITULAR ABBOT OF DUNFERMLINE.\n\nWith Portrait.  Demy 8vo.  16s. net.\n\nIt will be remembered that the Author's first \"Medley\" published in\n1919 only brought his reminiscences to the year 1903.  He has now\ncontinued them for another decade, and the contents of the new volume\nare as full of variety and anecdote as ever.  Many a notable personage\nfigures in these pages; many a good story is told and many interesting\nfragments of antiquarian and ecclesiastical lore are quoted.\n\nIt was the Author's privilege to spend some time in the service of his\nOrder in Brazil, and his account of monastic life in the tropical\nsurroundings is full of interest.  At Rome, again, he describes in\nvivid phrases several picturesque religious functions which he\nattended, and wherever he goes he finds fresh material for shrewd and\nkindly comment.\n\n\n\nIS GERMANY PROSPEROUS?\n\nBy SIR HENRY PENSON, K.B.E., M.A.,\n\nFORMERLY CHAIRMAN OF THE WAR TRADE INTELLIGENCE DEPARTMENT AND\n  DIRECTOR OF THE INTELLIGENCE SECTION OF THE BRITISH DELEGATION\n  TO THE PEACE CONFERENCE, PARIS, 1919.\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE ECONOMICS OF EVERYDAY LIFE.\"\n\nCrown 8vo.  3s. 6d. net.\n\nThis is a question which every intelligent person is asking, and to\nwhich the answers supplied through the ordinary channels of information\nare widely divergent and confusing.  Sir Henry Penson is a very shrewd\nobserver well-qualified by training and experience to sift evidence and\nform an impartial judgment on facts and arguments.  In addition, he is\na very lucid economic writer and explains clearly the influence of the\nexchange position upon the situation in Germany at the present day.\n\nThe Author visited Germany only a few weeks ago, and was helped in his\ninvestigations not only by British officials in the Rhineland, but by\nGermans of high position in industrial and commercial circles whose\nstatements he checked carefully.  One has only to read his chapters on\nPrices in Germany, or on Incomes and Standard of Living in order to\nappreciate the value of his evidence, and of the conclusions at which\nhe arrived.  They have, of course, an important bearing upon the vital\nquestion \"Can Germany Pay?\"\n\n\n\nRECENTLY PUBLISHED.\n\nMEMORIES AND NOTES OF PERSONS AND PLACES.\n\nBy SIR SIDNEY COLVIN, M.A., D.Litt.,\n\nFORMERLY SLADE PROFESSOR OF FINE ART IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE\n  AND KEEPER OF THE PRINTS AND DRAWINGS AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.\n\nWith Portrait.  Second Impression.  18s. net.\n\n\"Readers of this book will be visited by only one regret--that Sir\nSidney Colvin was compelled to abandon his larger plan of writing his\npersonal recollections in several volumes.  Such dreams, such memories\nas these are treasures.  Sir Sidney, for all his modesty, does not\npersuade us that they can be enjoyed so richly without some equivalent\nvirtue.  That there are special aptitudes for reaching Corinth is\nproved by these delightful pages.\"--_Times Literary Supplement_.\n\n\"The sloven style, the trivial matter, of so many of the Reminiscences\nwhich every publishing season pours forth makes all the more welcome by\ncontrast a book of memories that is both rich in interest and itself a\npiece of literature.  Such is Sir Sidney Colvin's 'Memories and Notes.'\nIt is a pleasure to read from beginning to end, if only for the exact\nand vivid phrasing, the sustained felicity of cadence, at times\ntouching emotion and imagination at once with just that kind of beauty\nof sound in the words which is proper to fine prose.