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^^ llfZlL JL 





Per nienses i»ingiilo.s reddens fructum suum, ti folia ligni ad sanitatcm 

gentium. — Apoc. xxii. 2. 









.^// ri^///s 0/ trans/a/ion and reproduction jvscrjai. 




Per menses hingiilos reddens fruclum suum, et folia ligni ad sanitaiem 

gentium. — Apoc. xxii. 2. 








All rights of translation and reproduction reserved. 



Articles, &c. : — page 

1. Five Years at the Golden Gate. By the Rev. M. O'Fcrrall i 

2. Gossamer Threads. By £. Bowles 33 

3. Reviews of Famous Books. — IV. Plato's Republic. By Joseph 

Rickaby, M.A. 25 

4. An Afternoon at St. Lazarc. By Grace Ramsay ... 60 

5. Father and Child 76 

6. Russia and her Church. By the Rev. H. J. Coleridge . 77 

7. Ancient Guilds in England. By Robert Cardwell, M.A. . 107 

8. A Contemporary Eleg>' on Edmund Campion .116 

9. Results of the Education Act. By the Rev. George Porter I2i 
Reviews : — 

1. The Athens of the Sophists ' . 132 

2. Lcs Assemble Provinciales. Par le Vicomte de Lu^ay . .136 

3. Dr. Newman's Essays 140 

4. Forster's Life of Charles Dickens 144 

5. The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. By the Very 

Rev. J. Waterworth, D.D 146 

6. The Spirits in Prison. By the Rev. E. Plumptre, M.A. . -155 

7. M. Jules Favre on the Roman Question 160 

Notices : — 

1. L'Abb^ Baunard's Histoire dc St. Ambroisc . ■ . 164 

2. Mr. J. F. Meline's Mary Ouccn of Scots and her latest English 

Historian 164 

3. Mr. W. Palmer's Replies of the Patriarch Nicon . . .165 

4. Father Tondini's Pope of Rome and the Popes of the Oriental 

Orthodox Church 166 

5. Lady Georgiana Fullerton's Gold Digger, and other Poems 166 

6. Mr. Carroll's Through the Looking Glass, and what Alice 

found there 166 

7. Mr. Powell's Two Years in the Pontifical Zouaves 167 

8. Dom Raynal's Ordinal of King Edward the Sixth .167 

9. Rev. A. F. Hewit's Light in Darkness 167 

10. Life of the Rev. Mor/fer/uiia \^T 

//. Miscellaneous \^ 

vi Contents. 


Articles, &c. : — page 

1. Queries as to Irish Education. By the Rev. E. J. O'Reilly . 169 

2. Cygnus Exspirans. By D. F. McCarthy, M.R.I.A. . . . 204 

3. Life and Adventures of Father Thames. By the Rev. A. Weld 207 

4. The Story of dc Rancd By the Rev. H. J. Coleridge . . 228 

5. Garibaldi in France 261 

6. The Creed of St. Athanasius. By the Rev. J. Jones . . 280 

The Rosenberg. By A. M. C 313 

Postscript to the Article on " Results of the Education Act" . . 322 
Reviews : — 

1. Doctrine and Worship in the first three Centuries of the 

Christian era. By Dr. Probst 329 

2. The Christian Doctrine of Prayer for the Departed . . ^ 333 

3. Le Lendemain de la Mort. Par Louis Figuier . . . -335 

4. South Sea Bubbles. By the Earl and the Doctor . . . 337 
Notices : — 

1. St. Teresa's Book of the F'oundations 339 

2. Mrs. Hope's Conversion of the Teutonic Race .... 339 

3. Father Coleridge's Life and Letters of St. Francis Xavier . . 340 

4. The Athanasian Creed. By Professor Heurtlcy . . .341 

5. Mr. Lewin Bowring's Eastern Experiences , . . .341 

6. The Abbd Orsini's History of the Blessed Virgin Mary . 343 

7. Dr. Hayes' Land of Desolation 344 

8. M. Henri Martin's Histoire de France. By M. I'Epinois . . 344 
■9. Miscellaneous 344 


Articles, &c.: — 

1. St. Ambrose. By J. Gerard, B.A 345 

2. " Tout est dit" By P. M • -373 

3. Episodes in the Life of a Scotch Missionar>' Priest in the 

Seventeenth Century. By the Rev, T. B. Parkinson . . 374 

4. Moritura. By E. B. Nicholson, B.A. 393 

5. Pauperism in England. By Lord Robert Montagu, M.P. . . 395 

6. The Yarra-Yarra Unvisited. By W. L. 425 

7. Reviews of Famous Books. — V. Marco Polo's Travels. By the 

Rev. H. J. Coleridge 428 

8. A Russian of the last Generation. By F. Gordon . . . 459 
Reviews, &c. : — 

1. Dr. Newman's Discussions and Arguments . . . .481 

2. Le Manuscrit de ma M6re 485 

3. Lord Arundell on Tradition 492 

4. Soeur Eug<5nie 496 

5. The Art of Always Rejoicing 49^ 

6t Dictionnairc Encyclopddique de la Th^ologie Catholique . .501 

7. The Life of Queen Marie Am^ie 5^3 



Notices : — 

1. Father Libcratorc's La Chiesa c lo Stato .... 

2. Cardinal Toletus' Enarratio in Summam Thcologicam S 

Thomae Aquinatis 

3. Mr. Baring Gould's Lives of the Saints 

4. Louise I^tcau, the Ecstatica of Bois d'Hainc 

5. Chats about the Rosar>' 

6. Only Three Weeks 

7. Father Gagarin*s Russian Clcrg)* 

8. Father Francis Arias* Virtues of Mary 
9- IMcadingsof the Sacred Heart . 






Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

In the winter of 1578 Sir Francis Drake reached the Pacific 

Ocean by the Straits of Magellan. He was on board the Golden 

Hind, and bore a secret commission from Queen Elizabeth, by 

which he was authorized to seize and destroy whatever floating 

thing he found bearing Spanish goods or surmounted by 

Spanish colours over the expanse of that mighty ocean. The 

bold buccaneer turned northward, and having crossed both the 

tropics and captured many prizes on his route, came to anchor 

at last in a beautiful bay to the north of the Spanish settlements 

of the New World, and situated in lat. 38® N. and long. 123** W. 

Drake lay at anchor for thirty six days in those hospitable 

waters ; he exchanged presents with the natives of the country, 

and, believing himself its first discoverer, took formal possession 

of it for "good Queen Bess," and gave it, in honour of his parent 

country, the name of New Albion. The name still lingers on 

some of our best globes and maps. History, however, has not 

accepted it, and the country discovered by Cabrillo in 1542, 

and miscalled by Drake in 1579, has risen into importance and 

attracted the notice of mankind under a name of obscure local 

origin but of agreeable sound — California. 

I purpose to put on paper some of the recollections furnished 

by a residence of nearly five years in that "land of gold" — ^years 

embracing a period of the greatest moral, political, and social 

activity of its people. I shall add some brief items touching my 

journey outward over two oceans, and my return by the 

Central Pacific Railroad, just a few weeks after its completion. 

Accoimts, it must be admitted, of such travels to and from such 

a country are now thrice told tales. The writer of this notice, 

however, has had some opportunities, peculiarly his own, of 

knowing California and its people. He will aim, moreover, 

in the following pages, not at superseding but possibly 

supplementing in some respects the notices of Mr. "RjaL^ ^xv^ 

other touiist^ who have visited Cah'fomia of late atvd tecotd^ 


2 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

their impressions of that interesting land. A glance at the 
physical and geological features of the country will not be 
unacceptable to the English reader. 

The Vast mountain chain which in South America bears the 
name of Cordilleras or Andes extends, as is well known, 
through Central America and Mexico, and northward still to 
the M'Kenzie River and the frozen shores of the Arctic Ocean. 
On entering the North American continent the vast range parts 
into two branches, enclosing between them an arid plain of great 
extent, elevated some four thousand feet above the level of the 
sea. The eastern and more inland of these ranges is known as 
the Sierra Madre, or great chain of the Rocky Mountains. 
From its deep gorges descend the thousand affluents that rush 
eastward to swell the tide of the "Father of Waters." The 
plateau to the west of this chain, though in some places fit for 
pasturage and agriculture, is in general barren and of dreary 
aspect. Its centre is the Great Salt Lake, of Mormon celebrity. 
With the single exception of the Colorado River, no stream 
escapes oceanward through the rocky barrier of this vast table- 
land. The scanty streams that water its surface discharge 
themselves into the central basin of the Salt Lake or disappear 
in the dusty alkaline soil itself Westward of this plain the 
snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada rise, like pinnacles, from a 
continuous wall to a height of ten, twelve, and sometimes — as 
in the instance of Mount Whitney — of fifteen thousand feet 
This mighty granite wall is named, with reason, the Sierra 
Nevada, or snowy ridge.* It presents to the traveller mountain 
scenery of incomparable grandeur, while it fences in and indeed 
forms by the washings of its western slope what may be termed 
the garden of the West — to wit, the New or Upper California. 

This favoured region, canopied by a genial sky and blessed 
with a boundless fertility, extends from lat 32*" N. to lat 42° N., 
and reaching from the crests of Sierra Nevada to the Pacific, 
has an average breadth of from two hundred to two hundred 
and fifty miles. Its area will be seen, therefore, to contain 
one hundred thousand square miles, and to exceed that oi 
Great Britain and Ireland, with several of our smaller Euro- 
pean States. The form and general appearance of the country 
are thus described by a native writer — "The general outline 

• The reader need not be told that sierra — " a saw "—is applied by the Spaniards 
to any ridge of moontains whose peaks present a nigged and broken sky line, resem- 
bJing somewhat the f^A c/a saw. 

Five Years at tJie Golden Gate. 3 

of this great State on the map," says Cronise, "resembles 
that of an oblong trough — the coast range on the western or 
ocean- side and the Sierra Nevada on the east, with their inter- 
locking extremities, forming the rim and enclosing a series of 
level valleys of unrivalled fertility — once basins of water, salt or 
fresh, but now filled with the washings of uncounted years. The 
mountain walls themselves are broken into innumerable smaller 
valleys, some — as those on the coast range — only slightly elevated 
above the ocean level, while others — as at the sources of rivers 
or between the crests of the Nevada Mountains — are lifted full 
seven thousand feet above the waters of the Pacific Innumerable 
streams pour down the gold-laden and pine-covered slopes of the 
Sien^ Nevada, or Californian Andes. These streams, after wan- 
dering through picturesque ravines and valleys, empty themselves 
into two large rivers, the Sacramento and San Joaquin, which 
themselves unite, and, after forming a sort of inland sea, pour 
their combined volumes seaward, clearing a passage through the 
mountain range of the coast That passage, the only one 
of any account through these mountains, opens into the Bay 
of San Francisco, and is known since the days of General 
Fremont as the Chrysopylai, or Golden Gate to California's 

Although this State reaches the latitude of Plymouth Bay 
(Massachusetts) on the north, the climate for its whole length is 
as mild as that of the regions near the tropics. Two thirds of 
the months are rainless; snow and ice are almost unknown, except 
at great altitudes ; there are fully two hundred cloudless days 
every year ; roses bloom in the open air of the valleys through 
all seasons. The grape grows with Mediterranean luxuriance at 
a height of three thousand feet above the sea level ; the orange, 
the fig, and the olive flourish as in their native climes, yet there is 
sufficient variety of soil and climate to include all the products 
of the north temperate zone with those of a semi-tropical 
character. The great valleys of the interior yield from thirty 
tQ thirty-five bushels of wheat per acre. Crops of sixty bushels 
are not uncommon, while, on a virgin soil and under favouring 
conditions, the farmer's toil has been rewarded with a yield of 
fully eighty bushels of excellent wheat to every acre ploughed, 
sowed, and slightly tended. The fertility of surface of this land 

* Mr. Rae ( Westward by Rail) is mistaken as to the origin of the tkaxftfc Golden 
^ also as to the ^scovery of the Bay of San Francisco by Sir Y. "Diiyft, ^efe 
Cna««» ATafyra/ ff^aaZ/A 0/ Ca/t/omta, p. yy, San Francisco, iS®. 

4 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

IS equalled by the hidden wealth of its mountain vaults, while its 
scenery of hill, lake, valley, and gigantic forest is second to none 
in the world."* 

Such is California, such it was when I was first summoned 
thither at the close of the year 1864. The occasion of my 
journey was as follows. Some fifteen years previous to the 
date above mentioned several thousand Irish emigrants — gold 
seekers for the most part — ^had "crossed the plains" to this 
El Dorado. San Francisco, from a few rude huts in the sandy 
valley of Yerba Buena, had grown to be the centre of a large 
though fluctuating population, and gave promise of becoming at 
no distant day a wealthy and important city, perhaps the capital 
of the surrounding State. Apprized of this circumstance, and 
urged by the petitions of the Irish and other Catholic settlers, 
the Holy Father lost no time in providing for the wants of 
his spiritual children. San Francisco was at once erected 
into an archiepiscopal see. The present worthy Archbishop 
(Dr. Alemany) was transferred from the elder see of Monterey, 
and made first Archbishop of the new community. Some Jesuit 
Fathers were invited by his Grace both to assume a parochial 
charge and to preside over the education of Catholic children in 
the rising city. Children, it is true, were at that period rare^ 
very rare indeed, in San Francisco. They might have 
numbered, perhaps, a dozen or two, and were altogether 
curiosities. Subsequent years, however, have made ample 
atonement for this shortcoming. The birth rate in the new 
city became remarkable. Public schools, ever foremost among 
American institutions, were soon opened. The spirited settlers 
were not content, however, with the mere elements of learning 
imparted in the common school. They looked to a higher 
instruction than that of the three R's, and were anxious 
to bestow upon their children a niore complete education than 
they themselves possessed. No section of the young com- 
munity exhibited this desire more markedly than the Catholics 
of Irish origin. The Jesuit Fathers accordingly purchased 
a few sand hills as a site for a church and College. The 
sacred edifice was soon crowded by respectable and attentive 
worshippers. The College obtained a State charter, enabling 
.it to confer degrees. In a few years the pupils in daily 
attendance within its walls were counted at four hundred and 

* A^a/nraJ IVaalih of California, By Titus Fey Cronise. See Introduction, p. vii. 
SuL Frandsco : Bancroft and Co., 1868. 

Five Years at tJie Golden Gate. 5 

upwards. The violence practised at this time in North Italy 
against religious orders exercised a favourable influence upon 
the literary condition of California. The exiled Jesuits found a 
welcome and a home in San Francisco and the neighbouring 
mission of Santa Clara. Like the Greeks after the fall of 
Constantinople, they brought with them libraries, scientific 
instruments, and the education and habits which fit men for 
the office of teaching. The Fathers, however, laboured under 
one defect, both in the pulpit and the class room. They spoke 
and taught in a language not altogether English, and their 
manners and ideas were too Italian to meet the tastes of the 
young Republicans of the West It was in order to meet this 
deficiency that an Englishspeaking Father was sought for and 
obtained from Ireland The lot fell upon the writer of this 

Embarking at Queenstown on board the Chinas on the feast 
of the Presentation, Nov. 21, 1864, I experienced for the first 
few days all the discomforts of a midwinter Atlantic voyage. 
The weather was inclement, the waves ran high, and the China 
rolled in a fearful manner. As we neared the banks of New- 
foundland an armed vessel bore rapidly down upon us from the 
north. She was pronounced a Confederate cruiser, and we 
prepared ourselves for a detention of at least some hours. 
"The gallant vessel, however, passed quietly astern, and, 
covering us for a moment with her friendly guns, continued 
her path southward. It was a British war sloop, bound from 
Halifax to the sister station of Kingston (Jamaica). On 
Sunday a service was performed in the saloon by an Anglican 
minister — a service, to judge from the faces of those who had 
attended it, colder and duller than the fogs that now enveloped 
"s. We escaped, however, from both, came into a clearer 
atmosphere, and after a few days entered the Narrows, Fort 
La Fayette frowning grimly on our right hand, and the newly 
erected batteries of Staten Island giving like menace on our 
left The American civil war was then at its height. We were 
subjected, therefore, a little way inside the Narrows, to a strict 
^rch for arms. The high spirit of one of our passengers — 
^r« Rossin, the new Governor of the Bahamas — chafed not a 
"ttle at this indignity. 'Twas in vain ; but we passed the ordeal • 
unhurt, and steamed up the magnificent Hudson, which erewhile 
so charmed the eyes' of " Old Hendrick," and on Dec yd cam^ 
^ ^chor at the Cunard Wharf, Jersey City, vjYietvce \j^\\ 

6 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

appointed vehicles conveyed us by large ferries across the 
Hudson, and thence to our respective destinations. On arriving 
at the College of St. Francis Xavier, Fifteenth Street, I had 
the pleasure of hearing the panegyric of the patron preached in 
good style by an elh)c of the establishment, lately ordained 
priest. The Empire City pleased me much, and a visit to Yale 
College, New Haven (Conn.), and to the Brown University, 
Providence (R. I.), introduced me to some acquaintance with 
American schools and scholars. Both in Providence and 
Newhaven I found the Catholics nearly one third of the 
population, presided over by a worthy Prelate and tended by 
a devoted clergy. A like proportion of Catholics to non- 
Catholics obtains, I am told, in all large American cities. 

Retracing my steps I arrived in New York on Dec 17th, and 
got on board the Costa Rica, a bi-monthly steamer, bound with 
passengers and mail for Aspinwall, and "connecting," as the 
Americans say, with mail lines to Mexico, South America, and 
California. New Jersey and Cape Hatteras were soon lost 
sight of. The temperature, as we reached the Gulf Stream off 
the coast of Carolina, became quite pleasant — doubly so, indeed, 
after the keen cutting blasts of New York. Now and then a 
stately vessel specked the horizon. It was supposed to be the 
ubiquitous Confederate steamer, and the passengers of the 
Costa Rica — the Americans especially — prepared themselves 
for the worst. The danger soon wore away. On entering 
the Gulf we had come under the shadow of the Federal 
guard ships, and the change from fear to mirth was 

An American gentleman of loyal tendencies summoned a 
meeting to the upper deck, and recited " Sheridan*s Ride," then 
a recent ballad, in a voice that would have done honour to old 
Stentor. The fairer portion of the passengers sang, evening after 
evening, the popular war ditty of the North, 

Hark ! I hear the bugle sounding, 
'Tis the signal for the fray — 

and were answered by a more powerful chorus with the " Star- 
spangled Banner," the " Battle-cry of Freedom," and such like 
songs. The negroes — the only servants taken into his ships by 
the patriotic Mr. Vanderbilt — ^were occasionally allowed to join. 
In volume of voice they rivalled the Northern Stentor, in 
g^esture they surpdiss^di him. Their ditty was one that had 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. 7 

reference to their late emancipation by Mr. Lincoln ; and closed 
at each stanza with the following refrain — 

Surely, I say, 'tis the kingdom come, 
And the reign of jubil^ze/. 

Jubil(?z£/, by a small poetic licence, being put instead of jubik^, in 
order to rhyme with a preceding verse. When these entertain- 
ments were over, more serious topics were discussed. "Well, 
what do you Europeans think of this war of ours t '* ** It seems 
to me you Catholics have much to say for yourselves, and know 
religion well." Conversations of a serious and even earnest 
character followed, and the frankness and absence of prejudice 
of the Americans were remarkable. 

Altogether, those evenings under a warm tropical sky, and 
with a genial company, were among the pleasing recollections of 
my jife. On the first Saturday after our departure, a deputation 
from the captain and passengers waited on the Catholic priest (the 
writer), asking him to perform religious service on the ensuing 
Sunday. The proposal was accepted. An attentive congregation 
surrounded the preacher on th& quarter deck as he explained 
the Gospel of the current Sunday. A Protestant minister and 
his bride were among the most attentive hearers. The Sunday 
being the third of Advent, the discourse turned on the character 
of Christ, and closed with an extract from the hymn whose 
original is ascribed to St- Bernard, " Jesus, the only thought of 
'Thee." As the preacher retired, a full choir of voices took up 
^e words and continued the hymn in a fine style of music. On 
inquiring, it was found that this ancient Catholic hymn is quite a 
favourite one in American Protectant churches. The Priest 
^d his audience became thenceforth excellent friends, and 
on the eves of Christmas, New Year's Day, and the following 
Sunday, a deputation appeared to solicit a similar service 
from him. In all instances the polite request was complied 

On the ninth day after quitting New York, we entered the 
small but beautiful bay of Colon. On its right, or southern 
shore is situated a small town, from which a railroad, forty-eight 
"^les in length, stretches across the wooded isthmus to Panami 
on the opposite coast The Spanish speaking people call this 
little town Colon, affirming that it was the first spot in the tierra 
fima of • the New World upon which the great CoVotv (^ot 
^ohmbus) set foot The Americains have baptized tYie p\^c^\>v 

8 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

another name, that of Mr. Aspinwall, the New York merchani 
who inaugurated a line of steamers to this point 

The railway, following the line of the Chagres River, passes 
through a district covered with primeval forest and tanglec 
vines, through which neither air nor sunshine can penetrate 
Along the line a few scanty clearings are seen, the abodes o 
railroad officials or the sites of Indian villages. We traversec 
this strange region in a downpour of tropical rain, and at a higl 
speed. " You in England," said a Mexican passenger, '* woul< 
call this reckless driving, and you would prosecute the engin< 

After a few hours we bade adieu to the ancient Spanisl 
town of Panamzt, got on board the Sacramento^ and steerinj 
south through the Pearl Archipelago, within eight degrees o 
the equator, rounded the promontory of Mala, and headed nortl 
through a sea of silver. The Sacramento resembled more ; 
colossal river steamer fitted out in gala style than an oceai 
going vessel destined to run four thousand miles at every trip 
Her path, however, was on the Pacific She was strongh 
guarded at this time by a body of Federal soldiers. Following \ 
line parallel in its general direction to the shore, and mostly ii 
view of it, we sighted in succession the wooded headlands o 
Costa Rica and Central America, and the volcanic peaks o 
Southern Mexico, and on the seventh day rested awhile in th< 
Bay of Acapulco to land freight and take in passengers for Sai 
Francisco. It was after sundown when we cast anchor in thi 
historic little bay. One could see only the tall masts of a fev 
French vessels in the harbour, and the dim outline of a fe\ 
houses, with wooded heights around. Something more wa 
visible to the eye when, two days afterwards, we cast anchor ii 
the Bay of Mansanilla. A slight action had taken place in th< 
environs of this spot between the Mexican General Corona am 
some of Maximilian's troops. The advantage had been with th< 
former. Corona was threatening the town ; and the Frencl 
garrison, as well as the crews of the French ships, were on th< 
alert The native Mexicans rowed towards us in long canoes 
bearing limes, oranges, and other tropical fruits, which the] 
exchanged for a small American coin, about a shilling English 
per parcel — the parcels being of such bigness as the buyer wouk 
insist on. 

The sharks in the bay seemed on the best possible term; 
with the Indian rowers. They would play harmlessly aroum 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. 9 

the bows of the long light canoes, on the understanding, it 
would seem, of getting now and then some refuse from the ship, 
or the boats plying towards her. This was freely given, and we 
witnessed during a six hours* stay in the harbour of Mansanilla, 
no such bloody encounter between sharks and crocodiles as 
that which Secretary Seward and Colonel Evans beheld with 
amazement in September, 1870, in these same waters.* The 
mouth of the Gulf of California, or Vermilion Sea, was crossed 
on the next day, and at Cape San Lucas we landed a few 
passengers charged, it was understood, with the task of exciting 
a revolt against Maximilian in that quarter. Along the coast 
indeed, as on board the Sacramento itself, signs of war were 
suffidently visible. 

The towns of Acapulco and Mansanilla were both encom- 
passed by the rebel or native Mexican forces as we passed ; but 
no tidings of Sherman's army (then on the march through 
Georgia), or of any operation connected with the giant struggle 
in progress between the Federals and the South, met the 
anxious inquiries of the passengers. On the twelfth day after 
our departure from Panami, we descried the hills of San Diego, 
green with wild oats after a recent rainfall. On the fourteenth, 
we came in view of the lighthouse which crowns the northern 
cliff of the Golden Gate. A dense fog detained us for several 
hours in the offing outside the roadstead. Suddenly, about noon, 
It cleared away as if by magic A bright blue sky hang over us. 
We entered the Golden Gate, in width about one English mile, 
passed closely under the guns of Fort Point and Alcatras Island, 
and were hailed by small boats, whose captains, with the Stars 
^d Stripes gaily flying in the breeze, cried out, "General 
Sherman has reached the Atlantic," " Savannah has fallen." 
The American portion of the passengers lifted high the " Star- 
spangled Banner" and the "Battle-cry of Freedom." In this gay 
mood we steamed up the Golden Gate, some five miles long, 
entered the sealike Bay of San Francisco, rounded the romantic 
"^ghts known as Russian and Telegraph Hills, and leaving to 
^^r right a forest of masts surmounting war vessels and 
Merchantmen of all countries, we came to moorings at Folsom 
Street Wharf, on a spot commanding a fine view of the city of 
San Francisco, the picturesque hills that environ it, and the 
wooded plains, backed by foot hill and mountain, that lie 
eastward of its noble bay. 

• See Colonel Evans' da/a Trip through Mexico. Loudon, l^li. 

lo Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

Whoever has read the El Dorado of Bayard Taylor, or the 
inimitable tales of Bret Harte, can picture to himself what my 
ideas were of the character and peculiarities of the people with 
whom I was soon to mingle. Rough, enterprizing, lawless, 
nomadic, generous yet intent on gain — such Ivere the characters 
that rose to my mind as the gaily appointed vehicle whirled me 
rapidly on by Folsom and Market Streets to my destination 
in St. Ignatius* College. I owe it to the inhabitants of San 
Francisco to say that the darker side of the picture I had drawn 
was far from corresponding with fact During my residence of 
nearly five years in the Queen City of the Pacific, I found her 
people equalling, as I consider, the most advanced populations of 
Europe in civilization and social advancement, while in enQj*gy, 
generosity, and freshness of character they far surpassed them. 
It was on the feast of the Epiphany, 1865, I first entered the 
church of St. Ignatius. The congregation was large and 
imposing ; the floor within the altar rails appeared strewn with 
silver coins. They were the offerings of the poor Irish, to defray 
the expenses of a tastefully decorated crib, which the pupils,, 
aided by some of the professors, had erected for a time above 
the small altar to the left 

My apartments commanded a viev/ of the eastern portion 
of the city and the fine bay beyond. Roses were in full bloom 
beneath my window, and Byron's line — 

As soon 

Seek roses in December, ice in June, 

would certainly have been no synonym for the impossible in 
San Francisco. Not a sand plot in the city that will not yield 
*' roses in December," while a few hours' ride by rail will bring 
the traveller from the warm vicinity of the Golden Gate to the 
lofty crest of the Sierra Nevada, where snow and ice maintain 
their dominion, even in the warm months of June and July. A 
short time after my arrival in San Francisco, the news of the 
fall of Charleston was sent across the continent by wire. The 
city put on her robes of gladness, the Stars and Stripes waved 
from nearly every house, as well as from the shipping in the bay. 
Salvos of artillery were fired at intervals, and the themes of 
orators in the pulpits, as well as the essays of pupils in the 
public schools, were furnished by the joyous event The sur- 
render of Lee brought, a little time after, its share of rejoicing. 
San Francisco, though at all times demonstrative, was over. 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. ii 

demonstrative at the time I now write of. She had wavered in 
the balance at the beginning of the late war. Most of her 
democrats were supposed still favourable to the cause of the 
South. Narrowly escaping the name and punishment of rebels, 
they purchased their immunity by at least an outward show of 
adhesion to the Government, while the republican party of the 
State celebrated in the triumphs of the Northern arms their own 
hard won domestic victory. The rejoicings of these latter were 
accordingly of a ferocious and even menacing character. The 
solemn funeral procession in honour of President Lincoln — a 
procession in which all the Catholic clergy took part — brought 
to an end the political excitement which agitated San Francisco 
during the spring of 1865. The subsidence of the storm left the 
moral atmosphere comparatively clear, and I was enabled to 
study Califomian life thenceforth with more advantage, especially 
in its religious, social, and intellectual aspects. 

The population of San Francisco (now reckoned at 160,000) 
was set down in the city estimates of 1865 in the round number 
of 95,coo souls. Fully one third of these were Catholics — Irish, 
Spanish, and American. Jews and Protestants of various 
denominations Mivided among them another third ; while the 
remaining fraction frequented neither church nor synagogue, 
and entertained a positive belief in two deities only — to wit, 
the All-potent Dollar, and the Stars and Stripes of the Union. 
Some of these last, like General Sherman when a banker in 
San Francisco, though "nothing p'rticl'r themselves" in point 
of religion, would knock down any one who spoke against 
Catholics. Others deemed all religions alike, were rather dim 
as to a future state, had few prejudices to overcome, would 
like to see every man come out " right square for his platform," 
and were ready in such case to give him an impartial hearing. 
The eloquent lectures of Father Buchard, S.J., of St. Ignatius* 
Church, attracted many of these, who, after due instruction, 
^^^me zealous members of the Catholic Church. 

Sacred architecture is tolerably well represented in San 
Francisco. Three at least of the twelve Catholic churches are 
sightly and spacious edifices — the Cathedral, the Church of 
St Francis, Vallejo Street, and the College Church of the Jesuit 
Fathers. The ample basements of these buildings (as, indeed,, 
those of the other Catholic churches of the city) serve as parish 
free schools for poor children^ as well as for libraries and l^ctux^ 
^^J^ for the congregations and religious confraternities aXX^cJcieA. 

12 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

respectively to the churches. There are few congregations to be 
found, even in the most Catholic countries of Europe, which 
would surpass in number, respectability, or devoted piety, the 
<:ongregation which assembles twice a day on every Sunday and 
Feast of Obligation in the Church of the sons of Loyola, Market 
Street, San Francisco. 

On the 4th of July, 1865, I visited the College of Santa 
Clara, situated in the beautiful valley of the same name, some 
forty miles south of San Francisco, and ten from the head of its 
matchless bay. On either side of the line of route were to 
be seen princely residences with spacious parks, the summer 
retreats of the wealthier merchants of the city. Among them 
I noticed with pleasure the magnificent mansions of Mr. Peter 
Donohue, Mr. John Doyle, and others, whose names bespoke 
them Celts, and who, having "crossed the plains" as poor 
mechanics in the early days of San Francisco, have, by their 
energy and intelligence, amassed princely fortunes, benefiting by 
their honestly acquired wealth, not less themselves than the 
city and State of their adoption. The cadets of the Santa Clara 
College in full uniform, and under arms furnished by the State* 
Arsenal, met my companions and myself at the station. They 
presented arms, and after something like our Hampshire 
manoeuvres of last autumn, returned quickstep to the Collie. 
The usual 4th of July orations were recited ; poems in 
memory of Mr. Lincoln were delivered ; the Stars and Stripes 
were duly honoured, and a play from Shakspeare, tolerably well 
acted, closed the Independence festivities of the first boarding 
College on the Pacific slope. Next day beheld me at the old 
mission of San Jos4 some three miles distant from Santa Clara. 
San Jos6 contains about 8,000 souls, being the third city of the 
State in size and importance. There is here a flourishing 
Catholic mission which dates from the time of the first Spanish 
settlers. At present it is ably directed by Father Kenny, S.J., 
arid two other priests of the same order. 

The flora of San Jos6 is the most famous even of California; 
at the season of my visit it was gorgeous. I regretted not 
being able to climb to the famous quicksilver mines of New 
Almaden, just three miles distant, nor to visit the boiling 
springs of Gilroy (a little farther south), nor even to catch 
a glimpse of the disputed "claim" of my friend, M'Garahan 

* The College cadet company furnishes its own uniform. The State invariably 
supplies sums. 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. 13 

—estimated by the American Senate at some forty millions 
of dollars, and deemed the richest cinnabar district in the 
world A view of the "cosmopolitan orchard" of San Jos6 
indemnified me in some measure, exotics from every country 
being acclimatized in that genial spot Shrubs from Japan 
and China, the gum and acacia trees from Australia, the 
rose, the box, and the holly from England, the furze and the 
bladcthom from Ireland, .... the sturdy pine from the North, 
the cactus and the palm, the olive and the mulberry from the 
"Sunny South," were there blooming in cosmopolitan harmony, 
while a broad band of roses of every country, and of every hue, 
formed a fittmg fringe to the orchard itself. I returned to San 
Francisco, and in a few days after witnessed the Commencement 
Exercises in the Lincoln public school, a palatial building 
erected close by the College of St Ignatius with a view ta 
check, it was said, the ever increasing influence of that institu- 
tion, and to establish the superiority of the system of public and 
exclusively secular schools. 

The sums of money voted in the different States of the 
American Union for public schools are quite astonishing. 
No State equals California in this respect San Francisco 
alone allocated, in the year I speak of, a larger amount of 
money for its school buildings and schools than the entire grant 
to the national schools of Ireland for the same year. The 
school buildings and school furniture are, accordingly, of the 
first character. The teachers (ladies, for the most part) are 
well qualified and are most liberally paid. They are good 
disciplinarians, and impart faultless instruction in arithmetic, 
geography, modem history, English grammar, and one or two of 
^e physical sciences. The attention they bestow upon reading 
IS worthy of all praise. When so much has been said of the 
public school system of California, its eulogy is at an end. 
The youth of either sex, as they emerge from the common 
school, are destitute of even an elementary knowledge of 
religion. They are bold and independent to such a degree as to 
^rfy paternal authority, and their morals, are, to say the least,, 
questionable. Private institutions are, therefore, largely resorted 
^ by intelligent parents for the training of their children, and 
Jews and Protestants, as well as Catholics, hold in high esteem, 
^d freely patronize the great free schools of the Irish Presen- 
tation Sisters for the moral education of their daughters. A. 
sjoular service is performed for boys by the preparatory sdioc\s» 

J 4 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

and the higher curriculum of the chartered College of the Jesuit 
Fathers. The Lincoln and othqr public school exhibitions 
which I witnessed were of moderate pretensions. Music and 
recitations were the principal exercises. A few original essays 
were read — the reading being in every instance without fault, 
but the composition somewhat asiatic in its style. The pro- 
ceedings were generally graced with the presence and enlivened 
with the oratory of some eminent men, chiefly Unitarian 
ministers, such as Starr King, Rev. Dr. Stone, of Boston, and 
some notabilities of less extended fame. These addresses were 
directed to the graduating class, the " future Washingtons and 
Linoolns of their country," and the theme invariably was the 
glories of the Stars and Stripes, and the " immediate future of 
the great Republic" Our College of St Ignatius was not by any 
means deficient in such themes ; but we at least added to them, 
at each commencement, some strictly academic pieces and 
some experiments in music or a drama on some sacred subject, 
and generally put on our theatre a reduced play of Shakspeare. 

On the first of January, 1867, the Colorado, the first of a 
regular line of steamers from San Francisco to Yokohama and 
Hong Kong, sailed through the Golden Gate. She was a 
magnificent vessel, constructed in Boston, and owned by the 
Pacific Steamship Company. The celebration and banqueting 
were on a scale of rare grandeur, and no post prandial speeches 
to which it has been my good fortune to listen — not even those 
of O'Connell, Shiel, or Tom Moore himself, were equal in my 
opinion to the eloquent utterances delivered in Piatt's Hall, on 
the evening of December 31, 1866 — to inaugurate the event of 
the next morning. San Francisco was indeed from her very 
birth, and still is, a city of celebrations. Every nationality has 
its own festival in that gay cosmopolitan city. Foremost amongst 
these is that of the sons of St Patrick. A grand militarj*^ 
procession, a poem, an oration, and at the close of the day a 
variety of entertainments, form the essentials of these celebrations. 
Frequently, discourses and other solemnities in the Church are 
added, and the services of the priest or minister are seldom 
dispensed with. What I have said of nationalities applies, as a 
matter of course, to the great political parties that divide, and in 
turn rule the city. Each one has its day of triumph, and that 
day never passes without torchlight or other processions, poems, 
orations, and convivial rejoicings. The fine climate invites these 
pageants, and the temper of the Californians is altogether for 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. 15 

such. Some occasions unite all parties and nationalities, and 
then the city pageant is at once infantile in its glory and gigantic 
in its magnitude. Such, for example, was that which gladdened 
the city of San Francisco on the lo'th of May, 1869 — the 
memorable day on which the two great railroads from the 
Atlantic and Pacific Oceans met at Promontory Point, and were 
bound together by a golden spike (the gift of San Francisco), 
whose stroke by the President's hammer discharged at the same 
moment the batteries on either coast, announcing the glad event 
throughout the land. The city of the land of gold was most 
concerned in the new enterprise. Her children had invested 
largely in it : by its means, in conjunction with the China and 
Japan line of steamers, she hoped to become, at no distant day, 
the mtrepdt of Asiatic trade to Europe and America, and the 
centre of monied operations for the world. These expectations 
have not yet been realized, but the completion of the last step 
towards their accomplishment was celebrated in San Francisco 
with such jubilee and festive demonstrations as those who 
witnessed them will not easily forget 

At times the city was shaken with agitations of another kind. 
Earthquakes are of frequent occurrence along the entire Pacific 
coast Two remarkable visitations of this kind, however, took 
place during my stay in those regions. The first occurred in 
the summer of 1866. Preceded by a high tidal wave, the 
movement seems to have originated in the mountains of 
Ecuador. It travelled northward as far as Mount Hood and 
Mount Elias, north-westward to the Sandwich Islands and 
Japan, and eastward to the West Indian Islands and even to 
the coast of Europe. Mounts Hood and Elias — dormaat 
volcanoes — became active at once, and the huge volcano of 
Maunaloa, in the Sandwich Isles, vomited forth rivers of flame. 
The vicinity of the Golden Gate was well shaken ; some houses 
^ere thrown down, but no life was lost. But far a severer shock 
^^ felt in San Francisco two years later, in the autumn of 1868. 
Considerable damage was done in the city, and two or three 
"ves were lost in the suburb of Oakland. Alarm pervaded all 
classes of the people, and several families took their departure 
for the East Confidence, however, was soon restored. An 
^We lecturer, Mr. Rhodes, proved to the satisfaction of many 
"^t the late earthquake was owing, not to subterranean nor to 
^mospheric, but to planetary, disturbances, and that, as the 
planets would not for another century range themselves a\\ otv\3asi 

i6 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

same side of the sun and disturb the equilibrium of our system, 
a visitation of the kind just experienced would not afflict San 
Francisco for at least three generations to come. My friend 
Mr. M'Coppin, the active Mayor of the city, telegraphed this 
assurance to Mr. Peter Donohue (then in Paris) and to other 
large capitalists. The announcement became public, a sense of 
security was felt, and real estate looked up once more. 

This feeling of security was increased when Mr. Seward, 
the ex-Secretary of the Federal Government, arrived in San 
Francisco on his tour of inspection to his newly purchased 
territory of Alaska, and thence to the "sister Republic" of 
Mexico. The Bismarck of the New World spoke of the bright 
prospects in the "immediate future" opening on the golden 
State. He promised especial attention to her mines. To my 
friend and countryman the Mayor he spoke in high terms of the 
late Archbishop Hughes, of New York, to whose exertions he 
ascribed the fact "that America was now a united, not a 
divided country." He attended the 4th of July meeting in 
San Francisco, and delivered, when repeatedly called for, the 
following laconic words — " I have a 4th of July oration ready 
written. I will not deliver it now. I am an old man, but 
expect to live seven years more. On this day, seven years 
hence, our country shall be celebrating her centenary feast 
By that time the American flag shall be seen floating over 
every land on this continent, from the North Pole to the 
Southern Cross. Then and then only shall I deliver my 4th of 
July oration. A hundred millions of free citizens shall applaud 
that speech." A hundred millions of citizens — even were they 
all Stentors — could hardly have intensified the uproar of joy 
that followed. Mr. Seward, a few days later, started for 
Mansanilla, and continued his tour of observation through the 
northern States of Mexico and onward to the capital itself. An 
account of this " gala trip " may be seen in the pages of Colonel 
George Evans, companion and secretary to Mr. Seward. 

A stranger arriving in San Francisco has hardly disposed of 
his well served evening meal when his attention is aroused by 
the quick and peculiar tolling of a distant bell. It is the fire 
bell of the central station, clear and shrill it tells out the number 
of the street and house where the fiery element is at work. The 
eye is turned in that direction ; tongues of flame and heavy 
columns of smoke are ascending through the clear blue sky. 
The steady trade wind from the Pacific bends the yielding 

Five Years at tJie Golden Gate. 17 

column athwart the city and scatters it far and wide over the 
glassy bay, where its h'ght and shade are too faithfully reflected. 
One seeks instinctively for relief on such occasions, and relief sure 
enough is at hand. Half a dozen huge fire engines, bright as 
burnished gold, are pushed or galloped along the streets. The 
firemen are with these ; the young bloods of the city accompany 
them as volunteers and pat the advancing engines in token, as it 
were, of encouragement. The spot is soon reached, the combat 
of Neptune and Vulcan soon begins, and in a few minutes (at 
least in many instances) the victory of the former is complete. If 
the fire is not got under, the burning house is quickly isolated 
and further damage is prevented. A few years ago such fires 
were of daily, or rather of nightly, occurrence in San Francisco : 
they are now (thanks to the excellent signal system and 
tel^raphy of the firemen) more rare, and the stranger can 
rest a night or two (at least within the " fire limits " of the city, 
where buildings are of more solid construction) without being 
roused from his slumber by the alarm of fire. Few families in 
the city have escaped being " burned out " once or twice in the 
course of their commercial life. The insurance offices, however, 
were prompt in their payments, and the fortunes of the sufferers 
were built up anew. 

Another peculiarity of life at the Golden Gate which will 
excite the stranger's attention is the established system of 
"house moving." Lofty and graceful edifices, not to say stores 
or shops and small dwellings, are transferred from place to place 
^d settled down in new quarters with as much ease and regularity 
^ if they were the furniture of a cabinet maker in this country. The 
house to be removed is first prized up from its sandy foundations 
by means of hydraulic pressure, it is then shifted forward upon a 
floor of moveable cylinders, a force identical with that of the wheel 
and axle is brought to bear, and onward moves the displaced 
"fusion with a stateliness of march that can hardly be rivalled. 
A few weeks after my arrival in San Francisco I looked out 
trough my bedroom window about midnight : my object was to 
"^ve a glimpse of the lovely moonlit bay and the well defined 
"lights beyond it. I had often gazed with delight on a beautiful 
church which closed this field of view on the left or north side. 
*^ close proximity to my window there now stood something 
J'esembling that church. It completely blocked up my field of 
^ion and overshadowed me with its tall square tower, Hsid \ive 
College changed place ? or had I hitherto mistaken the povate ol 
rou xvL c 

1 8 Five Years at the Golden Gate. * 

the compass ? or was the strange visitant but an " unreal mockery'* 
in this land of wonders? It was none of these, it was the veritable 
Methodist Episcopal church upon' which I had so often gazed. 
It was resting for the night, unknown to me, in its march along 
Jessie Street, from "third" to midway between "fifth" and "sixth" 
streets, where, unless sites have changed of late, it still remains 
turreted, painted, and porticoed as before, and firmly moored in 
a little sea of episcopal sand. A few words before parting from 
San Francisco, on another church which I consider neither 
moveable nor moored amid shifting sands. 

The condition of the Catholic Church (pastors and people) 
and the growth of her religious institutions at the Golden Gate, 
and in California at large are, in the opinion of the writer, highly 
satisfactory and even consoling. In the city of San Francisco 
there are from ten to twelve Catholic churches. The Archbishop, 
learned, pious, humble, and a strict observer of ecclesiastical 
discipline, does honour to his high office, and commands the 
respect of the professors of every religion, while he is revered by 
those of his own. To his Grace's exertions it is owing that the 
Catholic community enjoys the ministrations of two orders of 
religious men and three more of religious women. The Jesuits 
and Dominicans, aided of late by the Brothers of the Christian 
Schools, exercise parochial cures, visit the sick, deliver pubfic 
lectures, and conduct the education of the higher and middle 
classes. The Presentation Sisters have under their care nearly 
two thousand girls, whom they educate in the principles of faith 
and tender piety ; while the Sisters of Charity and of Mercy are 
charged with the orphans of the city, the superintendence of 
penitent women, and the care of the sick and wounded in the 
hospitals. The popularity of these sisterhoods with every 
denomination of persons is astonishing, and in proportion is the 
amount of good they are able to effect. The parochial clergy 
(furnished for the most part from Ireland) are edifying and 
zealous, and, amidst the bustle of the most commercial of cities, 
the eye of the religious observer will behold with pleasure the 
number of devout worshippers that crowd around the altar, not 
only at the Sunday masses, but from morning to morning 
throughout the week. 

The twenty one missions established by the Spaniards along 

the coast of California are still occupied as missionary centres, 

or parochial cures. The congregations consist chiefly of Spaniards, 

Mexicans, and native Californians. Their \otv^, d^xk^ adobe built 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. 19 

churches are mouldering to decay. The condition of the new 
towns and mining camps is quite different A missionary pastor 
IS generally assigned to eadi (in some cases to every two or 
three); a graceful little church, with an adjoining library and 
school is soon added, and there are few second rate, or even 
third rate towns in the counties near the capital that do not 
enjoy the advantages of religious worship. 

The southern part of California is confided to the pastoral 
care of Dr. Amat, Bishop of Montereif ; the northern to that of 
Dr. Eugene O'Connell, Vicar Apostolic of Marysville, and now 
Bishop of Grass Valley. Both these Prelates have done much to 
diffuse the blessings of religion and religious education among 
the populations scattered over their extensive jurisdictions. 

The Great Pacific Railroad (completed as we have seen on 
the loth of May preceding) was opened for general traffic and 
through passage to the Atlantic cities in the middle of July, 
1869. About the same time, my order to return to Europe 
had reached. The Catholics of the city, with most of whom 
I had contracted a close and personal friendship, opposed 
the departure of an Irish priest from amongst them. They 
assured me as a matter well known that no one who had lived 
well nigh five (or even two) years in their lively city, fine climate, 
and amid their generous, open hearted, and thriving people, 
could ever consent to afterwards settle down in Europe. There 
was much truth in their statement. At least, examples without 
end bore it out. I shared, moreover, in their appreciation of the 
attractions of their youthful city. Its fine exhilarating atmo- 
sphere had quite cured me of a troublesome asthma, from which 
^ had suffered for nearly twenty years before crossing the 
Atlantic The five hundred students whom I had superintended 


^n St. Ignatius' had shown themselves orderly, studious, and 
affectionate. Some of them had entered West Point and other 
professional institutions with high Mat The congregation that 
frequented our church had acknowledged my poor services in a 
winner that was alike generous and unsought. The splendid 
libraries of the city, the Mercantile, &c., had been placed fully at 
^y service without any contribution. The theatres and public 
halls were open for the exercise of our classes whenever I saw 
fit to practise them in a college play or a philosophical lecture. 
Hospitality, an inheritance from the early Californians, was 
unbounded. The priest travelled everywhere, by taW ot \yj 
Steamer, at Aa(f/arr, or on free ticket ; and whomsocMet \l^ 

20 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

encountered, of what religion soever, he met in him a man 
fair and generous mind, unwarped by prejudice, and howe 
limited in his knowledge or devious in his paths, yet equita 
and catholic in his principles. 

From such a people it was not easy to part I faced 
difficulty however, and on the 3rd of August, 1869, took steai 
to Sacramento City, cast a last look at the picturesque hill 
Russian, Telegraph, and Rincon — which gird the busy c 
steamed up San Pablo Bay, entered Carquinez Strait, leav 
Mare Island and the New City of Vallejo on my left, and 
towering heights of Monte Diablo away at some distance to 
right A few hours brought me to Sacramento, where I res 
for the night with a good Dublin priest, then pastor of the ph 
Next morning at six I obeyed the call, " All on board for N 
York," and took my place in the crowded cars. As the tr 
crept up the foot hills on its approach to the Sierra, I ha- 
view of the beautiful settlement of Auburn — embowered ar 
groves — and doubly dear as named in honour of my countrym 
Goldsmith, and presided over by a worthy clergyman of 
acquaintance. About noon we had wound our way up 
sides of the Sierra Nevada, and reached Summit Station, se^ 
thousand feet above the level of the sea. As we climbed up fr 
Cisco to Summit Station, the long line of cars would sometin 
in passing from hill to hill, assume the shape of the letter S. 
those occasions, the eye looked out on either side upon scene* 
inexpressible grandeur. In close proximity to the dizzy brid 
by which we crossed, but sweeping down from them in magnific 
expanse, were caftons, pine covered gorges, a thousand feet 
depth ; above us a white band of cloud, the only one t 
flecked the sky : farther and higher still, the spearlike pe; 
of the Sierra, wrapped in their banners of snow, and seeming 
pierce the heavens. Behind lay the unrivalled plain of Califon 
stretching west to the Peaceful Ocean, teeming with wild fertil 
and threaded with many a stream. When the eyes of Ball 
first gazed on the Pacific from the summit of the Andes, I do 
if they rested on a scene half so lovely and magnificent as t 
In a cafion, or mountain valley, near the summit of the Siei 
is situate Lake Donner — a lake of picturesque aspect, but 
gloomy memories. It was here that Captain Donner and pa 
were snowed up and perished almost to a man in the winter 
JS46, The lake seemed some eight hundred yards down fr 
the mountain terrace along which we passed. TVi^ slo 

Five Years at the Golden Gate. 21 

beneath us were covered with lofty pines — the tops of the nearest 
ones almost touching our windows as they swayed to and fro with 
the wind. We were now in the region of snow slides. There was 
little danger of such visitants at this season (August 4th) ; but 
the Americans are a farsighted people, and the snow houses 
constructed by the engineers of the Pacific Railroad form, for 
twenty five miles east from the vicinity of Donner Lake, an almost 
continuous covering for the line of rail, strong enough, from the 
thickness of its timbers, to protect from the avalanche itself 

Descending the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada we came to 
halt at the thriving town of Truckee, situate in a deep basin, where 
a lake, not less picturesque than that of Donner, must at no very 
distant date have been. I met here a worthy French missionary 
whom I had known some two years before, and whose proficiency 
in the meantime in a strange and difficult tongue was quite 
astonishing. He introduced me to a Baptist missionary, the 
light and orator of that neighbourhood, who travelled with us as 
far as Verdi station. We parted here with the Baptist missionary, 
as well as with every appearance of civilized life. The dreary 
sands and sagebrush of Nevada now received us only to consign 
us, after a few hours, to a drearier wilderness still — the great 
alkali desert of Utah. This last extends to Great Salt Lake, a 
distance of four hundred miles. The country skirting the north and 
east of the Salt Lake form an agreeable contrast to the barren and 
snowlike soil along which we had passed. The Mormons I met 
with in Echo City were wretched and degraded beings, hardly one 
remove above the Chinese workmen and the Indian savages, of 
which latter several specimens-^painted warriors accompanied 
hy their wretched squaws and dirty children — came occa- 
sionally around the cars. The Green River, crossed by a 
trestle bridge of nearly one mile long, had some interest 
for me as bounding the Apostolic Vicariate of my friend 
Bishop O'Connell, of Marysville, California. Sherman Station, 
on the crest of Rocky Mountain ridge, afforded us on the 
morning of the fourth day of our travel a magnificent view of 
wild scenery, a glimpse of some wild oxen and antelopes, and an 
^eeable repast, consisting of the flesh of the latter animals, with 
good coffee, bread, and, as a favourite adjunct, a few dishes of 
'arge blackberries. We shortly after entered the prairee region, and 
followed our course east for nearly four hundred miles, keeping 
close to the left bank of the Platte River. Omaha, the city ol G^ox^<^ 
F. Trai/7, was our last haltingplace before entering the le^votv ol 

22 Five Years at the Golden Gate. 

civilization. I called on the Bishop of this rising city, the Mos 
Rev. Dr. O'Gorman; his Lordship was kind and gracious, but m 
visit to him cost me one half my ba^^e. On crossing over t 
Council Bluffs, I came up just as the train was moving for 
Chicago ; I stepped " on board," and reached my destination in 
due time. My labelled trunk, however, had meantime taken 
another direction, a direction from which it was recovered only 
by many feats of telegraphic activity. From Chicago to New 
York I chose the shortest and, in my opinion, the most interesting 
of the five or six lines of rail by which a traveller with a through 
ticket from San Francisco may enter the Empire City — I mean 
the Fort Wayne and Pennsylvania central line. The Pulman 
sleeping cars afforded us ample means of repose on this route. 
The scenery, especially east of Pittsburg, along the winding course 
of the Pennsylvania River, almost equalled that of California itself. 
I passed near the scenes of Lee's unsuccessful encounters in the 
North, crossed the long bridge of Harrisburg (burned, I believe, 
in the late war, and again restored), and after snatching a glimpse 
at Philadelphia, Trenton, and some other places of historic note, 
reached New York at six o'clock a.m., on the seventh day of our 
travel from Sacramento. The city looked more joyous and more 
prosperous than when I saw her nearly five years before in 
her uncertainty and financial excitements. Splendid mansions 
of white marble or brown stone had arisen since then along 
Fifth Avenue and around Central Park. The city was pushing 
her bounds rapidly towards Haarlem, and the massive cathedrals, 
asylums, &c., in process of erection gave unmistakeable signs 
both of opulence and public principle. After a fortnight's sojourn 
I again adventured myself on the Atlantic and landed at Queens- 
town on the 29th of September, 1869. 

My circle of missionary wanderings was thus closed. It 
brought me into contact with persons of almost every civilized 
nation, of diverse and often opposite habits of tholight, 
religion, and modes of life. My faith in the destinies of our 
race, and my hope in the future of the Catholic Church, are 
not diminished but increased, not shaken but strengthened, 
as I look back to those wanderings, the scenes they presented, 
the feelings they have encouraged, and the knowledge of men 
and things which they have been certainly not unfitted to supply. 

M. L O'F. 

Gossamer Threads. 

"fil de la sainte VI erg e."* 

Red lay the rustling leaves along the lane, 
Ripe chesnuts smote the grass with sullen blows, 
From russet oaks rained dropping, fruity cups, 
And scarlet berries hung in every brake. 
The sun had scarcely risen from earth's rim. 
And all the western sky was purple dark ; 
When gleaming through the level bars of cloud, 
I spied a Lady floating in the air. 
Her robes of colour flecked with orient pearl ; 

fair, and piu-e, and wondrous bright was she ! 
Her hair like ripening wheatears fell all down 
Her virgin face ; her large eyes, softly fixed. 
Showed neither blue nor brown, so veiled their lids, 
So thick their shady fringe of darkened gold. 

Her mantle floated like a deeper sky. 

Her small hands bore a staff* of milk white wool \ 

And spun it, softly waving to and fro ; 

Till falling, falling, ever falling down. 

The meshy web did cover all the earth. 

And spread o'er field and hedgerows, wold and lawn. 

Me seemed it bound the world in one wide net 

Of love, and silken bond of brotherhood. 

The while I gazed, rapt, wondering at this sight, 

1 saw the heavenly weaver knit full fast 

Her myriad threads with waving, flitting hands. 
And knot each mesh, and twine the gUstering threads 
From every circle in concentric rings, 

* These lines were suggested by a drawing of Mr. Amtitage in the Royal Academy 
'^^o yean ago, which beautifuUy illustrated the legendary name of the Gossamer. 

24 Gossamer Threads. 

Till every part she shaped in perfect growtli, 
And spread the mazy pattern o*er the world. 
And while she laboured, like the rhythmic chime 
Of far off bells, came through the air thi^ song — 

Twine the spotless thread. 

From milk white staff and hand, 

Ne'er shall earthstained web 
Be spun from stainless strand. 

Bathe the twisted thread, 
. Within the Crystal Sea, 
Thence the woven web 
Shall clean and spotless be. 

Weave the air bom thread. 

Mother and Maid in one. 
Thus thy fragile web 

Shall bind us to God's Throne. 

As ceased the song, I fainter, faintlier heard, 

As if updrawn, an Alleluia clear. 

In voice so sweet that all my sense was drowned, 

But when the silence fell, I looked again : 

Then saw the Lady beg, with upraised hands, 

A gift of dew from airy mist and cloud, 

Earthbom, and stored from earth's own radiate heat, 

To scatter grateful moisture on its breast ; 

This kindly shower she poured upon her web, 

Then smiled to see it changed to woven pearl ; 

And as she smiled, the irridescent light 

Burst forth with dazzling gleam, and smote the woof, 

And every pearl became a rainbow gem. 

• ••••• 

Then many voices Alleluia sang. 

Far off and farther through the fields of air. 

To Him Who rides the clouds and rushing wind. 

And casts His ice in morsels ; giveth snow 

And hail to smite, and then lets drop the dew. 

In gentle showers of pitying love ; and while 

He decks the spring and summer with rich joy, 

Spreads tender beauty round the dying year, 

And failing strength, and loss, and sharpest grief. 

And counts each falling hair of wintry life. 

E. B. 

Reviews of Famous Books. 


There is one light which is the right light in which to look at a 
painting. Some paintings show well in one light only. But the- 
work of a great artist, I conceive, may often be shaded from 
many points of view, and appear beautiful on several aspects^ 
though most beautiful on one. Such certainly is the case with 
the word painting before me, Plato's Republic. I look at it from 
here, and I look at it from there, and everywhere my admiration 
is new. Nor am I sufficiently master of the author s great mind 
to be able to determine which view most perfectly represents the 
work as he conceived it. I am left to choose that point of 
observation, whence I hope to contemplate the Republic with 
roost reference to those practical questions which permanently 
concern mankind. I suppose they may be reduced to two, the 
nile of the individual man over himself, and the rule of the 
State over the individual. The Republic deals with both questions. 
But as it would weary my readers and myself to follow Plato 
over the two fields of politics and ethics, I propose that we shall 
confine our pursuit to the latter, which lies nearer home. We will 
sometimes look over the fence into politics, but it shall only be 
to make sure that Plato, ranging there, does not burst into the 
field of ethics without our noticing him. 

The second title of the work under review is if^i roD dixaiou. 
"Let justice be done, though the sky fall," is a proverb which 
few nien think it decent to gainsay. More even than love, 
j^tice is a name which preeminently and above all others stirs 
the human heart, stirs the solitary heart, but still more that 
which throbs in fellowship. What is this thing whose fulfilment 
Would compensate for the ruin of nature, whose very name is a 
lever to move the world } What is justice i Well, notwithstanding 
the title, that is not quite the question to be ventilated here. 
What we need is a more exact determination of the meatvltvg of 
ri hina/ci', commonly translated juslice. The term, accotdva^ to \\s- 

26 Reviews of Famotis Books. 

derivation,* denotes originally "the practice of one who acts 
according to the slwwingr That is, it stands for " the observ- 
ance of custom, precedent, and tradition." Perhaps " respect for 
precedents" is the phrase which expresses this primitive meaning 
best Then, as this consistency with past acts is the attribute of 
the righteous only — for selfseeking wrong is a whirlwind that 
blows now this way and now that — rh hixanw became the name 
for righteousness in general. As, however, the righteous man 
proves himself by his dealings with others, it was to what we 
<:all jicstice that the Greek name under discussion was familiarly 
and usually applied. Notwithstanding, in a philosophical treatise 
where matters are handled in their highest generalities, the wider, 
older, and still extant sense of ri hi%am may well be recalled. 
At all events, Plato did recall it ; his Republic is an answer to 
the question, "What is righteousness ?" Such an answer involves 
an entire theory of morals ; a settling of the constituent dis- 
tinction between right and wrong. 

There are three main theories which strike this important 
difference. Finding them all names for clearness' sake, I will 
call them the tlieistic theory, the utilitarian theory, and the 
iftdependent theory, respectively, according as they put forward 
God, or the community, or the individual, as the determinant 
principle of morality. 

The theist defines a right action to be an action which, in all 
its aspects and circumstances, God essentially loves; a wrong 
action he knows as that which, in any or all of its aspects and 
circumstances, is essentially hated by God. By essattial love or 
hatred is here understood that love or hatred which cannot be 
withheld by the person, being what he is. On this understanding, 
the Creator of heaven and earth is the moral Lawgiver of the 
same; only His creation was a free act. His legislation is 
necessary as Himself. " Positive " divine laws have been given ; 
but the primary laws of morality are not " positive," though they 
<:ome from God. So the theistic moralist thinks. 

The utilitarian puts God away ; denying Him not, nor yet 
owning Him. I speak of the typical and genuine utilitarian ; 
there have been men of a compromise, for instance, Paley. The 
b^inning and foundation of utilitarian moral lies in assuming, 
that man was made to make his fellow men happy upon this earthy 
and thereby himself to sJiare in their earthly liappiness, T/terefore, 
whatsoever act militates against t/ie common weal of this terrestrial 

* 5^1? Uddell and Scott, s, v, df^fj. They connect it v/itK if /x¥U(*i, dico^ di^Uus. 

Plato's Republic. 27 

Jerusalem is wrong; and tJie doer of such act is liable to punish- 
ment at the hands of his fellows^ wlto in punishing seek solely to 
supply tite culprit with a motive — in familiar language, '' to make 
him remember" — not to mar their passing joys again. Now, it 
happens that most of the prohibitions of the ten Commandments 
are directed against practices which, either in themselves or in 
their general consequences, are prejudicial, on this side 'of the 
grave, to the mass of living humanity without the offender. For 
that reason, and to the extent that that reason holds, no more 
and no less, a practice becomes utilitarianly wrong. A very 
pretty system utilitarianism is, logical, and tangible, and worthy 
of all acceptance, once you grant the postulate from which it 
starts. And the bulk of mankind do grant that postulate, not 
perhaps by their tongues, but by their lives. Utilitarianism is, 
and has been in all ages, from Protagoras to Bentham, the 
world's theory of morals. There is this about it, dear to the 
world, that it ignores sin. 

Last comes the independent moralist^ He appeals neither to 
God nor to fellow man. Right and wrong to him are matters 
of taste. The sole reason why he pronounces rue unpalatable 
is, because he does not like it; so is stealing a criminal act, 
because it revolts his moral sense. " Sweet the stolen apple " — 
that is true ; but there is a sweetness, or call it rather a serenity, 
in refraining from theft and other crimes, which serene delight 
his calm judgment prizes above the paroxytic joys of blindly 
indulged appetite. So he schools himself to obey his own 
Reason : her farsighted " do this," " shun that," are his marks of 
right and wrong. But how far does this Reason look ? Far as 
his own interests, but no further ; every letter in his alphabet is 
himself; he may be wise and spiritual, but "he fears not God 
nor regards man," except out of pure self-love. Such is the 
picture which some moralists seem to have contemplated. 
Whether " the wretch concentred all in self," there represented, 
^ not an impossible creature, more chimerical than the Chimaera 
3s well as more chilling than the Gorgon, I shall afterwards 
examine ; and at the same time endeavour logically to approxi- 
mate this independent theory of morals into coincidence with 
the theistic 

The Republic was written at an uncertain date between 
400 and 350 B.C. Moral philosophy was young then. It had 
had its birth from the early age of Socrates, half a century 
before. It was little connected with theism. TViwe \s/\tid^fc^> 

28 Reviews of Famous Books. 

one of the Platonic dialogues — ^the Euthypra — ^wherein the Holy 
is defined as the Laved of God^ and the Unfioly as the Hated ^ 
God ; but the propounder of those definitions is exhibited as 
quite downcast, when Socrates parades the multitude of pagan 
deities, with their many jarring loves and hates, and further 
proceeds to ask, what it is that determines a God to love. No 
doubt, simple religious Greeks, like Xenophon, were encouraged 
to the performance of social duties by a hope of conciliating the 
occupants of Olympus ; the warnings of iEschylus, couched in 
grand choric song, did not echo from the orchestra in vain. But 
there was no systematized connexion worked out between creed 
and practice. No one could tell precisely, why the acceptance 
of certain accounts about gods in heaven, conveyed an obligation 
to the believer of acting virtuously upon earth. People could 
not tell this, however they may have known it The accordance 
between natural theology and the law of nature was not yet 
specified in lawyerlike black and white. In the moral science 
that then existed, the JOivine played a very secondary part. 
Utilitarianism was the system of the first scientific moralists. 
Immature, untutored, roughspoken churls those pre-Benthamite 
utilitarians seem often to have been ; yet, as is the manner with 
youth and rude ingenuousness, they were thorough-going and 
honest and true to thomselves, above the measure of their more 
courtly successors. In studying the remains of the teaching of 
the Sophists — so these early rationalists were called — a man may 
often find the naked kernel of what, in modem writers of the 
same school, forms a very thickshelled nut. 

The spokesman of the Sophists, introduced into the dialogue 
of the Republic, is Thrasymachus. Who this ** Bold Warrior " 
was, and whether he himself would have said all that Plato has 
put into his mouth, are not topics that we need care to investi- 
gate. He simply represents a prevalent school of thought at 
Athens in his day. We must trust that he represents it fairly. 
Plato, I think, was too shrewd an estimator of opinions, too 
passionate a lover of truth, stupidly or wilfully to set up a man 
of straw. At all events, we must take the man in the guise in 
which Plato offers him. The curtain rises upon Socrates and 
a party of friends, gone down from Athens to a religious festival 
at the Piraeus. They are invited to the house of Cephalus, an 
aged inhabitant of the port town. Thriasymachus awaits them 
there. Socrates falls into conversation with the venerable head 
of the family, about the blessed state of an old man^ rich and 

Plato's Republic. 29 

good A combination of Dives and Lazarus, the veteran is 
above the temptation of dishonesty ; thanks to his competency, 
he is neither liar nor bad debtor : therefore he is a righteous 
man. Socrates marvels ; he suggests cases wherein the more 
righteous course seems to be, to withhold the truth, or the 
amount of the debt, rather than deliver it to an incompetent 
person. At this difficulty, old Cephalus suddenly finds himself 
called off to a sacrifice. But Polemarchus, "inheriting his 
father's share in the discussion," maintains the same definition 
of righteousness, " rendering every man his due," and rebuts 
Socrates' cavils by remarking that an incompetent person can 
claim nothing as his due. Still, continues the persevering 
examiner, what manner of due is that which the righteous man 
renders ? The physician's art renders the sick patient his due ; 
is medicine righteousness } Besides, evil is said to be due from 
enemy to enemy ; but man's only evil is that which alone runs 
counter to human nature — to wit, unrighteousness. Can, then, 
the upright man do righteously by weaving the woeful garment 
of unrighteousness about his enemy } Polemarchus is puzzled. 

At this juncture Thrasymachus breaks in " with a roar." He 
is stung at heart to hear of wickedness being an evil in itself 
Notwithstanding his passion, however, he finds no escape from 
the Socratic cross-examination, which yields the following con- 
fession of his opinions. That is right which is expedient for 
Ae stronger party, in so far as he is the stronger. He orders 
with an eye to his own interests, and the weaker party is 
niorally bound to obey. If the stronger mistakenly command 
that which is not to his interest, he proves himself to be not 
the stronger, to the extent of his mistake ; no obedience is 
obligatory there. The interest of the governing stronger, with 
^view to which he governs, is altogether at variance with the 
interest of the weaker who is governed. When that governed 
Weaker shapes his conduct by the rule of his own good, he does 
unrighteously ; for — and here lies the pith of the Thrasymachian 
theory of morals — the weaker's Expedient is the stronger's 
Inexpedient, and vice versd. Thus, to eke out a little 
Thrasymachus' words, it would be an excellent advantage for 
a private individual to break into a temple, and carry off 
all the gold and silver which he might find encrusting 
the image of the god ; but the society round him is stronger 
than the individual, and it is their interest to keep his felon 
h^d out of the sacred precincts. It would be sactWeg^ lox \vvnv 

30 Reviews of Famous Books. 

to appropriate the precious metal under those circumstances. 
But let him come wth a great army, a stronger power than the 
society whose temple that is ; forthwith he shall stretch out his 
hand to the gold and silver, and none shall dare to call him, 
nay he shall not be, a sacrilegious robber. His cupidity has 
become right in becoming mighty. "No," you say, "it is 
wrong still by the sentence of mankind." Well, that is because 
mankind at large has a strength predominate over any 
potentate, and has an interest in quelling aggressors for 
example's sake. But blessed is the robber King for all that, 
in his injustice and its impunity. 

A word or two of my own on the above unblushing 
beatification of wickedness. And first, as to the hypothesis 
on which it starts, that the strong, by reason of their strength, 
have a right to rule the weak. This is putting the case " too 
strong." The superior in strength, wealth, wisdom, or other 
excellence, in short, the more able person — Thrasymachus calls 
him xptirrm — though qualified to win to himself authority, has 
no antecedent title to command in the mere fact of his better 
endowments. One angel, divines say, could undo the sinew and 
defeat the strategy of the most numerous army; yet, were a 
heavenly spirit to come to a soldier with an order, not in God's 
name but in his own, the soldier might in conscience please 
himself, whether he gave any ear or none to the bidding of that 
superior being. The word of his captain would bind him, while 
the angel's would leave him free. The captain's nature falls very 
far short of angelic, but he has that which the angel lacks — the 
soldier is dependent on him. For that reason, and not directly 
from any preeminence of merit attaching to his person, the 
officer's will is law to the private. Now, the dependence of 
man on God is the utmost dependence possible — absolute and 
unique. From God I came to be ; by Him I am ; I am His 
continual creature ; whatsoever I can call mine is His perse- 
vering donation. Therefore I owe Him obedience, as to my 
sole, paramount, and entire Lord. Separating in word characters 
which really involve each other, I may say that it is not because 
God is Almighty that He claims my allegiance, it is because in 
the word of His might I exist Had I, by any impossibility, 
sprung into existence fortuitously without His concurrence, I 
should indeed have every inducement to choose for my Master 
a Beings so good and so grand as God ; but I should not be 
bound to enter His service. I might be content simply with 

Plato's Republic. 31 

admiring Him, as I do a great angel, without dreaming of 
consulting His will.* 

Is now the interest of my Creator and Lord my interest ? 
To a mind that accepts the account just given of the genesis of 
authority, the folly of Thrasymachus' denial of the solidarity of 
lord and vassal here proclaims itself If I am the breath, not ta 
speak pantheistically, of Infinite Goodness, am I not interested 
to cry — Life and long health to the Goodness whence I come ? 
Can He work His first willed purpose in me, and leave me to 
waste ? Am I not His ? If His I am, His will be done in me 
—it is my best, my most sagacious will ; if His I am not, I am 
nothing, and have no will, nor life, nor existence. 

"Yes," you say, "but amongst men there often occurs, 
dependence without lawful dominion. Does not the kidnapped 
African depend on his captor?" I admit it fully ; all dependence 
is not just, nor all authority, built upon dependence, lawful. 
Club law is immoral, precisely because there is a divine Power 
morally controlling the wielder of the club. If there were no 
God, then " the war " would be " to the strong " amongst men. 
But since the strong man's strength flows, a tiny rill, from th.e 
omnipotence of his Creator, he lies bound to employ it 
according to his Creator's ordinance, and not otherwise. That 
Creator has endowed mankind, in their matured state, with 
freewill ; hence the obedience of adults, one to another, is by 
rights a covenanted obedience. Covenants apart, we must not 
tamper with our neighbour's freedom.-f- At the same time, 
these covenants of voluntary subjection are natural to man, and 
ordained of God. Witness the fact, that, without obedience, 
scarce any man could live, much less could the inborn tendency 
of the human race to form society be worked out. Want,, 
therefore, leads the needy freely to offer themselves to the 
service of their betters, that can aid them in return. The 
engagement is voluntary ; abidance by its terms, however, is of 
moral obligation. Thus, upon the whole, the stronger and 

* ** Ens utcunque perfectum sine dominio non est Dominus Deus" (Newton, Prin- 
^ipfa. Scholium Gaicrale), 

t Of association-machine-makers, who pronounce the term freewill nonsensical, I 
will make this demand — ** Considering, as you do, that volition is a phenomenon of 
invariable and unconditional sequence, on a par with the vibration of a pendulum, how 
do you justify your enslavemqit of the brute creation? Their volition being an 
* invariable and unconditional sequence of action on motive,* like your own, they 
are as capable of freedom as you are ; have they not therefore the same n^Vvl \o bt 

32 Reviews of Famotcs Books. 

^bler amongst men, 0/ xptirroug, do rule their weaker brethren. 
That is natural ; but for any, on the mere ground of superior^ 
ability, to claim authority over him that is less able, would be 
most unnatural, for, though the weaker man's insufficiency 
naturally prompts him to choose for himself some superior, yet 
is he free as to the object of his choice, and his submission, into 
whatever hands it be tendered, ought to be voluntary. 

And as it profited him to submit, so will the doing of what 
he undertook to do, when he exchanged a starveling indepen- 
dence for a fat clientship, be included in that profit Not that 
orders never come forth which the inferior has not contracted 
to execute ; not that there are no services asked to the arbitrary 
detriment of the renderer. Every institution feeds its parasite 
abuses. But these abuses, be it observed, are not cognate with 
authority; they spring from sheer overweening might; authority, 
from weakness having strength as its protector. Furthermore, 
these abuses are violations of the precept of charity, imposed on 
rulers and ruled alike by their common Lord. " Harm no man 
wantonly or selfishly " is the second commandment of nature ; 
and it is "like unto the first" 

So, then, strength does not of itself impart right to command; 
nor does the good of the superior, the end for which he orders, 
normally run counter to the good of the subject. 

Thrasymachus had maintained that the final cause of autho- 
rity was the securement of right, that is, of the selfinterest of 
the stronger; and that unrighteousness, or neglect of the interests 
and commands of authoritative might, was a course of conduct, 
vigorous, wise, good, and profitable, when impunity accbmpanied 
it Socrates meets these allegations in detail. To the first he 
objects, that in no profession is the professional object identified 
with the personal good of the practitioner. The artist may work 
for money; but, as an artist, his professional aim is artistic excel- 
lence, as the physician's aim is the restitution of health, and the 
shepherd's, care of the sheep. No avocation has the aggrandize- 
ment of its follower for its formal object Therefore, neither is 
government ordained to the advantage of the governor. When 
a governor goes in quest of his own private gain, his proceeding 
is unofficial, in so far as it is selfish. This is an argument rather 
to surprise than convince the modern reader. It comes out, 
perhaps, in a more familiar light along with the scholastic 
distinction between ^nis operis and finis opcrantis. Though the 
ultimate intention of the agent, the finis operantis^ be circum- 

Plato's Republic. 33 

scribed within himself, still, in no operation, where others than 
the agent are involved, as in government, is the advantage of the 
agent the finis operis, or primary product of his labour. It is 
impossible, then, for authority to be in effect a mere amplification 
of the man in power : the ruler's cistern fills from the streams of 
his subjects' good. 

Neither is the rejection of authority, or unrighteousness, a 
prindple of strength, as Thrasymachus maintained, but of 
weakness. For union is strength, and strength union ; whereas 
unrighteousness is disunion. A congeries without organization, 
a composite of many selves, such are the unrighteous society 
and the unrighteous individual ; and being such, they are weak. 

They are unwise and bad to boot. Wisdom and worth 
mean moderation, and to that quality they are perfect strangers. 
Where opportunity offers, there is no end to their getting : the 
nick of time for crying " enough," the xaiphg beyond which excess 
and evil lie, passes unnoticed in their foolish greed. There is 
something very Greek about this argument. We recognize the 
"half, more than the whole" of Hesiod — the "nothing too 
much " of the Delphic Apollo — the " definite good " of Pytha- 
goras—the "virtue between two extremes" of Aristotle — the 
ouream mediocritatem of that sounding board of Hellenic thought, 
Horace. Unrighteousness is bad and foolish, because unrigh- 
teousness is a glutton. Seated in the soul, it constitutes the soul 
had and foolish ; it is the evil and the folly of the soul. But the 
soul Is the principle of life ; as is the unjust man's soul, therefore, 
so will his life be, bad and foolish, and, by consequence, woeful 
^d vain, sustained by an evil principle, and sinking to an evil 
^nd. Thus Thrasymachus' song of praise to the Wicked One 
^ proved, from first to last— a fitting tribute — a lie. 

Thrasymachus is mute. Socrates is not satisfied ; not having 
ascertained what righteousness is, he mistrusts his demonstration 
^fits advantages. Still, he thinks the discussion over, remaining 
^judicc, as he was in the habit of leaving the matters of his 
conversational inquiries. But what had passed was really only 
* prelude. One book of the Republic here concludes ; and there 
^ nine more books to run, containing the comparison of the 
individual and the State, which has obtained for the dialogue its 
name. The dramatic elicitors of this, the longest flow of Socratic 
"Miration, are Plato's own brothers, Adeimantus and Glaucon. 
They provoke ; Socrates dogmatizes ; they assent. GVavicotv, 
pointii^ anew Thrasymachus' broken foil, makes the toWovniv^ 

rOL, XVT. X) 

34 Reviews of Fatnous Books. 

sham onslaught on the victor. He does not believe what 
going to say; but it is the echo of the world's voice, and he ii 
be glad of its confutation. — Unrighteousness is good condi 
itselfi but has unpleasant consequences to the doer, which r 
it, on the whole, eviL For he who robs his neighbour, fil 
own pocket at the other's e5;:pense. So far, so good. But 
called to account by society, banded together by social coi 
for mutual security, and has to disgorge his spoil with int 
there is the misery of doing wrong. If, therefore, a man ca 
succeed in acting unrighteously by stealth, while wearin 
cloak of righteousness, his will be a twofold blessedness ; fi 
that he has the natural profit of unjust deeds, and second 
he has the conventional benefit of a good reputation, 
you would seriously maintain that Tighteousness is better 
unrighteousness, you must tear away from the former the 
robe of respectability, wherewith the cautelous "Greatest Nui 
have invested her, and array her bold rival in its folds, 
shall you see the miscreant, the master in unrighteousness 
has learnt to do evil of the special hue which men call | 
you shall see him a rising man in his country, marryin| 
giving in marriage whom and to whom he wills, making m 
pushing his enemies to the wall, advancing his friends 
patronizing religion with largesses out of the proceeds < 
iniquity, so as to die in much greater odour of sanctity tl 
he had died in any savour of sincerity and truth. Over a 
him place the personification of perfect righteousness, a 
simple in mind and- noble of heart, caring not for the credi 
for the reality of virtue. In fact, you must suppose him t 
all credit ; else, how can you tell whether it is welldoing i 
own sake, or the comfortable results of welldoing, that e 
him to its practice ? 

He must then be left naked of all but righteousness, and hii 
acter drawn quite the reverse of his rival's.^ So. let him do no wron 
yet be reputed the worst of malefactors, that his righteousness i 
proved by his not blenching under calumny and its consequenc 
let him go on imflinchingly till death, under a livelong shadow oi 
despite his innocence. Thus, both men being extremes in thei 
the one in righteousness, the other in unrighteousness, a fair juc 
may be formed as to their comparative happiness. 

Ho)y, then, will the righteous fare in the world ? 

Fancy that it is not I that speak, Socrates, but those who laud 
over right They will tell you that the righteous man we descri 

Plato's Republic. 35 

be scourged, racked, bound, blinded with hot irons, and at last, when 
ill treatment has been exhausted on him, will be fastened up with 
skewers, and so learn that, not the reality, but the show of virtue is the 
thing for man to embrace.* 

Excellent doctrine ! Who, indeed, had rather play the hapless 
martyr than the glorified apostate ? 

Glaucon's speech ended, Adeimantus follows as counsel on 
the same side. His brother has left out the strongest point in the 
case— the fact that no moralist ever recommended vfrtue, except 
for the sake of its consequences. Virtue itself is proverbially 
hard of attainment. "The gods have set sweat before it," 
Hesiod says, and " a long uphill road." If we can but reap 
the fruit, we may well forego the labour of being virtuous. Now 
the fruit of virtue in this life is respectability. For that, a little 
acting will suffice. But it is difficult to tread the stage always, 
and never let one*s true character appear. Well, what effort for 
a great prize has not its difficulties } And is not genuine doing 
good more difficult still than hypocrisy? So let us be hypocrites. 
But the gods will find us out. Oh, perhaps they don't care ; 
and if they do, we may easily soothe thiem with sacrifices, in 
consideration whereof they will forgive us here, and feast us 
.hereafter in Elysium. What leads men to make up their minds 
*n this way, Socrates, is the remarkable fact, that 

Out of all you professed panegyrists of righteousness, from the heroes 
of old, whose words remain to us, down to the men of our time, not one 
has ever censiu'ed wickedness, or panegyrized integrity, except in refer- 
ence to the reputations, honours, and fees thence incoming; but the 
^sential natiu-e of either habit dwelling in the soul, apart from the 
<ietection of it by gods or men, has never been detailed in poetry or in 
P^e, with a view to prove, that while righteousness is the greatest good 
a soul can contain, the opposite is the direst of evils. For were this the 
iheme of you all, and had we believed it from our youth, then, instead of 
^"atching our' neighbours, to see they did us no injury, each of us would 
^ his own best watcher, fearing lest the guilt of injustice attaching 
^0 him should possess him with the worst of woes.t 

These two powerful pieces of special pleading set Socrates 
to define righteousness, that from the definition of that habit 
^f soul, he may argue its intrinsic desirability. The inquiry is 

* Plato, RepubiiCy ii., 361, 362. 
t RepublU, il, 366, 367. Cf. 

Nee &cile invenies multis e miUibus unum. 

Virtutem predum qui putet esse sui. 
Ipse decor /act/, fzcu si praemia desint, 
Nott movet, etgntis pacmtci esse probum.— 0>rid, <x PpnU u.* > 

36 Reviews of Famous Books. 

delicate, and his mental vision not very keen ; but it strikes him, 
that the character of a State is the character of an individual 
written in large letters. He will, therefore, pourtray a model 
State, and discerning public righteousness there, he will have 
made out its miniature, namely, individual righteousness. 

Before "reading the large letters" with Socrates, our eyes 
must fall on an English commentary, too able and celebrated, 
and, I will add, too mistaken and unPlatonic to lie unnoticed. 
In the third volume of the late Mr. Grote's PlatOy chapter xxxiv., 
I meet with criticisms of which the following is a summary — 

1. Glaucon and Adeimantus speak of jtistue^ meaning /tones fy, 
Socrates, in his reply, takes yV/x/zV^ to mean rigJUemimess in general. 

2. Justice involves reciprocity, A benefiting B, with cost to himself, 
on condition of B*s benefiting A with cost to himself. Socrates will 
insist that A*s benefiting B at his own cost, without B's making any 
return, is itself enough for A*s satisfaction. This is to ignore the 
reciprocal nature of justice. 

3. The State is selfsufficient for its own happiness ; the individual is 
not sufl^cient to himself, but stands in need of much aid fi*om others. 
Hence, from the happiness of a community, all composed of just men, 
you cannot draw any fair inference to that of one just man in an unjust 
community. Socrates infers this unfairly.* 

I will begin by saying that Mr. Grote, instead of setting 
Plato right, had better have accepted correction from that old 
heathen philosopher. It is to Utilitarians of every time that the 
author of the Republic speaks, to men who make no distinction 
between wrong and Imrtfidy and to whom moral evil is evil 
solely because it leads to physical suflfering ; to men who avoid 
vice, as the gouty peer avoids port wine, for its painful conse- 
quences. Plato declares this theory of morals to be false and 
mischievous together; false, for that wickedness perverts the 
order of nature, and therefore is immediately, essentially, and in 
itself a misery ; mischievous, inasmuch as none can consider 
virtue simply an evil, or painful, means to the ulterior good of 
material prosperity, and not be urged by this consideration to 
take occasional short cuts to wealth and honour over the barriers 
of right. As I have said at the beginning, the Utilitarian 
Ignores sin in confounding it with the Inexpedient. Sin is 
indeed inexpedient, but it is not therefore sin. It is inexpedient, 
because it is sin. When David fell, he gave admittance to the 
" evil inhabiting the soul," the xaxi^ ^uvo/xok h rjj -vj/uxf'? ^f Plato's 
allusion. When the prophet announced, "The Lord hath put 
* These are not Mr. Grote's own words, bul l\\ey eT^lvoxaii.^ \\U meaning. 

