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VISIT TO THE GREAT JESUIT COLLEGE

OF STONYHURST IN LANCASHIRE.

A College of Jesuits, existing in England in the nineteenth century, possessing a large property there, and flourishing, and proselyting the inhabitants all round them—this is a subject of curious interest! There is something in the very name of it that makes us prick up our ears, and open our eyes, and prepare to inquire and to wonder. At all events-after having read the annals of Romish persecution, the history of Inquisitions, and of this most subtle and distinguished Order itself -this was and has been long the effect upon me. When, years ago, I heard that there was a Jesuits' college at Stonyhurst, my curiosity was strongly aroused. To imagine the disciples of Ignatius Loyola erecting their standard amid the spinners and weavers of Lancashire-the fathers of that famous order which had figured so conspicuously in the dark annals of the Inquisition; which had insinuated its members into every country and city-into the cabinets and councils of all kings; which had so often directed the political power of Europe, traversed the vast lands of India and America, and moulded savage nations to its designs; of that order so awful in history

for its peculiar policy, its sagacity, and its talent, coming out into the face of the English people, into the full blaze of the freest opinion, into the very midst of the jealous and searching scrutiny of Protestant sectaries-was a moral phenomenon worthy of close attention. One was curious to see what system of action these Proteus-like priests assumed; what were the political and social maxims they professedly held; by what links and lines of sympathy, or, at least, of accordance, they sought to connect themselves with a population alive with the spirit of freedom in all its shapes-in religion, in commerce, and in government. Accordingly, Mrs. Howitt and myself took the opportunity, on our way northwards, to visit this interesting place. We went thither from Blackburn, where we were spending a short time with our friends; and found it a delightful drive of ten miles, principally along Ribblesdale, in which Stonyhurst is situated. After proceeding about two and a half miles north of Blackburn, Ribblesdale, one of the finest and most extensive vales in England, opened upon us, with Stonyhurst conspicuous on the opposite side of the valley, on a fine elevation, amidst its woods. The building has a noble and commanding aspect, worthy of its situation. It was apparently about three or four miles distant, and I suppose, was not much more; one of the Jesuits afterwards telling us that they considered it by the footpath, a pretty direct line, to be about seven miles between Stonyhurst and Blackburn; but the carriage road is very circuitous, holding down the valley as far as Whalley, and then along winding lanes through Mitton; so

that it proves a good ten miles. But whoever takes the drive, will not think it one yard too much; a more delightful one can rarely be found. From the first opening of this splendid vale, you have Stonyhurst lying full in view; Ribchester, the celebrated Roman station, to the left, in the level of the valley; down the vale to the north-east, you have the castle of Clitheroe, standing on its bold and abrupt eminence; and as you wind along the eastern side of the dale, with the Ribble below you on your left, and above you on your right, woods and cottages with their little inclosures, the ruins of Whalley Abbey come in view, and, high beyond, the bare and cloud-mottled heights of Pendle-hill. The ruins of Whalley Abbey, made so familiar to the public by Dr. Whittaker's history, are still very extensive and picturesque. Old walls mingled with large trees; large windows here and there visible, still displaying their tracery; a house with smoking chimneys in the midst; and the Calder, a beautiful stream, between high banks, running close past— present a very attractive whole to a passer-by. Here we crossed a bridge and wound away to the left, in a circuitous course, to Stonyhurst; in fact, going, in a great measure, backward again. The lanes through which we drove were fine old pastoral lanes, all embowered with tall luxuriant hedges, rich with fresh foliage, and sweet with the flowers of the elder and the wild rose.

It was the time of roses;

We plucked them as we passed.-Hood:

for it was, in fact, the 29th of June.

So we drove on, every

few yards catching a peep into fields full of grass, or glimpses of fine uplands, distant hills, and hanging woods. On our left, lying low amongst tall trees, appeared Little Mitton manorhouse-one of those quaint, ancient, timbered houses with which Lancashire abounds. This is remarkable for its galleried hall of the age of Henry VII., of which an engraving may be found in Whittaker. All about us, as we ascended to the greater Mitton, or the Mitton, were green and whispering trees, and peeps into meadows rich with cattle; and the sound of the two rivers—the Hodder and the Ribble, which unite just belowcame up to us delightfully. Mitton is as singularly as it is sweetly situated, on a point of land in the West Riding of Yorkshire which runs into Lancashire betwixt those streams; and it is a spot at which I must request my readers to pause a moment, not merely because in it lie the greater part of the Sherburne family, the ancient lords of Stonyhurst, but because the village and church of Mitton are, of themselves, highly worthy of a visit from the lovers of antiquity and of rural peace and seclusion. The place is one of the most perfect "Nooks of the World;" one of those places that, however all the country around them be revolutionized by manufactures and politics, stand, save for the ravages of time on their buildings, as they stood ages ago. It is most absolutely Old English. The slumber of a summer noon lies there profoundly as a trance. The low of cattle from a neighbouring croft, or the hum of a passing bee, seem the only living sounds. The village consists of a few old farmhouses-one of which is a dilapidated monastery—the usual

diversification of a blacksmith's shop, a wheelwright's shop, the It stands surrounded with a profusion of trees. The church is a plain, unpretending structure, with a low square tower; but it delights you as you approach with the green sequestered beauty of its churchyard, and on your entrance, with such a group of effigied tombs as few village churches can shew.

parsonage, and little garden cottages.

We found the old sexton in his little cottage by the churchyard gate, supping his porridge, to use a Lancashire phrase— for it was twelve o'clock; but on stating our desire to see the church, he set down his porringer, and reached his keys. The man himself was a character worth knowing. He appeared very old, with a face that evidently had been a good one, and that now exhibited much shrewdness and sense of office. He was corpulent, and bound his waist about with a cord. He was so asthmatic that he could hardly breathe, and yet, when we asked his age, he replied-"O, I'm nubbut eighty-five!" He seemed, indeed, to regard himself as quite a youth, though he had been clerk sixty-four years, had seen two or three clergymen out, and had copied inscriptions, and held a deal of intercourse with Dr. Whittaker, the historian of Whalley, respecting the antiquities of this church.

On entering the churchyard, the very first object was one which spoke greatly in favour of the old man. It was the tomb of the late vicar, surrounded with a spacious railing, and within the railing, planted with a hedge of evergreens, bays, junipers, box, and arbor-vitæ. He told us that the former clergyman

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