I celebrated the Whitsuntide solemnities in our own church of St. Anselm, much impressed by the virile and sonorous chant of the monastic choir. I left Rome a few days later, travelling by night to Milan, where I said mass early in the duomo—more impressive than I had ever yet seen it in the dull morning light, with the vast spaces in deep shadow, and the great jewelled windows gleaming faintly through the murk. From Milan a long and fatiguing journey brought me to Maredsous, the famous Belgian abbey which I had seen only once since I had spent four months there as a young monk thirty years before. The vast pile of building, of dark slate-coloured stone in the severest Gothic, seemed to have altered little since 1883 (there is something singularly, almost appallingly, unchangeable about these great monasteries); but of course the trees about it had grown, and there were additions near by—one the interesting school of arts and crafts directed by the monks, where I saw excellent goldsmiths' and enamel work done by the pupils, as well as fine embroideries. Another new and striking feature was the nuns' abbey, a quarter of a mile away, with a large and beautiful church open to the public. I found here an English portress, with the English name of Sister Winifred; and the abbess, a sister of our good abbot-primate in Rome, spoke English well; but she persuaded me (after cake and wine) into giving a conférence in French to her community, about our doings at Monte Cassino and Rome.
It was interesting to pass straight, as I did, from a great modern abbey in being to the impressive remains of our cathedral priory at Canterbury, and to sleep in an Elizabethan bedroom constructed within the ancient guest-hall of the monks. My kind host, Canon Moore, devoted a day to showing me the wonders of his cathedral; and a party of cathedral dignitaries (and their wives) were asked to meet me at dinner. I had some talk with a pleasant, though minor, canon,[[3]] who had been for a time in charge of our choir at Magdalen. From Canterbury I went on to Douai Abbey, to preside at their school prize-giving, and then to keep St. Philip's festa with the London Oratorians, who had invited a Fort Augustus monk (Dom Maurus Caruana[[4]]) to preach this year the panegyric of their patron saint. I look back on these Oratory festivals as among the pleasantest of London summer days—the marble altars in the great church aglow with roses and lilies and orchids; music of the best from the unrivalled choir:[[5]] sometimes a really eloquent sermon, and luncheon afterwards, in company with all that was best in the Catholic society of the day, in the cool spacious refectory, hung round with portraits of Faber and Dalgairns and Knox and other eminent Oratorians. I sat on this occasion next a kindly littérateur and critic—so kindly a one that even when he does attack you (as Russell Lowell put it)
"you doubt if the toes
That are trodden upon are your own or your foe's."
We spoke of printers' perennial errors; and he quoted two new to me—one from the prospectus of a new company: "Six thousand snares of five pounds each"; and the other from a speech of Lord Carnarvon: "Every clergyman is expected nowadays to have the intellect and wisdom of a Jeremy Taylor"—the last two words being transformed by a reporter into "journeyman tailor!" The word "clergyman" (in these days somewhat discredited) suggested to my friend Tennyson's dictum: "The majority of Englishmen think of God as an immeasurable clergyman in a white tie"; and to me a line from the same poet's "May Queen," which had always seemed to me the ne plus ultra of bathos:[[6]]
"And that good man, the clergyman, has spoken words of peace."
I stayed a night at Kelburn on my way north to congratulate my brother-in-law, as it was not only his eightieth birthday, but his fortieth wedding-anniversary also fell this year. I was glad to find myself at home again after five weeks' absence; but it was only for a few weeks, as I had to go to Yorkshire in June, for the quinquennial General Chapter of our Order at Ampleforth, where our first business was to re-elect and install Abbot Gasquet as our abbot-president.[[7]] I attended, a few days later, a dinner of our Catholic Etonian Association. Shane Leslie and (Mgr.) Hugh Benson both made capital speeches, and I had the honour of proposing Floreat Etona. George Lane Fox (a quondam captain of the boats) was our president; and it was interesting to learn that among Catholic Etonians were three old captains of oppidans, Lords Abingdon and North, and Sir Francis Burnand. I stayed for this function with the kind Oratorians, who always had one or two Etonians in their community.[[8]] Their spacious house was delightfully quiet, and the verdant shady garden might have been two miles, instead of a bare two hundred yards, from the bustle and traffic of Brompton Road. I assisted next day in their church at the marriage of another Etonian Catholic, Sir Joseph Tichborne, and looked with interest on the smart young lifeguardsman, son of the baby defendant in the famous lawsuit more than forty years before. It is hard now to realize the furore caused by the great "Tichborne Case," which sapped old friendships and engendered lasting animosities among people who had no earthly connection with it[[9]]—for the old English Catholic families, which were closely interested in the matter, took it very quietly and never discussed it in public. I have never known since any popular excitement in the least like it.
