By the death of Father Maurus Percy Patrick Anderson of St. Peter's, Seel Street, Liverpool has lost a well known form; and a name, familiar in the mouths of many, will gradually be hushed into a lasting silence. He lived too far out of my time, for me to give a complete sketch of his life, but it is a pleasure to write a few words in token of respect, and in grateful remembrance of him.
Father Anderson was born at York on the 17th of March 1828. The family is well known in the city, and many relatives there now mourn him dead, as they revered him living. Before the days when the railway branch-line facilitated travel to remote places, he left home for Ampleforth College some twenty miles north of York. It must have been a pleasant drive through the pine woods, which lay more thickly then than now on the hills that shut in Mowbray Valley towards the south. His course at College finished; standing on life's threshold - and brightly enough it shone for him no doubt - he made his choice. It was the Benedictine Cloister, not the world.
His father thinking the sentimental charm which draws a boy's heart to his college home; - shall I say especially when it lies under the 'Magni Nominis umbra' the shadow of the great name of monastic life, - might have too much to say in the matter, took him to London and to different scenes. But sentiment or not, the grace of God was with it and his choice stood firmly for fifty years and more. I have heard him speak of this and other things, in his latter years, for old age will still be garrulous, we know, and talk of youth. I remember him telling me of his last cigar. He keenly enjoyed a smoke as a youth, and the aroma of that last cigar seemed to rise up from the past as he described himself smoking it while he reclined on a grassy slope and looked up into the blue sky. This pleasure, innocent enough, he thought would be a hinderance to him in his monastic and priestly life, so as he flung away the end of his cigar, he said it should be the last, and it was. I doubt if any of us ever saw him with even a cigarette in his mouth. It is a trifle, but it illustrates the simple life and the persevering self discipline of the man.
He made his Profession as a Religious of the Benedictine Order at St. Lawrence's, Ampleforth, on the 17th of February 1849. He was ordained priest in 1854. Before going on the Mission he spent about ten years in his monastery. Ten years of the strong, vigorous yet plastic period of youth. His life was sheltered from responsibility and distraction during that time. Living under the same roof with the Blessed Sacrament, with regular hours of choir and meditation, with the silence and recollection which pervade the day's routine in a monastery, the spirit was formed, which always afterwards led him with unerring fidelity along the path of duty and of excellence.
The punctuality of that early discipline never deserted him, and the shelter of the cloister he carried with him wherever he went, in that self denial which had grown habitual, and which, in the altered surroundings of his life, kept him from any temptation to dissipation or pleasure-seeking. This time of monastic discipline was no easy time. To rise at 4.30 a.m. day by day summer and winter: a very simple diet, quite unadorned, simpler in those days than in these I know; long hours of study and teaching, as well as the hours of prayer; and many other hard things, would be the burden of this life. To Fr. Anderson it doubtless passed joyously and quickly in the ardour of his youth and wholehearted devotedness.
The first mission he was sent to was St. Peter's, Seel Street, Liverpool, the district which was to hold so large a share of his life, and claim his latest hours. He left St. Lawrence's Monastery 1858. He was a young man then.
In the prime of life, just thirty years old, and if any can remember it, they must call to mind the tall active figure of those days as compared with the stooped and feeble though still active form of later years. He worked under others then, and many a simple story he had to tell of Father Bonney, or Fr. O'Callaghan, or Bishop Scarisbrick or Fr. Austin Davey.
His absence from Ampleforth was not long. He was recalled to fill the place of Prior in 1863. He held office for four years, and during that time I first made his acquaintance, when, as a very small boy, I arrived at the College one winter's night about Christmas time 1864. I remember how merry and pleasant he seemed. In the Summer of 1866 he took the trouble to prepare myself and some other youngsters for our first Communion. It was a work dear to his heart then, and it is a work of love which he has done for many hundred children since then.
After the midsummer of that year, his term of Priorship finished, he was sent to a small mission in Northumberland, Cowpen. His Superior offered him his choice but he would make none. As I have heard him say, he made it a rule always to leave himself, without choice, in the hands of his Superior. He remained there seven years, and in 1873 again found himself at Seel Street in Liverpool. From that date till his death he was the faithful servant and loved pastor of St. Peter's flock.
