It was in this strain that the recluse indulged in his own peculiar view of things, and entertained a morbid hope that he should live to see the fall of Goldwell's palace walls. He indulged in a propensity for the superstitious, and, like an ancient sage, spoke in an oracular manner, as if positive of nis own inspiration. He was, however, much more hopeful from his earthly view of the state of the building and its adjacent ground, than from any second sight that he possessed, and this he hastened that very day to indulge. St. Ivan, reverenced as he was by all the ignorant, and even respected by the learned, was not much regarded by the monks of St. Peter's Priory, or the abbots of Bury, on account of his utter detestation of their absurd relics, and silly pretensions to things they called sacred, which were of no estimation in his eyes--such as the shirt of St. Edmund, one of his sinews, his sword, the parings of his toe-nails, and other things to which they attributed great sanctity; drops of Stephen's blood, a piece of the real cross, the coals which broiled St. Lawrence, pieces of the flesh of saints and virgins, St. Botolph's bones, St. Thomas-à-Becket's boots, penknife, etc., skulls, candles, crosses, and such a variety of holy things, one and all of which St. Ivan, like a wise man, laughed at. Though the monks were jealous of him, and some termed him heretic, others entertained a superstitious dread of him, which he well knew how to manage. The learned fraternity of Alneshborne alone paid him any respect, and he used to tell Lord De Freston that these Augustines were the only monks he ever knew good for anything. The old man was kind to all. The austerity of his manners was softened by any case of humanity in distress; and it is supposed that a disappointment in his life, either in ambition, love, or professional celebrity, led him to the lonely cell of Ufford's dale. In that day, religion was so clouded with oral traditions, vain external ceremonies, and exclusive dogmatical pretensions to superior gifts of healing, miracles, and works, that real faith and godliness were things almost driven from the earth. No wonder, then, that a man who had perception enough to see so much dishonesty should be driven into himself for notions of duty and worship. There was deep anxiety in his countenance as he glanced into the rippling stream from the Holy Wells, and took his way down its pebbly, shingly, and craggy sides towards Wyke's Bishop's palace. His foot was firm, his eye bright, and except the trembling of the hand as he placed his staff upon the ground, but little could be discerned of infirmity. His path lay on the outside of the moat, and was so worn by twenty years' perambulations, as to have created a path, known as St. Ivan's path; few would walk in it, and hence the old man's observations upon the sinking of the walls, and the encroachings of the turfy bank, though strictly marked with willow twigs, were unnoticed by others.