I was back at Fort Augustus before the end of June; and the summer and autumn (both wonderfully fine this year) passed quickly and happily. Long sunshiny days brought us, as always, many visitors, among the first being the large contingent of Glasgow Catholics who came as usual, during their "Fair Week," to spend some days at our abbey, partly in pious exercises and partly in enjoyable excursions. Our most notable guest this year was perhaps the young King of Uganda (I believe his proper title was not King but "Kabaka"), who came to Fort Augustus for a week-end with his dusky suite, and spent some hours with us—a tall, graceful and agreeable, but very shy, youth in a lovely robe of peacock blue (he had arrived at the inn the night before wearing a dingy covert-coat over a sort of white cassock). One of his fellow-chiefs, I think the only Catholic of the party, had a huge rosary slung round his neck during the visit to our monastery. Another distinguished visitor was Cardinal Bourne, whose clerical secretary had been driving him (incog.) all over the Highlands, and over all sorts of roads, in a little two-seater motor. This had to go into hospital on their arrival; but through the kindness of an American neighbour I was able to escort our guests in a roomy "Fiat" to Glengarry (our most notable beauty-spot), and to the famous little inn, embowered in woods on the edge of the amber rushing Garry, where there were many notable names in the visitors' book, though not, I think, up till then the signature of a Prince of the Roman Church. His Eminence's visit synchronized with our Highland Games and annual concert, both of which he honoured with his presence; and next day he and his faithful monsignor trundled off westwards in their little car, much pleased (as we all were also) with their brief sojourn in our abbey guest-house.
Apart from the normal duties incumbent on the head of a monastic community, I had, from the time of first taking the reins, placed three objects in the forefront of my hopes and aspirations, and had endeavoured never to lose sight of them. These were, first, an increase in our numbers by the admission of suitable aspirants to our life; secondly, the renovation and utilization of the long derelict buildings of the abbey-school, and the reopening of the school itself as soon as feasible; and thirdly, the hastening of the long anticipated day when work should be resumed on our abandoned church, and a part of it, at least, completed and opened for Divine Service. Thanks to the goodwill and support of my own brethren, and to the interested sympathy of many friends outside, I had the happiness of seeing all these hopes in a fair way to be realized within a twelvemonth of my receiving the abbatial benediction. Four of our first year's batch of novices were ultimately admitted to profession and to holy orders: they were joined by two priests from the Scottish mission, both of whom took their vows after due probation; while there were also affiliated to our community two young English monks from a German monastery near Birmingham, as well as a novice from the monastery of Caldey, in South Wales, almost all the members of which had, with their superior, made their submission to the Catholic Church in the previous year.[[10]] We were all agreed in the wish and hope that the eminently Benedictine work of the education of youth within our own abbey walls, discontinued for several years, should be resumed as soon as circumstances permitted. Carpenters and painters, plasterers and plumbers, were soon busily engaged at the much-needed work of repair and restoration. The buildings were practically ready for occupation in the summer of 1914; but our hopes of reopening the school a few months later were frustrated by the world-stirring events of July and August of that year. It was a great satisfaction to all of us to be able, a little later, to place our renovated college at the disposal of the Red Cross, and to see it utilized as an Auxiliary Hospital, first for the wounded soldiers of our gallant Belgian allies, and then for the wounded of our own armies.[[11]]
The date of resuming the long suspended work on the fabric of our greatly-needed church, which I had at least as much at heart as the two other objects already mentioned, depended, of course, on the slow but steady increase of our building-fund; and there were always willing helpers, both within and without our community, toward the ingathering of a sum without which it would have been imprudent to recommence operations. Some of our fathers showed most commendable zeal and energy in the not very pleasant or grateful task of begging: they planted and watered, and God certainly sent the increase. Among other efforts, a great garden fête was organized at Terregles, near Dumfries, the beautiful old seat of the Maxwell-Stuarts. I opened the proceedings: the day was lovely and the grounds thronged, and a very substantial sum was realized for our fund. It was a great joy to us all when, thanks to the success of this and other schemes, we were at length able to see our way (let me use the obnoxious phrase with gratitude for once!) to approve of the new plans—a modification of, or rather a complete departure from, Pugin's elaborate Gothic designs, and to see our massive Norman choir gradually rising in its severe and solid beauty. The actual commencement of the work was delayed by a curious incident—the appearance on the far horizon of a supposed benefactress, said to be prepared to provide funds to an untold amount for the erection of our church, on a plan approved by herself. I had actually to go to Harrogate to discuss this Utopian scheme—not with the mysterious lady in person, but with a friend who was supposed to represent her. I never even heard her name, but have every reason to suppose that it was "Mrs. Harris!" Anyhow the next thing I heard was that she had sailed (I think) for China, and we never saw, as the saying goes, the "colour of her money." I do not think that we had ever really expected to, so the disappointment was the less; and there was no worse consequence than a little delay which we could very well put up with after waiting for so many years to get the builders to work again.
The only event outside our own circle which I recall in the later months of 1913 was the solemn blessing of the new abbot of Douai (an old friend and fellow-novice of mine), at which I assisted in October. The ceremony and subsequent luncheon lasted for nearly five solid hours, and I began to think that I was getting too old for such protracted functions! though I found the monks of the Berkshire abbey, as always, most kind, considerate and hospitable. Staying at Keir on my way home, I found a big shooting-party assembled—Tullibardines, Elphinstones, Lovats, Shaw Stewarts and others. All day long they were banging at pheasants (how remote those days of battues seem in 1922!) and in the evening there were ghost-stories and music, Lady Tullibardine's piano-playing and singing (of very high quality indeed) giving especial pleasure to her hearers.