St. Mary's.
If there is one spot in our country to which the American Catholic turns with special interest, it is certainly to the landing-place of Lord Baltimore's colony in Maryland and the site of St. Mary's City. New Englanders are never weary of boasting of "our pilgrim forefathers," who landed on Plymouth Rock to obtain freedom to worship God according to their own peculiar notions. To have an ancestor who came over in the Mayflower is equivalent to a patent of nobility—it sets the fortunate individual above his fellows, and makes him a member of a caste truly Brahminical.
The Catholic can turn with far greater pride to those spiritual forefathers who, with no self-righteousness, sought in the new world not only liberty of conscience, but allowed it to others; who were so just in their dealings with the natives that they never took an inch of land without paying for it; and who, by their Christian kindness, won over so many of the Indians to genuine Christianity. We truly have reason to say,
"Ay, call it holy ground
The soil where first they trod!"
I had always wished to visit this consecrated spot so dear to the Catholic heart, and embraced the first convenient opportunity of doing so. I rode down from Leonardtown during the pleasant Indian summer time. My most vivid remembrance of the ride is of passing over a frequent succession of what my Aunt Pilcher used to call "sarvent-madams."—a sudden depression, as if be tween two logs, which unceremoniously pitched you forward in the carriage and then brought you up with a sudden jerk, thus forcing you to make an impromptu bow which gave point to the pleasant name of "sarvent-madams." This sort of exercise may be novel, but a continuation of it is not at all amusing, and I was glad when, after a ride of about twenty miles, we emerged from a woody path, crossed a stream, and found ourselves on the high plain where once stood the city of St. Mary. One is surprised—pained—to find not one stone left upon another of that settlement. When the seat of government was removed, nature resumed her sway and avenged herself for the ravages of man by obliterating most of his traces and reclothing the place with her own freshness and beauty. There are now a few dwellings belonging to the farmer who owns this historic site, a barnlike church belonging to the Episcopalians, said to have been built of the ruins of the old state-house, and a large brick building that stands dreary and treeless, looking like a factory, but which is really a seminary for young ladies, the monument erected by the Maryland legislature to commemorate the landing of the first colonists! It would be an excellent place for a convent of Carthusians; but to banish lively girls to this lonely region, lovely though it be, so far from any town, several miles from the post-office, and with no literary advantages, must have been the conception of some malicious and dyspeptic old bachelor. The young are rarely lovers of nature. Those whose souls have been chastened and weaned from the world alone find a balm therein. It is a great defect in the training of our youth that they are not made more observant of natural objects. Insects, vegetation, the very stones beneath the feet, are a source of unceasing pleasure to the heart in sympathy with nature in all her infinite variety. But this requires teachers who are capable of opening to youth the great treasure-house of nature. It is not always the most intellectual people who are the most fond of the country. Madame de Staël preferred living in the fourth story of a house on the Rue du Bac in Paris to a villa on the enchanted shores of Lake Geneva. And Dr. Johnson thought there was no view that equalled the high tide of human beings at Charing Cross.
This seminary is intended to educate the young ladies of prevailing religious sects of the country, each of which is represented by a teacher. I have understood that at times there have been serious conflicts between those who were for Paul and those who were for Apollos; but this is not at all surprising in a place where they must be driven to desperation for a little excitement. The only church near is the Episcopal, where the services are very intermittent indeed, which obliges the teachers to play the part of chaplain.
This uninviting church is in a yard full of old graves, shaded by clumps of hollies and gloomy cedars. There is a venerable old mulberry-tree in the midst, now quite decayed, but still putting forth a few leafy branches, said to have been planted (a twig from old England) by Leonard Calvert's own hands. There is a tradition that he was buried in this yard—perhaps near his tree, familiarly known as Lord Baltimore's tree—but there is nothing to indicate the precise spot. It is more probable that he was buried near the Catholic church, which was about a quarter of a mile farther down. Relic lovers have nearly killed this venerable tree, by cutting out pieces for canes, crosses, etc. Passing through the grassy graveyard, and descending a steep bank, you come to a narrow line of sand, a miniature beach on the shore of St. Mary's River, the place where the colony landed. The water is as salt as the sea, and the broad river deep enough for the Dove and the Ark to anchor. A gentle ripple came up over the yellow sand and crystalline pebbles. The broad expanse of water lay like a lake, with undulating hills in the background all covered with woods in their gorgeous autumn foliage. The whole scene was as calm and peaceful as if these waters had never been disturbed by Indian canoe or white man's craft.