Plato's Republic. 37 

a\vay thy sin," the " inhabitant evil " disappeared ; yet the 
temporal consequences — that which alone constituted the evil in 
utilitarian eyes — remained unsundered from the transgression, 
and were brought home to him afterwards by Absalom's 
rebellion. I do not see what a Utilitarian can understand by the 
forpveness of sin, except the prevention of its bad effects upon 
earth. On that understanding, Nathan, whom the Lord had 
sent, was a false prophet, and King David's sin was not put 
away. Let me not be accused of reading a classic author 
through biblical glasses. True, the Christian revelation, and 
especially the doctrine of the Atonement, has lit up the 
hideousness of sin with a flood of light, shed from Gethsemani 
and Calvary; but it is not merely by revelation that sin is 
known. Its awful possibility is a truth of the natural order, 
concomitant with that of the existence of God ; both truths are 
cognizable by reason, without the aid of faith. One is the 
shadow of the other; he who ignores cither, ignores both. 
Honour to Socrates and Plato, and to the Stoics after them, who 
had sufficient purity of intelligence to discern that a wicked act 
is a moral undoing of the agent, and not a mere door opened for 
suffering to enter. 

Reverting to Socrates* extension of the term justice from the 
meaning of Iwnesty to that of righteousness, I hold it no shifting 
of the question. Glaucon and Adeimantus had represented the 
honest man as choosing the lesser of two evils, selfdenial rather 
than punishment. Hence they argued that, where shelter from 
punishment could be secured, the selfdenying practice of honesty 
might very well be laid aside. Socrates answers them, and 
maintains that the evil of all unrighteousness, dishonesty 
mcluded, lies, not in the punishment imposed by society, but 
m the unrighteous act itself This evil, he says, outweighs any 
amount of selfdenial ; a man, therefore, should deny himself to 
"ic utmost rather than do wrong, even with a propect of 
escaping punishment The particular case in point is covered 
"X the general proposition here proved. If any wild mountaineer 
^f Great Britain or Ireland were to offer me a partnership in the 
^Wking of an illicit still, and I were to reply by a disquisition on 
^"C general advisability of obeying the law of the land, I think no 
^und judge of logic would rule that my answer was irrelevant. 
Socrates' defence of justice against Glaucon and Adeimantus 
follows a similar line. The two brothers pretended tVvat \MsX\ce, 
mea;?//;^ honesty, was not in itself recommendab\e. Soct^Xc^ 

38 Reviews of Famous Books. 

reply, syllogistically couched, would run : " Righteousness is I 
itself recommendable ; but honesty is a part of righteousness 
therefore ^honesty is in itself recommendable." I challenge th 
denial, either of the formal sequence of this conclusion from th 
premisses, or of its accurate contradiction of the opponent 

Mr. Grote dwells much on the reciprocity of justice, an 
Plato's forgetfulness of it He supposes the philosopher t 
maintain, that it is a good and blessed thing to fulfil a cond 
tional obligation as though it were unconditional. That is nc 
what Plato maintains. Plato maintains, that doing one's duty 
happiness, irrespective of the conduct of others. But to do ft 
another that which you are not bound to do for him excej 
under a condition, which condition he fails to represent, sue 
disinterestedness is no man's duty. So the Platonic parado: 
*' Better be wronged than wrong," allows of a traveller strikir 
dead the highwayman that comes for his spoil. He who slays a 
unjust aggressor, works him no wrong. But happier, Plato say 
the victim of aggression than the aggressor ; happier the suffer 
than the sinner. I take the following extract from St. Jot 
Chrysostom to be quite to Plato's mind — 

Nothing of human terrors is terrible, save only sin ; not poverty, n< 
disease, nor outrage, nor contumely, nor degradation, nor that reput< 
extreme of all evils, death. For these are but names to the disciples 
philosophy, names of calamities, void of object; but the real calami 
is to offend God, and do any action of which He disapproves.* 

Mr. Grote thirdly objects, that the conditions of individu; 
happiness extend to the behaviour of the individual's associate 
whereas a State may be happy merely by its own internal ordc 
The State is a perfect community, a selfsufficient organism, fr< 
from the inevitability of foreign influence. The individual, c 
the contrary, is imperfect, insufficient in himself, and cann< 
avoid being influenced, for happiness or misery, by his fellow 
This is a specious objection, but it contains one ambiguous tert 
liappiness. Define happiness with Plato, and you will no long 
object with Mr. Grote. That commentator identifies the hap^ 
with the cofnforiablcy and wins an easy victory over his author : 
consequence. When Archelaus of Macedon drowned his litt 
half-brother in a well,* and usurped his throne, the poor chil 
drowning in the well was certainly less comfortable than tl: 

Plato's Republic. 39 

usurper at home in the palace. But he was the happier for all 

that— so Socrates thought — that is, his position was the more 

desirable of the two. We have all had our times of sensuous 

enjoyment ; we have had, too, some poor hours at least of duty 

done under difficulties. We felt more satisfied with ourselves in 

the latter circumstance than in the former. This more satis- 

factory and more enviable is what Socrates and Plato styled the 

f^Jpier lot I well understand a scholar of Jeremy Bentham 

nibbing out the line between comfortable and Jiappy, The 

gy^£atest happiness of tlie greatest number means, in a Benthamite 

mouth, their greatest comfort. For his aim is shortened by the 

limits of this life. Yet, I say, it may well be, that the true 

tiappiness of the mortal community of mankind on earth would 

not lie in their being rendered as comfortable as possible ; it lies 

in their working out, through comfort or discomfort, their last 

end, an end not of this world. Does Bentham call thi^ doctrine 

asceticism } Well, Plato also was an ascetic. When, then, an 

ascetic speaks of happiness, let the word be understood to bear 

an ascetic, and not a Benthamite, meaning. 

I shall not describe the constitution of Plato's model 
commonwealth at greater length than is needed to illustrate 
the model just man. The people are divided into three castes, 
Magistrates, Soldiers, and Working Men. A child is not bom 
wto one or other of these castes, but is assorted according to 
^ promise of his disposition as he grows up. The fundamental 
principle of the constitution is, that every citizen shall mind his 
own business only, and have only one business to mind. The 
Magistrate shall be devoted wholly to government, the Soldier 
wholly to war, the Working Man wholly to his particular craft ; 
he must not be a jack of all trades, much less must he fight, or 
oabble in politics. The Magistrates and Soldiers- must possess 
'^o gold or silver, being provided by the Working Men with the 
necessaries of life ; nor shall any of them call any one woman 
his exclusive wife. For any Soldier or Magistrate, with private 
property, or a family of his own, would have two duties, the care 
of the State and the care of his own household, two interests to 
^tch over, the public and a family interest But for a citizen 
thus to be committed to two distinct lines of duty, would be a 
subversion of the basis of Platonic society. None can attain the 
M^tracy that is not a philosopher.* Fifty revolving years 

"Except either philosophers become kings, or kings and ptitices ap^Vj vScvwa- 
*«*v» mtb hearty goodwill to philosophy, there is no chance oi an aWenaXivyo^ ol 

40 . Reviews of Famous Books. 

shall come and go over the weaving of the philosophic mantle 
The highest offices of State cannot safely be committed to ai 
experience younger than half a century. Up to that age, tb 
rising Magistrate shall be educated in music and poetry, t 
n^ake him gentle, and in gymnastics, to make him brave ; nex1 
in arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and all those studies whic 
tend to raise the mind from Phenomena to Ideas ; and lastly, h 
shall learn metaphysics, or the science of the Ideal Work 
When he takes the helm of public affairs, his guiding star sha! 
be the Idea of Good ; that he shall watch, and by that he sha! 
steer ; nay, he shall frequently yield place to another helmsmai 
and snatch himself an interval of pure contemplation of th 

Plato, the transcendental legislator, must be explained b 
Plato, the idealist metaphysician. Otherwise his common 
wealth will appear a very home of whims. Hence I ar 
constrained here to offer an exposition, which brevity will rendc 
superficial, of a profound and far-reaching speculation — ^th 
Platonic doctrine of Ideas. Plato pronounced a philosophc 
to be, "a person capable of apprehending the Eternal an 
Unchangeable."* But what is there that endures withoi 
change? That an illustration will show. Think, I admonis 
you, think of the friend you loved years ago, of his cheerin 
presence, his sparkling intelligence, his ardent and candid sou 
of all the high endowments that constituted him, in Grecia 
phrase, *' fair and good." He is dead now, or he has change< 
But the thought of what he was, his image, all but his very sel 
remains with you, an angel of your own creation, ever at call t 
soothe you. Has this mental creation of yours any objecti^ 
value, now that the being on whom you modelled it has passe 
away ? If you believe Plato, it has. It represented, from th 
first, not the individual merely, but, mi^ more than that, th 
everlasting Ideas wherein he participated. Ideas of Friendshij 

political and social miseries" {Rfp., v., 473). It may hinder an undeserved smile 
this maxim, if we remember that, in the ancient world, philosophy was — what mode; 
rationalism would have it to be again — the theory of conduct, the religion, of i 
professors. Men read Plato and Seneca, not from curiosity, or for literary or ani 
quarian purposes, but to be taught what to do. It was their spiritual reading. Th( 
had no better guides. Such consecration attached to the word fi7*06o^ia and i 
derivatives, that the Greek Fathers found none better to express the "wisdom of ti 
Cross," the practice of Christianity. In the passage above quoted from St. Jol 
Chrysostom, fiXoaofouvrti stands a synonym for XpiariavoL 
* Plato, ^^,, vi,, 484, 

Plato's Republic. 41 

Fidelity, and Truth, by virtue of which participation he was 

was made your friend, faithful and true to you. He is gone, he 

iias left your side, he who returned your confidence and love ; 

but Fidelity and Friendship remain : they were before creation, 

they are independent of creation's changes. They belong to the 

eternal and immutable region of Ideas, that still tableland unto 

"urliich the intellect climbs from sensible phenomena, and where, 

on the serene height, the philosopher's speculations own their 

home. The philosopher's eye rests on things of sense, but his 

thought soars beyond them ; they are not all fair, they are not 

all good ; he requires absolute perfection. Now there is in 

heaven an actually existent faultless type of every species of 

being. There exists ''a Beauty everlasting, without beginning 

and without end, without growth and without decay, a Beauty 

without taint of unsightliness, unintermitting, absolute, infinite ; 

not face, nor hands, nor anj^ing corporeal, nor thought, nor 

. knowledge, nor any accident inherent in animal, earth, or heaven, 

but a selfexistent, unique, eternal Being, of which the other 

beautiful things that be, partake, without its suffering increase, 

or diminution, or other modification whatsoever, by their 

coming to bloom and their falling to fade."* And as beauty, 

so equality, unity, man — every thing and every attribute has 

its Idea. There are two critical questions prompted by this 

doctrine: Where do the Ideas exist.? and what is the manner 

of their participation by creatures ? Unfortunately, on neither 

of these points can a definite answer be returned, without saying 

more than Plato has an)nvhere explicitly declared. I suspect an 

unconscious tinge of pantheism in his mind, at the time when he 

^as most enthusiastic about the Ideas, I mean when he wrote 

J^ McM^ P/uedo, Symposium, PJuBdrus^ and Republic. I doubt 

rf he then clearly stated to himself, that God had a personal 

"^ture, and that creation did not partake of the Godhead in any 

such way as to be, to the whole extent of its reality, divine. 

There seems a significance in Plato's reiterated denials of the 

^1 existence of the material creation. Only the Ideas properly 

exist; sensible things are phantom beings, shadows of the 

Ideas. This is the moral pointed by the allegory of the Cave — 

See mankind in a kind of cavernous abode, like a deep cutting, 
op^ to the light by an unroofed entrance stretching along the entire 
^eogth. Here they are and have been from their childhood, stationary, 
^d seeing only the sights straight before them, since the coWai^ YdiA^x 

* Symp,, 211. 

42 Reviews of Famous Books. 

their turning round their heads. High above and behind them bums a 
fire, and betfireen the fire and the prisoners a raised causeway runs, 
edged with a little wall, like the screens that jugglers set up in front, to 
keep off the audience and perform their tricks over them. See, then, 
people passing along this wall, carrying all manner of manu&urtured 
goods that project above the wall, likewise statues of men and of other 
animals, in stone and in wood, of every conceivable workmanship.* 

The articles carried past throw their shadows on the side wall 
of the cavern, where the prisoner's gaze is fixed. The shadows 
represent the phenomena of sense, which men, unable to turn 
their heads round, take for the whole scope and contents of 
truth. And they have — 

Compliments and eulogiums and distinctions, which they pay to one 
another, for the keenest observation of the passing shadows, and the 
aptest description of their uniformities of sequence and coexistence, and 
the most competent prediction of the phenomena next to appear, t 

But high over the heads and behind the backs of these matter 
of fact inquirers, the sun lights up more things in heaven and 
earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy. That sun images 
the Idea of Good ; the things that shine in its light are the rest 
of the Ideas. Supposing these Ideas to be the sole genuine 
realities — as Plato says they are — and to be conceived of God — 
for God calls them eternal — then all real existence is God, which 
is the error of Spinoza. I am far from believing that Plato 
taught, with definiteness and determination, any such pantheistic 
doctrine ; I merely opine that his early speculations had some 
logical bearing, probably unnoticed by him, in that direction, 
la his later years, indeed, writing his TimcBus, he indicates with 
suflScient clearness the personality of God, and how the Divine 
Artist moulded matter, distinct from Himself, to form the world. 
But in that evening of his days, Plato reverted less to the Ideas 
which had entranced him in his prime. He died, therefore, 
without effecting the junction between theology and philosophy 
which the perfection of either science imperatively requires. 

I must characterize particularly the Idea of Good, whereof 
Plato writes ravishing things. As the Sun in the visible universe, 
so stands the Idea of Good amongst the Ideas. From the Sun 
emanate Light and Vision ; from the Idea of Good, Truth and 
Knowledge. The Sun is distinct from and superior to both 
Light and Vision ; the Good occupies a line of being, exalted 
above Truth and above Knowledge. To the Sun objects of 

• ^ep,, Yiu^ 514. \ Rep,^ \*u., $\6, E, D. 

Plato's Republic. 43; 

sight owe not merely their manifestation, but their generation, 
development, and nourishment besides ; the Sun itself not 
undergoing any of these processes of change, but maintaining 
a state of selfsufficient perfection. The Good, in like manner, 
not limited to making the other Ideas known, outpours upon 
them their very being and substance ; but itself is no substance ; 
it is supersubstantial in dignity and power. Human volition all 
pivots upon some prospect of good. If the prospect prove 
illusory, dissatisfaction ensues. Men can rest and be thankful 
in false righteousness and in false beauty, knowing them to be 
false, but in known false good never. There every one clamours 
for the genuine reality. Therefore the utmost consequence 
attaches to the City Guardians' sharpeyed and accurate discern- 
ment of that mark on high, whereat all men, consciously or 
unconsciously, point their action. Private individuals may aim 
and act blindly — they run their own private risks, and they have 
superiors to see for them ; but a statesman, blind to the end of 
nian, is a good for nothing watchman over the public interest, a 
living calamity to many. Therefore an acquired intuition into 
the Idea of Good makes the first of requisites in the Platonic 
Guardian. With Absolute Goodness in view, he will not be left 
to hit by conjecture the good of his particular city. He must 
acquire this statesmanlike intuition by long practice of abstrac- 
tion and study of the abstract sciences. So only can he mount 
above the mimicry of sense, so only can he wed philosophy. 

It is as easy to ridicule these fancies of Plato, as it is to 
substantiate them with a Christian sense. There may be error 
Jn either course. Some minds have drunk such intoxicating 
draughts of Attic mead, as to have exemplified what St Bernard 
^ys of Abelard — Dunt multum siidat quomodo Platonem faciat 
(^hristianum, se probat ethnicum. They have found in the 
Academy all the truth of the Gospel, expressed in choicer 
language. And they have preferred the more elegantly worded 
truth. Platonic quotations fill their mouths, leaving scant room 
^^ SS. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. True, the Evangelists tell 
plain facts of God and His Christ, while Plato propounds riddles 
about the Selfexistent ; but then the riddles have this recom- 
mendation, that they were concerted by mere natural acuteness, 
and a naturalminded man may read them ; they are monu- 
nicnts of human genius unassisted from heaven : whereas the 
^spcl narrators spoke, not the conceits of their owtv hearts, WV 
accordi/7^ as the Holy Spirit granted them to speak V* axA. 

44 Reviews of Famous Books. 

their utterances can be understood only by dint of humb 
prayer. Now, humble prayer is not a pursuit that suits the be 
of Abelards, medieval or modem. So they study Plato six ai 
a half days in the week, and listen to a little Gospel on Sund 
forenoons. They hope to come to God by that way. T 
vaguest myth, the most cursory metaphor of the son of Aristc 
carries to their itching ears more significance than do t! 
parables of the Son of God. The first chapter of the Epistle 
the Romans strikes rudely home to these Academic Christiai 
I do not know whether St Paul had Plato in his mind when I 
penned the conclusion of that chapter. He must at lea 
have levelled his censure at many of Plato's professed foUowe; 
For the moral teaching of the founder of the Academy- 
wellintentioned though I believe it was — threw open tl 
door to the fellest, most lawless, and most brutal of tl 
passions of man. St Thomas* argues the convenience 
the revelation even of the truths of natural religion, becaus 
he says, were we left to our own reasonings about them, the 
discovery would be confined to a few students blessed wi 
time to think ; many years would be wasted by each discover 
over the search ; and the discovery, when made, would be b 
glimmering and half in the light, overcast with the haze 
metaphysics and the fog of passion. Plato admirably corrob 
rates the Saint's argument. In mental power, Plato stoo 
perhaps, second only to Solomon ; his zeal for inquiry w 
insatiable ; his life of learned leisure lasted to his eighty-fii 
year. If ever mortal reasoner had ample provision in his natu 
and circumstances for solving the problems of existence, he w 
that favoured reasoner. Yet how deep the abyss of shame in 
which this raver of an ideal world, t^tyag fLiyakmri^ fell! I- 
has left an honoured name to an unspeakable sin. 

This fact should ever be borne in memory by the admirer 
Plato. The remembrance will chasten his admiration witho 
destroying it For he will also consider in what a nest 
depravity it was that Plato lived and wrote. Often must tl 
j)hilosopher — wading, perhaps, as he pictures Socrates, barefo 
down the cool shallow brook of the Ilissus — have pondered 
devise a remedy for the frightful sores of human nature, cull 
vated but not sanctified as he witnessed that nature at Ather 
They were sores which one Hand alone has effectually tende 
the Hand that was pierced to heal them. Plato perceived that 

* Summa c. GaiLy V., 4. 

Plato's Republic. 45 

desperate evil demanded a desperate cure. He fell despairingly 
to devise one : he failed signally. His device was worse than 
the disease. Are we therefore to act the stem censor over his 
extravagances } Shall we smile in supercilious conceit at his 
charming unconcern about the practical likelihoods of human 
volition.^ Better not, I think. A greathearted man, com- 
pounding strange medicines for a nation in the throes of 
perdition, is a victim for fools only to rail at, and Pharisees to 
stone. Should we have been wiser moralists in his place, at 
Athens, in the fourth century before Christ } Rather, let us 
reject the evil — the very great evil — in Plato, and choose the 
good. To a thoughtful Christian reader of his pages, it is- 
marvellous how many points will occur whereon the working 
economy of the Church has outdone the philosopher's fondest 
fancy. Perhaps the more modest method of exposing this 
subject would consist in indicating it, and then leaving it for 
private reflection. The Greeks had a proverb — too often 
forgotten by us in writing — " Itself will show." 

But I cannot abstain from further comment on the Idea of 
Good, seeing it was the explanation of that Idea that led into 
this portion of my disquisition. Might we, modifying the 
English phrase by one letter, substitute the Idea of God ; the 
Word of the Father, the Incarnation of Righteousness, the 
Pattem of righteous States and righteous men } No, it were an 
unpardonable anachronism to suppose any such distinct con- 
ception before a heathen sage's mind. Plato was not a prophet, 
nor the son of a prophet, nor did he live under a dispensation 
under which prophecies have been made void by fulfilment. He 
aspired to be guided by pure reason ; he was destitute of 
inspiration, destitute of divine faith. Like all reasoners in that 
predicament, he was out of the possibility of knowing great 
part of the truth of God ; and what theological truth he could 
absolutely ascertain, was likely to be vitiated in him by one or 
other of the manifold fallacies, intellectual and moral, that beset 
^e path of inference. Yet is it easy for us Christians to recog- 


nize, after the event, how near to the sublimest mysteries the 
hoodwinked eagle often flew — near, that is, for finite mind to 
come near the Infinite. The Divinity was all roimd about Plato's 
Stations, and he discerned it not, or discerned it as a man with 
Ws eyes shut can discern the light. The same remark holds 
good of various mighty but much mistaken intellects of mod^xti 
Germany. But their mistake has less excuse than Plato's, 

46 Reviews of Famous Books. 

When we read * of the Idea of the Good affording cc^osciluli^ 
and existence to the objects of Knowledge, that is, to the Idea^^ — ' 
material things being objects of opinion merely ; when elsewh^^^^ 
we gather that God is the Begetter, <pvTWf>y6g^ of the Ideas 5r > 
does not a reminiscence cross our brain of the doctrine of 
Catholic schools, how God from eternity is still generating 
Word, the Image of Himself, and how in that. His one 
He sees the whole infinite array of creatures that He cou^ 
• create, copying His own essence ? Therein consists what divini 
term God's scientia simplids intelligeniuBy a Knowledge whic 
bears its denomination without respect to the existence 
creatures. What are all our abstract sciences but so man; 
participations in that scientia simplicis intelligcftticB? Coi 
sidering this ennobling doctrine of Catholic theology, we shs 
be less surprised at Plato's recommending the abstract sciencc^=- 
as vehicles to the Idea of Good. We shall gauge the value o- ^ 
his earnest asseverations, that the Ideas alone exist and alon^^ 
furnish science. That is to say, the actual creation flits anc^ 
flickers, but the possible is always possible alike ; therefore, i^ 
science deals with unchangeable truth, it must be concerned^ 
with possibilities rather than with actual facts. Have we not::^ 
here the rationale of Plato's extraordinary recommendation to - 
astronomers, J that they should concern themselves little with 
th^t study of the heavens which we call physical astronomy, but 
turn to doing problems, " supposing such and such celestial orbs, 
to determine their motion } " I am not defending Plato in this 
particular. Without careful investigation of creation, as Grod 
has pleased to appoint it, we should make poor theorists of 
possible creation. How many possibilities has the law of 
gravitation unfolded ! what work it has afforded mathematicians 
in calculating planetary perturbations ! Yet it was a diligent 
practice, on Newton's part, of the methods of observation and 
experiment, that put into his hands that master key of dynamics. 
We must first discover how matter behaves in the present order 

♦ Rep,, vL, 569. 

t Rfp.y X., 597. Messrs. Davies and Vaughan seem to have departed from their 
wonteH accuracy in translating this word, " Creator." It stands expressly opposed to 
ifl/Aiovpy6g, the word used for " Creator " in the Titfucus. Professor Jowett renders 
" natural author." The Professor's version goes on — ** His nature is that He is the 
Creator of this and of all other things." The word ** things " is misleading. Plato 
speaks only of the Ideas, as the previous context proves. Professor Jowett*s translation 
•insinuates that Plato supposed creation to have been a necessity of the Divine Nature. 

t^C^; viL, 5ja 

Plato's Republic. 47 

of the universe — that is the one reliable datum for arguing its 
behaviour under hypothesis. Granting what I have said, still I 
ask the phenomenalist registrar of sequences — " Whither would 
your sdence vanish, did you meddle with no truth unfigured in 
observed phenomena ? Touching even such truth as phenomena 
do express, how would it be truth, that is, how would it forbid 
denial and defy change, were it not for the scientia simplids 
^nulligeittue^ that which Plato styled Ideas ? You repudiate 
these Ideas and this scientia; you likewise tea^Ji, with con- 
sistent folly, that Truth is relative to the individual believer, 
being true only for him, and changing for him as his belief 
<4anges. That is to say, you destroy Truth, rending her 
Wmbmeal, as the Thracian Bacchantes rent Orpheus ; for she 
^nd you harmonize not together — ^her voice sounds of heaven, 
'^hile you are drunk with earthly passions." 

Ere we look away from the " large letters " to the " small " 

ones, I would observe that the model State is not entirely 

sclfsufficient and independent The Guardians are bound to 

shape their government by the Idea of Good. In modern 

language, they are to consult God and school themselves to 

His Wisdom ; they must not follow their own devices, nor act 

^s though nations and the representatives of nations were 

without a superior. This remark has a future bearing on the 

question, whether Plato should rank among Independent 


To make out the description of the model man from the 

analogy of the State. The State contained three classes, 

Guardians, Soldiers, Working Men : in man's soul there are 

^ee powers. Reason, Resolution, and Appetite ; Reason to 

■order, Resolution to enforce, Appetite to apprehend obediently. 

The parts of Guardian, Soldier, and Working Man were severally 

correspondent Now a State is righteous, when every member 

of it does his duty — according to Nelson's signal. Analogically, 

a man's soul will be righteous, when every component part takes 

its proper place in determining the man's conduct Here is the 

<lefinition of righteousness, whereof we were in quest Righteous- 

^^, be it of State or of individual, consists in every, moral 

^^i\ so to speak, discharging its own function. Let there be 

'^o metastasis. This would be the one thing necessary for 

P^ect righteousness, were the State, or the individual, righteous 

^thout reference to an external standard Of two souls, ot 

^0 dtie^ in neither of whom did one part inlerfete >N\>iv 

48 Reviews of Famous Books. 

another, neither could be styled the more righteous — botl 
would be extremes. But States and individuals alike an 
neither of them purely selfregardant They are ordained t( 
obey the Reason ; and Reason is ordained to look outside 
the reasoner, to penetrate the Kingdom of Ideas even to th< 
throne of their King, which is the Idea of Grood These Idea 
are objective realities ; man*s final perfection and bliss centre 
in communion with them. The clearer one discerns the Ideas th* 
more he will be righteous, Reason discharging in him her prope 
function more efficiently. A lower intellect, ruling the subor 
dinate passions according to its light, will render a man perfec 
in his degree, but perfect with an inferior perfection, nature an< 
education having served him less well It results, that thi 
model righteous man coincides with the philosopher, ''capabL 
of apprehending the unchangeable and eternal " Ideas. T< 
become a philosopher, postulates a goodly list of primitiv 
endowments, abetted by length of training. Plato enumerate 
the endowments — good memory, quickness of apprehension 
largeness of mind, grace in conversation, eagerness to know al 
truth ; supervening upon justice, fortitude, and temperance 
The education he describes : — literature and science, altematin; 
with gymnastics, till twenty, a study of the correlation of th< 
several sciences till thirty, then a metaphysical course, lastin{ 
five years, succeeded by fifteen years* practical life, will set th* 
pupil on the pinnacle of philosophy at the completion of hi 
fiftieth year. 

At this rate, though any man may be righteous in his degree 
the perfection of righteousness lies open only to minds -of th 
highest order and most exceptional cultivation. The poo 
mechanic and the little child can hardly enter Plato's kingdon 
of heaven. Listen to his description of Working Men — " Stunte< 
natures, as bruised and chipped in soul by their menial occupa 
tions, as they are disfigured in body."* They are creatures 
Appetite rather than of Reason, and they ought for their owi 
interests to abide in bondage to the philosopher, in whom Reasoi 
the divine bears sway."f* Still, their lack of wit brings its owi 
compensation. Powerless for great good, they are no les 
impotent of great evil. The worst specimens of humanity ar 
not mechanics, but philosophic geniuses badly brought up. 
And in the present state of the world, the preponderant proba 
bility lies on the side of a genius being badly brought up. H< 

Plato's Republic. 49 

possesses just the right accomplishments for flatterers to finger 
and fouL His brilliant nature shows in the world, and the world 
seeing it will fascinate him and wither him with its notice. So 
that, whereas the bom mechanic has no chance of perfect 
righteousness, the born philosopher stands a very poor chance 
of being righteous at all. The former may reckon on mediocrity; 
the latter has a remote prospect of perfection. The slight put 
by Plato on the Working Man is explicable by the philosophic 
light in which he views him. Philosophy deals with mankind in 
the state of pure nature, not with mankind in that supernatural 
state whereunto we have all been elevated. Hence the philosopher's 
representation of man ever wears the air of a fancy portrait. It 
represents us stripped of that robe, our Creator's gratuitous 
investment, which cleaves to us continually. We have a difficulty 
in recognizing the bare groundwork of our being, which philo- 
sophy displays. For our acts of virtue are prompted, not by 
mere natural discernment of good, but by the grace of God. 
He amongst us is best qualified for righteousness, on whom 
grace has been most liberally bestowed. Now, I am not aware 
that there is any proportion observed between the bestowal of 
grace and the bestowal of genius. Nowhere have I learned that 
the sunniest nature, provided no voluntary obstacle intervene, 
will receive also the brightest lights on spirituality. On the 
contrary, I read that God has " hidden things from the wise and 
prudent, and revealed them to little ones."* But philosophy, 
not considering the supernatural, rules that God will be most 
aptly apprehended by the man whose powers of inference are the 
greatest The most consummate Reason, being the best fitted 
to discover God, supplies the best basis for natural virtue. In 
^c light of this irrefragable sentence, we should look at Plato's 
painting of the philosopher saint and the unhallowed artizan. 
^e should remember, moreover, that none but deficient natures 
^fc appointed, in the model commonwealth, to manual labour. 
Every child of philosophic promise is there ordered to receive a 
philosophical training. What Plato stigmatizes in the mechanic, 
^ not so much his craft as the imbecility of Reason in him, 
which leaves his brutal passions without a native superior, and 
places him in need of foreign control.f The handicraft, indeed. 
Itself is reproached for dwarfing the soul equally with the body ; 
^t is, because it distracts the thoughts. On the supposition 
that God were only to be found by hard thinking, a mechanic, 

♦ St Xuie X. 21, t Rcp,^ ix., S9^ 

VOL. XVI. ^ 

50 Reviews of Famous Books. 

having small time to think, would be, so far forth, a godless « 
illdeveloped man ; undeniably he would. I say it fearlessl; 
with Plato : were we in a state of pure nature, genius and educ: 
tion would arrive to sit on the first thrones in heaven ; thougl 
genius might also fill, in far greater profusion — such corruptio!=- 
breathes in the world's school — the lowest of dungeons in hell, 
is the Working Man, of all men, that should worship the divii 
decree of salvation by grace through Jesus Christ By His grace 
may still be a saint, without philosophy. But mark how phik 
sophy, without Christianity, drives the Working Man, the di 
man, the illiterate man, logically to the wall. " This rabble, tl 
knoweth not the law, are accursed." * 

Between the model righteousness, in State and individual, air — id 
the opposite extreme, Plato interposes several grades. First, tlHBe 

city and the man of Honour, the Spartan regime, orderly a i i d 

courageous, but boorish and somewhat covetous withaL Th^^sn 
the Oligarchical city and man, where authority is vested in 
wealth ; and the spendthrift passions are coerced, not 
wisdom, but by greed of money. Next, the Democracy 
the Democrat : here authority resides everywhere, it bei^^^S 
nobody's business to obey, but every member of the State, eve ^r>* 
power of the soul, follows its own bent unrestrained. A hap]p=^3' 
quotation of Professor Jowett's hits off this character — 

A man so various, that he seemed to be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome. 

None of these three grades represents Reason governing. Res 
lution, or Pluck, reigns in her stead in the Spartan constitutioi 
Covetousness, an appetite, the most frugal of the crew, rules t 
Oligarch : while the Democrat's breast is an anarchy, 
iseries of politics has thus passed from the government of 
best to that of the less good, and thence to the polity in whic::^^ 
all govern ; now for the negative side of the series, the gover 
ment of the worst. The city, where the lust of a bestial aut 
forms the law, is said to be under a Tyranny ; so is the ma^ 
under a Tyranny, that accepts for his predominant passion th 
most infatuate and most peremptory of the Appetites, Wanta 
Love. Tragedians have worked fertile imaginations to exhib 
the extremest hues of wickedness ; but I think Plato's Tyran 
ridden Man outdoes them all. It is like a photograph take 
from some lost wretch in hell. 

* St. John vii. 29. 


Platans Republic. 51 

"The Appetite, that has come to be foreman of his soul, careers 
wildly, STurounded by mad retainers, and if it should chance to light any 
virtuous fancies or desires, fraught still with some lingering sense of 
shame, it kills them and casts them out, till it has purged away modesty 
and filled the void with an importation of fi:antic craving." 

"A accurate description of the growth of a tyrant in man." 

" Pray is it on this account that for ages Love has borne the title of 

"Perhaps it is." 

"Now a drunken man is minded like a tyrant; and we see that 
madness and delirium prompt people to act as though they should 
prevail, not over men merely, but even over gods." 

" Quite so." 

"A man, therefore, becomes thoroughly tyrant-ridden when, either 
^ron nature or froni practice, or from both, he puts on the airs of a 
drunkard and a lover and a madman." 

Luxury, however, is an expensive habit ; the prodigal begins 
to be in want 

"In this plight he ventures to trench on his parents* property." 

"Of course." 

"And if they object he will try, will he not, to pilfer from and 
defraud his parents, secretly at first ? " 

"To be sure he will" 

"And failing that, he will resort to open robbery and violence? " 

"I expect that of him." 

"Now supposing, wondrous sir, the old gentleman and the old lady 
to resist and show fight, think you that their son will stand off and 
I'cfrain from doing a tyrannical act ? " 

"I don't feel at all easy about the parents of such a son." 

"But, Adeimantus, do you really think that, for the sake of a 
'Stress — ^a recent acquaintance, mind you, and not one of his own 
Wood — ^he would give up to blows and reduce to slavery his own fond 
^Id mother ? or that, for a blooming favourite, a stranger, whom he has 
^ely picked up, he would surrender his first of kin, his decrepit father, 
^d put age in bondage to youth by bringing them imder the 
same roof? " 

"Aye, by 2^eus, that he would." 

" Then it is like to be a blessed lot, to have a tyrant-ridden child ? " 

"A very blessed lot indeed." 

" Bat when he has run through his father's and his mother's all, and 
^e swarm of pleasures in him is now grown to a great cluster, will he 
^ set to work in the beginning as a burglar at the wall of some house, 
^ lay hands on somebody's cloak by night, and after that, a temple 
^^ sweep clean, won't he ? And all the while, the notions of right and 
^ong which he formed with justice, when a boy, will qyail before the 
P^er of Love and its body guard of newly emancipated fancies — fancies 
^Wch, before his character was formed, and while he was still in leading 
^gs to the law and to Y{^ father, only broke loose at t\\^Xs. TVws 
^jmmzed over by Love— his waking state like few merfs dieaxas-V^ 

5 2 Reviews of Famous Books. 

will hold back from no bloodshed, or feast, or felony; but LfOve, 
indwelling tyrannically in him, with all manner of perturbation and 
lawlessness, itself the sole monarch, will drive the kingdom of tiie 
possessed man's soul to dare the utmost, in order to get food for the 
tyrant passion and its rout of attendants.* .... 

" So let us sum up the story of the worst man's life, a waking bad 
dream, "f 

But a lower depth yet remains — 

" A greater harvest of woes than this is reaped by him, who, being 
rotten in the state of his soul, lives not in a private station, but is 
washed by some wave of fortime up to the position of autocrat, where, 
though unable to control himself, he puts his hand to ruling others ; just 
as if one of a sickly and impotent frame of body, instead of slinking 
away from professional occupations, were forced to spend his life in 
wrestling and fighting with the ailments of his neighbours." J 

This delineation of consummate unrighteousness is Socrates' 
amendment upon the "prosperous gentleman" scoundrel, de- 
picted at the outset by Glaucon. It shows the inner' mind, the 
true selfi of the aforesaid prosperous gentleman. From that we 
must judge, whether he or the model righteous man, also set 
forth in the character of the philosopher, be the happier. 
And let no suspicion haunt us, that perhaps an intermediate 
stage, between perfect virtue and perfect vice, may have 
attractions superior to either extreme ; for unless we be 
perfectly virtuous, that is to say, perfectly reasonable, af 
least in endeavour, we stand much chance of slipping, no one 
can tell how soon or how far, into absolute unreason and vicious- 
ness. An extreme of some sort, then, must furnish our ideal o\ 

" How shall \ climb to a loftier stronghold, and having thus fenced 
about, live my life, by righteousness or by crooked wiles ? "§ 

On which of these alternatives does happiness hang.^ The 
answer now finally appears. 

" Shall we hire a herald, or shall I myself proclaim, that ArisUnT 
san^ has adjudged the best and most r^hteaus man to be the happiest^ hin» 
that is, who is the most kingly y and reigns king over himself; and the wars, 
and most unrighteous man to be the most miserable, which is he who has t^ 
most tyrannical temper, and plays the tyrant most unconstitutionally ov^ 
himself and his city f " 

• /^^,, ix., 573—575. + l^^-f «. 576, R t Rep.. 579, C. 
% Quoted from Pindar by Addmantos in his opening speech, Rep^, iL| 365. 


Plato's Republic. 53 

" Make the proclamation." 

"Mth Ihis clause, irrespectively of their characters being observed or 
guiie unobserved by gods and men ? " 

"Yes, tail that clause on to the proclamation."* 

The above award rests on the assumption of the kingly 

righteous man being free, and the tyrant-ridden, unrighteous 

man, a slave. A deep significance underlies this position. 

To penetrate it, we must recall Plato's peculiar views about 

liberty and necessity, good and evil. The word necessity 

was odious to the Greek philosopher. He did not hate 

the word as bearing no meaning ; he was not modern enough 

for that On the contrary, it bore to his understanding a 

tremendous meaning. It characterized the principle of evil 

in the universe — brute, wayward matter. Matter, Plato 

thought, was an unholy thing. It was not created by God ; 

it enters but partially under divine control. Before all 

ages, it existed of itself in a chaotic state — an unmixed evil. 

At length God regulated the chaos, endowing the material 

world with a soul, that so, having a principle of order, it might 

"answer His great Idea" of the Good, as perfectly as the 

vicious nature of Body admitted. But intrinsic evil cannot be 

rendered altogether good. Therefore is the universe good and 

^1 at once, good by the guidance of intelligence, but evil by 

^e brute force of matter."f* Spirit becomes evil in proportion to 

^^e closeness of its alliance with flesh. The union of soul and 

'^y, blending the intelligent with the necessitated, is an unre- 

"^emed misfortune for the former. J The man whose body 

overlays his soul, becomes himself the bondsman of necessity, 

^Hr^enerate and unblessed. Where the soul, on the other hand, 

*^rings the body into subjection, the man partakes of the attri- 

*^^tes of spirit as opposed to matter — namely, freed<jm, sanctity, 

^^^d beatitude. In short, it belongs to the consummately 

*^&hteous man to be spirit, and to the consummately unrighteous 

^a.n to be matter; and spirit is holy, and matter unholy.§ 

T^ttached hereto clings another Platonic doctrine, that of the 

**^Voluntariness of vice. Wicked deeds are done, because the 

^Oer has had the misfortune to fall into the clutches of a 

• ^^., ix., 580. 

t Plato, Ttmteus, 30, A ; 47, E ; 48, A ; 68, D, E, and 69. The whole of p. 69 
^^ouW be carefully collated. 

X Plato, Phadrus, 248, C; 250, C. 
I Read Plato, J>^i^, So, 8j, 82, 83, 

54 Reviews of Famous Books. 

peremptory and pig-headed harpy, his own flesh, which hurries 
him astray perforce. His deed is fleshly and wrong accordingly, 
but not wilful. Were it wilful, it would proceed from spirit, and, 
in virtue of that origin, be removed from taint of matter and of 
evil. Plato declares this opinion with all reiteration and 
emphasis. For example : " No man is wilfully bad ; the bad 
man's going bad should be charged on a peccant humour and an 
illiberal education."* And again : "I am pretty well convinced 
that no competent judge considers any man's offence to be 
wilful, or any deed of shame and ill to be wilfully done : far 
from it; they know that base and evil doers are, without 
exception, involuntary agents.""f* On this very account does the 
unrighteous man bear the just brand of slave^ for that he never 
does what he wills.J Hence we contrast Plato's conception oi 
wickedness, first, with the utilitarian, and, secondly, with the 
orthodox conception. To a Utilitarian, a wicked deed appears, 
in itself, a gainful thing, but, in its after results, a preponderant 
woe. In Plato's eyes, both the results of the deed and the deed 
in itself are woeful, it being a lapse from the dominion of Mind, 
the free and good, to the dominion of Matter, the necessary and 
evil. By the orthodox moralist, a wicked deed is accounted 
woeful in its results, woeful in itself, and, over and above these 
woes, he counts it sinful — sinful, precisely because it is the free 
selfdetermination of a Person to do wrong. Plato never attained 
to the adequate conception of sin. 

I am afraid I have ruined my author's reputation with man} 
readers, by setting forth what he understood by the slavery o 
the unrighteous. The exposition, however, was useful, as wel 
for a correct appreciation of the RepubliCy as also by way o 
illustration, how " Plato should then be most mistrusted, wher 
he rises nearest to inspiration." Here, under the most imposing 
constructions of Platonic ethics, we have discovered an elaborat< 
mine of Manicheism. We have identified that odious heresy 
professed nowadays by so few, yet gone upon still so generally 
Trouble and temptation knock at our doors, with an importunit) 
that denies all budging. Thereat, perhaps, we put on an air o 
outraged innocence, and sullenly surrender ourselves for lost 
What is that but a practical recognition of an evil principle o 
brute necessity, pressing upon us, forsooth, without the divin< 
permission, and working our moral pollution apart from our fre< 
consent } It is from this pride of ours, wounded at whatevei 

* TT/nau^, 86, D. f Plato, Protagoras^ 34$, D, E. X Rep., ix., 577, D. 

Plaio's Republic. 55 

upsets our selfsufficient and selfcomplacent mental equilibrium, 
that Manicheism of old sprang. The same is the parent of the 
two younger sisters of Manes, I mean Puritanism and Jansenism. 
Woe for the morals of him who sides with this family of gloom ! 
He will soon verify a remark of Plato's, that overstraining a 
point conducts to the opposite extreme.* The history of 
England in the seventeenth century, and that of France in the 
seventeenth and eighteenth, exemplifies what a thin partition 
<iivides rigorism of theory from laxity of practice. We can 
hardly expect purity from a Puritan. 

The cancer of Manicheism, however, may be cut out from 
the Platonic philosophy ; and that philosophy will not die, but 
live by the operation. The great defect of Plato — as of the 
whole number of pagan philosophers, and about tHree quarters 
of their successors — was neglect of the fact of personality. We 
read in the RepubliCy of "Reason" and "Appetite," not of 
"I reasoning" and "I indulging Appetite." And so Plato 
misunderstood volition, how it consists in a conscious adherence 
of the Person to a spontaneous complacency ; he was blind to 
the wilfulness, and consequent sinfulness of crime ; nor did he 
track the origin of evil home to the creature's abuse of freewill. 
We divide evil into physical and moral. The founder of the 
Academy perceived, that the latter alone deserves to be called 
^vil ; since sufTering dwindles to zero when compared with doing 
^vrong. But this he failed to perceive, that moral evil is not the 
bare presence of Appetite, nor the struggles of Appetite against 
Reason ; but it is the choice of a Person, or Reasonable Being, 
to follow Appetite rather than Reason. That choice is wicked to 
^e extent of its being preposterous. But that the mere appetite 
by itself does not amount to wickedness, we may see from the 
<^^ of the lower animals, which obey Appetite in the total 
absence of Reason, and yet enjoy a constitutional immunity 
*rom moral blame. Plato probably thought a licentious man 
^cither more nor less immoral than a brute beast. There was his 
^^r. Still further was he mistaken in ascribing immorality to 
P^t which has neither Reason nor Appetite, namely, to 
'^animate matter. Detach a weight, and down it falls. Plato 
deemed it wicked of weights to behave so blindly. Poor 
beathen, he had not well weighed that a Holy Wisdom has 
^ised matter out of nothing, and plays the guide to its blind 

• Z'^., vul, $6s, E. 

56 Reviews of Famous Books. 

Another portentous oversight. Out of the antithesis c 
holy spirit and unholy matter, pride, the besetting sin of spiritua 
creatures, escapes unnoticed. Yet it was no material tendency 
that drew Satan down like lightning from heaven. The omissioi 
of precepts on humility grievously impairs the completeness a 
the Republic as a manual of natural virtue. 

I have impeached Plato's account of the slavery, an^ 
resultant wretchedness, that burdens the wicked than. Yet 
do hold such a one for a slave and a wretch. The voice o 
Truth has spoken it — ** Whosoever committeth sin, is the slav* 
(doDXoc) of sin."* This saying has a meaning, though not th< 
meaning which Plato would have assigned. Let us r^^rd th< 
essential notes of slavery. A slave I would define to be, « 
, reasoning agent, whose action is determined neither by his owi 
reason, nor by the command of an authority, on whose sagacity 
and benevolence his reason relies. The unrighteous man fall: 
clearly under this definition ; for that an unrighteous course i: 
also an unreasonable course, all moralists agree. It is, therefore 
the course of a slave. But whether of an unwilling or of i 
willing slave, there lies the issue. In the Platonic view, the 
slavery of the unrighteous man is his misfortune rather than hii 
fault, he having fallen under the dominion of the atheistic 
principle of matter, not by choice, but by chance. Christianity 
on the contrary, and reason "I" evince that no man becomes th< 
slave of sin except by his own fault J But though the slaver) 
of the unrighteous should be set down to his fault, in willing t( 
be a slave, it remains none the less his misfortune. Rather 
being his fault, it is therefore his own most domestic am 
peculiar misfortune, clinging closest to his personality, am 
engrained in his deepest self Pitiable as is the ovennasterec 
prisoner ; the prisoner that hugs chains which he might break 
if he chose, challenges more pity still. Unblessed is the bruti 
— I mean, in comparison with man ; but a thousand time 
greater woe for the man who volunteers to be a brute. 

And now for my last inquiry. Which was Plato's theory o 
morals — the theistic, the utilitarian, or the independent theory 
Scarcely, I should say, the utilitarian : if indeed the Republi 

* St. John viii. 34. 

t See Aristotle, N, Ethics ^ iii., cap. vii. 

X ** Interveniente peccato patitur quandam vim et ipse [homo], sed a volimtate 
non a natura, ut ne sic quidem ingenita libertate privetur. . . . Est enim necessita 
Axe quodammodo voluntaria" (St. Bernard, 81 super Canticay where more may b 
found on this subject). 

Plato's Republic. 57 

was written in contravention of the utilitarian pleas of Thrasy- 
machus, Glaucon, and Adeimantus. Or was he an Independent 
Moralist ? So at least Mr. Grote would catalogue him. " The 
motive to performance of justice, and to avoidance of injustice^ 
is derived in his [Plato s] theory (as it is in what is called the 
selfish theory) entirely from the happiness or misery of the agent 
himselC . . . Thus the Platonic theory is entirely self- 
r^rding."* I hinted, at the outset, that the independent 
moral man was a figment, an impossibility. Man really cannot 
be independent. The Independent Moralists describe their hero, 
taking a shrewd and farsighted observation of the whereabouts 
of his own interest, and then bearing in that direction through? 
all weathers. But how shall a man observe his own interest .^ 
By looking only to himself.? Clearly he need look to no second 
person, if selfknowledge and selfcomplacency can achieve his. 
beatitude, even as the beatitude of God is achieved. But 
where learns and yearns the created mind, that can thus furnish 
subsistence to itself.? I should say, nowhere; but minds that 
gnaw themselves away with thinking of themselves are rife 
everywhere. Subjective natures are notoriously given to melan- 
choly. Selfintrospection is one of the darkest of those gathering 
clouds, that make the difference between the morning sunlight of 
childhood and the clouded noon of mature age. We must think 
of something that we ourselves are not, if we mean to be happy. 
But what should that something be? Utilitarians tell us — 
'* Think of the men around you ; " theists — "Think of Grod, and 
in God think of your fellow men." Both of these recom- 
niendations are intelligible ; but I cannot understand how any 
moralists can advise me thus — "Pray, keep your thoughts at 
home." Nor can I contain my wonder at Plato's being written 
down for such a preacher of selfishness. Plato, the " friend of 
Ideas," the asserter of the objective and the absolute, to be 
accused of circumscribing moral motive within the exclusive 
sphere of subjective enjoyment! The writer of the Republic 
*^ a dull ear for harmony of doctrine, if that inconsistency can 
be brought home to his door. Theories of conduct should keep 
tnne with theories of cognition, in him who holds them. A 
philosopher proclaiming that all he knows, or can know, is the 
^nation of his own consciousness, and, after that, hymning the 
praises of disinterested philanthropy, — I know not how other 
throats vent applause to him, but mine chokes with this d\fEvcu\t^> 

• Crote's Plato, vol. iii., ch. xxxiv. 

58 Reviews of Famous Books. 

that, whereas love follows knowledge, I am puzzled to conceive 
how a knowledge, confined to modes of self, can induce an 
absolute love of beings outside of self. My humble regard :^or 
consistency would seal that philosopher's lips to the wcziDrd 
disinterestedy and, instead oi philanthropy y I would restore l^fcJm 
our old English word philauty. But to the " ontologist " ^■"-— 
so called among English metaphysicians — or believer in an 
independent object world, it is given to walk abroad out of 
self, as in knowledge, so also in love. Now Plato wa^ a 
pronounced ontologist He placed the end and happiness of 
man in compassing an object beyond man. He enjoined ^the 
subjugation of Appetite, not to the end that Reason mi^^ht 
practice the Delphic maxim. Know thyself; no, but that Rea^^on 
might find her perfection in contemplating the Idea of Gk>^«)cl. 
That was no utilitarian Idea of the material prosperity of 
mankind. Material prosperity is an attribute of mankind ; as^nd 
mankind a company of actors that 

Have their exits and their entrances. 


But the Platonic Idea was a substance, not an attribute ; it y^^J^ 
eternal, unborn and immortal True, Plato has omitted ^^ 
define it clearly. But he has left us a description, which a^^^ 
only reality can ever answer. The Godhead is that reality. " 
I might epitomize Plato's moral precepts in plain English,. ^ 
should put the epitome thus — Knoiu God, In this knowlei^^ 
the Old Testament bids us glory ;f in this the New declair^^ 
life everlasting to consist J None other than this "delicio 
knowledge of God " is the Wisdom which Solomon and the 
of Sirach extoL St Paul, indeed, teaches that "the end of 
commandment is charity :'*§ he does not say "knowledg 
Knowledge is a gift of the Holy Ghost, and charity is its fru 
It is to that knowledge which bears fruit in charity, that 
Scriptural praises of knowledge refer. I wish 'I could say 
Plato meant the same. But that philosopher was too inclined 
rest the whole of virtue in the understanding. That inclinatio 
we have seen, had to do with his tenet, that the blind wickedn 
of matter hurried helplessly into sin such souls as were ov 
grown, and shut out from discernment, by their bodie 
Forgetfulness of man's personal agency founded that mistak 
Perhaps a concomitant carelessness of the fact that the divi 

• Not to be confounded with the " ontologists" reprobated in the Catholic schools.-^- 
f Jer. ix. 24. X St John xvii. 3. \ \ TVnu I. ^, 

Plato's Republic. 59 

also is personal, accounts for the natural obligation of 
our Maker having never been definitely promulgated 
s the bounds of Christian ethics. 

methinks I see some aurora of love of God glimmering 
I those impure and earthy mists which Plato strove to 
lize. If the Republic dwells, with a frosty reserve, on the 
tuai aspect of man's last end, there are yet other and 
\ dialogues to commend that end to the heart and 
OS. I must allow a borrowed pen to illustrate this topic, 
int out what, or rather Who, is the lovely Idea of the 
he Archetype of righteousness, the righteous man's study 
isfying delight 

3 saw very clearly that to communicate to our nature this noblest 
love, the love of a worthy object, would have the effect of a 
ition to the soul, and would establish conscience in nearly the 
dmacy with the world of the senses which she already maintains 
' interior existence. Hence his constant presentation of morality 
le aspect of beauty, a practice favoured by the language of his 

where from an early period the same rh xakh had compre- 
them both. . . . TTie soul of man was considered the best 
3f iptai^ because it partook most of the presumed nature of 
. There are not wanting in the Platonic writings clear traces 
laving perceived the ulterior destiny of this passion, and the 
r of tibat object which alone can absorb its xdcys for time and for 

The doctrine of a personal God, Himself essentially Love, and 
g the love of the creature, . . . often seems to tremble on the 
he master, but it was too strange for him, too like a fiction of 
i fancy, too liable to metaphysical objections. "It is difficult," 
, "to find, and more difficult to reveal, the Father of the 
e."* . . . Revelation is a voluntary approximation of the 
Being to the ways and thoughts of finite humanity. But until 
p has been taken by Almighty Grace, how should man have a 
for loving with all his heart and mind and strength ? . . . The 
impossible,t and has been never done. Without the Gospel, 
exhibits a want of harmony between our intrinsic constitution, 
system in which it is placed. But Christianity has made up the 
:e. It is possible and natural to love the Father, Who has made 
children by the spirit of adoption ; it is possible and natural to 

Elder Brother, Who was, in all things, like as we are, except sin, 
succour those in temptation, having been Himself tempted. Thus 
stian faith is the necessary complement of a sound ethical sjrstem. j: 

J. R. 

aus, 28, £. 

^assibli here says too much. The want of harmony^ mentioned in the next 

must be taken for a negation^ not a prnnUion^ in the logical sense of those 

\nd I would rather call Christianity the befitting^ than the fucessaty^ comple- 

I sound ethical system. 

luir Yienry Halhun's /^tmains, pp. 172 — 1 77. 


An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

I PAID a visit on Sunday last to St Lazare, and all that I ~ ^^s*-"^ 
and heard there struck me as so interesting and so entir 
different from the generally received notion of that illfam. 
centre of crime and punishment, that I cannot but think 
others will be interested in hearing a true and detailed account 
it I had been told that the famous pdtroleuse charged with 
murder of Mgr. Surat was still there, and I could not resist 
opportunity offered to me by a friend of going to see 
extraordinary type of female ferocity — the woman who put 
pistol to the prelate s head, and when he mildly asked her w 
harm he had done her that she should take away his li 
replied, Tu es pritre! and shot him on the spot On arrivin 
however, we found that she had left the night before fci^ 
Versailles. There were still remaining fourteen of the fou- 
hundred and thirty of her terrible compeers who had 
taken on the barricades or in the act of incendiarism and lockec^ 
up at St. Lazare. 

We visited the prison from one end to the other, anc^ 
nothing surprised us so much as the gentleness of the rule anc^ 
the absence of all mystery or personal restraint in the manage^ 
ment of the prisoners. The gaol had nothing of the repulsive 
paraphernalia of a gaol about it, and but for its massive walls, 
its vast dimensions, and a certain indescribable moral gloom iim 
the atmosphere, inseparable, I suppose, from the presence oC 
such a population, one might very well have mistaken it for an 
orphanage or any other charitable institution on a large scale* 
conducted by a religious community. The saUes are magni^ 
ficently spacious and lofty, with broad, high windows openingj' 
on courts (there are four of these pr^attx, as they are called, 
within the precincts of the prison), the beds are like hospital 
beds, and there was nothing in the dress of the women, or th^ 
manner of the nuns towards them, to tell the uninitiated visitor 
that they were not respectable patients, instead of prisoners and 
malefactors of the worst kind. There was the same silence 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 6i 

brooding over the place, the same quiet regularity in all the 
arrangements, the same supernatural sort of cleanliness which 
one never sees anywhere but in convents. The population of 
St. Lazare varies from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred, and 
the government of these dangerous and desperate subjects is 
confided to the sole charge of a committee of religious called 
Sceurs de Marie Joseph, They are fifty in number. Their dress 
is black sei^e, with a black veil lined with light blue. They 
'^vcre founded at the dose of the last century by a Lyonnese 
l^xiy, whose name the Superioress told me, but I forget it 

It was just two when we presented ourselves at the gate. 

iTie house, from its immense size, takes two hours to visit in 

^detail, and the Superioress and another kindly gave up assisting 

^t Vespers in order to show us over it The prisoners are divided 

i i3to several categories, which are kept distinctly apart from each 

ther. There are first the prA^enues, who are put in on an 

ccusation which has not been investigated ; then the dUtenueSy 

^Lgainst whom proof is established, and who are waiting their 

tiial; then there are \h& jug^es^ of whom the categories are 

^'^ous, as will be seen. These classes never come in contact, 

even accidentally ; they do not even meet at meals. Those who 

are condemned to one year's confinement only undergo it at 

St Lazare, but if the sentence extends to a year and a day, 

they are sent to the Maison Centrale, or one of the succursales. 

When the term of those who are sentenced to one year is out, 

they may continue at St Lazare if they choose. Many of them, 

touched with grace, and sincerely converted from their evil 

courses, dread going back to the old scenes and temptations 

that have proved so fatal to them, and prefer spending the rest 

of their lives in the sombre but safe asylum of the prison. They 

heg to be kept as helps in the atiliersy or as filles de service in 

the work of the house, cooking, washing, sweeping, &c, and 

they are never refused. The Superioress said they generally 

J'^e very active and efficient servants, and there is hardly an 

instance of their falling away from their good resolutions so as 

to oblige the community to expel or punish them severely. . 

We were passing sdong one of the corridors when a sudden 
noise of voices from the pr^au made us go to the window to see 
the cause of it We saw a troop of prisoners pouring out into 
^c court ; they were running about, laughing and chattering, 
^ apparently enjoying their momentary liberty with the zest 
of schoolbcyA 

62 An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

"Who are these, ma mere?** we inquired. 

**H^las!** And the exclamation was accompanied by a 
gesture sufficiently significative. 

"They are generally a very numerous class here," she 
observed ; " but just now there are only some two hundred of 
them ; the pHroleuses were largely recruited from their ranks, 
and we have been despatching them in great numbers to 

Some one asked if these unfortunates were more refractory 
than the other prisoners, thieves, and the like.^ "As a rule, 
much less so," replied the Mother ; " we are hardly ever obliged 
to have recourse to the gardiens with them, and we have more 
conversions amongst them than any other sections of prisoners. 
There comes a time to many of them, especially if they have 
had any seeds of faith sown in their childhood, when the future 
both of this world and the next comes on them with a sense of 
horror, and then grace has an easy task with them. I could tell 
you of miracles wrought in the souls of these poor sinners that 
really sound like stories out of the lives of the saints, and we 
have had deathbeds amongst them that were little short of 
saintly. But then, for all that, we too often see all our efforts 
fail, and they push grace from them with a sort of fiendish 
hatred, and go back to their old lives without as much as one 
moment's passing compunction ; when they are hardened, they 
are utterly hardened, nothing can melt them or frighten them." 

We asked if the nuns were not sometimes afraid of them ; if 
they never threatened or insulted them } 

"Oh, never!" replied the Superioress, emphatically; "the 
power we have over them, and the way in which they yield 
obedience to us, and even respect, is almost miraculous. You 
see those poor outcasts down there ; I suppose there is nothing 
to be found anywhere more lost and degraded than they are, 
they are the lowest specimens of the lowest stratum of vice 
and every species of depravity ; well, the youngest nun in the 
community is as safe in the midst of them as if they were all 
honest mh'cs de families, I have been twenty two years in 
religion, and out of that ten years at St Lazare, and I have 
never known them to use an expression to any of us that called 
for reprimand." 

She said that the great majority of this section were girls 

from the provinces, who had come to Paris, young and inexpe- 

nenced for the most part, expecting to make their fortunes, and 

An Afternoon at St, Lazare. 63 

unprepared for the temptations awaiting them in this great soul- 
trap of a city. 

We saw the words — Oratoire IsraelitCy Oratoire Protestant, 
painted over two doors, and the letters suggested the inquiry 
whether there were occasionally any English women amongst 
the inmates of St Lazare. "Oh, yes," replied the Mother; 
"we always have a small contingent of English," and then 
shaking her head and smiling, she added, " and I am sorry to 
tell you they are the most unmanageable of all, for they are 
generally given to drink, and when this is the case they 
are like mad women, and we can do nothing with them. 
A little while ago we had one who got into such a fearful 
fit of fury that we had to put her au cachot ; her shrieks 
were so loud that they were heard half over the house, 
and terrified the young d^teitues, and towards evening she 
became so outrageous that the gardiens were sent to put her 
into the straight waistcoat. They are powerful men, with strong 
hands and iron nerves, and trained to the work, but she kept 
four of them at bay for two hours, they could not take hold of 
her; at last they gave it up in despair, and said, * It is no use ; 
we must go for les sceurs ! * One of them came to fetch me. 
He was trembling in every limb,^ and the perspiration pouring 
from his face as if he had been wrestling with wild animals. I 
took one of our Sisters, and we went down to the cacJiot, where 
we were obliged to spend the whole night coaxing and caressing 
the prisoner (la c&linant et la caressant) before we got her to 
calm down and cease shrieking." 

I asked to what class of offenders the English usually 
belonged, if they were exclusively of the lowest The Superioress 
said on the contrary, they were often very coinme ilfaut in their 
Planners, and evidently had had an education far above the 
class of domestic servants, some of them were, in fact, quite 
like ladies ; she believed they were mostly governesses or 
teachers, who came over to Paris in search of situations or 
lessons, and not finding either, are driven by hunger or despair 
to steal or do worse ; but theft is generally the offence they arc 
committed for. " Sometimes, indeed," said the Superioress, " it 
^akes us laugh to hear the account of their shifts, there is often 
something so comical in the way they go to work, and the 
cunning and dexterity they display are beyond belief, it is like 
^^ instinct with them ; the most accomplished French filoii 
cannot hold a candle to them." Sad as this testinvotvy -w^s, vt 

•64 An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

could not be quite a surprise to any one living in Paris ^^^, 
had seen much of the class of English alluded to, but it ^^^ 
come probably as a new and terrible revelation to many ^^ 
England, and if this paper should fall into the hands of any \Qi0^^ 
friendless English g^rl deliberating about coming to Paris '^ 
earn her bread, wit/tout being previously provided with a siUiati^^^ 
the writer prays God she may ponder on the foregoing stat^ 
ment, and think twice before embarking on so perilous ^ 

Several salks are devoted to a class of offenders called il^^ 
jeunes ifisoumises ; these are all very young, some mere childre/r 
of eleven, twelve, and so on ; they are only accused of having 
dangerous propensities beyond the control of parents, and likely 
to lead to fatal consequences, and they are sent here to be 
corrected and trained to better ways. Special pains are directed 
to the reclamation of juvenile offenders, and the results are 
often very consoling. The Superioress said that they had 
lately had a baby of six years old brought to them on a charge 
of theft. ** It was a cake that tempted the poor little mite," 
said the Mother, deprecatingly ; " but she was very naughty and 
unmanageable in other ways, and the parents were glad of a 
pretext to get rid of her for a time." 

It was not only of such innocent culprits as this that the 
Superioress spoke with indulgence ; her large hearted charity 
took in all the lost inhabitants of the dismal abode in which 
she dwelt and toiled with untiring pity, and there was something 
unspeakably touching in the way she every now and then 
seemed to excuse, as it were, the worst among them, to plead 
for them indirectly by showing up whatever remnant of good 
there was in them. When the women I have already alluded to 
were coming in from their recreation, we met them in one of the 
corridors, walking one after another with their arms crossed; 
we were close enough to them to see them well as they passed 
us, and an)^hing more ignoble than their features it would be 
difficult to conceive. The expression of the face was scarcely 
humati, they resembled vicious animals in human shape rather 
than women. This struck us all so forcibly, that we could not 
help making the remark to the Superioress. She seemed 
positively hurt, as if we had said something personally rude or 
unkind to her, and on my expressing some pagan surprise at it, 
she broke out into such a tender pleading for " those dear souls 
that our Lord longs for, and that cost Him so dear," that though 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 65 

X felt thoroughly rebuked, I could not feel sorry for having 

called out the protest It was like having laid one*s hand 

roughly and unawares on a vibrating instrument that sent out a 

srfcain of heavenly music " Oh/' she continued, with a look 

bSiat I shall never forget, '' if we only knew what the nature of a 

soul is, how precious it is in the sight of God, we should never 

lcK)k with disgust at the poor wretched body that holds it ; but 

Indeed I can assure you when one comes near to those poor 

Ixxiies, the disgust soon wears off, and one thinks of nothing but 

their souls, their precious immortal souls that were brought at 

such a price. " 

The more we listened to her and observed her the less 
surprised we .were at the universal respect, worship I might 
almost call it, that greeted her presence everywhere — it was 
so spontaneous, so free from anything like servility or fear. 
As soon as she appeared at the door of an atelier, or a class, or 
a dormitory, the prisoners rose en masse to salute her, and 
several times I noticed them make signs to those who were not 
looking or touch them on the shoulder to stand up and welcome 
la mkre. She generally had a word to say en passant — **Bon 
jour, mes enfants ! Etes vous sages f " &c., and then there was a 
ripple of curtsies and a chorus of — " Oui, ma mire, merci! " and 
the hard bad faces would brighten for one moment with a smile. 
The influence of the nuns with the prisoners is indeed little 
less than a permanent miracle. Amongst other instances of it 
the Superioress told us the following. A desperate woman 
charged with misdemeanours of the gravest nature was brought 
to the prison. She was the daughter of a butcher, and, added 
the Superioress, laughing, je vot4s prie de croire qiielle en avait 
ks allures / A few days after her arrival she broke into a fit of 
niad fury during work time, and the gardiens had to be sent for 
to take her au cachot, but as soon as they entered the salle she 
drew a huge pair of scissors from her pocket — how she came by 
them the nuns never discovered — and holding it pointed at them 
^th the finger and thumb of one hand, she beckoned them with 
the other to come on, yelling all the time like a raging lioness. 
The four men tried to dodge and terrify her by turns, but it was 
^ess; she bafHed every attempt to take hold of her, and 
^^Xi giving it up as hopeless, the gardiens sent for the 
Superioress. The woman no sooner saw her than she stopped 
shrieking and said — " Send these men away ; I will go with 70U 
' '^t I will not stir a foot with them." "I sent tViem aw^.7» 


66 An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

continued the Mother, "and told her to give me the sciss(^ 
She gave them at once, and then I took her by the hand 
led her off without a word. On another occasion," she resum 
"they got up a scheme in one of the salles for killing 
gardiens. The prisoners were to string their heavy wood 
shoes together in bunches of eight, and they were to fli 
these formidable missiles at the heads of the gardiens the fi 
time they came to convey a refractory subject au cackot. F 
the great weight of the sabots and the strength of the arms 
were to aim them, the effect must have been certainly if 
instantly fatal, but fortunately there was some delay in 
appearance of the gardiens, and the prisoners being all reac 
grew impatient, and soon losing all control over themselv( 
began to yell and to call out for them, and to brandish th( 
sabots furiously. The Sister who was de garde ran down to wa 
the men not to come up, and then came to tell me what 
going on, and to consult about sending for la main armie to 
poste outside the gates. I thought, however, that the sto 
might be quelled without having recourse to this extrenr^ 
measure. I was not the least afraid of the women for mys 
or any of the nuns ; I knew perfectly well that they would nev 
lay a finger on one of uSy whatever their fury might be, so 
walked boldly into the midst of them, looking very severe an 
wrathful. * What is this noise about } ' I said. ' I am ashame— * 
of you ; let me hear no more of it' Then, taking the ringlead^^ 
of the band — ^we always know the one to pitch upon — I told hc^ 
I must take her au cachot. She made no resistance, only stipiK- 
lating that the gardiens were not to touch her." 

"Why do they hate the gardiens so } " I asked. "Are the>^ 
sometimes cruel to the poor creatures } " 

" No, never," she replied ; " they have not the opportunit)r j 
even if they felt inclined. But they represent streng^ an(^ 
justice, and the prisoners resent this, whereas we only represents 
weakness and pity, and they don't resent us." 

Some one asked if there had ever been an attempt or con- 
spiracy to hurt or kill any of the Sisters. The Superioress said 
she had never known or heard of an3^ing of the kind. This led 
to my relating an episode of the Roman prisoners told to mc^ 
recently by the Papal Nuncio. The prisons set apart for female 
criminals in Rome are, like St. Lazare, entirely governed bjr 
nuns, without, however, the moral support of a poste militaire at 
the gates to enforce their authority. One da^ a ^lot was set on. 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 67 

foot by the prisoners for making their escape, after first doing 
a.ivay with the nuns. They were sixty in number and the sisters 
'were but twelve, so the scheme offered little material difficulty, 
as it will be seen. It was agreed that on a certain day, when 
the community were assembled with the prisoners in the atelier y 
the latter were at a given moment to fall upon the nuns and 
fling them out of the windows into the/r/^z«. The signal agreed 
upon was when the Superioress clapped her hands for them to 
put aside their work. The secret was so well kept that not a 
hint transpired, but the Superioress felt instinctively that there 
>vas something brewing. She had no apprehension at the 
moment, however, and gave the usual signal when the clock 
struck the hour. No one moved. She gave it a second time. 
Still no one moved. She gave it a third time more emphati- 
cally, and then the leader of the band, furious at seeing herself 
cieserted, walked straight up to the Superioress and struck her a 
blow on the face. The meek disciple of Jesus quietly knelt 
down, turned the other cheek, and said — '* If I have done you 
any harm, tell me what it is, but, if not, why do you strike me V^ 
The woman, who one minute before was bent on committing 
twelve murders, fell upon her knees, and, bursting into tears, 
confessed everything. The Superioress heard her to the end, 
and when there was nothing more to be told, "Now,y?^/iw: mia^' 
she said, " I must take you to the dungeon. You know this is 
tny duty." *' Yes, Mother, I know it," and she gave her hand 
and let herself be led away as meekly as a lamb. Beautiful 
omnipotence of the power of love ! How lovely this world 
would be if love were allowed to rule it everywhere ! 

Before finishing our inspection of the house we assisted at 
Benediction in the prison chapel. First there was a sermon on 
^e Gospel of the day. About eight hundred prisoners were 
present Some were yawning and looking about them, evidently 
longing to be out of it, and only present because they were so 
Unstrained ; others were very edifying by the devotion visible in 
"ieir countenance and attitude, and most were well behaved and 
respectful The organ was played by one of the Sisters, and the 
*oir was formed of prisoners out of the class already alluded to. 
^e singing was not very scientific, but it struck us as peculiarly 
toudiing, the more so> no doubt, from the associations connected 
^th the choristers. The Superioress said it was looked upon as 
^ peat privilege to be allowed to sing in choir, and \t \s \\^\A. 
out aj a recompense and encouragement for good cotiducX* M 

68 An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

we saw the little altar lighted up and the golden rays of th 
monstrance shining down upon the singular congr^ation, on 
could not but think what a grand and beautiful manifestation c 
redeeming love it was, this presence of the God of Holiness, 
willing Prisoner in such a temple. There were the Sisters < 
Marie Joseph, women whose lives were pure as lilies, selfdevote 
victims to the God who died on Calvary for outcasts and sinner 
kneeling side by side in unloathing sisterhood with the vilej 
offscourings of this great guilty Babylon. It was a sigl 
mysterious beyond all human understanding, if the myster 
were not explained by a Voice from out the little crystal priso 
house — " I came to seek sinners . . and My delight is to dwe 
with them . . and whatsoever you do to the least of these yo 
do likewise to Me . . and there is more joy in heaven ovc 
the return of one sinner than over ninety nine of the just" 

And many are the joys given to Him and to His saints b 
the inmates of this great emporium of sinners. Last All Saint 
Day five hundred of the prisoners approached the sacrament 
some in the most admirably penitent spirit, but all of their ow 
freewill, and, for the moment at least, with hearts touched b 
grace and turned away from evil. They were prepared for th 
feast by a retreat of eight days, preached by a Marist Father. 

After Benediction we resumed our inspection, and cam 
finally to the pHroleuses. There was nothing in the rooi 
or their surroundings to distinguish them from the othc 
prisoners, and if the Superioress had not whispered to us i 
we were entering the dormitory that these were the women, w 
should never have suspected the bright orderly room, with i1 
neat trim rows of beds, to be the den of wild beasts it was. A 
American Protestant lady who was of our party amused th 
nuns very much by asking repeatedly — " But where are all th 
wicked ones ? " She could not persuade herself — and indeed 
was difficult — ^that the hundreds of women we saw so gentl 
ruled, and held as it were with a silken thread, were the moj 
dangerous and abandoned characters of the metropolis. Th 
fourteen pdtroleuses were not dressed in the livery of the prison- 
they wear their own clothes. Some of them were very sprue 
and comfortable, but all were tidy and clean — not one of thei 
had a poverty-stricken look. They were nearly all of thei 
standing in sullen silence beside their beds. One woman ws 
AanAYmg a baby, a white faced, shrivelled little object, tricke 
out in SL jSnc blue frock with little ftounc^s. 1 ^ib^X)k \ ^vd thei 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 69 

had been four hundred and thirty of these pitroletises in the 

prison. The Superioress told us they had all behaved very 

well, and never once made it necessary for the soldiers to 

interfere. There were cruel, cold blooded, defiant creatures, but 

this was not their sphere of action. They testified no hatred or 

ill will against the nuns, quite the contrary, and many of them 

^tually shed tears when taking leave of them. They fell very 

docilely into the discipline of the prison as to hours and regu- 

fations, and hardly ever had to be called to order for breaking 

silence. On one point only they were intractable — ^they would 

not work. 

** It's enough to be conquered and butchered by Versailles," 
ftey would answer, ^* but we are not going to work for them." 
And neither threats nor entreaties could induce them to take a 
needle in their hand or to sit down to a sewing machine. It was 
no use explaining to them that they would not be working for 
Versailles, that they would work for themselves, and might buy 
^xtra food at the €antine with their day's earnings ; no, they got 
*t into their heads that Versailles would in some way or other be 
4e better for their working, and nothing could get it out of 
^hem. The very name of Versailles used to rouse them to fury; 
It was like a red rag to a bull. They boasted of their exploits 
under the Commune as things to glory in. One swore she had 
5^ fire to five buildings, and her only regret was that she had 
*^^n too late to set fire to St. Lazare. Many of her companions 
expressed the same regret, with a quiet effrontery that would 
have been amusing if it had not been so appalling. Every one 
^f them declared that if it were to begin over again they would 
^o just the same, only better, because now they had more expe- 


^"^^nce, " And what is your opinion, ma mhe ? " I said. " Do 

you think it will begin again, and that the p^troleuses are still in 

existence, or was it a type bom with the Commune and passed 

^Way with it } " She replied unhesitatingly that she believed it 

^ould begin again, and that the p^trolaises would come out in 

Syeater force than ever ; that they were neither daunted or 

^»sanned by the failure of the Commune, but rather infuriated 

^ defeat, and more resolute and reckless than before — reckless 

^^ a degree that only bad women can be, and ready to stake 

"^y and soul on. their revenge. She said that the conduct of 

^^J"sailles was weak and ill judged beyond her comprehension ; 

™^t they had far better have left these women free at otvct^ otv 

^^ jAea that they were women, if they did not mean to A^^X OMt. 

70 An After f toon at St. Lazare. 

their deserts to them ; but now these desperate creattrres 
exasperated by incarceration, and by a mockery of a tria 
either liberated them or sentenced them to a punishment ^ 
they knew perfectly well the Government did not meai^ to 
out It was lik^ letting loose so many bloodhounds on F 
to set these women at large again. 

" We have seen them de prh^' continued the Superi 
" and we are all convinced that the next attempt will be 
than the first, nous avotis des jours Urribles devant nou: 
pHroleuses nont pas dit leur dernier moty Speaking o 
Commune, led to our asking about her own experiences i 
it. It appears that the employes at St. Lazare, the Dir 
Inspector General, and their assistants were among the first ti 
out, and agents of the Hotel de Ville installed in their p 
The first thing these guardians of public justice did was t 
free one half of the population, such as were available fc 
public service, and able servants they proved themselves c 
barricades and as incendiaries. To account for and in 
measure palliate the superhuman ferocity displayed b] 
women of the Commune, I may as well mention here i 
not generally known, and which was told to me by a 
tinguished medical man who was here all through those te 
saturnalia, and by two Sisters of Charity, who could also ; 
from personal knowledge. It would seem that the snuiT 
out to the population from the Government bureaux de tabc 
mixed in large proportions with gunpowder. The effect o 
ingredient taken in very small quantities is to excite the 
abnormally, but taken in large ones it brings on a kind of s 
delirium tretnens. The wine distributed to the pitroleuses c 
barricades and elsewhere was also heavily charged with 
such element of madness. It seems to me that it is rat 
consolation to hear this, for though it reveals a diabolical in 
of soul hatred in the few, it explains, on the other hand, \ 
was that occasionally we saw young and hitherto mild inofft 
women suddenly transformed into demons. 

The Superioress said that for the first three weeks th« 
nuns fonctionnaient avec la Comfhune, nothing could excee 
respect and consideration they received from them. " 
were as docile as little girls to us," she said, "and neve 
anything without coming to consult us. The Inspecteur G 
named by the Commune happened to be an anciett greffier • 
prison. My surprise when I saw him in his new characte 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 71 

with such credentials, was great ; but he seemed himself very 

much ashamed, and when I asked him what had induced him to 

join the Commune, he replied, that in doing so he had been 

entirely actuated by devotiement to the nuns ; he had accepted 

the office because he knew we should want a protector, and he 

preferred being on the spot to watch over us himself. It was 

not a laughing matter, or I could have laughed at his audacity. 

And he actually pleaded this argument on his trial at Versailles, . 

and was acquitted on it ! He had always been a wellconducted, 

honest man, and I am not sure that in the bottom of his heart 

this good intention towards us may not have been mixed up 

with a great many other less good ones. During all the time he 

was in constant communication with me, he never had the 

courage once to raise his eyes to my face. He told us a good 

deal about what was going on outside, and especially what the 

women were doing. He spoke in enthusiastic praise of their 

spirit and courage. He said the fort of Montrouge would have 

been lost one day but for a girl of seventeen, who, seeing the 

soldiers dimoralis^Sf and the gunners abandoning their guns and 

turning to fly, rushed up to one of them, seized a light and put 

it to the cannon, and so mocked the fuyards and taunted them 

all with cowardice and want of mettle, that she rallied every 

DMtn of them and saved the place. But for this, Versailles would 

We taken it Ten minutes later, and the defence would have 

been abandoned. 'Had it not been for this plucky little 

^iabUsse^ we should have been lost !' he exclaimed. Such traits 

^ this prepared us for the pdtroleuses of a few weeks later ; but 

be only saw patriotism and valour in them." 

Things went on very amicably between the gentlemen of the 
Commune and the Sisters for three weeks. Then a change came 
over them. They were not rude, but there was what the 
Superioress described ^s de la fureur contenue in their manner 
Awards the nuns, and the latter felt that the blood fever was 
^»ng, and that they would soon break out into open mutiny. 
The Superioress felt this more strongly than the rest, and she was 
sorely perplexed how to get her flock out of the way of the 
Wolves while it was yet time. It was no easy matter ; for as she 
Quaintly said — " On nefait pas partir cinquante religietises comme 
^^^uante ipingles dans une botte par la poste^ and in the present 
^te of mind of the Communists, to awake suspicion was to 
*^vethe whole community seized and 'locked up forthwith. The 
^ thingr to be done was to procure a laissez parser itom VJcva 

72 An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

Hotel de Ville. She had been obliged to go of late several 
times to the Prefecture on one business or another connected 
with her functions in the prison, so the authorities there knew 
her, and had always treated her with marked civility. She said 
that the first time she went there the faces of the so called officials 
struck her as positively demoniacal ; they were all of them half 
drunk, men taken from the gutters of Belleville and Villette to 
fill offices, of whose commonest outward forms they had no idea, 
yet they were as deferential to herself and the nuns who accom- 
panied her as so many priests might have been. This did not 
prevent her saying to her companion as soon as they were alone 
— " Well, if we did not believe in hell, the faces we have seen 
today would have revealed it to us." 

She applied for a laissez passer^ and got it without any diffi- 
culty. She kept it in her pocket all that day, and the next 
morning she seemed to hear a voice saying to her interiorly — 
*' Now is the moment ; faites Us partir ! " The exodus was 
planned so well, and carried out so discreetly, the nuns going 
in threes and fours at a time, that not a shadow of suspicion 
dawned on the e^nploy^s, their gaolers, as they now considered 
them. All that day the Superioress kept constantly with them, 
.never letting them lose sight of her for a quarter of an hour at a 
time, coming and going perpetually, and making future arrange- 
ments for one thing or another, so as to put them more 
completely off the scent 

It was only when evening came, and there were but eight 
nuns in the house beside herself, that the flight was discovered. 
TJie rage of the Director was undisguised. But if he could not 
catch the fugitives, he could revenge himself on the devoted ones 
who had shielded their flight at the peril of their own lives. The 
Superioress was at work in the midst of the little remnant of her 
little flock when he rushed into the room, le pistolet au poing, 
A few words passed between them, angry on his part, calm and 
resolute on hers ; then, with an oath, he left the room abruptly. 

" I knew as well as if he had told me," she said, " that he was 
gone to see if there was a cachot vacant to put me in. I did not 
feel terrified. God gives such strong graces in moments like 
that ! but I felt the same kind of internal voice saying to me — 
* Now is your time ; take the others and fly !' We hurried down 
the stairs just as we were, and went out We turned to the left 
and walked on as fast as we could, without running, towards the 
Gare du Nord. We could hardly have turned the comer of the 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 73 

street when the Director was in pursuit of us. Les dHenues^ who 
saw us leave the house and take to the left, called out to him — 
'To the right, citoyen! They are not twenty yards ahead!' 
He followed the direction, and this saved us. We reached the 
station just as the train was about to move. The guards saw us 
coming, and cried out to us to make haste and jump in. ' But 
our tickets; we have not taken them!' I said. 'Never mind, 
jump in ; you will pay at the other end !' and they hustled us 
into the nearest carriage. We had not seated ourselves when 
the Director appeared on the platform, pistol in hand, and crying 
out frantically to the train to stop. But it moved on, and landed 
us safely at Argenteuil." 

A few days after the Soeurs Marie Joseph had cleared out 
from St Lazare, the nuns of Picpus were taken there. This 
the Superioress thought was one reason why the ofRcials were 
anxious to get them out of the way ; they meant to put the 
others there, and they did not want any inconvenient witnesses 
of their own proceedings. 

When we had seen all that was to be seen in the vast building, 
the Superioress took us to the private chapel of the community. 
The space occupied by the sanctuary was formerly the cell of 
St Vincent de Paul ; the altar stands where his little bed used 
to be, and the window step is worn away by the pressure of his 
feet when, in his last years, increasing infirmities obliged him to 
have recourse to the solace of a footstool. The prison was 
formerly a Lazarist monastery. The refectory is exactly as it 
was in the time of St. Vincent, unchanged in all, except its 
occupants, and the great sombre corridors echoed for twenty 
years to the footsteps of the sweet apostle of charity. His 
roemory is held in great veneration throughout the prison, and 
the inmates speak of him with a sort of rough, filial afTectionate- 
ness that the nuns told us is often very touching ; they seem to 
look on him as a friend who ought to stand by them. 

