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cnarged with a commission to restore that empire to the Papal chair.
“ When I first came to Monterey,” said Spence to me the other day, “every man in this country was a Catholic, every woman a devout Catholic.
The Roman sentiment was in the air. You could no more avoid going to mass in the morning than you could escape sleeping in the fort at night.
No other rites but those of Rome were tolerated in the place.
Whether you liked or not, you were obliged to keep the customary rules, and call yourself a subject of the Pope.”
“You were not a Catholic?”
“No, I was a Presbyterian, like my father, but a Presbyterian could not stay in Monterey, so I was forced to seem a Catholic, in order to stay and carry on my trade.”
When Spence proposed to marry, he had to go further still.
Not for his blue eyes and yellow locks would his senorita wed a heretic.
Her priest forbade such wickedness, and Spence, in order to secure his prize, was forced to ask admission to the Catholic fold.
But things are changed.
Though Catholic feeling still runs high, and some old ladies use big
1875.
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