  John Lancaster Spalding, the poet-priest, was born at Lebanon, Kentucky, June 2, 1840. He is a nephew of Archbishop Martin John Spalding. John L. Spalding was graduated from St. Mary's College, Maryland, in 1859; and a short time later he was ordained as a priest in the Roman Catholic church. In 1865 he was secretary to the bishop of Louisville; and four years later he built St. Augustine's church for the Catholic negroes of Louisville. In 1871 Spalding was chancellor of the diocese of Louisville. From 1872 to 1877 he was stationed in New York City. He was consecrated bishop of Peoria, Illinois, May 1, 1877, which position he held until 1908, when ill-health compelled his retirement. Bishop Spalding was appointed by President Roosevelt as one of the arbitrators to settle the anthracite coal strike of 1902, and this appointment brought him before the whole country for a time. In 1909 he was created titular archbishop of Scyphopolis. Bishop Spalding continues his residence at Peoria, but recently his health has broken so badly that his life has been despaired of more than once. For many years it has been his custom to spend his summers in Kentucky with his boyhood friends and neighbors. He is the author of The Life of the Most Rev. Martin John Spalding, Archbishop (New York, 1872); Essays and Reviews (1876); Religious Mission of the Irish People (1880); Lectures and Discourses (1882); America and Other Poems (1885); Education and the Higher Life (Chicago, 1891); The Poet's Praise (1891); Things of the Mind (Chicago, 1894); Means and End of Education; Thoughts and Theories of Life and Education (Chicago, 1897); Songs: Chiefly from the German (1896); God and the Soul; Opportunity and Other Essays (Chicago, 1901); Religion, Agnosticism, and Education (Chicago, 1902);
AN IVORY PAPER-KNIFE. [From The Hesperian Tree, edited by J. J. Piatt (Columbus, Ohio, 1903)] O snow-white blade, thou openest for me So many a page filled with delightful lore Where deathless minds have left the precious store Of words that breathe and truth that makes us free. To hold thee in my hand, or but to see Thee lying on my desk, O ivory oar, Waiting to drive my bark to any shore, Is fortaste of fresh joy and liberty. Thou bringest dreams of the Dark Continent Where herded elephants in freedom roam, Or blow their trumpets when they danger scent, Or in wide rivers shoot the pearly foam, Yet art of vital books all redolent, Where highest thoughts have made themselves a home. |
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