I had nearly forgotten one incident in our visit that had a 
peculiar beauty of its own. We were passing by the open door 
of what seemed an infirmary ; all the beds were occupied, and 
^cre were several nuns sitting in the room, when one of them 
'^ out and said — " Oh, ma mire, you will not pass without 
coming to say ban jour to our vieilles ? Ever since they heard 
you were showing the house, they have been watching for you." 
'^ie Superioress said it was late and she really had not time just 
"^ ; but the nun begged harder, and said that les vieilles Vnew 

74 An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 

that she was going into retreat that evening, so they would not 
see her for eight days, and the old women seeing they were in 
danger of being refused, began to cry out so piteously that the 
Mother, asking us if we would not mind walking down the ward, 
yielded and we went in. These old women are all infirm and ^ 
incurable, and have been sent as such from one hospital or 
another to St Lazare. Their delight when the Superioress 
came in and spoke a word to each was almost rapturous. I 
stood to speak to one old soul, but instead of detailing her owx^ 
aches and pains, after the usual manner of those dear, blessed^ 
garrulous, poor people, she burst out confidentially into extatic^ 
praises of iiotre mkre^ how sweet and kind she was, and how sh^ 
loved them all, and what she did for them, and what an angel 
she was altogether, " as indeed all the bonnes sceurs were," th^ 
good soul made haste to assure me. I found on comparing notes^ 
with my friends, that those to whom they spoke had improved 
the opportunity in the same way. It seemed quite a treat to 
them to find an audience for their grateful praises of the scsurs. 
Indeed, as far as our view of them went, the Sisters of Marie 
Joseph fully justify the love they reap so plentifully. The 
Superioress is what the French would call une mattresse fentme, 
a combination of energy and gentleness, with a certain frank 
brightness of manner that is very winning to strangers, and must 
be a great help, inde{>endent of stronger agencies, in enabling 
her to win the confidence and disarm the rebellious spirits of the 
women she has to deal with. It was wonderful to watch her as 
she passed on from salle to salle, saying just the right little word 
to all of them, and bringing a smile on all the faces, old and 
young, good and bad. Her manner, while it was perfectly " 
simple and familiar, never lost its dignity ; but there was not :: 
the faintest tinge of that spirit which too often hinders the-^ 
salutary influence of virtue with vice — keep off, for I am holier^ 
than thou ! With these infirm old women, she was affectionate^ 
and caressing as a mother, petting them like children, andJ 
encouraging their fearless familiarity towards herself. They had - 
been here all through the Commune, they told us, and witnessedJ 
from their windows — the infirmary is on the ground floor — all - 
the scenes enacted in the court by ces dames, as they mockingly^ 
styled them, who had come to replace the Sisters. But the worstr 
of that terrible interval to them was the terror they were in oC 
being burnt to death. They saw the flames rising on all sides 
from the conflagrations in the neighbourhood of St Lazar^ and 

An Afternoon at St. Lazare. 75 

were in momentary expectation of seeing the prison itself 

The doors were opened for them to fly, but " d quoi bon, 

ue nous n'avions pas de jambes pour fuirV they observed, 

ely. Before the Superioress took leave of the incurables, 

sked them to pray for the nuns during their retreat, which 

:o b^n that evening. They promised in chorus that they 

d, and one said — " We will offer up all our sufferings this 

for les bonnes sceurs" and all the others pledged themselves 

\ the same. 

•0 ended our visit to St Lazare. It was a sad and yet an 

kerably consoling one. We hear a great deal about the 

ism and immorality and wickedness of Paris, and God knows 

^ is plenty of them ; but there is much also that is bright 

pure and beautiful mixed up with the bad, if only we looked 

\t and proclaimed it We should find the pearls of Purity, 

rubies of Charity, the emeralds of Hope, and the salt of the 

y Spirit scattered everywhere amidst the general corruption^ 

ing and redeeming it 

G. R. 

Father and Child. 

Long, long ago a whitehaired blind old man 

Sought with a fair young guide the iEgean shore ; 
A rocky ledge along the maigin hoar. 

He sat, and listened to the wild waves' roar ; 

They spoke to him of things that were no more. 
With lifted, sightless eyes he seemed to peer 

Into the vast unknown that stretched before ; 
Then bent his hoary head and seemed to hear, 

As in a dream of Heaven, sweet music whispered near. 

Full o'er his soul the flood of glory burst — 

Bright visions of the mighty days of old, 
When heavenly powers with mortal man conversed, 

And men themselves were of diviner mould ; 

His parted lips the inward rapture told. 
In silence long he sat Then, swift and strong, 

As though no feeble walls of flesh could hold 
The restless spirit, broke the tide of song \ 

And the great waves exulting glanced in light along. 

The maiden gazed upon her noble sire, 
And caught each thrilling accent as it fell, 

And wrote on memory's page those words of fire, 
And like a sacred trust she kept them well 
Aye ! to the end of time those notes shall swell, 

They breathe a spirit that no years can tame. 
And latest ages feel the wondrous spelL 

Sweet Poesy ! where'er thy sway is owned, 

» Thy mighty Father reigns, in glory throned. 

Russia and her Church. 


lid probably be an exaggeration to say that there is at 
\ any very lively interest taken by Englishmen generally 
3sian affairs, or in the state of religion in Russia in 
lar. Every now and then we have a sensational book, 
by some one who has scampered over a part of the 
^ or spent a few weeks in St. Petersburgh or Moscow, 
professes, as is the fashion with the trashy and pretentious 
re of the circulating libraries, to give a bird's-eye view of 
n society or of Russian religious thought, but which 
even attempts to sound the depths either of the social or 
d condition of the millions who live under the rule of the 
rhe reforms introduced by Alexander the Second, coming 
1 after the excitement of the Crimean war, which forced 
blic attention to Russia, have no doubt awakened some 
L Some enthusiastic Britons are moved by the hope of 
our own incomparable Constitution imitated in Russia,. 
I, with a noble but somewhat unintelligent credulity, that 
nerable tree will always strike its roots deep and flourish 
lome in any soil whatsoever to which it may be trans- 
1. Then it must be further supposed that the many 
id holders of Russian stocks in England feel some sort of 
i in the country to which they have trusted their treasure, 
^se motives of public attention produce, after all, but 
uid, transient impression. But there are others which 
5 themselves with some power to the more thoughtful 
of the community. Thus, there is always a party in the 
an Church anxiously looking out for some chance of 
ization with foreign Churches — alwa}rs excepting the 
ic Church — and the members of this party have 
han once shown this kind of selfish interest in Russian 
lism. We must add to these the respectable persons,, 
^m not a few are to be met with here and there in 
1 society, to whom Russia and everything Russian 
utes their favourite bugbear. To such persons every 

78 Russia and her Church. 

thing bad that happens, happens in the first place by tt 
permission of Providence, and in the second place, with almo 
equal uniformity, by the machinations of Russia. "If tfl 
Tiber overflows its banks, or if the Nile does not do so *' — it: 
all the fault of the Czar and his emissaries. Russia is '% 
Macedonia of Europe, she intends to swallow up all the ot:l 
States in her future universal Empire, and hopes to bring alx 
this result partly by diplomacy, partly by gold, and partly 
force. To balance these alarmists, there is another class of C 
World political speculators who look upon Russia as destinecS 
save Europe instead of overwhelming her. These people ^ 
their anticipations on the undeniable truth that Russia £2 
strong monarchy, in which the old Christian principles 
government are to a certain extent preserved, and they tl»-: 
that she may have some day to perform the work of rebuild i 
society upon these same principles, which have been mor^- 
less discarded everywhere else in the European world La^"i 
there has always been in the Catholic heart a strong yearn, i 
for the deliverance of Russia from the schism in which she I 
grown up, but which was never in her, as in other countries 
matter of deliberate choice. She has treated Catholicism, 
many respects, most shamefully and cruelly, but her fi- 
alienation from Catholic unity was not her own act, and S" 
subsequent conduct to the Church has the excuse of blindnc 
ignorance, and the slavery in which the civil power keeps her 
matters of religion as well as in all others. And thus it ti 
come about that we hear frequently of prayers and associatic^ 
of prayers for her conversion, and that many eyes are eage^ 
strained to descry, if possible, any elements in her pres^ 
condition which may seem to contain in themselves the hope 
a brighter future. 

We cannot but believe that the instinct which has turned 
many Catholic prayers to the spiritual regeneration of Rus^ 
comes from the highest source, and we hope to see its influen^ 
spread and deepen year after year, until the irresistib 
pleadings of the whole Church of Christ on earth may achie* 
the great conquest which must involve so many pregnant resul 
for the benefit of the world. The history of the Russian Churt 
is unique in the annals of Christianity. Without entering in 
the details of the narrative, we may say with Mr. Palmer,* th 

• TluReplks of the Patriarch Nkon, Translated by W. Palmer, M. A. LongmaJ 
1871, Preface, p, xviL 

Russia and her Church. 79 

"this prodigious extension of Christianity" (he is speaking of 
the growth of the Russian Church) " which can scarcely be said 
to have begun before the expulsion of St. Ignatius in A.D. 858, 
was obtained chiefly during those two centuries of alternate 
schisms and conversions which intervened between Photius and 
Cenilarius, and that it by no means stopped short on the 
consummation of the schism by Cenilarius, but continued still to 
speed till A.D. 1240, and even under the Tatar yoke, converting 
heathens, producing apparently saints and confessors and 
martyrs, and multiplying miraculous apparitions and healings, in 
connection often with local saints and with holy images and 
relics." He adds that the hierarchy frequently rebuked princes 
with true apostolical liberty, and aided very powerfully, not only 
in the introduction of letters and laws, as might have been 
-expected, but also in the consolidation of the unity of the 
monarchy which was afterwards to become an enslaver and a 
t3nant The history of the so called " schism in the Papacy " in 
Europe, when saints afterwards canonized and revered by the 
vrhole Church were found under the obedience of the Antipope 
-as well as under that of the Pope, is enough to prove that the 
highest graces both of sanctity and of miraculous powers need 
not be withdrawn by God when the persons to whom they are 
vouchsafed are by simple mistake or ignorance in an abnormal 
ecclesiastical position. The Catholic historian will readily grant 
'^vhat the writer whom we have already quoted goes on to 
suppose, that " the mass of the Russian people, both laity and 
^'^'?y> though bred up with an imperfect notion of the unity of 
^he Church, in ignorance of the authority of the Holy See, and 
'^vith great prejudices and misconceptions concerning it, were in 
Sood faith in their traditional Christianity, and only materially 
^^ schism."* Missionaries to the heathen, in particular, rightly 
^^^ptized and in the possession of true orders and true sacra- 
ments, if without any personal knowledge or share in the 
^^aration in which they had been bom and bred, would enter 
^n their holy and dangerous career with undoubting faith, and 
^^ might expect to find that they had not been wanting even in 
^he preternatural signs which are promised to the Christian 
^Postolate, and in which the mere Protestant missionaries have 
*^tn first to last been deficient 

But there is another side to the question. If the early history 
'^* the Russian Church, in her inevitable and involuntary external 

8o Russia and her Church. 

separation from the centre of vital unity, has been brightened 
with Catholic glories and a fecundity which reveals her secret 
and unconscious communion with the one Mother of all X3a& 
children of God, the later annals of the same Church 3X'e 
signally eloquent in the lessons which they teach as to the £aLte 
which must sooner or later fall upon an isolated communioix in 
its conflict with the world and the civil power, unless it <zskn 
support itself by connection with the one rock of strength wti-ioh 
the civil power can never subdue, the throne on which sits "tlie 
Vicar of Him Who has overcome the world. There are mstixy 
Christian communities which retain but shreds and fragments o^ 
Christian doctrine, many which have lost the sacraments ^X^^ 
the priesthood, many which have sunk into utter sterility sl^^ 
lifelessness, many which have engrafted heresy after heresy on 
scanty portions of the Catholic creed which they have ret 
To all these the Russian Church is far superior in respect of 
particulars just now named, but in her utter slavery to the 
and in a long list of practical evils which have taken root in Ix^^ 
in consequence, she has few rivals and no equals in misery. TTt^^ 
moral of her career is written in luminous letters, which he v^rt^^^ 
runs may read. One thing alone she wanted, Catholic unity. T^i-^^ 
want of that made her the slave of the State, and the yoke ^^ 
the State has made her — what she is. 

It may be convenient for the purposes of this paper if 
try to give a short sketch of what we may take to be withc^^ 
exaggeration the present condition of the Russian Church, 
is drawn in the main from the recent work of P^re Gagarin, wl 
though not an ecclesiastic before his conversion to Catholicisi 
may be considered as well informed on the subject as any actiV^^ 
minded layman is usually found to be on the ecclesiastical co^^ 
dition of his own community. We shall follow the divisions ^^ 
his book — Le Clerg^ Russe — and speak first of the secular clei^[>'^^ 
then of the regulars, thirdly of the seminaries, {ouritilydfit%^^ 
bishops, and lastly of the Synod which now governs the Russia^^^ 


Even in the Catholic Eastern Churches celibacy is not ^^ 
necessary qualification for orders. A priest cannot marry, but ^- 
married man can be ordained. The Maronite priests are almo^^ 
all married, and many of them acquit themselves in a mo^^ 
admirable manner of their sacred functions. They arq elected 
by their Hocks out of their own midst, their peculiar charactd^ 

Russia and her Church, 8i 

raideriig practicable this departure from the rule which is 

observed in the West The inhabitants of Lebanon are simple, 

and full of faith, so that it is easy to understand how a system 

"Which may be suitable or even beneficial to them, can prove 

very much the reverse when applied to a people of another 

character, and carried out under widely different circumstances, 

«is is the case in Russia. However, even when taken at its 

very best, we must, of course, always expect in vain from a 

^Harried clergy the selfsacrificing devotion of an unmarried, and 

•a Church whose priests were all married would be a strange and 

^abnormal thing. Hence, in all the Eastern Churches, side by 

side with the seculars, who are married, we find the regulars, 

vrho of course are not And, as a bishop is bound to be a 

"Celibate, the bishops are of necessity chosen from among the 

uiunarried clergy, and thus it has come to pass that the 

I'^ulars, or black priests, as they are called in Russia, have 

-acquired an immense amount of influence and authority at the 

expense of the seculars, or white priests, who have gradually 

come to occupy a position of recognized inferiority, the primary 

cause of this inferiority being, let us remember, their married 

To speak more particularly of the Russian Church, in which 
there has always existed a marked separation between the two 
classes of clergy. Here, up to a comparatively recent period, there 
has been no actual opposition between them, all the influence, 
learning, and intelligence of the whole clerical body remaining 
with the regulars, and the seculars passively acquiescing in such 
a state of things. But Peter the First overturned the whole 
constitution of the Church, and his successors have carried on 
the work which he began, which has completely revolutionized the 
position of the secular clergy, making them into an hereditary 
corporation, and creating, so to speak, a clerical caste. Whether 
the result actually brought about was or was not originally 
^contemplated, it is, at any rate, much to be deplored, and has 
^en accomplished by means of a series of wrongs, usurpations, 
^d iniquitous measures. The first step was the creation of 
seminaries, to which priests were compelled to send their 
^children. Such children were next forced to follow the pro- 
fession of their fathers, by the closing against them of every 
<^ther career, while, at the same time, almost insuperable 
^^stacles were thrown in the way of any one in another class 
who might aspire to the priesthood. Nor was tliis e\\\ lot 


82 Russia and her Church. 

marriage, which had been optional before ordination, was made 
obligatory, and the unfortunate seminarist was not even left at 
liberty to select as he would the companion of his life. In order 
that the daughters of priests might not want husbands, he was 
forbidden to marry out of his own class. Some bishops even push 
the prohibition further still, and do not allow the seminarist to 
choose a wife out of any diocese except his own. The caste 
once created, the hereditary principle once laid firmly down, 
certain consequences were sure to follow. For instance, it has 
been found necessary, in order to the prevention of disputes, to 
decree that a vacant benefice is either to pass as a matter of 
course to whoever will marry the daughter of its deceased holder, 
or else to be reserved for the son of this latter, if he has left one 
under age. Can it be hoped that, while the ranks of the clergy 
are recruited in such a manner as this, they will contain many 
who possess a due sense of the sanctity of their calling, or who 
strive to acquit themselves with fidelity of its exalted duties ? 
The priesthood has become a trade, and a trade, too, which 
cannot even be followed or abandoned at will.* 

To the formation of a clerical caste is to be ascribed the 
hatred and jealousy at present existing between the two classes 
of clergy. Nor are they divided by mutual aversion and distrust 
alone ; there is also a radical difference in their views. To say 
that the seculars have Protestant tendencies, while the regulars 
incline towards Catholicism, would be to speak too broadly. But, 
if we compare the Russian Church with the Anglican, we may 
say with tolerable accuracy that the seculars resemble the Low 

* "The young ecclesiastic who desired to enter into office had first of all to look 
about for a suitable heiress, and to make arrangements with her relatives : he pledgeil 
himself by contract either to pay his mother in law a yearly portion of his income, or 
to pay a sum of acquittance, for which she undertook to procure him the appointment. 
The matter was so systematically carried on, that the bishop's secretary constantly 
possessed a complete register of the marriageable daughters of the priests of the 
district, and this register was consulted on every appointment to a vacancy. The 
pernicious working of this evil custom is palpable ; and it was even increased by the 
fact that the Russian women (except the aristocracy) were generally inferior to the 
men, as regards culture, and that every priest knew that his pastorship came to an end 
with the life of his wife. The dependence of the priests on their wives and relatives 
has, therefore, long been a favourite subject for Russian novels, and we need only to 
read one of Blagoveshtshenski's tales to be initiated in all the circumstances which 
have arisen from this system. Its effect on the young has been especially disadvan- 
tageous ; for even during their life in the seminary they look out for heiresses in order 
to get into office as soon as possible, and in this way they not unfrequently neglect 
their own improvement. This stale-of things was so notorious and so wide spread that 
it excited the attention of the Government, and was repeatedly mentioned in tlie 

Russia and her Church. 83 

Qurch party and the regulars the High Church — the former 
possessing a presbyterian tone, while the latter insist upon the 
prerogatives of the hierarchy. But this divergency of religious 
tendency is not at all enough to account for the jealousy and 
hostility which exists between the two classes of the Russian 
clergy. The strong feeling which separates them can, it would 
appear, be compared to nothing which exists, or has existed, in 
Catholic experience. Jealousies of every kind have been the 
bane of ecclesiastical organizations from the very beginning: 
sudi feelings had an important influence even in bringing about 
our Lord's Passion,* and no age of the Church is probably 
entirely free from the mischief which they engender unless they 
are strongly kept under by Christian charity and the prudence 
of enlightened rulers. But nothing in the Western Church, 
happily, can be compared to the relative situation of the regulars 
and seculars in Russia, where the latter are an hereditary caste, 
inferior in learning, position, and wealth, to their rivals, and not 
only their inferiors, but their subjects. The seminaries, the 
episcopal sees, the seats in the governing Synod, every post of 
influence and importance has, until quite lately, been in the 
hands of the regulars, who are, moreover, occasionally recruited 
from the highest classes, and almost uniformly receive into their 
ranks the most brilliant and promising of the students in the 
seminaries. Of late there has been a tendency on the part of 
the Government to raise the seculars to high posts, and gradually 
to destroy the monopoly of the regulars. This, for the time at 
all events, can only whet the appetite of the seculars for further 

general Report which the Head Commissioner of the Synod annually presented to the 
Emperor" {Modern Russia^ p. 235. By Dr. Julius Erckardt). The writer here 
quoted is, we imagine, a Protestant, and appears well informed as to the state of 
^Qssia. He tells us that the present Emperor has changed the system, as far as law 
can change it. "The law passed in the year 1867, which abolished the hereditary 
chaiacter of the livings, and expressly prohibited that a man should marry [into] or 
"^tain the family of his predecessor as a condition of his appointment, was one of 
"^c most important and advantageous measures which the present Government has 
^^^' Although, from the nature of the matter, years must elapse before the beneficial 
results of this breach upon the old nepotizing system can operate on a large scale, and 
^^ a different colour to the life of the secular clergy, yet an essential advance has 
"*® niadc in the fact that the old system is publicly condemned, and that the yoimger 
^^^1 under the protection of an Imperial decree, are afforded an opportunity of 
attacking the old custom " {Ibid., p. 236). But the real reform would be, as is hinted 
•''rther on, to abolish the necessity of marriage before ordination, retaining the rule 
^Wch prohibits it after. 

St Matthew says of Pilate, "Sciebat enim quod per itwidiam lTa,d\dvs&eaX. 
^"^'^ ISt Matt xxvii, 18), 

84 Russia and her Church. 

changes. The r^ulars are forced tx> stand on the defensive \ 
the fierce onslaught which is made upon them by their det< 
mined adversaries, who will, no doubt, never cease their attac 
until they have almost annihilated the power of the black cleq 
As has been said, the seculars have carried several very imports 
positions. Until quite lately, the chafdains to the varic 
embassies and the military chaplains were invariably chos 
from among the regulars; but now the case is reversed, a 
even the head chaplain of the army and navy, as well as t 
Emperor's confessor, are both married men. But all p; 
conquests are counted as nothing, so long as celibate prie 
alone can become bishops. The point is a difficult one to ga 
but patient perseverance may succeed at last, especially as t 
seculars have on their side the Government, the newspapers, a 
that daily increasing body of persons who have thrown off 
religious belief whatsoever.* 

If the politicians in whose hands the destiny of the Russi 
Church is placed were wise, they would without delay abrog< 
all those measures by which the clergy has become an heredita 
caste, for that reform is one which cries aloud to be made, a 
is, indeed, more necessary than any other of many need 
changes. With respect to clerical celibacy, they might 
content to be not more exacting than the Holy See, and, unc 
existing circumstances, compulsory celibacy might perhaps 
undesirable for the Russian clergy. But compulsory marria 
can in no case be anything but prejudicial, and there would 
immense advantages to be gained by the existence of a body 
unmarried secular priests, who would form a sort of connect! 
link between the married clergy and the religious. Such, 
least, is the suggestion of Pire Gagarin. It may perhaps 
thought, on the other hand, that it is better to have prie 
necessarily either married or celibate, than to allow of unc 
tainty or change upon such a point, or that, at all events, 1 
volunteer celibates would be very few. There is so vital 
difference between Anglican ministers and priests of any Chui 
whatsoever, that it is not easy to argue from the case of the c 
to that of the other. Still there is something in the fact that t 
Catholicizing movement among Anglicans which has now be 
on foot for more than thirty years has been singularly imp; 

* The Government has b^un by allowing certain married priests — ^membeis of 
Synod, duipbuos to embassies, and the Uke— to wear the mitre. The Emper 
confessor batds the movement. 

Russia and her Church. 85 

ductive in the direction of clerical celibacy. Surely, a quarter 

of a century ago, if any one had been called on to predict the 

onward course of the movement in question — ^supposing it to go 

0x1 with unbroken success — his anticipations would perhaps have 

'alien short of what has actually resulted in many points, but as 

^o this, they would far have exceeded the issue. Sacerdotalism, 

ritualism, the development of new principles of worship, the 

multiplication of "religious" women of various shades and 

i^i^stitutes, the practice of confession, high celebrations, and the 

like — ^ali these things are conspicuous as signs of the movement, 

l>ut we do not see by their side any appreciable increase of 

^^^^libacy among the clergy, even though their claim to the 

** priestly " character has been so openly made and so widely 

a^cquiesced in, and though the assertion and recognition of such 

claims point so naturally to the celibate on very many grounds 

^>f the highest importance. It might, however, be different in 

Russia, wherfe the sacerdotal character in the clergy is unques- 

"tioned and universally known to the people, where there exists 

^-Iready so large and influential a mass of celibates in the 

^^gular clergy, and where the rule against marriage after 

^I'dination would secure the voluntary celibate against his own 

^^constancy, and give him a recognized position as such in the 

^yes of others. 

There is, we fear, not much ground for thinking that 

^^pirations after a better state of things are largely at work 

^**nong the secular clergy of Russia. Indeed, the only point 

^hich is discussed with much eagerness by the Russian press, 

^'^ reference to the secular clergy, is the possibility of an ameli- 

^^^tion of their pecuniary condition, and yet it would appear 

poverty is by no means one of the worst of their many 

,_ies. The parish priests are not, as a rule, very poor, at 

^^st in the towns ; their sources of income are numerous, and 

^^^ live rent free. In the country they are less well off, but 

^^^n there many of their grievances are merely imaginary. The 

^^ttber of the priests might easily be curtailed, and the length 

^^^ the services abridged. An immense number of deacons, 

^^^^tors, and the like, might be discarded, and thus the " caste " 

^^0\ild be reduced in number, and the revenues saved for 

^^e parish priests. It would be difficult to find, even among 

^he sects, a body of religious teachers which has fallen so 

*o>v as the Russian parochial clergy, or which fulfils the dutv^s ot 

*^ callji^ IB so sadly imperfect a manner. Indeed^ tlie Bjuaax^xi 

86 Russia and her Church. 


parish priest seems to imagine that his only duty consists 
performing certain external ceremonies ; and seldom to drean 
seeking to make our Lord known and loved, or of tead 
men to follow His Divine footsteps. It is as if he knew not 
value of souls bought with the price of the Precious Bk 
We must hope that there are always numberless exception! 
be made to these general statements, but the description coi 
to us from authorities who would not willingly exagger 
Such is the condition to which the measures of Peter the Gi 
have reduced the most important portion of the clergy of 


There will always exist within the Church a body of pen 
who have been called to the religious life, and, though no Oi 
can be indispensable in itself to her well being, still much wc 
be wanting to the fulness of her life, and the vigour of her act 
if the religious element were to be suppressed. And if thi 
true of the Church at large, it is more especially so with res 
to the Eastern Church, in which it is almost exclusively an 
religious that celibate priests are to be found, and in whid 
married priest can become a bishop. Hence, religious orden 
more influential, and more important in the East, than they 
be anywhere else. These remarks bring us back to the Ru£ 
Church ; and here we may say, in passing, that the unmai 
clei^^ has always been far more popular in Russia than 
married ; this popular favour, which even the lax state oi 
monastic establishments has not been able to overthrow, b 
in the present day, the chief strength, and indeed almost the 
stronghold of the religious, or black priests. The revenue 
the Russian monasteries are very considerable ; all their po 
sions were indeed confiscated by Catharine the Second, abc 
hundred years ago, but indemnification has been made in vai 
ways for this spoliation. An annual allowance is made to 
religious house, proportioned to the number of its inhabit 
and several grants of landed property have from time to 
been made by the State to the various establishments, 
their most profitable source of income is to be found in 
generosity and credulity of the Russians, of which characteri 
the monks do not scruple to take every possible advantage. 

The Russians [says Thre Gagarin, p. 73] give willingly to 

convents, and the generosity of the people is solicited constantly b; 

most varied and ingenious inventions, '^di ^^eo^lt and great p< 

Russia and Iter Church. 87 

are fond of getting themselves buried in the precincts of the monasteries, 
and the graves are sold at a very high price. The funerals and the 
prayers, the recital of which is provided for at the tombs of relations, 
also bring in large sums to the monks.* Collectors are sent over the 
whole of Russia, to gather alms. In the most frequented places, in the 
great cities, and on the roads, chapels or oratories are to be seen where 
Mass is not said, but where venerated pictures (icons) are exposed. The 
Russian people frequent these chapels very much, and every one who 
goes there buys a candle or puts some money into the box. The 
pictures which have the reputation of being miraculous, as well as the 
relics of the saints, are ordinarily in the churches of the convents, to 
which they attract an immense concourse of people, and no one goes 
there with empty hands. Some years ago, the Synod canonized a 
Bishop named Tychon. " The solemn translation of his relics which is 
equivalent to the ceremony of canonization, attracted two hundred and 
fifty thousand persons. It is said that the house of St Sergius" (at 

* "The sums which are paid for monastery tombs are really fabulous. The 
St. Petersburg Nevsky monastery demands at least one thousand five hundred silver 
roubles for a single grave ; under some circumstances double that sum : and in this 
nuuiner it gains annually some thousands of roubles. The Moscow monastery, 
Scrgiev-Troitskoye, is r^arded as still more noble and sacred. Of course the burial 

fees are extra, and also the annual Mass in remembrance of the deceased Still 

nwre considerable is the income arising from the so called * Intercessions for the quick 

Md the dead.* As soon as a monastery requires money, it sends out, by permission of 

the Synod, a number of monks who, provided with * roister books,* traverse the 

country. Whoever wishes for an intercession, inserts his name in the book, pays an 

amount corresponding with his property, and thus gains the right of having his name 

mentioned in the annual intercession. A few years ago, a monk of Athos collected 

^ this manner, in three districts* of the one province of Vyatka, the sum of twenty 

thousand silver roubles, which he carried back to his home in half-imperials. . . . Every 

'^^^"^stery also possesses the right of setting up boxes for offerings within a certain 

^Jus, and of appointing guardians of the same, who exhort the passers by to give 

*™s. It has recently been considered especially valuable to possess the privilege of 

oaving boxes at the railway stations. The Moscow Sergiev monastery, to which the 

•"oscow and Petersburg railway is assigned, receives from the boxes alone which are 

Placed along this line about two hundred thousand roubles : smaller sums, but still 

amounting to thousands, fall to the provincial monasteries. Lastly, every more 

"^Portant monastery is at the same a place of pilgrimage, as soon as it can boast of 
^ possession of the wonderworking picture of a saint, and these, during the last few 

^^^'Si have been almost all removed from the parish churches into the monasteries. 

' * • . Considerable profit is also derived, even outside the monastery walls, from the 
^derworking pictures ; for these, from time to time, make journeys to the great 
^^ and, for liberal alms, condescend to visit even private houses. The custom 
f^^cially is universal for cities which have been visited by an epidemic to invite the 
^'^culous picture to make them a longer visit, and ha\»ing \su\ them carried into the 
^*^€s of the sick. According to official statements, during the last great cholera 

™*dcinic in Moscow, twenty seven thousand silver roubles were gained by the visit of 

[^^ ^aed picture ; a fact which does not appear incredible when we know that every 

*t is paid with at least twenty five silver roubles*' (Erckardt's Modern Russia y 

"P" ^21—223), Wc quote this author as corroborating the statements of P^re Gagarin, 
*^ of course, as if we could entirely applaud the spirit in whicYiYie wnle^, vj\i\Oci\si 

^**ictin,ey not much better than the English in w!hich his thoughts are c\oV\i<a^. 

88 Russia and her Church. 

Moscow) "receives every year a million pilgrims. The celebrated 
picture of our Lady of Iberia, which is to be seen in a chapel built 
against the walls of the Kremlin, at Moscow, belongs to the Pererva 
convent It is calculated that the receipts of this chapel in 1843 
amounted to four hundred thousand roubles."* 

Severe charges are brought against the monasteries by 
hostile writers on the score of the misappropriation of their 
large revenues. These charges are considered by P^re Gagarin 
as, possibly, exaggerations, but it cannot be denied that the 
inmates of the monasteries, and especially the superiors, are 
enriched by these offerings of the faithful, and the simple truth 
seems to be that as a community life does not prevail except in a 
small proportion of the monasteries, the revenues are divided, 
and a third part usually falls to the share of the superior. 
The Golos (a Russian paper) estimates the income of the 
superiors of the four great Lauras — the largest and most 
famous of the monasteries, at Kief, at Moscow, at St Peters- 
burgh, and at Potchayef in Volhynia — as from forty thousand 
to sixty thousand roubles annually (/.^., from one hundred and 
sixty thousand francs to two hundred and forty thousand). No 
bad income, certainly, even for an English " head of a house " or 
bishop ! These, however, are the great prizes. The convents 
and monasteries, besides these four great Lauras, are divided 
into three classes, and the authority already quoted rates the 
income of the superiors of the lowest of the three at from 
one thousand to five thousand roubles, and this sum rises in 
the case of the second and first classes respectively to from 
five thousand to ten thousand roubles, and from ten thousand 
to thirty thousand. If we understand the statistics correctly, 
there are nearly forty convents (or monasteries) of the first 
class, between sixty and seventy of the second, and nearly a 
hundred and twenty of the third. This is a great diminution 
from the ancient numbers, a large number of religious houses 
having been suppressed either at the date of the confiscation of 
the goods of monastic orders in 1764, or at a subsequent time. 

It cannot be denied, as we have said, that there are great 
abuses as to the disposal of the revenues of the monasteries, but 
these abuses may fairly be said to be in the main the work of the 
Government, and the result of the miserable system which has 
made the Church a simple department of the State. The tone 
of the writers to whom we have already alluded appears to 

♦ U CUrgi Russe, p. 7$. 

Russia and her Church. 89* 

indicate a clamour on the part of the liberalizing press in Russia 
and elsewhere for a second confiscation of monastic goods, or 
perhaps for the destruction of the religious orders. P^re 
Gagarin seems to be afraid that the Government, which is still 
allpoweiful, and from which alone at the present moment any 
active measures can be expected, may be induced to listen to 
such a clamour, which is certainly only too much in harmony 
with the spirit of the age, or, we may rather say, with the 
worldly spirit in any age. But the Russian Government will 
show no wisdom or foresight in such a measure. If the 
monasteries could be made more what they ought to be, if 
they could be reformed in such a spirit as to make them once 
more institutions really worthy of the name of religious houses, 
they might again become the centres of light and true civi- 
lization to the community around them, and their revenues, 
when they are larger than necessity requires, might be spent in 
the foundation of a thousand works of piety and charity 
throughout the land. Unfortunately, at the present moment 
they appear to be religious houses only by a figure of speech. 

It is grievous to contemplate the abuses which prevail in the 
monasteries of Russia. All are supposed to observe the rule of 
St Basil, and to form several congregations ; mutual dependence, 
however, has long been at an end, and each house is now com- 
pletely isolated from the rest In former times this was not so: the 
larger houses had a number of smaller monasteries dependent on 
them, and this served to keep up discipline. There are about three 
times as many monks as there are nuns, because of a decree of 
f eter the Great, which forbids any woman to be professed before 
the age of forty, so that numbers live on in the convents, waiting 
for their profession, and not a few novices end by returning to 
the world. Of religious men, a very large majority are priests, and 
the religious life is, for the greater part of them, a career rather 
than a vocation. It not unfrequently happens that the young 
seminarist has not any attraction towards the religious life, or 
r^rds it with a repugnance which even the hope of a mitre fails 
to overcome. Therefore, since it is not easy to procure the 
number of subjects requisite to fill such posts as can only be 
entrusted to men of some mind and cultivation, the most 
unworthy expedients and shameful deceptions are resorted to, 
>n order to force many unfortunate dupes to embrace a monastic 
We. Pire Gagarin quotes an author of the present day for an 
^^unt of the manner in which the metropolitaxv ot ULosccWy 


90 Russia and her Church. 

at the beginning of the present century, used to fill up his 
monasteries. If the student whose entrance was desired . 
resisted all persuasions, he was invited to a drinking party by V 
one of the monks, and when he was well in his cups, the ■ 
ceremony of giving him the tonsure and the habit was gone f 
through. Then he was put to bed, and his secular clothes were v 
taken away. In the morning he found himself a monk, and r 
though he might tear the habit to pieces in his fury, he was ' 
in time calmed down and led to submit to his fate. Even at 
present, we are told, something of the same sort occasionally 
takes place. The University students are not unfrequently to 
be found in taverns and other like places, and it sometincies 
happens to them to pass the limits of temperance. A student 
is carried home on a litter : the ceremony goes by the slax^ 
name of the " translation of his relics." He is one of those mote 
brilliant youths whom it is desired to enlist in the monast:ic 
cause ; the superior of the Academy, who is always a xxaotAy 
sends for him, gives him a reprimand, and tells him he is 
expelled. But he adds at the same time that he will forgfi'^^ 
all if he sees signs of true penitence in the culprit. The ot^ 
sign of penitence that he will consider sincere is a pap*^ 
in which the hero of last night's debauch begs for leave ^^ 
make his religious profession ! It is not likely that superi^^^^ 
who know so little about what a religious vocation re3i^y 
is would be able to form their novices, and, in the gre^-^^^ 
number of houses, there is no such thing as a noviti^-'*'^* 
properly so called, but a mere assemblage of young tT^^ 
waiting to be professed, and allowed to spend the interitpf^ ^^ 
amusing themselves as they see fit If they weary of ^^ 
cloister, they can seek relief from eimtii without its walls ^ 
any hour of the day or night, and it need hardly be add^ ' 
that the formality of asking leave to go out is dispensed vi/"^ 
altogether. , 

Without a novitiate, there can be no real religious life, ^^^ 
there is none in Russia. In one monastery we find the greaf^^^ . 
laxity ; in another, the most rigorous despotism ; the ruler ^^ 
nowhere observed ; and as to the vows, it would be difficult 

say which of the three is the most flagrantly disregarcE ^^T 
There are, in fact, as we have said, but a few houses in wlm.^^^^ 

community life is even attempted. Superiors, instead of be^ 
elected by the religious of each house, are appointed 
Government, and the first step towards tem^Tltv^ the pres^^ 

Russia and Jier Church. 91 

deplorable state of things, would be to*emancipate the monasteries 

from all State control. It is absolutely essential, if there is to 

be any restoration of the religious life at all, that the interior 

control of the houses should be in the hands of persons who 

lave some knowledge of the end to which the whole system is 

directed. At the present moment, which may turn out to be 

critical to the whole future of the Russian Church, nothing can 

be done without the action of the Government, which, if it could 

be wisely inspired, might originate a movement from which 

incalculable good might follow. But the work must be carried 

on from within, and the only wise course for the Government — 

in Russia as well as elsewhere — ^would be to set the Church free 

and to assist her to remedy in her own way the evils for which 

the State is far more responsible than herself. Anything like a 

reform of the religious institutions on the principles of " modern 

civilization " would only make matters a thousand times worse 

than they are Unhappily, the bureaucracy of a despotism such 

2s that of Russia is not often free from the conceit that it can 

understand every system without belonging to it, and rectify 

^ery abuse by a stroke of the pen. The Government has the 

power of making it impossible for religious life to revive, but it 

has not the power of recalling it to life by official manipulation. 

^e fear that it would have to be more sensible than most 

European Governments in ordbr to see this very plain truth. 

t may be thought indeed that the building is almost too 

lilapidated to be capable of restoration; it must rather be 

'UUed down and constructed afresh. We trust, however, 

fuit better things are in store in the future. There are in 

t^ussia many pious souls who yearn for the peace of a 

loister. If they enter the religious houses of their own 

Ountry, they soon leave them again ; some go to Mount Athos, 

r to Palestine; some knock at the door of the Rascolnic houses; 

Ut all these only experience fresh disenchantment, and become 

lore thoroughly disillusionized. Happy are they if they learn 

t last that in the Catholic Church, and in her fold alone, can 

leir weary feet find rest, and their longsought ideal become a 

^ity ! But this blessing can only belong to a few. What a 

aur greater cause for rejoicing and thanksgiving should we have, 

r the Russian religious houses could once more become what 

hey ought to be, and take the lead in the return of the whole 

ountry to Catholic unity ! 

92 Russia and her Church. 


In the early days of the Russian Church, sacred science was 
well and successfully taught in its ecclesiastical schools. Noi 
is this surprising, if we remember that it formed at first a pari 
of the Church Catholic, much that was orthodox lingering oi 
long after the unhappy schism. Indeed, even at a comparativel] 
recent date the plan of the classes was arranged from a Catholii 
model ; the Summa of St Thomas was explained, and th< 
Ratio Studiorum of the Society of Jesus was even to be met witl 
in some cases. From time to time the Catholic colouring ha 
varied in depth, growing fainter or stronger according as Catholii 
ideas were regarded with more or less favour at Court ; but, ii 
spite of these variations, the general tendency has always beej 
downwards, and the state of things has grown gradually wors< 
and worse. There is something even touching about this histor) 
of an attempted revival of Christian learning in the seventeend 
century, which might have brought in its train immense good t< 
Russia and the world. P^re Gagarin tells us — 

The first place among the ecclesiastical schools of Russia belong: 
without contradiction to the Academy of Kief, founded in 163 1, by Pete: 
Mogila. . . . After having studied philosophy and theology at Paris 
he served with distinction in the Polish army, and was particularly 
conspicuous at the battle of Khotin (1621). One year later h< 
embraced the monastic life in the monastery of the Crypts at Kief; ii 
1628 he was archimandrite of the celebrated Laura, and was soox 
afterwards called to the see of Kief. He governed, as metropolitan, thi 
Greek Church (not united) in the Polish States from 1632 to his deatl 
in 1646. One of his first cares was to establish a printing press and s 
school, which was called an Academy, and had classes of philosophy 
and theology, besides the classes of grammar. . . . Mogila is th< 
author of a catechism or exposition of the orthodox doctrine which wai 
solemnly approved by the Greek Church at the Council of Jassy in 1643 
and that of Jerusalem in 1672. It was also received by Adrian, patriate! 
of Moscow. It may be said that the doctrine of this catechism, excepting 
on the points of the Pope and the Filioqucy is Catholic The Summa o 
St. Thomas was expounded at Kief. The whole organization of th< 
classes was traced on that of the Catholic Colleges ; one is remindec 
at every turn of the J^atio Studiorum of the Society of Jesus. There ii 
even a Congregation of the Blessed Virgin. 

The necessity of doing something to counteract the growing 
ignorance of the clergy was soon felt at Moscow. The celebrated 
Nicon, one of the greatest figures who have appeared in the history o; 
the Russian Church, undertook the correction of the liturgical books 
which had been corrupted by the copyists, and the resistance which dm 
reform met with made the necessity of havixi^ schools C^lt and understood 

Russia and her Church. 93 

The Czar Feodor had just succeeded his father Alexis. Nicon was 
still alive, and one of his disciples, Simeon of Polotzk, exercised great 
influence at the Court He was a man of merit, bom in 1628; he 
came to Russia in 1667, after having made his studies in Poland and 
frequented the Catholic schools. He was charged with the education 
of Feodor. . . . When his pupil ascended the throne, Simeon took 
advantage of the credit which he enjoyed to found a press in the palace. 
Then he began to preach — a bold innovation, as before his time no one 
did more than read homilies borrowed from the Fathers. He also showed 
Catholic tendencies. This was enough to irritate the patriarch Joachim, 
a man of narrow mind Simeon, strong in the friendship of the Czar, 
cared little for the anger of the patriarch, and even thought of depriving 
him of the supreme dignity. His plan was to replace at the head of 
Ae Russian Church, his master Nicon, who was still living in exile after 
having been deposed by the order of Alexis. To prevent a schism, 
Simeon proposed to the Czar to create four patriarchs instead of the four 
metropolitans, and to place Nicon over them with the title of Pope. 
This project was very nearly being carried out (p. no.) 

Pire Gagarin here explains that this was a time when the 
Court favoured Catholicism. Feeder's wife, a Polish young 
lady, was supposed to lean towards it The policy of Feodor 
was to ally himself closely with Poland, and enter into a league 
against the Turk with the Emperor of Germany, Venice, and 
the Pope. 

Under such circumstances it was that Simeon conceived the plan of 
founding at Moscow a school which was to spread civilization among 
the clergy and the people. But he had scarcely laid the foundations, 
vhen he died. The only man who could make head against the 
patriarch had thus failed, and the plans which the Czar had favoured 
^«we compromised. He knew no one to whom to confide the direction 
of the school, and his fear of the opposition of Joachim made him 
hesitate to bring professors from Kief. So he took advantage of an 
embassy which he was sending to the Sultan, to ask the patriarch of 
Constantinople for professors. The embassy set out in 1681. The 
next year Feodor died, and the government passed into the hands of 
^phia, the fisiithful heiress of his policy. In 1684, two Jesuits arrived 
at Moscow with an embassy from the Emperor of Germany, and had no 
^ifficulty in obtaining permission to remain in the city. Indeed, we 
have no doubt that Sophia and her Minister, Galitzin, intended to 
^nfide the school to the Jesuits. 

A year after, however, two Greek professors sent from 
Constantinople made their appearance, and were placed at the 
head of the school, the Jesuits also opening one of their own. 
Controversies arose, in which the patriarch sided with the Greek 
^onks, and many of the Court with the Jesuits. But a\V vi^^ 
«Dded m 1689, by the revolution which placed Peter the ¥vist oxv 

94 Russia and her Church. 

the throne. Sophia was shut up in a convent, Gralitzin exiled, 
the Jesuits expelled, and some of their friends executed. Peter 
owed his triumph to the patriarch and the more ignorant part 
of the clergy, and he repaid them for their adhesion by perse- 
cuting the foreigners and those who had Catholic tendencies. 

We thus come to the same famous name, that of the creator 
of modern Russia, as the author of this decline in ecclesi- 
astical studies and religious and clerical education, as well as of 
others. Speaking generally, it may be said that the ancient 
system prevailed until the time of Peter the First, and that in 
his reign those opposing tendencies, which had long been 
gathering strength, attained at length so much definiteness and 
importance that they claimed to be regarded as a separate 
system, the chief aims of which are — that modern languages 
should be made more prominent than ancient, literature be 
preferred to science, profane studies be followed rather than 
ecclesiastical. Everything Catholic is by degrees being rejected, 
and Latin is ceasing to be taught, without a thorough knowledge 
of niodern languages being substituted for it ; a sort of surface 
cultivation is imparted, while the reason and the understanding 
are left untrained. 

The author from whom we have bqen quoting gives us many 
interesting details of the various changes which have from time 
to time been introduced into the system of education. The 
direction in which the changes have been made has varied with 
the character of the successive sovereigns, and of the persons 
who for the time had influence at Court Under Catharine the 
Second, Joseph the Second of Austria and his institutions were 
the object of imitation ; under Paul the First there was a 
reaction, and a system was sketched out which would have given 
something like a solid education to the seminarists. This system 
appears to have been drawn up under the influence of Father 
Gruber, the General of the Jesuits in Russia. But this plan 
was very soon modified. It would appear, also, that zeal for 
that orthodox faith which is the boast of Russia has not had 
much influence in the regulation of such seminaries as have 
existed in the country. Alexander the First, early in the 
present century, " reorganized " the ecclesiastical studies, and the 
guiding spirit in the new measure was the well known Speranski, 
at that time Secretary of State to the Emperor. He was a man 
for paper systems and centralization in everything, and his 
arrangement of studies lasted long etvou^ to vcAu^twc^ ^. ^ood 

Russia aftd her Church. 95 

many of the bishops and clergy of the country ; but among the 
authors the use of whose books he enjoined, more than one were 
Protestants, and these were to be read for dogmatic and moral 
theology ! He appointed several Protestant professors : among 
them was a certain Fessler, an apostate Capuchin who had 
become Protestant, married, divorced one wife, and then taken 
to another. This man taught first Hebrew and then philosophy. 
Fessler afterwards became Protestant bishop of Saratof, and 
married again after the death of the second woman whom he 
called his wife. It is not very wonderful, then, that there should 
be some Protestant doctrine to be found among the clergy. 

At the present moment, whatever is to be done in the way 
of improvement must, as is the case of the religious orders, 
begin from the Government, and we fear that it is not likely 
that those now in power will be wise enough to make any stand 
against the shallow and contemptible tenets which are now in 
fashion almost everywhere in Europe, the predominance of 
which is a sure sign of the approach of an age even more 
ignorant, more conceited, and more frivolous, than that in 
which we live. The old battle between real mental culture on 
the one hand and the system of cramming boys and youths 
with a mass of indigested information on all sorts of subjects 
on the other, is not, we fear, very likely to be fought out in 
Russia with a successful issue for the former of the conflicting 
alternatives. Moreover, the Government inherits the miseries 
which its predecessors have created, and as former Czars have 
niined the religious orders in the enslavement of the Church, 
Alexander the Second cannot call upon them to do their natural 
part in the great work of education, were he ever so much minded 
to do so. The fact is, that there are in Russia no teaching orders, 
with definite methods and traditions of their own ; and, even if 
there were such orders in the country, the bishops could not be 
at liberty to confide to any one of them the direction of the 
seminaries 0/ their various dioceses, for they had themselves 
no freedom of action with respect to the ecclesiastical schools. 
This evil, we understand, has lately been rectified ; the semi- 
naries have been placed by the present Government in some 
degree under the bishop. But it seems to have raised against 
itself no inconsiderable clamour on this very account, and from 
^t party which in Russia, as well as in England and Ireland, 
contains the deadliest enemies of all true progress, as also of the 
freedom of the Church and sound education under V\er guvd^x^c^ 

^ Russia and her CkatrcJL 

— tlie so called Libeials of the age: No more nanowminded 
brood of b^ots ever eyistrd on tbe £ice of the eartii tiian the 
men whoi, in the name of phflosc^y and liberty, are anxicws to 
introdoce and perpetuate ever>nriiere in matters of rel^;ion and 
edocation the cnrse of State control, burcancracy. and centra- 
lization. In this lies the true root of the evil, and not, as 
those Russian books and journals which treat of this subject 
attempt to prove, in the fact that religious are always placed 
at the head of the seminaries. For how could diis be otherwise, 
seeii^ that all other priests are married ! As soon as there shall 
arise a celibate secular priesthood, then wiU seculars be fitted 
to govern ecclesiastical schools. Other evils besides diose 
\diich we have mentioned were rife in the Russian seminaries. 
Each professor r^arded his professorial chair, not as a 
permanent ai^x>intment, but as a mere steppii^ stone to 
something else; so that the teachii^ was never good And 
the government of these establishments was no better than the 
teaching. Though professedly under the direction of the Synod, 
they were practically under the control of one of the Ministers. 

It is only fair to the present Government to allow that 
some partial measures in the direction of reform have been 
taken lately, but they have excited violent hostility, and die 
most furious attacks have been made upon them by a portion 
of the press. The attempt to put more poi»-er into the hands of 
the bishops, and to ii-atch more carefully over the moral and 
religious training of the >'ouiig seminarists, is stigmatized as a 
tendency toi^'ards Jesuitism. Those who have raised this foolish 
and unmeaning cry seem to have quite forgotten what a priest 
should be, and what his duties really are. The attempt at 
reform is a well meaning one, and we believe it to have been 
made in good faith ; but it must be very doubtful, from the 
causes which we have stated, whether it can succeed. The mco 
capable of carrying it out are not forthcoming, and the evil i^ 
apparently, too deep and Hide spread for partial remedies. StiOf 
in this as in other matters, Russia certainly possesses the material 
elements of improvement What is wanting is the spirit that 
may give them life, health, and activity. Emiite S/iriif^ 
Tuum, ct crcabuntur, et raiovabis facicm terra! 


The Eastern Church was originally divided into four 
Patriarchates ; round each patnaxdi viete grouped several 

and her Church. 97 

>Utans, every metropolitan had in his turn a number of 
under him, and each separate diocese had its own 
The See of Rome was of course supreme even over 
riarchs, but the Pope was only appealed to in extra- 
f cases, questions of lesser importance being decided by 
riarchs. When the Russians embraced Christianity, the 
h of Constantinople sent them a bishop, who was subject 
luthority ; before long several dioceses were organized, 
\ see of Kief became the metropolitan see, not ceasing 
^pendent on Constantinople. It does not belong to our 
purpose to enter into a detailed account of the history of 
tions between the two Churches, it will be sufficient to 
1 a general way, that while continuing nominally subject 
tantinople, the Russian Church soon contrived to acquire 
lutonomy. Towards the end of the sixteenth century the 
:hate of Moscow was created, and the metropolitans were 
^ released from that allegiance to Constantinople which had 
en merely nominal* When Peter the First ascended the 
there were eight metropolitans, but that "destroyer of 
rarchy,'' not content with abolishing the Patriarchate, 
sed them all, so that when he set up his Synod, all the 
were equal before this tribunal in which all authority was 
rated. If nowadays one is called an archbishop, another 
»politan, and so on, these titles are purely honorary, and 
othing, being attached to the individual and not to the see. 
his way it comes to pass that the idea of a hierarchy has 
disappeared from the public mind — ^we say it has almost 
ared, for now and again an article in some newspaper 
>ve that men still reflect on the subject We find appeals 
canons, by right of which the provincial councils are 
ered to elect, condemn, and depose the bishops. We need 
i that in the Russian Church these canons are completely 
rded and set aside. The Government has usurped the 
tion of the bishops, the power of removing them and 
; them, and still more, it has made them functionaries 
3wn, even in the exercise of their spiritual powers. It 
be tolerable enough for the Emppror to nominate 
;hops if the Synod had independence and authority 
at to enable it to refuse its sanction to the appoint- 
of any bishop whom it could not conscientiously 

\ sjmodal acts relating to the creation of the new FatnBxdkSlt ^inSi Vi^ ^nraxi^ 
diner's work above referred to, pp, 43 — 53. 

OL, XVI. Vi 


98 Russia and her Church. 

approve ; instead of this it has become a mere cipher, and more 
than once notoriously unsuitable bishops have been appointed, 
in the teeth of such opposition as it could make, so that its 
ratification of the imperial nomination is a mere formality. The 
canons further reserve, as we have said, to the provincial councils 
the right of judging and condemning bishops, so that no bishop 
can properly be deposed, except by a decree of this tribunal, in 
order that by this means their irremoveability and independence 
might be guaranteed. It need not be said, that all this system 
has been swept away. The only judge of bishops in the Empire 
is the Synod, or rather the Government. As a matter of fact, 
Russian bishops are transferred from see to see, voluntarily or 
involuntarily, upon the most trifling pretexts, and they are 
liable to suffer the most grievous punishments, to be deprived, 
degraded, tortured, exiled, or put to death at the will of the 
Emperor, and all this for no ecclesiastical offences, but for 
political crimes, real or imaginary. 

As to the manner in which his episcopal authority is exercised, 
no one in the whole Empire is more completely under official 
control as to the acts which belong to his high dignity than the 
Russian bishop. The seminary is not under his management* 
He has a council or concistory of priests to assist him in the govern- 
ment of his diocese, but this concistory is practically in the hands 
of a secretary who is a layman nominated by the Government, who 
is present at all the meetings, who draws up all papers and manages 
all the correspondence. He has a whole staff of officials under 
him, and is in constant communication with the Synod and the 
Government. Moreover, the case is worse almost than it might 
be if the whole of the affairs which come before the concistory 
were managed by a bureau in the Home Office at St. Petersburg, 
for venality is the plague of the whole official class in Russia, and 
the clerks of the concistory are said to be more venal and corrupt 
than any other set of oflScials in the Empire. They alone are in 
possession of the technical knowledge of the precedent according 
to which many cases have to be decided. " The bishop," says 
P^re Gagarin, " is not present at the sittings, the secretary takes 
the papers to him and presents him with the report ; he is the 
ordinary channel between the bishop and the cpncistory, and he 
is able to make the bishop modify the decision arrived at by the 
assembly, or, when he transmits to the latter the orders of the 
bishop, he can give them the colour which suits him best Almost 

• There is now, as we have said, a cYiaxi^e *vn. \i»Si ws^ecX. 

Russia and her Church. 99 

always the single motive of his opinion consists in the money 
which interested parties have given him."* As for the moral and 
personal influence of the bishops, it is very slight Pastoral 
letters, addresses, mandements, and the like, are inspired by the 
Synod, or never issued. At all events, their authority being 
practically null, no one heeds what the bishops say. The 
ceremonies of the Church are very magnificent and imposing, 
but when they are over, the bishops are mute. They are merely 
treated as officials. More might be said, if we are to trust the 
authors before us, as to the positive faults of conduct which too 
often accompany the want of independence, for which the system, 
and no person in particular, must be blamed. The charges of 
which we speak, embrace indifference to the real interests of the 
cle^, pride, greediness of gain, and ignorance of ecclesiastical 

We may again take occasion to say, that our quarrel is not 
^vith individuals, but with the system ; even in the present 
deplorable state of the Russian episcopate, there are not wanting 
among its members men of austere life and irreproachable morals. 
The branch indeed is withering fast, but here and there a green 
kaf still shows that the sap has not quite ceased to circulate, and 
that it might yet revive and flourish, if it were only grafted 
betimes into the ancient stock. If the Russian Government, 
indeed, is wise enough to set the Church free, and encourage 
independent action in the bishops, there may perhaps be some 
delay in the improvements which are so much needed — for men 
who have long been in chains do not all at once acquire the 
natural use of their limbs, and there have been instances of 
freed men who have preferred their prison to freedom. But 
improvements are sure to come at last Here, again, we fear it 
roust be said that if the Russian Government deals fairly with 
Its bishops, it will have to face the spirit of the day, and to depart 
from a long series of precedents which have been set it by most 
Catholic Governments in the world for some two or three 
centuries. But we must now pass to that peculiar feature in 
^be ecclesiastical organization of the Empire which gives its 
character to the whole system, and the influence of which has 
been perpetually meeting us in the considerations on which we 
have been hitherto dwelling. 

* Le Clcrgi Russe^ p. 26. 

icx> Russia and her Church. 


The Russian Church, as we have seen, was for a long time 
governed by a metropolitan, who himself depended upon the 
patriarch of Constantinople. When at length the connectioa 
was finally done away with, and the Patriarchate of Moscow 
created, Nicon, the first patriarch, found himself in possession ol 
no small authority. Misunderstandings, however, soon broke out 
between him and the Czar, and the temporal power triumphed 
in the struggle The spiritual power might have recovered from 
its temporary eclipse, if among the successors of Nicon some 
man of energy and intelligence had been found capable ol 
reconquering the lost territory, but no such person appeared, 
while the throne of the Czars, on the contrary, was soon ascended 
by a maif who possessed in an eminent degree the very qualities 
in which the heads of the Russian Church had shown themselves 
so strikingly deficient What the religious opinions of Peter the 
First really were it is not easy to say ; * he probably had not any 
very definite creed ; at any rate, he hated the Russian clergy, and 
determining to make himself their master at once and for ever, 
he resolved to abolish the Patriarchate, and substitute for it a 
council to which he gave the name of Synod. This council was 
composed of a president and two vice-presidents, all members ol 
the episcopacy, also of four councillors and four assessors, chosen 
from the regular and secular clergy. In the present day there 
is no longer any president or vice-president, and all the members 
of the Synod are bishops, with the exception of twa seculat 
priests, one of whom is chaplain and also confessor to the 
Emperor, and the other is the head chaplain of the army and 
navy. Each member is obliged to take an oath to the effect 
that the supreme judge of the Synod is the monarch of all the 
Russias for the time being. 

The idea which Peter the Great embodied in this Holy 
Synod is simple in the extreme : it is exactly the idea of those 
Anglicans who carry out the Royal Supremacy to its fullest and 
most logical consequences. The Synod was not at first even 
called a Synod. Peter's plan was to create a number of Colleges, 
or, as we should now say. Ministries, by means of which the 
various departments of the Government were to be managed. 

* It is said that at one time he intended to bring about a reconciliation with Rome, 
hut that this wns in order that he might marry a Catholic princess. See GagariOi 
^ C/fr^/ /^usse, p. 21/. 

Russia and her Church. loi 

These Collies were named accordingly, that of Foreign Aflfairs, 
Revenue, Justice, Revision, the Army, the Admiralty, Commerce, 
Exdiequer, and, again, of Mines and Manufactures. Last of all, 
in addition to the Mines and Manufactures, Peter created a 
tenth Collie, called the Spiritual College, which was to be his 
instniment for the exercise of his supreme authority in the 
Church, as that of Mines and Manufactures was to be his 
instniment of his supreme authority in the matters of which 
it had cognizance. It had not even, at first, the name of 
Synod at all. The public prayers {ektenid) used to name 
the Patriarch as the supreme authority in the Church, and now 
the Collie must be put in his place. " It seems, however," 
says a late writer on the subject, " that they found the name 
of College, connected as it was with Mines and Manufactures, to 
be too profane for the purpose, as in a petition to the Czar the 
Spiritual College proposed to His Majesty the adoption of the 
denomination of 'Most Holy Governing Assembly.' Peter 
altered it to 'Most Holy Synod'"* But, in fact, he intended 
it to be simply a department of the Government, and as much 
the o^n of his own supreme autocratic will as any other 

It would be almost a waste of time, as far as our present 
purpose is concerned, to draw out in detail the action of the 
Synod in ecclesiastical matters. Our readers will find a full 
^ount of this in the lately published work of Father Tondini, 
to which we have just now referred. It is enough to say that 
4c theory that the Czar is the Patriarch, as Peter himself said, 
Ac " Head of the Church," as Paul the First phrased it, is fully 
^^ed out in practice, the Synod being his representative and 
^n. If the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, which 
*s now considering its judgment on the lawfulness of maintaining 
Ac doctrine of the Real Presence in the Anglican Church, had 
"Cen erected into a permanent, commission for the government 
<^fthat Communion in every respect, instead of being merely the 
Q»ieen*s organ as supreme judge within the Establishment, we 
J^ht have in England something like the Holy Synod. But 
^ England the habits of freedom on other matters, the liberty 
<>f thought and criticism, the activity of mind which characterizes 
^wr race, the force of public opinion, and the very limited range 
fllowed to the monarchy, except in theory, would render such an 
^'^tution altogether impossible if it attempted to v/otk \w >3\^ 

• Toadini, 7:^ J^ifpe 0/ Jiome and the Eastern Popes ^ p. 26. 

I02 Russia and her Church. 

way in which the Russian Synod has worked. It has thoroughly 
controlled the whole action of the bishops in their dioceses, and 
reduced them almost to ciphers ; it has even put words into 
their mouth, and drawn up the sermons or homilies which they 
are to read to their people. It receives complaints against them, 
and judges them. Its constitution is exactly analogous to that 
of the Senate, which was the Czar*s organ in temporal matters : 
the instructions and regulations for these two bodies are exactly 
parallel. The thought must strike the reader very forcibly, that 
this branch of the Russian despotism cannot survive the other. 
If ever Russia becomes constitutional, we cannot doubt that the 
Government will still strive to maintain the Church in subjection 
to itself ; but it seems almost to have overdone its work, which, 
like the penal laws against the Catholics among ourselves, might 
have had a better chance of perpetuity if it had not been so 
monstrous in itself. 

A curious corroboration of this is to be found in the criticisms 
which, even in Russia itself, are freely lavished upon the acts of 
other Governments by no means different in spirit and character 
from what is ordinary to the Holy Synod. Peter the First 
has not lacked imitators, less powerful, and less to be dreaded 
than himself, who have done on a small scale what he accom- 
plished on a large scale, and whose proceedings have been freely 
blamed by the very newspapers which abound in elaborate 
apologies for the state of things at home. For instance, Prince 
Couza, Hospodar of Wallachia and Moldavia, has lately treated 
the Roumanian Church somewhat cavalierly, without, however, 
attempting changes at all equal in magnitude to those which 
Peter the First effected, and it is curious to read the unsparing 
condemnation which the press, the Government, and even the 
ver>' Synod itself, have not scrupled to pass upon the unsuc- 
cessful schemes of the unlucky Hospodar. In fact, Russian 
and Eastern authorities — for the Patriarch of Constantinople 
took part in the censure on Prince Couza — are strong against 
anything like the Synod in theor}^ It is certain that the 
teaching of the Eastern Church does not in any way recognize 
the sovereign as the Head, we will not say of the Universal 
Church, but even of a National Church. The teaching, however, 
is at sad variance from this practice, for Father Tondini has 
given us proofs of the servility of the Church in Greece to the 
King of Greece, and even of the Greek Church at Constanti- 
nople to the Sultan himself. The Czars Vvave rcvaml^^VVv ^.tto5£a.ted 

Rtissia and her Church. 103 

to themselves an authority which is in no way their due, but 
which is nevertheless consistent with their own ideas respecting 
their autocratic power, for they claim an equal jurisdiction over 
every form of worship, and, while professing to respect all creeds, 
they really rule in ecclesiastical matters with as high a hand as 
they do in civil, and demand the right of governing the Catholic 
Church in their Empire, just as they govern the Armenian 
Church, the Protestant, or the National. The same principle is 
applied to Jews, Mussulmen, and Buddhists — and this subjection 
of all creeds is termed religious toleration ! 

It is evident that the Russian Church has fallen into a 

condition of most complete subjection to the State. It has 

been, so to speak, incorporated into the State, and has no longer 

any independent existence, nor is there the slightest identity 

between the Russian Church as we see it now and the Russian 

Church as it used to be. Peter the Great achieved a religious 

revolution which can only be compared to that accomplished in 

England by Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth. One evil which 

"lust always result from State bondage is isolation, and the 

Russian Church forms no exception to the rule. It stands 

absolutely alone, entirely disconnected from every other Church. 

^^ Was indeed separated, even while it still possessed a Patri- 

^chate of its own, but the separation has been aggravated 

tenfold by the creation of the Synod, and the gradual absorption 

^' the Church by the State. This, we repeat, is indeed the root 

^^ the evil. Levitism, and the usurpation by bureaucracy of the 

^^liinistration of ecclesiastical affairs, are very much to be 

°^lored, but they are, after all, only offshoots from the fatal 

root. The abolition of the Synod is the first and indispensable 

^^^p to be taken in the path of reform, the measure without 

^'^ich all others must be inefficacious — the delenda Cartliago of 

every effort And the Synod once abolished, what then } An 

^^'"^sponsible Patriarch, at the head of the whole Russian 

^Hurch, would be a dangerous person in many ways ; it would 

"^ necessary that he should, in his turn, be subject to some 

^^-^lesiastical authority. Where should this supreme authority 

""^^ide, if not in the^ Pope ? 


We do not give the foregoing paragraphs as in any way a 
^^^plete sketch of the religious state of Russia at the present 
"^^e. Such a sketch would necessarily include au aceo\xcv\. ol 

I04 Russia and her Church. 

the Russian sects, very numerous and very powerful in their 
hold upon the people, and would require also some sort of 
general view of the progress which has been made by infidelity, 
freemasonry, and other elements of evil in the population, and 
of the educational, moral, and intellectual condition of the mass 
of the people. We have confined ourselves to the Russian 
Church, or rather, to the Russian clergy, and have endeavoured 
to put together the facts within the reach of ordinary readers, 
a consideration of which may enable us to form an idea of the 
condition and state of vitality which now characterize the great 
organization in which the spiritual prospects of the nation are 
bound up. 

The review in many respects is certainly not very encouraging. 
It will disappoint, perhaps, many of the more ardent Anglicans, 
whose interest in the Russian Church is mainly the fruit of a 
secret desire to find elsewhere in the Christian world that vigour 
of life and full development of strength and multitudinous grace 
which they see in the Catholic Church, and which they would 
fain persuade themselves not to be her incommunicable heritage. 
Instead of a living and energizing power, trampling the worid 
under foot, holding up its head against Imperial aggression, 
and shedding all around it the light and warmth of Christian 
learning, piety, charity, and activity in labours for the bodies 
and souls of men, they will see in the Russian Church a body 
which has its hierarchy, its sacraments, its religious orders, its 
ritual, its pilgrimages, its orthodox doctrines and practices of 
piety, and the like, but all the while cold, servile, ignorant, 
inactive, apathetic under the most crying wrongs and the most 
intolerable usurpations. By the light of the facts which have 
been stated, it looks as if life had almost departed : as if there 
were a heap of dry bones before us, and little more. It will be 
well for such an Anglican as we are supposing if he asks himself 
the further question, how all this has come about, and if he hits, 
in his searchings for an answer, on the thought of the paralyzing 
effect of a state of pure schism upon even an undoubted 
" branch " of the Sacred Vine. The Catholic inquirer will have 
far other thoughts. He will be deeply grieved at whatever 
indications he may meet with of the absence of life from the 
Church of Russia, of the degeneracy of her religious and the 
inefficiency of her clergy, not only because such a state of things 
implies the loss of many souls which might otherwise reign with 
God (or ever, and all the thousand triumphs of Satan which are 

Russia and her Church. 105 

sore to follow when the sheep of Christ are as without shepherds, 
but also because it involves tibe disappointment of his own ardent 
hopes that the time may come when Russia may be restored to 
Catholic unity by a movement from within, similar in spirit to 
that which has brought back so many souls to peace from 
Anglicanism and other forms of Protestant error, but which 
might conceivably differ from that in having a far grander con- 
summation in the reunipn of the whole body which it has 
influenced rather than in the rescuing of single persons. The 
Russian Church set free from this trammel of State control, 
might reform and revive itself from within, and as the level of its 
spiritual life and religious activity rose higher and higher, it 
might soon overtop the barrier which has been raised to separate 
it from the Catliolic Church throughout the world. The Catholic 
may see, indeed, cannot fail to see, in the comparative degradation 
of Russian Christianity the fatal effects of the state of schism ; 
but he cannot rejoice in that d^^dation, or look on it as a matter 
of triumph rather than of the deepest sorrow, and his wishes and 
prayers must all tend to whatever may in any degree or direction 
devateand invigorate what has fallen so low and become so feeble. 
On the other hand, it must be remembered that all general 
views like those on which we have been dwelling, must not only 
pass over many particular blemishes and leave unsounded the 
depths of many a hidden evil, but must also fail to reach a 
thousand special instances of life and beauty, or to trace the 
secret influence of the Christian means of grace which are 
undoubtedly in the possession of the Russian Church. The 
^ters whom we have been using tell us very little of the con- 
dition of the Russian laity, and although we must be prepared 
to find that ignorance^ laxity of practice, and perhaps some 
corruptions and superstitions, must prevail among the people 
where the clergy is not in its normal state, we may still believe 
confidently that there is a great amount of simple Christian 
virtue to be found in a people that enjoy the true sacraments and 
^erit the orthodox faith, though overlaid by some mis- 
conceptions and many prejudices. Those who know best the 
^te of Protestants in England are usually the most convinced 
^f the immense goodness of God in the graces which He 
distributes to those who are in good faith among them, and of 
^c countless numbers of souls that are thus favoured and 
preserved. ' The same may surely be said with confidence of 
*a^e masses of the population of Russia, thouglv vje slt^ tvot 

io6 Russia and her Church. 

forgetful of the crowds of sects which have broken off from t 
National Church, or of the very great progress which infideli 
has made in the country. It is surely no unreasonable hope tb 
we indulge in when we anticipate that the day may come wh< 
either by the action of the Government itself, or by the foi 
of public opinion pressing down the bureaucracy which n( 
enslaves the Church, that Church may become free and acqu 
the power of developing its own internal resources in a n 
period of life and vigour. Whenever real toleration becomes t 
principle of the Government, as is inevitable, we may hope tl 
the Catholic Church will show her lifegiving and civilizing pov 
by the side of the national Communion, and that the result m 
be not only a large number of individual additions to the Catho 
ranks, but the exercise of an elevating and attractive force whi 
may draw the national Communion itself by the irresistil 
gravitation of charity to the bosom of Catholic unity. Gn 
things may be in store for Russia, and she may yet play 
mighty part in the future history of Europe and of the wor 
Why may we not hope that the goodness of God may awak 
within her a spirit which may move her towards that unity fn 
which she has been separated, indeed, but which she has ne^ 
wilfully and deliberately abandoned } English Catholics shoi 
be the last to despair of witnessing such mercies, for their o^ 
far more guilty country has, within the memory of the pres< 
generation, been visited by a blessed and undeserved grace 
the same order. If we are to trust to what we hear, even amo 
the Mussulmans of the East there has lately sprung up a moi 
ment towards the religion of our Lord. Let us, then, concei 
the highest hopes as to the future of Russia. May the pray 
of Catholics win for her the g^ce to understand that she canr 
be truly great and happy as long as she remains in her presc 
isolation ; and may the many wrongs which Catholicism 1: 
received at her hands be redeemed by a long series of gloric 
and fruitful services for the advancement of the faith ! 

Ancient Guilds in England. 

In the confusion consequent on the overthrow of the Roman 
Empire, when the barbarians of Scandinavia and eastern Europe 
were sweeping away the effete civilization of Rome, and rudely 
but effectually laying the foundations of modern life broad and 
<ieep, the appearance to a spectator at the time of the convulsion 
and of its results would have been far different from the impres- 
sion derived from the retrospective survey of the future historian. 
The Empire was indeed a gigantic piece of machinery, porten- 
tous was the unhinged condition of its parts : it was a soulless 
corpse, still indeed retaining the outlines of symmetry and 
cohesion, but destitute of the breath that vivifies and renovates. 
Its functions acted sluggishly ; the poison of an impure circu- 
lation had penetrated to every artery and vein, when the 
destroying angel suddenly swept past and cut short its long 

Before this final catastrophe, which the imperial system had 
^een preparing for centuries, the spirit of true freedom, the 
^nion of respect for law and reverence for the individual's 
dignity, had all but entirely disappeared. The system of 
Centralization, the inevitable outcome of the Augustan insti- 
tutions, had palsied the spontaneity of the people; the wire- 
pulling in the Caesar's palace was repeated mechanically through 
^he provinces. The praetors and governors of provinces received 
'Minute instructions from the capital, whether Rome, or Ravenna, 
^r Constantinople; the municipal authorities took their cue 
''"om the governors. These officials were either not vested 
^ith adequate powers, or, if so vested, were taught to remit 
^he exercise of them to the central authority. The unlucky 
Citizen who, in a moment of rashness, dared to impugn the 
^'isdom of an imperial decree, or to complain of an excessive 
^x, not unfrequently found himself the next day on his way 
^o the capital, where the forfeit of life or liberty appeased IK^ 
oflfende^ dignity of the sovereign. Such a governmeivta\ systetcv^ 

io8 Ancient Guilds in England. 

if in the hands of an energetic and good ruler, might, doubtle 
greatly conduce to the welfare and happiness of the peopi 
but these conditions for its beneficial tenure are proved 
'history to be too insecure of fulfilment to justify any thee 
of a good Government based upon thenL The centralizati 
of power and influence and interest in one spot attracted un< 
the Roman Empire, as it has done in countries of our own d 
all the social cormorants to that spot; and it in turn quid 
became the carcase around which was waged the battle 
the prey. The Court is surrounded by a proletariate, wh 
from laziness or necessity is fed by the ruling powers, a 
thus leisure is afforded for the concoction of the ideas wh 
are to lead the rest of the Empire in its trail. 

The unjust administration of the laws and the inability 
the State, whether from the weakness of servility or of you 
to protect the lives and property of its subjects, would natura 
tend to the assumption of mutual responsibility for each otl 
among the governed, and to the adoption of law codes devii 
and administered by selfconstituted authorities. In this, 
in all human affairs whose regulating principles are immediat 
-derived from the inalienable rights of man, we see hist< 
repeating itself, and human nature asserting its power un( 
whatever fortuitous pressure. The right of selfpreservat 
is as indelibly written as it is universal in its operation ; 1 
ivorm will turn upon the foot that crushes it, and there is 
man or collection of men whose degradation can be dee] 
than the memory of this fundamental law of their being. Un( 
the worst tyranny of the Roman Empire, when the sovere 
almost taxed the breath of man's nostrils and ruled with 
iron rod, we might find indications tending to show that ' 
wretched people knew their rights and exerted themselves 
vindicate them. When the framework of society is unhing 
and authority is synonymous with superior power, the wea 
•elements will unconsciously and by instinct draw closer 
one another, and shelter behind the united bulwark. 

This tendency towards the formation of unions or brotb 
lioods is so universal that it needs but to be pointed out to 
acknowledged. It existed and exists among all peoples i 
at all times; it is confined to no set of circumstances i 
can be restricted by no law; it is the ingrained instinct 
social man — it is the necessity of his being. The relati< 
-of kindred and of friendship dictate ti[ie s^me course as \ 

Ancient Guilds in England. 109 

community of religious or material interests, and the union is 
Icnit the closer the greater the external danger. But over and 
above these fellowships for mutual support and protection^ 
which might be called primary and essential to man's existence^ 
there are found in the history of most nations certain secondary 
and accidental societies, or guilds, established for the promotion 
of some common object Whether social or political, of a 
good or a bad tendency, clubs, guilds, societies, or brotherhoods, 
they are all rooted in the one grand principle of union being 
strength. There are two periods when such unions seem to 
shoot up and flourish most luxuriantly — the infancy and the 
decrepitude of national existences. In both periods the object 
is the same — mutual support and defence. Nor is this theory 
invalidated by instances in which a society is formed for the 
destruction of order, as is the case with Continental Freemasonry, 
or is led away from its original road into the bye paths of 
violence and sedition. Such changes have ever been, and 
perhaps notably so with the above mentioned society. But 
as abuse does not mar the utility of an institution, so it still 
i^mains that the system is good in itself, founded as it is on 
^e primary laws of human nature. 

Still, it must be confessed that the ease with which a 

^nfederacy of individuals can be used for political purposes, 

'"enders it a grave question how far they can be tolerated in 

practice. In the first place, there can be no doubt that in an 

'deal state of society, when good government and respect for 

^e law support each other, they would not be advisable, 

inasmuch as they would not be needful. But taking the world 

^ it is and always will be, with its strong leaven of the bad 

and the base, a nice inquiry presents itself as to whether, 

and how far, the advantages of brotherhoods, especially when 

swom, countervail the almost inevitable evils arising from them. 

History would seem to testify that the abuses of these institutions 

have ever outrun their legitimate use, and that their influence 

has been aimed at the overthrow of the existing order of things* 

The ^wu/i^iat of Athens, the "Societates" of Rome, the Societi 

of mediaeval Florence, the Carbonari of modern Italy, the 

Fnmc-ma9ons of Belgium and France, and to some degree 

the trades' unions of England, are in this respect on an equal 

footing; they have left the sphere in which they might have 

^^tributed to the protection of the weak against the strongs 

and hav^ instead, entered upon a new phase of their exYStttvcfc ' 

no Ancient Guilds in England. 

when they become a positive element of peril to authorE 
Yet all the above clubs, if we could trace them to their orig 
would probably be found to have arisen from the just ties 
family or of legitimate mutual interest. But as peopi 
developed, and the interests of classes became more and mc 
antagonistic from the greater variety of pursuits, from t 
rivalries of factions, and, finally, from the wild passions 
men, they too lost their primitive character, and changed fro 
open and voluntary auxiliaries of law into secret hotbeds 
sedition and assassination. 

.These general remarks will give the reader an outline of t 
basis on which the institutions of brotherhoods and guilds a 
built Their common origin, the instinctive tendency to combi 
for more efficient protection, has become somewhat overlaid 1 
the various degrees and modifications in development which th< 
transplantation into different soils has brought about Th< 
existence in the earliest periods of European history is sufficient 
attested by capitularies, decrees, and statutes. Some modificatio 
of them rendered themselves obnoxious to the State as early 
Charlemagne. This remark applies especially to unions san 
tioned and confirmed by oath. Now, this conduct of the gre 
monarch cannot be accounted for by any theory of excessi 
centralization, since centralization would naturally curtail tl 
powers of the great princes and nobles of the Empire, rath 
than the modest power of a guild : a conclusion the more forcib 
and legitimate, when the overgrown extent and the half civilize 
elements of the Prankish monarchy are considered. Moreov( 
the terms of the capitulary in question seem to bear out it 
theory. They adjudge the usual barbaric punishments 
scourging, nose slitting, &c., not only to associations who 
objects were directly unlawful, but also to such as apparent 
united for resistance to violence and robbery. If our informati< 
were more detailed, we should most probably find that unlawf 
acts were as commonly the fruit of guilds, even in those tim( 
as legitimate acts ; and the disposition to apply the strength 
the combination to the purposes of thwarting the execution 
the law would explain the persistent hostility of the rcston 
Empire to them. It must at the same time be borne in mil 
that the stringent rule of the first Prankish sovereign, t 
subsequent incursions of the Normans, and the conseque 
weakening of order in every rank of society, would naturally i 
at once a cause and an incentive to the lower classes to aim 

Ancient Guilds in England. iii 

an improvement in their condition by means of confederations. 
It was long, however, before the Continental guilds attained to a 
tithe of the prosperity which the sanction of authority conferred 
on those of England. 

It is a curious fact, that though guilds existed in England at 
least as early as on the Continent, they were nevertheless saved, 
from their very commencement, from the opposition made in the 
case of these last Nor is it, in our judgment, a satisfactory 
explanation of this striking phenomenon to say, that the English 
people, even in those early times, had learnt the blessings 
of selfrule, and, by consequence, the antecedent necessity of 
limiting the objects of their associations by a spirit of respect for 
order and law. This spirit, even if it exists, must be kept alive 
by the fostering care of strong and beneficent rulers; and though 
the end of the ninth and the tenth centuries can unfold the stories 
of an Alfred, an Athelstan, and an Edgar, still the greater part 
of that period saw England misruled by ruthless Kings, and 
harried by the ravages of Dane and Northman. The central 
authority was often too weak to make its action felt far from 
home : there were treacherous settlements in the heart of .the 
country, which destroyed the harmonious action of the parts, and 
Qver and above all these, there were our own unruly forefathers, 
^ho still retained vestiges of their old lawless and violent 
character. Where social relations had acquired greater consis- 
tency, and a more peaceful disposition reigned, as in the larger 
towns, such as London, the advantages of confederation against 
Such crimes and robbery were easily recognized, and Kings found 
*t to their interest to support the burgher against the unquiet 
section of the community. From whatever causes it may have 
Arisen, this policy of sustaining the commonalty against the 
tyrannous exactions of the higher class has, with few or no 
exceptions, been the all but constant peculiarity of our English 
Kings. And when it is well considered, it will be seen to be the 
^ain cause of the success achieved by our guilds, and of the 
liberties for selfgovernment enjoyed by our boroughs. 

But passing over the general questions on the subsequent 
development of guilds,* we will draw our readers' attention to a 
special class, which seems to have taken deep root in English 

* Those who desire to examine the material aspects of the Early English Guilds 
^ould consult the introductory essay by Dr. Brentano to the issue, under the above 
^^ of the Early English Text Society. From this volume we have exliaKXed V\it 
^»cts which ioHow. 

112 Ancient Guilds in England. 

soil We mean the religious guilds. They offer unmistakeabU 
proofs of the sincerely pious spirit of the people, and, indirectly* 
of the high character of the clergy. Whatever may have been 
the secondary objects of some of these societies, the main end ot 
most seems to have been religious. In some cases guilds owed 
their origin to trivial circumstances. An instance of this is tirke 
origin of a guild mentioned by Wilda. Some tradesmen were 
one evening in a tavern, and when they paid their reckoning the3r 
found they had several shillings over. They escaped from their 
difficulty, as to what was to be done with the money, by spending- 
it on a candle, which was to be burned before a statue of our Lady. 
Another guild owed its origin to a vow made by some merchants 
in danger of shipwreck. Some service of religion characterized 
them all. Their object was that in omni obsequio religumis 
conjungantur. Thus, at York we find a guild of Corpus Christi 
established in A.D. 1408. The ordinances of this guild are 
mainly, that (i) on the feast of Corpus Christi, all the priests 
in their suplices, and the masters carrying white wands, shall fo 
in stately procession, to the glory of God and of the city of Yoric 

(2) That six priests, brethren of the fraternity, shall be yearly 
chosen as masters. The six priests thus chosen shall have the 
governance of the whole guild, and of all that is needful for it- 

(3) That all who wish to be enrolled as members shall b^ 
received by the above priests. There was to be no oath, and no 
other bond than that of charity. (4) That the priests shall say 
daily prayers for the guild members, and perform the usual 
services on the death of any brother. (5) No layman is to tak^ 
any part in the governance of the guild ; no one is to be admittecJ 
to membership but those belonging to some honest craft and o^ 
good fame and conversation. This guild was very celebrated^ 
From a manuscript in the British Museum, we learn that no les^ 
than fourteen thousand eight hundred and fifty persons took part^ 
in the yearly procession. '* The master and six priests are bounc^ 
to keep a solemne procession, the sacrament being in a shryn^ 
born in the same through the city of York, yerely, the Friday^ 
after Corpus Christi Day ; and the day after, to have a solempn^ 
Mass and dirige to pray for the prosperity of brothers and sister^ 
lyving and the souls departed, and to keep yerely ten poor foUcs^ 
having, every of them, towards their lyvinge, by yere, ml. viy. viiii- 
And further they do find eight beds for poor people, beii^ 
strangers, and one poor woman to keep the said beds, by the 
yere xiiij. iv^." 