Twenty-seven long years! How manifold the associations, how close the bond of union between priest and people, how intimate the attachment to the church and altar, which grew up around his heart during this constant ministry! Here uninterruptedly he completed the work of his life - a great work added to a life of singular innocence. A great work, for though he did no great thing, did not build any notable church or schools, was not specially learned, nor one who took a prominent lead in influencing tone and thought, yet the sum-total of fifty years faithful daily toil is indeed a great work. Morning after morning, to the minute, he stood at the altar steps - day by day he worked among the poor and sick, evening by evening he was at his post to instruct, to encourage, to reprove all, and they were many, who called at the presbytery to see him. Regularly too the Divine Office, the sacred burden of the priest's prayer, was recited before he went to rest. On the confessional evening whoever came and found Father Anderson away, or late?
So it was for more than thirty years even in the one district of Seel Street. Who can count the souls he touched with healing power, the sorrowful to whom he brought comfort, the ignorant to whom he brought light? Who shall count the weary footsteps of the good Shepherd, the acts of love and self-sacrifice which arose from his heart during these thirty years? Only God above. He surely knows them, and before His merciful Eyes there will be a grand sum-total, for the work of such a life is a great work.
He died the 9th of March, 1900. If he had lived till St. Patrick's feast he would have been seventy two years old. His death was simple and edifying as his life. For the sake of friends who may wish to dwell on his last hours, I will linger over the details of his death. We all knew that of late he had been ailing, indeed for some years a gradual failing of vitality was apparent yet the end came very suddenly. It was as he wished, he died 'in harness.' At Christmas time he was very poorly, and I had the good fortune to be sent to help him through the stress of Christmas work. My mission was rather a failure, for I found he would do nearly everything himself.
However he grew stronger again and, indeed, on the Wednesday preceding his death when a gentleman asked him how he was, he answered: 'for years I have not felt better than I have done this week.' His fellow priests would not have agreed with this. They had noticed growing signs of infirmity since Christmas. Though his cough had ceased to be so troublesome, and it seemed as if it only needed the warm weather to bring back strength, as he himself affirmed, yet there was a persistent shortness of breath; a difficulty in getting up stairs; and for sometime he had made a practice of using a stick for crossing the road between the house and church. These were ominous signs. How much they meant no one could forsee, least of all himself.
On that same Wednesday afternoon he ordered a cab, and visited the orphanage in Falkner Street; he attended a Committee meeting, and made several other calls. In the evening he heard Confessions as usual, eat his supper with relish, then in his cheery way, rising from table he cried out 'Now for bed!' But it was the beginning of the end. Early to bed was his motto and as a rule very shortly after ten o'clock the light used to disappear from his room. To-night however he was restless, and the priest next door heard that he was not asleep, though it was after eleven o'clock. He surmised all was not right, but as the house-keeper had of late been in the habit of calling at Father Anderson's door the last thing before retiring, to see if he might need anything, he went to bed. Next morning he learnt that his Rector had been very ill during the night, and that the Doctor had been sent for. On entering his room he found him pinched and worn, but his words of sympathy were greeted with: 'The doctor and a sleep will soon put me to rights again.'
He got up at mid-day, walked about his room, took interest in the war as usual, and in the evening said his 'Office' for the following day according to his custom. He felt better at nightfall, but watch was kept that night.
Friday morning came, the last of his life, though he little thought it as he rose, dressed and shaved himself early enough to find himself in his arm chair by nine o'clock. He felt no better however, only he thanked God he was not in pain. He could not sit long and lay much on the sofa or sometimes walked about. The doctor visited him at ten in the morning, at two in the afternoon and at six in the evening. He evidently thought the case extreme. After the last visit he crossed over to the church and entering one of the confessionals startled the priest by saying that his patient was rapidly sinking, and that if there was not a great change for the better by 9-30 when he proposed to pay another visit, the rites of the Church should be administered.
The priest shortly afterwards went over from the church to the presbytery. He was in his own room when almost immediately the house-keeper hurried in to say that Father Anderson was dying. Surely enough he was; sitting in his chair fully dressed as usual in his habit, as he had been all day. He seemed unconscious but when laid upon the sofa he breathed more easily and his heart, though throbbing very fast, began to beat more regularly The Holy Oils were quickly brought and he received the sacrament of Extreme Unction.
If unconscious at first, he grew conscious before the close of the rite, and before the last blessing was given, for he seized the priest's hand and drew it towards him. Then his speech came back for as the priest said to him;
'Do you know me? Can you speak? You are very, very ill, I have annointed you.' 'Yes,' he answered, 'I know, I know, God bless you for that!'
Then he began to fumble about his shoulder as if searching for something. It was his hood he sought. It had fallen from his shoulders. He found it and drew it over his head as he used to wear it long ago in the days when he recited the office in the choir at Ampleforth. Doubtless he had before his mind a picture of the hooded monk laid out for his burial, for after having himself fastened it, and folded it on his chest, he crossed his hands and lay quiet as a child.
