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.