\"--Mr. LAURENCE\nBINYON in the _Bookman_.\n\n\"The man who enormously increased the regard of the public for Landor,\nwho indefatigably forwarded the interests of R. L. Stevenson, and who\nis unmatched for his scholarly exposition of Keats, would, of course,\nwrite a book of literary gossip with distinction and taste.  But Sir\nSidney Colvin has done more than that.  This book is a model of what\nsuch books should be; it is well bred, balanced, informing, and yet it\nis light and readable all through.\"--_Spectator_.\n\n\"After all the reminiscences by women of no conceivable importance, and\nall the gossip of chatterboxes in the purlieus of Fleet Street, it is\npleasant to meet a narrator who comes under the old-fashioned\ncomfortable rubric of 'a scholar and a gentleman.'\n\n  Oh! how comely it is and how reviving\n  To the spirits of just men long opprest\n\nby fusty anecdotes about third-class politicians to breathe the\natmosphere of intellectual good breeding.\"--Mr. EDMUND GOSSE in _The\nSunday Times_.\n\n\"The high vitality of the 'seventies and 'eighties, both in England and\nFrance, is made to pulse again.  The book is indispensable where it was\nbound to excel, as in the personal study of Robert Louis Stevenson.\nBut, also, it is singularly close and graphic in ways for which we were\nnot prepared.\"--_Observer_.\n\n\"Full of inimitable pictures.\"--_Nation and Athenaeum_.\n\n\"The leading literary and artistic figures of 60 years flit through the\npages with a fascination which will amply repay those who have awaited\npublication of the book for its real worth.  The whole of the fifty\npages of Stevensonia give a more faithful picture of R. L. S. on the\nhuman side than anyone has hitherto been able to do.\"--_Daily News_.\n\n\n\n\nADRIENNE TONER.\n\nBy ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK\n  (MRS. BASIL DE SELINCOURT),\n\nAUTHOR OF \"TANTE,\" \"THE ENCOUNTER,\" \"VALERIE UPTON,\" ETC.\n\nThird Impression.  Crown 8vo.  7s. 6d. net.\n\n\"Exquisite is the word that swims, not 'darkly' but with a sense of\nutter satisfaction, through the brain in summing up Miss Anne Douglas\nSedgwick's new novel, Adrienne Toner.  Its quality is extraordinarily\neven.  It is a fine book, with flashes of humour and a strong and clear\nreading of human life, and withal of a quality of which it can only be\nsaid at last, as at first, that it is exquisite.\"--_Country Life_.\n\n\"I loved 'Adrienne Toner.'  A wonderful book, I thought.  It's well\nworth reading.\"--From \"The Letters of Evelyn\" in the _Tatler_.\n\n\"As a penetrating study of a rather uncommon personality it must be\nregarded as a first-class piece of work.\"--_Daily Telegraph_.\n\n\"In this grave and beautiful comedy of English life, with its central\nfigure typifying the strength and crudity of those spiritual influences\nwhich have come to us from America, Anne Douglas Sedgwick reveals the\ngrowth and maturity of her power.\"--_Westminster Gazette_.\n\n\"An immensely clever study of an American girl and of the havoc wrought\nby her entry into an ordinary English country family.  It is probably\nthe best novel Miss Sedgwick has yet written.\"--_Evening Standard_.\n\n\"Miss Sedgwick has never done better than in this novel and in nothing\nis it so admirable as in the way in which her laughter leaves us and\nher ready to admire Adrienne when, not changed, but converted, she\nlearns from Oldmeadow how much she has grown in spiritual\nwisdom.\"--_Daily News_.\n\n\"A remarkable and living narrative, well deserving all the applause\nthat it has received.\"--_Outlook_.\n\n\"It is a surprising book--delicate and imaginative.  