Ancient Guilds in England. 113 

The good city of York was evidently fond in days gone by 
of Papistical pageants. The reading of its doings in the " dark 
days "would surely horrify an enlightened York man of today; 
but for all that, it is pleasant to look back and see our fathers so 
honest in the practice of their religion. In the same city existed 
the "Guild of the Lord's Prayer." It thus explains its own 
origin. " Be it known that, once on a time, a play, setting forth 
the goodness of the Lord's Prayer, was played in the city of 
York ; in which play all manner of vices and sins were held up 
to scorn, and the virtues were held up to praise. This play met 
with so much favour, that many said, 'Would that this play 
could be kept up in this city, for the health of souls, and for the 
comfort of the citizens and the neighbours.' Hence, the keeping 
up of that play in times to come, for the health and amendment 
of the souls, as well of the upholders as of the hearers of it, 
l>tcanu the whole atid sole cause* of the beginning and fellowship 
of the brethren of this brotherhood. And so the main charge of 
the guild is to keep up this play, to the glory of God, the Maker 
of the said Prayer, and for the holding up of sins and vices to 
scorn." Next follow some wholesome regulations as to the good 
character of the members, on prayers for the deceased associates, 
^d on doing good works. " The brethren are bound," proceed the 
rules, "as often as the said play of the Lord's Prayer is played 
»n the city of York, to ride with the players thereof through the 
chief streets of the city of York ; and* the more becomingly to 
'^iark thenoselves while thus riding, they must all be clad in one 
^uit" The good sense and religious spirit of the guild is shown 
^ a rule which provides that changes may be made in its 
'■^ulations, provided the change be "for the greater glory of 
^^od or the welfare of this guild." In accordance with this clause, 
^e find a later rule, " That a chaplain shall, qnce a year, celebrate 
■Divine Service before the guild, for the good of the bretheren and 
^*steren of the guild, alive and dead, and for that of all good- 
^oers to the guild. Moreover, the bretheren are wont to meet 
together at the end of every six weeks, and to put up special 
prayers for the welfare of our Lord the King, and for the good 
Sovemance of the kingdom of England," and for all members, 
living and dead. This document bears date 21st January, 1388, 

* The italics are ours. Poor Mr. Toulmin Smith, the editor of these records, 
****«€ dead, and Mr. Fumival, the amusing revisor of Mr. Smith's work, "had 
*f^tled together" that guilds such as the above were not religious b>xl soe\a\ «v 


114 Ancient Guilds in England. 

and is a picture of Catholic life which we should be proud \,<^ 
look upon and admire at the present day. 

Let us now step over to Beverley, and see what was don^ 
there by the " Guild of St Mary " in 1355. " Every year, on th^ 
feast of the Purification of the Blessed Mary, all the brethere 
and sisteren shall meet together in a fit and appointed plao 

away from the church ; and then one of the guild shall be da- 
in a comely fashion as a Queen, like to the glorious Virgin Mai>.^", 
having what may seem a son in her arms ; and two others sIulTI 
be clad like to Joseph and Simeon ; and two shall go as angel ^, 
carrying a candlebearer, on which shall be twenty four thicrlc 
wax lights. With these and other great lights borne befoire 
them, and with much music and gladness, the pageant virgixi 
with her son, and Joseph and Simeon, shall go in procession to 
the church. And all the sisteren of the guild shall follow the 
virgin, and afterwards all the bretheren, and each of them 
shall carry a wax light weighing half a pound. And they 
shall go two and two, slowly pacing to the church, and when 
they have got there the pageant virgin shall offer her son X.o 
Simeon at the high altar, and all the bretheren and sisteren 
shall offer their wax lights, together with a penny each. Ail 
this having been solemnly done they shall go home again with 

Alas ! that the Ober-Ammergau play alone is of today, and 
the above pageants of the 'fourteenth century. These guilds are 
nearly without exception thus dedicated to our Lady or some 
saint, and established to do them honour. Thus the Guild of 
the Purification at King's Lynn is founded *' in ye honuraunce 
of Ihesu Crist of Heuene, and of His Moder Seinte Marie . . - 
and speciallike of ye Purificacioun of oure Lady Seinte Marie.' 
The date of this foundation is 1367. Another at Bishop's Lynit 
is dedicated to " ye concepcioun of oure Leuedy Seynte Marye.' 
It is an interesting peculiarity, showing the strong hold whicli 
devotion to the Blessed Virgin always had on the Catholic mind* 
that, whosoever was the patron saint of the guild, our Lady i^ 
almost universally mentioned as a special patroness. Take, as 
an example, the guild of St. Edmund, North Lynn. We read 
that " in ye honour of Ihesu Crist of Heuene, and of His Modere 
Seinte Marye . . . and speciallike of yat holi martyr Seint 
Edmunde ye Kynge, yis ffratemite is foundyn and stabled." 
Again, the Saddlers' and Spurriers' Guild (Norwich) was estab- 
lished " to ye honor of oure Lady Seynt Marie, &c, in- ye ytx of 

Ancient Guilds in England. 115 

r Lord's birthe Ihesu Crist, a thowsande thre hundred foure 
>re and ffyue." 

The objects of these guilds are the performance in various 
ins of the corporal works of mercy. For this purpose there is 
course a fixed contribution, forming the fund from which the 
penses incurred by the guild are defrayed. Direct relig^ious 
rship is almost always explicitly provided for. After this are 
ted the objects for which the guild was established, foremost 
ong which is the moral well being of the associates. Next 
ae the practical duties incumbent upon the g^ild and 
Idmen, the payments to sick members and to those who 
/e lost their property by accidents, such as fires. Funerals 

properly attended to, as well by money expenses as by the 
endance of members. The good conduct and " conversation '* 
members is strictly enforced by fines and penalties, while they 
: forbidden to go to law with one another before they have 
leavoured to settle their differences by an appeal to the good 
cers of the guild. O fortunati minium^ sua si boiia noritit, 
e great feast day of the guild's patron is, as might be 
pected, celebrated with due solemnity. A banquet was 
^pared, at which all the members of the guild were bound 
der penalty of fine to be present. Much importance was 
ached to these meetings, as they were justly considered the 
ans of strengthening charity and goodwill among the 
ithren. Any breach of charity on these occasions, by 
arrelling, &c., was punished by a fine. That the poor were 
t forgotten amid these festivities is shown by the regulations 

the " Guild of the Holy Cross," at Stratford-upon-Avon, 
ilvery sister of this guild shall bring with her to this feast a 
^at tankard, and all the tankards shall be filled with ale, and 
erwards the ale shall be given to the poor. So l^cewise shall 
i brethren do ; and their tankards shall in like manner be 
ed with ale, and this also shall be given to the poor." 

That there were also merchant guilds, whose main objects 
re the interests of trade and commerce, is shown by the 
icial returns made to the King in A.D. 1389. Most of those, 
wever, quoted in Mr. Toulmin Smith's volume were of an 
clusively religious character, as the above extracts abundantly 
5tify. A member of one of these guilds no doubt gained other 
condary advantages from membership, yet the fact still stands 
^t religion and piety were matters of everyday Wfe amoTv^ 
« guild members. There was a Catholic or sup^ttiaXut^V 

1 16 A Contemporary EUgy on Edmund Can^ii 

atmosphere which our forefathers imbibed as i^turall] 
drew in the breath of their nostrils ; their minds c 
conceive any divorce between the future and the p 
possible, and therefore their associations assumed a 
aspect as readily as ours put on the garb of philanthro] 
consideration will explain the view of Protestants w 
of the middle age guilds as social institutions. Tl 
unquestionably social ; their objects and their me 
eminently social. But they were something more t 
They rose above the level of naturalism, which in the < 
greatest part of Protestantism. They did for the \ 
Jesus Christ and of " Hose Modyir Seynte Marye " 
nineteenth century does for the sake of respectability, 
lies the difference in a nutshell. There is a chasm, b 
deep, between those days and these. Prosperity then 
mere question of broad acres or of swollen purses, or of 
or of telegraphs. Our fathers did not dig downwards i 
of prc^ess and of our common mandril ancestor ; the^ 
have had sufficient, and more — they seem to have beei 
and happy. 

A Contemporary Elegy on Edmund Car 

[We printed in our last volume some Catholic poetry of the sixteenth cec 
curious collection in the British Museum. We have taken from the 
the following contemporaneous Eleg)* on the martyr Edmund Cs 
this case the spelling has been modernized.] 

Why xio I use my paper, ink, and pen, 
And call my wits to counsel what I say ? 

Such memories were made for mortal men — 
I speak of Saints whose names cannot decay. 

An angePs trump were fitter for to sound 

Their glorious death, if such on earth were found. 

Pardon my want, I offer nought but will. 
Their register remaineth safe above. 

Campion exceeds the compass of my skill, 
Yet let me use the measure of my love ; 

And give me leave in low and homely verse, 

His high attempts in Ei\g\atvd to itSti^axs^ 

A Contemporary Elegy on Edmund Campion. 117 

He came by vow, the cause to conquer sin, 
His armour prayer, the Word his tai^ and shield, 

His comfort heaven, his spoil our souls to win, 
The devil his foe, the wicked world the field. 

His triiunph joy, his wage eternal bliss, 

His captain Christ, which ever blessed is. 

From ease to pain, from honour to disgrace. 

From love to hate, to danger being well ; 
From safe abode to fears in every place. 

Contemning death to save our souls to hell, 
Our new Apostle coming to restore 
The faith which Austin planted here before. 

His nature's flowers were mixed with herbs of grace, 
His mild behaviour tempered well with skill : 

A lowly mind possessed a learned place, 
A sugar'd speech, a rare and virtuous will. 

A saintlike man was set on earth below, 

The seed of truth in erring hearts to sow. 

With tongue and pen the truth he taught and wrote. 
By force whereof they came to Christ apace ; 

But when it pleased God it was his lot 
He should be thralled, He lent him so much grace, 

His patience then did work as much or more 

As had his heavenly speeches done before. 

His fare was hard, yet mild and sweet his cheer. 
His prison close, yet free and loose his mind ; 

His torture great, yet small or none his fear ; 
His offers large, but nothing could him blind. 

constant man ! O mind ! O virtue strange ! 

Whom want nor woe, nor fear nor hope, could change. 

From rack in Tower they brought him to dispute. 

Bookless, alone, to answer all that came. 
Yet Christ gave grace, he did them all confute. 

So sweetly there in glory of His name. 
That even the adverse part are forced to say 
That Campion's cause did bear the bell away. 

This foil enraged the minds of some so far, 

They thought it best to take his life away ; 
Because they saw he would their matter mar, 

And leave them shortly nought at all to say. 
Traitor he was with many a seely slight. 
Yet packed a jury that cried guilty straight. 

Religion there was treason to the Queen, 

Preaching of penance war against the land ; 
Priests were such dangerous men as have not been, 

1 18 A Contemporary Elegy on Edmund Campion. 

Prayers and beads were fight'and force of hand ; 
Cases of conscience bane unto the State, 
So blind is error, so false a witness hate. 

And yet behold these lambs be drawn to die, 
Treason proclaimed, the Queen is put in fear ; 

Out upon Satan, fie thy malice, lie, 
Speak'st thou to them that did the guileless hear ? 

Can humble souls departing now to Christ 

Protest untrue ? Avaunt, foul fiend, thou liest. 

My sovereign liege, behold your subject's end, 
Your secret foes do misinform your grace. 

Who in your cause their holy lives would spend, 
As traitors die — a rare and monstrous case. 

The bloody wolf condemns the harmless sheep 

Before the dog, the while the shepherds sleep. 

England, look up ! thy soil is stained with blood. 
Thou hast made martyrs many of thine own. 

If thou hast grace their deaths will do thee good, 
The seed will take which in such blood is sown ; 

And Campion's learning, fertile so before, 

Thus watered too, must needs of force be more. 

Repent thee, Eliot, of thy Judas kiss, 
I wish thy penance, not thy desperate end ; 

Let Norton think, which now in prison is, 
To whom was said he was not Caesar's friend ; 

And let the Judge consider well in fear. 

That Pilate washed his hands, and was not clear. 

The witness' false, Sledd, Munday, and the rest. 
Which had your slanders noted in your book. 

Confess your fault beforehand — it were best, 
Lest God do find it written when He doth look 

In dreadful doom upon the souls of men ; 

It will be late, alas ! to mend it then. 

You bloody jury. Lea, and all the 'leven. 
Take heed your verdict, which was given in haste, 

Do not exclude you from the joys of heaven, 
And cause you rue it when the time is past. 

And every one whose malice caused him say, 

" Crucify ! " let him dread the terror of that day. 

Fond Elderton, call in thy foolish rhyme. 
Thy scurrile ballads are too bad to sell ; 

Let good men rest, and mend thyself in time, 
Confess in prose thou hast not metred well ; 

Or, if thy folly cannot choose but fain,. 

Write alehouse toys, blaspheme iiox. m iV\^ vauv.. 

A Contemporary Elegy on Edmund Campion. 119 

Remember, you that would oppress the cause. 
The Church is Christ's — His honour cannot die, 

Though hell herself revest her grisly jaws. 
And join in leage with schism and heresy. 

Though craft devise, and cruel rage oppress, 

Yet skill will write and martyrdom confess. 

You thought, perhaps, when learned Campion dies. 
His pen myst cease, his sugar'd tongue be still ; 

But you forget how loud his death it cries. 
How far beyond the sound of tongue and quill. 

You did not know how rare and great a good 

It was to write his precious gifts in blood. 

Living he spake to them that present were. 

His writings took their censure of the view ; 
Now fame reports his learning far and near, 

And now his death confirms his doctrine true ; 
His virtues now are written in the skies, 
And often read with holy inward eyes. 

All Europe wonders at so rare a man ; 

England is filled with rumour of his end. 
London must needs, for it was present then, 

When constantly three saints their lives did spend ; 
The streets, the stones, the steps you hold them by, 
Proclaim the cause for which these martyrs die. 

The Tower saith the truth he did defend. 
The bar bears witness of his guiltless mind ; 

Tyburn doth tell he made a patient end, 
On every gate his martyrdom we find. 

In vain you thought you would obscure his name. 

For heaven and earth will still record the same. 

Your sentence wrong pronounced of him here, 
Exempts him from the judgments for to come ; 

Oh happy he that is not judged there ; 
God grant me too to have an earthly doom. 

Your witness false and lewdly taken in, 

Doth cause he is not now accused of sin. 

His prison now the city of the King, 
His rack and torture, joys and heavenly bliss ; 

For men's reproach with angels he doth sing, 
A sacred song which everlasting is. 

For shame but short, and loss of small renown, 

He purchased hath an ever during crown. 

His quartered limbs shall join with joy again, 

And rise a body brighter than the sun ; 
Your blinded malice tortured him in vjdn, 

1 20 A Contemporary Elegy on Edmund Campion. 

For every wrench some glory hath him won. 
And every drop of blood which he did spend, 
Hath reaped a joy which never shall have end. 

Can dreary death then daunt our faith, or pain ? 

Is it lingering life we fear to lose, or ease? 
No, no ; such death procureth life again ; 

Tis only God we tremble to displease, 
Who* kills but once, and ever still we die, 
Whose hot revenge torments eternally. 

We cannot fear a mortal torment, we ; 

This martyr's blood hath moistened all our hearts ; 
Whose parted quarters when we chance to see. 

We learn to play the constant Christian's parts. 
His head doth speak and heavenly precepts give, 
How we the like should frame ourselves to live. 

His youth instructs us how to spend our days. 
His flying bids us how to banish sin. 

His straight profession shows the narrow ways. 
Which they must walk that look to enter in ; 

His home return, by danger and distress. 

Emboldens us our conscience to profess. 

His hurdle draws us with him to the Cross, 
His speeches there provoke us for to die, 

His death doth say this life is but a loss, 
His martyred blood from heaven to us doth cry. 

His first and last and all conspire in this. 

To show the way that leadeth unto bliss. 

Blessed be God Who lent him so much grace. 
Thanked be Christ Who blessed His martyr so ; 

Happy is he who sees his Master's face ; 
Cursed are they that thought to work him woe. 

Bounden are we to give eternal praise 

To Jesu's name Who such a man did raise. — Amen. 

Results of the Education Act. 

^ experience of the first twelvemonth's working of the 
cration Act of 1870 has not borne out the sanguine 
^ctations of its supporters, and, we venture to think, the 
:t upon the country has been very different from what was 
:^ipated. The first immediate result was a gigantic effort on 
part of the Church of England to add to the number of 
lary schools under her direction ; the Catholics, with equal 
» and with a liberality far beyond their means, raised a noble 
»cription to cover as much ground as possible with schools 
:he Catholic children. The other two parties in the kingdom, 
Secularists and the Nonconformists, made common cause ; 
^ shut their purses, they declined to add schools for their 
children, they refused to assist others who were building, 
► with strange inconsistency, clamoured loudly and even 
eriy for the confiscation of all denominational schools. To 
^e who have paid but little attention to the spirit and bias of 
Nonconformist body, their league with the Secularists, many 
vhom wish for the complete elimination of all religion from 
field of education, and for whom education is more perfect 
proportion as it ignores the attributes of God and man's 
itions to his Creator, must appear inexplicable. The one 
m of Nonconformity on those who do not call themselves 
nconformists is, or was, its steadfast fidelity to a principle, and 
g;enerous renunciation of temporal advantages for the sake of 
t principle. A foreigner might naturally ask — "How can 
je martyrs to principle for^o principle so far as to make 
imon cause with a party, where principles, if any, are not 
:ly discovered ? " The explanation lies in the fact that the 
linant feeling in the Nonconformist body is intense hatred of 
Church of England. The Nonconformists profess to value 
cation, but they would unhesitatingly sacrifice the education 
the poor rather than allow them to be educated by the 
irch of England ; they profess an ardent zeal to spare the 

122 Results of the Education Act. 

pockets of the ratepayers, but they would sooner pay a dotf • 
rate themselves, and they would sooner compel all who di^ 
from them to pay a double rate, rather than allow Protest^ 
children to be educated on a single rate in Church of Engla ^ 
schools. It is true that, in the agitation raised against the ^ 
of 1870, the Nonconformists have put forth the Catholics ev^ 
more prominently than the Church of England Protestants 
they have pretended that their consciences are wounded, th^ 
they cannot pay a rate which is devoted to the support • 
Popery, and some of the bolder spirits have challenged distrain 
rather than pay the odious schopl rate, which they complal! 
is the old church rate in a new garb. But this outburs 
of anti-Popery will not blind the eyes of the statesmen c 
the country; they know the Nonconformists have made . 
bid to convert the universally felt desire for a satisfactory 
system of Primary Education into a weapon of attack on th 

And, if we are not mistaken, the leading men of both partie 
have understood quite well that the Nonconformist trump wa 
a poor card : had the Nonconformists had reason on their sid< 
the attack might have proved formidable to the Establishment 
but the argument was an unsound one, and the attack contain 
no more danger than usually attends an unmeaning, noisy cr 
from the crowd. 

The Nonconformists, apparently led by their minister 
objected to the Act, that in leaving local School Boards free t 
decide the payment of fees to denominational schools, it taxe 
Nonconformists, and devoted their rates to the support of th 
Church by which the schools had been built. The obvious retoi 
was, Nonconformists who pay the school rate in towns, where th 
Board has decided on paying fees to denominational schools, d 
not support any Church ; their money buys so many hours c 
purely secular instruction, from which all religion is excluded, s 
many hours of instruction in mere reading, writing, arithmetic 
geography, &c. It is not a little curious that when urged witl 
this argument, no single Nonconformist speaker or writer ha 
ever attempted to show how the payment of fees to denomina 
tional schools supports the Church by which they were buill 
Mr. Dale, in a letter to the Tiines of December 8th, merel; 
asserts — "To tell us that the money is paid merely for th 
secular teaching is an insult to our understanding. It support 
the school " 

Results of the Education Act. 123. 

Mr. Baines, an authority among the Noncorformists, acknow- 
ledged in a public meeting that he could not fathom the 
Nonconformist objection. He added — ^we quote from memory — 
that he supposed the payment of fees to denominational schools 
in some way injured Nonconformity or Nonconformists, though 
he confessed himself unable to understand how the injury 

There does lurk a meaning in the Nonconformist cry which,, 
however, they shrink from publishing. Nonconformists under- 
stand that the possession of a school strengthens the Church 
connected with it : what they think, but dare not say, is that the 
refusal to pay school fees for destitute children would either 
starve out the school, or so cripple its efficiency as to render it 
^^jfthing but a support to the Church, or injure the school to 
some extent, and so injure the Establishment, and so further 
Nonconformity. The grand days of Nonconformity have passed, 
'^hen the intrepid devotedness of the parents and founders of 
-N^onconformity have fallen to the depths of such jealousy. When 
^U Nonconformists learn that the path of a glorious future lies 
'^ot in abusing nor injuring the Establishment in her schools 
^^d endowments, but in rivalling her in her works of piety and 
Usefulness. Let Nonconformists found schools for themselves, 
^^d conduct them so as to surpass the schools of the Establish- 
'^ent : in such rivalry lies the secret of the success of 

Meanwhile, rather than witness the prosperity of the Anglican- 
^^hools, they trample on the rights of destitute parents ; they 
^rfuse to allow them to send their children to the school of their 
^oice; or if they dare to do so, the Nonconformists feel no 
^hame in asking the managers of the school to give their 
instruction gratuitously, all to fall in with their small anti- 
establishment jealousy. 

The Nonconformist body has fallen into a discreditable 

Wunder. They imagined they had discovered a terrible piece of 

^rtilkry ; but the gun has burst without doing any harm, beyond 

^ harm of recoiling on its inventors. And as if to make their 

blundef worse, they trouble the air with threats of breaking up 

^c Liberal body and abandoning Mr. Gladstone to the tender 

nicrcies of his adversaries. They dare not coquet with the 

Tories, otherwise we are taught to believe they are on the point 

of forming an alliance with any body, to prevent the payment of 

fees to denominational schools. The great difficulty, pet\v^."^^/vs. 

124- Results of the Education Act 

to meet with a party ready to join them — Secularists and Nc 
conformists, this conjunction defines the position exactly. 

True Liberals, true friends of progress, the advocates 
rational liberty, in public and private life, all deplore the part 
success, it might almost be called the failure, of the Act of i8; 
To say nothing of Education in its highest and in its ti 
signification, there does exist a want of mere instruction, 
necessity for it, which was not known in past ages. 1 
instruction which might have fitted a man for society in 1 
middle ages will not fit him now. At a time when so mv 
travelling is accomplished in railways and steamers ; when 1 
whole fabric of commerce rests on credit, even in its small 
branches, when speculation works on scientific principles, wl: 
the poorest have within their reach the opportunity of savir 
banks and annuities and insurances, it is not too much to s 
that every one should know how to read and write. Acquai; 
ance with the use of the bow and arrow was not more necessc 
in a tribe of red Indians, than the knowledge of reading a 
writing is to every member of our English community of t 
day. Some knowledge of agricultural life was not more ind 
pensable to the serfs, the adscripti globe of the middle ag 
than the three R*s to our poorer population. Only enthusia 
can see in elementary instruction an adequate substitute 
education, or hope that the three R*s can make men honest a 
truthful, or confound morality with knowledge. Only t 
wildest visionary can deny that a little knowledge may be 
very dangerous thing, or doubt but that, as a red Indian mig 
wound his own hand with an arrow intended for an enemy, s( 
servant, by reading cheap and nasty literature, may lose 1 
purity of mind and destroy all the soundness of her und 
standing and will. Sensible persons recognize the nocess 
of elementary education, and acknowledge with shame tl 
England is not the foremost among civilized nations in t! 
respect, and that she falls lamentably short of a point whi 
might easily be attained. The desire for legislation was strong 
felt throughout the kingdom ; the Ministry certainly could coi 
on the honest sympathy of the whole country. 

The unfortunate religious divisions of England never told 1 

tale of their evil effects so plainly as in the case of t 

Education Act The problem was simple ; the want of instn 

tion crying : only for the religious difficulty, legislation woi 

have been easy; every child would Viave been, compelled 

Results of the Edtuation Act. 125 

attend school, and schools would have been provided in localities 
which were destitute. The wearisome history of the Education 
Act is still fresh before us ; the noisy, unreasoning opposition of 
a faction who thought themselves strong enough to dictate 
to Mr. Gladstone, protracted a most unprofitable discussion and 
distracted the attention of Parliament from the more urgent 
questions of compelling attendance and ensuring a certain 
proficiency of knowledge ; the question before the country was 
not, shall the best primary education be secured for every child, 
but shall the cry for education be wrested by the Noncon- 
formists, never zealous in the cause of instructing the poor, into 
a weapon of offence against the several denominational bodies 
which had distinguished themselves by the sacrifices they had 
made in that cause. 

So loud was the cry of the Nonconformists for a merely secular 
education that men forgot to ask themselves what part the 
Nonconformists had played in the march of intellectual improve- 
ment through the country. Had the policy of the last fifty years 
of Nonconformity been looked into, the inquirer would have 
remarked that many small chapels — clean, cheap, dreary places 
of worship had been built — mostly with money raised on mort- 
gage ; that under these chapels there was a half room, half cellar, 
destined for that worst form of educational activity, the Sunday 
school; that at a later period, in the most flourishing congregations, 
^hen the mortgage was cleared away, a more pretentious building 
^^ raised, often with architectural merit, and a separate building 
^^ then erected for the school. The system was financially 
sound, it risked little in this world, perhaps did not look for much 
m the next ; it was safe, it was many things, but it involved no 
sacrifice of money for the education of the poor. Later on, the 
supineness of the Nonconformists in the cause of education was. 
more remarked, and it was with much pleasure we observed the 
*opic was handled by Mr. James Whitty at the Liverpool School 

But let them see what the denominations did in the past and what 
jjis Roman Catholic friends had done. He found from some statistics, 
he had analzyed, that the Church of England possessed sixty six schools, 
^l^ich provided accommodation for thirty five thousand four hundred 
J^d thirty three inmates ; that the Nonconformists, taken altogether, 
*1^ founded twenty schools, giving accommodation for seven thousand 
sut hundred and six inmates ; while the Roman Catholics, though not 
P?^sessing the greatest amount ol wealth, as compared mlh olVvti c\as&t.'& 
^ ^c community, had erected twenty nine schools, of \arg« dimewsvoiis 

126 Results of the Education Act. 

than most of those he had referred to, which gave accommodatioii for 
twenty thousand four hundred and eighty eight children ; besides whid 
there were two or three mixed schools, which bore no denominadon, 
which accommodated three thousand five hundred and twelve children, 
and these altogether accounted for an aggregate of about sixty or seventy 
thousand. Had the Nonconformists, with their wealth and zeal, love (X 
progress and intelligence, done more to enlighten the people than the 
Roman Catholics had done in proportion ? When compared with the 
Roman Catholics, they appeared greatly to have n^lected their duty in 
this matter {Catholic Times ^ Nov. 25, 1871). 

A brief but true history of the educational movement of 1870 
would be furnished the statement that the section of the Dissenters 
of England, which had previously least distinguished itself by 
zeal for the education of the destitute poor, seized the opportunity 
of the Education Act to attack the existing educational resources 
of the kingdom, to satisfy their religious animosities, and called 
for such a strain on the rates as practically hindered the erection 
of Board schools. 

The Nonconformists, we say, allowed their religious animosities 
to sway them round in full opposition to the progress of education, 
and we fear it must be said the antireligious bitterness and 
fanaticism of the leading spirits among the Secularists made 
them the willing allies of the Nonconformists in their poH^y 
of inaction. 

What has been the progress obtained in England during i87^- 
The battles of the Imperial Parliament were fought over agf ^^* 
with equal fury, perhaps with equal intelligence, at every Sch^^ 
Board in England. There has been much talking ; much feel ^^ 
has been excited, and not kindly feeling ; school managers zC^^' 
plain that the uncertainty of legislation, the modificati^^^ 
introduced into the code, the hesitation of Parliament ^^^ 
Boards alike, have checked the flow of voluntary contributi^^^ 
and interfere with their own action ; they do not know who -— ^ 
to be their masters, who their inspectors, what measure is to . 

dealt out to them. But what has been done } Have sc* ^^"^ 


; J 




been built } have gutter children been compelled to attend .^ h^^^^ 
any steps been taken towards defining the extent of element^^^^ 
education to be required from our boys and girls ? Has t^^^ 
position of the denominational schools been determined ? 

As far as we know, no schools have yet been commenced, — . 
even decided upon ; as far as we know, nowhere has a Schi^*' 

Board had the courage to encounter the problem of compell^^^^J 
the attendance of the children. TVve ScYvooY ^o^xd^ ot Sunderla^*^^ 

Results of the Education Act, 127 

d Swansea have seen their way clearly to refusing the school 
is for the children of parents who claim their right of sending 
iidrcn to schools connected with their own Churches. The 
/erpool School Board has decided on paying such fees. In 
mingham and London these fees are to be paid for the 
sent, but the minority make no secret of their determination 
revive the discussion and obtain a reversal of this first decision. 
e London School Board, we fear, has become somewhat 
spicuous by showing how smart talkers and intelligent men 
K be completely wanting in the tact and sense and 
xtness of purpose which are necessary when a work has 
be accomplished. 

This is a sad resume of a year which witnessed a great 
ional aspiration for the improvement of its children ! And 

future does not offer much ground for hope. The local 
nent has been allowed too important a function in the 
ension of education ; a handful of London professors, 
erpool merchants, Sunderland tradesmen, country squires, 
rincial attorneys, are not the persons to strike out a grand, 
pie, comprehensive scheme of primary education ; they are 
to be trusted with the building of schools ; it should not be 
leir power to impose the school rate. The absurdity of their 
tion is brought out in the natural, but very laughable demand 
he right of inspection of schools, which are already under 
'rnmental inspection. " We levy the rate," cries the grocer ; 

money of ours shall be spent where we have not the right of 
ection." What can you answer ? And yet how amusing the 
Jtion is! 

.^rimary education is or should be an Imperial undertaking ; 
ould be placed far beyond the sphere of religious bickerings 
rtain leading principles should be fixed by the Government 
carried out thoroughly. Parliament has decided that primary 
"uction should be carried on apart from religious instruction, 
this principle be honestly and consistently carried out in 
y elementary school of the kingdom ; let the hours devoted 
rimary instruction be reserved exclusively for that purpose ; 
id the introduction of religious instruction during such hours ; 
the Conscience Clause be rigorously insisted upon ; and let 
transgressors, be they who they may, understand they will 
•everely punished. 

Parliament has decided that local School Boards may pay 
school fees oi destitute children sent by their ipatetvX.^ \.o 

1 28 Results of the. Education Act. 

schools of their own denomination. Let Parliament advance 
step further, and compel School Boards to recognize the righ 
of conscience in poor parents, and to pay the fees when 
parents are unable to do so. Let Parliament put a stop 
the miserable huxtering and bargaining, already too comm 
among the School Boards, which trade on the religious z 
of the denominations to drive hard bargains with manager 

who, it is thought, would educate the children gratuitous] 
rather than allow them to be sent to the Board school. Li 
Parliament fix the fee in all schools, and require it to be pai 
to every school which is admitted to be a public elementacr^. 
school. Or better, perhaps, let the cost of all public elemental 
education be borne by the country, and let Parliament 
every school on some fixed scale, regulated partly by 
attendance of children, partly by the results of the Govemmei 
inspections and examinations. Let Parliament, or rather th^-^ 
Executive, abandon its present paring system of grants, und^^^ 
which school inspectors appear to be sent round mainly to cu^*^ 
down to the minimum the allowance due to the attendances 9 
let it reward success, and offer to young children openings £^* 
higher education, in schools of design, in the army, &c. %lO 
Parliament has decided that the elementary instruction is to 1>^ 
entirely separated from religion : let the Executive eliminate 
the obnoxious parsonic element from the school inspectors 
Among parsons the prig type, the kind old lady type, appear 
very frequently, and few parsons seem to have the talent of 
avoiding giving offence to those who differ from them in 
religion. The abolition of inspecting parsons would be a step 
forward in the cause of popular instruction. 

When smart professors in London debate for hours how 
many hours per dient should be spent in muscular exercises, 
whilst they debate whether boys and girls should be taught to 
swim, whether boys should be instructed in drawing or girls 
prepared for household duties, let Government decide that every 
child shall be taught the three R's ; let Government build the 
schools and send in the bills to the Boards ; let Government 
sweep the children into the schools and charge the expense of 
the machinery on the School Boards ; let the instruction be 
commenced, and when the beginnings have been made, it will be 
time to consider whether improvements can be made. One bitter 
experience lies still before our legislators in Parliament and in 
School Boards, and that is the very small amount bf knowledge 

Results of the Education Act. 129 

»rfiich the great majority of the children cany away from the 

existing primary schools, or are ever likely to carry away unless 

a marked improvement in the attendances be enforced, and 

unless better books and better methods of teaching be called 

"ito existence. Even the testimony of the school inspectors 

scarcely states with sufficient emphasis the very limited results 

w^lxich hitherto have been secured in the instruction of our poor 


Above all, let the Government address itself without delay 
to the solution of the problem of compulsory attendance. 
Parliament casts the burden on School Board, School Boards 
try to coax school managers to aid in gathering in the Arabs 
a.nd gutter fry of our large towns. Meanwhile, the Arabs 
roam undisturbed, and the gutter fry have made no progress. 
Have our legislators considered how serious a change in our 
i^ational habits this compulsory attendance implies } Has pater 
f^fnilias inquired how much early rising, how much hard work 
^ust precede when the poor man's child is to reach the school 
^t ten a.m. } Let pater familias, a gentleman in easy circum- 
stances, who rides down to his place of business in his brougham, 
^k his lady whether she finds she has time to lose in the 
rooming if their son and heir is to reach his college at nine a.m. ; 
or, if he doubts her account, let him rise earlier and see with his 
own eyes the cook, the maidservants, the mistress, all on the 
strain to rouse the slumbering schoolboy, to make him present- 
^Wt, and launch him on his school life with a befitting breakfast. 
It may occur to him that the wife of a labouring man, who has 
to despatch her big boy to begin his appointed round of toil at 
^•x a.m. sharp, then has to get ready his real breakfast for 
^^ght a.m., then has to rouse the small family, dress them, feed 
^"Cni, and prepare them for school — and all this without a servant 
■^it may occur to the rich man that it is not easy for the 
^dewife to have her children at their places in the school for 
f^^ a.m. As a ^ matter of fact, only tidy, orderly, and very 
industrious women can secure this result regularly ; the lazy, the 
slovenly, the unthrifty mother is seldom in time. And yet, our 
'^^w Education Act supposes not merely the labouring classes. 
out the destitute and starving ; not merely the decent poor, but 
^^ most improvident ; not merely those families who have a 
^^1 to look forward to, but those who never know when they 
"se where their breakfast is to come from ; not merely the 
""^pectable poor who recognize t\it law, but the outcast i^oot, 

VOL, xvi. \ 

1 30 Results of the Edtuation Act. 

only too frequently living at war with all law and order, undc 
such restraint that they may be expected, as a rule, to send the 
halfclad, halffed young children to the school before ten a.t 
What a revolution in our ideas of liberty, in our habits, does n< 
this imply! What a police force, what machinery will 1 
required ! School managers, and school managers in present 
of such a social chaos, remind one of Dame Partington with h 
mop and pail, undauntedly, but not over wisely, on the seasho 
preparing to dry up the Atlantic. 

The compulsory attendance of poor children at scho 
evidently is a police question ; it should be intrusted to tl 
Home Secretary ; he ought to create a department, or subd 
partment, the Education Police Department, whose duty 
should be to relieve school managers and School Boards of i 
duties foreign to their natural sphere, and secure the presence 
the children. The managers have their hands full in the scho 
premises ; the School Boards should see to the proper disti 
bution of schools, to their effectual management, to tl 
encouragement of the most successful schools and children, 1 
the formation of skilled hands, &c. The Education departmei 
of the Council of Education may superintend the examinatic 
of the schools, the allotment of grants, &c. And the Educatic 
Police Department will then find itself charged with all tl: 
external management of the children — the taking the censu 
the prosecuting negligent parents, the reporting on the conditio 
of the educational districts, the compelling attendance. Let i 
imagine for one moment such a department in existence ; let i 
imagine it worked by such a staff of intelligent, prudently bol 
men as we possess in the Post Office Department ; let us imagir 
such a staff in frequent and close communication with the grej 
centres of our population, and we may say, without fear • 
contradiction, the educational status of England would be s 
much in advance of the actual state, as the circulation of lette 
in 1 87 1 is in advance of what it was in the year 1821. 

If the Government would only act — ask for powers to d 
instead of throwing down bones of contention for the politic 
factions of the country to quarrel over — they would soon 1 
encouraged by the hearty support of the whole nation. The sa 
dissensions of last year have not destroyed the sincere wish for 
thoroughly national school for primary education. Honest ar 
sober minds have been shocked by the alliance of the Noncoi 
formists with the avowed enemies ol 'R.ev^Xa.WotL Howest mc 

Results of tlu Edtuation Act. 131 

have smiled when Nonconformists clamoured for the suppression 

of denominational schools, and then nafvely offered to make 

over their own schools to the School Boards, provided the 

reading of the Bible was retained as of obligation ; there are 

follies and contradictions in the educational history of 1870 to 

sadden the most forbearing of mortals ; but all said and done, 

certain broad facts still remain. 

The nation wishes all its children, even the poorest, to be 
instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic ; it wants every 
child to be required to attend school ; it will not allow the 
religious liberty of parents to be tampered with ; it will not 
endure that the school room should be turned into an engine of 
proselytism, either by any particular denomination, or, still less, 
by iianatical unbelievers ; it is prepared to pay the cost of the 
primary education of all its children, only it asks, not unnatu- 
rally, that the expenditure should be wise, not wanton ; it 
loob to the Imperial Government to undertake this Imperial 
duty, Imperial in its magnitude. Imperial in its importance, and 
Imperial in the results which may be expected to flow from it. 

G. P. 



VEcoU d'Atkines au qiiatrihne sikle aprh Jisus Christ. Par Louis Petit de Jullevilk. 

Paris : Ernest Thorin. 

It would be an interesting inquiry to trace the fashions of human 
thought, since the world took to thinking, as typically exhibited in what 
may be roughly described as the ruling Universities — those great insti- 
tutions which, each in its own age, have led the taste of successive 
generations. We ourselves are living in the commencement of an era 
utterly new, when the popular tone of thought is scientific, that is to 
say, is based on a real or supposed deduction from fact The great 
University which ministers to this taste is the cosmopolitan oracle oi the 
press, in which the original inquirers of all nations hold chairs, and 
lecture to audiences of all ranks and ages across continents and oceans. 
Of the age just past — that of our grandsires — the age of scholarship 
and literature, Oxford and Cambridge as they were may be taken as 
fair representatives : before the Renaissance, again, came the mediseval 
schools of abstract reasoning, fitly typified by Paris, while across the 
gulf of barbarian invasion, amidst which men had other things to 
occupy their minds than tropes and quiddities, we find the heathen 
centres of mental activity, of which the mother and mistress, as well as 
the most illustrious individual, was Athens. Holding for so long a tunc 
— a good thousand years — the proud position which she in fact invented» 
it would be impossible accurately to describe in one word, as we have 
tried to do in the other cases, what was the staple of her wares. But 
throughout all her periods of changing fortune and varying taste one 
gift was always specially Athenian. Whether she took to oratory or to 
drama, to philosophy or to history, her sons could always say what they 
had to say as no one else ever said it. Pericles, Sophocles, Demosthene^ 
Thucydides, Plato — each in his special branch has been the model and 
the despair of writers and speakers ever since, and so we shall perhaf^ 
do no injustice if we say that the power which Athens held and could 
communicate was the power of using words. 

This same power, however, here, as often since, proved a dangerous 
gift. It is true that it can hardly be so to the actual artist who possesses 
it, for to produce beautiful language one must have beautiful thoughts» 
and one who has learned to think will hardly be tempted to become^ 
mere seeker of sweet sounds. But no less true it is that there is a nausic 
in a well balanced period and a smoothly finished verse, which is apt ^^ 
dwell in the memory and tickle the eai apart from the sentiment whicn 
Jt enshrines, and that men who peicewe X\\\s coi£\^ i\xs\^^\. Tka.NMxaU?{ ^ 

The Athens of the Sophists. 133 

think that the two things are separable — that they can be great writers 
or speakers without being great thinkers ; that there is something 
admirable in smoothness without sense and rhyme without reason. 
From such a creed our age is nowise free, but in Athens it came to be 
professed with a frankness which we shall probably find nowhere else. 
The natural bent of the people led to this. Livy describes them as 
already being, two centuries -before Christ, as good at talking as they 
were bad at everything else, and no reader of the speeches of the 
greatest of their orators can fail to contrast the sublimity of his words 
*ith the substantial paltriness of the response they evoked. But, what- 
ever the cause, come to pass it certainly did that a school — ultimately 
the school — at Athens set it down as the highest of human ambitions 
and accomplishments to be able to carry an audience along by mere 
force of talk, without any reference to its substance ; as Gorgias boasts 
^ the dialogue that he would undertake to contend before an audience 
unaware of the truth about medicine with a doctor. 

Confuted, and possibly checked for awhile by Socrates and Plato, 
^Jie Sophists who thus thought and taught survived their opponents, and 
'Qnained in the end the masters of intellectual Athens. M. Petit 
de Julleville's book gives a full and interesting account drawn from 
^ available sources of the period of final triumph and utter debasement 
of their art, if pace Platonis we may dignify it with the name. 

In the last century of the reign of " Rhetoric," the fourth century of 
Our era, the power of talking for talking*s sake seems unquestionably to 
have been that which men came from these ends of the earth to learn. 
Other sciences were not excluded — philosophy, mathematics, histor}"-, 
^troDomy, medicine entered into the curriculum, but as means only to 
4c great end. Not what was true in them, but what was beautiful, 
^hat might give birth to brilliant metaphors or happy similes did a 
Equine Sophist care to know. The great end was to be able to speak 
«^er than any one else, on the shortest possible notice, and on the 
^ost unpromising possible subject; to be able, in fact, like the Dean of 
St Patrick's (was it Stella or Vanessa that said it of him ?), to say the 
most beautiful things about a broomstick. 

Such as the art was, however, it was pursued with wonderful 
enthusiasm, and the greatest master of it at any period was a power in 
Athens. Not that here any more than elsewhere preeminence was 
allowed to be undisputed. In spite of the authority of the State which 
Undescended to award the palm — rival luminaries being banished and 
'ecalled by successive Proconsuls — there was always a host of teachers 
^ach in active and violent competition with the rest The following of 
^ach professor entered into the question of his claims with enthusiasm. 
Not only did they fight in the streets with all the ardour afterwards ex- 
hibited by Nominalists and Realists, but they went down to the Piraeus 
^ Watch for new comers, who as soon as they disembarked, were pressed 
"y one or other of the rival gangs, and carried off to sit at the feet of a 
^ter, whom often they had not come to hear. Other troubles besides 
?waited the unhappy freshman — notably the boisterous ceremony of 
J^uction, which is best known as having been omitted in favour of 
^ Basil at the instance of St Gregory of Nazianzum. 

The masters who seem to have established the best c\a.\m^ \.o 
preemincDce sure three in number — ^Julianus, Froairesius, and Yt\iam\3&, 

1 34 The Athens of the Sophists. 

their successive reigns filling up the century from its sixth to its nil 
tieth year. The most remarkable figure is Proairesius — the oi 
Christian in the list, who lived and taught beyond the age of nine 
and who is represented as having been nine feet high. In spite, lm< 
ever, of the enthusiasm which he evoked, 'and the triumphs which, 
achieved (he was summoned to Gaul by the Emperor, who wished 
hear him speak, and had a statue erected in his honour at Rome), rm 
to nothing remains to us to show what he could do ; as also the l£i 
which does remain is quite on a par with what we have from Himen 
it will, perhaps, be best worth our while to consider the art as exhibm 
by that worthy. 

In doing so we shall but have to draw out at greater length the i< 
already summarily given. Form then was everything — matter served 1 
as padding for the form. The great ancients were read and rifled — ^1 
not for their thoughts, their ideas, their true treasures; simply and sol 
for their " style." Allegories, tropes and figures, appeals to Maratl: 
and Salamis, amplifications of every fact of mythology, such constitu.* 
the stock in trade of a Rhetorician. The greatest and proudest triune 
of his art was to be able to speak on one side of a question, and tH 
without drawing breath, prove the other. For the practice of t 
valuable faculty a number of exercises were devised : ^^laliaiy epidetjc 
diaUxds^ schedia^ mdetai^ chreiai^ propemptika^ protrepHka^ phos;P 
nematika^ piasmoHkay^ had to be made and remade to give c 
dexterity. Himerius has left us some specimens fi'om which we < 
gain an idea of the whole. They are chiefly of the class plasmati 
In one it is feigned that Philip of Macedon has demanded that Dei» 
thenes should be given up to him. An orator — Hyperides — is feigc 
to oppose the demand by reminding his countrymen of Marathon, 
a second, Demosthenes is represented as pleading for the recall of 
rival iEschines, the staple of his discourse being appeals to the rxaetixi 
of Granicus and Issus. A third discourse is an impeachment, eqix^ 
fictitious, of Epicurus. Here is a specimen of it : ** Parnassus shooli^ 
terrify the Persians; they were crushed and entombed beneath 
avalanches. Today Epicurus affronts heaven — no mountains tott 
Hymettus is unshaken, no flames or thunderbolts consume his scli^ 
I divine the intent of heaven. Judges ! Epicurus is a victim reser* 
to you ! " The unhappy culprit is further described as being " bat^ 
than Ixion, more impious than Salmoneus, more insolent t* 
Tantalus." A fourth discourse is supposed to be delivered 
Themistocles, the Athenians being supposed, at the end of ^ 
Persian war, to have an intention of invading the dominions of ^ 
great King, which design Xerxes is supposed to offer to buy a^ 
Themistocles, equally supposititiously, being against his offer. 'T 
name of Themistocles calls up a yet more celebrated and in^ 
damning instance of rhetoric ; one which is so spoken of that we caJ*^ 
but take it as a champion of its class. During the days of Julianus, ^ 
hearers of Apsines, a rival light, had made an assault on Proairesius ^ 
other of Julianus* followers. The assailants then delated the assaiiK* 
as disturbers of the peace. The Roman proconsul determined ^ 
exercise justice strictly ; he would not allow either of the masters ^ 
plead for his own side, but a scholar from each party was to do so, 9X^^ 
no one was to applaud. Proadresms \vas cYvoswi, Yjcks o^^neiit^ who «* 

The Athens of the Sophists. 135 

also the leader of the assault, being one Themistocles, Proairesius 

began ; he complimented Julianus, he touched on the hardness of his 

case standing as a prisoner because he had received a wrong ; then he 

l>iirst forth, •* If, therefore, it be permitted to commit an injury and then 

to become plaintiif, if such a one is to be believed and the defendant 

not, be it so ; and then behold the city of Themistocles" This wretched 

pun took the audience by storm. The stem judge in the tribunal set 

the example of disobedience to his own orders by springing from his 

seat and applauding frantically ; Apsines, even, and his crew, could not 

i^cstiain their marks of admiration, which, however, did not save them 

from a sentence to be scourged. After this it can hardly be needful to 

tiling fresh instances to show how much was taste debased. 

M. de Julleville, however, will not countenance so sweeping a 
ocndemnation. He admits, indeed, that as far as he is able to under- 
stand our contemptuous estimate is but too well deserved ; that after 
J"eading with conscientious care every scrap of Himerius which is left to 
us, he is unable to find there anything more than a strange jumble of 
^fiected elegance and natural vulgarity, a little that is neat, and much that 
is vapid, while the bombast of the language fails to cover the utter want 
of thought ; and this he owns is the most moderate estimate that can 
honestly be made. But, on the other hand, he brings two arguments to 
induce us to pause ere we condemn, of which one, at least, is of weight. 
How is it, he asks, that such men as Basil and Gregory — and the 
notorious Julian — men whose force of mind we must acknowledge — 
found pleasure in such a study, if it were really no more than to us it 
seems to be ? Did not Basil devote four and Gregory six years to these 
sdiools, which we pronounce to have been but laboratories of wind ? 
And did not the latter saint write an epitaph on Proairesius, in which 
^e describes the light of the world as being quenched by that Sophist's 

To this we venture to answer that these men were great, not because, 
^t in spite of their training ; that they did precisely break through the 
^^inal dogma of their school ; that there was a matter for which they 
^^ared more than for any form ; and that sometimes even in their case 
^e forai does not enhance the matter. That they were not ruined by 
the atmosphere they breathed is but the brilliant exception that proves 

But M. de Julleville has another argument with which far less can 
^c agree. He contends that the ages which separate us from these men 
''^c it impossible for us to judge them aright ; our point of view is 
^ong; there is something in the thing which we don't see. Granting 
^ speech is but the garniture of thought, cannot garniture be beautiful 
^W. from a thing garnished ? is it quite certain that there is not some- 
{niiig admirable in the simple and independent love of talking well — 
^dependent that is of thought ? May not this art of language be a sort 
**f JDUsic for which nowadays we have lost the ear? 

From this plea we must utterly dissent We cannot conceive that 
^en music should be enjoyable without some connection in the mind; 
^ir Walter Scott, we know, never enjoyed an air that did not call up 
^ords. But, whatever be thought of this matter, the relation of language 
^ thought would seem to be indisputably that of shadow to svib^xaxvct, 
^ the ajgument of time adduced to help the Sophists seems to seXtie 

136 Les Assemblies Pramnciales. 

the matter most conclusively against them. How comes it that we ^ 
appreciate writers so much farther removed from us? that we can enter ix 
their thoughts and see with their eyes ? Nay, more — if we can appreci^ 
the energetic and unomamented outpourings of Demosthenes, can 
not indubitably judge that an oration written in cold blood, abou.^ 
subject that never had a being, without any Philip to inspire it, or a 
quick-witted, slow-handed people to give it an edge,^ an oration wind^: 
about from history to mythology in search of tropes and metaphors, si 
laboriously built up with the due proportion of choriambs and poean^ 
about as true an imitation of his style as the river Meander is the likeiM. 
of Niagara. Nay, if there be really a beauty in such things, are 
not blameworthy in failing to find merit in such productions as Swift 1 
caricatured in the " Lines by a person of quality," and the Reject 
Addresses in *' Lurid smoke and frank suspicion." Old Fuller tells 
that to tack on big words to small ideas is " not fine- fancy but 
foolery j " and that " it rather loads than raises a wren to fasten 
feathers of an eagle to her wings," And, in like manner, we cannot thm 
that the pabulum offered by the Sophists to the mind can in any circ:'* 
stances have been wholesome, consisting as it did of such a £^ 
halfpennyworth of bread to such an intolerable deal of vapid sack. 



Les Assembles Prmnttciales sous Louis XVI. et Les Divisions Administratives de M^ ^ 
Par le Vicomte de Lu9ay. Deuxieme edition, revice et augmentee. P^*" 
George de Graet, 1871. 

This book treats of the origin, causes, working, and results of 
French Provincial Assemblies of 1787, and of the Administrative sys'^ 
created by the Constituent Assembly in 1789. It touches upon 
decisions of the French Assembly in June, 1871, and gropes for 
beginnings of local administration under the Merovingian dyn^ 
Though principally occupied with enactments that were passed- 
stormy times, it has evidently been composed in the quiet of an 
lawyer's chamber, into which past years have poured their docum^ 
but not their passions. The writer does not write like a partizan ; tin 
is no special pleading in the book, but sensible remarks occur win 
suggestive facts give them an appropriate place. 

At first starting the >vriter has pourtrayed the manner in which 
rights of the French provinces were in some instances carelessly losC:^ 
others violently wrestled away, and in others again more fortuna.'i 
held fast. AVhat were these rights ? Selfgovemment in aH that ^ 
not directly concern the general interests of the whole kingdom. "^ 
administrators of these local rights were the clergy, nobles, and comim^* 
convoked in assembly. Such assemblies were at the beginning of L^ 
the Sixteenth's reign the privilege of only one third of the populate 
The provinces inhabited by this happy moiety of the people were csJ 
pays (TS/afs, or territories with class assemblies. It will be desirabte 
purposes of comparison and reference to give an accurate view of ^ 
liberties which they enjoyed. Once a year by virtue of royal lette 
patent, a certain number of the clergy, noXAts, ^xAxwrnkx^ authority 

Les Assemblies Provinciales. 137^ 

assembled at some town appointed by the Government, heard the wants. 

of the treasury stated by a royal officer, and then proceeded to vote 

supplies. Elach order had but one vote, so that the clergy and nobles 

could outvote the tiers etat in spite of the numerical superiority of the 

latter. The distribution and the getting in of the supplies were duties 

devolving upon these assemblies ; to them, too, belonged the direction 

of provincial public works. Before breaking up, the representatives of 

the three classes appointed a permanent committee which, within their 

instructions and subject to their secretary, was to wield their power until 

they again met. It was in the nature of things that this executive 

commission should find itself continually thwarted by the King's officer, 

called an intendant, whose province it was to direct works whose object 

Was more general than local, to preserve order, and to distribute justice. 

We shall often see this state of collision recurring in subsequent attempts. 

to combine imperial and local administration. Had the duties of the 

^x>yal officer been less important, there would have been but one thing 

wanted to make the condition of the pays d'etat practically perfect ; 

this was a greater equalization between the privileged classes and the 

*i^s etat. 

We have already explained how the method of voting gave a certain 
n^jority to the clergy and nobles, if they chose to combine; and in 
^.^estions more especially affecting their interests, such combination was- 
to be reputed. This caused great disaffection among the commons 
when once they had been indoctrinated with the rights of man. In 
^pite, then, of the large liberties which these provinces enjoyed, when 
coinpared with the pays d'electioii^ where there was no local government, 
their people were not content. If the happiest citizens were in a state 
^^ unrest, what are we to imagine were the feelings of those governed 
^ot only arbitrarily but, as a rule, oppressively? The best answer to this. 
9^estion is afforded by the horrors of the Revolution. 

It will, perhaps, be interesting to follow our author in his description 
P^ the rise, cause, and phases of the arbitrary government which made 
itself so justly detested. It must be held in mind that at one time or 
^thcr all the French provinces possessed and used the rights which we 
*^ve above described as existing in the pays d'etats^ at least to the 
^J^tent of meeting to vote subsidies. The persons elected by the people 
to apportion the subsidies thus voted, in many provinces gradually 
*^came immoveable, and then in course of time, though retaining the 
^^^nae of deputies, they came to be appointed by the King, which gave 
them formidable power. The provinces which suffered this meta- 
morphosis of their representatives into govermental officers continued 
to be called, by a misnomer, pays d' election^ or territories having a right 
^ election. Several causes combined to make the change agreeable to 
the commons. They felt abashed in the presence of the clergy and of 
^he nobles, found it inconvenient to leave their business for the annual 
assembly, and saw no great mischief in leaving their affairs in the hands 
^^ their own deputies. By the time that the latter had lost their original 
^^^^aracters, habit had accustomed the people to the new state of things. 

But the powers which the quondam deputies had usurped they were 
destined to lose. They parted with their administrative power in favour 
pf a royal officer who had the title of " general," but retained thevt 
judicial poiFcr in ail cases connected with taxaUon. R\che\\e\i>NOvA^TiQ!t 

138 Les Assemblies Provinciales. 

let them be absolute even here, and allowed appeals to be made fr<^ 
their decisions to a high officer called an intendant This new creati 
of Richelieu's put all the threads of government in the King's han 
made his power absolute, filled his cofifers, prostrated the people, arr 
-drained their resources. The intendants were sometimes called Kin 
men ; a short exposition of their powers and of their doings will she 
that they had no claim to be called the people's men. Religion, justi 
war, agriculture, commerce, navigation, police, public works, all fl 
under the control of the intendants. " Not even a Briareus," to qu 
the Marquis de Mirabeau, " can hope to perform a tithe of the du 

which devolve upon the new officers. The best intentioned amo: 
them are powerless to see half the good they might do, and la. 

strength to do half of what they can see." But the intendants were i^ 
always well intentioned; many looked upon the office as a steppii 
stone to something higher, and finding that presence at Court wj 
better recommendation than conscientious work at their post, 
avoided residence as much as possible. Yet, had they always been 
the spot, the extent of their jurisdiction, and the multiplicity of tl 
•duties, made it necessary that an army of underlings should be at 
back : in the appointment of these lower officials the country had 
voice, they were the nominees of the intendant The last sts^e of 
<iistril3ution among the people was in the hands of these subordinal 
but the actual levying of the money was confided to the taxpay^^ 
themselves, who took the burden of collecting in turn, six be 
employed every year. 

These collectors were a veritable scourge. Bound to make g< 
any deficit, they were sorely tempted to shrink before resistance an( 
oppress the yielding ; their duties were sufficiently onerous to prev 
their attending to their ordinary means of living, which made them 
the more intent on receiving the commission which they were allo^ 
•on the money paid in. After all, this was only an abuse: it was not in '^ 
nature of things that the collectors should always spare the rich ^^ 
•come down heavy on the poor, but it was part of the system of 
that the rich should be spared. This will be clear from a considerat 
of the custom which regulated the levying of the direct tax called /jj 
This tax was in some provinces levied on land ; in others, on '^^_ 
individual. In the latter case, the clergy and nobles, as well as a h. 
of officials, were ipso facto exempt ; the exemption obtained in seveni 
•out of the twenty provinces which made up the/^yx d^ election. 

It would be impossible in a short review to do justice to the ii 
mation which M. de Lugay provides with regard to the taxes, direct 
indirect, at different times, in different provinces, and for different class-- 
of society. The peasants were obliged to give up several days' wor^ 
year in order to keep the public roads in repair. They had to bi ^ 
their own tools, teams, and carts, often from a distance so great that 
best portion of the day was spent in going and returning, and the 
were tired out on reaching the scene of labour. Many a chord 
struck in a society thus constituted by the promulgation of the right^ 
man. This made the overburthened classes and the wiser heads of 
privileged classes anxious to think out some reform 6f a state of 
which had outlived its propriety. 

F6nelon proposed that each diocese ^YioxAd Vvan^ a meeting of ^^ 

Les Assemblies ProvinciaUs. 139 

tiiree orders for local government and the distributing of the taxes, that 

it should send deputies to one of twenty assemblies which were to stand 

between the diocese and the states-gmercU. The latter were to consist 

of deputies from the twenty states-local. He further contemplated the 

substituting occasional royal inspection for permanent intendants, the 

abolition of the anomalous impost on salt called gabelle. A little later, 

the Marquis de Mirabeau formed a plan similar in principle, by which 

^e attempted to form an alliance between the traditional superiority of 

the upper classes and the growing desire for perfect equality on the part 

of the commons. 

Then came Turgot's radical proposal to administer the country by 
'^^hat he called municipalities. In this system, the town or village 
municipality was the lowest in rank, or the nearest to the people ; all 
those possessed of six hundred livrgs, or about ^24, were to vote for 
this council. Next came that of the district, which consisted of deputies 
ft[oin the town municipalities. On a higher level still stood the muni- 
<^ipality of the province, which was to help to produce the grand 
uiuiiicipality, the last result of those quadruple selection of deputies. 
Turgot used the name of municipality to show that the assemblies 
had no merely administrative and no constitutive powers. Le Trossu 
similarly proposed a quadruple s)rstem of administration, the simplest 
dement being the arrondissementy the most complex the Great Council. 
He agreed with Turgot in making property, and not rank, the qualifi- 
cation for voting and for eligibility. None of the projects were actually 
put into execution, but they helped Necker in the plan which he 
succeeded in persuading Louis the Sixteenth to adopt as an experiment 
*ii Bern. By this plan, the pays cTetats were to remain as they were, 
hut the pays d*klection were gradually to obtain the rights which, in 
1 7 78, were conferred upon Berri, and in the following year on Haute 
Ouienne. In these provincial assemblies all three orders were to meet, 
the tiers etat having a representation equalling in number the clergy and 
^ohles taken together, and the voting was to be by head. Still, none 
hut commons of professional position were elected to represent the tiers 
^€U; and in the excited state of public opinion it was not considered 
safe to confide the selection of the members to the people. The 
precaution, as it proved, occasioned in great part the very commotion 
'^hich, perhaps, its omission would have failed to prevent The King 
chose half of the members, and these filled up their number. Similarly, 
^If of the district assembly was appointed by the provincial assembly, 
^nd they filled up their number, and then proceeded to do the same for 
^e assemblies third in order. This retention of the nominating power 
"^^^as intended to last for a time only : not so the rigid condition that the 
assemblies, after voting supplies, should in no way hamper them with 
conditions. In case any delay was made in getting in the money, the 
uitendant was to proceed to levy the money, independently of the 

Louis the Sixteenth's tentative measure was received with favour in 
^^, and these new legislators made wise use of their new powers, 
^Pplying a happy augury of the beneficial results which would follow 
JJ?^, extension of the same privileges to all the pays d'hlection. Haute 
Ijl^Jenne acquired similar liberties in the new year, but Dauphin^ refused 
^ new ^xtm, SLud clamoured so loudly for the lesloiaiioii ol *\\& 

140 Dr. Newman's Essays. 

ancient state assembly that the King pelded. Immediately the c- 
throughout France was for similar state assemblies. The Bern tyH 
of provincial meeting no longer satisfied the demands of the peopH 
Necker had retired before the opposition which his reform had pr— 
yoked, and Calonne was the Minister who endeavoured to satis * 
public expectations by persuading Louis, by one measure, to fpyt larg» 
liberties to all the pays d' election. His plan was to allow every individu. 
over twenty five, and worth ten livres a year, to vote for the members • 
a parochial assembly. The latter elected some of its own members r 
represent it in the department or district assembly, which similar'- 
helped to form the provincial assembly. The latter resolved itse 
into five committees for different branches of administration, gave 
report of its proceedings each day to the intendant, but would not hz 
interfered with by him unless it took no measures for gathering in thi 
money which it had voted. It elected a permanent committee of eigls 
two of whom retired every year. 

Certainly there was enough liberty here to satisfy sober, reasonaba 
minds, but, unfortunately, the privilege most prized by the people, that 
the election of the members, was to be defined for three years. And ncs 
the local parliaments — a result of registration — fiercely protested agains 
the new measure, going in some instances so far as to refuse to fegist-i 
the decrees appointing the new constitution, in others forbidding the^ 
to meet when summoned by the King. Such was the crisis caught t 
the Revolution — a crisis in which the parliaments throughout tfc 
country stood opposed to the King, the assemblies to the intendants, 
moment at which there was no authority in the country sufficient 
prominent to arrest attention. With a sudden spring a new pow- 
came upon the scene, and threw bands of iron upon the multitudes, wH 
had just recovered selfgovemment, but had not had time to know ho* 
to use it against their oppressors. What with the assemblies of tl* 
Notables, which necessarily interfered with the action of the provinci- 
assemblies, and the short time that had elapsed between their establisH 
ment and the meeting of the Estates General in 1789, it is not surprisirr 
that the assemblies were unable to do much, yet Viscount de Lu^* 
shows that they did enough to astonish any one who takes th 
circumstances into consideration. j^ 


Essays, Critical and Historical. By John Henry Newman, formerly Fellow of One 

Two vols. London : B. M. Pickering, 1870. 

We owe this republication, in a collection, of Dr. Newman's occa 
sional Essays to the position which he filled as the leader of th« 
tractarian party from its first formation till the time of his own submissioi 
to the Church, and to the use which Anglicans have often made, an< 
are sure to make, even after the appearance of the volumes before us 
of the name and authority of their former guide and champion. Then 
are still many Anglicans who can hardly make up their minds tha 
T>T. Newman is not one of themselves. Others speculate upon tht 
motives which may be assigned for his coiweisvoii, ^aad try to persuadt 

Dr. Newman* s Essays. 141 

themselves that they were insufficient, unreasonable, or at least, personal, 
owng their chief weight to some peculiarity of character in the man, 
rather than to the inherent unsoundness of the cause which he under- 
took, in all good faith, to make the most of, and which crumbled to 
pieces under his honest and unflinching manipulation. Dr. Newman 
l^as had the compliment paid him by his countrymen of having his 
ixiovements accounted for by a number of anxious theorists, all desirous 
to evade in their own persons the argument which may be drawn from 
tihose movements. No one, certainly, has ever, as far as we know, 
"v^entured to account for them on any low hypothesis ; but not the less, 
or perhaps all the more, has there been a fertile crop of suggestions 
'^vhich attribute them to some fantastical idiosyncrasy. As his Sermons 
l^ave already been republished, and will probably take their place among 
t:lie permanent treasures of the English literature, it was pretty certain 
that his scattered Essays would in like manner be collected. Many of 
tLhem are, of course, controversial, and reflect the colour of his mind 
t various stages of that mental struggle and history which, thanks to 
r. Kingsley, has been chronicled for all time in the famous Apologia. 
These articles, as far as they were directed to the defence of the 
Anglican position against the claims of the Catholic Church, were likely 
to be refurbished up, like old armour in a time of invasion, and made 
to serve a controversial purpose in some anti-Catholic campaign. Dr. 
T*«Jewman, seeing this, has anticipated his Anglican admirers. He has 
republished his Essays himself, adding notes and qualifications which 
show the present state of his mind on the subjects to which the argu- 
Tnents refer, and his own present thoughts concerning those arguments. 
As all Dr. Newman's writings will certainly live, not only on account 
of their intellectual standard and historical interest, but also on account 
of the beautiful language in which his thoughts are clothed, we feel 
extremely grateful for the occasion which has in a manner forced him 
to look over these Essays before republishing them, and to give them 
to us in an attractive shape, and with such comments as reflect his 
^^tholic judgment on the points to which some of them refer. We 
^ave more than once bewailed the too frequent lot which befalls essays 
and articles of the highest order, which are originally written for our 
periodicals and reviews. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd depths of ocean bear : 

^nd the oblivion to which old periodicals are relegated is as dark and 
^ Unfathomable as any ocean in the world. 

Pauci, quos acquus amavit 

"7"^. few, whom some potentate of the Row particularly favours, have 

'^^ir scattered treasures gathered up and strung in volumes ; but a 

^t number of most excellent articles perish altogether. No one can 

^^bt this who is at all acquainted with the comparatively large pro- 

l^^^ion of the most eminent men, in each generation, who have been at 

^^t occasional contributors to the Edinburgh and Quarterly alone; 

j^^ who considers how frequently it is the case that t\vose sccvA. qiOc\« 

^^ing periodicals and reviews contain articles which a\mos\. tY3cv;i>\%\. ^ 

142 Dr. Newman's Essays. 

subject, and which are the fruit of many years of study in some particular 
line, by an author who perhaps never writes again or publishes anything 
else. For all we know, even Dr. Newman's articles might have remained 
dispersed if he had not now collected them, unless indeed they had been 
collected for controversial purposes by the party of which he was the 
guiding spirit at the time at which they were written. 

The Essays now before us were published at intervals during nearly 
twenty years, from 1828 to 1846. This last date falls within the period 
of Dr. Newman's life as a Catholic : it is represented by a single Essay, 
a beautiful, delicate, and affectionate critique on Mr. Keble's Lyra 
Iwiocmtium, The earliest of the Elssays on Poetry with reference to 
Aristotle's Poetics, published in the London Review^ a short-lived 
Quarterly, in 1828, contains what we may almost call a theory of poetry, 
a subject on which the writer had incidentally to allude in reviewing the 
Lyra, This first Essay is almost too full of thought for its length — ^it 
is perfectly crammed with exquisite bits of criticism. The next Essay, 
on Rationalism in Religion, is a reprint from the Tracts for the Times, 
The Fall of I^amennais, Mr. Palmer's View of Faith and Unity, The 
Theology of the Epistles of St. Ignatius, the Prospects of the Anglican 
Church, the Anglo-American Church, and the Life of the Countess of 
Huntingdon, complete the subjects of the first volume. The Essays in 
the second volume are, first, the famous article on the Catholicity of the 
English Church, Mr. Newman's "last shaft against Rome," in tht British 
Critic; and then papers on the Protestant View of Antichrist, on Mr. 
Bowden's Life of Gregory the Seventh, on Private Judgment, ending 
with two papers on personal friends, late Fellows of Oriel, John Davison 
and John Keble. This last is the review of the Lyra Innocentium, 
already mentioned. The Essays are interspersed with notes and com- 
ments, which set the argument right, or answer it, where it is against^ 
Dr. Newman's present convictions; and these, of course, are in some sensf 
the most important parts of the whole publication, at least those whictr^^ 
have the most immediate interest, as utterances which are entirely new- 

The two most important of these notes are that on the Ignati: 
Epistles, in the first volume, and that appended to the article on tl 
Catholicity of the English Church, in the second. The first is 
trenchant argument, meeting the new difficulty which has arisen sim. 
the publication of the article on St Ignatius, in consequence of 
discovery of the Syriac form of the Epistles, which is connected 
the name of the late Dr. Cureton. At the time at which Dr. Newnu 
wrote, the only question lay between the " longer " and " shorter,' 
Medicean, manuscripts of St. Ignatius, and learned men were fai: 
agreed as to the spuriousness of the former. Dr. Cureton brought a ni 
element into the controversy by questioning the authenticity of even 
shorter form of the Epistles, and this argument has now been met 
Dr. Newman, who gives very good reason for his adherence to 
Epistles as defended by Pearson and others ; and suggests that 
Syriac manuscripts — which, in reality, are not uniform in their o\ 
witness — contain passages, " excerpta," from the Epistles, and not 
whole. Still more interesting, for the moment, will be the other loi 
note which we have named, in which Dr. Newman carries on 
completes the argument with regard to Anglican Ordinations, which 
set forth in a ietter printed in our own pages som^ '^eax^ 2Jgo, ^«\ 

Dr. Newman's Essays. 143, 

he has seldom written anything more practically weighty and conclusive 
than the broad free argument with which breaks down, as it seems 
to us, the last technical defence which Anglicans can make for their 
position — a defence which serves, we are sure, for a snare to thousands^ 
of souls. But we shall not attempt to epitomize what is already short 
enough; and we content ourselves with the passage in which Dr. 
Newman meets, as no one else, perhaps, could meet, the retort urged 
by some writers from Macaulayand Chillingworth, that Catholic Ordina- 
tions may be unsound as well as Protestant Ordinations. 

I cannot deny, certainly, that Catholics, as well as the High Anglican 
School, do believe in the Apostolic Succession of ministry, continued through 
eighteen hundred years ; nor that they both believe it to be necessary to- 
such a ministry ; nor that they both act upon their belief. But, as I have 
said, though so far the two parties agree, still they differ materially in their 
respective positions, relatively towards that Succession, and differ in conse- 
<luence in their exposure respectively to the force of the objection on which I 
have been dwelling. The difference of position between the two may be 
pressed in the following antithesis — Catholics believe their Orders are 
^^d, because they are members of the Church ; and Anglicans believe they 
helong to the Church because their Orders are valid. And this is why 
Wacaula/s objection tells against Anglicans, and does not tell against 

In other words, our Apostolical descent is to us a theological inference, 

^d not primarily a doctrine of faith ; theirs to them is a first principle in 

^ntroversy and a patent matter of fact, the credentials of their Succession.. 

'hat they can claim to have God's ministers among them, depends directly 

^d solely upon the validity of their Orders ; and to prove their validity, they 

^c bound to trace their Succession through a hundred intermediate steps, 

^^ at length they reach the Apostles : till they do this, their claim is in 

abeyance. If it is improbable that the Succession has no flaw in it, they 

^ve to bear the brunt of the improbability : if it is presumable that a 

^P^cial Providence precludes such flaws, or compensates for them, they 

^^^^not take the benefit of that presumption to themselves ; for to do so 

^Ouid be claiming to belong to the true Church, to which that high Provi- 

^dice is promised ; and this they cannot do without arguing in a circle^ 

^'"^t proving that they are of the true Church because they have valid Orders,. 

^^<i then that their Orders are valid because they are of the true Church. 

Thus the Apostolical Succession is to Anglican divines a sine qnd non^ 
r^^t " necessitate praecepti," sed " necessitate medii." Their Succession is 
^^clispensable to their position, as being the point from which they start, and 
z5i^^'€fore it must be unimpeachable, or else they do not belong to the 
^Hurch ; and to prove it is unimpeachable by introducing the special 
*^*Xfcvidence of God over His Church would be like proving the authority 
^^ Scripture by those miracles of which Scripture alone is the record. We, 
^*^^ our side, on the contrary, are not in such a dilemma as they. Our starting 
^^int is not the fact of a faithful transmission of Orders, but the standing. 
•^ of the Church, the Visible and One Church, the reproduction and sue- 
sion of herself age after age. It is the Church herself that vouches for 
Orders, while she authenticates herself to be the Church not by our 
^'ders, but by her Notes. It is the great Note of an everenduring ccetus 
^iium, with a fixed organization, a unity of jurisdiction, a political great- 
^.^ss, a continuity of existence in all places and times, a suitablenes s to all 
^\^ises, ranks, and callings, an ever energizing life, an untiring, ever evolving 
*^*^tory, which is her evidence that she is the creation of God, and the 
resentation and home of Christianity. She is not based upon her Orders, 
is not the subject of her instruments, they are not necessary ioi Vet \^^^ 

J 44 Forster's Life of Charles Dickens. 


Tlu Life of Charles Dickens. Vol. I. By John Forster. London: Chapman and 

Hall, 1872. 

It is, perhaps, one of the better features of the age of shallow frivolity 
in which we live, that people are at least desirous that the favourite 
authors who feed their insatiable passion for fiction should be wdl 
rewarded and highly honoured, and that the popularity which has waited 
on them while auve and able to work for general gratification continues 
-after their removal from the scene in the shape of an intense curiosity as 
to their biographies. The present season is, we imagine, a rather dull 
season for the publishers and writers of anything very serious and sub- 
stantial. It is a satire on the times that the most successfiil publications 
of the past year should have been Dame Europa and the Battle of 
Dorking; and any one who takes the trouble to examine the lists of new 
books in such publications as the Publisher^ Circular^ or the BooksdUr^ 
will be surprised to see how little history, how little real science, how 
much less philosophy and theology has been published in the last twelve 
months, by the side of thousands of trashy novels and books of travel an^ 
adventure. Christmas is becoming the great period of new ventures in 
the literary world, and Christmas books we have in abundance, son>e 
very beautiful and artistic, no doubt, but very few that have cost much 
of intellectual exertion, or that embody much ability except that of tb^ 
engraver, the printer, or the binder. But the Life of Charles Dickens is 
an instance of a good book — though, perhaps, not a very deep book^- 
which, without the aid of an appeal to the less severe enjoyments which 
are derived from pictorial art, has already made itself thoroughly popular, 
and we may suppose that there are few among the millions to whom 
Pickwick and its successors have become standard sources of pleasure, 
who are not anxious to know as much as they can be told about the 
genial and sympathetic soul from which so many vivid impersonations 
liave been thrown off". 

Mr. Forster, apart from his known literary skill, has the incomocitt- 
nicable qualification for his task, which consists in his having been ^ 
intimate friend and adviser of Dickens, almost from the very outset ot 
the career of the latter. This may unfit him, perhaps, for the office ^ 
judge as to the merits or demerits of the subject of his work; but '^^ 
do not care so much for the most impartial judgment as the worid, so 
long as we have the fullest possible information. The book deserves 
all its popularity, and will no doubt live along with Mr. Dickens' o^n 
works as their inseparable companion. It is not, however, a masterpie^^ 
It is a more commonplace book, for instance, than Mr. Forster's o^^ 
fjfe of Goldsmith, It is a pleasant, instructive narrative, letting Dickft'S 
speak for himself as much as possible, and giving us just the infonnati^? 
which we want as to the relation of the man to his works, as to th^*^ 
conception, as to the manner in which they were writtten, and the U^^ 
Moreover, it gives us, to some extent, an insight into the character ^ 
Charles Dickens which the works might not have done by themsel^^ 
It reveals his intense vivacity and brilliancy, his sensitiveness, t*V 
impetuosity, iht mercuriality of his nature, if we may venture on su^^ 
an expression. It gives us, also, a great deal ol\v\^ luxv^Vac^ibias vssf^ 

Farster's Life of Charles Dickens. 145 

^'et been published — though he was a man who produced himself, and 
^n& obliged to produce himself, in his various works more than roost 
nen. Altogether, it leaves a favourable impression upon us, though, 
perhaps, a severe judgment might object to the overprofuseness with 
trhich the letters in the latter part of the volume, written from America, 
lave been poured upon us. 

The admirers of Charles Dickens will find, on turning over Mr. 
leister's pages, that their favourite author has already in some measure 
westalled the work of his biographer. We do not mean, merely, that 
Ir. Forster has had an autobiographical fragment to work upon as to 
le earlier years of his hero, but that one of the fictions with which half 
le world is familiar has already drawn the picture of much of that 
ariier period. David Copperfield is the history of Charles Dickens as a 
oy; with, of course, a good many variations and additions. This first 
art of his life is very interesting ; his struggle after knowledge, his 
arly ambition, his intense feeling of the drudgery to which he was set — 
>r some time he was a boy in a blacking manufactory — his resolute 
^Ifeducation — ^all prepare us for much that we find in the author of his 
Jnous works. These will be the most attractive chapters in Mr. 
oister's volume. Dickens became a reporter for the Mortting Chronicle 
^ nineteen, and slipped his first literary composition into an editor's 
ox at twenty two. Two years after this, he was writing Pickwick^ and 
t once attained that foremost place among the popular favourites of 
b day which he never aftenvards lost It was a pity, we have always 
nought, that he succeeded so young. A longer process of selfeducation 
y means of that hardest of all processes, uphill literary work, would 
ive made him greater than he ever became, and the defects which are 
* be found all through his works are the defects of imperfect develop- 
ent Charles Dickens was not much more than an exceedingly gifted 
>y when he made his first mark, and he never became full grown and 
ffectly mature. His most brilliant works were written in extreme 
ste, under the pressure of engagements to publishers which a more 
Perienced man would never have made. No doubt, the glow and 
sh of youth is in every line, and the charm of the whole depends 
c>n them. He did very wonderful things — we are only saying that 
tier more favourable circumstances he might have done things still 
»re wonderful. 

We have mentioned the letters from America which are included in 
s volume, which ends {1842) with Dickens' departure from that 
Jntry on his homeward voyage after his first visit, when he was 
^ived with immense enthusiasm everywhere. These letters will not 
Qjgether please our Transatlantic cousins, as they are full of very plain 
ticisms. The fact we take to be, that Dickens was not free from that 
:):unon defect of Englishmen, and especially young Englishmen, which 
ices them intolerant of external customs which differ from their own, 
i encourages them to fasten by preference on the disagreeable side of 
irjrthing foreign. Further, Dickens saw the Americans, in some 
pects, at a disadvantage, although he was the object of their enthu- 
sm and even, so to speak, of their devotion for the moment. Few 
|glo Saxons can matiage the more demonstrative phases of human 
istence with grace and taste ; and we very much doubt 'wVv^lVver ^xv 
kglish ''reception " such as that which was given to DVc^ieiis "m >i)cv^ 


1 46 The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 

United States, would not have revealed a much larger amount c 
vulgarity. This is all that we shall say in mitigation of the censure 
which are to be found in this part of the biography. Dickens was nc 
so much a man of large mind or heart as of immense quickness an 
keenness. His sympathies were very strong, but not essentially wid< 
We subjoin a tribute which he paid to the good side of the America 
character — 

" I said I wouldn't write anything more concerning the American peopl 
for two months. Second thoughts are best. I shall not change, and may '< 
well speak out — to you. They are friendly, earnest, hospitable, kind, franl 
very often accomplished, far less prejudiced than you would suppose, wan 
hearted, fervent, and enthusiastic. They are chivalrous in their univers 
politeness to women, courteous, obliging, disinterested ; and, when the 
conceive a perfect affection for a man (as I may venture to say of myself 
entirely devoted to him. I have received thousands of people of all rani 
and grades, and have never once been asked an offensive or unpoli 
question — exce]9t by Englishmen, who, when they have been * located ' hei 
for some years, are worse than the devil in his blackest painting. The Sta' 
is a parent to its people ; has a parental care and watch over all poor childre; 
women labouring of child, sictc persons, and captives. The common mc 
render you assistance in the streets, and would revolt from the offer of a pie< 
of money. The desire to oblige is universal ; and I have never once travellc 
in a public conveyance, without making some generous acquaintance whoi 
I have been sorry to part from, and who has in many cases come on miles t 
see us again. But I don't like the country. I would not live here, on ar 
consideration. It goes against the grain with me. It would with you. 
think it impossible, utterly impossible, for any Englishman to live here, an 
be happy. I have a confidence that I must be right, because I have ever 
thing, God knows, to lead me to the opposite conclusion : and yet I cann< 
resist coming to this one. As to the causes, they are too many to ent( 
upon here." 

The Fathers on St. Peter attd his Successors. Ly the Very Rev. J. Waterworth, D.I 

"To speak a word in due time is like apples of gold on beds of silver." 
If attention to times and circumstances is to be a test of merit, certain! 
the work of Dr. Waterworth is deserving of great praise. It appears j 
a time when the temporal and spiritual prerogatives of the Popedoi 
are being violently assailed, and every endeavour made to alienat 
Christendom from the common Father of the Faithful. To bring m€ 
back to former thoughts ; to draw their attention from the bellowings 1 
passion and the misstatements of the schismatic and heretic, the infid 
and the marauder, who for the nonce stand leagued together against tt 
Vicar of Jesus Christ, and fix it on the calm and Catholic language < 
those holy and learned men who, during the first five centuries 1 
Christianity, laboured by work and word to propagate and perpetual 
the faith of Jesus Christ, must be looked upon as a most importai 
employment, by such as prize the pearl of faith and are anxious to wai 
off the sad results of opposition to the Holy See — rebellion, irreligioi 
and anarchy. The curse of Cham hangs heavily on the men wh 
dishonour their Father. 

• Prov. XXV. II. 

The Fathers an St. Peter and his Successors. 147 

Notwithstanding the definition of the Council of Florence in 1439, 

in respect to the authority of the Roman Pontiff, which not only 

declares him to be the Successor of St. Peter, the Primate of the whole 

world, and the Head of the Church, but also the teacher of all 

Christians, and the possessor of the plenitude of power, by virtue of 

whidi he feeds, rules, and governs the Universal Church,* and the oath 

of obedience taken by every prelate to "the Successor of St Peter, the 

Prince of the Apostles and Vicar of Jesus Christ," f it was generally felt 

that questions regarding the prerogatives of Peter, would be raised 

daring the sessions of the late Vatican Council. It is true, indeed, that 

Pius the Ninth had not uttered a syllable on this head, in his Bull of 

Indiction. To other and most important matters he had directed the 

attention of Christianity; and these he had distinctly named as the 

subjects which he wished to be carefully examined by the assembled 

Fathers. Still there was a rumour afloat — volitans per regna per urbes — 

that to meet immediate wants and difficulties which were likely soon to 

arise in consequence of the materialistic and infidel tone of society, the 

Question of Pontifical infallibility would have to be discussed and 

eventually settled by a formal decision ; and such appears to have been, 

too, the conviction of the learned author of the Fathers on St, Peter and 

^is Successors. With a zeal which deserves all praise, and a recklessness 

of labour which those alone can fully appreciate who are thoroughly 

acquainted with the volumnious writings of the Fathers and other 

ecclesiastical records of the first five centuries, he undertook the careful 

Penisal of these works in order to learn distinctly two things: first, 

''^t was the Scriptural position of Sl Peter in the Church, according 

to the interpretation of the Fathers during the first five ages of the 

Church ; and secondly, what was the position of St Peter's successors, 

t^e Roman Pontiffs, during the same period, as ceaselessly attested by 

the ecclesiastical writers of that period. 