'Who is your Confessor, shall I send for him,' he was asked. 'No! there is no neccessity. I was at confession four or five days ago. Kneel down,' he said, 'I will go to confession to you and you shall give me absolution.'
After receiving absolution he said; 'Do you think I dare take the Viaticunm.' 'Yes God will surely give you this last grace, I will bring it to you immediately,' the priest answered.
He received with great and touching fervour, and when asked if they should pray aloud with him, he begged them to say one of the dear old Psalms which had been the daily companions of his life. Later Fr. Cummins came from St. Anne's to see him and gave him the special Benedictine Absolution for the hour of death. Doctor Mc Cann made his final visit. He briefly told Fr. Anderson he was beyond all human help. 'It is well! It is well! a thousand thanks doctor for all your kindness,' he answered quite loudly and unfalteringly.
Both the doctor and the priests retired into the next room for the patient was weary and wished to be alone. However almost immediately a hurried message called the doctor back. He returned at once and bade them come quickly. They entered the chamber of the dying, and kneeling around recited aloud the prayers for the dying. His spirit passed. He died as he would have wished it clothed in his habit as his Patron St. Benedict, scarcely having paused an hour from his work.
The funeral took place on Wednesday, I4th of March. He was buried at Aigburth. The crowds who attended the Requiem and who followed the body to the grave witnessed to the worth of the man and to the affection with which he was regarded.
Though Father Anderson's name was not one blazed abroad with much show or noise yet he was one who will be very much missed by his absence. He has grown as a landmark, and his people accustomed to his familiar figure will only now that he has gone realize how much he was to them. They will keenly feel the void left by his death; a void for them not to be easily filled. Beyond St. Peter's district too his figure, for long years, was well known at Committee Meetings on behalf of charitable objects, his simple cheerful words were always welcome. His vacant place will be noted with pain.
Unostentatiously his presence made itself widely felt. Many came to him from different parts of the city, and when sometimes in out of the way places I have asked poor old bodies did they know Father Anderson; 'Oh, Yes! God bless him.' they have answered readily enough. His hand was ready to do good everywhere, as his heart was kind and anxious. Many poor have blessed him - it is a rich blessing, the blessing of the poor - and many poor will miss him. They flocked around him, I must confess a motly crew would often find its way to No. 55 Seel Street on cold, wet, winter nights. Very undeserving people, many of them, I don't doubt, but after all they were very poor and starved and thin. Crossing over from his Confessional to the house, tired and perhaps irritable he might scold but not too often did he send them 'empty away' when he had anything to give them.
It struck me much when I first went to Seel Street how he had implanted in the household a general tradition of gentleness to the poor, - those who opened the door were to be gentle with them - we priests learnt and gladly learnt that we must wait upon the poor. The poor will miss him! Not only the waifs and strays but especially those of his district. To them he brought the cheering word, as well as the help that lighted the fire in the cold grate, and gave food for the children when the cupboard was empty.
The sick will miss him. They were his special care. To countless sick and dying he has ministered. All through his life this seems to have been a joy of his. I often heard him speak of sick-calls in the time when typhus was common and hospitals rare; when the fever beds lay close together or when the patient lay uncared for in the stuffy garret or the damp cellar. It was the same to the end. Amid such scenes he fulfilled his vocation.
Sinners will surely miss him; for few priests at their mission have attended more regularly or kept longer hours in the confessional than he did at Seel Street. Only His divine Master knows how many sinners he reconciled to their God. Children will miss him, the orphanage, the school in Park Lane. He always had time to care for children and always a bright word for them. Yes, Father Anderson will be very much missed and I believe many will echo in their hearts the words one of his flock wrote to me: 'I think he is the best priest I ever knew.'
But we must remember the bond between priest and people is not severed by death. If he worked for them in the days of his life, he will pray for them now he has passed the tomb. And they shall remember him as they kneel before the altar and beg that the hours of Purgatory be shortened and that the dawn of eternal joy may swiftly come. In God's good time too, whither he has gone, may the souls of his flock whom he sought so anxiously and loved so tenderly, follow him. May he rest in peace!
Percy Maurus ANDERSON 9 Mar 1900 1828 17 Mar born 1847 23 Dec Clothed 1849 17 Feb Professed 1854 10 Apr Priest 1858 St Peter's Liverpool 1866 Cowpen 1873 St Peter's Liverpool 1883 CathPRochester 1900 9 Mar died