A quarter of a mile south of the seminary was a turnip-field, where once stood the church the colonists hastened to build. You would not imagine you stood on consecrated ground where holy rites were once performed. This was not the place where the holy sacrifice was first offered. Their first chapel was an Indian wigwam, which a friendly native gave up to Father White; for the colonists founded an Indian village here which owned the pacific rule of King Yaocomico, and established themselves in peace beside it. Opposite the place where the church stood, and east of it, are some traces of the lord proprietary's residence. The old cellar is nearly filled with rubbish, in which are found fragments of crockery and bricks—bricks brought from the old country. There were grand doings here once. Hilarity and merriment had their hours in that miniature court, amid those of grave deliberations. But, at last, Pallida Mors, "that at every door knocks," came in the train, and brought mourning to all the settlers; for here died Leonard Calvert. He was nursed in his last moments by his relatives Margaret and Mary Brent. He died on the 9th of June, 1647. The place of his burial is not known. In these days of woman's rights, it may not be amiss to recall the first woman in this country, perhaps, who asserted her claim to share the privileges of the stronger sex. Margaret Brent was appointed by Governor Calvert his sole administratrix, which is certainly a proof of her capacity for business. By virtue of this appointment she claimed to be the attorney of the lord proprietor. Her claims were admitted by the council. She then appeared in the general assembly, and claimed the right to vote as Lord Baltimore's representative. This was not permitted. She was a large land-owner, and displayed her energy in laying out her estates; and she quelled a mutiny among some Virginia soldiers who had served under Leonard Calvert. It is surprising the strong-minded women of this day have not brought forward this fine precedent, who has been ranked with the famous Margaret of Parma, regent of the Netherlands. Let us hope, with all her fine abilities, that she retained her sweet womanly ways and that modesty which is the charm of her sex. I fancy she did, or she would never have subdued those early representatives of the gallant Virginia chivalry.
Close by the lord proprietary's place is a spot charming enough for Egeria. It is a spring of delicious water bubbling up from the rocks, that flows off in a streamlet, over tufts of the thickest and greenest moss. It is shaded by a dense clump of cedars and holly bushes—-a fit haunt for the dryades and all the sylvan deities. The warm noontide air was fanned into this cool and leafy bower, where the birds still sang and insects floated, bringing with it a certain aroma from the crushed leaves of the wood. From a distance came the measured cadence of some negro song, snatched up at the hour of noonday rest, which harmonized with the spot and the atmosphere. There is always an undertone of melancholy in the gayest songs of the colored race which lulls the heart, as sorrow underlies all gayety in the heart of man. It was a place to be alone with nature, poetry, God, and just the spot for an old hermit to set up his cell, and pass his days in sympathy with nature and in communion with nature's God.
With all its beauty, this plain of St. Mary's is full of melancholy, especially in the fall of the year. Haunted with memories, its loneliness is in such contrast with its past history that it touches the spring of regret. The autumn winds, the slight veil of haze that hangs over the landscape, are full of sadness. One seems to hear the wail of the forsaken lares whose altars have so long been levelled with the rest.
"In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,
The lares and lemures moan with midnight plaint."
The wailings of Jeremiah come to mind as we wander over the site of the city that was once full of people, but now sitteth solitary. "The city of thy sanctuary is become a desert, and the house of thy holiness and our glory, wherein thou wert praised, is laid desolate." Perhaps, after all, the melancholy was in my own heart; for the sky was clear, the earth smiling, and before us lay, glad and gleaming, the bright waters of the St. Mary's river,
"Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun."
There is this peculiarity about the river: its windings are so abrupt that from certain points there seems to be no outlet, and it has the appearance of a succession of lakelets; pellucid gems set at this autumn time in bosses enamelled with every shade of crimson and gold, which I loved to think a bright rosary strung by nature in honor of Our Lady.
Two or three miles from St. Mary's is Rose Croft, a charming old place at the very point between St. Inigoes Creek and St. Mary's River. In old colonial times it was the residence of the collector of the port of St. Mary's, and here lived the heroine of Kennedy's Rob of the Bowl. As I rode up to it, I half expected to see the fair Blanche peeping out of the window to see if the carriage did not contain the secretary.