View the undertaking as we may, it was a most arduous one ; but it 
^11 be admitted to have been particularly so, when the attention of the 
reader had to be concentrated not on individual expressions, but on the 
^^ole theory of belief, relative to Peter and his successors, of each of 
^he Fathers. The author says — 

TTie work professes to reproduce the views and teaching of the Fathers 

J^ the prerogatives of St. Peter and his successors. Its aim is, that, when 

"^^ extracts from each Father have been read, nothing beyond what is 

^^tained in them shall be able, by friend or enemy, to be gathered from his 

^tings on these cjuestions — nothing, that is, that can fairly be said to 

.^ty, add to, or m any way change, the impression left by the passages 
Siven t 

The volume before us is the best evidence of the successful 
*^bours of Dr. Waterworth. We believe that he has done all that he 
Proposed to do, and more. We have examined the work with care, and 
have found every passage regarding the prerogatives of St. Peter and 
^e Popes with which we have been long acquainted, and numerous 
other citations and critical observations which were absolutely new to 
^^ We have compared this work, too, with t*EpiscapaJto oi Bo\gem,m>i3ci 

' Labbe, xiiL, $1$' f /%C /£/« AV IF. % P. x^ 

148 The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 

Ballerini's Dc vi ac ratione PrimcUus Romani Pontifids^ and Schrader 
Unitas Romana^ &c, and find none of these superior to it, eith< 
critically or authoritatively. Of course we shall not find in every a^ 
the same amount of evidence of any one given doctrine. The Fathei 
of the first ages were comparatively few. As St Paul says, there wei 
not among the first Christians "many wise, or mighty, or noble"* — xa 
many, in a word, able to compose learned works; nor, owing to tt 
troublous times of persecution, have even the works really compose 
reached us. Besides, those who did write had to establish the unity < 
God against polytheism, the divinity of Christ against Judaism, and t 
vindicate religion against the heavy and unjust charges urged against 
by the learned and . powerful advocates of Paganism. All thin| 
considered, it is nothing less than wonderful that they have referred s 
often and so distinctly to many of the doctrines and practices • 
Christianity. This at least can be said without fear, in reference 1 
the questions discussed in the work under examination : Not 01 
Catholic writer can be found to deny — first, that St Peter had be< 
at Rome ; secondly, had been Bishop of Rome ; thirdly, had possess^ 
that superiority and headship which the Catholic Church now unar 
mously concedes to him ; nor, fourthly, was any one ever rash enou^ 
to say that the Roman Pontiffs were not Peter's successors, the Hea< 
of the Church, and the great rulers with whom all Christians we 
bound to be in communion. The objection of silence is null ai 
void : those who urge it would do well to consider on what importa 
matters the Fathers were as a body really silent for a considerab 

It is true, however, notwithstanding the fewness of the ecclesiastic 
writers of primitive Christianity, that from the earliest period tl 
Pontiffs are distinctly visible, acting as supreme, and claiming juri 
diction over the Churches in the most distant countries. The history 
St Clement's embassy to the Corinthians, of the decision of Anicetu 
and the object of St Poly carp's visit to Rome, of the appeal of tl 
Church of Lyons to Eleutherius regarding, as St Jerome says, "son 
Church questions "t — most probably the errors of the Montanist 
which the Lyonnese Confessors had so strenuously opposed ; an appe 
which was made, as Eusebius says, ecclesiastics pads gratiaX — and of th 
action of Pope Victor in respect to the Churches of Asia, shows clear 
how Rome was admittedly the great guardian of morality, disciplin 
and faith, and how earnestly she acted from the beginning as tl 
divinely appointed ruler. Still, these manifestations of universal pow- 
were, comparatively, few and far between. With the extension 
the Church and the uprising of heresies, the exercise of Pontific 
power assumed much larger proportions, and was characterized 
results materially affecting the inner and outward developments 

We shall now proceed to summarize the contents of the imports 
volume before us. It consists of two parts, one regarding the plac^ 
St. Peter in the Scriptures and the Church ; the other, the place of ' 
successors as evidenced by the writings of the first five centuries 

• I Cor. L 26. 
f JDe Scrip, Eccles,^ cap. xxxv. X ^"t £ccl«.,\.. n,, cap. iu. 

The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 1 49 

Christianity. Every passage of the Sacred Scriptures containing a 

reference to St Peter is distinctly pointed out, and occasionally such 

references are given to the Old Testament as may help to explain the 

meaning of the texts cited from the New. Peter's call and promised 

name; the moment when the name was given; the lists of the Apostles, 

and the position there occupied by Peter ; the manner, too, in which he 

appears in the Gospels as contrasted with the other Apostles; the 

promises made to Peter as the foundation of the Church and the 

Shepherd of the flock ; the prayer made for him, and the subsequent 

command to confirm his brethren, are all laid before the reader in their 

Gospel fulness, and present as bold an outline of the future greatness of 

ftter as could well be drawn. This outline is more than filled up by the 

niarginal parallelisms which emphasize the meaning of very many 

''^ords and phrases, and enable us to feel the full force of the divine 

^ord : such as the consequences involved in the change of name ; the 

firmness and stability indicated by the word Cephas; the honour 

Evolved in that name regarded as one of the prophetical titles of Jesus 

Christ; the power of the word gates, the gates of hell, keys of the 

kingdom, confirm thy brethren ; and of those others which occur in 

^t John xxi. 15, 1 6, jSotfxi and ^oifictm. Peter's primacy appears in 

^naost every chapter of the sacred Gospels. Peter is singled out by 

Christ, and from Him he receives a special and prophetic name. He is 

'^^nied first not only in the lists of the Apostles, but also on every 

^^casion in which two or three are mentioned incidentally. He alone is 

Earned as addressed by our Lord, and he alone of the Apostles 

9^estions and addresses Him. Wherever a choice is made from among 

^he Apostles, Peter is always one chosen. He first confesses Christ 

^o be the Son of the living God, and is therefore declared blessed, the 

^ture Rock of the* Church, the bearer of the keys of His kingdom, 

^tici eventually is appointed to act as the Shepherd and ruler of the 

^ock of Jesus Christ. 

Similar is the evidence derivable from the Acts of the Apostles. 

^eter acts on all occasions as the Head. Not only does he take the 

*^2ui, but he may be said to hold the position in respect to the other 

•Apostles which Christ had previously occupied. He is the great centre, 

^tid around him all gather. He was the first witness of the resurrection 

^^^ore all the people — ** The first when the number of Apostles was to 

^c filled up ; the first to confirm the faith with a miracle ; the first to 

convert the Jews; the first to receive the Gentiles; the first every- 

^ere."* He took his place at once amongst the Apostles as Head, 

"^^use he had been appointed Head of the Church, and the appoint- 

^^t was recognized and fully admitted by the Sacred College. 

And to show in what manner the Church of the first ages understooa 
^he Sacred Scriptures in reference to St Peter's position in the Church, 
^^ fewer than seventy writers, comprising nearly all the learned and 
^^tly guides of God's Church of the period indicated, are cited, and 
'^^^y of them at great length. We will lay before our readers a partial 
^JJapaary of the evidence contained in the writings cited. We have said 
Partial, for nearly every line of their writings contains some strong and 
^zling developments of the greatness of Peter as Vicar of Jesus Christ 
^ thoroughly appreciate the mind of the Church, every \\ivt dXt^^oxX^ 

* Bossnet, Sermon sur V Uniti^ I, par. 

1 50 The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 

be read with the most patient and thoughtful care.* Peter, then, is th 
solid rock : on this rock the Church is built to last for ever. He is th 
everenduring foundation. The Church built on Peter is stronger tha 
heaven, on account of the words of Christ addressed to him. He is th 
prince, the head, the tongue, the mouth, the eye of the Apostles. H 
is the beginning of the Apostleship and of the Episcopate ; the Cor] 
phsus of the Apostolic Choir ; the Teacher and first of the Apostles 
the Bishop of bishops, and only one called Shepherd ; the Primate of a 
bishops, and the Shepherd of the flock ; to him the flock is committed 
he is to render an account of the whole Church which is confided t 
him ; he is set over the habitable globe ; is the Preacher and Teacher c 
the world, the Shepherd of shepherds, ruling and feeding the shepherd 
themselves, as well as the flocks. He presides, has the primacy, is s< 
over the habitable globe, goes about like a commander and leader. H 
is the doorkeeper and has the keys of the kingdom, is honoured an 
prefensed before and above all, and from him the grace of the Episcopal 
descends. His name was changed by Christ to indicate his unfaUin 
character, and as a guarantee for future blessings. He is, in fine, th 
Vicar of Christ's love, the personification of Christ Himselfj the figui 
of the unity of all pastors, the one appointed to put an end to schisn 
the representative of unity, one for all, and in him, as their head, all ai 

Such are some of the characteristic observations of the Fathers mad 
on Sl Peter, when commenting on the Sacred Scriptures, especially o 
the texts (Matthew xvi. 18, 19, Luke xxii. 31, 32, and John xxi. 15 — i; 
to which such notoriety has been given lately by the leader of the Berli 
schism and originator of a Church which has neither Pope, nor bisho] 
nor ministers of any kind, except a few defiant ' excommunicate 
individuals. As we have already said, no Catholic of the first fiv 
centuries ever denied Peter's supremacy, or so explained the» Scriptun 
a& to exclude that meaning which was uniformly assigned to them durin 
the first three hundred and fifty years of Christianity. If, eventualh 
Hilary represented Peter, as also Peter's confession, as the rock, he di 
so in order to silence the Arians; while Augustine left it optional t 
regard Peter as the rock, or Christ as the rock, spoken of i 
Matt. xvi. 18. On critical grounds alone, did Augustine hesitate aboi 
the meaning of the words in St Matthew. He had, as he states in hi 
retractations, interpreted the words as the Church had uniformly don< 
an interpretation which was adhered to in " the hymn chaunted by s 
many at Milan ;" but afterwards, doubting whether Petra was not th 
primitive word, and Petrus a derivative, just as Christianus is derived fror 
Christus, and not Christus from Chri$tianus, he left the critical meanin 
*of the passage an open question. This great Father could not bu 
be a modest linguist ; and even Kuinoel and Rosenmuller as wel 
as Neander,t admit the error committed by Augustine and advocat 
the Catholic explanation as far as Petrus and Petra are concerned. A 
all events, Augustine did not deny the old interpretation to be probable 
and as for the rest, no one ever more ably defended the Holy See thai 

* We shall not name the Fathers who make use of the expressions cited in th 
text ; because in fact each of those expressions is used by very many of the Fathers 
The work itself must be read and studied. 
i- £rr/es. /fist., iil, 238. 

The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 151 

the great African Doctor. He was **held in the Catholic Church by the 
succession of its bishops from Peter."* — that Peter "who represented 
the person of the Church by reason of the primacy," f and "whom Christ 
had made one with Himself committing His sheep to him as to another 


The Fathers could not have expressed in stronger or more decisive 
terms their belief in the Supremacy of St Peter. Whether the word of 
feith proceed from the West or the East, it is equally emphatic To 
reject it on the ground of indistinctness, would be equivalent to a 
-declaration that language is the worst medium for the comnuinication 
of religious ideas ; and to stultify the statement of St. Paul that " faith 
Cometh through hearing." 

Not only did the Fathers teach that Peter was supreme, but supreme 
for ever. Peter never dies ; he lives in the persons of his successors, 
the Roman Pontiffs, through them supporting the Church, and feeding, 
"^"*g> governing, and strengthening the bre&en. The oneness of the 
Church depends on the oneness of the rock, Peter. On that rock 
stands the one Church — and hence, whoever is not in the Church on 
the rock is known at once to be profane and an alien. To render more 
intelligible the citations from the Fathers which form the second portion 
of the work under review, we will subdivide the references and consider 
them under six or seven distinct heads, (i) The Fathers apply to the 
Roman Pontiff the same titles expressive of headship as they do to 
St Peter. (2) They maintain that because he is the head and rock 
o( the Church, therefore all Christians are bound to be in communion 
^th him. (3) To prove this union and their title to Catholicity, they 
cite the catalogues of the Popes, and thus trace through them their 
^nnection with Peter. And (4) in consequence of Peter's See being 
*t Rome, they use the words Catholic and Roman as convertible terms, 
(s) To Rome, appeals are made by the prelates of every portion of 
Christendonu (6) By Rome, conciliary action is ratified, &c., heresies 
^c condemned, miseries redressed, and action taken in a hundred 
^^ng forms. At all times Rome clearly claims the supremacy 
^<i the right to command. (7) And finally, the inerrancy of the 
'^ope is formally proclaimed and practically admitted by the Universal 

1. Titles, — The Pope is the heir of the administration ; holds the 
place and sits in the chair of Peter. His is the apostolic chair, the 
principal chair whence unity is derived. This chair is the first mark of 
^e Church, and through it, it has all other marks {dotes). He is the 
fnily blessed rock, the solidity of the apostolic rock on which the Church 
's built, the rock against which the gates of hell cannot prevail. He is 
4e Vicar of Christ, the head Priest, the Bishop of bishops, the 
*^Ecumenical Bishop, the Archbishop of the . universe, the Apostolic 
J'ather of the Universal Church, the Ruler of the house of God and of 
the whole fold of God, the Head of the whole world, the Head of the 
pastoral honour, the Judge of the whole Church, to whom all must refer 
-and defer ; in fine, he is the Successor of the fisherman. 

2. Union with Rome necessary for Christianity. — This is indeed 

• Contra. Episf. Fund,, cap. iv. \ In Joan, xxW. ^. 

t Serm. xlvi. 30. 

152 The Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 

distinctly afBrmed in all the passages and statements referred to. Ever 
Christian was bound to be on the rock, in the Church of Peter, and i 
every way submissive to his teaching. We would refer the reader fo 
more specific information on this head to Tertullian (200), St^Irenaeu 
(192), St Clement of Alexandria (19&), St. Cyprian (205, &cX S 
Ambrose (267), St Augustine {282), St Jerome (2:77X St Anastasius (281 
St Innocent (289), St. Boniface (299), St. Cyril of Alexandria (306 
the Bishops of Dardania (339), &c The Holy See " is all godly, a 
gracious, all blessed, all praised, all prospering, all hallowed," * as tli 
Martyr Ignatius says, and with it *' the greatest, the most ancient, an 
the best known," "all the Churches, that is to say, all the faithftil i 
every direction, must agree," t for such, as we have already seei 
is the appointment of Jesus Christ 

3. The catalogues of the Successors of St, Peter, — As an easy method < 
confounding heretics and establishing their own Catholicity, the Fathei 
constantly appeal to their union with Rome, and several give tl: 
succession of the Roman Bishops in detail. These catalogues app& 
in the writings of Irenaeus (192), Tertullian (200), Eusebius (229 
Optatus (251), Epiphanius (266), and Augustine (283 — 284). By meai 
of these lists the Catholic proved that he was a member of the Churc 
built on Peter, and "confounded all who in any way, whether by thin| 
pleasing to themselves or by vainglory, or blindness and evil sentimen 
assembled otherwise than they should have done. "J 

4. Romofi and Catholic convertible terms, — Since the Church whic 
was Catholic in name and in fact was built upon Peter, whose chair yn 
in Rome, it happened that Catholic and Roman became in the Churc 
convertible terms. In this sense was the word Roman used l 
Augustine (282), Jerome (272, 280), Ambrose (267, 268), Innocei 
(289, 293 — 295), Celestine and Victor of Vite (303)> Chrysologus (393 
Avitus (346), &c When Satyrus, the brother of St Ambrose, W5 
anxious to discover the faith of a certain bishop, he simply asked hii 
if "he agreed with the Catholic Bishop, that is, with the Roma 
Church," § knowing well that if he did, then he was orthodox. An 
similar was the test used by Jerome — " What faith does Rufinus ca 
his faith ? . . . If he answer that which the Roman Church holds, the 
we are Catholics." || There is only one Church and one ministi 
known as Catholic ; this one Church is the Church in connection wil 
Rome, and this ministry is the hierarchical body which derive 
its orders and its jurisdiction from the Holy See. Separatists froi 
Catholicism use the words — " I believe in the Catholic Church," whil 
actually in flagrant opposition to CathoUcism. They may use the wore 
truthfully if they will. But how ? By returning to the rock from whic 
they have been torn, and entering the flock of which Peter's Success< 
is the Shepherd. 

5. Appeals to Rome from every part of the world; and 6. Poniifia 
action in all kinds of cases regarding faith, 6r*c, — The zeal exhibited, fir 
by Clement when sending three ambassadors to Corinth to heal the 
diflerences, which threatened the unity of that Church (175) ; secondt 
by Victor and Hyginus, who threatened to excommunicate tJie Churchi 

* £^ts/. ad Jiom, f Irenaeus, 1. iii., 3. t Irensus, 1. iiL De ffares, cap. ; 
i Ambrose De exctsm fratris, \\ ApoL adv. Rujin« 

The Faihers on St. Peter and his Successors. 153, 

of Asia unless they conformed to the Roman rule of observing Easter; 
thirdly, by Stephen, who uttered similar threats against the African and 
other distant Churches unless they admitted the validity of baptism 
given by heretics ; and fourthly, by Pope Julius, who summoned the 
heads of the Arian faction, as well as the staunch defender of the faith 
and ablest opponent of Arianism, Athanasius, to Rome to render an 
account of their faith — these as well as scores of other equally striking 
examples of Pontifical power over the whole world, evince the faith of 
the first ages in the supremacy of the Roman Pontiff! In the last 
mstance, Julius having carefully examined into the orthodoxy of those 
prelates who had been expelled from their sees by the Arians, and 
discovered the falseness of the accusations urged against them, restored 
an to their respective sees. Among the restored was Athanasius, the 
ilhistrious Archbishop of Alexandria.* Later, Innocent restored 
Chrysostom to Constantinople, and by virtue of the Pontifical power, 
Cyril of Alexandria deposed Nestorius from that great see.f The 
power of the Popes was not limited to the Western Patriarchate, it 
extended over the East and even the great patriarchates themselves, 
and was clearly recognized by the bishops who assisted at the Councils 
of Nice, Constantinople, Ephesus, and Chalcedon. 

The superiority of Rome is also clear from the appeals made to it 
from every country. The Corinthians appealed to Clement, the Church 
of Smyrna to Hyginus, the Church of Gaul to Victor, and the Church of 
Africa to Stephen, Cornelius, &c. To the Pontiff appeals from every 
comitiy were made from the earliest period of Church history. In the 
year 142 Marcion went to Rome to obtain the revocation of the 
judgment pronounced against him by the Bishop of Sinope.:{: In 252 
Fortunatus and his companions, and afterwards in 262 Basilides and 
Partialis, appealed against the African prelates. § In the same year PauL 
of Samosata, who had been deposed by a Council held at Antioch, had 
^urse to Pope Felix in order to secure his restoration to his see.||i 
Similarly, Csecilian, Bishop of Carthage, who had been condemned by a 
Dmnerous Council held at Carthage, appealed to Pope Melchiades, by 
^hom he was restored to his former position in the African Church, 
^e appeal of St. Athanasius in 341 has already been referred to, and is- 
^00 well known to require further development. These are adduced as 
\ few of many early examples. The history of after ages is one con- 
touous record of the action of the Popes in every portion of 
Christendon. Theirs was the task to summon Councils; to ratify 
conciliary decisions ; to attend to all important questions affecting, 
"^igion ; to protect the good and punish the bad by excommunication 
*^d other ecclesiastical punishments, and to attend in other ways to 
"^^ general interests of the whole of Christendom. The statements of 

^*'*When Athanasius, Paul, Asclepas, Marcellus, and Lucius laid their case 
Jj«ore Julias, the Bishop of the City of Rome, he, according to the prerogative of 
^ Rotnan See, sent them back into the East with the protection of his letters, and 
f^?*edeach of them to their respective sees" iSocrata. 1. il, cap. 15 ; Cf. S<namm,, 
*• »»., cap. 8). 

t Condi, ^ LAbbe, t. iii., p. 349. 

^ See Mansi, diss. 28, in H. E. ; Natalis Alexandri, Saaiii^ iv. 

i See Cyprian, EpUt. 68. 

I ^ZaccariM, j4fU^ihvft,, L iii, cap. iL 


i 54 TAe Fathers on St. Peter and his Successors. 

■the Fathers on these and cognate matters are fully exposed from pa 
1 86 to page 309 of Dr. Waterworth's work. 

No one can, we think, carefully read the writings of the Fathers hm 
Jaid before us, without feeling convinced that no doubt could ha 
•crossed their minds relative to the infallibility of the head of the Chur- 
We know indeed how several writers and speakers, even at the presM 
day, are guilty of the suicidal crime of denying that St Peter ever m 
at Rome. This they have dared to say though all history gives the 
to their denial As Berthold says — "There is no event, perhaps, 
ancient ecclesiastical history so clearly placed beyond doubt by 
consentient testimony of ancient Christian writers, as that of Pm 
having been at Rome ; " and what he says is equally the languages 
Burton, Geisler, Pearson, Lardner, Whiston, &c. Dr. Newman in 
Essay on the Theology of the Seven Epistles of St. Ignatius^ pa— 
accounts for all the blunderings and ignorance of several who Yam 
read the Fathers — "Their notions of the njatter of divinity is 
different from what prevailed in primitive times that the surface 
their minds does not come into contact with what they read; 
points on which they themselves would insist slip on one side or ^ 
between those of the Fathers ; their own divisions of the subject 
•cross divisions, or in some way or other inconsistent with theirs. XT 
they are ever at cross purposes with the author they are studying ; K 
•do not discern his drift, and then, according as their minds are mor^i 
less of a reverent character, they despise or excuse him** (p. 191). IB 
is all too true. 

7. The infallibility of the Pope appears to us to be involved 
•every statement of the Fathers regarding Church imity. Ubi Pe^ 
ibi Ecclesia is a trite expression. But what does it mean ? Clearly ^ 
— the Pope represents the Church ; as the latter is infallible, so th^^ 
the former. The Church is indefectible and can never err, because 
the rock, Peter, against which the gates of hell cannot prevail X 
how could it be so, how could this be a cause of indefectibility ^ 
inerrancy, unless Peter himself was indefectible and inenrant? ^ 
Pope is the Vicar of Christy he is the Shepherd and Judge holding 
place of Christ ;* he has to instruct all and govern all ; he cannot d 
«rr, since inerrancy is to be the characteristic of tlie Church tJ 
instructed and ruled. He is to confirm the brethren, and not ' 
brethren him, and hence through him and not through others mt^^ 
bility is derived. " To the Roman See perfidy can have no access 
This See, as the Fathers say, has never been defiled by any forio 
heresy — it is pure and without wrinkle. Surely all this proves this \ 
least, that the Roman Pontiffs are heaven assisted and guided in ^ 
their teachings directed to the Universal Church ; and hence, owing ft 
this character conferred upon them, we exclaim with St Ambrose an< 
his fellow bishops — " Those whom thou condemnest we too coDdcfflii 
in accordance with thy judgment** Sure of the faith of Rome, the 
Fathers did not hesitate to say that all the faithful were bound to agree 
in that faith ; and as Rome spoke, every faithful Catholic exclaimed— 

• Epist. ad Comelium. "Heresies," says St Cyprian, "come only frtw» ■" 
jpnorance of this fact" As the Fathers of Ephesus observed, "Peter always judges, 
&ough his Successors ** (C. Eph,^ act. aV 
f Cyprian, Epist, 59. 

The Spirits in Prison. 155 

^^Roma locuta est, causa finita tsty* And again, these great promises are 
^ixiaidt at least as directly to the Rock as to the Church on the rock ; and 
from this, again, no other inference can be drawn than that of the 
nMibili^ of Peter in his Successors. If the Fathers seek to 
stablish their orthodoxy at any time, they prove it by their union 
ith Rome. What if at any time Rome could fail, would the proof 
old good ? At ail moments the Church is the teacher of truth ; 
tit unless we are assured of the inerrancy of the Pope, how can 
e say in moments of contention, such as the great St. Thomas 
quinas refers to, what is truth and what a matter of belief? In 
ich moments there is in Catholicism always a principle of security 
-Ckxl has not left us without a guide; we can turn to Rome with 
>nfidence, and say with Jerome, ** The Church here is rent into three 
irts, each of which is eager to draw me to itself. . . . Meanwhile I 
■y aloud, if any one is imited to the Chair of St Peter, he is mine. . . . 
^erefore I beseech your Holiness, . . . make known to me with 
horn I ought to hold conmiunion.*'t As we have also seen, the 
^arnan is identical with Catholic faith, and hence it must be true. As 
L Peter Chrysologus beautifully puts it, " Peter, who lives and presides 
I his own See, gives the true faith to those who seek it; "J and, 
whoever is separated from the Roman See is an alien from the 
Ibristian religion."§ The words of Augustine at page 284; of 
onocent I., p. 295 ; of Paulinus the Deacon and St Boniface, pp. 299, 
00; of Theodoret, p. 310; of St Peter Chrysologus, p. 323; of the 
'ouncil of Rome, p. 345; and of St Leo, from pp. 315 — 323; all 
onvey the same idea that the Pope never fails ; he teaches infallibly the 
ruth at all times and in all climes. Infallibility de facto is claimed by 
very State, and nearly by every person in power ; infallibility de jure 
nd de jure divino, must be claimed by the Church for the Roman 
^ontifl^ for such is her high prerogative. 


^Spirits in Prison. A Sermon on the state of the Dead, preached in St Paul's 
Cathedral l^ the Rev. Edward Plumptre, M. A. Strahan and Co., 1871. 

Those of the Anglican clergy who love to think and speak of their 
^mmunion as an integral part of the Catholic Church, generally show a 
fciy praiseworthy desire to ascertain the meaning of their symbolic 
brmulas, and to follow the light of revealed truth as faithfully as their 
^icumstances will permit In this they deserve all praise; but their 
difficulties are great, and they seem to be increasing almost day by day. 
^Q tbe first place, the careful discipline and habits of mind, so necessary 
^ form competent theologians, seem not only to be utterly wanting to 

• *^Terrena ejus judicia^ jttdicia caUstia sunt^^ (Hilarius, 1. x., de Trim/), It is vcnr 
'^^Bttrkable how altered men became when raised to the Pontificate. It may be well 
*fid^"/&^ mutatio dextera aitissimi.** See this in reference to Popes Vigilius, Pius 
^ Second, &c. **£tiam mali cogimiurs bona discere; neaueenim sua sunt qua dicunt, 
^Ddt ^i in cathedrd unitatis doctrinam posuit veriiatis** (Augustine). 

+ Epist. xvi 

X Epist, ad Eutych. 

I Boniit4 -^^^^ ^y- Su/^ S/isTif^, 

156 The Spirits in Prison. 

them, but they have got into a traditional way of treating formulas, 
creeds, and articles, as if those utterances had been originally intended 
to be interpreted by, and accommodated to, the circumstances, systems, 
and conveniences of those who possess them. Next, their platfomi— to 
use an Americanism — forces them to adhere to inconsistencies as well 
in attitude as in doctrine ; and, consequently, they can neither confront 
an array of evidence on the separate parts of their system, nor stand the 
scrutiny of a close logical or theological analysis of its whole. The 
natural effect of this is that they try to justify the rejection of theology 
and logic ; of theology, which is the application of scientific method to 
the matters of faith, and logic, which is the legitimate exposition of 
certain principles to their proper consequences and applications. They 
will not consent that their ted,ching be brought to the test which all 
truth is determined by ; and hence, their expositions of doctrine, apart 
from the merits of their system, are vague, tentative, and confused 

These observations are fully exemplified in Mr. Plumptre's sermon 
on the Souls in Prison, Not only does he imply a condemnation of 
" pitiless and relentless logic," and " accuracy and precision in foUowing 
the intricate mazes of theological speculation ;" but he frequently leaves 
us in doubt as to the sense in which he uses his words, and the range 
of his assertions. For instance, he starts with the statement that one 
article of the Creed h^ for some centuries lost its hold on the thoughts 
and affections of mankind. What does he mean by "mankind?" 
If he means his own Communion, then we have no difficulty in 
acknowledging him to be a competent witness of the state of religious 
belief in the Anglican Church. But the obvious meaning of the sentence 
is that nowhere now among Christians is this article practically believed 
in. If this be the true interpretation, we are at least prepareid to show 
that, as far as Catholics are concerned, the allegation is altogedier 
contrary to the fact ; but, then, we may be mistaken in his meaning. 
Again, in page 12, he introduces some grave charges against Catholic 
belief and practice with these words, " Men have thought," &c To 
meet this, we should know who these men were, whether they were 
Doctors, Pontiffs, schools of theology, or a few obscure and isolated 
individuals. We should also know whether by "thought" he means 
maintained, believed, taught, or defined. However roughly he may use 
his words, he will be understood as making charges against the 
authorized teaching of the Church, and he must answer for this. What 
we here, however, desire to call attention to is, the indefiniteness and 
pointlessness of his words. This is still more obvious in words 4** 
have a special theological value. He speaks of "witnesses," as fer aswe 
can judge, as those who express their own belief, and not as those who 
give evidence to the existence of faith in the Church of their time. He 
calls the anathemas of Athanasius "warnings." He speaks, againi^^ 
the " Romish theory of Purgatory;" and in the same matter of "popiJ*' 
theology of Rome." We quote these expressions, not to direct attention 
to the amusing anxiety of Anglicans to give to their own tenets > 
character of Catholicity, and to Catholic tenets that of provinciili|y» 
but to point out that theory, doctrine, belief, and theology, seem to hiift 
to be pretty much the same. 

Considering that Mr. Plumptre is a Professor of Divinity, ^ 
expounding an article of failVi, ^e €i^o>M Yan^ ^x^^icxni %QiDieAu4 

The Spirits in Prison. 157 

more of positive argument, and not quite so much of appeals to '^ wider 
Ijopes," ** agonized anxiety," **hot thoughts," &c Indeed, from first to 
last he seems to be influenced by the emotional, and to be wandering in 
an atmosphere of dreams. ** Dark dreams," " wild dreams," " monstrous 
dream," "glorious dream," seem to take the place of evidence or autho- 
rity. "Dark £uicies" and "dark visions "seem to beset him. The 
"daA shadow of Augustine" crosses his path, and "gloom" is 
"darkened into the blackness of midnight by the dogmas of Calvin." 
Shortly after we have a " larger hope," to which bear witness " the 
noblest, loftiest, most loving of the teachers of the ancient Church 
(I am not afraid to speak thus of Origen)." Origen, we are told, 
"embraced it as the anchor of his soul," and Gregory of Nyssa 
"* cherished it" This is the Patristic argument, and we give it merely 
that we may ask on what principle is Origen, indulging in a theory 
'the final salvation of all) against the common belief of the Fathers, 
iingled out for special admiration, while Augustine and Athanasius are 
nerely mentioned for implied blame. Had they embarrassed, in place 
)f defending the Church, they would, in all probability, have been 
before this discovered to be "the noblest, loftiest, most loving of 
teachers." It would be a great gain if Anglicans would agree to accept 
the Ustimony of the Fathers in matters of Revelation. But if they go on 
the principle of selection, seeing dark shadows here, and running after 
loving teachers there, without discrimination between their evidence 
and their opinion, and without any reference to consent or divergence, 
ve may expect nothing but darkness and confusion. 

But Mr. Plumptre and the school of divines whom he represents 
have other difficulties in their search after truth, of which they are clearly 
n«ich more conscious than of their want of theological training and 
niethod. There seems to be, somehow, such a connection between 
dogmas of faith and " Romanism " that attention to one suggests a 
presumption of inclination to the other. Dogma is nothing more than 
fcvcaled truth authoritatively defined, and it is felt that to hold by this 
K virtually to accept the "Roman system." Hence the true Anglican 
JQcthod is to treat such, to use an expression of Mr. Plumptre's, " with 
stammering lips and uncertain speech." Moreover, the preacher must 
"wke always some compensation to his conscience and his audience, if 
^ would be, or would be held to be, a staunch Protestant. Mr. 
Phmptre understands these tactics, and makes use of them with a 
temerity we could hardly have looked for in a Professor of Divinity. 
Men have though of a given quantity of pain as the fit and adequate 
Punishment of sin ; have held that it belonged to the Bishop of Rome 
Jo remit or protract the penalty, that all power was committed to him in 
l^ven and in earth, and that he could bind and loose even the spirits 
^ prison. The monstrous dream that there was an accumulated treasure 
^ the merits of the saints, which he could transfer at his pleasure to 
'^ who needed it, with all the abuses of indulgences and masses for 
Je dead that grew out of it," &c. (p. 1 2). He speaks afterwards of " the 
^fimciesand corrupt imaginations of the Romish theory of Purga- 
^.^ Also, " The traffic in indulgences and masses was so monstrous 
^»i abuse," &c. (p. 29). 

^ Whatever Mr. Plumptre may mean by "men have thought" aud 
Somish iheojy," we have a right to assume that he intends lo spt^ 

158 The Spirits in Prison. 

against Catholic faith and practice, and against it inasmuch as it ris< 
out of the Church's teaching. He does not speak of abuses which tli 
Church has always condemned, and has generally succeeded in keepii 
down. He takes his stand with genuine Protestants, and copies die 
stock libels and their choice expressions. He does not seem aware tfa: 
they have never been proved and often refuted. They at least serve h 
purpose, and are not inconsistent with his notions of dignity and goc 

First, we should like to know who has said that a given quantity 
pain is a fit and adequate punishment for sin, or what the propositic 
means. If any other punishment can be devised but pain — ^includin^ 
of course, pain of loss — ^let Mr. Plumptre tell us of it ; and if pain i 
neither to be eternal nor a given quantity, what will it be ? The autho 
evidently admits punishment for sin other than eternal, nor is there hen 
any question of eternal punishment Is this punishment, then, to be 
not a given quantity if it is to be fit and adequate ? The next charge is 
that "it belonged to the Bishop of Rome to remit or protract this 
penalty." Not only to the Bishop of Rome, but to all confessors, docs it 
belong to remit sin, and, consequently, the punishment due to sin ; and, 
if we are not mistaken, this has not appeared such a dark superstition to 
Anglican clergymen whom we could name : but Mr. Plumptre means more 
than this. He makes out that it is claimed for the Pope to have all power 
in heaven and in earth, and that he has jurisdiction over the souls in 
prison. There is no such teaching as this in the Catholic Church. The 
words of our Lord, St Matthew xxviii. 18, are understood as expressing 
the foundation and exemplar of the power given to the Church, not its 
measure. That power is ' such as is congruous to the office of the 
Church, and becoming the Spouse of Jesus Christ and the Mother ol 
the Faithful. It does not extend to the souls in Purgatory, nor has aaij 
Pope, either by indulgences or otherwise, ever been known to exercise 
authority over those souls, or to remit their punishment Mr. Plumptrt 
has totally mistaken the Catholic doctrine. The "dark dreams "frooc 
which he turns with such " righteous abhorrence," are entirely his owd 
or his coreligionists, from whom he may have drawn his informatioo 
Theology we can hardly expect from Anglican dreams, but men of gooc 
secular education, to say nothing of honesty and truthfulness, shook 
make some effort to ascertain the truth before talking ill of thei 
neighbours. The teaching of the Church is reasonable and clear, am 
Catholics are not altogether without excuse, if, in the foce of thesi 
perpetual misrepresentations, they sometimes think their adversaries no 
to be sincere men. 

It was customary in the ancient Church to impose canonici 
penances for grievous and public sins. For the adjustment of this wen 
composed the Penitential Canons — ^for instance, of St Peter Alexan 
drinus, Gregory Thaumaturgus, Basil, and Gregory of Nyssa. The* 
penances were no substitution or commutation of the eternal punid 
ment due to sin, which was remitted, together with the guilt of sin, ii 
foro intemo^ but were medicinal for the penitent, satisfactory for scandfl 
given, and, when done with the proper interior spirit, were a substitatf 
either wholly or in part, for the temporal punishment due to sin, and t 
be suffered or remitted either in this life or in Purgatory. Now remi 
sions of those penances were made in consideration of service done t 

The Spirits in Prison. 159. 

the Church, and this remission is nothing more or less than an indul- 
gence. The service done — as, for instance, attending on a Christian in 
piison— was not in itself an equivalent for the penance, but was supple- 
mented by the merits of the faithful — that is, in figurative language, 
was taken from the treasury of the Church. The old discipline of 
imposing canonical penances, for good reasons, no longer exists; and 
the difference between an indulgence now and formerly is simply this, 
that it does not now suppose the penance to have been actually 
enfcHced, but simply takes its place, and has its remissive effect What 
Mr. Plumptre means by "traffic" in indulgences is, probably, that 
indulgences have been granted for labouring, subscribing, and collecting 
for the building of churches, for the support of poor missions, and the 
like. There is nothing else tolerated by the Church to which his term 
can he applied, and though it is not properly applied, it is, nevertheless, 
in his customary manner. Most certain it is that a price or fee for 
indulgences, or anything in consideration of granting or obtaining them 
lus never been sanctioned by the Church, and would be simoniacaL 

Mr. Plumptre seems to think that the application of indulgences to 

^e souls in Purgatory is the granting to them of indulgences. Of 

<^0(irse it is nothing of the kind. It is merely a prayer to God, 

^y the Church and him who gains the indulgence, that its remissive 

^ue may be applied, by God's mercy, to the departed souls. He 

^feo implies that this devotion is used as a source of revenue. We 

^^ only say that it is simply untrue. It is unpleasant to have to 

answer such imputations — and to have to say that no educated man 

^Hight to be ignorant enough to make them. 

What he says of the traffic of masses is of a piece with the above. 

The law of the Church is clear and inflexible. It allows a fixed stipend 

^^ fee, to be regulated by the bishop in each diocese, for the celebration 

^ mass, not otherwise obligatory, for the express intention of any one 

^ho may desire it But one such fee a day is permitted, and it is not 

^^ exceed what is required for a day's support If the obligation of 

^^lebrating is transferred from one to another, the whole fee is to pass 

^^th it ; and mass for the dead stands just on the same footing as mass 

^Or any other purpose. Mr. Plumptre approves of the all but indissoluble 

dissociation of prayers for the dead with the Eucharistic Sacrifice (p. 28). 

^is objection, therefore, to Catholic practice must be, that a fee is 

^^^xpted for a special service undertaken at the desire of a private 

P^Tson. Such traffic, of course, is not heard of in the Anglican Church. 

^^r. Plumptre would not take a fee for preaching or celebrating even in 

^^ Paul's. It would be traffic in the Word of God ; but then he should 

•^^ more charitable in his judgment of others. Catholic priests are 

^^^metimes plundered of their benefices ; they are not allowed to support 

^Hemselves by secular professions ; they have to administer gratuitously 

^o the poor, and from most of their administrations derive nothing what- 

^^^ver. Surely, Mr. Plumptre might find something better to tell his 

Audience at St Paul's, than that such men were addicted to traffic in 

Jf^asscs and indulgences. But some allowance, perhaps, may be made 

*^r him. He must do homage to the spirit of Protestantism, a spirit 

^ore pitiless and relentless even than that of logic. We all felt for the 

^^ortunate correspondent of a daily paper, who, writing from Rome an. 

^^^count of the opening of the Vatican Council, described tYie asstxc^c^Y't^ 

i6o M. Jules Favre on the Roman Question. 

bishops as a very fine looking set of men. In his next letter he h 

sing his palinode. We cannot feel simple indignation for him o 

Plumptre. He might, however, have spared himself and us, o 

.present occasion at least, the following exhibition of his charity — 

we not give up our morbid fears and our dark dreams, our dr 

superstition, our controversial jealousies, and turn for guidanc 

comfort to that which I had well nigh called the lost article of the C 

The guidance and comfort which he offers to us is a " theory" 

imprisoned souls. These unmanageables entities are to be subje< 

'discipline with a view to progress and final etherialization. Tho8 

have taken an interest in such things on earth are to continue thei 

work in Hades ; and we do not see whether the theory of evoludc 

progression through the spheres may not be included. We partit 

recommend the matter to Professor Huxley, as suggesting a ' 

hope " for developing, in a future life, little Irish boys into philos 

• of his own type. There, of course, the obnoxious denomini 

system will be excluded, and coercive education will be the or 

.the day. ' j 


Ronu et la Republiqtu Francaise. Par M. Jules Favre, de TAcademie Fr 

JParis : Henri Plom, 187 1. 

Every one knows that M. Jules Favre, after having for som< 
been one of an Opposition very thin in numbers in the Legi 
Assembly under the Second Empire, became a conspicuous m 
of the Government of National Defence, which was the issue 
last French Revolution, immediately after the catastrophe of 1 
M. Jules Favre had had no previous education for the very imj 
and prominent office which he filled in the Government — the ol 
Minister of Foreign Affairs, and it is not surprizing that he sho^ 
along that he was more of an advocate than of a diplomatist ] 
liad some very momentous questions to deal with, and was th 
member of that illfated Government, except M. Gambetta and G 
Trochu, who became at all famous for his manner of dealing witl 
(|uestions. We must not be hard upon a fallen man, who failed 
that he undertook, after undertaking what he was by no means 
at a time of the greatest trial to his country ; and we may th( 
confine ourselves to a short statement of the facts which made M 
Favre's conduct of French foreign affairs important to the world at 

In speaking of such facts, we of course refer mainly to the 
policy taken by M. Favre with regard to the position of the Holy S 
soon as Rome was abandoned by the French troops at the outbi 
the German war, it became quite clear that the Florentine Govei 
would take the first opportunity of seizing what remained to be 
of the Pontifical dominions. It is true that to do so they had to 
their own solemn pledges, but this can only have added a fresh 
ness to their appetite. It is very delightful to such men — when t 
no one to be afraid of — to lay hands on other persons* pn 
particularly when that property happens to be consecrated by a re 
saactioD, so that its seizure has tV\e cYiaiacXei o^ sacrAe^^t ^s wel 

M. yules Favre ofi the Roman Question. i6i 

robbery; but to be able to do this in the teeth of a treaty, to be able to 
add hypocrisy to mendacity by pretending to do it in the interests of 
religion, and by asking the blessing of the Pontiff who was the subject 
of spoliation at the very time that the ^ct was perpetrated — all these 
circumstances presented irresistible attractions to the aspiring Ministers 
of Victor Emmanuel. The collapse of the Empire gave them the one 
additional motive which was required to set their hands to the work. It 
became now certain that it might be done with impunity, as well as with 
so many other exceptional circumstances of guilt and insolence. The 
French Republic had business enough on its hands with the German 
war, and besides, the new Government was composed of men only too 
likely to sympathize with any aggression on the part of Florence on 
Rome. M. Favre himself had always been an opponent of the 
Temporal Power, and now he was Foreign Minister of France. 
Accordingly, in his first interview with M. Nigra, the Italian envoy 
announced the intention of his Government to take possession of 
Rome. The usual forms of hypocrisy were gone through — of course 
the Government was forced to do this in order to prevent worse conse- 
quences, and the like. M. Favre was at the moment trying to get the 
Italians into the war with Germany. Here, however, he met with a 
polite refusal. The Ministers of Victor Emmanuel did not think well 
enough of the chance of France — under the guidance of M. Favre and 
his colleagues — to think it necessary to make any offer on their own 
part as a price for the silence of the French Government as to the 
annexation of Rome. 

One thing, however, M. Nigra could not obtain, even from M. Favre 
— even when, at all events in the surmise of the latter, there was still 
question of some aid to France from Italy. M. Nigra asked that France 
should "denounce" the treaty of September, which bound the Florentine 
Government not to attack the Pope. M. Favre refused, and we here 
see, for the first time, the influence on his conduct of the consciousness 
that the majority of the French people, whose representative for the 
foment he was, felt shocked and outraged at the insolence of the 
Italians, and would certainly some day or other take up again the cause 
of the Church and of the Pope. We trace the influence of the same 
^nsciousness in the subsequent diplomatic policy of M. Favre. Thus, 
^ the spring of 187 1, after the Piedmontese usurpation had lasted some 
^onths, proposals were circulated among the European powers for a 
Conference to settle the relations between Italy and the Holy See. 
This idea, M. Favre tells us, was first suggested by Mr. Gladstone — no 
^oubt with a view to favour the usurpation of Victor Emmanuel, by 
obtaining for it some kind of ratification. It was first proposed by 
^varia — not a very sound source — and seems to have had the support 
^ Austria. M. Favre objected to it, and was thanked by Cardinal 
-^tonelli. About the same time, an Ambassador to the Holy See was 
^nt from France, and this step gave much umbrage to the Florentine 
Government, whose newspapers abused M. d'Harcourt, after his arrival 
^t Rome, in a manner against which M. Favre remonstrated successfully. 
*^r on, when there came to be question of the presence of the repre- 
^^tatives of the European powers at Rome at the time of the so-called 
^sference of the capital to that city, we find M. Favte o^^^^tv^ 
^Qt ^ust, who had ordered the Austrian envoy to go lo Bj>rcLti tot 

VOL, XVL \. 

i62 M. Jules Favre on the Roman Question. 

the occasion, and refusing to act in the same offensive way 
Holy See. 

M. Favre, as is well known, resigned his place in the Ministr 
M. Thiers in consequence of the vote of the Assembly at Versa 
July 22, whereby the petition of a number of the bishops of 
begging that some action might be taken for the protection of tl 
Father and his rights, %as referred to the Minister of Foreign 
We are glad to have M. Favre's own witness for the importance 

It is useless to prove [he says], so plain is the evidence of the f 
Italy has not remained indifferent to the discussion and the vote of 
and that, despite the language of official despatches, the prevailing 
sion with her has not been that of satisfaction and confidence. It is 
certain that, for the extreme friends of the Holy See, the attitude of N 
and the resolution of the Assembly are a pledge given as to eventual 
in reserve, for which France maintains a liberty of action, the din 
which a sufficiently indicated by her past history. Both these consc 
create for us a situation full of difficulties, and are in complete conti 
with our true interests (pp. 163, 164). 

Such, no doubt, is the honest opinion of M. Jules Favre. 

always been an enemy of any French policy that would supi 

power of the Papacy. He has always sympathized in heart 1 

aggressions of the Government of Victor Emmanuel, and his sy 

we must suppose, has led him to shut his eyes to the unpi 

dishonesty and meanness by which they have been carried 01 

we are happy to have his testimony that France does not agi 

him. On one point he strikes us as rather inconsistent He c 

with some amount of disdain the famous jamais jamais of M. 

by which that orator pledged the Government of the Emperor : 

abandon Rome to Piedmont. Every one knows how badly tha 

was redeemed, and M. Favre has some right to triumph over M. 

and Napoleon the Third on that score. But, unless we are mist 

is just as much inclined to promise and predict the future as M. 

was — he, the chance minister of an ephemeral government of tr 

is quite as ready to affirm that the annexation of Rome is 2ifait^ 

that the Temporal Power is destroyed, never to be restored, 

like, as was the Minister of Napoleon the Third to affirm that hi 

would never do just what he did, and what, unless the world 

taken, he was always desirous to do. And yet it may perhaps 

reflecting men that there is rather more reason to expect 

Providence of God, which has already so often restored the P 

power, may do so once again, than there was some few years 

expect that the power of Napoleon the Third would be perpetuj 

second Empire required the colossal armies of Germany to kn 

pieces, and the kingdom of Victor Emmanuel bears its m 

character written on its very face. It requires nothing at all t 

it to pieces ; it is rotten to the core already, and requires n< 

from without to assist at its process of decomposition. On th 

we think M. Favre quite as foolish as M. Rouher. Whe 

Piedmontese usurpation is to be crushed by France or any othe 

we are no more able to tell than M. Favre himself, but we 1 

sore that Providence has plenty of vra^s o( ^^sin^ of 

M. Jules Favre on the Raman Question. 163 

•excrescence, and that the destinies of the Church are safe in His 

We had almost forgotten to notice the singular feature in M. Favre's 
work, which made its celebrity, for the moment, almost European. We 
believe that he did a thing rather against precedent when he published 
his volume so soon ailer his resignation, containing as it does, so many 
itvelations of the diplomatic action of his own and other Governments. 
But if it was quite unprecedented to make such disclosures at all, it was 
-quite unique to make them falsely, at least in such manner and shape of 
ialsehood as to be exposed to instant detection. This is what M. Jules 
Favre did, in the little unimportant matter of an oral declaration of Pius 
the Ninth as to his desire or willingness, or the reverse, to receive back 
again the States which have been i)lundered from him ! M. Favre 
published (p. 103) a despatch in which M. d'Harcourt gave an account 
•of his first interview with the Pope at the Vatican, in which, among 
other things, Pius the Ninth was heard to say — 

La souverainet^ n'est pas k rechercher dans des temps comme ceux-ci, je 
•*e sais mieux que pcrsonne. Tout ce que je desire c'est un petit coin 
de tcn*e ou je serais le maitre. Si Pon tfCoJffrait de me rendre mes Etats, je 
i^serais, mais tant que je n'aurai pas ce petit coin de terre, je ne pourrai 
•exerccr dans leur plenitude mes fonctions spirituelles. 

All the world now knows, though half the world may soon find it 
useful to forget, that this quotation represents the Holy Father as saying 
exactly the contrary of what he did say. What the Pope did say, and 
what M. d'Harcourt reported him to have said, was, " 'Ce rC est pas a dire 
^ue si Ton m'offrait de me rendre mes Etats, je refuserais," &c., and 
M. Favre has acknowledged that his copyist left out the words which 
we have italicized. Was the copyist a Piedmontese ? That we are not 
told But what is, perhaps, more remarkable than anything else in the 
roatter is, that M. Favre's book runs on glibly, as if this falsification had 
hcen no falsification, as if the mind of the French Minister for Foreign 
Afeirs had really taken in the words of Pius the Ninth in the mutilated 
^ falsified sense which, as it now turns out, is entirely owing to the 
^pyist Surely we have here a singular instance of selfdelusion. 
^ Favre is so determined that Providence will ratify as immutable the 
^cts of Victor Emmanuel and his Ministers in despoiling the Church of 
^cr Temporal Princedom, that he finds it quite natural to write and act 
^d speaik in his official capacity, as if Pius the Ninth had himself 
Ottered the words which would have given the lie to the whole of his 
.tforious Pontificate ! 


I. Many of our readers have already made acquaintance with M. TAbb^ 
Baunard, the author of La Doute et ses Victim^s, and of a beautiful 
volume on VApdtre Saint yean. It is a pleasure to have to announce 
that he has just published another very charming work, full of learning 
as well as of piety, the Histoire de Saint Ambroise (Paris : Ponssielgne)- 
SL Ambrose is so grand and attractive a character in himself, his history 
is so full of picturesque incidents and quotations, that it would b^ 
difficult for an accomplished Christian writer not to make his biography 
interesting. We need hardly say that M. TAbb^ Baunard's new worl^ 
will be found quite as pleasing as his fonner volumes. 

2. Mary Quern of Scots and her latest English Historian (New York - 
the Catholic Publication Society ; and Bums and Oates, London) is the 
title of a really masterly volume by Mr. J. F. Meline. We gather froit* 
incidental expressions that it is a reprint of some articles which hav^ 
appeared in that excellent Catholic publication, the Catholic World- 
We call the book masterly, because it is no easy matter to follow th^ 
mazy thread of the doings and sayings and s^iTerings of Mary Stuart i^ 
the first place, keeping an eye on the numberless witnesses of different 
character and credibility whose testimony must be taken into account:* 
and, in the second, to follow Mr. Froude in his perpetual and ^^^Jl 
insidious misrepresentations, to point out where he has blundered, an^ 
where he has, as is far more frequently the case, allowed himself to d^ 
a little more than merely make a blunder. He approached the period 
of time of which he has written the history with a singular want of ^^ 
ordinary information required in its historian, and he has all throug*^ 
been guided by prejudice, and even passion, in his delineation^^ 
certain characters. This is the only excuse that can be made for hii^'* 
and if this can palliate his treatment of Mary Stuart, we are very glad t^^ 
allow him the advantage. But it is a very difficult task to trace out eacJ^ 
petty misrepresentation, and to confront it with the evidence whic^ 
shows it in its true character. Mr. Meline has done this with mud* 
skill, and he is well acquainted with the latest literature on the subje<^ 
of Queen Mary. The book might have been more attractive if he ho^ 
let Mr. Froude alone, and written a straightforward history of his own, 
for, needful as it is that a long and elaborate libel should be exposed ii* 
detail, it is not always easy to throw a great amount of interest into 
every part of the exposure. But he has given us a very sound an" 
valuable book. One of the unhappy features of our literary conditiofl 
is the comparative impunity which offenders like Mr. Froude enjoy. K 
he had treated a living person as he has treated Queen Mary, he wouM 
have been convicted over and over again in Courts of justice^ andm^b^ 

Notices. 165 

^ve had some experience of the rigours of the law. As it is, the 
able writers who have shown what his history really is have generally 
been contributors to Reviews in England or France, and every one 
knows how shortlived is the memory even of the most brilliant article. 

3. When the Patriarch Nicon was in retirement and disgrace, he 
found time to write a series of Replies to certain charges which had 
l>een made against him by a boyar employed by the Czar. The charges 
"^v-cre in the form of Questions and Answers, thirty in number, and they 
sometimes embody condemnations of Nicon for his resistance to the 
CTzar, sometimes for trivial matters, such as "using a comb and a 
looking glass," and the like. The boyar*s name was Simeon Streshneff, 
a.Tid the " answerer " — whom Nicon answers in turn — ^was Paisius Liga- 
rides, Metropolitan of Gaza. The replies of Nicon contain a great 
axnount of learning, and show him to have been well read in the 
Fathers and in the Canons, as well as to have been a sturdy, vigorous, 
a-ud undaunted maintainer of the truth and of the rights of tht Church. 
The large book in which the Replies of the Patriarch Nicon are contained 
Has now been published in England by Mr. William Palmer (London : 
Trubner and Co., 187 1). Nicon's history and character are both 
extremely interesting, and furnish the best of all comments on the 
position of the Russian Church. Moreover, we are quite ready to join 
IVlr. Palmer, if he desires it, in a crusade against the frivolous shallow 
tastes of our times, which make us shrink from big books or hard 
I'eading in any shape or form. Still, to say the truth, the volume before 
^is gives us rather the raw materials for a part, at least, of the history of 
Nicon, than that history itself, and we fear that it is too much to expect 
that many people will have the courage to plunge on through page after 
page of " the humble Nicon," to extract for themselves what Mr. 
^ahner, who can write beautifully when he chooses, ought to have 
extracted for them. He defends himself, indeed, against our criticism, 
"which he seems to have expected. " In publishing the Replies of Nicon 
t)y themselves, we are doing like the epic poets, who carry their readers 
at once in medias res. For this some may blame us, and may wish that 
^^ had given them rather a Life, or at least such a preliminary Essay 
^ might have amounted to nearly the same thing. But we have had 
enough of histories which represent only the views of their writers, 
^nd which are the more misleading the more talent and research are 
employed in their composition. We prefer, therefore, to give documents 
^selected and put together that the history contained in them may 
stand out of itself, for those at least that are capable of being instructed 
Dy it " (Pref., p. XXV.). We respectfully submit that Mr. Palmer's pro- 
ceeding is not at all like that of any epic poet that ever lived — at least, 
^ho ever lived to be read. We submit, also, that if there have been 
^'^y histories which represent only the views of their writers, that is 
^^ a reason why there should be other histories which represent facts 
^thfuUy as well as lucidly. We submit that it is by no means a 
Necessary consequence of the employment of an extra amount of talent 
^^ research on a history that it should be all the more misleading ; 
^or, on the other hand, are we quite safe from being misled by " docu- 
"^ents selected and put together." In both cases our security must in 
^ main depend on the honesty oi the writer or of iVie seVecXet^ ^xv^ ^^ 
^e ^e iDclmed to believe that Mr. Palmer is not less 'weW IxxrtCv^t.^ 

1 66 Notices. 

with honesty than with talent and research, we regret very much that he 
has given us a book which very few will feel attracted to read, instead of 
a book which might have made the Life of Nicon popular and well 

4. Father Tondini's book, TJu Pope of Rome and the F(^ of the 
Oriental Orthodox Church (Longmans, 187 1), is far more likely than 
Mr. Palmer's to obtain general attention. We have elsewhere had 
occasion to refer to it in our present issue, and need only add here that 
its argument is quite conclusive as to the abnormal enslavement of the 
Russian and Eastern Churches to the Civil Power. This holds good 
not only in Russia, where there is a mighty Czar to deal with, but also 
in Greece, where there is but a petty King, who professes, at least, to 
be constitutional, and in Turkey, where the Civil Power is, of course, 
the Sultan. Father Tondini makes use of document and authentic 
forms, and may, we hope, be laigely read among Catholics and 

5. Lady Georgiana Fullerton has made her name a household woid 
in many an English and American home, and the thousand admirers of 
her tales, from Elleft Middletoii down to Mrs, Gerald* s Niece^ will gladly 
receive at her hands the little volume of poems in which she has 
collected the occasional outpourings of her feelings in verse — The GM 
Digger^ and other Poems (London : Bums and Oates, 1872). It is very 
difficult to criticize a volume which is made up of a number of small 
pieces, written at long intervals, and probably without the slightest 
thought that they would ever meet the eye of the public ; but we nwy 
at least say that they show not only the same warm glow of hearty 
charity, the same delicate taste, the same intensity of fee&g and power 
of expression for which the tales of the author are famous, but that they 
also prove that if she had cultivated her poetical gifts as carefully as she 
has cultivated her gifts of prose fiction, she would have earned a place 
among the lady poets of our time, not less conspicuous than that which 
she holds among our novelists. In a most graceful prefatory notice, 
Lady Georgiana tells us that **no one who has clothed in verse, however 
imperfect, some of the thoughts and feelings of a lifetime, need despa^ 
of meeting with unknown friends who will have had the same impr*^ 
sions, or experienced the same emotions, and who will like to see them 
reproduced, feebly, indeed, as to talent, but with the earnestness which 
results from strong convictions and strong affections.*' It is just because 
this little volume expresses the spontaneous and unstudied " thouffW^ 
and feelings of" her ** lifetime," that those whom her novels have taught 
to admire it from a distance will feel deeply grateful for the opp<^* 
tunity now given them of sharing in some degree in its emotions and 

6. A writer in a former page of our present number has lamented oytf 
the comparative dulness and unproductiveness of the book season, whicn 
is now just beginning to wane. We fear, it is true that, except for th^ 
Christmas books, the popular appetite for literature just now is smalL 
We are such weak poor creatures that we can only attend to one thing 
at a time, and it does not much matter whether that one thing is a war 
between France and Germany, a siege of Paris, or a Tichboumc case- 
However^ there is good news for some readers. " Alice " is alive aga^ 

or rather she has been to sleep again *, tic^ ^a&!& ^<t V)a& ^gsne throog" 

Notices. 167 

'ht looking glass instead of down the rabbit's hole, but she is the same 
Uke, and her adventures are as delightful as ever. Through the Looking 
rltss, and who/ Alice found there^ is the title of Mr. Carroll's new work 
»r children of all ages. (Macmillan, 1872.^ It is beautifully illustrated 
f llr. TennieL It would be quite unfau: to attempt to divulge the 
anifold beauties of the new adventures here set forth — the Garden of 
ive Flowers, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the Walrus and the Carpenter, 
umpty Dumpty, the Lion and the Unicorn, and so on. Mr. Carroll has 
t upon a new vein of drollery, and there is great artistic merit in his 
^eam painting. If people will ask whether the second book is as good 
the first, we can only answer that the second can never have the 
lann of novelty, which is a peculiar element in the success of its 
rarunner. We shall be glad to hear even more of Alice's dreams 
-though, perhaps, even of them, we may some day get tired 

7. Mr. Powell's 7%w? Years in the Pontifical Zouaves (Washhoume) is 
I mteresting book, well got up. Mr. Powell was not in the corps of 
Maves during its most trying and glorious period — the short campaign 
hich ended so nobly at Mentana, but he gives us a good account of 
ic exploits of that time. His own experiences relate chiefly to duty 
srformed in Rome itself, with some excursions into the small territory 
hich remained intact after Mentana until the last invasion of Septem- 
KT, 1870. He was in England at the last named date, not having had 
mc to rejoin the corps before all was over at Rome. We should like 
► see either Mr. Powell, or some one equally competent, give a fuller 
xoant of the Garibaldian invasion than has yet been given, except, 
« think, in the pages of the Civiltd Cattolica. 

8. We have referred in one of our Reviews to the singularly powerful 
ote in the second volume of Dr. Newman's lately published Essays, in 
iiich he draws out more fully than before the grounds of his own 
pinion as to the invalidity of Anglican Orders, apart from the historical 
oestion. It would be a pity if we were to forget, however, that this 
Mne historical question, like others, has its own pecular importance in 
^ aigument, and, if it cannot be solved to demonstration, at least to 
^monstration admitted by all, it can be practically decided as far as is 
wpiired for the controversy. Dom Wilfrid Raynal, O.S.B., has put 
*rth a small but very valuable volume on the subject of the Edwardine 
^nal, and makes it very clear, that according to all their theological 
Jid liturgical principles, it is insufficient. " It does not determine the 
^d for which the imposition of hands is made, and institutes no 
[tttinction between the two degrees of the priesthood" (p. 171). The 
*tic of Dom Raynal's work is the Ordinal of King Edward the Sixth :■ 
^ History y Theology, and Liturgy, Richardson, 187 1. 

9. Light in Darkness, a Treatise on the Obscure Lig/it of the Soul, 
^ Uie Rev. A. P. Hewit (New York and London, Burns and Gates), 
* 4 short but clear and masterly explanation of a difficult subject The 
J^tcr is at home with the great writers on spirituality, and has condensed 
^ conclusions very happily. The book does not address itself to a 
*ige class of readers, but to those who experience the state of the soul 
^ which it mainly refers, it may be very safely recommended 

10. Mother Julia, the Foundress of the Sisters of Notre Dame, 
jj^y so well known in England for some admirable cotivtuVs ^xv^ 
•^oWi certsdnly deserved a, biogrsLphy. The volume btf oit \3iS ij-if c oj 

1 68 Notices. 

the Reverend Mother yulia^ &c Translated from the French. W 
York and London, Burns and Oates, 187 1) is one of the labours 
love which we owe to our American brethren. It is not too long, 
full of interest 

II. We must group together a number of smaller works, of wlm_ 
we have no space to speak separately. Mr. Collins' Cistercian Legi 
(Washboume) is a tollection of old monastic tales of the thirtee 
century, from the Latin — ^well translated, and beautifully got up. 
last commendation .may also be given with especial truth to 
Anderdon's Christian j^sop (Bums and Oates) — ^a book the titl 
which sufficiently^ explains its character. There are fifty fables, eac 
which occupies, generally, four pages. The first gives us the fable, 
a pretty cut and a text ; the three that follow explain the truth wk^ic 
the fable illustrates with all Dr. Anderdon's well known grace stm 
lightness of touch. . The application of the. fable to religious truths an 
not always quite obvious ; but this difficulty was inevitable. LegencJ^ oj 
the Churchy (Booker) Versified by a Layman, are a collection of stoxies 
such as those of St Agnes, St. Agatha, the Seven Sleepers, St Cyprian 
and St Justina, and the like. The Manual of the Third Order of St. 
£>ominic {Burns and Oates), and a translation of Frassinetti's /?<;gw»tf/Af 
Catechism (Washboume) need no commendation. Bacchus I)ethr^^ud, 
the first " Teare " prize essay, by P. Powell, contains a large numb^T of 
facts and arguments in favour of the Temperance or Teetotal nmove- 
ment A volume of SerfHons, by the Rev. J. J. Murphy (Longmans) is 
published (i.e., the sermons) " more as literary exercises in preacliing 
than as addresses intended to excite devotion. They may attain that 
latter end, but that end is not the end for which they are prinrn^uily 
designed. Their primary design, as printed here, is the production o( 
intellectual pleasure *' (Preface, p. iv.). We notice with much pleatsuit 
the completion of the handsome English translation of Scaraffielli's 
Ascelical Directory (Dublin : Kelly), and the issue of the reprint oi 
Blosius' Mirror for Monks (Stewart), edited by Sir J. D. Coleridge, of 
which we spoke last month. Mr. Walter Sweetman's Daughters o/^ 
King, and other Poenis (Longmans), contains a good deal of promising 
poetry — with which the author, in his Preface and elsewhere, Iws 
mingled some preposterous ebullitions of lay theology, of which we can 
only say that it is very lay indeed. 

Queries as to Irish Education, 

Notwithstanding continual disappointment and delay, we 
'Hay hope that the time must at last come for at least attempting 
to settle the Irish Education question by legislative enactment. 
This subject, always important and full of interest, becomes more 
so still at the present moment It is a vast subject historically, 
philosophically, religiously. It has been much and ably discussed. 
To it we may and must refer a great deal that has been said 
about Education generally and about Education in other par- 
ticular countries. The principles involved are substantially the 
same, though their application is affected by local circumstances. 
Questions which, like this, have been extensively and exhaus- 
tively treated of, may often be dealt with profitably on a smaller 
scale, partly for the benefit of readers who cannot or will not 
study them at large, partly, too, for the purpose of concentrating 
attention and bringing it to bear on certain definite points, or 
^heir mutual connections, which are lost sight of in a widespread 
investigation. The mind is often more or less bewildered with 
^e quantity of matter presented for consideration, and the 
^read of a statement or of an argument fails to be fully 
Perceived. The accumulation of data leads to digressions, or 
produces the same effect as would be produced by digressions, 
^^ch is my reason and my excuse for this short paper on the 
S^^at question of Irish Education, considered in itself and with 
^^ference to its parliamentary settlement. 

I propose to answer succinctly the following three queries, 
^^'hich naturally arise on the subject. First, what view is taken 
^^ ought to be taken by Catholics with regard to the absolute 
^'^d relative merits of mixed and (denominational schools and 
Colleges for Catholics } Secondly, what ought to be the opinion 
^f nonCatholics about this view } Thirdly, what are the consti- 
tutional rights of Irish Catholics as to the realization of the 
^^tholic view ? 

VOL, XVL MARCH — APKIL, l8j2. "M- 

170 Qtceries as to Irish Ediuation. 

In a full discussion of the respective merits of denominatioxial 
and mixed education, it would be necessary to deal in f^art 
separately with Primary, Intermediate, and University educati on. 
The principles are the same for all three, but the applicatio:Mn is 
somewhat different. There are particular phases of danger — in 
mixed primary education and other phases of danger in mi^^ed 
intermediate and University education — for instance, in c^i=:on- 
nection with the subjects which have to be treated. I have not 
room to take up distinctly these three degrees or departm^=nts. 
But, as I have said, the principles are the same, though diffe^^ring 
so far in their application that, under particular circumstance -^s, a 
carefully guarded mixed system may be tolerable in one of the 
three and not in another. 

First, then, what view is taken or ought to be taken by 
Catholics with regard to the absolute and relative merit^^ of 
mixed and denominational schools and Colleges for CathoL ics? 
We must begin by understanding the terms of the query. To 

commence with the last part of it By mixed schools and 
Colleges for Catholics I mean those in which the ofi^Scial 
positions of heads, directors, teachers, or some of them, art=i-=i as 
a matter of course, held by, or open to, nonCatholics. % 

denominational schools or Colleges for Catholics I mean ttrmose 

whose government is in the hands of Catholics, and in whicl ^ all 

the officers are, as a rule, Catholics.* I am not at pres-^^^^^ 
concerned with establishments in which there are no Catl^^onc 
pupils, nor with the fact of there being or not being nonCatl 
pupils mixed with Catholics under a purely Catholic staff. 
absolute merits of either the mixed or denominational system 
to be judged of without reference to a comparison between 
A person, for instance, might say the mixed system is bad, o: 
might say it is a fair system or a sufficiently good system, tho 
perhaps the same person would pronounce the denominati<:::====^"^ 
better, and this is viewing them relatively. 

The inquiry we are instituting regards the view which ^" 

Catholics actually, take or which all onght to take, though it ^:^^V 
be that some do not take it. By a view which they ough ^ ^^ 


* I have wordecl my explanation thus because, if the Catholic head of an oth^^^'"^''^ 
Catholic College were to avail himself occasionally or even permanently of the sc"«'^<**' 
of a Protestant teacher in some particular branch, the College would not th»^'*^ 
become a mixed one. This course is not commonly advisable ; but the nature ^>ftbe 
subject, the personal character of the master employed, and a proper amoixnt of 
supervision, might render it safe in a special case. 

Queries as to Irish Edtuation. 171 

talce, I understand not merely that which I take myself, and 

which, of course, I think the right one, but that which they 

should be expected as Catholics to take, either in deference to 

a competent ecclesiastical authority or by virtue of a clear 

<Jeduction from Catholic principles, which they must otherwise 

niore or less give up. It may happen and does happen that 

some Catholics, through ignorance culpable or inculpable, take 

^.icws on various subjects — and, among the rest, on education — 

that are not Catholic. By this they often do great mischief. To 

i^y nothing of the intrinsic evil of serious errors, to say nothing 

of wrong conduct based on these errors, to say nothing of harm 

to other Catholics who adopt their errors and imitate their 

conduct, the Catholic cause is weakened, a handle is given to 

the adversaries of our faith. When right thinking Catholics 

propound true principles, they are met by an appeal to the 

*^tatements of other Catholics, and are told that after all it 

^eems to be a mere matter of opinion. It is right Protestants 

should understand that particular notions of comparatively few 

Catholics do not always interfere with the claim of opposite 

^ntiments to be the only admissible Catholic sentiments. The 

^'^fortunate fact of peculiarities on the part of some in the 

Church has been the reason of my using the phrase, '* what view 

'^ taken or ought to be taken." 

I will now set about answering the query. In order to do 

^ satisfactorily, I will first of all state very distinctly some 

P^nciples which every Catholic as such must recognize. I will 

'Merely state them, and not vindicate them ; because no Catholic 

^''U call them in question, and I am not at present defending 

^^y position against Protestants or others who differ from us. 

^^ tiie sake of simplicity, I will state them as trittJis, without 

^^eating over and over again that Catholics must hold so and 

*'^^- Let the reader watch me as closely as he likes. 

I. The Catholic religion was established by Christ. It is 

^ divinely revealed religion. It is the only divinely revealed 

^^*>gion which has existed since the time of Christ. It comprises 

^^ matter of belief all the truths of the Jewish religion, which 

'^^ as truly a divine religion. It comprises all the truths of 

'^^t Revelation which preceded the Jewish Revelation, and 

'J^'^ich truths really entered into the Jewish religion. The 

J^^vish religion has never ceased to be true, nor could it or 

^*^y divinely revealed religion cease to be true. But the Jewish 

^^ligion was instituted to last a certain time. T\val Wm^ do^^d 

1/2 Queries as to Irish Ediuation. 

with our Lord, and the Mosaic dispensation ceased as to ^ 
peculiar observances. The Jews of later times err, not "^Y 
believing the truth and divinity of their old religion, t^vit 
by rejecting Christ and His religion, and, among the rest, ^Y 
adhering to observances which that religion declares at ^ 
end. The Catholic religion is, in the sense explained, the o^cnl) 
divinely revealed religion — the Catholic religion as it starts -^ 
neither more nor less. Hence every religion which oppo-^^^ 
itself to the Catholic is excluded, though its followers xx^mJX^ 
hold many revealed doctrines in common with us. What J 
called Common Christianity is not the religion of Christ ; it i 
not a religion at all. It is no doubt in some sense a real "it 
and not a mere fiction. It consists in an actual agreement a 
to certain revealed doctrines taught by Christ, as comn^^o 
Theism consists in an actual agreement as to the existerr ic 
of God among Catholics and Protestants and Jews and a 
others who are not Atheists. Of course the agreement is m^^=3J 
extensive among Christians, that is to say, it takes in m« 
points agreed about. Moreover, it refers the truths to a Rev( 
tion which has really been made. But, I repeat, this comi 
Christianity is not a religion — it is not a religion true or 
because it comprises several religions, and several religions 
not a religion. Then, as to the several sections of Christiai 
each of them that is professed as a distinct religion, and poss< 
a tolerable amount of unity within itself, may be fairly enoi 
called a religion. But the Catholic alone is the true relig 
of Christ, and every one of the others is a false religion, thou::^ — H 
containing some truly revealed doctrines. 

In all that I have been saying under this first number, wl 
I really want to make use of is the principle stated in 
beginning: that the Catholic religion is a divinely revea 
religion established by Christ, and the only divinely revca 
religion which has existed since His time. The rest is m ^ 

2. The Catholic Church was established by Christ, and is 
only divine Church on earth — the only true Church. Outs^ '^ 
of it there is no divine or true Church. The Catholic Chu "^^^ 
is itself a complete Church, and not part of any larger one. -^^ 
the Catholic Church is meant the Roman Catholic Church, \W^^^ 
the Roman Pontiff for its Head. This Church in its fulr*^^ 
comprises the whole body of Roman Catholics, pastors a-^" 
people. Taken more restricted\y tot \K^ teaching and govemiog 

Queries as to Irish Ediuation. 17 


Chiirch, it consists of the Pope and the other pastors, mainly 

those of the first order, namely, the Bishops. Whenever I shall 

have occasion to speak of authority exercised by the Church, I 

shall use the word in this limited sense, otherwise, in its more 

extended meaning. We are in the habit of identifying the 

Catholic religion in great measure with the Catholic Church, 

and justly, because they were established together, they are 

coextensive, and inseparable. All who hold thoroughly the 

Catholic religion are members of the Church,* and they alone 

are its members. To some, indeed, it may seem superfluous to 

dwell on this. But such is not the case. Many professing 

Christians view the Christian religion as a collection of doctrines 

proposed to men without an essential relation to a society 

instituted by the Divine Author of the religion. They look on 

the Church, such as it is with them, in the light of a result of 

the religion ; a society not so much established directly by God 

as formed by men on the basis of revealed religion. The 

views of nonCatholics about the Christian Church are very 

various, and often very vague. With us it is not so. We 

believe the society to have been as definitely, 'as directly, and 

as formally instituted by Christ as the religion, and a great deal 

J^ore definitely, directly, and formally than either has been in 

^he notions of some Protestants. 

3. The Catholic religion is the sole appointed road to 
salvation, which, as a consequence, cannot be attained out of 
the Catholic Church. Here we are ! — plainly broaching the 
^^rrible doctrine of exclusive salvation ! If a Protestant come 
Across this, what will he say } Will he finish the sentence in 
^^'hich this uncharitable dogma is put forward } What am I to 
^o? It is a Catholic truth — not of my making. I find it 
^^^ght by the Catholic Church. I cannot shirk it ; I cannot 
pass it by when my subject brings me upon it. I will not, 
however, pursue my course without pausing to subjoin a few 
^^'ords of explanation. I cannot afford to enter at large into the 
^^^tion ; but I will say some little to calm the horror such 
P^'opositions occasion, not to Protestants alone, but, at times, to 
^^tholics likewise. 

Eternal salvation in the present Providence consists in 
^^Pematural beatitude to be reached by' such supernatural 
^^ans as it has pleased the Almighty to prescribe. The first 

There may be some exceptioas to this in the comparatively rare cases of schism 
»^ite disjoined from heresy. 

1/4 Queries as to IiHsh Edtuatioit. 

and most fundamental of them is faith — that is, the belief o 
certain doctrines on the authority of God revealing. He ha- .===» 
promulgated these doctrines, and they are no other than th '^^^ 
doctrines which go to make up the Catholic religion. Th ^£:^ 
reception and profession of them are identified witli tl^ ^^ir 
membership of the Catholic Church. It is not necessary tha*. t: 
every individual should know in detail all and each of the^»><^ 
dogmas, nor, consequently, that he should have an explicit fait 5i 
of each of them. There arc some which he must beliewr^c^ 
distinctly, while he believes the rest, as we sa3% implicitt^^", 
according to that formula so well known to Catholics, / belies *^' 
li'hatcvcr the Holy Catholic Church belici'es and teaches. He i^ 
not at liberty knowingly to reject one of them. And wh>' 
should he be at liberty to do so, if God has revealed all of 
them, and proposed all of them to be believed on His authorit:>'* 

and commanded them to be so believed .^ Are we prepared 1^ 

any Protestant prepared — to deny the right of God to issut- 
such a precept, or the obligation of men to obey it if this be i^^ 
their poucr .^ Every one to whom this command, this condition 
of salvation, is proposed sufficiently, must comply with i^- 
Evcry one who has a reasonable ground for thinking that suc^h 
a command, such a condition, may exist, is bound to inqui**^* 
further and ascertain what is the truth on the subject 

But what is to be said of those who are inculpably ignora^*^ 
of the truth of the Catholic religion and the necessity ^^ 
embracing it ? On this point two things are certain, belongii^c^ 
to two opposite extremes ; two things are certain, and tau^l^^ 
as such by the Catholic Church. One is, that whoever is thi^^ 
inculpably ignorant will not be punished for not being ** 
Catholic, as for a sin, because inculpable ignorance excus^ 
from sin. The other is, that without divine faith, understood *^ 
its strict sense as a supernatural belief on the authority of GoO 
revealing, no adult sinner can be justified or saved. Betwe^^' 
these extremes we are allowed to hold, and most Catholics, ^ 
apprehend, do hold, that a person who is, tlirough inculpable' 
ignorance — often called invincible ignorance — outside of th^' 
external communion of the Catholic Church, and who does not 
admit the Catholic religion, may have explicit divine faitli i^ 
some essential dogmas, and may be saved through this faith 
with hope, charity, and perfect contrition for grievous sins. 
Such a person may be considered to believe implicitly the other 
dogmas of the Catholic faith, and virtually to belong to the 

Queries as to Irish EducatioJi. 175 

Catholic Church, inasmuch as hfs actual dispositions are 
such as to involve and include willingness to embrace the 
Catholic religion were it sufficiently proposed to him. 

No doubt the circumstances of any one exteriorly out of the 

pale of the Church are unfavourable to salvation, as he has not 

tte benefit of those helps which the Church affords ; but he 

^iay still be saved. I have said enough to mitigate what appears 

^o Protestants the extreme harshness of the doctrine of exclusive 

salvation. There are collateral questions connected with the 

subject which I must abstain from even touching on, as I have 

*^lready gone somewhat out of my direct way to answer a 

^ifficulty^which does not concern my main business. I repeat 

^hen what I have said : The Catholic religion is the sole appointed 

^oad to salvation, which, as a consequence, cannot be attained 

out of the Catholic Church. 

4 The Church has been authorized and commissioned by 

Christ to teach the whole doctrine of faith and morals. To her 

^^e must listen with docility in all these matters. To her we 

^ust look for light and instruction, both as to revealed dogmas 

^^ith the deductions from them, and as to the precepts of natural 

ia\v, as to all questions of morality, of right and wrong. She is 

o^r appointed guide in all that regards salvation. Now salvation 

depends not only on the belief of revealed truth, but on the 

observance of the entire law of God, whether natural or positivCy 

^at is to say, superadded by the Almighty to that legislation 

^^hich the nature of things demands. Many dictates of natural 

*a\\r aj.g explicitly repeated in the Christian Revelation, and 

^*1 of them are confirmed by it in general terms. The whole 

Natural law is placed under the custody of the Church. I speak 

^nus distinctly on this point with a very special object. Some 

of those outside the Church, and unfortunately not without 

^^ore or less of countenance from soine who are in it, imagine 

^*^at the authority of the Church is confined to dogmas 

^^d to what may be called ecclesiastical matters. This is 

^oroughly false. Every human action considered as morally 

Sood or bad comes within the range of the teaching of the 

Church. The Church itself is infallible in morals as well 

^^ in faith. So is the Pope when defining. The particular 

pastors are not ; but their charge includes the maintenance 

^^ sound principles of morals as well as of sound principles 

^f faith. 

S. Every Catholic is bound to adhere firmly to \\\e C^!Otvo\\c 

176 Queries as to Irish Edtication. 

religion and its teaching, and not to compromise this fidelity ^^t 
the sake of any temporal advantage. 

6. Catholic parents are bound to educate their children — a 
have them educated — in the Catholic religion, to secure, as 
as possible, their being good Catholics, and to prefer this bef( 
all else in their regard. Catholic parents are bound not 
expose their children to serious risk of being tainted or weaken 
in their religious belief. 

The principles which I have stated are undeniably Catho^i»lic 
principles, which I would challenge any sincere Catholic to 

disavow. I will now come to the application ; that is to say — l I 
will consider mixed and denominational Colleges and schools in 
the light of these principles. 

In a mixed College or school, either Christian doctrines en"^:zer 
into the common teaching or they do not. Either all allusE on 
to faith and morals is systematically avoided or they are at 
least partially dwelt on by the masters in the instruction tlm^y 
give. If they are introduced, so far religion is taught — tau^'h* 
officially by nonCatholic masters to Catholic youths. No^^'» 
assuredly this is not a legitimate source whence Catholic youfcl*^ 
should derive any part of their religious knowledge. There *^ 
for them but one religion : that religion is the CathoHc, not sl ^tiy 
other, not common Christianity, which is not a religion at ^^^ 
A nonCatholic master, professing no subordination to trr^l^^ 
Catholic Church, is no authority for them on such matt^ 
This is true, even where nothing is said at variance with a 
Catholic tenet. But what guarantee is there, or can there 
that no aggression will occur } The nonCatholic teacher can 
be expected to know the precise doctrine of the Catholic Churc^:^ 
the exact boundaries of common and particular religious d 
trines. He may even quite unintentionally broach what 
heterodox for us. 

If, on the other hand, all allusion to religion and to th 
subjects which are comprised under religion, as I take it he 
and am entitled to take it — if, I say, all such allusions are to 
completely avoided, we shall have not only a bald and jej 
teaching, hardly possible for a continuance, but a teachE 
intensely nonCatholic and nonChristian. I do not say unCatJi^^^^ 
nor unchristian^ but nonCatJiolic and nonChristian. Now \z^^^^^ 
for Catholics is very bad The thorough ignoring of religi^^-^' 
the exclusion of it as a iforbidden subject, must have a positiv^^ly 
bad effect It serves to make scholars study to foi^et that tb^ 

Qtieries as to Irish Ediuation. 177 

re Catholics. It puts God out of their sight. It fosters the 
lea that religion is a totally separate thing from the business 
f life — their business of life being their studies. How can they 
^alize to themselves that their whole lives are to be spent in the 
^t^ce of God, not of course by an uninterrupted succession of 
E>iritual exercises, nor in a way to interfere with the exact study 
f any useful branch of knowledge, but by a religious intention 
f doing all they do for the glory of God, referring everything 
> Him ? Experience and history teach that a religious spirit, 
^^ from impeding secular studies, helps men forward in them. 
boys and young men are taught on a system professedly 
'^elusive of religion, though not professedly opposed to it, they 
ill learn to keep religion and God out of sight Their lives will 
^t be seasoned with Christian thoughts. Breathing an exclu- 
V'ely secular moral atmosphere, they will become in a great 
^rce secularists, that is, persons who think and care but little 
^Q^t religion. 