Miss Sedgwick\nexcels in the rendering of recurrent moods, changes of attitude, subtle\ncurrents of feeling.  This is by far the best work she has given\nus.\"--_British Weekly_.\n\n\"A novel of rare distinction.\"--_Pall Mall Gazette_.\n\n\"No one could read 'Adrienne Toner' without determining to miss nothing\nfrom the same pen.\"--_Birmingham Post_.\n\n\"It is a long time since one has read a novel at once as interesting\nand as satisfying in its craftsmanship as this.  Miss Sedgwick's\nartistry is firmer and stronger in her new book than ever yet.  The way\nin which Adrienne is made visible is from the start quite\nmasterly.\"--_Review of Reviews_.\n\n\"The book is to be read, thoughtfully and carefully, and with the\nrealization that all the time we are seeing into some of the\ncomplexities of human nature as they are presented to us to-day.  A\nfascinating and powerful and uncommon book.\"--_Church Times_.\n\n\n\nTHE RAINBOW BRIDGE.\n\nBy REGINALD FARRER,\n\nAUTHOR OF \"MY ROCK GARDEN,\" \"ALPINES AND BOG PLANTS,\" ETC.\n\nWith Illustrations and Map.  Second Impression.  21s. net.\n\n\"A classic of travel.  Of modern travellers with a sense of style, Mr.\nFarrer must take his place in the forefront alongside of Mr. Doughty,\nMr. Cunninghame Graham, and Mr. Norman Douglas.\"--_Times Literary\nSupplement_.\n\n\"There can be no denying that Mr. Farrer was one of the great masters\nof English prose.  His last book is bright with sidelights on _vie\nintime_ of the essential China.\"--_Morning Post_.\n\n\n\nTHE SOUL AND BODY OF AN ARMY.\n\nBy GENERAL SIR IAN HAMILTON, G.C.B.\n\nAUTHOR OF \"A STAFF-OFFICER'S SCRAP-BOOK,\" \"GALLIPOLI DIARY,\" ETC.\n\nOne Volume.  Demy 8vo.  18s. net.\n\n\"Sir Ian Hamilton has performed a _tour de force_.  He has written a\nbook on military organization, and in his book there is not a dull\npage.  It will make some angry, it will make some think, but certainly\nit will not produce a yawn.\"--Major-General Sir F. MAURICE in the\n_Daily News_.\n\n\"It is an odd, original, unequal, thought-compelling book, often\nexasperating, but never for a moment dull.  It is persuasive, too, and\non all the greater matters judicious.\"--JOHN BUCHAN in _The Evening\nStandard_.\n\n\n\nWAR AND NATIONAL FINANCE.\n\nBy the HON. R. H. BRAND, C.M.G.,\n\nFELLOW OF ALL SOULS COLLEGE, OXFORD.\n\nOne Volume.  Demy 8vo.  15s. net.\n\n\"A work which is not merely interesting but is most\nvaluable.\"--_Morning Post_.\n\n\"By its lucidity, if for no other reason, it will be quite as\ninteresting to the layman as to those who pretend to a small knowledge\nof economics.\"--_Daily Telegraph_.\n\n\"No one can read it without seeing the world's situation in the white\nlight of fact and truth and it is a sure cure for most current\nfallacies.\"--_Financial News_.\n\n\n\nHINDUISM AND BUDDHISM.\n\nAn Historical Sketch.\n\nBy SIR CHARLES ELIOT, K.C.M.G.,\n\nH.B.M. AMBASSADOR AT TOKIO.\n\nThree Volumes.  L4 4s. net.\n\n\"There can hardly be an over-measure of praise accorded to Sir Charles\nEliot for the methods he uses and the qualities he exhibits.  A set of\nvolumes which henceforth, surely, must be counted indispensable.\"--_The\nTimes Literary Supplement_.\n\n\n\n\nNEW SCIENTIFIC AND TECHNICAL BOOKS.\n\n\nISOTOPES\n\nBy F. W. ASTON, M.A., D.Sc., F.R.S.,\n\nFELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.\n\nWith Diagrams and Plates.  Demy 8vo.  9s. net.\n\nThe foundations of the Atomic Theory have been based for over a century\non Dalton's definition of the Atom.  The discovery of radio-activity\nand the application of Positive Rays to the analysis of the elements\nhave shown that our conception of the Atom as being homogeneous and\nindivisible must be modified.  