The house is a low, broad one, with verandas and porches, and large, airy rooms, which look out upon a lovely water view. There is a good deal of wainscoting about it, and some carvings in the large parlor that witnessed the birthday festivities. The lady of the house told me that, in making some repairs, a few years ago, a ring and a pair of velvet slippers were found, perhaps once worn by Blanche. All around the yard grows spontaneously the passion flower, winding over every shrub and tree, and trailing along the ground. Everything was left very much to nature, and she had thrown over the grounds a certain sad grace of her own, which harmonized with the antiquity of the house, and the echo of past times that lingered in its rooms. A spruce garden and well-trimmed trees and shrubbery would have ill accorded with such a spot. And there was a certain melancholy in the large, sad eyes of the mistress of this charming place that spoke more of the past than of the present, as if she had imbibed something of its spirit.
On the point between the river and creek, opposite Rose Croft, is St. Inigoes manor-house, belonging to the Jesuit fathers. St. Inigo, or St. Ignatius, was considered, from the first, as one of the patrons of the colony. This house is built of brick brought from the old country, perhaps two hundred years ago or more. It has quite a foreign look, with its high pitched roof and dormer windows. I have seen similar houses in the valley of the Loire. At a distance it looks, as Kennedy says, like a chateau with its dependencies around it. There is a huge windmill at the very point, around which are washed up fine black sand and some spiral shells. On the gable of the southern porch of the mansion is the holy name of Jesus, in large black letters—the cognizance of the Jesuits. The yard is a garden of roses. They grow in bushes, cover the cottages, and climb the trees, blooming often as late as Christmas tide. And the whole place is like an aviary—a rendezvous of all the martins, wrens, whippoorwills, etc., of the country—the very place for poor Miss Flite, who would never have found names enough for them. There are martin-houses, dove-cotes, and trees full of the American mocking-birds. When the windows of the chapel are open in the morning, it is filled with their musical variations, and with the perfume of the roses and honeysuckles. That chapel always seemed to me a little corner of heaven itself, full of the divine presence of which one never wearies. I often betook myself to that sweet solitude. There were memories that haunted me, an image between me and God, which I sought there to consecrate to him. I loved to think the little lamp could be seen all night from the very Potomac and miles up the St. Mary's River; perhaps lighting up in some dark and sinful soul some sweet thought of him before whom it burned.
A religious air prevails at St. Inigoes. Everything is quiet and subdued, and favorable to meditation. The day commences with Mass in the chapel. The Angelus is rung three times a day, which every one kneels to say. Even Nimrod, the dog, howls while it is ringing, as if infected by devotion. And they told me his predecessor would pull at the bell till it sounded, if it was not rung at the moment. Such devotional dogs certainly deserve a place—if it is not profane to say so—among those fine little dogs whom Luther declared would be among our companions in heaven, whose every hair would be tipped with precious stones and whose collars be of diamonds.[Footnote 86]
[Footnote 86: See Audin's Life of Luther.]
Everything about the house is extremely tidy and well preserved, the garden trim, the walks swept, the whole house a temple of purity and cleanliness. One could sit for ever in that southern porch reading and dreaming life away. Thought would flow on for ever with that current whose waters are as changeable in their aspect as our own varied moods. When so many live merely for the body, why should not some live for the imagination and fancy? This is the very place for Mr. Skimpole, who had no idea of time, no idea of money; who only wished to live, to have a little sun and air, and float about like a butterfly from flower to flower; who loved to see the sun shine, hear the wind blow, watch the changing lights and shadows, and hear the birds sing. He asked of society only to feed him, to give him a landscape, music, papers, mutton, coffee, and to leave him at peace from the sordid realities of the world.
In the dining-room is a large oval table of solid oak which once belonged to the house of the lord proprietary. It is not misplaced in this hospitable house. Daniel Webster, when at Piney Point, used to sail over to St. Inigoes and sit at Leonard Calvert's table. And he taught the cook how to make a genuine New England chowder.
There is, hung up in one of the rooms, a picture of the famous Prince Hohenlohe which interested me. I could not account for its being there till I learned that Father Carberry, a former incumbent, was a brother to Mrs. Mattingly, of Washington, who so many years ago was miraculously cured by the prayers of the holy prince—an occurrence that caused a great excitement at the time.