Further, it is thoroughly impossible that anything like a full 
^^**se of secular education can be gone through without invol- 
'^S" the influence of religious principles or irreligious principles 
^ the manner in which it is taught — on the teaching itself. 
■^is is obvious with regard to history and with regard to mental 
^^^losophy. It is true even of classics, if the full meaning and 
^^'^tof the authors are to be dwelt on and developed. It is 
^P^ossible for a teacher not to put forward, one way or other, 
^ moral views, for instance, and moral views according to 
^"^liolic notions belong to religion. Even if it were possible to 
'^^^^d this, it could not be avoided without extreme circumspec- 
and extreme selfcontrol, such as are to be expected from 
few men and cannot be counted on. Even if allusions 
^^^nected with religion could be abstained from, and easily 
^^tained from, it is absolutely certain that among a number of 
ters, and during any long lapse of time, they will not be 

^^tained from. It is certain that cases of direct or indirect 
^•^igious or irreligious teaching will be very frequent This is 
^ Necessary result of the moral nature of men, and whoever 
^^^ly thinks otherwise must be strangely ignorant of that 

Further, the relations between teachers and scholars naturally 
lead to a considerable pergonal influence of the former over the 
latter. If a feacher be all that he ought to be as a teacher, he 
will be admired and looked up to by those under his chat^e. It 

178 Queries as to Irish Education. . 

may easily happen that a Protestant teacher will avail himself 
of this moral power to draw his pupil towards that religion 
which he himself professes, and to warn him against what tlie 
master considers the delusions of Popery. This work need r"»^ot 
be done during class hours. But even without any intentioK""^al 
attempt of the kind, the scholar s feelings towards his instrucfcior 
are not unlikely to recommend, in some degree at least, t^he 
latter s religious tenets, or to diminish that abhorrence in wh^ich 

all Catholics ought to hold sectarian doctrines — not, of coui se, 

t/ic men, but the doctrines only. Boys and girls and young n^^en 
and women are easily wrought on and easily warped. 

Some would, perhaps, say — either sincerely or in derisioi 


that the Catholic religion being so well founded, its truth so u ■^cll 
established, a Catholic youth properly instructed by his pareir nfc 
or pastor ought to be proof against all such influences as I h« 
mentioned. I reply that this argument, if argument it can 
called, is worth nothing. The Catholic religion rests, no do 
on a most solid foundation. But first, a Catholic youth, tho 
well grounded for his age in the doctrines of his faith, is not 
consequence a fully equipped theologian ; secondly, even if 
were, when specious difficulties, such as may be advanced agai 
Christian dogmas, are combined with sneers, sarcasms, w^"^*^^ 
personal respect and love towards attractive teachers, and mo ^'^^f 
powers exercised by them, with the irksomeness of that restra — ^^ 
imposed by religion on one whose piety may never have bc^^^^ 
of a high order, or may have cooled considerably through H * 
associations, his steadfastness cannot be counted on. After ^^ ^ 
the truths of the Catholic faith, though in a certain sense Atmc:^:'^^ 
strablc, are not selfevident ; otherwise our faith would not 
a free exercise of virtue. Again, no Protestant, as earnest' ^ 
intent to secure his child's Protestantism as a Catholic sho 
be to secure his child's Catholicism, would trust that child 
the hands of Catholic masters. Nay, no infidel thoroug 
determined on transmitting disbelief to his son would place ht 
under Catholic or even strict Protestant instructors. 

The pliability and imprcssionableness of youth leave gr 
room for influences, despite of any amount of intellect 
preparation. Although the assent of faith is an act of 
understanding, it presupposes, and depends on, a free act of 
will. Likewise, although the preliminary motives of credibil 
as they are called, which make us judge that we ought to beli 
belong, too, to the province of the understanding, yet thepr 

Qtici^ics as to Irish Education. 179 

consideration of them is under tlie direction of the will. Hence, 
if the will is warped, our faith may be weakened or destroyed. 
Reason rightly used about the materials which Catholic teaching 
presents, used under the operation of divine grace, without which 
we can neitlier believe nor dispose ourselves to belief — reason, I 
^y» rightly used about those materials, with God's grace must 
lead to faidi, and, continuing to be so used, must maintain us in 
faith. But it is unfortunately too possible and too easy to 
neglect this right use of our reason, to misuse it, and to go 

The bitterest adversaries of Christianity taunt us with 
embracing doctrines not demonstrated. Their taunt is unjust, 
irrational ; but they arc not wrong in denying that our doctrines 
are mathematically demonstrated. These dogmas, as dogmas 
of faith, are out of the range of mathematical demonstration. 
The mistake which these men commit is in exacting a kind of 
proof that is neither possible nor necessary in order that our 
t>elief should be most certain and most reasonable. I am not 
^v'riting a treatise on divine faith, and I cannot go into the 
details of this question. My object in alluding to it so far is to 
point out that, on Catholic principles, our faith, while most 
Certain and most reasonable, may be most dangerously assail- 
^ole in believing individuals. 

It might scan to be more creditable, more glorious for our 
^^%ion were the case otherwise. But it is not otherwise, and we 
'^iist take things as they are. I have said it might sccin more 
^^^ditable were the case otherwise. Of course I do not hold that 
*^ Would be so. Faith is a sort of homage to God that it would 
^ot be if we could not help believing. To state the true condition 
^^ things in a few words. Every Catholic can, with God*s 
^^istance, persevere in his faith and is bound to persevere in 
^^s faith, and cannot swerve from it without sin. But he is liable 
^^ fail, and, if placed in unfavourable circumstances, he is in 
S^eat danger of failing, always culpably, always avoidably. And 
^ he does not use the necessary means of preserving constancy, 
^^ vill, as a matter of fact, fail. And one part of the unfavour- 
able circumstances I have spoken of commonly consists in the 
Presence of inducements to neglect the means. 

I have said enough to show what view Catholics do take 
^"^ ought to take of mixed education. That view simply 
^niounts to this — that niixed schools, in the sense explained, 
^'^^ objectionable, dangerous, ineligible. 

i8o Qtceries as to Irish Edtuation. 

It IS quite consistent with that view that instances may 
found of those who have passed unharmed through such schools. 
No one has ever said that mixed education is essentially destrnc- 
iive to every individual so educated. It is calculated to be 
pernicious, but several may escape injury from it It is still 
more consistent with the alleged danger that comparatively few 
abandon the Church in consequence. Indeed, the upholders of 
the system for this country would deplore any considerable 
number of such defections resulting from it ; since their favourite 
scheme would thus become patently intolerable and could la 
but a short while longer. The great evil to be feared is n 
apostacy, but a kind of unsoundness which may easily be fouix <i 
in professing Catholics. A certain undesirable class of them ax:'^ 
an easy fruit of such training — a class distinguished by doctria^^*^ 
looseness joined with a very imperfect allegiance to the Churc 
and, as a necessary consequence, a commenced proclivity towar 
unbelief. Even those who have been educated at Catholic schoo^ 
too often become later infected with this pestilence, which 
found floating in the moral atmosphere of society. But mixer ^ 
education is naturally calculated to communicate it and insert 
more deeply, while, on the other hand, the old principles of 
sound training will often rise up and assert themselves, ar^ 
dispel the malady more lately contracted. 

If, as I have said, Catholics do consider or ought to consid 
mixed schools objectionable, dangerous, and ineligible, it foUov 
that they do or ought to pronounce in favour of denomination, 
schools for Catholics. In these schools, if properly conducted, - 
assuredly they ought to be and can be and commonly are, ^^ 
necessary or useful branches of learning will be cultivated. The^^ 
branches will be the same as in mixed establishments ; they vr%^^ 
be as ably and as thoroughly treated. They will be treated, ^^ 
the same time, safely for the scholars as Catholics, and x3^^ 
teaching will be combined with Catholic doctrine so far 
religion enters directly or indirectly. Such schools, then, are 
ought to be viewed by Catholics as absolutely eligible, dS^^ 
relatively far preferable to mixed educational institutions. ^ 
might stop here as regards the first of my three queries, but I 
think it well to deal with one argument which is advanc^ 
against Catholic schools and Colleges, and at the same time 5^ 
favour of the mixed system — an argument which, when w^W 
weighed, will be found to tell really in the opposite direction. 

It is contended that Catholic denominational educadoo 

Queries as to Irish Edncatiofi. i8r 

unduly restricts the scholar, confines the range of his specu- 
iations, cramps his intellectual energies. The Catholic religion, 
and with it the Catholic hierarchy and priesthood, are hostile to 
progress ; they fetter intelligence on principle. Such is the view 
strongly and extensively put forward now by some of the enemies 
of denominational education. From this alleged state of facts 
they infer, and not unreasonably, that the system itself is very 
defective and objectionable. Now, what is to be said of this 
alleged state of facts } First of all, without entering directly 
into the question as to the precise nature of the restraint imposed, 
and the legitimate or illegitimate character of that restraint con- 
sidered in itself, I ask whether it is really imposed by the 
Catholic religion, whether it is a genuine application of Catholic 
doctrine } If it be, then for a Consistent Catholic it must be 
right and the opposite must be wrong, and, being wrong, ought 
to be rejected by every Catholic, and as the opposite is involved 
Jn the mixed system, on the showing of its own advocates, that 
system too must be wrong and ought to be rejected by a 
Catholic. For a Catholic, his religion as it stands is a divine 
^^Jiglon unmixedly good and holy, essentially incapable of 
^^^ding to anything that is not good and holy, to anything 
^at is absurd, perverse, or in any degree objectionable. Can a 
Catholic, remaining such, say of any possible course of action, 
J admit this course is an unfortunate one to take, but it is the 
^^Urse which my religion prescribes " ? 

Some champion of mixed education would here stop me, 
^O^ing out in the tone of an injured man that I am misrepre- 
senting him. He protests that he never meant to charge the 
^^iJiolic religion with unduly hampering genius. There may be 
^^ose, he would say, that think so, but he is not one of them. 
"^^ is not a Catholic, to be sure, but he has a great respect for 
*^^ Catholic religion. There have been great men who were 
Sood Catholics ; there are great men who are good Catholics ; 
^^^re are numberless most estimable members of that com- 
*^^nion; after all, the very best men may differ on speculative 
^n^ts. He never meant to disparage the Catholic religion. But 
^^e Catholic religion and the Catholic priesthood are two very 
^^fiTerent things. Catholic priests, with some honourable 
^^ceptions, are narrow minded, afraid of the light of scientific 
^^th, jealous of the intrusion of unshackled historical or 
I^Hilosophical inquiries. These priests are, for the most part, 
^^*^cerc, well intentioned men, but they are, without me^tvvxv^W., 

1 82 Queries as to Irish Edtuation. 

enemies of education. So are the bishops, so is the Pope — 
amiable and personally holy as he may be. Let enlightened 
Catholics adhere as closely as they wish to the distinctive 
dogmas of their faith, but let them not allow themselves to be 
hoodwinked or domineered over by their clergy. This is 
substantially the language of many who are still not the worst 
enemies of denominational education. 

Let us see what a Catholic is to think of their position. I, as 
a Catholic, ask whether this illiberality of priests and bishops 
and Popes is the effect of Catholic doctrine, whether it is 
precisely because they are Catholic ecclesiastics that they take the 
view imputed to them, whatever that view may be } Is it merely 
an accidental coincidence ? This may happen in one or two or 
twenty cases, or even more. There may be priests or bishops 
who are narrow minded about education or about anything else, 
as there may be priests or bishops who go astray culpably or 
inculpably in various ways. But it is simply unintelligible that 
Catholic priests and bishops should all, or nearly all, take a 
particular line such as that pretended, unless the line in question 
is substantially dictated by the Catholic religion. And no doubt 
those who argue thus for mixed education do in their own minds 
expressly or tacitly or virtually attribute the supposed fact to 
the Catholic religion, or, if they do not, this comes from ^"^ 
imperfect and confused character of their perceptions concern x^S 
the Catholic religion itself and the relation between it and ^^ 
clergy. I should like to hear any reasonable educated rri^^ 
controvert this conditional proposition. If the Catholic cl^^SV 
through the world uniformly, or almost uniformly, habitu^*^y 
and persistently hold to a system of undue restriction ^^ 
illiberal shackling of the intelligence and studies of schal^^* 
they derive this system from the doctrines of the Catb^^ 
religion. I go further, and I say that in such hypothesis tt^^y 
correctly derive the system from the doctrines of the Cath^^ ^^ 
religion — that it is no mistake. For, assuredly, if the clerg>^ ^ 
a body do not understand the Catholic religion, no one un<^^^' 
stands it Further still, I say that if the clergy as a body do ^^ 
understand aright the doctrines of the Catholic religion, th^^^ 
doctrines must be incapable of being understood, or, even thoU^" 
they be intelligible, God has failed in providing for His ChurcA; 
since, by its constitution, the bishops first, and then the priests, 
are the depositaries of its truths. 

The argument, then, for mixed educ^XXoTv \ak«v from the 

Queries as to Irish Edtuation. 183 

influence of the Catholic religion or of the Catholic 
Jthood cannot, in the first place, be accepted by a Catholic, 
: would commit him to a condemnation of his Church and 
ion. Secondly, that argument, as I stated from the com- 
:ement, comes to be available against those who use it 

is to say, whatever there is in it tells in a Catholic's eyes 
St them. For, according to them, t;}iere is a certain 
lint imposed by the Catholic religion on the studies of 
irs who are under its control. I say, by the Catholic 
Dn, because, as we have seen, what comes so generally 

the Catholic clergy comes, in reality, too from the 

admit there is a certain restraint imposed by the Catholic 
>n. Whatever that restraint is, the men I am immediately 
ig with would have it removed. They would therefore set 

that which the Catholic religion views and treats as a 
»ry protection. Therefore their system is opposed to 
Jic principles, and cannot be accepted by a Catholic I 
>ut it another way. Either the Catholic religion does call 
restriction which these gentlemen would get rid of or it 
not : if it does, then their position must, in the mind of a 
Jic, militate against their system and serve as an objection 

if it does not, then the argument is worth nothing and is 
gument at all. If they shift their ground and say some 
Jic bishops or priests would shackle the intelligence of 
irs; I reply, so probably would some parsons and some 
stant bishops, and some Deists and some Atheists. As a 
r of fact, some men of each of these classes are intolerant 
atever is at variance with their own theories, and would, to 
est of their ability, shut out a student from the danger 
:tively of Popery, Christianity, Theism, 
ow let us come more closely to the question of fact 
^ed in the argument wc have been considering. I have 
ly admitted that there is a certain amount of restraint 
d and imposed by the Church as regards students or 
irs. I undertake to formulate this amount here, not 
iding, however, to do so adequately and exhaustively, 
irst, then, Catholic scholars are not to be taught any 
inc contrary to that which the Church teaches either as 
T of faith or as certain truth, though not strictly of faith, 
idly — though, indeed, this is contained in what I have put 

as first, but is dcscwmg of special menlvotv — ^C^!Ocvo\\c 

184 Queries as to Irish Education. 

scholars are not to be taught any system or principles of 
mental philosophy that have been condemned by the Church 
Thirdly, Catholic scholars are not to be taught history com- 
piled with a view to undermining the Catholic religion, aad 
interspersed with remarks and reflections directed to this 
object. Fourthly, Catholic scholars are not to be encouraged, 
or even allowed, to. read indiscriminately all books they please, 
nor to examine for themselves all that the adversaries of 
Christianity or Catholicity have written against their faitti- 
Studcnts going through- their courses are not qualified to desil 
safely with such authors. They have neither maturity of judg- 
ment nor a stock of information to fit them for such investi- 
gations. I say this of students, because I am at prese: 
concerned about them ; but I would not be understood 
imply that such free research is exempt from danger in m^n 
who have completed their academical training. Some, of course* 
must read anticatholic and antichristian works, in order ^^ 
refute them. But this is a task not to be undertaken by 3.W 
even able and well informed men, and may involve a certain* 
amount of peril for those whom duty justifies in undertaking i^ 
I quite understand that the restriction on reading, examining* 
investigating, appears hard to many of our opponents. They 
will meet us with that very specious, and, in many circurH' 
stances, very fair proverbial counsel, Audi alteram partem. But 
it so happens that this is a counsel which, in its received sens^ 
no Catholic is at liberty to follow with reference to the doctrin^^ 
of his religion. The saying means that we should suspci^^ 
our judgment till we hear what has to be said on the other sid^ 
Now, as Catholics, we cannot suspend our judgment regarding 
Catholic truths. If we do look into objections for some gooo^ 
purpose, we must do it with a determination not to yield ^^ 
them. This may sound hard or illiberal, but it is of the essen^ 
of Christian faith. 

It is on such principles that Catholic parents must act fot 
themselves and for their children. They may have their children 
educated, highly educated, learnedly educated, taught eveiy' 
thing that is worth knowing, but under a protecting guidanc^- 
Assuredly, the Church sets no bounds to speculations in the 
region of truth, and there is no advantage in learning what i^ 
false. It may often be useful to know something about unsound 
teachings ; but this must be done under direction which will 
prevent their being imbibed. As to purely scientific invcsti- 

Queries as to Irish Education. 185 

[ations, the Church places no limits to them. Nothing can be 
lore absurd than the hackneyed statement that the Church is 
fraid of the light of science. Such fear would be at variance 
ith our faith. It would be, so to speak, an heretical fear, a 
ar based on heresy. Whoever deliberately entertains the 
prehension that any possible amount of discovery can ever 
lult in establishing a single proposition at variance with 
tholic doctrine, is no longer a Catholic The Church, no 
ibt, fears the abuse of science in the shape of distorted 
elusions. But, not even through this fear, does she restrain 
my way the liberty of investigation. 

In tlie famous case of Galileo there was no attempt to stop 
istigation. A conclusion substantially true in itself, but 
lally deduced from premisses very far from demonstrative, 

which conclusion was at variance with the more obvious 
;e of Scripture, was censured by a Roman Congregation, 
er, a more thorough study of the matter — in no degree 
jed by ecclesiastical authority — led to complete proof of 
proposition which Galileo had maintained, and no further 
culty was made about it. This is not the place to discuss 
controversy about Galileo. There has been enough written 
:eming it, and enough written in satisfactory vindication of 
Church. But it is worth while to observe that whatever 
isibility there may be in the case sought to be made out 
inst the Church in connection with this question, there is no 
vc equally strong instance adducible of an apparent collision 
veen the Church and natural science, and this in itself is a 
d argument for the freedom which the Church allows. 
To return now to my enumeration of the heads of that 
raint desired and imposed by the Church, on the education of 
holic youth. Fifthly, I say, Catholic scholars are not to be 
jht religion either as to dogma or as to morals by non- 
holies ; because nonCatholics, however otherwise estimable, 

not fit and proper organs or mediums of the Catholic 
irch, from which alone Catholics are to derive their religious 
wledge. Sixthly, Catholics are not to be taught religion 
1 by Catholic masters otherwise than in subordination to 
esiastical authority. 

These are the restrictions which occur to me. There is also 
positive obligation of securing adequate formal. and distinct 
jious instruction for every Catholic scholar, besides what 
J enter incidentally. 

VOL, xvi. -» 

1 86 Queries as to Irish Edticatuni. 

Early in my treatment of this first query, I have spoken of 
Catholics being called upon to adopt certain views in deference 
to competent ecclesiastical authority, or by virtue of a clear 
deduction from Catholic principles. I have since dwelt at some 
length on the second of these heads. I must not pass on 
further without alluding to some decisions and declarations 
belonging to the first. 

I will begin by citing a few of the propositions enumerated 
for condemnation in the well known Syllabus subjoined to the 
Pope's Encyclical, Quanta cura, issued on the 8th of December, 

The whole government of the public schools in which the youth of 
any Christian State are brought up, with a limited exception in the case 
of Episcopal Seminaries, can and ought to be assigned to the civil 
authority, and so assigned that no right be acknowledged on the part of 
any other authority whatsoever of interfering in the discipline of the 
schools, in the regulation of the studies, in the conferring of degrees, in 
the choice or approbation of masters (n. 45). 

Catholics may approve that mode of education of youth which is 
disjoined from the Catholic faith and the power of the Church, aiwi 
which concerns itself exclusively, or at least primarily, with the 
knowledge of natural things and the ends of earthly social hfe (n. 48). 

In the same Encyclical, Quanta curat are some errors sub- 
joined for condemnation, which had not, like those of the 
preceding part of the Syllabus, been already proscribed in 
previous Papal documents of a similar kind. Of these the 
sixth is — 

That domestic society, or the family, derives the whole character of 
its existence from civil law ; and, therefore, from the civil law alone flow 
and depend all the rights of parents over their children, and in the firs^ 
place, the right to care for their instmction and education. 

The seventh is — 

That the clerg}', being as they are, inimical to the true and useful 
progress of science and civilization, ought to be removed altogether 
from the care and office of instructing and educating youth. 

The Sacred Congregation of Propaganda wrote thus to th^ 
four Archbishops of Ireland concerning the Queen's CoU^^ ^" 
a letter dated October 9, 1847 — 

The Sacred Congregation, having considered the matter maturel) 
and under all its respects, does not venture to promise itself such ^^ 
(as those alluded to in the context^ ivay, fears serious danger therefrom 

Queries as to Irish Education. 187 

]!atholic faith; in one word, it considers this institution detri- 
to religion. . . . We think you will take • these measures 
the Colleges) with the more zeal on the ground that the 
t of our most holy Lord, Pius the Ninth, is in every particular 
I as ours. For, having accurately informed himself concerning 
lie business, he has approved the decision come to by the 
]!ongregation, and has added to it the supreme weight of his 

same Congregation, writing again on the same subject 
four Archbishops, in a letter dated October 11, 1848, 
is follows — 

Dg maturely weighed all the circumstances, the Sacred Con- 
i, considering the serious and intrinsic dangers of the same 
cannot be induced to soften its judgment regarding them 
y formed, and, with the approval of our most holy Lord, com- 
d to the four metropolitans on the 9th of October of last year. 

Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, in a letter dated 
5, 1850, and addressed to Dr. (now Cardinal) Cullen, at 
le Archbishop of Armagh, says — 

ik it right to signify through your Grace to the bishops, that it 
trange some should not have hesitated to assert, after the 
already given concerning the Colleges, that it is lawful for 
) undertake certain offices in the same Colleges. For if it has 
clared that on account of serious and intrinsic dangers the 

Colleges are likely to prove detrimental to religion; if the 
have been admonished to take no part in carrying out their 

it is assuredly manifest that other ecclesiastics are not at 
) fulfil any charge appertaining to the same Colleges. 

Archbishops and Bishops of Ireland assembled in 
last October, issued a Pastoral address to the clergy, 
and regular, and the laity of their flocks, on Irish 
on. In this address they treat the subject at consider- 
igth, and with great power. I cannot afford to quote 
from it. In order to give in a few words — and those the 
)f the prelates themselves — their doctrine on mixed and 
national education, I will cite the first and second of a 
f resolutions which they state " were passed unanimously 
Archbishops and Bishops of Ireland at the meeting, at 
he foregoing address was adopted" — 

^e hereby declare our unalterable conviction that CathoUc 
n is indispensably necessary for the preservation of the (Saitii 
als of our Catholic people. 

1 88 Queries as to Irish Education. 

2. In union with the Holy See and the bishops of the Cathol 
world, we again renew our often repeated condemnation of mix( 
education as intrinsically and grievously dangerous to faith and mpia 
and tending to perpetuate disunion, insubordination, and disaffection 
this country. 

In an appendix annexed to the same Pastoral are fou] 
several sets of resolutions passed by the Irish Bishops at vario 
periods ; among the rest, those " unanimously adopted at 
meeting of all the Archbishops and Bishops of Ireland held 
Maynooth on the iSth of August of the year i86g." In t 
first of these resolutions they s^y — 

They reiterate their condemnation of the mixed system of edu< 
tion, whether primary, intermediate, or University, as grievously a 
intrinsically dangerous to the faith and morals of Catholic youth ; a 
they declare that to Catholics only, and under the supreme control 
the Church in all things appertaining to faith and morals, can t 
teaching of Catholics be safely intrusted. 

I come now to the second query, namely — ^What ought to 
the opinion of nonCatholics regarding the view which I ha 
shown is or should be taken by Catholics, of the absolute ai 
relative merits of mixed and denominational schools i 
Catholics ? NonCatholics in these countries are either pi 
fessing Protestant Christians, including Anglicans, Presbyteriai 
and all sects of Nonconformists who hold to the Christi; 
dispensation, or Jews or Freethinkers. 

Among those that belong in some sort to the first of the 
three classes, there are many individuals, not to say bodies, th 
approach the third. The line of demarcation is often sufficient 
obscure. Many are to be found who call themselves Christiai 
but whose Christianity is mueh diluted, and seems to weij 
little with them. This statement is not to be taken in ; 
offensive sense. I am not speaking of pretended belief or fal 
profession, but of avowed sentiments. Those whose ideas go 
far in this direction as to render inapplicable to them what 
have to say concerning the first class, must be taken 
comprehended in the third. 

Well, then, I say that Protestants ought to receive t 
Catholic view with a considerable degree of favour. Th. 
agfree with us in maintaining the exclusive truth of Christianii 
the great, the paramount importance of fidelity to the Christi 
Revelation. Now, this fidelity is very much imperilled by t: 
mixed system. For the mixed system, in its full dimensioi: 

Queries as to Irish Edtuation. 189 

fcikes in nonChristianity, and undoubtedly many of its most 

ardent advocates would by no means consent to keep out 

unbelievers, as they would thus have to keep out themselves. 

Kiirther, supposing the charge of educational establishments 

vvas confined to so called Christians, Protestants must know 

tliat among so called Christians men are to be found who give 

themselves indefinite latitude — some on one point, some on 

a-nother — so as to let in what tolerably strict Protestants would 

<^^tll rank infidelity. 

So far I have spoken of Protestants — the first of my three 
c:lasses — as one body. They are not, however, in reality one 
^^dy ; they are several ^ differing widely from each other. The 
'■^^embers of one hold doctrines rejected by those of another, 
^^id vkc versd. What, for instance, would a strict Anglican 
^3.y to Presbyterian tenets } What would a strict Presbyterian 
►y to Anglican tenets } What would either say to what many 
them call Popish tenets, or Romanist tenets } If the members 
these bodies and of other Protestant bodies are really attached 
their own respective formularies, they will, if possible, bring 
^p their children accordingly, and will not readily hand them 
^ver to be subjected to adverse influences. Some of these 
bodies, or rather some of their members, attach but little 
^Oiportance to the differences between them, with the exception, 
I should say generally, of Catholicism, which they join in very 
^nuch disliking, though, perhaps, they dread often compara- 
tively little the indirect action of Catholicism, because there is 
so much positive building up in our religion that the work needs 
^o be done more professedly ; whereas they will excuse me, I 
^^pe, for saying that a transition from the Catholic faith is 
^ther a matter of pulling down, whether for good or for evil, 
^ven without any actual transition, genuine Catholicity is 
^^ously injured by relaxation and liberalism. 

To come now more closely to the point. The members of 
*^rotestant bodies, if strict in holding to their distinctive 
doctrines, if anxious to make their children as orthodox as 
^^mselves — according to their notions of orthodoxy — will 
^^ainly deprecate influences which are likely to impair this 
lesion to distinctive doctrines, influences which they know or 
prudently judge will so operate ; and they cannot in their souls 
Approve our jealousy regarding influences which we know or 
P'^dently judge will have such an effect on Catholics. If they 
^ not strict in holdings to thtk respective doctfmes, iVv^y itvw^X. 

I go Qtieries as to Irish Education. 

so far consent to be dealt with as belonging to the third cla! 
have specified. They are pro tanto latitudinarians. If, fi 
any cause, any members of Protestant bodies sincerely disbeli 
the weakening action of mixed teaching on their youth, I do 
impute to them this laxity in preferring that system. I will c 
say either that they are mistaken in a question of fact, or t! 
whatever may be the case as to the dangers they have or h 
not to apprehend, we have no doubt as to the dangers we fa 
to apprehend. 

I will add here a consideration which may throw some li 
on the subject All sections of Protestantism — ^which secti 
may in a fair sense be called Protestant religions — all Protest 
religions are avowedly religions of inquiry, that is to say, m 
out of the Bible alone or out of the Bible and the Fathen 
out of the Bible and some sort of extrabiblical tradition, 
not imposed by any living authority which pretends to inerrai 
One Protestant is supposed to say — "I hold such and s 
doctrines because I am satisfied that they are in the wri 
Word of God, which I understand in the sense of tl 
doctrines." Another is supposed to say — "I hold such 
such doctrines because I find partly that they are taught in 
Bible, partly that the ancient primitive Church received tl: 
&c &c. I do not hold them on the authority of any li' 
bishop or bishops or clergy. The bishops and the clergy af 
me great help. I look on them as right in the main, 
substantially I hold with them, because I believe them 
understand correctly the Word of God. But they have 
power to tie me down to their views, even to the most sei 
of those views, or rather doctrines." There is, in truth, 
medium between a religion of inquiry and a religion of absc 
and conclusive authority. The inquiry may be neglected 
may be very brief and compendious — a great deal t 
brief and compendious than is reconcilable with Protes 
principles. But every Protestant profession rests on a supp 

The Catholic religion, on the other hand, is not a religio 
inquiry, but of authority. We admit a living authority, wi 
gives us the Scripture and its meaning, and tradition too am 
meaning, and settles all religious controversies that need tc 
settled. I am not going to vindicate Catholicity here. I t 
it as it is, and the drift of my pointing out the distinci 
between a religion of inquiry and ou^ of a.uthority is this — i 

Qtieries as to Irish Education. 191 

Protestants might have . some sort of excuse for putting their 
children in a way to choose for themselves : we have none. 

As a matter of fact, the two chief sections of Protestants, 
namely Anglicans and Presbyterians, have extensively shown a 
great dread of mixed education, partly on account of its negative 
—its nonreligious — character, partly on account of the danger 
they apprehended of scholars being warped and withdrawn from 
their special tenets. Hence proceeded, on the one hand, oppo- 
sition to the Irish National Education system, and, on the other, 
repeated efforts to procure modifications of it that would afford 
scope for Anglican and Presbyterian teaching respectively.* 

The Presbyterians, at a meeting of the General Synod of 
Ulster in January, 1832, passed resolutions condemning the 
system of Irish National Education just then established. In 
the course of the same year they framed propositions to be 
submitted to Government, with a view to such modifications of 
the system as would render it tolerable to them. The pro- 
positions were submitted, but not then accepted. They were 
afterwards varied by the Presbyterians, but not substantially 
•changed, were agreed to by the Government, communicated to 
fte Board, and accepted by it. It turned out, however, that 
there was a misunderstanding between the Board and the Synod 
respecting the religious rights of nonPresbyterian children in 
Presbyterian schools, which misunderstanding is thus described 
^y the late Royal Commission on Primary Education — 

The Board ordered that one of the week days should be set aside 
for separate religious instruction ; the Synod would not grant it. The 
Board held that the pastor, as such, had the right to assemble the 
children of his flock in the schoolhouse and give them religious 
'Dstruction ; the Synod would not allow it. The Board considered 
that the reading of the Bible was a part of the separate religious 
"jstruction ; the S)mod would not separate it from ordinary instruction, 
^l^e Board determined that reading the Bible and separate instruction 
generally must be confined to such children as are directed by their 
P^ents to attend, that they only be then allowed to continue in the 
^l}ool, and that all others do then retire ; while the Synod would 
"either compel the nonPresbyterian children to remain during separate 
J^igious instruction nor yet to retire from it, but would only leave them 
""^c to retire or to stay on their own responsibility.! 

In December, 1834, the Synod of Ulster decided by a 
"^jority to break off negotiations with the National Board, 

See Report of Royal Commission of Inquiry into Primary Education {Ireland) in 
^^70, pp. 47-69. 
+ Report, p. S5' 

192 Queries as to Irish Education. 

and to establish independent schools of their own. The folic 
ing extract from the resolutions passed on that occasion \: 
give an idea of their views — 

As it is the acknowledged duty of this Church to provide for 
children under its care a system of Scriptural and Presbyter 
education, superintended by its ecclesiastical courts, the foUoiF" 
regulations for conducting schools to be established under this sys= 
in each congregation was drawn up and ordered to be published 
transmitted to presbyteries with all convenient speed, i. In 
schools the Scriptiures in the authorized version, and the stan 
Catechisms of the Presbyterian Church, shall be daily taught to 
children of our communion ; the time to be occupied in these 
tural and catechetical exercises to be regulated by the parents, u " 
the advice of the Session of each congregation. ... 3. The chiL « 
of other denominations may avail themselves of the literary advan^ 
afforded by these schools without being compelled to join in the reli^ 
exercises prescribed for our own children. 4. The management o ^ 
schools, the rates of pa5mient, the choice of books, and the regul^ 
of school hours," shall be vested in the parents of the scholars, aide^^ 
the advice of the Session. . . . 5. The appointment of the teac^J 
shall be vested in the parents of the scholars, or in persons deputec 
them ; but no one shall be appointed to that office who has not b 
previously examined and his competency sustained by the Session 
the congregation within whose bounds he is to teach, and whose riK 
and religious character has not been fully approved of by them.* 

The Presbyterians wanted to have denominational educati 
and if they afterwards availed themselves of the aid of ^ 
Board of National Education, it was after the Board 1 
acceded to certain propositions of theirs — their original pro] 
sitions substantially, the effect of which was to enable them 
secure in practice denominational schools. 

As to the Anglicans, they, too, were dissatisfied with 
system. The Royal Commissioners in their * Report sa-3 
" Opposition on the part of members of the Established Chu 
was not less strenuous " (than that of the Presbyterians). ^' ^ 
Carlile " (the first Resident Commissioner of the Board 
Education) ** declares that the chief opponents of the Bo* 
were the clergy of the Establishment."-!" Further on, the R<>3 
Commissioners, summing up the grounds of opposition on ^ 
part of the Protestants, say — 

The Protestant party objected to the "exclusion of the Scripttfl^ 
and the admission of the priest;" they condemned the Scnp^ 
extracts ; they have " no confidence in the Board," which ^*as regarded 

• Report^ p. 63. \ IWrf., ^. 66. 

Queries as to Irish Education. 193: 

as "establishing Popery and promoting infidelity;" they insisted upon 
the '* inculcation of Sgiptural truth," and upon the "reading of the- 
ftotestant Bible by all pupils as a condition of education, sinequd non,*^^' 

I come now to the Jews. If they be real Jews, sticking 

closely to their religion, the same thing is to be said of them as 

of Protestants as to the maintenance of their religion, and even 

'n a stronger degree. For they are not united with other bodies 

by what is called common Christianity, They are most absolutely 

and peremptorily at issue with all other bodies. If they be 

strict adherents of their own profession, they must approve our 

principles as to mixed education. If not, they must be taken 

ivith the third class — Freethinkers. 

What am I now to say about this third class ? Downright 

Freethinkers are unbelievers. They admit no Revelation in the 

Christian and Jewish sense of the term. They differ with each 

other and with believers in opinion on all matters connected 

with religion, according to the good pleasure of each individual. 

Xhey have their theories which they propound and defend 

respectively to the best of their ability. They agree, however^ 

on some few principles. First, they assert liberty of speculation 

and opinion. Secondly, they commend consistency. Thirdly,. 

they profess conscientiousness. They may have strange notions 

sometimes about the nature or origin of conscience ; but they 

wsh to be considered men of honesty and moral rectitude, and 

^'ould assuredly take it very ill of me or any one else that 

would represent them as unreliable members of society, liars, 

^d livers, dishonourable men, as men ready to commit crime 

wherever they had no human punishment to fear — in a word, 

Unconscientious men. 

Well then, if they have a right to think as they please on 
religious matters, so have we; if they have a right to reject 
Revelation, we have a right to admit it. We may be somewhat 
*^Ush in their eyes for doing so. They may regard us as very 
Unreasonable, and we may return the compliment But, after 
^^ our rights are equal. They allow supreme liberty on 
philosophical subjects. Now the question of the admissibility 
^f Revelation, and of Revealed Religion, and a particular 
*^rni of revealed religion, viewed from their standpoint is a 
philosophical question. And this way of considering it is not 
^^ogether erroneous ; since in reality the approach to the 
*^cptance of Revealed Religion is through philosophy, a 

♦ Report^ pp. 68, 69. 

194 Queries as to Irish Education. 

philosophy very much simplified for those who are bom an 
bred among Catholics, but philosophy still. The existence < 
God for instance is a philosophical prceainbiilum of faith ; tJ 
motives of credibility are to be estimated on philosophi<i 
principles. The very obligation of believing what God reve^ 
is a philosophical truth. If they may philosophize one way, 
may we another. They have no business to be intolerant 

On their principles we have every right to be Christians a— 
Catholics if we like. If we exercise that right, they will tell 
that we ought to do so consistently. If we believe there i^ 
heaven and a hell, and that fidelity to our religion is necess^ 
to attain the one and escape the other, they will tell us tt 
believing as we do we ought to maintain that fidelity, othensr^ 
our principles and practice will be at variance. If we reg^ 
conformity to the dictates of the Catholic religion as a nK^: 
duty, if we regard likewise as a moral duty the training up 
our youth in that religion, they will tell us that with such vier' 
we should do wrong and deserve blame for swerving from t 
supposed duty. 

If I ask a freethinker what would be his course were h^ 
Catholic embracing to the full the doctrines of our religion, 3 
will say the hypothesis is strange, that he can hardly make 
but if he must make it he cannot deny in such an hypothesis 1 
would assuredly, so far as he knows himself, not risk for him^< 
or his children, exposure to influences naturally calculated 
endanger * perfect perseverance in belief, and he will recogn^ 
the force of those influences which we dread. 

An otherwise reasonable and candid freethinker will harc3 
deny that a mixed system of education for Catholics is calculat:^ 
to impair their Christianity and Catholicity, a desirable resi:^ 
no doubt, in his views, but one which he will admit that 
Catholic, as such, ought to deprecate, and deprecating, ougj 
to be an enemy of the mixed system. 

My third query was as follows — What are the constitutior^ 
rights of Irish Catholics as to the realization of the Catho^ 
view ? In answering this query, I must first of all lay down a^ 
partially develope some principles, regarding which, if righ^ 
understood, there cannot be any reasonable dispute. 

I. The Catholic religion is fully and thoroughly tolerated, 
these three kingdoms. Those who profess it enjoy the sa^ 
-civil rights as any other subjects of the British crown. Th^ 
JLre, no douht, some very few offices which cannot be filled t 

Queries as to Irish Education. 195 

Catholics, and so far, it may be said, there is not perfect political 
equality. But, with this exception, the constitutional doctrine 
is that we are on a perfect par with Protestants. 

I am not forgetting the Established Church of England and 

the Established Church of Scotland ; fortunately we have done 

W'ith that of Ireland, though the tithe rent charge is to be paid 

for several years yet. I am not forgetting, I say, these 

Established Churches, which beyond question are specially 

recc^ized, favoured, and supported at the expense of the 

country. We have here a politico-religious inequality which 

it is beside my purpose to quarrel with just now. But, in the 

sense in which I am speaking and expect to be understood, 

there is constitutionally civil equality — an equality of civil 

rights — between Catholics on the one side and Anglicans and 

Scotch Presbyterians on the other. That is to say, an individual 

Catholic is supposed to be treated exactly in the same way as 

an individual Protestant. Neither is considered to possess any 

political privilege or to suffer any political disability arising out 

of his religion. Both are entitled to the same protection, both 

^e entitled to be provided for alike in all temporal matters in 

^'hich the State provides for the subjects of the realm. No 

doubt there is a spiritual staff maintained for the members of 

the Established Church and none for the benefit of Catholics. 

This is a hardship on the latter, and a temporal hardship, 

inasmuch as they are compelled by law to contribute to the 

support of one set of clergy which is useless to them, and by 

conscience to maintain another which they need. Still all this 

^oes not involve any general inequality between Catholics and 

I^rotestants, and if a Catholic says — "I am entitled to the 

same civil advantages as a Protestant," no intelligent adherent 

of the British Constitution will dare to contradict him. 

2. The British Legislature acknowledges the obligation of 
'taking provision for education in these three kingdoms. This 
• provision, it is admitted, ought to be proportioned ; on the one 
hand to the wants of the people, on the other to the national 
^^ources. There is no need of entering here into the details of 
^^er. Nor is there need of insisting further on the obligation. 
* ^rtiament is ready and willing to do as much in point of mere 
'^^ee as I would ask for. At any rate, the controversy I have 
^^ hand does not precisely regard degree. I will even venture 
to Say — I am benighted enough to say — that in my judgment 
^^ tendency in our countries, and in some otYvers, \s t^Xiv^t 

196 Queries as to Irish Education. 

towards an excess of education for the masses of the people 
an excess of imperfect education, which serves to communica^-^e 
to a great many knowledge not needed by their position, and st 
the same time incomplete and, in consequence, not unfrequen^Iy 
mischievous. Be this as it may, it is admitted by Goveramexit, 
by Parliament, by public opinion, that the Legislature ought to 
provide, as far as it can, for the educational wants of the people 
of Great Britain and Ireland. This is the broad doctrine receivrcd 
on the subject 

3. The education which the State is bound thus to prov^^^ 
for is secular education. At least the State is bound to provi ^^ 
for secular education, for education in the necessary and us^ ^ 
branches of natural knowledge — and it is with this obligatE *^^ 
alone I have to do. For greater clearness, I will say that:::^ 
speak of nonreligious knowledge, for the term natural by its« ^ 
may be ambiguous, more especially as some of the parti 
engaged in the Education question recognize no religion b 
what they would call natural religion, and what is assured 
nothing viorCy however far it may be less^ than such. I mea 
in a word, knowledge that has no more professedly to do wit 
religion, than for instance, grammar and mathematics have, 
say professedly on account of the indirect bearing of soi 
branches on religion. It does not come within my range 
inquire whether the State is bound or not to provide for religiou- 
teaching of any kind. Two things are certain. One is that th^^ 
State is bound to do what it can to meet the wants of the peopl^^ 
with reference to nonreligious teaching. The other is that it ha^^ 
no right to undertake the religious teaching of Catholics to b^^ 
carried out by itself — the State — against the will of Catholic 
as this would be religious persecution, which assuredly the Stat 

4. Catholics being on a par with Protestants in the eye 
the British Constitution as it now stands, with reference to aE 
merely temporal rights and advantages, and education, as 
here view it, being a merely temporal thing, the British 
lature is bound to meet the wants of Catholics in this r< 
as fully as those of Protestants. Protestants are not entitled 
any preference. This obligation is more palpable and unassailabC^^ 
in Ireland than in the other two portions of the United Kingdoirr"^ 
I do not say it is more real, but it is more patent and less liab^^ 
to even inconclusive objections. 

In IrtlaLiid the. majority of the people — ^the mass of thepeof^^^^ 

Queries as to Irish Edtication. 197 

—are Catholics. The laws rdgulating Irish Education have 

been, are, and are to be, framed distinctly for Ireland as for 

•England and Scotland respectively. Now there can be no 

possible plausible ground for in any degree ignoring, passing 

over, neglecting, the confessedly equal rights of the bulk of the 

I>opulation. No statesman can stand up and say — " My plan of 

Education must be 07ie comprehensive plan, calculated as well 

^as may be to meet the necessities of the whole country. I 

<^nnot legislate for every individual. Some parties must suffer 

-accidentally. I am very sorry. I would, if I could, satisfy to 

the full the claims of every man ; but it is impossible. The 

Catholics must forgive me if I do not comply with their demands, 

"^hich I admit to be in themselves just" What sheer nonsense 

this would be ! 

The simple answer to this imaginary declaration is, that if any 
^vere to suffer an accidental diminution of their enjoyment of 
common rights, this should rather befall the minority, or rather, 
that, if needs were, there should be two plans, one to provide for 
the majority, the other for the minority. I have set down this 
objection, not because I expect it to be made, much less to 
prevail, but merely to bring out more fully the unimpeachable 
claim of the Irish Catholics to a thoroughly just provision in 
accordance with those rights which the British Constitution 
recognizes as equally possessed by them and their Protestant 
fellow subjects. In truth, it is on quite other ground that the 
battie is to be fought. 

S- Since Irish Catholics, remaining Catholics, recognized as 
^uch,are equally entitled with their Protestant fellow countrymen 
^o be provided for by the State with reference to secular educa- 
tion, they have a strict right that the provision made should be 
one of which they can avail themselves without acting against 
^eir religious principles,' without doing any violence to those 
principles, without running what, according to those principles, 
*^ a serious risk of a great evil. 

This proposition cannot easily be controverted. Suppose, 
*^f example, that the State aid afforded to Catholics for secular 
^^ucational purposes, or, to put it otherwise, suppose the only 
^tate aid afforded to Irish youth. Catholic and Protestant, were 
^*^ged with the condition of occasionally attending Protestant 
^5^ce, or joining in Protestant prayers, or listening to instruc- 
^^Hs griven by a Protestant minister, the rights of Catholics 
^^Uld be flagrantly violated. Because among those tights is 

1 98 Queries as to Irish Education. 

that of being helped by the State in reference to education o 
equal terms with their Protestant fellow subjects, and withou 
prejudice to their religious profession ; and any such conditio 
as those just stated would be at variance with their religiour j 
profession. The conditions I have named are closely connecter 
with worship. Suppose, instead, that the youth in these schooLV 
were to be left exposed to be required to read Protestant cons^ 
troversial books, or take part in quiet controversial conversational 
with Protestants ; such an item in the arrangement would rend 
it grossly unjust towards Catholics, though the acts to be do 
would not be — so to speak — unCatholic acts. The gist of m^ 
proposition is this — that any circumstance to which Catholics '. 
seriously object, as not in accordance with their religious princ^:^ 
pies, cannot be legitimately or justly annexed to, or combine^a 
with, a temporal benefit conferred on them by the State as 
matter of right, in fulfilment of their claims as British subjects. 

Having stated these few principles, which I apprehend wi^ 
hardly be questioned by any fair man holding to the presei^- 
British Constitution, I come to apply them, or rather the last •* 
them, resting as it does on those that precede — I come to appE ^ 
this principle to mixed education for Irish Catholics. Iri^^ 
Catholics, as a body, object to mixed education as at varian 
with their religious views and sentiments. They object to it 
the twofold ground of its being exclusively secular and of ir 
being mixed. If mixed, it must be exclusively secular, becaus 
religious teaching of Catholics by nonCatholics would be 
more intolerable than purely secular instruction. Yet this sev^"^ 
ranee of mere human learning from religion is an unCatholi J 
thing. It is not, however, the worst element of the systen^^ 
The evil to be apprehended from the admission of nonCatholi J 
teachers into schools or Colleges for Catholics is still greate-^ 
The whole plan of mixed education is opposed to Catholic viev 
and principles. Therefore the aid afforded by Government fi 
the education of Catholics on the ground of their claim to th: ^ 
aid as British subjects, if associated with the system of mixe^ 
education, is not a fulfilment of their rights. It does not me^ - 
their wants. 

I may be told that the whole business of the State in t lr^^ 

matter is with secular education, and secular education is l^H 

its nature unconnected with religion ; that religious educatL ^ 

may be very good and very necessary, and ought not to w 

impeded or interfered with by the State, but cannot be proviScit/ 

Queries as to Irish Edtuatioii. 199 

M l>y the State for a mixed population. I may be told that I 

■ am in reality demanding Catholic education, and therefore not 

r nierely secular, but religious education, from a Government 

^^'hich most impartially makes no distinction between Protestants 

^nd Catholics, and makes no inquiries about any man's religion 

so as he be a loyal subject. 

I reply to all this as follows. First, I do not demand from 
the State aid for Catholics towards religious education as such, 
but towards secular education. I do not ask the State to pay 
3. shilling for lessons in catechism. Secondly, I do demand 
'rom the State aid for Catholics towards secular education, to 
be given by persons whom they are willing to trust, not by 
persons whom, on religious grounds, they distrust, and are 
bound in consistency to distrust, however estimable those 
persons may be as members of civil society. Thirdly, if those 
teachers of secular knowledge whom Catholics trust — namely^ 
Catholic teachers — season their instruction to a certain extent 
"^vith religion, the State will not have to pay for such seasoning. 
Let the State, if it please, watch the teaching and see that it is- 
^ot deficient as secular teaching, for which alone the State pays- 
It will thus be assured that the public money is not misapplied. 
I^ourthly, the duty of the State with reference to education is- 
i^ot precisely to ^ve it, but to provide for it — to afford the 
people the means of obtaining it. I do not say that the State 
^s merely to disburse the funds requisite, without looking to 
their expenditure. I have already said that the State is welcome 
to ascertain that the money is applied to the object for which. 
*t is given. Fifthly, the State may do very well in not inquiring 
^bout men's religion. But if Catholics cry out to the State — 
** Take notice, we are Catholics, and we do not claim any 
privilege, any preference on that score ; but we beg of you, we 
require of you as a matter of justice, not to give us help in a 
shape in which we cannot use it. We do not ask for more than 
^^r share ; but let the amount which our numbers and our 
^^"ants entitle us to, come in a form that will suit us. You will 
"^ none the poorer, and we shall be far better off." If, I say, 
^^tholics cry out thus to the Legislature, would it not be cruel 
^ reply — ** Good people, wc make no distinctions ; we neither 
^'^ow nor wish to know what religion you arc of That would 
^ bigotry — almost persecution. We give you your share in 
^^t shape which we think the best. If you are fools enough 
^ think otherwise, you must take the consequences " ? 

-2C)0 Queries as to Irish Education, 

But, some will say, the Catholics of Ireland do not holi 
mixed education in such horror. Witness the mixed school 
of the Irish National Education, frequented largely by Catholic 
with the approbation of their clergy; witness the number c 
Catholics who have passed and are passing through Trinit 
College, Dublin, and through the Queen's Colleges. To th 
objection I will reply briefly — briefly I say, because a full 
developed answer would carry me far beyond my bounds, prettt 
nearly reached already. 

First, as to the Irish National Schools, their story is shortE 
this. At the time the system was proposed, it seemed more fai 
— it seemed to approach nearer to fairness— than any previous^ 
. attempted by the British Government It was calculated to ci 
much towards meeting a great want. There was nothing bett" 
to be expected at that period. The system was by no meac 
perfectly good nor perfectly safe ; but it was considered b 
most of the bishops and clergy good enough to be tries 
Danger could be guarded against by watchfulness. It w" 
tried, it was watched ; and assuredly it needed watching, bo- 
as regatrded the application of rules by the Board and th« 
modification of those rules, and as regarded the action 
individual Protestants through the country on National Schoc 
with which they were in one way or other connected. Man^ 
battle had to be fought by the Catholic clergy to keep off* e\-i 
Up and down some harm was done, but, all things considers 
not very much. The system became in the course of time, 
some respects, worse than it had been at the beginning. 
specially bad feature which was being developed was t 
particular character of the model and training schools, a^ 
against these the bishops protested very loudly and to a cc*^ 
siderable degree effectually, not by direct success in movitf 
the Board and the Government, but by keeping Catholics o* 
of these most objectionable establishments. The absence 
sufficient training and of model schools is a loss and ratbtf 
a serious one, though a less evil by far than that to ^ 
apprehended from the provision made in these respects M 
the Board. The result, of course, is that the system as 
stands cannot work. 

As to the ordinary schools, a large per centage of them ^- 

denominational in the twofold sense of having Catholic mast^ 

and mistresses, and exclusively Catholic scholars. A still largf* 

per centage are denominational in the sense of having Catholfc 

Queries as to Irish Education. 201 

isters or mistresses with a few Protestant scholars.* All these 
lools labour under the disadvantage of having all religious 
tniction and practices banished, except at particular times 
apart for these things. However, there is no danger of 
ratholic teaching. 

All that can be said of the National system is that it is but 

I very limited extent a mixed system, that it was looked on 

he best that could be had from Government ; that under 

e circumstances it was and has been up to the present made 

of, though not in its integrity, as appears by what I have 

about the model schools. Now, all this does not show that 

mixed system is in itself desirable, eligible, satisfactory, or 

Djectionable ; all this does not show that the establishment 

he mixed system is a fulfilment of the rights of Irish 

lolics with regard to primary education. Much less does it 

V that the mixed system is eligible or tolerable with regard 

ntermediate, or with regard to University education, into 

I of which, subjects largely enter which are not treated of 

irimary education, and which cannot be safely studied by 

lolic youth under the guidance of nonCatholics. 

t is well to observe about the National system that the 

need the Irish Catholic bishops and clergy have felt of 

aually struggling and contending with the Board to obtain 

wements and ward off dangers, is proof enough that the 

ition was not of a thoroughly sound character in their eyes, 

itself according to Catholic views. It has conferred real 

s, but it involves well grounded apprehensions of mischief, 

rely casual, but arising out of its peculiar natural liability 

erniciously managed. 

t, as to Catholic students of Trinity College and the 

\ Returns for the year 1867, cited by the Royal Commissioners in their 

ippears that of the principal teachers (male and female) 79*240 per cent., 

ssistant teachers 78*035 per cent., were Catholics {Report^ p. 251). There 

same year two thousand three hundred and twenty ordinary schools (to 

n of model, workhouse, gaol, and lunatic asylum schools) attended by 

olics tmly^ with an average daily attendance of one hundred and twenty 

I four hundred and thirty eight. Out of three thousand eight hundred 

ne mixed schools, there were eleven hundred and six with an average 

ss than one Protestant child (attending), nineteen hundred and twelve 

ge minority of less than three Protestant children, one hundred and 

yvith an average minority of less than one Catholic child, and three 

welve with an average minority of less than three Catholic children. 

mcrs set do\vn the attendance at one third of the number on the rolls 


202 Queries as to Irish Education. 

Queen's Colleges. First, they are comparatively few. Second! 
Trinity College (which is identified with the University 
Dublin) and the Queen's University are the only Universiti 
in Ireland recognized by the State and affording the full amou 
of temporal advantage derivable from a University. Hence 
is no great wonder that several Catholics are attracted to tbei 
It is not my business to accuse or excuse those who have pass< 
or are passing through these establishments. One thing 
certain, that the fact is no proof of Irish Catholics general 
being content with mixed education. 

It is, however, further objected that Catholics as a bo- 
are not so unfriendly to the mixed system ; that the oppositi 
to it comes mainly from bishops and other ecclesiastics, wh 
the laity do not in general very much care about the mattei 
nay, many of them are not at all desirous for denominatio 
education, but, on the contrary, would rather not have 

I answer that this objection is simply a false statement 
the condition of things. There is question, of course, of th< 
who belong to the middle and upper classes of society; fi 
I presume, no one pretends that the bulk of the lower orde 
of the Irish Catholic population is in any degree friendly t 
the mixed system ; quite the reverse. Many will say that i 
this they are led by the clergy. May be they are. . But her 
I would observe that if Catholics of any class choose to follov 
their clergy in views, opiniort, action, they have the fullest righ 
to do so. When men freely take a side not otherwise ill^ 
it is no business of the State whether this is the effect o 
individual reasoning or of advice followed, even though thai 
advice may be looked on by the members of the Legislatun 
as mistaken. On the whole, it is very decidedly the interest 
of the British Government that the people of Ireland shoulc 
be led by their priests, inasmuch as their influence is, as a rule 
on the side of loyalty and order — not through interested motives 
but on religious principle. I may add that on this particular 
question of mixed or unmixed education, if the CathdJ* 
peasantry of Ireland were simply left to themselves, they woul^ 
without doubt array themselves on the side of exclusive!) 
Catholic teaching. To return now to the middle and upp^^ 
classes of the laity, they, as a body, have shown and do sho^ 
most emphatically that they are for denominational education 
SLTid decidedly opposed to the mixed system. In the first plac^ 

Queries as to Irish Edtuation. 203 

parents of these classes make it a point, without any exception 

worth mentioning, to get their daughters taught in Catholic 

schools or by Catholic governesses and their sons in Catholic 

ioteraiediate schools or by Catholic tutors at home. If, in 

several instances, they send their sons to mixed UniversitieSy 

besides the comparatively small number of such cases, the 

obvious reason is that up to a few years ago there was no 

Catholic University in the three kingdoms, and now there is 

no Catholic University, nor any Catholic branch of a University, 

enjoying recognition by the State and the advantages resulting 


Secondly, almost the whole body of the middle and upper 
classes of Irish Catholics have joined and are joining warmly, 
heartily, and earnestly in the demand for denominational 
^ucation. Almost all the first Catholic names in the country 
have been appended to petitions, requisitions, resolutions of 
the most uncompromizing character, to make and support and 
enforce this demand. Those who have come forward thus so 
prominently are recognized by the rest of the educated classes 
3s representing them too. The demand on the part of these 
dasses is morally universal. There are, no doubt, respectable 
individuals who think and speak otherwise ; but they can 
^'thout very much difficulty be counted. I am not going to 
count them, nor to name one of them, nor am I going to assail 
them. That is not my present business. My third query 
concerns the civil, political right of the mass of Irish Catholics 
^ have their views recognized, their demands complied with. 
These views and demands are not illegal, they are not revo- 
lutionary, they are not seditious. 

The Catholics of Ireland, as a body^ repudiate and condemn 
^xed education as at variance with their religious principles, 
^ews, and opinions. On the one hand, they call on the 
I'^lature to afford them that amount of aid towards education 
^ which all parties are agreed that the Irish people are entitled 
^ British subjects ; on the other, they protest against this aid 
being afforded them in a shape which their religion teaches 
ttem to detest, and which will, if maintained, practically deprive 
|bem of the benefit pretended to be conferred. They call for 
JJitellectual food, but declare vehemently against its being 
'ttipr^nated with poison which will forbid its consumption. 

E. J. O'R. 

Cygnus Exspirans. 

["I know no fitter place to append a poem, which can claim no room in th 
this volume, being almost without any distinctly Christian element what 
little more than a mere worldling's lamentation at leaving a world 
knows he has abused, yet would willingly, if he might, continue still 
abuse. But even from that something may be learned ; and there is a 
originality about the composition which makes me willing to insert 
especially as it is very tar from common. I would, indeed, gUu 
something more about it I find it in a Psalteriolum Cantionum CatA 
p. 283 (Coloniae, 181 3), with the title De Morte, but with the fifth, 1 
seventh stanzas omitted ; and in its fuller form in Konigsfeld's Latein, 
uttd Gtsdnge (Bonn, 1847). "^^^ i^ ^ small and rather indifferent col 
medieval Latin poetry, with German translations annexed — so careles 
as to inspire no confidence in the text. Daniel also has it {Tkes, 
vol. iv., p. 351), but avowedly copied from Konigsfeld. The though 
more modem air about them than that I can suppose the poem rightl) 
in a collection of medieval verse at all. It bears the not very appropri: 
Cyptus Exspirans^ and is as follows — 

Parendum est, cedendum est, 
Qaudenda vitae scena/' etc 

Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry^ pp. 279, 380 

In addition to the references given by Dr. Trench in the above extrac 
be mentioned that the 'poem has been reprinted in the following a 
Jlymnariunt, Bliiihm Lateinischer Kirchenpoesie (Halle, 1 868). In 
volume the title Cygnus Exspirans is omitted, the poem being class 
general list of JesuUenpoesie. In the Lauda Sion of Karl Simrock ( 
1868), it is given entire, with a German translation, but without any re 
its origin. In the Lieder der Kirche of Lebrecht Dreves (Shaffhausen, I 
also given, the beautiful third verse, ** Tu Cithara argentea " (or, as it 
perhaps more correctly by Dr. Trench, **Tu, Cynthia argentea"), and 
verse being omitted. The title is changed to **Abschied von der Wd 
note, p. 545, the translator calls the Cygnus Exspirans **das wunderlichi 
Referring, as Dr. Trench had done, to the absence of almost any 
Christian element in the poem, he adds that, abstracting from its form, 
have been the swan song of Catullus. The following version is, I be 
first that has been made in English. Some slight approach to an imi 
metre has been attempted, but the resounding harmonies of the original 
to be feared, almost entirely wanting. — D. F. M'C] 


Life's play is played, its last scenes fade, 
One calls there's no gainsaying ; 

Death summons me, and I must flee, 
The stern decree obeying. 

Farewell my dreams, my hopes, my schemes, 
My singing and my playing. 

O sun so bright, the world's great light, 
For thee the mists are clearing ; 
Rise, radiant rise, \iviOM^Vi ^zvjie skies, 

Cygnus Exspirans. 205 

My day is disappearing. 
Dark night descends, my journey ends, 
The port my bark is nearing. 

Sweet silver lute, now hushed and mute, 

Ye golden planets shining, 
Ye stars, the eyes of cloudless skies — 

All, all I am resigning. 
For me the glare of comets' hair 

Death's ghastly wreath is twining. 

Farewell, a thousand times farewell, 

O world, that pure received me ! 
Unstable round, fallacious ground. 

Farewell, O earth, that grieved me ! 
Your vanities, insanities. 

Have long enough deceived me ! 

Farewell, fair halls and stately walls, 

Enriched by rare incising. 
Smooth marble floors and ivory doors. 

And towers to heaven uprising. 
Me to one spot, one tiny plot, 

Death drives with speed surprising. 

Ye maidens fair with golden hair, 

Each curl a snare concealing ; 
Each phantom bliss a deep abyss, 

Absorbing every feeling. 
Ah ! eyes, once rocks, your power death mocks, 

The hidden reefs revealing ! 

Cease sportive glance, cease syren glance. 

Be dumb, ye cymbal's clashes ; 
No more prolong your strains, O song ! 

Electric wit, your flashes. 
God's herald, Death, intones and saith— 

" O man, return to ashes ! " 

Delicious sweets, fair counterfeits 

Of nature's own sweet making ; 
The plenteous board, the vintage stored. 

Or crowned for festive taking — 
Ah ! how I hate your taste, though late 

My thirst in Death's cup slaking. 

Moulder away, rot and decay. 

In long delayed putrescence ; 
Each scented dress, voluptuousness 

Perfumed as with sin's essence. 
One robe remains whose horrid stains 

Proclaims the cold worm's presence. 

2o6 Cygnus Exspirans. 

Ah ! swifl as light seems now the flight 
Of all life's acclamations, 

As I begin to enter in 
The eternal habitations — 

Honours insane, and titles vain, 
And foolish expectations ! 

Beloved mates, associates 
In many a joy, though fleeting — 

Death, insolent and impudent, 
Disturbs our pleasant meeting. 

Farewell, my friends, our revel ends, 
This is my final greeting. 

And now to thee, my body, be 

My latest valediction ; 
To thee, my near companion dear. 

In gladness and aifliction. 
One equal fate on us doth wait 

Of bale or benediction. 

D. F. M 

Ufe and Adventures of Father Thames. 

Few who have watched the flow of a great river have failed 
to reflect upon the varied character of the lands through which 


Its waters have passed ; how many scenes of quiet domestic 

life they have witnessed ; how they have been greeted by 

the roar of vast cities ; how they have wandered, as it were 

i^ sport, through open plains, and how they have fought their 

^"ay through mountain fastnesses. Often will they tell of floods 

^d tempests in distant lands, and sometimes bear down to us 

the record of conflicts when all within our own horizon is tranquil. 

Rivers, then, have their history as kingdoms have ; but there 

^ this remarkable about them, that they tell not only their 

0^ tale, but that too of the land through which they pass; 

and not only of its cities, its dynasties, and its peoples, but they 

^onicle the vicissitude of the very earth itself before it was 

^arated from the waters and called dry land. And so Father 

shames, too, has his history : a history of strange adventure 

^ore than matching fable, in which, though he has not visited 

other lands, it will nevertheless be seen that other climes have 

Waited upon him and strange races and mighty monsters have 

Passed in succession before him ; a history too of such duration 

^t it is not to be measured by years or centuries, but only by 

hunting the successive races of beings that have trod his banks 

^^ sported in his waters. 

It is said that whoever starts from London by the Great 
*'estern or North Western line of railway, though travelling 
^ith slight exception on the surface of the earth, nevertheless 
^^ a certain sense has its interior gradually unfolded before him. 
*^ the same manner, no one who has followed up the banks of 
^^ Thames can have failed to remark that, between London 
^^ the neighbourhood of Maidenhead, they are of clay ; from 
•^aidenhead, through all the windings near Great Marlow and 
**^ley, to Wallingford, they are of a cretaceous character; from 
^^Uingford to near Abingdon he passes through a series ot 

2o8 Life afid Adventures of Father Thames. 

sandy and marly strata comprised under the name of gault A 
the latter place the Oxford clay appears, and his course is in th. 
midst of it until he meets the great oolite a very short distanc 
from Thames Head. The effect is very much what would b 
presented by a pack of cards with variously coloured back 
partially spread out in one direction to an insect joumeyin 
on the surface, the difference being that the edges of the stral 
are to a considerable extent levelled down by atmospheric an 
other action, so that we sometimes seem to be walking alor 
a series of strata spread out consecutively on the earth's surfac 
We propose to give some account of these various strata, the 
formation, and the records of life that characterize them. 1 
do this we must travel the reverse way to that which we ha. 
been describing ; in other words, we must begin with the bottc 
card and follow the pack upwards till we reach the uppermc 
in the London basin. We have a good guide at hand in X, 
excellent work which Professor Phillips has just produced on t 
Geology of the Thames, from which scientific work the chief fac 
which will be noticed in this paper will be taken.* 

It is not necessary here to state the origin popular 
attributed to the name of the chief river in Britain. Accordin 
to this, all the higher portions of the stream ought to be callc 
Tsis, and the name Thames confined to the part below if 
junction with the Thame near Dorchester ; but it appears {tot 
many documents of Saxon times, that even before the Conquef 
the whole river was called Thames. Professor Phillips think 
the name Isis was a scholarly invention and a fancy of Lelan^ 

Let our readers imagine a period which once was, when tb 
sea rose a thousand feet higher than it now does relatively ^ 
the land. We can only speak for certain of those districts beiti 
then under water where we find sediments of the correspondin 
age, but we may imagine some eijterprizing navigator directin 
his course in a north westerly direction from what is now tt 
coast of Flanders, but was then probably a deep and open se^ 
He would have sailed without meeting rock or shoal over tt 
whole south eastern portion of England. London and Oxfor* 
or rather the sites on which they are built, would have lain fs 
beneath his feet, much as they now do to an aerial navigato 
His attention would at last be arrested by a small group of islet 
never indeed set down as such in Admiralty charts, but whic 

* Geology of Oxford and tJu Vallfy of tlic Thames, By Joha Phillips, M. A., F.R.S 
F.G.S. Oxford, 1871. 

Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 209- 

W'ere then exposed to the full fury of the Western Ocean, and 
'ivere already filling up its shallows with their debris, themselves 
made up of the wreck of other lands. These islets are now 
called the Malvern Hills ; they may be said, in a certain wide- 
sense, to form the extreme limit of the valley of the Thames. 
No artist has left us tracings of the inhabitants of those seas, no 
naturalist of those days studied the life with which they teemed, 
but the creatures themselves are preserved to us, sculptured 
by Nature herself in stone, with an accuracy that no hand 
could imitate, no anatomist desire to surpass. Portions of these 
rocks, forming the western slopes of Malvern, are part of what 
are called by geologists the Cambrian series. If we except the 
Laurentian rocks in Canada, they are the earliest fossil bearing 
rocks yet known in the world. The ancient gneissic rock of 
Malvern, itself sedimentary, is absolutely void of any trace of 
life And here we have a fact of extreme interest upon which 
^"e must dwell a little before we proceed. 

No one is ignorant of the theories now put forward as to 
the origin of life upon this globe. There are men of science who 
^vould have it that all life is a development from some primitive 
elementary form — a sort of undefined being, not, as was once 
'Written, bringing forth seed according to its kind, but capable of 
producing plant or animal according to the direction in which 
circumstances might lead it, something neither animal nor 
'Vegetable, and consequently indifferent to which kingdom its 
progeny were to belong. To say nothing of the difficulty 
^^ conceiving the varied forms of life which we see around 
^s to have sprung from such a source, Sir William Thompson 
'^It the difficulty of any germ of life arising by the mere 
Wee of nature from inorganic matter. He felt there was 
Nothing in nature to authorize such a leap. No doubt he 
thought that to acknowledge a creative Power would not be 
^»ence, as if the attributing of effects to their true Cause, 
^^hen the light of reason alone suffices to point it out, could be 
Unscientific, forgetting that ** the invisible things of Him, from 
^e creation of the world, are clearly seen by the things that are 
^^de, ... so that they are inexcusable"* who forget Him, and 
bought that he threw light upon the subject by suggesting to 
^e British Association assembled at Edinburgh that this germ 
^ay have been brought from some other world. And whence did 
^^t other world obtain it ^ We need not point out that it is the 

• Rom. i. 20. 

2IO Life afid Adventures of Fatlter Thames. 

same difficulty for ever/which may as well be faced where it 
first presents itself as in the* most remote orb in the heavens. 
It is the special privilege of naturalists to argue from facts, and 
it is their pride that they can appeal to facts as the basis of 
all their systems. And what is the fact here? Is there 
anything in nature to encourage such a theory as that of which 
we are speaking? Nothing whatever. We are told that the :^ 
earlier stages of life are lost; but are we to be satisfied with^ 
assertions, without semblance of proof, on so grave a subject^::; 
when nothing approaching a probable theory how life b^^n hasrr- 
been advanced ? Professor Phillips tells us that the older stratifii 
rocks of Malvern are absolutely without traces of life ; and yet L 
the early Cambrian strata he names fourteen species found in 
limited area of these rocks — and these not undefined creature 
-of doubtful animal life, but fully formed Crustacea, brachiopoc^s, 
and annelids perfect in their kind. Sir C. Lyell* speaks of 
forty species found in the Minevian beds of the lower Cambri^t^ 
strata, and amongst them the largest trilobite known, being xio 
less than twenty two inches in length. Does not. science h^re 
bear testimony to the belief that the first creatures upon earth 
sprang into life by virtue of an Omnipotent word, and by no 
fancied, but inconceivable natural process of the development o( 
organized life from what was inanimate and unorganized ? " Let 
the waters bring forth the creeping creature having life." 

We do not here enter into the question as to what could 
have been the nature of that action by which inert matter, acting 
before only on exterior objects, is supposed to have begun to act 
inwardly on itself— to live and to feel. Facts are appealed to, aa<i 
facts are with us. It may perhaps be urged that the Eoozoo^ 
Canadense of the St. Lawrence is an older form of life. We ar^ 
not disposed to question this, though, as Professor Phillips tdl-' 
us, '* this foraminifera, or sponge, has not obtained its certificate 
without protest" f But can it be pretended that the foramiD? 
fera of Canada were the parents of the Crustacea of Malvem 
and, if so, where is the connecting link ? It is a grave difficult 
for evolutionists of this class that the earliest signs of life 
Great Britain should be of the unmistakeable character 
have described ; and we quite agree with Professor Phillips ' 
'* they who adopt these theories must do so under the enon 
logical difficulty of replacing unknown records by imag 
terms founded on the theory which requires them to be i 

* ManmUof Geology^ p. 469. + P. 61. X P. 61. 

Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 211 

But we must return to our mariner. The Thames had not yet 
the light, but deep and solid in the depths of the ocean 
his bed being laid. 
For our unscientific readers it may be necessary here to 
e^cplain that, omitting the action of heat, there are four 
great agents at work in modifying the earth upon which we 
^r-ead. They are upheaval, subsidence, denudation, and stratiii- 
ca.tion. It is an undoubted fact that both the surface of the 
esirth and the bed of the sea, are constantly subject to the 
s^otion of forces situated in the interior of the earth, which 
oause them to rise or sink, imperceptibly indeed, but to such 
effect that land becomes sea, and the depths of ocean in their 
turn are lifted up to become mountain ridges. Subsidence and 
elevation belong to our own period as well as to the most 
remote, the shortness of the time that comes under our experi- 
ence alone rendering this effect insensible to us. To understand 
^vhat is meant by denudation it is only necessary to have seen 
tile waste that goes on on some of the mountain sides in 
Scotland, when a single winter's storm suffices to carry thousands 
of tons of stone and gravel into the valley below ; and to realize, 
*^ possible, the meaning of Professor Geikie's view, that the 
peaks that now rear their heads far above the surrounding 
valleys are nothing but the skeletons of a former tableland, 
that alone have resisted the wasteful enegies of the atmosphere. 
^f stratification our readers need have no better example than 
}*^hat is seen where a stream opens out into a lake and deposits 
*^ load of gravel, sand, or mud, in layers, according to its velocity 
^that is, according to its carrying powers. As its velocity is 
^'niinished it deposits sand where previously it laid gravel, and 
^ this diminution is still further continued, the sand is covered 
^*th a layer of impalpable silt, which the less powerful current 
^n now carry no further. When they remember that this is 
^^Hstantly going on at the mouth of every stream that enters 
^e sea, and that wherever sea meets land the wasted particles 
^e spread out upon its bed, to be succeeded by other layers 
^^^cording as the circumstances of soil and current are changed, 
^^ will understand how new stratified lands and a new world 
^^e being incessantly formed from the decay of old ones. 

Deep in the bed of the sea, from which the islets of Malvern 

''^^ the waste of other lands was at this time being laid. The 

V^oabrian series of Malvern consists chiefly of two beds — the 

^^oUybush sandstone, of a greenish tint, at least six Iwitvdted 

212 Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 

feet in thickness, and a layer of black shale, about five hundr"^ 
feet thick, laid, as it appears from the fineness of the texti*-"!^* 
in deep still water, but as is shown by occasional barr^ds 
of trap and felspar, disturbed from time to time by volca— "aavc 
outbusts. The HoUybush rocks contain annelids and braci=hi- 
opods, but no trilobites. These appear for the first time in 
the shales, where • several species are found without a tr-^^ce 
of ancestry in the earlier rocks. It must be understood t — liat 
the two beds we have mentioned only very partially repre^ ent 
the Cambrian series, which is largely developed in Wales, the 
Lingula flags alone comprising five thousand feet of strata, 
the Tremadoc slates at least one thousand, the former and lo" 
containing forty species of fossils, and the latter having aire; 
produced thirty six peculiar to themselves. Below these 
the Minevian beds, five hundred feet, and the Harlech 
six thousand feet, both containing abundance of trilobites, 
the Llanberis and Penrhyn slates, which attain a thicknesi 
three hundred feet, which are perhaps not more ancient 
the last mentioned, but which, with the exception of two obsc^^rc 
organisms discovered in Ireland, have as yet produced no fossils. 
It is interesting to observe that in Norway, Sweden, ^nd 
Bohemia, the Cambrian rocks again appear with great variety 
of their characteristic trilobites, but, like those in Wales, v%^ith 
no sign of ancestry.* It is also interesting to notice that cef>l^^' 
lopods appear suddenly for the first time in the Tremadoc fl^S^' 
and we do not see that the fact of their being associated ^^^i^ 
trilobites of certain genera is any argument in favour of tl^^^^ 
development from a lower form, as Sir C. Lyell suggests. 

The next great series of rocks, known as the Bala gro'Up^ 
belonging to the lower Silurian series, is entirely absent f"'^^ 
the area we are describing. This may have been owing to ^^ 
land having been raised above the water during the period w*^^" 
the Landeilo flags and the Bala beds were being deposited ^^ 
the depth of several thousand feet. At this time Profe^^^^ 
Phillips thinks the Arenig was pouring forth its deluge^ ^ 
molten rocks, which are found interspersed among the s^"'' 
mentary rocks of Bala. 

This period appears to have been followed by deep dep^"^^ 
sions of the sea bed, in which fine argillaceous mud "^^ 
deposited, upon which a change of current and diminution ^' 
depth caused a deposit of sand to be laid ; and a pause iti ^% 

• Sec Lycll's Elements^ cxxviL 1871. 

Life and Adventures of Father TJiames. 213 

subsidence taking place, the sea bottom was covered with a 
growth of coral, found now in the form of beds of limestone, 
to be themselves covered with a deposit of mud as the sea bed 
sunk still lower, until a deposit of three thousand feet had been 
'aid of similar alternations of strata, repeated with some, but 
not complete, regularity. These form a portion of the upper 
Silurian series, and are known as the Ledbury, Ludlow, and 
Wenlock shales, the Aymestry, Wenlock, and Woolhope lime- 
stone, the Downton sandstones, &c. They contain abundance 
of organic life, including four genera of plants, sixteen of 
coelenterata, five of echinoderms, three of Crustacea, seventeen 
of trilobites, four of brachiopods, twelve of gasteropods, five of 
cephalopods, three of fishes, and others. Of these remains, 
Professor Phillips says — '* Here it appears very plainly that 
a complete system of invertebral marine life, with all its 
principal divisions now in existence, was fully established in 
the middle of the Silurian period as it is known at Malvern, . . . 
^Iso that this system had come in gradually from a small 
beginning, and died out almost completely with the Ludlow 
rocks, the strata above being comparatively poor in life. Fishes 
^PI>ear only in the later deposits ; no reptiles, no birds, no 
mafmmalia."* Unfortunately we can only judge from small 
fragments what was the character of these first representatives 
of the fishes; but from the jaw of one which is figured by 
Sir R. Murchison, it would be difficult to imagine them to be 
developed from the lower organisms of the immediately pre- 
ceding strata. 

The series of rocks which lie above the Silurian, and are 
^lled the old red sandstone, though found to the depth of eight 
thousand feet in Pembrokeshire, is only slightly represented 
here. This formation appears to have been the result of great 
physical changes in other parts of what is now called Europe. 
Life seems almost to have disappeared, if we except a peculiar 
^^^ss of fishes. Changes of current brought sediment of a new 
^'^d, tinted red or pale green, while the bed of the sea continued 
^ Subside. The lower part of this formation is the only one 
^^^t is here found lying above the Ludlow rocks showing the 

^shes referred to, but no trilobites or corals, and few marine 

The Devonian system, which lies immediately above the 
^^^ red and contains strata full of fossils and others entirely 

214 L^fi ^^ Adventures of Father Thames. 

devoid of them, is entirely wanting here. The carbonifero 
system, lying above the last named, is represented at Wiclmi 
by the carboniferous limestone and at Newent by a th 
valueless bed of coal resting on the old red sandstone, frc 
which it appears that after that period, the bed of t 
ocean was raised up, by which means the strata of both t 
Silurian and old red are bent ; a denuding action follow 
and levelled the surfaces of the strata, after which the c( 
was deposited. Whether these beds are the remains of extensi 
deposits, or are indicative of stunted growth perhaps in uncc 
genial soil, it is not easy to prove. In any supposition, t 
practical question of depth would be very serious in all propos: 
to seek for coal under the later formation to the eastward 

The next series of strata are those called by Profess 
Phillips, from the variety of the colours, the poikilitic, coi 
prising the Permian and triassic deposits, the first being 
named by Sir R. Murchison from a large tract in Russia call 
Perm, where it abounds, the second, so named by Germ; 
writers owing to the triple division of the strata, nor unfrequent 
also called the new red sandstone. These strata are the highc 
of the paleozoic formations, which they terminate, the trias beii 
a kind of transition group. They consist of a great variety 
marls, sandstones, and limestones, into the details of which \ 
cannot here enter. Of the fossils of the Permian series, Sir 
Lyell tells us — " The total known fauna of the Permian seri 
in Great Britain at present numbers one hundred and forty sev 
species, of which seventy seven are molluscs. Not one of the 
is common to rocks newer than the paleozoic, and the brachi 
pods are the only group which have furnished species comm< 
to the more ancient or carboniferous rocks."* Among t 
fossils are several species of fish universally provided with t 
heterocercal tail, traces of reptiles, &c. This formation includ 
the great development of magnesian limestone, observed in t 
east of Yorkshire. This is its most characteristic rock, whi 
the trias is marked by its red marl and sandstone. In tl 
region of which we are speaking it is found only in a narrc 
belt on the eastern slopes of the Malvern Hills. 

What we have hitherto said of more ancient formations h: 
little immediate bearing upon the valley of the Thames, exce: 
insomuch as it serves to enable us to place the strata whi 

♦ Elements^ p. 3^. \%i\. 

Life and Advefitures of Father Thames. 215 

compose it in their proper position. It is impossible to say for 

certain at present which of them may exist beneath the newer 

strata which have been explored, but it is certain that, if to 

'>e found at all, their depth must be very great. The deposition 

of Permian conglomerate on the eastern slope of Malvern is a 

proof that at this time, at least, the sea beat against the eastern 

side of these hills, from the waste of which, with many fragments 

brought from a distance, the deposit is formed. It is laid against 

^ ** fault," or sudden interruption of the rock, produced by some 

Sreat disturbance, and causing the land on one side to rise 

abruptly, on the other to be depressed, and which opened the 

'^^ay for currents bringing new character of deposits, with a new 

y^'^Ufta. As the rhoetic, which comes next in succession, is not 

^ound within our limits, we pass on to the lias, a large and 

irnportant group which, though in many places covered by the 

^^^olite, extends in a broad band from Stroud in a north east 

direction to the H umber. It is a series of beds of blue and grey 

limestone and clay, abounding in organic remains, and extending 

"^^ many hundred feet in depth. During the whole of the 

F^^riod required for the accumulation of this vast amount of 

^^diment, and during which the coralline beds were being 

^^^rtned, a wide sea occupied the whole of the basin of the 

-^^hames. The alternating depression and pauses in the move- 

of the bed of the sea, contributed, as we have seen before,, 

the production of the different character of strata. This sea 

^-bounded in life. In the lias of England no fewer than nine 

""^^ndred and thirty seven species of molluscs have been found; 

^ ammonite, nautilus, and belemnite in particular abounding. 

ofessor Phillips gives a catalogue of no less than eighty species 

ammonites ; and we may add that as many as one hundred 

^^^d seventeen species of fish have been found in the lias of 

-^rigland, but the saurian reptiles, of which the ichthyosaurus and 

F^l^siosaurus are instances, were the most remarkable features of 

^^is ancient sea. 

We shall not dwell any longer upon the lias, as it nowhere 

appears on the surface throughout the course of the Thames, 

but proceed at once to notice the important formation which 

^^^y be more immediately considered to be the bed of at least 

the Upper portion of that river, and out of which it takes its rise. 

^is formation, called the oolite, extends for a broad curved band 

^^ thirty miles in average breadth, from the coast of Dorsetshire 

^ the Humber, where it has been lost by denudatiotv, to te^^^^^^t 

.2 1 6 Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 

at Malton. Many of the tributaries of the Thames — such 
the Windrush, Evenlode, and the Cherwell — ^have cut their wa 
through it, and are now flowing upon beds of lias, leaving th 
remains of the tableland of oolite, which have escaped th 
wearing effect of their waters, far above them, while isolat 
patches of the same formation occur here and there on hig^ 
ground, so that a geological map of this part of the counter-^ 
bears all the appearance of a deeply indented coast, represent^^^ 
by the oolite, while islets of the same formation are scatteni^^ 
about in a sea of lias. The name of oolite, which has be^^ 
given to this series of deposits, is taken from the appearaivcre 
of its most characteristic rock, represented by the Bath stone, 
which under a microscope is seen to be composed of min\ite 
grains resembling ova. It is divided by Professor Phillips into 
three great divisions, which in ascending order are called the 
Bath oolite, the Oxford oolite, and the Portland oolite. The 
first is what Sir C. Lyell designates the lower oolite, embrac- 
ing all strata from the inferior oolite to the Combrash 
inclusively, and, consequently, embracing the Bath stone; 
the second corresponds to the middle oolite of the same 
geologist, and comprises the Oxford clay and coral rags ; the 
third is called by Sir C. Lyell the upper oolite, and comprises 
the Kimmeridge clay, and Portland and Purbeck beds. It is 
from the oolite therefore that so large a proportion of our 
building materials in the south and west of England is drawa 

These beds lie conformably on the lias, so as to show that 
no great disturbance attended the physical change which caused 
so great a modification of the character of the strata as occurred 
at this period. There was, however, a very great depression 
of the bed of the sea, interrupted, as is generally the case, bj 
pauses and limited elevation. How great was the depressio*^ 
may be judged by the fact that Cleeve Hill, the highc^ 
point of the Cotswold hills, now one thousand and eighO^ 
four feet in height, is oolitic to the summit, and must cons^' 
quently have been sunk beneath the waves of this ancie^^ 
sea. Sir C. Lyell has shown in his Antiquity of Man that ^ 
depression of six hundred feet would reduce Great Britain to tb^ 
state of three considerable islands in the north, and one consist^' 
ing of the high ground of Wales, and a few scattered islets 
in the south and south west. We can understand, therefor^* 
how little land in the southern counties could have escape^ 
-Submersion during the oolitic period. We shall make a fe^ 

Life and Adventures of FatJier Thames. 217 

^marks on each of the three portions of this great system which 
We have enumerated ; and we cannot do better than begin with 
Professor Phillips' own summary of the changes of level which 
took place during the formation of the Bath or lowest division of 
this great group. *' In the case before us,*' he says, speaking of the 
remarkable recurrence of the ternary order of clay, sand, and 
lirtiestone, " the liassic bed first receives only the finest sediments 
^vliich can fall in deep water; by degrees these sediments accumu- 
late so as to bring the sea bed near enough to the surface for the 
drift and settlement of the fine sand of Medford and Frocester : 
on this sandbank flourish colonies of coral and shells, and 
constitute the basis of the inferior oolite. Depression follows ; 
the deposit again becomes argillaceous (fuller's earth) ; shallow 
ivater succeeds, and the Stonesfield banks of sand and shells 
appear, followed by the great oolite rock. Less distinctly the 
same things occur and recur; and the Cornbrash ends the 

The fossils of this period are the most numerous and. the 

most varied, and give us the most complete series of any that 

w-e have — not only many genera of molluscs already known to 

^s in the lias, but fishes, prodigious reptiles, and now for the 

first time, in the Stonesfield beds, mammalia. We have seen 

that the sandy deposits are generally a sign of comparatively 

shallow water. Conformably with this view, the Stonesfield 

heds show many signs of the near vicinity of land at the time 

they were deposited ; " false bedding," produced by currents in 

^hallow water, is common, several genera of plants, including 

^^Jiifers, and cycadacese and several varieties of fruit bear 

^^timony to this. The little mammals also, whose remains 

^'"^ found embedded in these strata, were undoubtedly brought 

^Hrn by streams which had probably washed them from their 

r^^ers and carried them away during floods. As these are the 

^^t mammalia discovered in a formation so ancient as the 

*te, great importance was attached to their discovery. Like 

^^ the other principal forms of life, they start suddenly, without 

'^y sign of pedigree in the earlier strata. It is curious that 

Jttle or nothing but specimens of the lower jaw have been 

^^^^overed, probably, remarks Professor Phillips, from the facility 

^^th which this portion becomes separated from the disinte- 

S^ting carcass, the remaining portions being carried into deeper 

^ter. The process by which the class of this little animal was 

• r. 394. 

