He was chiefly remarkable for his spirit of poverty. It was not alone that he loved poverty, and tried to observe his vow, but he refined this observance to an exquisite degree, by trying to treat himself and get others to treat him like a mean beggar. He wished to feel poverty, and sought hardships in things that were easy enough, for that end. When he went by train he always took a third-class ticket, and was most ingenious in his defence of this proceeding. If some one objected to him that the third-class carriages generally contained rough, low, ill-bred, and coarsely-spoken fellows, he gently answered: "Yes; you may find a thick sprinkling of blackguards there." "Whether or no," he would say again, "the third class is the poor man's class, and it ought to be mine." One time he was expected to preach a grand sermon in some town or other; the lord of the manor, a Catholic, ordered his carriage, with livery servants, and came himself to bring him in state to the priest's house. He waited for the good father on the platform, looking at the doors of the different first-class carriages, and condescending to give a glance or two towards the second. What was his surprise when Father Ignatius, habit and sandals and a', got out of a third. "My dear Father Ignatius," he half indignantly exclaimed, "why do _you_ travel by {381} third class?" "Well," replied Father Ignatius, "because there isn't a fourth." This idea that he was a poor man and ought to live like one he carried out in everything. He might be generally seen with a large blue bag. This bag was not of a respectable make or durable material; no, it was made of some kind of drogget, like an ordinary sack, and had a thick clumsy tape that gathered in the mouth of it, and closed it with a big knot. When he had a long journey before him he brought a pair of these, and tying them together put the knot upon his shoulder, and would trudge off six or seven miles with one dangling in front and another behind. If somebody offered him a seat in a car or wagon, he gladly accepted it; if not, he did without it. On this same principle he seldom refused a meal when out; and if he wanted something to eat, he generally went and begged for it at the first house he came to. At home he usually washed and mended his underclothing and stockings (the stockings, by the way, would have blistered the hardest foot after his mending), and whilst he was Superior he would never allow anyone to do a menial service for him. He had a great dread of the slightest attempt at over-nicety in a priest's dress; it was anguish to him to see a priest, especially a religious, with kid gloves, neat shoes, or a fashionable hat. His own appearance might be put down as one degree short of slovenliness. Be it remembered that this was not his natural bent. We are told by those who knew him when a young man, that he would walk a dozen streets in London, and enter every hosier's shop,