The parish church is about a half a mile from the manor-house. On Sundays and other festivals you can see boats full of people sailing up the creek. Others come flocking in on horseback or in carriages. A graveyard surrounds the church, which is so hid among the trees that it is not perceived till you are close upon it. The yard is filled before service with the country-people, who fasten their horses around the enclosure, and stand talking in groups, or go wandering around among the grassy mounds, reminding you of the English country church-yards. Our northern churches are almost so exclusively filled up with foreigners that it seemed strange to worship in a congregation almost wholly American. A gallery was appropriated to the colored people, and it was crowded. They seemed quite devout and kept up a great rattling with their large rosaries. I noticed that the father, in preaching, was careful to make them feel that his sermon was addressed as particularly to them as to the others. I was especially interested to see the number that came filing down the aisle to receive holy communion. Sunday after Sunday it was the same, and I was always affected to see these "images of God carved in ebony," as old Fuller calls them, at the holy table to receive Him who is no respecter of persons. In talking with the father about their devotional tendencies, he told me there was one saintly old negro who walked fifteen miles every Sunday to worship the Word made flesh. What an example to the cold and lukewarm in cities who daily pass our churches with scarcely a thought of the Presence within! This little church is a substantial one of brick, with arched windows, but no pretension as to architecture. When the services were over, the ladies all followed the priest into the sacristy to pay their respects to him, and there is a pleasant exchange of greetings which is pleasing and family-like. And many of the men, too, stroll around the building to the rear door to take part in it.
Wandering off into the churchyard, I came upon a large cross around which were clustered the graves of several priests. There is a large monument to the memory of Father Carberry, a genial old priest renowned throughout the country for his hospitality. Among those buried here is Mr. Daniel Barber, of New Hampshire, who became a convert to the Catholic Church, together with his son's whole family, at a time when converts were more rare than at the present time. The son, Rev. Virgil Barber, who was an Episcopal minister, with his wife and five children, embraced the religious life. One of the latter took the white veil at Mount Benedict, near Boston, and was remarkable for her beauty and accomplishments. She made her profession in Quebec, where she died young. I have heard a nun of that house tell, and with great feeling, of her descending every morning to the chapel before the rest of the community, even in the rigorous winter of that latitude, to make the Way of the Cross, that touching devotion to the suffering Saviour.
The grandfather, Mr. Daniel Barber, who was also a minister, only took deacons' orders in the church on account of his age. He loved to visit the old Catholic families of St. Mary's, but was ill pleased when he did not find the cross—the sign of our salvation—in the apartment. "Where's your sign?" he would abruptly ask. He rests in peace in this quiet country church-yard.
The father at St. Inigoes has to possess a variety of accomplishments not acquired in the theological seminary. Priest, farmer, horseman, and boatman must all be combined to form the fine specimen of muscular Christianity required in this extensive mission. The place is no sinecure.
Good Father Thomas, obliged to visit a sick person at the very head of St. Mary's River, invited me to accompany him, and I gladly did so. Two colored servants went to manage the sail, or to row if necessary. The boat was black as a gondola of Venice. Sailing over these waters, where passed the Dove and the Ark, reminded me of the Père Jean and the novice René on the St. Lawrence. The whole country was, as we set out, glorified by the setting sun. The long points of land around which the river wound were bathed on one side by a golden mist, and on the other in a faint lilac. Over the gorgeous woods hung a purple haze that faded every instant. The amber clouds grew crimson, and then faded away into grey. The father said his breviary, leaving me to my own reflections a part of the way. There was not a ripple on the broad sheet save the receding ones left by our boat. Now and then we would stop to drink in the beauty of the scene—the sky, the water which reflected it, the lights and shadows on the banks, the melancholy cry of the whippoorwill, and the gay sounds of the laborers just through with their day's work. As it grew darker, the deep coves were filled with mysterious shades; the ripples left behind seemed tipped with a phosphorescent light. We glided at last into a sheltered cove just as the moon came out, giving enchantment to the whole scene. In such bright waters bathed Diana when Actaeon beheld her and was punished for his presumption. One of us repeated the beautiful lines of Shelley:
"My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside the helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
It seems to float ever, for ever
Upon that many winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound."
A few days after, I sailed over to the Pavilion to take a boat for Washington.