VOL, Xtl, V 

2i8 Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 

determined by Professor Owen is extremely interesting, 
surprising for its simplicity. The datum of the problem 
"a lower jaw with teeth." It must be of the vertebrata. 
cannot be a fish, on account of the teeth being of the t 
orders, molars, premolars, and incisors, and because the m( 
have double fangs deeply implanted in bony sockets, 
same reasons are conclusive against a reference to the claj 
birds, chelonians, serpents, or batrachians. With respec 
reptiles, though their teeth are various, "they never exh 
as in these fossils, true and false molars with different cro^ 
One, which has been named the Amphitherium. Prevc 
appears to have been insectivorous or vermivorous, and posse 
a number of molar teeth so great as to be approached onl) 
a little Australian marsupial, the myrmecobius. Another, w! 
has been called the Phascolotherium Bucklandi, is thought 
Professor Owen to be in still more close alliance with 
thylacinus, also a marsupial from Australia. 

"Thus," says Professor Phillips, in concluding his aca 
of the fossils of Stonesfield, "a picture of the ancient sur 
rises before us, in which the Stonesfield lagoon, full of fishes 
molluscs, receives with every cyclonic storm drifted bran< 
of cypresses and swarms of wind-wrecked insects, while 
swollen land streams bring down, but not with equal rat 
motion, the bony remains of amphibious and terrestrial lizc 
which perished on the banks and river beds, and the bodic 
small mammals which had sported in the trees." 

Less important as regards their geological antiquity, 
more remarkable than the mammals we have been descril 
were the reptiles that frequented the shores of this sea. 1 
were the ichthyosauri and plesiosauri, teleosauri, and a rem 
able one to which the name of megalosaurus Bucklandi 
been given, and, most remarkable of all, the ceteosaurus. 
teleosaurus was a kind of sharp nosed crocodile, from fiftee 
eighteen feet in length, covered with armour, more adapted 
sea than for land, and consequently found more among 
marine than fluviatile remains. Of the megalosaurus, Profc 
Phillips says — "Though not the largest of primeval lizard 
has no rival among carnivorous reptiles — perhaps thirty 
long, capable of free movement on land, with strong but "' 
massive hind limbs and reduced fore limbs." He fur 
expresses the idea that he was " not a ground crawler like 
alligator, but moving with free steps chiefly, if not solely, on 

Life and Adventures of Father Tliames. 2 1 9 

hind limbs, and claiming a curious analogy, if not some degree 

of affinity, with the ostrich." The similarity of structure to the 

ostrich is in the scapula and pelvis bones ; and it is interesting 

to notice how nature seems to work in a common direction for 

what may be supposed to have been a common end, and 

furnishes the same structure to answer the same purpose, and 

this in the most widely different genera, for no one will suppose 

that there is any close relationship of descent between this 

aniphibious monster of the oolitic shores of Britain and the 

ostrich of the desert. Perhaps the greatest wonder of these 

times was the ceteosaurus. Though less in bulk than the 

Greenland whale, it was probably the largest animal that ever 

trod the earth. A femur which is preserved in the museum of 

Oxford is sixty four inches long. If we endeavour to calculate 

the size of the animal by the proportions of a crocodile we should 

"^ve a length of sixty four feet. Little can be known of the 

habits of this monster. It was probably a marsh loving, river side 

animal, capable of walking freely on land, and for its magnitude 

^nds preeminent in interest among the fossils of this country. 

We have seen that there was a plentiful flora at this period. 
Cypresses and tree ferns and cycadaceae flourished, and multi- 
tudes of insects filled the woods with life ; but one feature was 
absent which must have rendered these woods unlike any woods 
^^ our day. There seem to have been no birds. We can 
hardly realize what our woods would be without the feathered 
"'e with which they swarm ; but the air was not for all that 
Without inhabitants, strange indeed, and, as far as we can say, 
characteristic of the times — we refer to the winged reptiles or 
P^erosaurians. Of these a very remarkable one, which has 
^^ceived the name of Ramphorhynchus Bucklandi, has been 
•^und in the Stonesfield quarry. Professor Phillips has given 
^ representation of the appearance it may be supposed to have 
^^d from the remains that have been found. In general 
character it was a heavy bird, with head perhaps like a dodo, 
^'*th large powerful wings, not feathered nor, as in bats, formed 
^* a membrane stretched along extended fingers, but stretched 
^^ a single wing finger, terminated by a long pointed bone, 
^^''etchlng from that so as to include its short legs. The wing 
"^ger discovered at Stonesfield is four jointed, and no less than 
^enty five inches in length. Professor Phillips thinks this 
feature may aptly be taken to represent the harpy of the 
^ory. It ^35 ;;, ^11 probability cold blooded, and m >2cv\^ 

220 Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 

essentially distinguished from birds. Of course the details 
circulation which are connected with this cannot be observi 
but the absence of feathers is a certain mark, and the formida 
fangs with which its jaws were armed, make it evident that 
belongs rather to the class of saurians than birds. 

And so ages passed away. Generation after generation, 
strange creatures lived and perished ; the remains of many w^ 
disintegrated or carried into depths where they are for e"% 
buried from human view, and chance fragments alone, gather 
together and compared with every form of life extinct ^m 
present, have been made with incredible skill and patience 
the part of the learned geologists who have accomplished ^ 
task, to tell us the history of the life, of the fauna and fl^^ 
of these long bygone days. 

Meantime the bed of the sea was slowly rising. Cleeve 
and the rest of the Cotswold hills rose above the waves, 
degrees the lower land appeared ; denudation began its w 
The various springs that gushed forth from the side of the 
united their streams together, and carried the waste of ' 
newly formed land by a little rivulet into a noble estuary "^ 
then penetrated from the eastward so as almost to unite ^^^ 
that of the Severn. This little stream bore no name ; we s.^ 
call it by that of Thames. Most of the upper springs are xio 
dry, but that which, after the last upheaval gushed forth a strc^n^ 
clear stream from Trewsbury Mead has always been ackn^w 
ledged to be the true source of the Thames. It is necessary l^cn 
to remark that, though the drainage of the neighbouring 1^"^ 
was undoubtedly carried into the estuary just spoken of, th< 
streams by which it was conveyed can in no true sense ^ 
identified with any existing rivers. The configuration of the 
landscape was so different from what it now is that the channels 
in which the rivers flowed must have been very different froin 
those with which we arc familiar. When, therefore, we speak o\ 
the Thames of this early period, we only mean its representative 
of those days, remembering that the channel which it cut ^^^ 
itself is probably very different from that in which it now floi^s. 

When the depression of the land was not more than about 
two hundred and fifty feet below its present level, what is fl<^^ 
the Thames may have been a small stream rising about ^ 
hundred feet above the sea level, and quickly swallowed up ^X 
the wditQXS of this great estuary which then penetrated far intotne 
interior; indeed, for some time att^t TVv^mt.^ H^3.d had risen above 

Life and Adventures of Fatlier Thames. 221 

tie water, the estuaries of what are now the Thames and the Avon 
were united. The whole country round Oxford was buried under 
^ deep sea, into which the various streams now forming branches 
of the Thames, and the infant Thames itself, were pouring their 
load of fine silt, to be known in future ages by geologists under 
the name of the Oxford clay. Long ages must have passed 
whilst this deposit was being formed, for a shaft that was sunk 
at Witham disclosed a thickness of this clay, with, however, 
intemiptions of rock and several varieties of strata, of over 
si>c hundred and thirty feet This, with the coralline oolite 
and calcareous grit which lie above the clay, form the Oxford 
oolite of Professor Phillips. The fauna is scanty when compared 
^th the abundance of the lower group, and is what our author 
^Is " a pauperized fauna, indicating the approaching extinction 
of physical conditions, which marked the oolitic ages and 
influenced the life of the period."* The shores of this sea 
were still inhabited by the ichthyosaurus, the megalosaurus, 
^he pleiosaurus, and plesiosaurus, and the ramphorynchus con- 
tinued to prey upon the more defenceless inhabitants of the 
^arth and the water. 

At length this period, too, came to an end. Physical 
Ganges took place. The Oxford clay was in nfany parts dry 
land, and the Thames was busy cutting his bed through it, 
Ending backwards and forwards through the vale according 
^ his task was easy or obstacles met his path. Still to the 
^uth and east there was deep water ; and this is what our 
Professor calls the period of the Portland oolite. The base of 
*^ is the Kimmeridge clay, found from the cliffs of Dorsetshire, 
^here it attains a thickness of six hundred feet, almost 
^thout interruption to Yorkshire, and shown to the depth 
^f one hundred feet on Shotover Hill. Above the clay are 
"ortland sand and Portland rock, slightly only represented 
^^% but so abundant on the Isle of Portland. This was still 
^ period of saurian monsters, inhabiting the neighbourhood of 
^e mouths of rivers, the proximity of land being further shown 
"y drift wood, which is common in the strata, while the closing 
^^e of the mesozoic period exhibits in the Purbeck beds 
Proofs of lacustrine and fluviatile action, for though interrupted 
"y marine beds, showing alternations of level, the greater part 
^^ the formation, which is here only slightly shown, is of fresh 

222 Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 

At the close of the period we are speaking of, makii 
allowance for considerable alteration of level through atmc 
pheric denudation, the Thames was winding its way throu: 
the channel it had cut in the Oxford clay to receive 
waters, and now through those upper beds which we h< 
just referred to, and entered the sea somewhere in the nei( 
bourhood of Wallingford. South and east spread an o] 
and deep sea, on the bed of which was accumulated, during 
countless ages, the wreck of microscopic foramenifera caLled 
globigerinae, whose accumulated remains are seen in the lofty 
cliffs of our southern coast and in the chalk hills of Wiltslxire 
It was the beginning of the chalk period, the last of the 
mesozoic formations. 

Judging from the great height of these cliffs and remem- 
bering how slow must have been the process of formation oi 
these vast masses of chalk, it is impossible not to feel liow 
enormous must have been the length of the period to whicti its 
production is due. During this vast interval the greater portion 
of the south and east of England remained under water ; but so 
far as we are able to judge, for we cannot speak with full con"" 
dence as we are ignorant of the extent to which denudation 1^^ 
been carried, that portion of England lying north of a li^^ 
running from Calne in Wiltshire to Bedford, remained continually 
above water. We know nothing of the produce of the land during 
this period. The chalk was deposited in deep still water. As 
far as we can judge, it was a reign of sponges and echinoderm^ 
molluscs, and inferior marine life, very much of the character 
of what is now found by recent explorers on the deep bed p* 
the Atlantic, where too chalk, though not exactly agreeing '" 
composition with that of Marlborough downs, is being silently 
deposited to form a continent for future ages. Protracted ^ 
was this period, .still it too passed, and the day at length c^"^^ 
when the white cliffs rose above the waters, which had alreao) 
seized on them as their prey and begun anew their endless tasK' 
of devastation and change. 

The closing of the cretaceous period is like one of those 
eventful moments in the life of man which remain for ever as 
prominent marks in his course and imprint a stamp upon tne 
whole of his future history. It is the closing of the mcssozoic 
and opening of the cainozoic period. We have now foUoweo 
our hero, so to speak, into recent times ; but we shall soon see 
how long were these days o( Vv\s old a^e to be, and how lun 

Life and Adventiires of FatJicr T/iames. 223 

of vicissitude were to be the fortunes even of such mature 


Long after Dover cliff had reared its head above the water 
there still existed an inland sea or broad estuary, to the , 
north, into which the Thames poured its waters, laden with 
the decay of the land, to speak comparatively, so newly formed. 
The circumstances of this sea were no longer fitted to the 
development of those microscopic creatures to which the vast 
fabric of the chalk is due. The surface of the chalk began 
to be overlaid with various deposits of sand and clay. Por- 
tions of it already exposed to the atmosphere, worn and 
hollowed out and burrowed by boring molluscs, sunk down 
^gain below the v/aters of the loch ; sands were deposited over 
them, and casts in sand of these ancient and minute excavations 
are thus preserved to us as faithfully as if they had been made 
>n brass. In process of time a large area of this great bay 
underwent great and prolonged depression, so as to allow time 
'Or the slow accumulation above these earlier sands of the vast 
"^ass of more than five hundred feet of solid clay, known as the 
London clay. As soon as the depth of the water was sufficiently 
'"educed, partly by reelevation and partly by accumulation of 
^^posits, sand was again laid on the surface of the clay and 
'^ the hollows produced by eddies on its surface, and the whole 
^'as again lifted up till portions of this clay, once the bed 
^* the sea, have attained, though after still other changes, a 
"^%ht of four hundred and thirty feet on Hampstead Heath. 

^is is what Sir C. Lyell has called the eocene period, com- 
prising the earliest portions of the tertiary or cainozoic series, 
^'^e molluscs that are found in these deposits belong, with the 
exception of from three to four per cent, to extinct species. The 
f'^tire series of tertiary beds found in the basin of the Thames, 
^ comprised in the following list, whose names, as is evident, are 
derived from the localities where they arc prevalent. They are 
^e Thanet sands, the Woolwich beds, the Blackheath pebbles, 
^^ London clay, and the Bagshot or Hampstead sands. The 
^0 later divisions of the tertiary formation — the meiocciie and 
P^^iocene — do not exist here. The fauna of this period consists 
a large number of molluscs and lower animals, several fishes, 
^d a few extinct mammalia. 

. The deposit of sand on the top of the London clay was an 
^dication, if there were eyes to read the sign, that new changes 

^e in course^ that dry Jand would soon appear agavtv, ^.tA 

2 24 Life and Adventures of Father Thatnes. 

so it came to pass. The land rose gradually above 
water, the Thames cut its bed deep in the clay, the rains 
snows wore down the banks, and all went on as it were as no 
and, like a wanderer after a long journey, Thames might ha 
fancied that his vicissitudes were over. The general level « 
the country at tliis, the close of the pleiocene period, w — :-; 
probably very much the same as it is now; but there w 
still changes in store, and this time not merely depressions 
elevations, but a change of climate too, which since the accu 
lation of the Hampstead sands must for a long period 
resembled rather that of Greenland than of an island in 
temperate zone. Until the last few years geologists had 
recognized the necessity of admitting a distinct period of 1 
duration between the end of the tertiary formation ai^d w! 
can with any propriety be called recent. This is now caL 
by Sir C. Lyell the pleistocene, the whole post-tertiary per 
being divided into pleistocene and recent It is now 
that a great part of this country has since the end of '^^ 
tertiary period been submerged beneath the sea to a de^>^ 
varying from seven hundred and fifty feet, as shown by evider».<^^ 
on the Cotswold range, to fifteen hundred feet as indicated t>3 
traces left on the mountains of Wales. On the coast of NortfV>^' 
the remains of a forest posterior to the crag, which is 'tJm 
last of the pleiocene strata, has been covered over with al>^>'^* 
a hundred feet of clay and rough stones, with many traces? ^^ 
marine origin : it- must therefore have been sunk at least tJ^^^ 
depth beneath the water. It has since been raised up to di^^^'^^ 
low water mark. In various parts of the country, even higlm *^P 
on the hills, we see rough gravel formed of stones from vari^^*^^ 
distant formations, mingled with erratic blocks brought fir^^^ 
distant sources, lying on the top of the tertiary and older iortX^^' 
tions ; in other parts are found great tracts of what is now cai'^ 
boulder clay. The gravels are principally found to the west\»/'^^ 
and the boulder clay to the north and east, whereas between ^^ 
two are accumulations of flints, which clearly indicate a south*^^ 
origin. On the Trifaen, in North Wales, post-tertiary sH^'^ 
are found at the height of fifteen hundred feet, and sint^i^^ 
effects have been observed in Scotland. There appears to ^ 
but one conclusion to be drawn from these facts, that ^^ 
greater part of the country was plunged beneath the sea, "W^ 
subjected to strong currents from the north on the east 3fl« 
west, and to an intermediate one from the south. That tbts 

Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 225 

sea was glacial is proved by evidences of ice carriage in 

Ae large blocks of stone that are found transported from 

great distances, and is rendered probable by the size and 

character of the gravel, much of which is brought from very 

distant sources and quite unlike what is ordinarily carried 

l>y a stream. The molluscs found in the boulder clay indicate 

a boreal origin, so that there is now little doubt entertained that 

at a period so comparatively recent as that of which we are 

speaking, this country sustained a truly arctic climate. Great 

tracts of country were buried under an icy sea, while the highlands 

of Wales and Derbyshire and Cumberland poured forth their 

bergs, which followed the currents to the south, just as they 

now sail down Baffin's Bay, depositing their loads of stone and 

gravel wherever impediments caused them to be stranded, or 

increase of temperature forced them to give up their prey. 

At length this bitter winter came to an end. Whatever 
causes combined to produce this glacial epoch, as it is now 
universally called — causes which have so far baffled both astro- 
nomers and physicists — they in their turn at length gave way to 
niild«r influences, the sun again shone through the mists, the shore 
*ce was gradually melted, the glaciers receded, the hills threw off 
^heir canopy of ice and snow, and the lower ground rose once 
niore above the waves. We are now in post-glacial times. The 
great outlines of our landscape were undoubtedly long since 
niarked out, but it is more than probable that many of the 
lesser valleys were not yet scooped out, and it is quite certain 
^at our rivers flowed at a much higher level, which was 
&fadually lowered as the land rose higher and higher above the 
sea, Thames was now truly himself, occupying nearly the 
same channel as at present, but a far nobler river, of which 
^e present stream is but a feeble remnant ; and we can well 
imagine with what enthusiasm the poet would then have 

Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays : 
Thames ! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons.* 

Whilst flowing at these higher levels, the rivers deposited 
^^t banks of gravel, which they afterwards covered over with 
^^ sand and silt as the force of the current diminished ; and 
r^^n, in course of time, cutting their diannel deeper and deeper 
''^to the strata over which they flowed, have left the gravel beds 

* Denham. 

226 Life and Adventures of Father Thames. 

which they had once deposited far above them on the now city 
declivities of the ravines through which they flow. Tti.^^se 
gravels, which Professor Phillips calls valley gravels, can b^ at 
once distinguished from those of which we have previou.2sly 
spoken, which are glacial, and are often called the northern or 
glacial drift, but which he here calls hill gravels. Thos^ of 
which we are now speaking have this remarkable feature, tJtiat 
they are composed entirely of materials drawn from the are^ of 
drainage of the rivers by which they have been carried, exc^^pt 
so far as fragments of other rocks may have been previa u ^y 
lodged by other agency within the watershed of the stress m, 
and carried down with the debris of its own rocks in occasioxial 
floods. Thus we see that in the higher Thames the gravel is 
chiefly oolitic, whereas in the lower portion of its course it is 
almost entirely composed of fragments of flint washed out of 
the chalk of Berkshire and the neighbouring counties. 

The remains of life that are found in these gravels are si-lso 
entirely of land and fresh water origin, except where they ^^^ 
evidently washed out of old strata, as the chalk fossils so of^^*^ 
found on gravel walks, and where the proximity of sea and ^^^ 
change of level may have accounted for occasional inroads of 
the tide. The molluscs proper to these gravels are entirel>^ ^f 
existing species, though some are no longer found in this count: ^T* 
whence it is reasonable to infer that the species once ha<i ^ 
wider sphere of life than at present. But the evidences ^* 
terrestrial fauna arc very interesting. It is quite evident it^^^^ 
the bones that have been found in these gravels, and which li^^^ 
been dredged up on the sea coast, that at least two speciei^ ^' 
elephant, the rhinoceros and hippopotamus, the lion and b^^^' 
the elk and the hyena, and several other ferocious anim^"-^^' 
roamed the forests of Britain. We shall not enter into particul^^ 
on this subject, which has been often referred to. It is enough- *^ 
add that according to the evidence of these post-glacial time^^ ^ 
was during them that man first appeared upon the scene. 

It is not our purpose at present to examine to \vl^^^ 
degree of absolute antiquity these gravels belong. It will ^ 
evident to our readers that as far as regards geological ti^^^' 
they are formations of today. And now it may be asked, -ivXia^ 
is to be the future of the subject of our remarks } Is he, a-^ '^ 
were unmindful of the past, to undertake new wanderings, o^^^ 
more to sink beneath the waters of an ocean, again to change *^^ 
course; are his banks to be trodden by new forms of life, or are the 

Life and Advetitures of Father Tliames, 227 

^vicissitudes of his career over, and are his weakened energies to 
'"est, and is his course to follow evenly in the channel which long 
ages have prepared for him ? We may make two remarks on 
this subject. We believe that the causes which have acted in the 
^^ast are still at work, though in all probability with diminished 
-nergy, and they will no doubt produce corresponding results, 
>ut probably in still greater periods of time. With respect to 
lie races of living creatures which have peopled the banks and 
'aters of the Thames, we have already remarked that geology 
inds to show that life began suddenly — life complete and 
erfect in its kind — and that it appears also that the principal 
istinguishing forms of life began perfect in their kind from 
itiall numbers, and that the number of species increased rapidly, 
cid died away again without leaving, as should have been 
^cpected by true evolutionists, anything to indicate transition 

> new forms of life, much less that number of transitional forms 
'hich the variety of already existing species would have led them 

> ekpect ; that in some cases where what might be called tran- 
itional forms appear, they are nothing more than adaptations of 
rgans to a corresponding end in different orders of life, without 
ny probability of common descent, as with the megalosaurus and 
he ostrich; and that where the same genus has existed through a 
ong series of formations, as is the case with the trilobites, they 
Lre no more perfect in their kind in the latest than they were in 
he earliest strata, but rather less so, as they also are in size. We 
^ay here add the experience of M. Barrandc, who has devoted 
jreat attention to the study of these creatures, and who has failed 
to observe the slightest signs of development in their formation. 
He considers the sudden appearance of trilobites, of cephalo- 
P^s, and of fishes in their turn, to be facts quite destructive of 
^he Darwinian theory. If, finally, we are asked whether we 
expect yet new races of still higher beings to people this earth, we 
have only to answer that we are convinced that the more science 
^ cultivated with honest purpose and true enlightenment, the 
^ore it will tend to confirm and illustrate the real meaning 
^f that record which ends with these words, " So the heavens 
^^d the earth were finished, and the furniture of them, and on 
*e seventh day God ended the work which He had made."* 


* Gen. ii. i, 2. 


The Story of de Ranee. 


If a philosophical historian of the Church were required to sel^<^^ 
a chapter in her annals, limited as to time to two or th.ree 
centuries, and as to place to a single country in Christendotn, 
for the purpose of showing therein as in a sort of epitome the 
action of the great principles and antagonistic elements the 
conflict and development of which make up her history a-S a 
whole, he could hardly fasten upon a better subject for sud* ^ 
• chapter than the history of the French Church from the tim^ ^^ 
the Reformation to that of the Revolution. The period is r^<^t 
too long to be mastered by a single mind, or to be compri^^ 
within the compass of a book of endurable length ; the materi^»-l^» 
though very abundant, are not hopelessly and bewilderia^ly 
unmanageable; and there would be instances in the course ^^ 
such a narrative of almost all the characteristic incidents, eve^^*^» 
personages, or complications which repeat themselves over ^^^^ 
over again in the long drama of the life of the militant Chuar^^-*^ 
The influence and position of the Papacy, the relations betw^^l* 
Church and State, the encroachments and usurpation of the c ^^^^ 
power, the almost inconceivable patience of the Church un 
such usurpation, the phenomena of religious wars, the princif^ 
of toleration or persecution, the development of heresies and 
extreme shiftiness and cunning of their partizans, the surpris 
extent to which good people have been blinded by tt^^^^^ 
influence on the one hand and have been saved by ^^ 
indefinable instinct from succumbing to them on the other, -tJ*^ 
jealousies between various orders of the clergy or betw^^^^'^ 
secular and religious teachers, the baneful influence of an ^%^^' 
scrupulous State policy on the best interests of the Church ^^" 
State alike, the marvels of her teeming growth of religious lift' 
institutes of charity, heroic selfsacrifice, missionary enterprize ano 
devotion, by the side of the hypocrisy of a world in which evd 
men like Voltaire were obliged to go to mass and Louis the 

The Story of de RancL 229^ 

Fourteenth and his mistresses had to listen to the stern rebukes 
of Bourdaloue — these, and a whole host of similar elements, cross 
and recross one another in the history of the French Church, 
amid a whole galaxy of celebrities, some great in learning, 
Joquence, or sanctity, others distinguished or infamous for great 
rifts, great weaknesses, or great crimes. The story is certainly 
ot in all respects bright and happy, for the Church of France in 
er most prosperous times that fall within the period was stained, 

all events outwardly, by great servility to the detestable 
ranny of the Grand Monarque, which at one time almost 
ought her into an uncatholic position, and at the end she had to- 
piate, by a time of confessorship and martyrdom, confiscation 
d exile, the almost unparalleled growth of moral evil which 
d sprung up in the vineyard committed to her care. But in 
s, in the view on which we are now dwelling, the Church of 
auice passed through what we may call a typical trial, and — 
>ugh no portion of the Universal Church has that indefectible 
bility secured by divine promise which belongs to the Head 
d to the whole Body — she was never unsound at heart, never 
faithful to her trust, and so she rose again after that partial 
ipse in fresh youth and immortal vigour. And, if it were 
eded at the commencement of a paper like the present, we 
ght draw out in like manner the typical character of the 
nsenist conflict, or of the ecclesiastical reform of St. Vincent 

Paul and M. Olier, or of the legitimacy of the connection 
tween Voltairianism and Port Royal, or between the movement 
lich issued in the suppression of the Jesuits and the ultimate 
erthrow of altar and throne alike. 

We have said enough, however, to hint at the great value 
"uch would attach to a good Catholic history of France and of 
e French Church during the period which we have named, and 
- now address ourselves to the humbler task which we have set 
J^lves for the present, of drawing out an episode in the great 
^ory which we are imagining, in the shape of a part of the 
''eer of one of the famous men whose names occur in such 
^ndance in the* religious history of France — a part of his 
"Cer on which the rest depended as its sequel, and which has 
t indelible traces of itself which remain to this day. The 
^ of La Trappe cannot be omitted in any account of religion 
F^rance or even in the world, and the conversion, to use the 
^mon word, of the remarkable man who made La Trappe 
^t it was, has about it, if we are not mistaketv, tlvls t^^t^- 

230 The Story of de Ranci. 

sentative character of which we have already said somewhat in 
relation to the history of the French Church in general The 
dealings of grace with the single souls of men are infinite in their 
beautiful and marvellous variety, and it would not be true to say 
that we can so trace out the laws of this divine action as to make 
a particular instance a pattern in every sense of the word for 
the rest. Still, we observe in this instance a gradual growth, a 
successive use of various influences, sudden blows succeeded by 
patient waiting, a leading of the soul of de Ranc6 along an 
upward path, of which he not only did not see the issue, but 
which ended at last in an issue from which he at first shrank 
with a kind of . abhorrence which was in itself a sort of forecast 
of what the final sacrifice required of him would be, and in tbis 
respect the history is not only extremely interesting in itself, bu't 
wonderfully full of instruction as to the ways of that Blessed 
Spirit, Who " reacheth from end to end mightily, and orderetfa 
all things sweetly/'* Such being the case, we have enough "to 
justify the expression which we have used about the repre- 
sentative character of the conversion of de Ranc6, and we m; 
proceed to set before our readers, as far as a few short pag"* 
enable us to complete the picture, an outline of the successi 
steps of this remarkable change. 

The first important step in the life of Armand Jean Bol^'^' 
hillier, known in history as the Abb^ de Rancd, took place ^^^ 
September 19, 1637, in the sacristy of Notre Dame de Par^^ 
The day before had witnessed the funeral of a boy, wl 
according to the strange custom of the time, had possei 
among a number of other benefices, the high position of ^ 
Canon of Notre Dame. This boy, Denis Frangois Bouthilli^^' 
was the elder brother of Armand Jean, of whom we are speakirm^' 
who derived his Christian name from his godfather, Cardir^^ 
Richelieu, a family friend of Denis Bouthillier de Ranci, tl'^ 
father of both boys. As the revenues which had been acc^' 
mulated upon the head of Denis Francois were considerable, ^^ 
was a matter of importance to the family to secure them, ^^ 
possible, for his younger brother, who now became the eldest 
surviving son of his father. For this reason, and for no oth^* 
Armand Jean's path in life was now f^xed as far as it could b^ 
fixed at so early an age. He was eleven years old, having bed 

* Wisdom viii. i. 

Tlie Story of de Ranc6. 231 

bom in January, 1626. The day after the funeral, then, the 
father took the boy into the sacristy and presented the letters of 
the Bishop of Paris, in the first place conferring the canonry and 
prebend on the elder son, and then on the second after his 
brother's death, and the lad of eleven took the usual oath of the 
members of the Chapter, was invested with the insignia of a 
canon, and was solemnly installed in the seats of the choir boys. 
He had been educated hitherto to be a Knight of Malta, and 
there seems to have been nothing unsual in this sudden change 
of his vocation on the part of his father. Armand Jean was now 
enrolled among the young canons "in minoribus," who were 
supposed to be attending to the studies which were to fit 
them by and bye for their duties as members of the Chapter. 
He had an income of two thousand livres from his canonry, and 
his only duties were to be present at the High Mass in Notre 
I^ame on the four principal festivals of the year to receive Holy 
Communion. Even from this slender amount of attendance 
he was dispensed on account of his feeble health. 

His father was an upright religious man, bent upon 

advancing his children, and seeing no harm in their possessing 

large ecclesiastical revenues, according to the custom of the 

"f^rench Church at this time. Before long, the remaining pieces 

^f preferment which his elder boy had enjoyed were heaped 

^Pon his successor. He was Abbot of La Trappe, of the order of 

Citeaux, of Notre Dame du Val, of the order of St Augustine, of 

St. Symphorien' at Beauvais, of the order of St. Benedict, and 

*^rior of Boulogne, near Chambord, of the order of Grandmont. 

He had already an abbey of his own before his brother died, 

^hat of St. Clementin in Poitou. Altogether, the lad's income 

^nciounted to fifteen thousand livres annually. The good 

^outhillier, as we have said, saw no harm in all this. He was 

^ ttian of constancy and integrity. He had been secretary to 

Queen Marie de Medicis before the rise of Richelieu, and had 

"^He day refused to put on paper a biting letter which the Queen 

^^d dictated to him against Anne of Austria to the King. When 

^^rie de Medicis fell before Richelieu, and was forced to leave 

France, Bouthillier prepared to follow her at the risk of his fortune 

^nd chances of advancement, but the Queen herself forbade 

'^^'^ A time of disgrace followed, for Richelieu did not forgive 

*^*^ his faithfulness to Marie de Medicis, and Bouthillier was on 

^^ point of retiring into the country to his fine estate at Veretz. 

®^t it happened that Anne of Austria heard of the auecdote oC 

232 The Story of de RancL 

his refusal to write the letter, and she took him into favour anc 
protected and advanced his children. When he received, first foe 
one son and then for another, the abbeys which his brother, then 
Bishop of Boulogne, afterwards Archbishop of Tours, resigned ini 
their favour, he only did what was thought perfectly correct ana 
even religious at the time in which he lived. What is more, h^ 
never seems to have had the least scruple about using th»j 
revenues which thus accrued to the boys for the benefit of th j 
family. St Charles Borromeo, when he was in the same circunK 
stances in his boyhood, is said to have warned his father thac 
the revenues of his benefices belonged to the poor. The youn j 
de Ranc6 could hardly be expected to make the same remon 
strance. In after years the restitution to which this squanderinK 
of his income obliged him weighed heavily upon his conscience: 
but we are not told that any qualm came over that of the wortlr: 
Denis Bouthillier. The evil custom was too common and tea 
inveterate to be a matter of remorse, although it is certain, fro ^ 
the life of de Ranc6, that among good ecclesiastics the pluralir . 
of benefices, and the possession of abbeys in commendam, we=^ 
considered dangerous abuses. 

The years between the age of eleven and seventeen flow^-' 
rapidly over the head of the youthful canon of Notre Dame, 
father had provided him, even before his preferment, with 
lent masters, one a priest, M. I'Abb^ Favier, who taught him U 
earliest lessons, and was the first witness to his extraordina-^ 
quickness and activity of mind, another a layman, a certa^ 
M. de Bellerophon, a firstrate Hellenist — less French than Grecian 
says the biographer whom we mainly follow — ^who soon made \M 
pupil a firstrate Greek scholar. Armand lost his mother in C^ 
course of the year after the death of his brother. His mother — '■ 
said to have loved him more than all her other children, and 
have taken great pains in his education as far as it fell into YcT- 
hands. He, in return, loved her, reverenced her, and obeyed hJ 
with a singular devotion, which showed itself particularly in 
attentive watchfulness during her last illness. Another pleas 
trait of these early years is contained in the great affection wh 
he always bore to his old instructors, with whom, in after y 
he corresponded perpetually. His father assigned a pensio 
the Abbe Favier for life, and when the time came for the A 
de Ranee himself to resign all his benefices, the first resigna^nic 
which he made was of his abbey of St. Symphorien in favoui-r ^i 
the same old friend. 

The Story of de Ranc£. 233 

In the next year, 1629, we find the persevering young 
AbW appearing in print, and dedicating to his godfather. 
Cardinal Richelieu, nothing more nor less than an edition of 
Anacreon, with Greek scholia by himself. He was then only 
eighteen. The book, we believe, is excessively rare, but if we 
may judge of the account given of it, it must have been a very 
gcx)d piece of scholarship. Whether Anacreon was exactly the 
sort of poet an edition of whom ought to have been dedicated to 
a Cardinal by a young ecclesiastic, is of course a question open 
to discussion. The object of the publication, which was deter- 
mined on by Armand's father, was doubtless to ingratiate the 
young author with the great Minister, who was now approaching 
the end of his career, and who, among other weaknesses, had 
the vanity of thinking himself a good scholar. Whether the 
Cardinal was flattered or not, it is certain that there was soon a 
proposal to confer upon young de Ranc6 another abbey in 
cammendam^ of larger revenues than any which he already 
possessed. The proposal reached the ears of P^re Caussin, the 
confessor of the King, and he remonstrated on the ground that 
nothing but unequivocal signs of the highest possible capacity 
could justify the heaping of benefices on one so young. The 
King told him that young Armand knew more Latin and Greek 
^an all the Abbds in the kingdom. Caussin managed to have an 
interview with de Ranee, and tried him with a passage of Homer, 
which he read out in French without taking the trouble to read 
*t over first in the Greek. Caussin was converted to a belief in 
his great talents, but the preferment was happily avoided for this 

The quickness, brilliancy, and industry which are instanced 
^^ this anecdote of young de Ranc6, are very important 
'Matures in his character, and exercised great influence in his 
^reer. If he had been dull, or indolent, he would probably 
have sunk far lower than he did in the times of dissipation 
^'^d worldliness which preceded his conversion, for intellectual 
^^tivity braces up the mind, developes the higher faculties, and, 
^'^ proportion, dries up the sources of passion, though this result 
'^^y be indefinitely marred in cases where pride blinds the soul 
^^d prepares it for disgraceful falls. The frivolous apathetic 
^^cuity of an utterly uncultivated mind is pretty sure to fall a 
P^'ey to the lowest and most degraded forms of vice when 
f^temal restraints are withdrawn and the heyday of youth 
^'^vites to every kind of indulgence. We may consider 

VOL, XVI. ^ 

234 T^ Story of de Ranci. 

de Ranee's " intellectualism," if we may avail ourselves of 
much abused word, as having been to a certain extent 
safeguard, and we may heartily wish that some of our fainian^^^ 
young gentlemen of the present day had more opportunities^ 
given them of similar protection from the seductions of anim^^ 
pleasure. De Ranee, in fact, was a great student in the comma^^ 
sense of the term. He went through a complete course ^^f 
philosophy and theology, attending lectures and practisitxg. 
himself in disputations. He began his philosophy in 1642, an^ 
did not take his degree as doctor till 1654. Study flourished 
in those days in Paris. The rivalry between the University 
and the Jesuits forced both sides to do their best in securing- 
good professors and in practising their pupils. The mind was 
admirably formed in many respects in which our modem 
training generally is deficient ; and this difference lay chiefly 
in those points on which what we may call the manhood and 
maturity of the mind, the development by practice and conflict 
of its reasoning powers, its selfcommand, its confidence in its 
own weapons, its dexterity in their use, and its perception of the 
circumstances under which they are no longer to be used, would 
seem to depend. The length of the ordinary course of theolc^y 
was a great advantage which it is hardly possible even to 
appreciate at the present day, though we have happily retained 
the Church's method of teaching by lectures and disputations ^^ 
absolutely essential to the formation of any one who has ^^ 
slightest claim to be called a theologian in the proper sen^ 
of the term. 

Armand de Ranee made his studies in philosophy at tJ^^ 
College d'Harcourt, where there was at that time a famoi-^^ 
professor, M. du Chevreil. He paid great attention to logi^ 
The physical part of philosophy was then studied in Aristotl^ 
and we find his influence telling in a curious way in a tempora^^ 
devotion of the young student to the absurdities of astrolog)^' 
which seems to have had a kind of attraction for certain min^>^ 
at that time, like that which " spiritism " possesses for others i^ 
our own day. While he was studying his philosophy, he lo^^ 
on December 4, 1642, his patron, Cardinal Richelieu, to wha^ 
he seems to have been sincerely attached, and almost at tt^ 
same moment his brother in law, M. de Belin, who w3^ 
assassinated by the Marquis de Bonnivet Armand wottJ^ 
certainly have taken the law into his own hands and avengc<i 
the murder, but, lightly as the ecclesiastical habit sat upon hiiD; 

Tlie Story of de Ranc6. 235 

he had sufficient respect for it not to wish to stain it with blood. 

In 1643 he began his series of "theses" by "defending" in 

philosophy. This thesis was dedicated to the Queen, who was 

now regent, with Mazarin by her side instead of Richelieu — 

Mazarin, who made a point of withdrawing the royal favour 

from those on whom it had shone during the ministry of his 

great predecessor, and had already begun to humble the family 

of the Bouthilliers. The dispute in philosophy was very keen, 

as there was much jealousy against the College d'Harcourt and 

M. de Chevreil, whose reputation cast that of other philosophers 

into the shade. The story goes that Armand de Ranee was 

hajd pressed by a certain professor who had come to argue 

against him, and who alleged in support of his own objection the 

authority of Aristotle. De Rancd, full of the accurate scholarship 

^vhich he had derived from the lessons of M. de Bellerophon, 

declared that he had never read Aristotle except in Greek, 

a.nd that he should like to have the quotation in the original 

language. The professor, who did not know Greek, was 

silenced, and when the text was produced, Armand pointed 

^^t how that the original words had been badly translated in 

the version which had been quoted against him. Another 

professor came to the rescue of his colleague, and the dispute 

^^ at last put an end to by the interference of the Due de 

"^ontbazon, who came up shaking his cane as if to separate two 

*^en engaged in an actual fight De Rancd retired from the 

^^sputation covered with glory. He was admitted "master of 

'^'^ " in August, 1644.* 

From philosophy the young Abb6 passed on to theology. 

r^^ had two professors to teach him at his father's house, 

Instead of going to the ordinary schools at the Sorbonne ; and 

^ Was able to obtain leave to take his degrees notwithstanding, 

.'^ condition that he attended the disputations from time to 

^'^c. At first we find him foolishly inflated with his own 

^^ickness and powers of acquisition. " I hope," he writes to his 

Id teacher, M. Favier, "to be in a short time a great theologian. 

^ • . In eight months I shall have got through all my 

The Abbe Dubois, whose history of the Abbe de Ranc^ is the source from 
*^ich this article is mainly drawn, tells us that to gain to the degree of master of 
J^ t^o years study in a College were required, and two examinations of an hour each. 
,^* second examination took place at St. Genevieve or at Notre Dame, and when it 
*!*^ Over, the candidate knelt before the Chancellor of the University, who gave him 
^^ cap, or "bonnet," with power to teach humanities in any College of the 
'^'^^crsity (Dubois, t. I, p. 38;. 

236 Tlie Story of de Ranc6. 

'scholastic theolog>'/* and during sixteen more which muj 
pass before I can be a bachelor, I shall give myseM" entirely t 
the reading of the Fathers, the Councils, and ecclesiastic 
history." And he adds, ** As soon as ever I can I shall take t 
preaching." He certainly read a great deal of matter coUaten 
to the treatises which were required for the baccalaureat H 
had the misery at one time not to like St. Thomas. He tel 
his friend in another letter, that he not only objects to tl 
rudeness of the language of the Angelical Doctor, but als 
" as his opinions are very far from agreeing with mine, I wish t 
know him only in order to condemn whatever does not fall i 
with my own views." Pretty well, this, for a young student < 
twenty ! But he was too sensible not to recover easily froi 
this absurdity, out of which he was helped by some leame 
Carmelites at Charenton, whose course on St. Thomas he use 
to frequent for practice in disputations. 

There are little traits of character in these notices whic 
remain to us of de Ranc6 when he was beginning his theologicc 
studies, and for this reason they may be mentioned here; bi 
we must hurry on to later stages in his interesting career. H 
passed his preliminary examination for the degree of bachelor i 
June, 1646, and maintained his theses in the following Februar 
This disputation was his tentativa, and seems to answer • 
what is now called a "Public Act" in our Catholic College 
On this occasion, again, de Rancc distinguished himself grcatL 
His antagonist, or one of his antagonists, was a friend of fc 
own, the Abbe de Champvallon — one of those clever, reac 
theological disputants who are at present hardly to be foua 
outside Rome, and who will probably be soon altogethi 
extinguished, along with other more important results of tH 
cultivation of sacred learning, in the night of barbarism whi 
will follow upon the prolonged occupation of the Holy City "" 
Victor Emmanuel and his horde of pilferers. De ChampvalL 
was a young man of dissipated life, but of extreme courtlin^ 
and an accomplished disputant. After the tcntativay two ye - 
more must elapse before what was called the licentiate, and tz::- 
again must be followed by a long interval before the doctors 
could be attained. We find it noted that at this time de Ra»-r 

• He means the treatises required for his degree^ not, of course, all scholas 
theology. The treatises were, Dc Aitribiitis Divinis^ de Visiottey dc Scientia Dn, * 
Pri'i/estiftatioftCj de Trinitate^ dc Angeiis^ and de Incaniatione, Estius seems to hati 
/>een the great book in those days. 

Tlie Story of de Ranc(. 237 

had become a very ardent sportsman. He was strong and 

vehement in all that he took up, and he was certainly a mighty 

hunter. More than once, his biographer tells us, he was known 

to hunt four or five hours in a morning, then throw himself into 

^ carriage — he must always have the swiftest possible horses — 

and after posting twenty leagues, defend a thesis at the 

Sorbonne, or preach in some church in Paris, with as much 

assurance and tranquillity as if he had just come out of his 

study. We have already mentioned his intention of preaching 

*^ soon as he could. It was not that he was on fire with 

evangelical zeal, and desired to bring home the precious Word 

^^ God to wandering or disconsolate souls ; but preaching was 

^ trade as well as theology, and it was considered that nothing 

'^^de a young man a bishop sooner than to have distinguished 

-'himself in such a field.* 

He was as yet only tonsured, and what is more, he did not 

''=»eem to have much liking for the idea of receiving sacred orders. 

^^^vertheless, he got permission to preach, and preached with 

^^ccess, beginning his career in the pulpit by a sermon on the 

Occasion of the profession of his own sister at the Annunciades. 

-t^he young students of his time looked upon such displays as a 

ns of advancement ; they practised themselves in sermons 

ambitious young men now practise themselves in speeches. 

-^ossuet was one of de Ranee's companions in study, taking his 

^^gree of licentiate the same year with him. There was a sort 

^^^ order of merit, a kind of class list, issued, and in this 

^^ Ranc^ held the first place, Bossuct the third. An anecdote 

*^ the life of the future "eagle of Meaux" at this time illus- 

*-^^tes our subject. A friend of his, the Marquis de Fouqui^res, 

^^d introduced him to the Hotel de Rambouillet, where the 

^^strquise de Rambouillet held assemblies of men and women of 

^*^^ highest cultivation. De Fouquicres spoke in the highest 

^^^"ins of his young friend's powers of eloquence, and it was 

^€^"eed to put him to the proof by giving him a subject, and 

^*^utting him up without any books to compose a sermon which 

^^ was to recite then and there. Bossuet . was shut up 

Accordingly, and late in the evening preached his discourse 

^^ a large assembly.-f- If Bossuet could show off in this 

^^^y, we need not be much surprised at finding de Ranee 

The Abbe Dubois quotes I^a Bniyere, ** Le sermonneur est plus tot evequc que 
^ P'us solide ecrivain n'est revetu d'un prieure simple '* (t. i., p. 45). 
1" Sec **Le Dieu," Mcmoiresy etc^ sur Bosstut^ Li., p. 19. 

238 The Story of de Ranu. 

preaching at this time in the churches themselves, by way c 

After a little, his family began to urge him to receive hoi; 
orders. His uncle, the Archbishop of Tours, was not ver 
strong in health, and it was intended that the nephew shouli 
become first his coadjutor and then his successor. All thi 
might never come to pass if he delayed taking holy order 
much longer. A dispensation was procured, which allowe 
him to receive the major and minor orders, including th 
priesthood, from any Catholic bishop he might choose, an 
this without observing the usual "interstices." Neverthelesj 
he hung back from the priesthood. It was agreed that h 
should receive the other orders, and prepare himself for then 
by a retreat at St. Lazare, under the guidance of the hoi 
M. Vincent, as he was then called, who is now known all ove 
the world as St. Vincent de Paul. St. Vincent exercised a mo: 
salutary influence over the young canon, but the time was nc 
yet come for his complete conquest by grace. He began i 
wear the clerical dress, he learnt how to meditate, to examin 
himself, and to perform the ecclesiastical ceremonies wil 
accuracy. This was in 1648. In 1649 he began his licentiat 
that is, the two years which intervened between that degree an: 
the crowning of his theological studies by the collation of tl 
doctorate. They were always years of hard study and ^ontini* 
practice in disputation, and it appears that emulation was nc 
added to the other motives which had before ui^ed him 
exertion, as the " licentiates " of the same standing were pitt 
one against another. He had plenty of "acts" to maintain, as w 
as/ to figure in the ordinary disputations : there was the Maji 
Ordinaria for ten hours, the Minor Ordinaria for five hou 
and last of all the Sorbonica, which was always held in t: 
great hall of the Sorbonne, and in which the candidate held ■ 
own, like a knight in the lists, " from morn to dewy eve " — frc: 
six in the morning to six in the evening. But even the stuck- 
and conflicts of the licentiate did not satisfy the appetite 
de Rancc, for- we find a long list of other matters of wlm^: 
he made himself master — history, controversy, chronolc^ 
heraldry, painting, and geography. This activity of mind Tn 
at all events the effect of making him too busy to lead a h 
of soft luxurious pleasure, and contributed, no doubt, in I 
measure to the activity and manliness of his character, h 
the same way, in those troublous times of the Fronds be 

The Story of de RancL 239 

threw himself with ardour into the plans of the enemies of the 

He was at last ordained priest by his uncle, the Archbishop 

of Tours, in January, 1651. He was then twenty five years old. 

There is a story about his first mass which paints him to us at 

this time, and shows that the influence of St. Vincent de Paul 

iiad not altogether faded away upon him. Great preparation 

luid been made at the church of the Annunciades, where his 

sister was a nun, for the ceremony, the altar and church were 

magnificently decorated, and invitations issued to the Court and 

chief families in Paris. But de Ranee suddenly went off to hide 

himself at the Carthusian monastery, where he offered his first 

rxiass in solitude and secrecy. Nevertheless, he did not make any 

alteration in the usual dissipation of his life, as far as his studies, 

"which still continued, allowed him leisure to be dissipated. The 

** Sorbonica" took place in February, therefore only a few weeks 

a.fter he had been ordained priest. Then came the ceremony of 

the " paranymphs," as it was called. The licentiates in theology 

chose one from among themselves to make an harangue, to 

which the Chancellor of the University, the Parliament, and 

other great bodies and dignitaries, were invited. There were at 

the same time a number of recitations, poems, epigrams, and the 

like, and the "paranymph" elect had the privilege of saying a 

few words about each of his colleagues in the licentiate. It was a 

sort of Commemoration — without, we may suppose, the presence 

of a brilliant assembly of ladies and of a mob of bellowing 

undergraduates. Bossuet was chosen paranymph, and had, no 

^oubt, some pleasant words to say co;icerning the Abbd de 

■"Outhilliers, who beat him in the contest for the first place 

among the licentiates, and was his intimate and valued friend. 

Two years passed between the ordination of de Ranee to the 

priesthood and his actually taking his doctor's degree. The 

cielay was occasioned by the interruption of his studies in con- 

^^uence of the sudden death of his father, in February, 1653. 

^- de Bouthilliers was at his chateau at Veretz, of which we shall 

^^n hear more in this account of his son. The Abbe was 

^^iHmoned from Paris in all haste, and arrived in time to see 

"*s father receive the last sacraments. The next day, M. de 

*^^uthilliers was dead. The management of affairs, which 

devolved on Armand Jean in his capacity of executor of his 

father's will, effectually prevented his resuming his studies till 

^rty in 1654, when he was at last received doctor, after a.a 

240 Tfie Story of de Ranci. 

amusing conflict between the Sorbonne and the Chapter 
Notre Dame as to the dress in which he was to appear on t 
occasion, .which nearly issued in his having to go without t 
doctorate after all He had to maintain two theological "Act 
before the degree could be conferred. 

He was twenty eight years of age, handsome, graceful, ve 
turesome, though of delicate health, and highly accomplishe 
full of. talent in conversation, gifted with singular powers bo 
of expression and attractiveness, and adding to his renown i 
learning and skill in theology a character for nobleness, fran 
ness, and spotless honour which made it impossible for any oi 
to question a word that he said. Besides his ecclesiastic 
revenues, he had two large houses in Paris, left him by I 
father, as well as the baronial domain of Veretz, " one of tl 
richest and finest, not only in Touraine, but in all France," sa; 
his biographer. His income at the time must have been betwe 
forty and fifty thousand livres annually. He was a star in \ 
brilliant societies, and in company he usually dressed splendidl 
though retaining some appearance of ecclesiastical character. '. 
the country, and especially when he was following his favouri 
pastime, the hunt, he was dressed entirely as a secular gentl 
man, except when people came to visit him on matters 
ecclesiastical business. He had eight carriage horses, very fij 
plate, and kept an exquisite table. It was at this time of \ 
life that he sank lowest in the moral scale. The excitement 
study and the pursuit of knowledge had died away in his min< 
he had nothing to do but to enjoy himself, and this he d 
without stint He was freer, too, for his father was dead, ai 
he was in the first enjoyment of the possession of his amp 
fortune. He had been made a Canon without being consulte 
and had been almost forced to be a priest, and it would not 1 
very surprising, under all the circumstances, if his fall had bet 
very grievous and very scandalous. 

It may disappoint us to find this relapse, as it appears, in 
utter idleness and frivolity — if into nothing worse — after \ 
many years of hard study and intellectual training. We hai 
spoken of the advantages which de Rancc must have derivo 
in the long, severe struggle between passion and conscience • 
which his soul was the field, from the mental cultivation 
which he had given so many years, and for which, even aft« 
wards, as a monk of La Trappe, he was remarkable. Hour 
it, then, that as soon as his curriculum in the University i« 

Tfie Story of de Ratui. 241 

jhed, he fell at once into the inactivity and empty frivolity of 
aere votary of pleasure ? The answer we conceive to be 
th noting, because it may touch a defect in the education of 
*rs besides the strong rough violent character of whom we 
speaking. The thorough training in the philosophy and 
)logy of the time which we suppose de Ranc6 to have 
, as different as possible from that mere reading theological 
ks which some would substitute for it, makes sound and 
ly theologians indeed, that is, it makes men accurate, well 
meed, familiar with what they know, and able well to handle 
nd, in particular, it supplies them with that practical appre- 
ion of difficulties and that capacity for understanding the 
iments of their opponents of which those who have educated 
nselves by mere reading are often hopelessly destitute. But 
loes not of itself give a taste for further study. On the 
trary, the contentiousness of the process, the strong appli- 
on of the principle of emulation, the manner in which public 
:ess or public failure are forced upon the student as the two 
itable alternatives, sometimes exhaust the energies of the 
d, or rather, they put a temporary and factitious strain upon 
e energies, which suffer by a necessary reaction as soon as 
strain is removed. 

This is worth dwelling upon. We see no signs in de Ranee of 
ite for theology as such, of delight in study, of an appetite 
urther acquaintance with those vast fields of sacred literature 
which he had run so eagerly, rather as a general scouring 
antry to supply himself with provisions and materials for his 
;>aign, than as a traveller come to make himself acquainted 
its beauties and its resources. And in lower fields of 
ation we sometimes see the same disappointing result in 
lising boys and girls in whom the spur of emulation and 
anxiety to shine in examinations and to gain prizes, 
uce brilliant momentary success, but who go from their 
ols without the slightest taste for reading, without an 
itite whetted for further satisfaction on any conceivable 
ect of intellectual interest, content to remain children all 
• lives, whom nothing but the piquant garbage of a 
ational novel can ever tempt to take a book into their hands 
half an hour. We do not blame the system which uses 
lation so freely, but education must not trust to motives of 
sient influence for results which are to be permanent Many 
imetrained child grows up with real literary tastes, with a 

242 The Story of de Ranci. 

mind whose appetite for knowledge has been wholesomi 
developed at the same time that its faculties of acquiring a 
digesting knowledge have been ripened, without the undenial 
advantages of the class room and the contact and conflict wi 
others of its own age, and this result, we suppose, is due to t 
wsdom of parents or instructors, who have looked beyond t 
lesson of the day, and have known how to open the stores 
thought and science of every kind in such a way as to stimuh 
the desire for a deeper acquaintance with their exhaustl( 
treasures, and the courage for the serious but delightful ex( 
tion which that acquaintance demands for its price. 

The Abb^ Dubois tells us that at this dangerous time 
idleness the Abbe de Ranc6 had conceived, with two friends 
plan of setting out with a large sum of money between the 
and travelling over the world in search of adventures as Ic 
as their funds lasted. The idea was certainly characteris 
rather than commendable. It shows a sort of recklessness wh. 
might soon, perhaps, have brought him to great excesses 
home. About this time, however, his family began to be anxi^ 
that he should have some conspicuous post or employment, 
order to secure his future advancement, and perhaps also to k< 
him out of mischief — just as some young scapegrace of a no 
family is sometimes sent into Parliament with us " to give In 
something to do." We have already heard of his uncle, * 
Archbishop of Tours, whom it was designed that he sha^ 
succeed. An archdeaconry in his diocese fell vacant, and it "^ 
offered to the brilliant young doctor, whose ambition had i 
been extinguished by his inactivity, and who accepted it glac 
It took him away from Paris, which was a great gain ; 1 
unfortunately his own beautiful and luxurious Veretz, with 
groves and streams and forests, was not far from Tours, and ^ 
new archdeacon of Outre- Vienne took up his residence th< 
instead of in the cathedral city. His position in the dioc< 
gave him still greater prominence in the eyes of the world tfc 
that which he had before enjoyed, and Veretz became the reso 
of a perpetually changing gay and brilliant society, the gencn 
tone of which was not so much ecclesiastical as secular dSi^ 
profane. It became almost as desirable to take him away itoXL 
Veretz, in its present condition, as it had before been desirabfc 
to get him away from Paris. His uncle managed to get bax^ 

The Story of de Ranci. 245. 

elected as a deputy of the second order of the clergy in the 
Assembly of the clergy of France, which was to meet at Paris 
(1655). The Archbishop could not bring about his own election, 
and though he tried to force himself in, he was obliged, when 
the question came before the Assembly itself, to retire on pretext 
of failing health. The Archdeacon de Ranc6, although his 
election had been carried with difficulty, was at once appreciated 
by the Assembly, and made a member of several important 
commissions. As his exquisite scholarship was well known, 
he was asked to translate into French the Greek works of 
St Ephrem, but he was unable to find any good manuscripts.* 
Other more dangerous employments were thrust upon him, 
and some of them brought him across Cardinal Mazarin. The 
first was the affair of the Archbishop of Rouen, Mgr. de Harlay,^ 
an intimate friend of de Ranee — no other than Abb6 de 
Champvallon, who disputed so long with him in one of his 
public "Acts." He had been made coadjutor to his uncle, and 
in 1655 had succeeded him as Archbishop. The Court had 
dealt with him with a very high hand indeed. One of his suffra- 
gans, the Bishop of Coutances, had held an ordination in Paris 
in the exile of Cardinal de Retz, and had been censured by his 
nietropolitan for this breach of the canons. The ordination had 
l>cen held at the suggestion of Mazarin, whose answer to the 
^remonstrances of Mgr. de Harlay was a Icttrc dc cachet ordering 
him to keep in his own diocese. When the time came for the 
elections to be made for the Assembly of the clergy, the Arch- 
bishop found that only one of his suffragans, with the deputies 
"■cm his diocese, obeyed his summons to hold the election at 
Gaillon, the rest assembling at Vernon and choosing deputies 
^f their own. This was done by order of Mazarin, and when the 
Assembly attempted to discuss the claims of the rival deputies, 
^r rather, to reject unanimously those who had been elected at 
'^crnon, the Court sent an order that the latter were to be 
Emitted, and the others excluded. The Assembly was, or 

It seems that these Assemblies of the French clergy sometimes took in hand the 
P^nwtion of works of this kind. At this very Assembly, de Ranee was appointed 
^^ examine the edition of the Ecclesiastical Historians, Eusebius, Socrates, and 
^oioincn, which had been prepared by Henri Valois (Valesius), and which was printed 
*^ I*aris in 1669, and at Cambridge in 1720. It still remains, we believe, the best 
^tion. As for St. Ephrem, the check put to all great undertakings in the way of 
^tions of the Fathers by the political troubles of the last hundred years is exemplified 
^ the fact that we are still without anything like a complete edition of the works of 
^ singularly interesting Father. 

244 ^^ Story of de Ranci. 

thought itself, forced to submit ; but it did so under protc 
declaring that it had no intention of questioning the validity 
the ordinance of the Archbishop, nor of opposing the acts of 1 
royal authority in his regard. 

De Ranc6 was strong and loud in favour of the Archbish< 
At his instance, among others, the Assembly exerted itself 
obtain a reversion of the illegal acts which had been committ 
and the affair ended in Mazarin's being forced to yield, i 
without retaining considerable rancour against those who I 
been prominent in defence of the rights of the Church in 1 
matter. The most prominent of all had been de Rancd. 1 
next year (1656) saw the latter engaged in a number of i 
portant commissions to which he was named by the Assemb 
and he was also now named first *' aum6nier " to the Duke 
Orleans. This post had been held by his uncle, the Archbish 
of Tours, who had resigned it and suggested that de Ran 
should fill his place. The Duke of Orleans hesitated for a tin 
as the Abb6 was still young, and the place in his own househi 
was usually filled by a bishop. The Abbe might have had 
bishopric, too, at this moment, for a Breton bishop offered 
exchange his bishopric for one of the abbeys held by him, 1 
he is said to have disdained the offer, as not tempting enou 
for his ambition. " What should he do in the heart of Britta. 
among a people he did not understand V So the bishopric '% 
passed over, and the Duke of Orleans at last gave his cons 
to the proposal of the Archbishop of Tours, who had no doi 
made it in the hope that so distinguished a post as that: 
aumdnier to the first prince of the royal blood would sec 
for his nephew the succession to his own see. 

Providence was at work on His own designs, and the Abb^ 
Ranee was soon to be at the end of his chances of promotion, 2 
to cause this salutary disappointment by his own independei 
and boldness of speech. The Assembly took up the case 
Cardinal de Retz, the Bishop of Paris, and now again de Rai 
spoke against Mazarin with force and vigour. More than this> 
was sent with the Archbishop of Bordeaux, another bishop, a 
a member of the second order of the clergy, to plead the cause 
de Retz with the allpowerful Cardinal. The Archbishop seen 
to have been overcome by the presence of Mazarin, ^ 
expressed in very softened and inadequate language the mess^ 
of the Assembly, whereupon the intrepid Abb6 interrupted hiflJ 
appealed to the other deputies whether the Assembly had been 

The Story of dc RancS, 245 

iairly represented to the Minister, and went on in his own words 
to confute the charges which Mazarin had made against de Retz. 
Mazarin was offended and indignant, and told de Ranc6 that the 
Court was not pleased with his conduct in the Assembly. To 
this the AbW replied that the Court must have heen mis- 
informed. The breach was so wide and notorious, that the 
Assembly wished to excuse de Ranee to the Cardinal, but 
NTazarin replied that he had no intention of doing him any 
harm. He tried secretly to buy him over by offers of prefer- 
ment ; but they were rejected with cold politeness. Just at this 
time it happened that the Archbishop of Tours was pressing his 
suit at the Court that his nephew might be declared his coadjutor. 
It was at first favourably received, and then thwarted and pre- 
vented by the opposition of Mazarin. After his breach with the 
Cardinal, de Ranc6 retired from all active participation in the 
'work of the Assembly. His conversion was already begun, and 
it had been brought about by his own honest independence in 
the midst of the general servility which unfortunately character- 
ized the Churchmen of France at that period. For the moment 
he was disgraced and disappointed. The highflown scheme of 
his ambition had almost been fulfilled. He seemed on the very 
steps of the archiepiscopal throne, to which he had been taught 
to look forward. It is clear that with all the selfindulgence and 
luxury of his life, his presence made itself felt in the Assembly 
3^ the presence of a man of power, courage, vigour, arid^what 
^as more, rectitude and high principle. He had bearded 
Mazarin himself, and Mazarin's hand was used by Providence 
to give the first external blow to the hitherto too prosperous 
fortunes of the future reformer of La Trappe. 

After a short and secret visit to Cardinal de Retz himself at 
^ommercy, in Lorraine, de Rancd betook himself once more to 
^^retz, not, however, to receive as before crowds after crowds of 
2^y and brilliant company. He lived much more in retirement, 
^ few friends only coming to visit him. At this time he is 
^nown to have begun to speak about the danger of enjoying 
^ plurality of benefices ; he also gave alms largely, and 
P^Hbrmed many acts of charity. He was on the road to better 
^nings, when a further severe blow came upon him, quite 
Unexpected in character, and very different indeed from the 
rebuff which he had received at the hands of Cardinal Mazarin. 
^^ had long been very intimately connected with a gay, 
dissolute, and beautiful lady, the Duchesse de Motvtb^xotv. '^^ 

246 The Story of de Ranci. 

have already had occasion to mention her husband, the 
Due de Montbazon, as a friend of the Abba's. He had beei 
brave officer in the war against the League, and had disti 
guished himself very much in the service of Henri Quatre ; b' ^Dut 
his old age had been spent in excesses of every kind, h M l is 
wife, the Duchesse of whom we are speaking, one of the mo^z=^os1 
famous beauties of her time, had been forced to marry hi^L^n 
against her own will and that of her parents by the interferen^ -^mc< 
of Marie de Medicis. Marie de Bretagne, as she was th^.^nei 
called, was sixteen years old, and her husband sixty. He had^Ezsd a 
son and a daughter, one fourteen, the other twelve, years old^^=zIei 
than his new bride. The Duchesse became known for 1m, Ji er 
brilliant wit, her graceful conversation, and also for her irr^uF jlar 
life. At the time of which we are speaking, she had been l i^ zwo 
or three years a widow. Her widowhood made no change in 

her life, except that she gave herself greater licence than e \ ■ — ^er. 
De Ranee was fifteen years younger than the Duchesse. T TT fe 
family had long been intimate with the Montbazons, th^^eir 
country seats were close one to another, and he had b^^=?en 
brought up almost like a child of the house with the childrei 
the Duchesse. All this made their intimacy natural, and if 
characters had been different might have turned the edge of =" 
scandalous talk which circulated concerning them. It 
known that the Duchesse was fond of de Ranc^, and that :, ■3ier 
manner to him was different from her manner to any one e Ise. 
He, on the other hand, was the life and soul of her nume i ^ ^ u^ 
parties of pleasure, and, in his periods of idleness, had b^^^n 
constantly in the gay society which thronged her house in Pa^»-"s. 
They had visited one another, also, frequently in the coun^*0^» 
as her villa at Couziers was not far from Veretz. This im ^^ 
all that could be safely affirmed about them, and they seexi^cned 
even to be on their guard against allowing themselves '^ 
anything that might compromise them more openly in the er^^es 
of the world. 

De Ranee had returned to Paris in the spring of the y^ear 
1657, and was frequenting as usual the parties of the Duch^ssse 
de Montbazon, when the sudden blow fell which has so ^€\en 
been spoken of in connection with his conversion. The SwecJisA 
ambassador. Count Tot, had asked to be introduced to htr, 
saying he had seen everything most beautiful in Paris but icr. 
She laughed when she heard the compliment (she was already 
forty-five years old), and appointed the day after the morrow {(xr 

The Story of de RancL 247 

e introduction. When he presented himself, her sister met 
m with the news that the Duchesse was dangerously ill. She 
d been seized with a fever, which was in truth the symptom of 

attack of measles, and she seems to have been badly treated 

her physicians. At all events, she was soon on the point of 
ath. De Ranc6 was at her bedside immediately, warning her 
her danger, and bidding her prepare for death. He sent for 
\ cur^ of the parish to give her the last sacraments, and took 

himself the management of her temporal affairs, that she 
ght have more time to think of the affairs of her soul. One 
his services to her was to go and make excuses in her name 
all who were at enmity with her, begging them to be recon- 
id, that she might die in peace. He had gone to take a 
Je rest after she had received the last sacraments, on the 
rd day of her illness, and was mounting the stairs to her 
Dm after his repose, when he was met by the news that she 
& just dead, after an hour's agony. He was struck as by 
mortal blow, almost fainted on the spot, then went home to 
rep. The next day he fled to Veretz, and shut himself up in 

Romance has made a great deal- more of this story than is 
nsistent with truth. Not content with exaggerating the 
3ts as to the nature of the relations which bound de Ranee 

the Duchesse — or, at all events, with taking for granted a 
cat deal more than can be proved — it has made a melodrama 
^rthy of a low theatre out of the history of the last illness of 
c lady, and the surprise of de Ranc6 at the sudden tidings of 
^ death. According to this story, he knew nothing of her 
-kness, and no one told him even of her death, but, on 
turning from an excursion into the* country, he went to her 
^^ and entered her apartment alone, where he found a coffin 
which she lay. More than this, the tale goes on to say that 
c coffin had been made too short, and the workmen, not to 
ve to make another, had cut off the head of the corpse to 
^e room for the full length of the body. The head, all 
^y, had been wrapped in the shroud, but had been care- 
'sly let to roll on the ground, where it was the first object that 
-t the eyes of the Abb^ de Ranee. Another version makes the 
ysicians guilty of the decapitation, for the sake of some 
^mination which they wished to make after the death of the 
*chesse. The whole story appears to be the invention of a 
*«Tilous writer, Larroque, but it has been adopted b^ 


248 The Story of de Rancd. 

Chateaubriand and a host of less respectable authors, soc 
of whom bring in a " silver basin " as the appropriate receptai 
for the head of the poor. lady. 


Those who are ready to believe stories of the kind of which " 
have just been speaking in the fable of the decapitated Madai 
de Montbazon, will naturally expect to hear that the sequel 
that tragic incident was romantic and immediate — that f 
Abbe de Ranc6 set off at once and shut himself up in 
Trappist monastery. But the workings of divine grace, thou 
they are sometimes rapid, sudden, and overwhelming in 
moment, producing instantaneous yet permanent changes, a 
traversing, as it were, immense moral distances in a momc 
are not ordinarily violent and startling. Six years were yet 
pass before the Abb^ de Ranc6 was to find himself a novice 
the Cistercian Reform with which his name is now connected 
history, and we may almost call them six years of surpris 
dangers to him as well of most unexpected issue. The dang 
of which we speak did not come from any revival in himself 
the worldly spirit, or from any serious hesitation in fhe purp* 
which he now conceived of leading an entirely new life, 
had his interior struggles, no doubt, but they never seem 
have been enhanced by any weakness of resolution. He ha< 
strong stern nature, which had never been really satisfied w 
frivolities and luxury. Ambition was more of a danger to t 
than pleasure or avarice, but his ambition was a high sort, a 
would probably never have satisfied itself in the advancein< 
which his family desired for him. His conduct at the time 
Madame de Montbazon's illness justifies the inference that th 
were no secret relations between them of that guilty charac 
which the world suspected,- though both may have been 
blame for allowing what might be expected to give rise 
such suspicions. At all events, de Ranee was never in dan| 
of a relapse into such habits of intimacy. Nevertheless, he t^ 
in real danger of being drawn into the gloomy, proud, intrigutf 
and ambitious set of men and women whose headquarters vft 
at Port Royal, and who seem to have been among the mo 
complete reproductions of the Pharisees of old and of the Ariat 
and SemiArians of the fourth century that history has to shon 
The Jansenists at that time claimed as their own all that tbc*^ 
was of austere virtue and petviteutial spirit in France, and they 

The Story of de Ranci. 249 

were always on the look out for recruits, either among the rich 

and powerful, or among the learned and intellectual, men of the 

day. As de Ranc^ combined in himself qualifications of both 

the kinds of which the Jansenists were so eager to secure the 

service, it is quite natural to find that they did all that they 

could to make him their own. 

De Rancd, whose bent was undoubtedly to severity in 

<lc)ctrine and practice, and who was, moreover, a sort of born 

Frondeur— one of those men who find their place most naturally 

in an "Opposition" of any sort, even ecclesiastical — was just 

the person to fall in with the Jansenists up to a certain point, 

<ajid, indeed, he had already had some dealings and formed some 

<:onnections with their party. We had lately to speak of the 

censure passed on Amauld by the Sorbonne in January, 1656, 

and of the refusal of some of the doctors to submit to it. 

Among the recusants was de Ranc^ but, as it appears, rather 

on account of his disapproval of what appeared to him an 

arbitrary and high handed manner of crushing Arnauld, than 

because he shared his opinions. Later on we find him allied 

^th the party, but he was never one of them. In fact, if he 

had become a thorough Port Royalist, he would have been a 

very unmanageable subject even for Antoine Arnauld to deal 

with. De Ranc6 would have made himself a leader, or would 

^ve broken with any one from whom he could not wrest the , 

readership. He was too strong a man for the narrow though 

^hle minds who guided the Jansenists, who, though their 

position inside the Church instead of outside — as they ought to 

have been — gave them the power to do incalculable mischief to 

^uls, were yet hindered by that very position from a good 

^eal of organization and development which might have resulted 

|rom their becoming openly schismatics and rebels. They could 

influence a great deal, they could create nothing. One of the 

^ices of the party — a vice which we very often find in parties 

"KG theirs outside the Catholic Church — ^was a considerable 

'ondness for money. De Ranc6 had already heard of this in 

^c case of the property left behind him by his uncle, the 

donate de Chavigny, a very distinguished man in his day. The 

^omte had died after a short illness, during which Singlin, the 

director of the Port Royal religimses, had heard his confession, 

^d had been a long time closeted with him more than once. 

"^ter his death his widow found that an immensely valuable 

°^ndle of billets d'epargtie and other money bills, to the ataovuvt 

vol. XVI. -EL 

250 The Story of de Ranc6. 

of eleven hundred thousand francs, of which she had always ha< 
the custody, but which her husband had lately placed in hist 
cabinet for the purpose of making some necessary alterations 
in one of the documents, was missing, and on inquiry it tumec 
out that it had been handed over to the Messieurs de Poi 
Royal. As her husband trusted her in everything she w« 
convinced that, if he had placed the bundle of notes in 
hands of Singlin at all, it had only been when he 
wandering in his illness, thinking that he was giving back 
packet to her. She went off at once, though it was very ear! 
in her mourning, at the head of eleven of her children, 
complain to the Parliament, and raised a storm against 
Jansenists which they little expected. The affair was refem 
to arbitrators, who decided that a million of francs was to 
returned to the Comtesse, the Jansenists retaining a hundi^- 
thousand francs for alms and "restitutions," for which 
Singlin alleged that the money had been placed in his han< 
Even this result was thought to be unfair to the family, two gI 
the arbitrators being secretly in connection with Port RoyaL* 

We are not told whether this affair had made de Ranc6 at 
all suspicious of the Jansenist party. It is certain that Igkt' a 
long time after his retreat from the world he was in intinu^te 
communication with the old Arnauld d'Andilly, the patriarcl^k- o^ 
^ the family, and even made him his director in the spiritual fc— ife. 
For three months after the death of Madame de Montba^==^^' 
de Ranee remained in gloomy solitude at Veretz. At T< 
there was a Convent of the Visitation founded by his 
uncle, the Archbishop, one of the inmates of which was a U 
known as M^re Louise, who had been a great beauty in 
youth, a mistress of the Due d'Orleans, but who, like Mad* 
de la Valliere at a later time, had found grace to repent of 
fall and had taken refuge in religion, where she earned a Il^^'^SJ^ 
reputation for sanctity. De Ranc6 seems to have visited ^ ^^ 
written to her, and she urged him to take one of the Oratori^^^ ^J^^ 
P^re Seguenot, as a director. At this time his design of lea v^ ■ ^^^ 
the world was already vaguely formed, and he had also de' ^ter- 
mined to restore to the Church the sums of money which ^ "^^ 
been derived from the benefices which he had enjoyed from — ^ "^ 
youth, and which had been so flagrantly misappropriated. ^^ 

acquaintance with Seguenot led to his making a retreat, ^^ 
living in retirement for some time, at the Oratory in 

* See Dubois, t. i., pp. 62, 63 ; Rapin's Mcmoires, t. i., p. 466, seq. 

The Story of de Ranci. 251 

w-here he chose Pire de Mouchy as his guide, and practised severe 
I>enances. When it came to the question of the manner of life 
'wrhich he should embrace for the future, his director hesitated as 
'^vell as himself. At one time there was a thought of his going 
to the foreign missions. The time when he was to see his way 
olearly had not come, but P^re de Mouchy and others of his 
friends at the Oratory were Jansenistically inclined, and it was 
"tlie interest of the party to keep him undecided. After some 
stay in Paris, we find him visiting Arnauld d'Andilly at Port 
Royal itself. De Ranc6 had an aunt who was devoted to Port 
K^oyal, and through her, probably, the visit was brought about; 
3.nd from this time we must date the direct influence of Arnauld 
1-1 pon his spiritual life. 

He lived now at Veretz, with a regular horarium of his time, 
^vhich was spent in prayer and study. He was to study the 
^vork of St Cyran, Petrus AmeliuSy a book full of Gallicanism 
3Jid much well masked Jansenism, which at that day imposed on 
^ large part of the clergy of France. He also occupied himself 
'^^th a sort of work which was in favour with the Jansenists — 
literary translation ; for some of his performances of this kind 
Arnauld was indiscreet enough to snub him. Attempts were 
^^^^de to draw him to Port Royal as his place of abode, but all 
^ese failed, even though Arnauld hinted to him that he was 
™niself thinking of contracting the range of his correspondence, 
^nd that he might possibly have to lose him as a director by 
letter. De Ranc6 was always polite, always very grateful and 
^^ry submissive, but he never would take the step which would 
*^ve bound him hand and foot to Port Royal. He declined, at 
^e same time, the pressing invitation of his uncle the Arch- 
bishop to accompany him to Paris, where his family very much 
fished him to make his appearance once more. He persevered 
^^ his isolation and in his determination to renounce the world, 
although it was not yet clear to him what course of life he should 
^doj)L Yet, as time went on, the necessity of some further 
change began to urge itself upon him. Veretz had become a 
'^unt of silence, prayer, study, and penance ; but he was still 
Ws own master, living in his own way in a beautiful country 
^^t, with his books for his chief companions. He was living 
^*^e life of one of the — not very solitary — solitaries of Port 
^^yal, and he felt instinctively drawn to something more 
Perfect Then, also, he had made no progress towards the 
^Enunciation of his numerous benefices, or towards the testi- 

252 The Story of de RancS. 

tution of the money which he had, as he now saw, 

He received another blow, which may have helped him to 
quicken his steps, in 1660 — the third year from the date of his 
retirement from the world. This was the death of his patron, 
the Due d'Orleans. This prince had been for some time living, 
in retirement and disgrace with the Court, at Blois, making some 
amends for a wild and dissipated life by works of piety and 
charity. He was carried off after an illness of a week, i 
February, 1660. The Abbe de Ranc6, as his first autndnur--^^^ 
assisted him in his illness, and is said to have made the mo: 
moving and touching exhortations at the time when the 1 
sacraments were administered to him. His friend the Pire 
Mouchy, as well as the Bishop of Orleans, was present at 
same time, and after the Duke had breathed his last, 
Oratorian and de Ranc6 began to talk together about 
nothingness of this world. De Ranch's desire to abandon it 
altogether revived with new force, but his friend, who 
thought of seeing him an exemplary ecclesiastic, had no very 
definite plan to suggest to him. After a short stay with. 3. 
friend near Mans, in the Chateau de la Groirie, where a^ 
long dark alley in the grounds which bears his name is still 
to be seen, de Ranc6 betook himself once more to Veretz^, 
which, however, he was making up his mind to abandon 
for ever. Meanwhile, he began preaching to the peStsant^^ 

In the course of the same year he consulted the Bishop o^ 
Chalons on the double subject of the resignation of his benefices* 
and of a more absolute retreat from the world. On the fonn^^ 
point he was advised to give up his pluralities, and even to malctr 
restitution of the revenues which had been misapplied by b/^ 
father and by himself. On the second point, the bishop advised 
him to consult a man famous at the time for piety and austerity 
of life, Mgr. Pavilion, Bishop of Aleth. Pavilion had been 
the friend of M. Olier, and had been formed by St Vincent oi 
Paul, who called him his own right arm. St Vincent forced 
him to accept the bishopric of Aleth, a see on the confines of 
France and Spain, in a wild, bleak, desolate tract, the people of 
which were as rude and ignorant as their country was miserable 
Most unfortunately, Mgr. Pavilion first hesitated about signing 
fhe formula condemnatory of Jansenism, thinking that the Hoc 
of neutrality was the line for men of peace, and later on Wl 

The Story of de RancS. 253 

still more decidedly into the Jansenist toils.* He carried 
simplicity and austerity to an extreme in his own life, and was 
X>robably won to Jansenism by the apparent severity of its 
doctrines and practices. At the time of which we are speaking, 
i^e had not pronounced himself in its favour. Circumstances 
somewhat delayed the visit of de Rancd. At first the bishop 
'^'vas on his visitation, and after that, the Court of France was 
ixi the neighbourhood, as it was the time when Louis the 
I^ourteenth went to St Jean-de-Luz to receive his bride, Maria 
Teresa of Spain. Either during this interval of delay or before, 
<ie Ranee seems for a time to have thought seriously of 
p>resenting himself at the doors of the Grande Chartreuse. The 
I>roject, or the thought, got wind, and created great alarm in his 
family. But he was destined for other things. 

He at last left for the south of France, near the end of 

June, 1660, going first to a friend of his, M. de Choiscul, Bishop 

^^f Comminges, in the same part of the country with Aleth. 

^^gr. de Choiscul was a learned, active, pious, and selfdenying 

t>ishop. He kept de Ranee with him for a full month, approving 

^^is idea of sacrificing his benefices, but hoping to see him some 

day a great prelate, the light of the Church of France. The 

Account of Aleth and its bishop, the ruggedness of the country, 

dangers of the roads, the plain unfurnished episcopal palace, 

scanty fare and poor lodging which greeted the guest on his 

Arrival, is most picturesque. Mgr. Pavilion, when it came to the 

^he point of what advice he should give to de Ranc6 in his 

Perplexities, certainly did not spare him. He recommended 

*^iiii to give his brothers and sisters their share in his father's 

property, and then to sell the rest, the proceeds of which were 

^^ be divided between the repairs of the neglected churches in 

^is benefices, and some of the hospitals of Paris. When the^ said that he should raise all his family in arms against 

Wm by such a step, the bishop asked whether he had any other 

^eans of' indemnifying the churches and the poor for what they 

^^d been deprived of; and when he was answered in the 

* Pire Rapin tells us {Memoires^ t. i., p. 367) that Mgr. Pavilion at first made use 

^ the Jesuits of Toulouse as aids in his missions to his people, and always lodged with 

^«em when he came to Toulouse, but that his mind was perverted by reading Amauld*s 

**^Otts book. On Frequent Communion. He took it up so warmly, that he began to 

^*^K that the virtue of penitence was more salutary than the Sacrament of Penance, 

**** gave orders that absolution should be frequently deferred, and that very long 

^f'^'oces should be exacted. The Jesuits did not agree to so much severity, and the 

°**^> turned against ihexn. 