No one is better fitted to deal with the\nsubject of isotopes than Dr. Aston, whose memoirs on this subject\nextend over a number of years.  The book deals not only with isotopes,\nbut gives a general survey of the electrical theory of matter.\n\n\n\nAN INORGANIC CHEMISTRY.\n\nBy H. G. DENHAM, M.A., D.Sc, PH.D.,\n\nPROFESSOR OF INORGANIC CHEMISTRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAPETOWN.\n\nxii + 684 pages, with 144 figures and 56 tables.\n\nDemy 8vo.  Cloth.  About 12s. 6d. net.\n\nThis is a general survey of inorganic chemistry up to the Intermediate\nExamination Standard of the Universities.  Obsolete manufacturing\nprocesses are omitted unless they illustrate some particular type of\nchemical reaction.  The book is treated from a modern standpoint, as\nmuch Physical Chemistry being introduced as is necessary for the proper\nunderstanding of the subject.\n\n\n\nMAGNETISM AND ELECTRICITY.\n\nBy J. PALEY YORKE, A.M.I.E.E.,\n\nHEAD OF THE PHYSICS AND ELECTRICAL ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT AT THE\n  L.C.C. SCHOOL OF ENGINEERING AND NAVIGATION, POPLAR.\n\nSecond Edition.  Crown 8vo.  About 5s. net.\n\nThe Author has completely rewritten this book and brought it into line\nwith the modern methods of teaching the subject.  It is written\nprimarily for the student in Technical Schools and abounds in\nreferences to the various problems the student is likely to meet in his\nevery-day work.\n\n\n\nRAILWAY ELECTRIC TRACTION.\n\nBy F. W. CARTER, M.I.E.E.,\n\nHEAD OF THE TRACTION DEPARTMENT OF THE BRITISH THOMSON HOUSTON COMPANY,\nRUGBY.\n\n400 pages, with 204 diagrams, photographs and plates.\n\nDemy 8vo.  Cloth.  About 25s. net.\n\nThe author, a well-known authority on this subject, starts with a\nsurvey of the different systems of electrification and with a\ncomparison between steam and electric working under various conditions.\nHe then deals with the locomotive, distribution systems, etc., in\ndetail and develops the mathematical calculations necessary for dealing\nwith the various problems which arise.  Finally the characteristics of\nthe principal types of electrical locomotives throughout the world are\ngiven with photographs of certain of these locomotives.\n\n\n\nELEMENTARY HYDRAULICS FOR TECHNICAL STUDENTS.\n\nBy F. C. LEA, D.Sc., M.INST., C.E.,\n\nPROFESSOR OF CIVIL ENGINEERING IN THE UNIVERSITY OF BIRMINGHAM.\n\nCrown 8vo.  About 8s. 6d. net.\n\nProfessor Lea, who is well known as the author of \"Hydraulics for\nEngineers and Engineering Students,\" has here written a shorter book\nsuitable for the courses taken in Technical Schools.  Certain of the\nmore elementary portions of the original book are included in this\nvolume, but much of the material is new.\n\n\n\nIONS ELECTRONS AND IONIZING RADIATIONS.\n\nBy J. A. CROWTHER, M.A., Sc.D.,\n\nUNIVERSITY DEMONSTRATOR IN EXPERIMENTAL PHYSICS IN THE UNIVERSITY OF\nCAMBRIDGE.\n\nThird Edition.  Demy 8vo.  12s. 6d. net.\n\nThis book, originally published in November, 1919, has been thoroughly\nrevised.  Many portions have been entirely rewritten and of these the\nChapter on \"The Electron Theory of Matter\" should be especially\nmentioned.  The tables of constants have been revised in accordance\nwith the best data available and the book is in all respects abreast of\nthe progress in this fast developing branch of modern Physics.\n\n\n\nLondon: EDWARD ARNOLD & Co., 41 & 43 Maddox Street, W. 1.","title":"A New Medley of Memories","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":81300}