254 The Story of de RancS. 

negative, he simply quoted our Lord's words, " He who lovett 
father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me." Bu' 
beyond this the bishop did not go. He was content that afte- 
the distribution just spoken of, de Ranee should reserve sucl 
benefices as were necessary for his decent maintenance 
reminding him also that the Abbots in commendam had dutie 
to discharge both as to the temporal and spiritual interests c 
the religious communities whose revenues they shared. For tlr 
rest, he wished him to remain in the world so far as to assist \m 
uncle in the government of his diocese, and he probably hope 
that he would one day be his successor. This did not seem "^ 
please de Rancd ; and then the bishop took him with him for 
week of missionary labour among the wild inhabitants of 
mountains around Aleth, and after having given him 
experience of the hardships as well as of the consolations of — 
active Apostolical life, he asked him whether it were not pref^ 
able to the retirement of anchorites or cenobites } 

These suggestions of the good bishop might have reveal 
to de Ranc6 his true vocation, by the intense opposition whS 
they caused in his heart. He had always had an extre^ 
aversion for the religious life, on which he probably looked w f 
a sort of contempt, and before this time in the intei*val whS 
had passed since his " conversion," a friend had suggested to li- 
the idea of taking the habit in one of his own communities, t:: 
it had been received with some repugnance. Nevertheless, ^ 
conversations with Mgr. Pavilion showed that he could not 
satisfied with remaining in his present position ; and if he cou^ 
not be a solitary hermit any more than a secular ecclesiatic, wh^ 
remained for him but religion } He left Aleth full of admiratE- 
for the bishop,* and determined to go at least as far as his adv ^ 
would lead him in the pale of renunciation ; not determine 
however, to go no further. He went from Aleth to Pamiers, 
bishop of which see was Mgr. de Caulet, one of the compani 
of M. Olier in the foujidation of St. Sulpice, who, like IVd 
Pavilion, had been selected for this bishopric by St. Vine ^ 
of Paul. He was a great friend of Mgr. Pavilion, and the ^t 
bishops each year spent a certain time together. Mgr. de Ca 


* It is curious that the biographers of de Rancc give a letter of his concemi 
this visit, in which he bears witness to the staunch orthodoxy of Mgr. Pavilion, wrlio 
that time spoke to him most strongly against the resistance to the signature of th 
Formulary, and says that he conjured him, when he took his leave, not to let hlnis^ 
be induced to join the recusants. 

TIte Story of de fiance. 255 

^vas another of the holy severe men of the time who were caught 
l>y the snares and intrigues of Jansenism ; but at the time of 
de Ranc6*s visit he was generally regarded as one of the best 
l>ishops of France. 

Mgr. de Caulet added another blow to those which de Ranee 
l^ad already received. The Abb6 told him what had passed 
faetween Mgr. d'Aleth and himself, and he complained in a 
pleasant way that he had deprived him of his patrimony and 
left him his benefices alone. The bishop asked him how many 
l^e had of them left " Five," was his answer; "three abbacies and 
t^wo priories." " Then," said de Caulet, " you have been treated 
like a child, as if you were not capable of solid food. An eccle- 
siastic who wishes to belong to God in good earnest ought to 
l>e content with a single benefice." And he asked him what the 
p>eople would say of the converted, zealous, enlightened Abb6 
de Ranee, who had given all his goods to the poor and was 
^►iming at walking in the narrow way, kept still three abbeys 
^.nd two priories ? De Ranc6 remonstrated ; he could live upon 
i^othing in solitude, if he were allowed to retire thither ; but if he 
'^va.s to remain as he was, after sacrificing a fortune of a hundred 
"^iiousand crowns, he must have something to support a certain 
state — a retinue, a carriage, servants, and the like. The good 
l>ishop, however, told him that he was like St. Paul after his 
conversion, before the scales fell from his eyes. Little enough 
'Was wanted for a really penitent life ; he might retire to one of 
l^is benefices, where he might occupy himself with holy reading, 
preaching in the neighbourhood, and helping the poor, as 
St. Augustine lived after his conversion. 

Here was another step, forced upon de Ranee by the authority 

^tid eloquence of his new friend. He promised now to give up 

*^is benefices as well as his patrimony ; and his mind was so 

ftrinly made up, that the opposition of some of his friends only 

increased his determination. But there was still another and a 

"^^ch more unpalatable morsel for him to swallow. We have 

Mentioned his extreme aversion to the monastic or religious life. 

*^^t it was nothing short of this which was pressed upon him by 

^he next adviser to whom he hurried. This was the Bishop 

^* Comminges, whom he visited on his way homeward from 

"^Oiiers. Mgr. dc Choiscul was duly informed of the kind of 

Spoliation to which his friend had been subjected at the hands 

^\ the two Bishops of Alcth and Pamiers. He determined to 

S^^e the fatal blow. De Ranc^ was Commeudatory MAio\., ox 

256 The Story of de Rancl. 

Prior, in five religious houses, and this position was quite as 
abnormal, if not more so, than the mere possession of more 
benefices than one. There was no thoroughly correct settlement 
of the difficulty to be arrived at, unless the Commendatory 
Abbot, or Prior, either resigned the benefice or became a 
religious himself like his subjects. This was the last peremptory 
truth with which de Ranc6 was now confronted. His friend told 
him that his own conscience was unquiet on the score of a single 
abbey which he possessed. He had given up the whole revenu 
to the Claustral Prior, to be spent in the repairs of the monas — . 
tery, in the support of the religious, and in the relief of the poor • 
but this did not satisfy him. He had a desire to become ^ 
religious himself, but his position as bishop prevented him. iVs 
de Ranc^ was determined to quit the world, he recommende^d 
him to become himself a religious, and rule one of his own 
abbeys as such. 

''Mot, me fairc frocard !'' was the exclamation of this 
astonished Abb^ at the proposal of his friend. He avowed his 
intense dislike to the religious habit, and fell back on the recom^ 
mendation of the Bishops of Aleth and Pamiers, that he should 
retain his benefices, or a single benefice, as Commendatory 
Abbot. Nothing more passed at the time, and de Ranc^ went 
home ; but the fatal shaft had struck him, and he could not rid 
himself of it. 


We must pass very rapidly over nearly two years, which 
passed between the return of de Rancd from the south of France 
and his betaking himself, in 1662, to his Abbey of La Trappc- 
The interval had been spent, not in unnecessary delays, still less 
in hesitation, but it had been protracted by the difficulty which 
he had encountered in what might have been thought a siionpl^ 
matter enough — the getting rid of his property and his benefices- 
The world parts hardly with those who are resolved to trample 
it under foot : obstacles rise on all sides, like clouds whid* 
suddenly cover a clear sky, and it seems as difficult for som^ 
persons to make themselves poor for the love of God, as it i^ 
for others to become rich for their own sakes. De Ranc^'^ 
family opposed him, there was trouble about the sale of VereU. 
the Court did not fall in with his proposals as to the transfer 
of his benefices to persons whom he named, and the like* H^ 
had plenty of temptations, plenty of opportunities of failing ii> 
carrying out his resolutions. But he never looked back aftcT 

The Story of de Ranci. 257 

he had set his hand to the plough. By the time which we have 
named he had sold Veretz and given his share to the poor ; he 
had made over two fine houses which he possessed in Paris to 
the Hotel Dieu and the Hospital de Paris, and of his benefices 
he retained only the Abbey of La Trappe and the priory of 
Boulc^e, for he had not yet made up his mind to which of the 
two he would finally retire. 

In the course of this interval of which we are speaking, 
tie Ranc6 had an opportunity of learning for himself the spirit 
>f the Jansenists as regards money. Long after, he related in 
I letter to a friend, how he had spoken of his design to an 
cquaintance, who asked him, in answer, whether he had con- 
Jlted the Messieurs de Port Royal. He replied that he had 
5t done so, and did not think it necessary, as he had the 
Hinsels of the Church to guide him ; but the other determined 
ask their advice himself. After a time he came to de Ranee, 
th the proposal that he should retain his benefices and 
^tribute their revenues among the Jansenists who were under 
rsecution. The occurrence was certainly well calculated to 
en his eyes. When he went to La Trappe in 1662, he found 
both morally and materially in as bad a state as possible. 
»re than a century of the rule of abbots -commendatory had 
led the monastery and the monks. The abbot simply spent 
money which accrued to him on himself, and the religious 
the same with the revenues of the community. They kept 
ules, wore no habit, neglected the saying of the divine office, 
all the ordinary duties of religious, the law of cloister was 
observed, men and women indiscriminately thronged the 
istery, and as it was situated near some dense woods* 
ders and violence of every kind were frequent in the 
bourhood. A year or two before this time one of the 
s had murdered a peasant. The church was in a deplor- 
;tate, the monastery itself falling utterly to ruin. But 
)ral state of the inmates was the worst and most incurable 
De Ranc6 admonished them, and threatened them; 
in vain. At last he told them that if they did not 
their scandalous lives of their own accord, he would 
:e the religious of the "strict observance." Every one 
hat relaxed religious may be goaded into madness by 
tion of " reform ; " and the history of St. Teresa, not to 
other less well known instances, is enough to show us- 
^engths such religious will go in their reslst^nc^ to ^>&i;3c^ 

:258 The Story of de Ranci. 

** innovations/' and in their hard treatment of the innovators 
The monks of La Trappe talked of putting an end to theL:a 
Ahb6, and throwing his body into a pond, and the threats, 
which were made openly, seemed so serious to some who hear^ 
them, that a gentleman of his neighbourhood, M. de St Loui^ 
came in great haste to offer him armed protection. The Abl^ 
received him very kindly, and sent him away with many thanlcs. 
At last de Ranc^ threatened the monks with an appeal to the 
authority of the King, and it is thoroughly characteristic of those 
times in France that this seems to have been enough to bring* 
them to their senses. An arrangement was made by which the 
monks were to be allowed a certain pension, and to live within 
the precincts of the monastery, while the whole was to be 
handed over to the religious of the strict observance. This was 
carried into effect late in 1662. 

At this time, however, de Ranc^ still thought of living at 
La Trappe as Commendatory Abbot, but not of becoming 
himself one of the religious. He began, however, to take steps 
to give up his other benefice at Boulogne, and he had his library 
and "chapelle" brought to La Trappe, where he also spent 
large sums of money on repairing and improving the buildings 
and the church. The abbatial residence was one among the 
buildings to be repaired, and in the course of the work de Ranee 
had a narrow escape for his life, a part of the ceiling of a roofi* 
falling in just as he had left it He began to lead th6 life of his 
new religious in many respects, and was always at their service 
for counsel and direction. One of them — or rather, one of tb^ 
old religious, who had now embraced the reform, led to thi^ 
step by witnessing the fervour and mortification of de Rancc 
himself — told him that he wished he could have him as ^ 
religious Superior living under the rule, as he had great talent^ 
for the guidance of souls. De Ranee said he was unworthy* 
but the day of grace was not much longer delayed. 

His thoughts and cares gradually centred more and more i^ 
"Lai Trappe. He had very seriously injured the revenues of th^ 
abbey a few years before by cutting down wood to the value 0» 
nearly a hundred thousand livres, and he now made a wil*» 
leaving what remained to him to the monastery in reparation'' 
He had an old servant at the time, who found out what W3^ 
going on, and rated his master severely. What was worse, l^ 
wrath fell on the monks whenever he met them ; but dc Ranc* 
ikept him with himself notwithstanding. Then came 900^ 

The Story of de RancL 259 

Eficulties as to the introduction of the reformed religious into 
ic monastery, which had to be formally registered by the 
ariiament at Paris, and here he had to meet the opposition of 
^e unreformed Cistercians. It is sad to find the names of the 
.bbots of Clairvaux and Citeaux ranged against a proposal to 
3d another religious house to the number of those which were 
3w binding themselves to a return to the rule of St. Bernard, 
Jt so it was. However, the arrangement made with the old 
rligious of La Trappe was formally ratified in February, 1663. 
-bout the same time, de Ranee, who had to go to Paris to 
rocure this ratification, met there the Bishop of Comminges, and 
t him see that the seed which he had cast into the heart of his 
iend in their last interview in the south of France had taken 
K)t, and bade fair to spring up and bear great fruit. On his 
:tum to La Trappe, where for some time he had had almost 
^ do the work of a master of novices to his religious, the 
iperior of the Reformed Cistercians sent him an excellent monk 
^ prior, and two of their own novices to keep up the primitive 
bservances of the rule. 

And yet at the same time he still hesitated. An old 
^Jugnance to the " froc " came back. All that Lent he had to 
•^ggle against himself. Then there came a last blow from a 
Weak and gentle hand, the hand of a niece of his own. 
fdlle. d'Albon, whom he loved like a father, and with whom he 
gularly corresponded with the greatest tenderness and affec- 
^n. This young lady was of poor health, so delicate as to 
^m almost always on the verge of a dangerous illness, but 
c made up her mind to take the veil in the order of the 
citation. He had to applaud and confirm her in her resolution, 
d all the time he was afraid himself! It was with him as 
th St Augustine, when he had to say to himself, Nonne potes 
od h(B et lice ? At length, one day after mass he was making 
5 prayer of thanksgiving in the church at La Trappe, while 
^ monks were singing Sext in the office of our Blessed Lady. 
^e words rang out clearly in his ears. Qui confidunt in Domino, 
^/ mons Siofi, and then the full choir took up the remaining 
'^he of the verse, Non commavebiiur in atemum, qui habitat in 
^^usaUtn I The verse sank into his heart with wonderful light 
^d heavenly power, and he was a changed man, as St Antony 
^ when he heard the priest at the altar read, Vade vende qtue 
^6is et da patiperibus et veni sequere Me^ or as St Augustine 
^^^aself, when the voice bade him, "take up and read" iVvfc bwiVL 

26o The Story of de Ranc(. 

in the garden at Milan, and he opened it and met with the ter 
Nan in comessationibus et ebrietatibtiSy nofi in cubilibtis ct im^ 
dicitiiSy itofi in contentione et (Bntulatione^ sed induimini Domin - 
yesum Christum et carnis cur am nefcceritis in desidcriis. Bef^ 
de Rancd left the church, his mind was irrevocably made up 
embrace religion. It was April 17th, 1662. There were s 
obstacles to be overcome, leave to be got from the Court, 
family and friends to part with, and the like. But he did 
let the" grass grow beneath his feet in the execution of 
design. On the 30th of May he was able to assemble 
religious around him in chapter at La Trappe. Then he air 
and told them that he had resolved to spend the rest of 
days with them, wearing the same habit, and observing x 
same strict rule, and the next day he left them for Perseigi 
where the novitiate of the Reform was then established. 

H. J. C 

Garibaldi in France. 

en been remarked that if we had followed our food 
in the various processes they have to go through 
'' come upon our tables, very few would be found to 
ppetite for his meal ; and this truth becomes more 
days of wholesale adulteration. The remark strikes 
icable to the food of the mind as well as to that of 
specially as to that food which all devour so eagerly 
3rary news. Did we know the names and antecedents 
cles who — veiled beneath the awful incognito of 
orrespondents " — furnish us with our daily informa- 
lould be certainly more fastidious in taking it in. 
correspondent may err, and often does, in statement 
ut, at all events, one has some guarantee that he is 
ht side in the main, that he believes in God, in 
Very probably his labour is a labour of love — 
dng unpaid — for God and His Church. He loves, 
)t wisely, and even too well ; but that is a fault on 
side. The little peep we get behind the curtain 
apart from the intrinsic proofs in the letters them- 
et some idea what sort of men are the pundits who 
;ent to Rome to write down the Council or to blacken 
er of a Catholic sovereign. Arrivabene may be a man 
and he has told some plain truths, but we should 
accept his verdict on the Pope or Catholic interests — 
;o well known — Mario, fortunate in having to wife 
Vhite of Mazzinian reputation — what person in the 
of ordinary common sense would trust a word that 
/ors of intelligence on Christian and Catholic subjects 
e him, if he only knew that it came to him from 
)toriously tainted } Yet, as a matter of fact, a laige 

Catholics in these countries have been fooled into 
^hat writers of this stamp have said. Englishmen 
to laugh at the fustian of Fenian writers upon Irish 

and yet gravely believe — because vrrittetv vdtiv 

262 Garibaldi in France. 

brilliancy and " local colouring " — the wildest stories of forei^- 
politics. By what other way could Gafibaldi have reached tl 
pinnacle of glory which made him the coveted guest of 
most fastidious circles of English society, the cynosure of gnu 
Tory parsons and Tory noblemen ? It is not enough to 
that he is the hero and the tool of the Revolution, and that 
great international conspiracy has borne him up on high, as 
banner and its shield — we must find the explanation in the fi 
that men who have given themselves up to the fight agaL 
order and God, have a mouthpiece in our journals, our seri^ls^ 
our novels. Under the respectable exterior of faultless tyrjpt, 
and superfine paper, their views and their theories find tlrmeir 
way into homes and into hearts that would drive away t:lie 
authors with horror and scorn. 

It is not necessary to rival their brilliancy. We hope, at 
least, to surpass these writers in truth ; and in a slight study 
of the doings of Garibaldi in France, show what he really can 
do in face of foes worth powder and shot, and whom no amount 
of preparatory plotting could weaken or seduce. Among his 
many titles, Garibaldi was dubbed the hero of Varese, beca.use 
when the centre of the Austrian army of 1859 was forced back at 
Magenta, its right wing had virtually to retire and abandon the 
north of Lombardy to the Cacciatori degl* Alpi. Whether he 
was called the hero of the Italian Tyrol when brought to a 
stand in 1866 by Austrian troops, we cannot say. Mentana 
added another proof of his ability in presence of trusty and loyal 
soldiers. Still we doubt if ever genius received such cosmo- 
politan honours. Let us come and see him nearer home ; learn 
who are his friends, what his victories, what his success when 
fighting in a cause not so taking as the destruction of the 
Papacy or of the House of Bourbon. 

Sedan had been fought ; Jules Favre and his friends ruled 
supreme. Garibaldi was a necessary completion to the Great 
Republic, for which, and not for France, the party in power 
were struggling. A great Fraternal Revolution would naturally 
sweep away the crowned tyrant of Prussia, and, spite of old 
alliances and friendships, more intimate than perhaps we are 
aware of, who more fitted for the work of liberation than the 
enemy of kings and priests ! An exGaribaldian, one Bordone 
of Avignon — who had fought in Sicily and (if we mistake not) 
at Mentana — went to Caprera to fetch the old man from ^ 
den. This envoy, who was to play so great a part in the scno- 

Garibaldi in France. 263, 

Dmic drama, was then fifty years old, well known to the police, 
iving been three times before the magistrates, and, if report 
J believed, expelled from the fleet, where he served on board 
e UUoa, and without having gone through the routine of 
omotion even in the Garibaldian army, was at the time of 
lich we are speaking, we know not by what authority, a 
lonel on Garibaldi's staff". The master of a coasting vessel was 
iling to Caprera; Bordone came on board, and offered to 
Toduce him to the General. On landing, he informed 
uibaldi that he had chartered a vessel at his own expense 
come in search of the Hope of France, politely introducing 

the same time the poor captain, as his humble servant 
)rdone took care never to let slip his prize. The vaurien of 
sterday became the factotum, receiver general, the head of 
e staff" of General Garibaldi. The supreme command of the 
anc'tireurs in the department of C6te-d*Or was intrusted by 
ambetta to the General — but the Breton legion and the free 
>rps of the Vosges absolutely declined to serve under him ; 
• General Cambriels, a young and active man, had to make 
ay, by order of the new Minister of War, for the half palsied 
innit of Caprera, who succeeded him as Commander in Chief 

the Army of the Vosges. From every part of the globe 
'ngry vultures, who, like Bordone, are ever ready for adventure 
ien danger is small and profit great, flocked round his 
ndard. It was the first levy of the Commune. Again, as 
fore Mentana, the magistrates of Italy, in the absence of the 
igerous classes, testified to a cessation of crime within their 
isdiction. * Garibaldi had been received as a defender of 
ince, to aid in her liberation from the stranger — she had 
Oped, in her extremity, to such an alliance. But there were 
er objects of a higher interest for him. The priest ridden 
Lsants of France could have done that work ; the main object 
his coming was to establish the liberty which reigned for a 
^ terrible weeks at Paris, and which fitly acclaimed him as 
General in Chief: his enemies were the priest, the nun, the 
>uits — there was no risk in attacking them. 

l-€t us take one specimen of these his high achievements. 
- was at D61e; he had not yet wrested from General Cambriels 
^ chief command. The College of the Jesuit Fathers had 
-cived its contingent of nine hundred men, and though turned 
^ the nonce into a barracks, the classes were held as usual. 
^ the 22nd a Garibaldian officer called to inform the Fathers 

264 Garibaldi in France. 

that the General had taken them under his special protection, 
- and would send them a guard of forty men, with orders to fire 
' on any one who should dare to menace their house. Th^y 
remarked that, with nine hundred men already within, siny 
. additional force was hardly needed. However, they came, axxd 
confirmed the assurances already made. On the. 23rd — the very 
next day — a private of the National Guard, with a number of 
his comrades, appeared before Mont Roland, the villa of tlie 
College, situated on a hill outside the town. They bore s^ 
-order of Colonel Bordone for the instant expulsion of the old 
Father and two laybrothers, not only from the house and church 
but from the territory, giving them the choice of place of exile 
till further orders — Lyons, Savoy, or Switzerland. Pfere Hugu^t, 
a venerable man of seventy two winters, was conducted by tb»JS 
armed escort to the College. Arrived there, the Father Rector 
was summoned, and surrounded by the guard. A decree simile 
to that which had been served on Mont Roland was read, Aj 
. additional clause ordered the Fathers to keep at a distance of 
twenty leagues from headquarters, under pain of being brougflat 
before a courtmartial. It was signed — " In the name of Gari- 
baldi and by his orders. — Colonel Bordone." Protests stud 
. appeals were vain. The seizure of Church property and the 
expulsion of Jesuits are such received practices in the best 
regulated States of the nineteenth century that they GLcii^ 
little notice, and their sufferers can expect little compassioa 
But the College of D61e had under its charge a large number 
of boys, who could not " instantaneously " be turned on the 
streets. The citizen Robert obtained from headquarters the 
delay of twenty four hours. But though the civil officers of the 
Republic dared not defend the course of justice, a chivalrous 
officer of the Legion of Honour, Colonel de la Pommeraye, 
braved the insults of the foreign adventurers and their French 
. allies, and demanded an audience of Garibaldi. After being kept 
waiting some time, he was ushered into the awful presence. 
The General received him, and, without lifting his cap, asked 
him his errand. Bordone, with a confidence which will astonish 
our readers, is writing a chronicle of his "Gestes,'' and tells us that 
in consequence of a system of signalling carried on bet\*'een the 
Cathedral and the Church of Mont Roland for treacherous 
motives, the population of D61e were roused to fury against the 
Fathers ; that, with a delicacy for which they expressed them- 
seJves extremely grateful, the head of the staff (Bordone bifflSclQ 

Garibaldi in France. 265 

ooinentarily withdrew them from danger, and that, though 
cverity might justly have been used, nothing was done save 
ifhat was necessary to secure the safety of the army and fore- 
Call disorder, which it would have been hard to prevent 

As Mont Roland was at that very time the headquarters of 
4enotti Garibaldi, it would have been impossible to carry out the 
upposed system of signals, which not only were unseen by any 
mrgher of D61e, but were never alluded to either by Bordone, 
laribaldi, or any of his followers. In reply to Colonel La 
•ommeraye's remonstrances, the General said the Jesuits were 
»irtlaws, expelled by other cities as dangerous to society, 
eadiers of evil doctrine ; he was forced in the interest of his 
tilitary operations to send them away. And when it was 
Ligcd that a journey of twenty leagues was impossible in 
iincs like those, " Oh, as for that, let them go where they wish, 
as they are off." Garibaldi closed the interview as brutally 
s he had commenced. The threats and insults the Fathers met 
^ from the redshirts in the streets, showed from what portion 
f the population came the danger of which Bordone has written, 
l^en gone, the College was sacked, as usual. At St Etienne, 
5e of these protectors of France, when remonstrated with under 


<e circumstances, said — "If the Prussians came they would do 
bad." It may throw some light on one of the principal 
*oes of our story to give another instance of Bordone*s 
J^city. Just at the time of the victory over the Jesuits at 
Me, General Cambriels had an engagement near Chitillon, 
d gained some advantage over his antagonists. Neither 
Uibaldi nor any of his men were nearer than twenty or 
irty miles to the field of battle. Spite of this, Bordone sent 
& following telegram to the prefect of his native town — 

Dole, Oct 24, 1870. 
Headquarters to Prefect, Avignon, — We have taken some prisoners. 
t for the countermarch necessitated by Cambriels' situation we should 
^e annihilated the right wing of the Prussian army. We keep them 
^ht, and we are sure not to let one escape. 

Colonel of the Staff. 

At Garibaldi's side we find the inevitable pair, Menotti and 
iciotti, his sons, and Canzio, his son in law. Among the many 
*iers of similar colour, stands preeminent one Delpech, who, 
fled by Cluseret and the writer Esquiros, had ruled supreme at 
^iscilles. This man's early life had hardly fitted him for so 
^Kmsible a position. A peasant boy, after in valu seddtv% ^a^ 


266 Garibaldi i^i Frame. 

fortune in the East, Delpech's stalwart frame had gai 
employment in a tanner's yard, where the 4th of Sc 
found him. The emancipation of France proved his 
pation too. His violence at the clubs lifted him \ 
rapid flight to the first place in the south, as P: 
Marseilles. Once secured, he strengthened his pos 
a band of sans culottes^ called Civic Guards, and 
the public treasury. But a few weeks served to j 
utter incapacity for public business, other than the € 
and imprisonment of priests and religious. He re; 
suddenly in the revolutionary club. The patience of th 
was exhausted. In an ultra-radical harangue, he resi 
prefectship, and announced his intention of enlistir 
private soldier. This device succeeded beyond exp 
His popularity lived again, and he left as liaitaiant c 
join the Army of the Vosges. Garibaldi immediately 
to his skilled hands the command of the second 
Another hero was that Lobbia, who "was found oni 
we quote a letter from the Pall Mall GazctU 
January 16, 1872, "some years ago, in or near the Pia; 
Signoria, calling out for assistance like one being assa 
and bleeding profusely from several wounds." The maj 
then was, had denounced Civinini, like himself an 
deputy, for having for a consideration, and by sacrif 
party, obtained the monopoly of tobacco for a private c 
The accuser exhibited a large envelope, declaring tha 
tained proofs of Civinini's guilt. This " envelope 
happened to be in his pocket, was pierced through and 
by a stab." The natural inference was that the crime \ 
committed by the accused. The matter was brought b 
courts. And it was proved that the envelope contained 
but blank paper; and that Lobbia had employed a c 
inflict the wounds found upon him. The major Wc 
guilty of the fraud, but an appeal was made aga 
sentence ; and under these circumstances, the clicvak 
rcproclic offered his services to Garibaldi. A definite i 
given on the lOth of January last, confirmed the 

Such were a few of the dramatis personam of the und 
the great tragedy acted on French soil. The task inti 
the General in Chief was to guard the valley of the 
This stream, which rises in the Cdte-d'Or, a chain of m 

Garibaldi in France. 267 

bisecting the department of that name, falls into the Saone, 
^touth-east of Dijon, which is situated upon the river. Ajcanal 
running by its side joins the Saone to the Yonne. The position 
'^^'as one of great importance, as commanding the main line 
*Vom Lyons and the west to Paris, and at no great distance 
*r"om the line traversing the centre of France. The importance 
of the position was only too clearly shown when the detach- 
ixients of the Prussian army from Paris and the Loire marched 
'through the department to crush Bourbaki and drive him over 
the Swiss frontier. The Army of the Vosges, besides the sinister 
and cosmopolitan Garibaldians, numbered amongst its ranks 
some who were worthy of abler commanders and more respect- 
able companions at arms. Among these was Colonel Chenet, 
who had left a splendid position at Constantinople to serve his 
country, and who, thanks to his well known bravery and skill, 
had recruited among picked seamen, old soldiers and officers, an 
excellent corps, five hundred strong. His long service in Mexico 
as chief of the contra-guerilla, fitted him for the command of 
f^anc-tireurs ; and his conviction was that the only chance of 
salvation for France was to surround the German armies with 
hosts of invisible foes, which would cover the formation, in the 
^ninvaded territory, of a regular and disciplined army. The 
lamentable result of opposing raw recmits in line of battle to 
the old soldiers of Prussia confirmed his judgment. 

But the young barrister who ruled over the military destinies 
^f the Grande Nation thought otherwise ; and spite of the 
Understanding to the contrary, upon which he had enrolled his 
^cn, Chenet's corps was ordered by the infamous Cluseret, then 
^^eral in Chief of the Forces of the South, to serve him as 
^^hireurs ; but the Colonel pleaded an order to proceed to 
^yons. The Reds had already pronounced their judgment on 
fte Guerilla d'Orient, as the new regiment was called, and 
Cluseret would have fain arrested their chief, because neither he 
^^r his men bowed before the idol of the hour, and, even if 
"publican, they were clearly not of the hue which found 
*^vour. But their value was too well known, and they proceeded 
Untouched to Aix, and so to Lyons. There the Colonel was sent 
to Autun. On the road he received a despatch signed "Delpech," 
^dering him to join his, the second, brigade of the Army of the 
^es, at Epinac. The Brigadier declared himself delighted 
^\ 4e arrival of Chenet ; he offered to resign the command into 
^^5 hands, and to take what would have suited Yvvs -poeVLtX. ^xA 

268 Garibaldi in France. 

his tastes better than active service, a place in the commissarE^SfeJ 
The Colonel positively declined. It was hard enough to 
to orders, to say the least of it, the authority of which 
problematic, and to be obliged to serve under Garibaldi, 
have to turn his followers to a use which neither he nor 
had contemplated, but he would not risk a reputation gai 
during twenty years of active service, in the campaigns of ^Iie 
Crimea, in Italy, and Mexico, by accepting the command of 
an undisciplined and disorderly mob. 

The poor Colonel soon found that the red shirt and 'fclie 
principles the red shirt represented alone were favoured by. tlie 
authorities ; neither provisions, nor shoes, nor even ammunition 
were to be got, till the petted ragazzi had had their full. It -^^r-as 
only late in the evening that the Guerilla broke their fast on 
their first arrival. Three days afterwards, when their northerr^ly 
march was bringing them close to the enemy, the Colonel •Wi/'as 
forced to lay in wait for a convoy of ammunition that ^^^ra& 
coming down the canal of the Ouche, and by an extra-l^gpl 
requisition furnish the pouches of his men. Their commandi^ig 
officer had left his men without any orders at Pont-de-Pany» a 
village on the canal, nine miles from .Dijon, and Colonel Ches^et 
pushed forward to Malain, a station on the line from Dijoi* to 
Paris, which they reached at nearly midnight, half starved a.iid 
worn out with a march of nearly forty miles. Hardly had Ic 
arrived at the lodging assigned to him, when he learnt tliat 
Garibaldi was to pass the night in the same house ; and before he 
had gone to bed he heard the clank of sabres and the noise of ^^ 
crutches, which the "hero" of Caprera has made historic, on the 
stairs. He went out to pay his respects to his chief. " Ah ! good 
day. Colonel ! how goes it V* "Very badly — very badly," was the 
answer ; but as it elicited no further question, the officer retired, 
disgusted with the apathy and incapability of those to whom 
France, in the person of Gambetta, had intrusted the salvation 
of his country. Two days of march and countermarch brought I 
the Guerilla to Pasques. It was the 26th of November. XhaX L 
morning the Prussians had made a sortie from Dijon, ^"" [^ 
encountered the Army of the Vosges at Lantenay. The battle h 
became general, and extended to within about a mile of Pasqu*^ Ji 
where the Guerilla were stationed, with orders to observe the !«(. 
result of the engagement, and, in case of defeat, to protect the I ^ 
retreat 1^ 

The Prussian army at last gave vj^y, and returned in disorder j!:^ 

Garibaldi in France, 269 

Dijon about half past nine at night Garibaldi, without 
ig the necessary arrangements, or giving time to his men 
X after a severe engagement and a march of ten miles, 
xl seven companies of franc-tireiirSy supported by a few 
ions of garde-mobiles to assault the town. Had the 
al allowed the Prussians time, they would have abandoned 
ty under the influence of their panic ; and Cremier — as 
)een before arranged — with his good soldiers, attacking 
the south, would have seriously damaged the retreating 
As it was, the Prussians turned on their assailants, 
f, however, to the darkness of the night, their shots did not 
I a single man. The franc-tirairs had already entered the 
irgSy when a complete stampede took place among the 
5^ and the foremost line, seeing itself unsupported, retired 
order. The rout spread through the whole army, and it 
n the wildest confusion ; nor did it stay till it had put 
nge of the C6te-d'0r between itself and the hotly pursuing 

Jonel Chenet, on seeing the defeat of the Prussians, had 
I a strong guard on the Dijon road, and then sent his 
:o rest. Garibaldi, at midnight — little suspecting the turn 
rs had taken — passed by that way, and severely criticized 
cposure of soldiers on a cold and rainy night, when his 
army was between Pasques and the enemy. The Colonel 
ed the rebuke, and referred the matter to Delpech, who 
ned to be on the spot, giving at the same time his strong 
•n of its absolute necessity. The experienced ij) Brigadier 
lied his objections, and the guard was withdrawn. It was 
bout ten a.m. No news had reached them of the rout of 
•my, which had fled by other roads, when suddenly word 
►rought that the Prussians were close upon them. Sup- 
1 by some thousand men, spite of the cowardice and 
icity of his superior officer, from whom he was forced to 
the command, Chenet held his ground and barricaded the 
5. But his adjutant, De Saulcy, whose name will recur later, 
ed him, and carried with him the two companies guarding 
rincipal barricade, thus enabling the Prussians to enter, 
lolonel retired in good order, leaving forty five killed or 
led on the ground. 

lis check, sustained by the German General Keller, gave 
to the routed army to make good its retreat. Cremier, 
his French force, was pushing forward to take his ^jr^- 

270 Garibaldi ift France. 

arranged part in the attack on Dijon, and was already in positio 
on the 28th of November, at a short distance from the town, whe 
he learned the premature assault, its fatal consequence, and th; 
the whole of the force, with which he was to act in concert, w« 
in full retreat on Autun. He retired upon Nuits, but foun 
the place occupied by from fifteen to eighteen thousac 
Prussians, with three pieces of cannon. He carried the tow 
and sustained there an attack two days later, November jot 
beating off his assailants. Meanwhile, the army of Keller w 
marching upon Autun. Chenet, by order of Garibaldi, hastenc 
to the rendezvous at Amay-le-Duc The road was crowde 
with fugitives — not thirty men of the same corps were to l> 
found together. The Garibaldian officers, comfortably instaDei 
in carriages which they had seized, drove through the ranks o 
the exhausted soldiery, and hustled the officers of the mdUh 
who nobly refused to desert their men. On the march, a wore 
about Saulcy, the confidant of Delpech. As was likely in ; 
hasty enrolment, one or two mauvais sujets were sure to gc 
admission into the most select corps. Thanks to forged papen 
to a passport which was not his own, this obscure impostor— 
Jacquot by name — had been made adjutant .to Chenet H 
was not likely, any more than Delpech, to forget or forgive tb 
reproaches which his cowardice had merited at Pasques. FroJ 
the first, the Colonel's unconcealed aversion to the ultra views ^ 
the party in power, his former services rendered to the Emper^ 
Maximilian against Juarez and his republicans, had made hi^ 
the object of suspicion and hatred to the General and h 
surroundings. Mcnotti bore him a special grudge ; for in h 
capacity of officer in the Turkish army, Chenet had frustrate 
a revolutionary raid of the young redshirt on Bulgravia. 

We cannot be surprized that he was ill received at tl 
council of war called at Arnay-le-Duc. What however ws 
his surprize on leaving the room to learn that his men ha 
been arrested on their march and forced to mount guard at tl 
Chdteau of Commarin, to Whose comfortable quarters Garibal 
had retired. Spite of the protest of the officer in command, an 
the promise to send word by a ''guide " to the Colonel, no noti< 
had been given to him, and he only learned by chance the di 
position of his corps. Leaping into his saddle, he was soon J 
the castle. He found his poor men extenuated with hunger ai 
fatigue, shut up within the inclosure and unable to proca 
provisions. Their officers ventured to enter the house ai 

Garibaldi in Frafuc. 271 

discovered the staff engaged in discussing a plentiful dinner, but 
'^Jvere informed that there was nothing either for them or for their 
rnen. At the moment of the ColoneFs arrival the alarm of the 
^nemy was given ; the staff took to flight without leaving a 
single order. The Colonel adopted the necessary precautions, 
l>ut it was soon found the alarm was false. Finding his 
^.mmunition almost exhausted, he retired on Autun, where the 
main body of the Army of the Vosges had already arrived. The 
Convent of St Martin was allotted for their barracks. In vain 
'^vas application made for a supply of cartridges ; and his request 
for orders were equally without effect. Seeing it useless to 
occupy a position without means of defence, he sent one of 
his officers to headquarters to request permission to withdraw, 
3.S he was positively assured the enemy were not near, and to 
occupy the heights behind the town, with the double object of 
preventing any surprize from that quarter, and in case of a 
retreat, protecting, as he had done at Pasques, the retiring 
3.miy. It was evident that under cover of the woods which 
clothed that position he could turn to best account the little 
ammunition still in the possession of his men. Bordone, as 
chief of the staff, returned a verbal message of approval, and at 
ten o'clock on the morning of the ist of December, Chenet put 
liimself on a march which was to have such terrible results to 
that ill fated officer. 

The position he had selected was of the greatest importance, 
^nd the very one by which a skilful general would have made 
the real attack, while by a feigned attack from the north he 
*^ept the enemy engaged. That Werder did not adopt that plan 
^^^Id only have arisen from his contempt for his adversaries ; or 
^^^cause, as turned out, the total absence of precaution made 
^^^ what ordinary care would have rendered exceedingly 
"^zardous. The position of St. Martin was one capable 
^^ being rendered exceedingly strong ; but Bordone never 
^k the trouble to garrison it after the departure of the 
^^erilla, though more than ten battalions were close at 

At half past one the servant of an officer of the gendarmerie 
^s exercising his master's horse on the Arnay-le-Duc road at 
f^'^e hundred paces from the city, when suddenly he found 
'^I'Xiself face to face with four Uhlans, riding unmolested up to 
^ne very walls. To wheel round and ride full gallop into the 
^^n, to tell the captain what he had seen, was the work of a 

272 Garibaldi in France. 

moment The officer informed the staff, who burst out laughi: 
and were taking steps to arrest the informant as a spreader 
false news, when the report of a German gun confinnjed 
unwelcome statement. A locomotive had brought the eneoi 
artillery along the line, and with the greatest coolness 
horses were put to, and the cannonading began in real eami 
A few companies on drill outside the town, spite of the surprS. 
exchanged shots with the advancing enemy ; but feeling thi 
selves unsupported, retired in order behind the shdter of 
houses. There was not a picket, not a reconnaisance, 
an advanced post, no videttes, no guards. Three thow 
five hundred Prussians were before a town occupied by twe: 
thousand soldiers of the Army of Garibaldi. Well did 
Germans know their worth. The redshirts were engaged in 
their daily round of debauch and pleasure ; it required soscne 
effort to make them march to the fight Their artillery ^w^i^as 
in the court of the Petit Seminaire, which commanded 'fcihe 
whole town ; but the men were almost all away from tl«. «r 
post, and the feeble discharge of a few guns, drew upon it '^iJie 
concentrated fire of the Germans. Six hundred infantry mesi-n- 
while occupied St Martin, without a shot, and had not tFm^ 
artillery announced their presence another corps would h^^ve 
penetrated into the heart of the town and seized Garibs-ldL 
Perhaps they knew better than to arrest so incapable ^^ 
adversary. Garibaldi's attention was called, in the midst: 0* 
the confusion, to the occupiers of the convent, but he expressed 
his confidence in the Guerilla to dislodge them. Bordone "Was 
by, but did not dare to avow his culpable neglect It was o^X 
when the enemy was strongly entrenched within the conv^^^ 
walls, that he openly accused Chenet of treachery and aband^^"" 
ing his post In fact the General had sent a positive order to *^^ 
Colonel to fortify himself there ; the order had been recei*^^^ 
by De Saulcy, and we have only his word that it was <i^v 
delivered. The scandal of the whole surprize was too ^^^^ 
A scapegoat must be found. The destruction of Chenet w^>*^^ 
gratify many resentments, and much ambition. 

At half past four the Germans were beaten off. But ^^ 
occupants of St Martin did not leave till next morning at ^^^•^ 
o'clock. They were said to have gone off in a very help^*^ 
state, after emptying the contents of the wine cellar ; but not ^ 
arm was raised to attack or molest them. A number of ^^ 
^'^'-man staff had drunk heavily at a neighbouring chiteau, bat 

Garibaldi in France. 273, 

spite of notice sent to the town, no attempt was made ta 
surprise them. 

It was only at five p.m., on the evening of his leaving Autun, 

that news reached the Colonel of the attack on that town, and 

the repulse of the assailants. Finding the enemy' had not 

shown himself in that direction, he marched to Mont Cenis, on 

the main line from Tours to Dijon. But before he reached his 

destination, his men, wearied with the maladministration to 

^vhich they had been so long victims, began to show open sigpns 

of mutiny; they appealed to the conditions of their enrolment,. 

to their present destitution, and their chief saw only one hope of 

preventing their disbanding — the promise to retire to Lyons ; 

a.nd he wrote to inform Delpech of his enforced determination, 

ajid to seek his approval. De Saulcy, spite of the remonstrance 

of his Colonel, strayed away from his men, and at the earliest 

opportunity rode in hot haste to Bordone and Delpech to 

consummate his treason. While Chenet, refused admission into 

Lyons, despatched a portion of his men to St. Etienne, and 

'Went with the rest to Roanne, the traitor, with a lieutenant, the 

I*aymaster Marchand, remained behind at Moulins to carry on 

this plot The latter was worthy of his work, an escaped convict, 

who by forged letters had obtained his post, and has now 

•"returned to his old place, to finish his sentence of ten years* 

P^nal servitude. 

On the 4th of December, with the greatest publicity, the 
Lionel was arrested by the police in a cafd. The despatch 
^^ntaining the order of arrest, ran as follows — 

The civil and military authorities must arrest, wherever he may be 
'bund, Lieutenant Colonel Chenet, who has fled like a coward, taking 
^*th him the troops under his command. Delpech. 

^ne may fancy the storm raised among his brave followers. 
*^G Saulcy, upon whom devolved their command, hastened in 
^^r name to pen an indignant protest. The wish of his 
P^secutors was to have him at once in their clutches; but 
^*^ested within the jurisdiction of the military commander of 
^-yons, he insisted on being taken to that town. There, General 
^^'"essoles treated him with great rudeness. Spite of a fever 
^liich confined him to his bed, a positive order arrived ordering 
*^^ni to leave at once for Autun. In vain he pleaded his illness, 
^'"done himself came to hasten the departure of his victim ; and 
^^ doctor in chief, without taking the trouble to visit the 

2 74 Garibaldi in France. 

sufferer, declared him able to travel. De Saulcy had alread y 
received his ** thirty pieces of silver'* — ^he was named successor tr^:o 
the command of the Colonel by a brevet dated the 4th cuirDf 
December, the very day of the arrest The sentence of dep^::^. 
sition had been pronounced before the trial The appeab -^3/* 
Chenet, the violent demonstrations of his men, were usele^^ 
Gambetta did not dare to interfere. Treated with cruel content pf 
by Lobbia, he was thrown into prison in the strictest solitary 
confinement, not even his poor wife, who had shared with him 
the dangers of the campaign in the service of the ambulance, 
was allowed to visit him. One Dr. Yvan, a surgeon of the 
Marseillaise, known to have robbed the corpse of a captain of 
his watch and money, was alone admitted, to serve as a spy on 
the unfortunate prisoner. Captain Gandoulf, who had earned 
the permission to leave Autun to the Colonel, was sent home, 
spite of his protests, on the plea of health ; and Bordone, then 
on his way to Bordeaux, sent a telegram to hasten on the dee<J 
of blood — *' Push on the Chenet business, it is going too slowl)^ > 
there is no reason for delay." 

The courtmartial met on the 13th of December. Ttx^ 
judges were Delpech, one of the accusers ; Canzio, so^ 
in law of the chief accuser Garibaldi ; and Lobbia, both ^>^ 
whom were disqualified as foreigners ; three Frenchine^^» 
creatures of Bordone ; and Bossak-Hauk6, a Polish Gener^-^- 
Almost every step was an illegality. The judges hardly pai^ 
attention to the pleading of the accused, and none of h.^^ 
witnesses were heard. Lobbia asserted that he himself h^^ 
given Garibaldi s order to hold and fortify the Convent ^^* 
St Martin, and De Saulcy stepped forward to declare that fc*^ 
was the bearer of these orders, and that the Colonel had td^ 
him that he ought to receive his orders from himself, and n^ 
from Garibaldi. In vain the startling assertion was denied : 
vain the accused appealed to the already mentioned protest o^ 
De Saulcy. The judges retired, and returned in half an hot^^ 
with a sentence of death and degradation. 

While the condemned cell of the civil prison was reservif ^ 
in its frozen arms the victim of hate, the men of the GueriU^ 
vowed at every cost to save their beloved Colonel; and, ^ 
General Garibaldi was stepping into his carriage the next 
morning, the whole regiment surrounded him and with ofl^ 
voice demanded his pardon. "Yes, my children, I do pardofl 
him. Vive la France!'' and he drove off. But those that 

Garibaldi in France. 275 

sted for Chenet's ruin were not to be baulked ; they declared 
only a reprieve had been given, and Garibaldi himself issued 
rs that the sentence of military degradation should take 
e that very day, December 14th, on the Place d'Armes. 
punishment, worse than death for a brave man, was carried 
with all its humiliations ; the character of the men, who 
red and inflicted it, making the cup doubly bitter. The 
mce of death was finally commuted into perpetual imprison- 
\ and two days after, chained to a Garibaldian convicted of 
ler, he was hurried to the convict military prison at Toulon, 
the authorities refused to receive him ; he was no longer a 
er! There were further reasons behind. They did not 
jnize Garibaldi's right to send a French officer to the 
s. They knew Chenet too well to ^ doubt the character of 
«ntence. His men, his friends, his heroic wife, did not let 
jrass grow under their feet ; and an order soon arrived from 
ibetta to keep him at the civil prison as under accusation, 
is convicted, till further orders. A pardon then was offered 
for the Ministry feared their allies the reds, and the leader 
he reds. But Chenet proudly refused it, and demanded 
ice, and though transferred to Bordeaux on December 27, 
iths passed by before the iniquitous sentence was reversed, 
^as reversed at last, and in the fullest manner, by judges 
lonour and good name. 

[t might well be asked what was being done by Garibaldi, 
his time, for the liberation of France.? Did the Army of 
V^osges wipe out the shameful surprise of Autun } We must 
forget that the hero of the two worlds never tried to conceal 
"act that the great object of his coming on the field was the 
:>lishment of the Universal Republic. How far the men of 
tth of September shared his views, it is not for us to discuss ; 
zertain it is that this great work held a far higher place in 
houghts and those of his surroundings than the open object 
is expedition. " Down with the priests ; no mercy to the 
its;" was his cry from Marseilles to Avignon, from Avignon 
-yons, from Lyons to Autun, to D61e — in fact, wherever he 
t. Little private interests were not forgotten ; and hand in 
1 with imprisonment of the clergy and religious, the perse- 
)n of servants of the old regime^ and the sacrilegious occupa- 
of churches, went plunder and exactions of every kind. The 
ich might fight, these illustrious foreigners had other work 
— ^to light the fire, and fan tliat flame which burnt down 

276 Garibaldi in France. 

the Tuileries, and which is only smouldering at this momei 
with menace of still vaster conflagration. Lists of the proscrilx 
were to be drawn up, reactionists to be weeded out of the arm; 
singers from cafi-cliantantSy pastry cooks* assistants, were to 1 
promoted to fill their place ; unfortunate officials of the Treasu 
were to be squeezed to pay for the splendid entertainments ai 
gorgeous costumes of the ci-devant felons and blacklegs, wl 
now were colonels and commanders ; while the prisons were 
be filled by French officers and French priests. 

Bordone "deserved well of his country;" and the Minist 
of War, Member of the Government of the National Defenc 
dubbed him Brigadier General, and he took his rank with m< 
whose names are household words. A princely banquet was tl 
answer to the congratulations of his fellow officers, the dessc 
alone costing some ;f 50, while the poor soldiers were dying 
the hospitals without bed clothes, in the depth of winter. Tl 
formation of Garibaldian clubs in the different towns to coUe 
the national obolns, under cover of the country's defence, whi< 
was to be placed at the disposal of Garibaldi — these, and lil 
operations, were more to the tastes of the commanding office 
of the Army of the Vosges, than to drive the enemy from t 
conquered country or protect that which was not yet invaded. 

No one will ever know where are gone the tens of thousan 
of francs gathered by like means, or voted by municipal bod- 
who owed their election to Garibaldian pressure. We see tik 
though the task of guarding the valley of the Ouche was hare 
fulfilled by the pleasant sejour at Autun, one cannot fairly acc« 
Garibaldi of doing nothing. 

General Cremer, always active and on the alert, wt: 
seeing to the defence of the positions left unguarded 
the Commander in Chief, had found that the PrussL - 
had evacuated Dijon, and excited the jealousy of GaribsE 
by entering the town before him. He was soon joined 
General Pelissier — a Gambetta appointment; and the "h^' 
himself followed with his army on the 7th of January. He - 
his staff installed themselves in the State apartments of 
Prefecture ; Bordone chosing for himself the ** Empress' 
room." Under the Imperial rule, these had been reservecfl 
royal visitors, and had never been in use. The weary dr^ai 
was now drawing to a close. Chanzy was staggering in fc 
west, Faidherbe was losing ground in the north, Paris could tn 
hold out much longer. Bourbaki's great movement did no 

Garibaldi in France. 277 

require the loud sounding announcements of the Press to make 

the allwatchful enemy fully aware of its progress. A glance at 

the map will show what in that supreme moment was Garibaldi's 

duty. Detached corps of Germans were hurrying across the 

department of the C6te-d'0r, to support Werder at Belfort 

From every side, spite of Garibaldi's assertion to the contrary, 

despatches, which have been since published, and were registered 

by his staff, warned him of their approach. With thirty five 

thousand men, what could have prevented him blocking the way, 

or destroying piecemeal these separate corps, never exceeding 

^ve thousand strong, as they marched some few miles north of 

^ijon, before concentrating at Gray or Vesas } On the 20th, 

^eral Kettler forced the passage of the Val de Suzon, a 

position on whose strength and importance Chenet had strongly 

*nd vainly insisted. A handful ol franc-tireurs alone opposed him. 

The Polish General, the Judge of the Autun courtmartial, fell 

'n the fight ; but not before sending a message to Chenet, that he 

^lone had refused to concur in the verdict, and that he had been 

'orced to bow to the majority. The good people of Dijon were 

suddenly startled by the report of the artillery close to the walls. 

The Germans had come to play with Garibaldi while the last 

*^taJ blow was being struck against Bourbaki. It was only after 

*^alf an hour had passed, the drums were beat and the troops 

'^a.rched out Night fell on the engagement, which recom- 

nienced the next day, the 22nd. No ground was gained, yet 

^ight thousand mobiles were kept, arms in their hands, at a short 

<iistance from the field. A third time they closed, on the 23rd, 

— and but for a desperate charge of Yr^nch franc-tireurs and the 

Chasseurs des Alpes, the Germans would have driven the army 

^2tck into Dijon. All this time, two batteries of field artillery 

'^cre standing ready but inactive in the streets, while two others 

'^^e left on the railway, and no orders given till too late. 

The enemy retired to their entrenchments. Six days passed — 

Garibaldi rested on his laurels : the hostile outposts were at a 

few hundred yards from one another. Then came the news 

^^ the armistice, and that three departments, one of them the 

^^te-d*Or, were excluded from its effects ; and next day — 

^^ 30th of January — Garibaldi hastily abandoned Dijon and 

'^ttred to Beaune, the enemy, seven thousand strong, entering 

^^ town, while his army, some twenty thousand, was still in the 


One may imagine what was the consternation when the 

278 Garibaldi in France. 

occupation of D61e closed for Bourbaki the last chance 
escape. "What is Garibaldi doing?" was the universal c 
There were those who spoke of treason, and no doubt the 
had been alliances entered into with the redshirts when Prussia 
needed Italy in *66 ; there were Prussians, too, in '67 lending tli^ 
help of their counsel before Mentana. It was asserted that 
Castelaggi, one of Bordone's set, was about Grancey with ninetyr 
thousand francs in his pocket, when the enemy were scouring- 
the country. M. Friant, of the commissariat, saw, to his grief 
and indignation, one hundred waggons of provisions fall througli 
sheer carelessness into the Germans* hands, while Bourbaki was 
starving. The four thousand men Garibaldi sent out to harass 
the march of Manteufel — although he denied, in a letter to 
Fabrizi, any knowledge of his approach — were spread over 
some forty miles of country and divided into three corps. No 
wonder nothing was effected, and that Lobbja, with twelve 
hundred men, was driven off to Langres, and so entirel3^ 
separated from the rest of the army that he did not rejoin 
till the 14th of March, at the time of its disbanding. Nothin 
but a knowledge of the incapacity of their opponents coul 
have excused the hardihood of Manteufel's flank march exten 
ing over a total length of one hundred miles, and conducte 
along three separated routes some twenty miles apart An 
nothing but the grossest incapacity could have prevented a bio 
being struck on so feeble a line by a concentration of some 
the thousands of men lying idle at Dijon. 

And now we have done, for military affairs were at an en 
unless we count as such the return of Garibaldi as deputy to tlrm 
National Assembly for the C6te-d'Or, thanks to the presen 
and the votes of his cosmopolite followers : no age nor nationality^ 
was a bar to the use of the franchise. His scene at Bordeaux 
was a fitting finalcy before retiring — let us hope for ever — to tb^ 
rock of Caprera. 

General Bordone succeeded to the full command, but he had to 
resign it to Vice Admiral Penhoet, who was sent with a mandate 
to discharge the army. The General remained at his side till 
the last. He had come to the camp with a small portmanteau 
— he went home with a plenteous spoil. Two well laden 
waggons preceded him to Avignon, besides the mountain of 
packages he took with him. The station master declared the 
trucks contained war stores ; but Gambetta readily received the 
assurance of Madame Bordone that there were but a few 

Garibaldi in France. 279 

ssian helmets and needle guns, trophies of many a fight, 
pech, too, had carried off his spoils. 

And if, against the treasure and ammunition wasted, the 
is of anarchy sown broadcast, the honest citizens exiled and 
irisoned, we set the* advantages accruing to France from 
■ibaldi s aid, we have — the flight from Dijon, the surprise of 
tun, the degradation of Colonel Chenet, and the abandonment 
L ruin of Bourbaki. How many of the German Generals, 
ept, of course, those in the highest commands, did much 
re to humble and degrade France, and to lay her bleeding 
helpless at the feet of her invaders than Guiseppc Garibaldi t 

The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

One of the great complaints against the Church is that we refuse 
to abide by an appeal to history. This is supported by a reference 
to a proposition condemned in the Syllabus, which is in general 
extravagantly and falsely rendered. The plain sense of the 
condemnation is to deny that all the truths of religion indis- 
criminately are the objects of natural science, and that mere 
human reason, by the light of history, can of its own natural 
powers come to the knowledge of all truths.* There is here 
nothing about an appeal to history as far as it is 4 record of 
human actions ; nevertheless, when we see with our own eyes 
how history is made, are we to be blamed for distrusting it 'i 
We have, unfortunately, too much experience of what happens 
every day to place the slightest reliance on the received accounts 
of Catholic affairs. From whatever part of the world a scandal 
is reported, it is dramatized for the public taste. Afterwards 
comes the disproof or explanation, but that is never heard of. 
Ratisbon, Picpus, and Vienna have fed the pious horror and 
fomented the unchristian zeal of the country, but not a word of 
retractation, with one solitary exception, have we seen ; so that 
these " facts " will go down with the history of the times to 
posterity and form the data of future judgments of Catholic 
morality. Nor is it only of the making of history we have to 
complaiiL The study of past history is still more perverted K 
is quite enough that any one who has distinguished himself for 
rebellion against his ecclesiastical superiors should make any 
historical assertion, however wild, and he will be listened to, and 
the truth of his statement will ever more be propounded wi4 
unquestioning intolerance. "I have seen the original docu- 
ments," says an angry disputant, and the actions of Liberius and 
Honorius are alleged to disprove the doctrine of infallibility. 
We take the liberty of saying that among the talkers about "his- 
torical criticism " are to be found many of the shallowest and 
most presumptuous men of our day. With some the assumption 

* Syllabus, prop. 9. 

The Creed of St. Athanasivs. 281 

critical instinct is merely a cloak for ignorance. Among others, 
ore industrious, and, so far, more conscientious than the rest, 
?re is an obliquity of judgment and an obstinacy of prejudice 
ich prevent them from seeing straight when they see anything 
ill The study of history is a great and noble work, and in 
days we have opportunities for it which were wanting to 
ner generations. But if some of our " higher crities " cannot 
n to reason a little better, and conduct their investigations 
unfairly, they will rival the very worst of the calumniators 
he "Dark Ages" whom Dr. Maitland exposed some years 
in their perversion and misrepresentation. 
Speaking of original documents, by which we mean, not the 
luscripts of the composers, but books in which the original 
positions are faithfully preserved, it is gratifying to learn from 
Ffoulkes * that Migne's Bibliotheca Patrum, in the British 
;eum, is within reach of all, and that he recommends it to 
iral notice. It is a grand work, no doubt, but contains a 
.t deal that is worthless, and all the spuria. The notes also, 
'gh generally able, are to be read with caution, for offhand 
lement of difficult problems is at least suspicious. Never- 
ess, if one cannot more easily elsewhere obtain access to 
inal documents, this collection repays attention, particularly in 
: part to which Mr. Ffoulkes has lately been devoting himself 
le Carlovingian age. He has given to the world the result 
lis researches in a book entitled T/ie Athanasian Creeds and 
book is a sequel to a former work — Christendom's Divisions, 
are sorry to say that, although there is a very great amount 
ndustry exhibited in this little book, all that we have been 
ng above of the perversion and abuse of history applies to it 
en people look up history for the purpose of ventilating a 
by, we may expect a fantastic denouement^ and Mr. Ffoulkes 
a very vicious hobby that gets the better of his judgment and 
Is him into a world of mischief Of all the hobbies in the 
Id the most extravagant and runaway is a morbid horror of 
Catholic Church. This horror has generated a series of plot 
:overers that have kept England on thorns since the days of 
ien Elizabeth. To them we owe chiefly the persecutions, the 
iodical outbursts, and permanent distrust of our countrymen. 
* Papist plot " has rarely failed to meet with a welcome, and 
s a wonder that they have not turned up more often. An 
inary explorer would be satisfied with making " revelations " 

^ On the Athanasian Cr^ecf, By the Rev. E. S. Ffoulkes. Hayes, l/>tAoTu 

282 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

about persons of his own time, but Mr. Ffoulkes has hisi 
tastes, and as the question now exciting the minds of £ 
Churchmen, of the Athanasian Creed, presents a favo 
opportunity, he comes forward to tell the world that it w; 
creation of a plot. We have a notable conspiracy, a g< 
horror, a "mystery of iniquity," to use his own expre 
and to put the truth of what he tells us beyond all < 
he has had recourse to an inverting of dates, a capsizi 
authority, an invasion of our notions of common sens 
common justice, that we really thought would have 
impossible in these days. 

What his whole work is intended to show is, tha 
Athanasian Creed was written by Paulinus about the yeai 
that it was published by order of Charlemagne for person; 
political objects, and that, with the connivance of others, 
deliberately given to the world as the work of the great Bis 
Alexandria. He undertakes to demonstrate this ; he ass 
in the course of the work, that he has done it, and congrat 
himself on his success. He discloses, moreover, his own r 
for undertaking it : he has an intense dislike to dogma, ai 
an appeal to history he thinks he can show the viciousn 
its origin. To history we are content to go, but witl 
observations. First, neither he nor any one has a right to 
discredit on people's honour and truthfulness, until they 
been shown to have been untrue ; next, that while we are 
satisfied to contend by the light of history for any poin 
lies within its legitimate sphere, we are by no means c< 
to take an estimate of those whose names we have Ic 
to love and venerate from men who could never have t 
stood their motives and hated the objects that were near 
their hearts. 

We are told that every educated Catholic knows th; 
symbol of St. Athanasius has no evidence of being writt 
him, and that that theory is utterly exploded. It is quit 
there is no clearly demonstrative proof of its authorship, 
is equally true that the Caroline theory is demonstrably 
We can only undertake to prove this, though we may be 
to show that, in all probability, the creed is many cen 
older than Charlemagne. 

For above two hundred years the authorship of this S> 
has been a subject of discussion, and a most interesting 
Wem ioT ecclesiastical auliquaivajasK There are grave re 

Tlie Creed of St. Athanasitis. 283 

/or doubting its authenticity, and it has, in consequence, been 
attributed to various authors, among others to St. Hilary, 
Vincent of Lerins, Vigilius, and Fortunatus. Up to the present, 
nothing can be clearly made out, and as no new element of 
Icnowledge has come to light for many years, the problem 
remains almost where it was when the difficulty was first 
s^tarted. In this state of things Mr. Ffoulkes undertakes to 
establish his own view. He has undertaken to prove a very 
foul conspiracy and act of forgery against men who have 
not hitherto been thought capable of such work ; if he has 
evidence forthcoming, it is worthy of examination ; and, at 
tile same time, it will be instructive to watch the process 
by which he submits it to us. If he has a clear case, his 
evidence can stand by itself. If he needs various assump- 
tions, he ought to point out to us how he is justified in using 
^hem. We may here state, that of direct evidence he has 
not a particle, nor, as far as we can understand him, does he 
pretend to have any. He proceeds from beginning to end 
'almost entirely by assumption, though, at times, by a very bold 
process of inference. He is very free in attributing motives 
of the most rare and audacious wickedness to men like Alcuin 
^nd Paulinus, for instance, whom history has spoken of as 
virtuous, whose works are singularly pure and elevated in tone, 
^d whom their friends esteemed as the ornaments of their 
time. To make an imputation of this kind even probable, he 
<^ught to show some tendency in them to that which is vile and 
^Jepraved. Next, he pictures Charles the Great concocting 
^ith his advisers, in secresy, with much pains, and a very 
daborate system of roguery, the execution of this design. 
He ought to show a weighty and proportionate motive, a 
'Necessity worthy of the occasion. This he undertakes, wc 
shall see with what success. Lastly, in order that we should 
accept a writer's word and judgment in matters not susceptible 
^f proof, and this in opposition to the settled opinion of the 
learned, we should have evidence of moderation, if not of 
Modesty, and that his object was the elucidation of trutli, 
^^d not the mere indulgence of polemical prejudice. We 
shall judge for ourselves how far Mr. Ffoulkes has satisfied 
*ese conditions. 

As to the character of the persons indicted, Mr. Ffoulkes' 
^ef anger falls upon Charles. He compares him to Henry 
^^ Eighth of England for his domestic vices, aud to \5ci<^ fei^\. 

284 The Creed of St. Athanasitis. 

Napoleon for his audacious ambition. He is represented as ^ 
the sole legislator in the Councils of the Frank bishops, and! 
suggesting to them secretly and openly what he desired thenn 
enact All this, as far as our present matter is concerned, Tt 
be true, but Mr. Ffoulkes has not proved that he was a sec 
plotter and forger ; he was not given to " treasons, stratag'ei 
and wiles;" an immoral and ambitious man need not necessar 
be a false one. It may be true, as he tells us, that his sins w€ 
worse than those of David, but it does not follow that 
practised the arts of Absalom. As to his despotic legislati< 
for the Church of his kingdom, we are to bear in mind that 
was the custom both in the East and West, in Spain as well 
in France and Germany, for the canons of Councils to go foC 
under the sanction of the royal or imperial name. This was t% 
to give them a canonical validity, but a civil sanction. We <^ 
not find that the canons of Frankfort or Friuli were other tlu 
advantageous and promotive of good discipline, and if Charl 
ventured to teach theology to the Holy See, Adrian knew how 
impose silence upon him. In his dealings either with Adrian 
Leo, Charles does not present the aspect of a man who woi* 
succeed in going a single step beyond the limits imposed up# 
him by Rome. The two Popes addressed him like men accti 
tomed to teach and be obeyed, yet in language full of consid 
ration. Leo reproved him severely for his faults ; and Charles, 
him and his predecessor, showed reverence and submission. IC 
was this all. His own prelates, while showing him all the mar 
of respect due to their sovereign, and to one who so jefficacious 
promoted the interests of the Church, understood how 
preserve their selfrespect What is equally to our purpose, "" 
do not find them — those implicated in this charge especiallj^ 
pandering to his irregularities, or forgetting their own high na^ 
or duties. Their numerous letters speak for themselves ; &- 
there does not appear a single characteristic about them tB 
would mark them out as the fitting instruments of a dark a- 
atrocious crime. Alcuin was the old master of Charles. 1 
did not fear to point out to him his duties, and to exhort hiir» 
fulfil tl\,em, and late in life incurred his displeasure by • 
doing. His seems to have been a life of spotless int^rit] 
and we know of nothing, but his love of the Church am 
zeal for its well being, that could have suggested a though 
to his dishonour. As for Paulinus, we have from the haiKfc 
of Ulr, Ffoulkes a descnpWotv \3cvaX \s in no way exagg^ 

The Creed of St. At/iafiasius. 285 

•^ted Having spoken of the first Patriarch of Aquileia, he 


Another of the same name and dignity, but infinitely more famed 
Icr his attainments, and venerated all the world over for his years and 
strikingly grave deportment, occupied it at the close of the eighth 
<:entury. He may be said, without exaggeration, to have been idolized 
"by such men as Alcuin, and even inspired Charlemagne with awe. He 
"vm the episcopal soul of the Council of Frankfort, and president, as 
^ell as soul, of that of Friuli, both of which have left their mark upon 
history. When he had written against Felix, Bishop of Urgel, in Spain, 
and founder of the sect called Adoptionists, he was thought to have 
exhausted the controversy. Aquila loctitus est, causa finita est. Such was 
the tone of his admirers. 

Such are the men whom Mr. Ffoulkes accuses of being 
•engaged with their sovereign in a preconcerted plan of passing 
off as a symbol of the Catholic faith, and a work of Athanasius, 
Bishop of Alexandria, a document that they had concocted in 
private. Having thus selected his dramatis personce, Mr. Ffoulkes 
Pnxreeds to find a rational motive for the crime they are now 
<^nspiring about. He gives us two causes, or rather motives 
^hich actuated the King and led him to instigate the others. 
'" This effect," he tells us, " was deliberately planned by Charle- 
magne, and planned for a twofold purpose : first, to justify the 
mterpolated creed (the Nicene Creed with the Filioque) to the 
*ope, and convict the Greeks of error in rejecting it ; and, 
secondly, to substitute the 'Catholic faith of Athanasius' in 
the West, as a standard of orthodoxy, for that of Nicaea.*'* 
However, that we may bear in mind the coherency of this 
^^ter*s history, we are to note that Charlemagne, who was 
** their Pope" — that is, of Alcuin and Paulinus — whose ipse 
dixit the Latin Church has been committed to for a thousand 
years, is here revealed as privately concocting a forgery to 
justify his former interpolation to the Pope : and this some years 
^fore the question of the interpolation came before the Pope. 
The reader is requested to keep in mind these two motives for 
the forgery, while we follow them in detail ; also the fact that 
the forgery of the creed is fixed for the year 800. 

The Council of Frankfort was convened in the year 794. 
^e have seen the part taken by Paulinus in this Council, 
"^cuin was also present, being admitted, though not a bishop, 
^^ account of his great learning in ecclesiastical matters. This 
^ proposed by the King, and consented to by the bishops. 

• P. 2ST. 

286 The Creed of St. At/tanasius. 

It may also be mentioned that Charles put forth a Capitular 
in the name of the bishops, which began with these words — - 
" Conjungentibus, Deo favente, ApostoHca auctoritate atque 
piissimi Domini nostri Karoli regis jussione," &c It is a- 
summary of the proceedings of the Council, which was occupied 
for the most part with the settlement of questions of local 
ecclesiastical importance, canons of Church discipline, and soia^ 
adverse criticism of the Second Council of Nicaea, with reference 
to the culttts of images and the terminology of the GreeW 
Fathers in speaking of the procession of the Holy Ghost- 
The Acts of the Council also mention that Charles lutci 
said to the bishops that he had received permission fronr* 
the Pope to retain an archbishop in his palace to assist hirx^ 
in ecclesiastical matters. This was the King who, as we ac^ 
told, was Pope to his prelates, and whose ipse dixit ha-^ 
ruled the Church for a thousand years. When the Capitul^^ 
was sent to Rome, evidently for the Pope's confirmatio 
Adrian detected some errors on the question of images arm 
in the language referring to the Greek Fathers. He then wn>' 
a letter to Charles, full of dignity and affection, and 
fully pointed out to him the errors that had been committer 

Upon these facts Mr. Ffoulkes theorizes that Charles, to hit 
the humiliation he received by having his theology about t" 
Fathers of the Second Council of Nice refuted, conceived 
idea of abolishing the Nicene Creed and substituting one of In ^^ 
own in its place. He adds that there was a general want of -^ 
creed felt, a craving for one, but he only produces a letter ^^^ 
Alcuin dated six years later to prove this. We shall see mor"^^ 
of that letter presently. We now behold the first reason \vh 
a forgery of a new creed was decided on. But, as it might 
suspected that a motive of private vanity for so great a*^ 
undertaking would look farfetched and inadequate, a motive c^'^ 
public policy is added to supplement it. We are told that the 
Eastern and Western Empires were in all things separated 
except in religion. Charles, in his ambition to be sole and 
absolute master in the West, desired to destroy this union, and 
by promulgating his new creed on tlie procession of the Holy 
Ghost, he not only anticipated the gratification of seeing his own 
handiwork the basis of dogmatic religion in the West, but he 
intended by it to repel the Greeks, and force them into opcp 
rupture with the Latin Churclu Thus, at the same time, tb 
pressing want of a new creed (which want had no existenf 


The Creed of St. At/ianasius. 287 

^V'ould be supplied ; the confutation of his theology by Adrian 

w-oiild be kept secret ; his vanity would be tickled by seeing 

tte work of Paulinus accepted under the name of Athanasius ; 

and, last of all, he would make the Procession question the 

cause of total alienation between the tv/o Empires. 

It may almost be said that the mere statement of this elabo- 
rate hypothesis is enough to confute it — resting, as it does, so 
entirely on the imputation of motives, the invention of which 
is scarcely more creditable to the intelligence than to the charity 
of Mr. Ffoulkes. That writer may be serious in putting them 
forward : it is difficult to believe that any serious man will 
accept all these imaginations as sound history. The last 
motive is the most unsubstantial of all, not only because 
we find Charles, after the time of his supposed writing of 
the creed, anxious to cultivate friendly relations with the East, 
but also because the creed, so far from widening the breach, 
was admirably calculated to terminate it. On the first point, 
we have in evidence two letters of Charlemagne, one to the 
Emperor Michael in the year 811, and the other to Nicephorus 
in 810, both clearly showing his desire of securing peace and 
friendly feelings between the two Empires, and an interchange of 
friendly offices that terminated in peace. As to the other, the 
Athanasian Creed would be much better adapted to accommo- 
date than to inflame the religious question. We have on this 
point the testimony of Mr. Ffoulkes himself. In trying to show 
^at Paulinus must have been the author, inasmuch as the 
creed corresponded in its mode of expression with his habitual 
''Moderation, he says — "Of these the verse relating to the pro- 
^^ssion of the Holy Ghost is most conspicuous; it is literally 
'Moderation itself. Few advocates of the Latin doctrines would 
'^ve been content to stop where it stops ; few Greeks, as a 
Contributor to Macmillan observed four years ago, would have 
^^clined going so far."* He then, very truly, points out that the 
^^^As^a Patreet Filio, in the creed, while they sufficiently express 
^*M^ doctrine in the Latin form, ex Patre Filioque, avoid that 
^hich was objected to by the Greeks in the Latin. We have 
^*M^s, strange to say, a creed which we are told was written for 
^^ express purpose of alienating Greeks and Latins once for all, 
P^iticularly and exquisitely adapted for putting an end to their 
disputes ! 

Having thus seen the necessity which led Charlemagne to 

* P. 263. 

288 The Creed of SL Athanasius. 

conceive his bold design, and the good reasons he had CV 
selecting Alcuin and PauHnus as his accomplices, we now co 
to the immediate proof of its accomplishment Hr. Ffoullc 
puts before us a letter from Alcuin to Paulinus, written so 
time between the coronation of Charles as Emperor in 800 a. 
the death of Alcuin at the beginning of 804. We give a porti 
of this letter, making use of Mr. Ffoulkes* translation — 

What 1 when I have the privilege of looking upon letters from y--^ 
sweeter than honey, do I not seem to hold converse wholly with all 
flowers of Paradise, and with the eager hand of ^desire to pluck fr< 
thence spiritual fruits? How much more then the tract (libellum) 
your most holy faith, adorned with ail the spotlessness of Catholic 
eloquent and attractive in style to t/ie highest degree; in the truth of its 
firm as a rock, , , . Where, as from one bright and salutary founi 
in Paradise, I behold the streams of the four virtues irrigating not oj 
the rich plains of Italy, but the entire demesne of ecclesiastical Latirn^^^ 
Where too, I behold the golden outpourings of spiritual ideas commin^^^^**l 
abundantly with the gems of scholastic polish. Certainly you ha^— -^^^ 
achieved a work of immense profit and prime necessity in appraisr^-^ 
i/ie Catholic faith as you have : the very thing I have so long desir« 
myself, and so often urged upon the King, to get a symbol of 
Catholic faith, plain in meaning and lucid in phrase, reduced to 01 
compendious form, and given to all priests in each parish of ev< 
diocese to read, and commit to memory, so that everywhere the 
fisdth might be heard uttered by a multitude of tongues. Lo ! what I 
desired in my humility, has been supplied by your genius. With tk^^^^ 
Author of our salvation you have earned for yourself a perpetual rei 
of this good intention, znd praise amongst men for this perfect work. 

With regard to this translation, we will merely observe that 
last paragraph is — " Habes apud salutis nostrae auctorem, 
petuam scilicet et hujus bonae voluntatis mercedem, et hujus p< 
fecti operis apud homines laudem." The italics are Mr. Ffoulkes-^^ 
but it is impossible to reproduce here the highly sensational typ*-^ 
in which the greater part of the rest is given. "One set 
expressions," he tells us, of this letter, " is singularly descripti^ 
of the Athanasian Creed;" another set "can describe nothing 
else." Let us see how this is made out. Of the first class 
says — " So far as having * received perpetual praise among me 
as a perfect work,' or its combination of * spiritual ideas wit 
scholastic polish,' its 'irrigating the entire demesne of eccles— =^ 
astical Latinity* — in other words, the whole Latin Church — t 
'adamantine strength of its verities,' and 'the eloquence 
attractiveness of its style,' Alcuin may deserve to be call< 
alternately a critic of discernment or a true prophet" This ma»— 3 
be true, but not in Mr. ¥fou\kes* hypothesis. The manifc^^^ 

The Creed of St. Athanasius. 289 

meaning of the words given in Latin is, that Paulinus had 
secured for himself everlasting reward from God on account of 
Ws goodwill, and praise from men on account of the perfect 
execution. Mr. Ffoulkes, perhaps, supposes that when a man 
like Alcuin congratulates a man like Paulinus for the eternal 
reward that he will have from God for committing an impious 
forgery, men may praise him for a work that is published 
incognito ! Such a piece of evidence we have not come across 
since the testes dormientes of Augustine. Moreover, we shall see 
presently whether there is not a work by Paulinus formally 
** appraising the Catholic faith" to which these expressions 
are more fully applicable. We come first to the other class of 
expressions, " which can describe nothing else." Of this class 
ve can find but one specimen given. " He has described 
^aulinus as having supplied the very desideratum of which he 
imself had been so long in quest — a symbol of the Catholic 
uth." Of the word " symbol " it may be remarked, that though 
^ere is no work of Paulinus (that we know of) entitled a symbol, 
^at there is a work, and that not a creed, to which Alcuin might 
^v-e applied the term ; but of this later. Here is the place to 
^Y a word about the desideratum, Mr. Ffoulkes told us that this 
■sz€£eratum had originated with Charlemagne, in his cowardice 
'^ private vanity, or in his political ambition ; here, however, we 
'*^ Alcuin urging it upon him — " The very thing I have so long 
^«red myself, and so often urged upon the King." But let that 
^^- Why did Alcuin so long desire a creed ? Was there not 
^ ^icene, the Apostles' Creed, and professions of faith without 

^^ that, for instance, of Toledo, Frankfort, Friuli ? He did 

^ '^V'ant a creed, but he did want that which in every period of 

'-^^siastical reconstruction and expansion the bishops of the 

^^•"c^h applied themselves to obtain. In the Capitular of Aix, 

^S^, it was decreed — "Ut fides Catholica ab episcopis et 

^l>yteris diligenter legatur et omni populo praedicetur."* In 

" C^Iouncil of Friuli, in 791, it was decreed — "Symbolum vero 

^^^tionem dominicam omnis Christianus memoriter sciat.""!" 

"^lie Capitular of Theodulus, 797, it was decreed that the 

^V^l should be known by heart by all who were received into 

^ Clhurch or confirmed. J Finally, in the Council of Frankfort, 

^» it was decreed — " Ut fides Catholica Sanctae Trinitatis, et 

^tiQ dominica, atque symbolum fidei, omnibus praedicetur et 

^^atur."§ With these canons before his eyes, it is not surprising 

Hardrini, t iv., p. 839. t I^id., P* 857. t /^V/., p. 917. { Jbid., p. 909. 

290 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

that Alcuin should desire an exposition of the Catholic faith, clear, 
compendious, and attractive, which all priests might have in their 
hands and memories, for their own sake and for the people 
whom they were directed to instruct Neither is it surprising 
that Alcuin should have made the attempt to provide the 
desideratum. After the Act of Emancipation of the Catholics 
in Ireland, and after the establishment of the hierarchy in 
England, the bishops of each country applied themselves to the 
editing of just such a work — a short Catechism of Christian 
doctrine. Naturally enough such a desideratum occurred to 
Alcuin, and he urged its being supplied upon the King. He 
himself tried his hand, and from two specimens of Catechism* 
found among his works, we must certainly acknowledge wil 
him that they were not very successful. 

If, however, we turn to Alcuin's letter, we find in it the descrip- 
tion of a work that would be most inapplicable to the Athanasiai 
Creed. First, this work must have been known and praised as ;^ 
work of Paulinus, for while nobody but a plotseeker would thinF^ 
of giving a contrary sense to Alcuin's words, Mr. Ffoulkes* theor" 
supposes a studious secresy about the true authorship. Thei 
the "eloquence and attractiveness of style,** the "bright ai 
salutary fountain of Paradise," "streams of the four virtu< 
"golden outpourings of spiritual ideas" {aurivomos spiritualiu- -=- ^ 
sensuum gurgites), "scholastic polish," and the like, speak of ^ 

poetic effusion on a religious subject The word taxatio, whii^M^zrli 
is translated as appraising, supposes a given subject; that subje^^^^t 
is the "Catholic faith," which, in all the canons, is made *o 

signify and stand for the creed. The work here referred to is 

most likely a metrical paraphrase or comment on the cre«^^^<i 
Then, there is no reference to the four virtues in the Athanas^.SM 
Creed, to which there is an unmistakeable reference in "fclie 
letter. The now general meaning of the word " scholastic,'* sls 
distinguished from Patristic, was then unknown. With us it ^i^- 
nifies the systematic treatment of theological subjects accordlin^ 
to scientific principles, and in distinction from the positive. At 
the age of Alcuin it must have meant classic finish and ornanrient. 
Do those epithets fit the creed } Rather let us compare them 
with a work which has been selected by the learned from the 
compositions of Paulinus, as that to which Alcuin's letter was 
intended to describe. We find there a Carmen de Reffda 
fidei* It consists of one hundred and fifty lines, and recites 

The Creed of St. Ai/uzftasius. 291 

and explains the various mysteries of the creed. It was written, 

moreover, just about the time that has been determined for the 

writing of the creed, so that we can compare the acknowledged with 

the alleged work, and see for ourselves whether they were from 

the same hand. I select a part which in matter is identical and 

m language approaches nearer than in any other to the creed — 

Non tres ergo deos, absit, sod sanctius unum 

Corde Deum credo, labiis non cesso fateri : 

Qui semper summus, perfectus semper et altus, 

Solus et ipse potens trinus persistit et unus. 

Personas numero distinguo denique trino, 

Naturam nullo patior dividere pacto. 

In deitate quidcm simplex essentia constat ; 

In Trinitate manet sed subsistentia triplex. 

Non hunc esse Patrem, subolem quam credo tonantem, 

Sed hoc esse Patrem, summum quod numen adoro, 

£t non qui Genitor, Genitusque est, Spiritus hie est ; 

Sed hoc quod Genitor, Genitusque est, Spiritus hoc est 

Virgine de Sacra, Sancto de Flamine natum 

Credo Dei Genitum ; &c. 

There is no place for argument in a question such as is now 
X)re us. It is a matter of pure literary taste and judgments 
any one who has read both the above and the Athanasian 
^reed, say whether, about the same time, they could have been 
^^'^tten by the same person. The reference in Alcuin's letter 
^^ the "flowers of Paradise," "the fountains from which the 
^^€ams of four virtues irrigating," &c., is explained later — 

Sed semper Paradise, tuos redolentia fragrant 
Messis aromaticas permixto chrismate odores. 

Ad fontem Salientis aquae qui viva flucnta 
Influit, et rores uno de gurgite fusos 
Diversos spargit, pariles per quatuor amnes. 

The author goes on to apply the idea of the four rivers to 

*^Hstian dogma, by which the faithful are refreshed. They 

.5^*ti to be personified in the Evangelists, whose teaching fcrti- 

'^^s the earth. The allusion in Alcuin's letter is a graceful 

^^pliment to Paulinus, whose work it was expected would 

^n vey the same doctrine in language " rich with the gems of 

^Holastic polish." 

The editor of this Carmen in Migne's library \hinks that the 

^^ter of Alcuin refers to some mislaid work of Paulinus, because 

^ does not see how this poem could be placed in the hands 

^92 The Creed of St Athanasius. 

•of the clergy to be committed by them to memory. Alcuin, 
however, merely says that he had desired to produce such a 
work, and that Paulinus had accomplished it This must be 
taken cum grano salts. The whole tone of the letter is not 
-only complimentary but hyperbolical. Madrisius, the author of 
Paulinus' life and the collector of his works, says of this poem of 
Paulinus — 

Alcuin had desired that an easy and clear formula of faith should 
be written for the use of the uninstructed in matters of faith, which they 
might easily commit to memory, and he urged Charles that such should 
be sent to some of the provinces. Paulinus did this by writing the rule 
• of faith in the clearest verses, adapted to the intelligence of the ignorant 
Alcuin praises the work and the authors faith in the same letter. 

Then follows an extract of the letter given above. 

We have now seen the proof that Mr. Ffoulkes gives of his- 
allegation about a secret arrangement between Charlemagne^. 
Alcuin, and Paulinus for the writing of a creed by the latter, o 
at least of its promulgation, under the name of Athanasius 
Me has something to add, both in the way of explainin 
difficulties and confirming his position. One of the difficult! 
a very natural one, is that the name of Paulinus was no- 
Athanasius. One might imagine that the fact of the conspirac 
which henceforth Mr. Ffoulkes takes to be proven, would lea 
no difficulty about the name. But he is too scrupulous to lea 
things so. He tells us that Paulinus might have had the na 
of Athanasius. Why should he not ? Did not people sometim 
take the name of their patron saints ? We are told that th 
members of Charlemagne's literary club used to address eac 

other under fanciful names. Why should not the soubriquet 
Paulinus be Athanasius } " Unfortunately," he tells us, " the 
is not a grain of evidence in their (his contemporaries) writin 
— at least, in those that have come down to us — that he w=- 
ever known to them by that name." But then, why should 
not have it, and might it not have been kept a "profou 
secret.^" It never seemingly occurred to this writer that 
"strikingly grave deportment" of the Patriarch of Aquileia, 
" awe " in which Charles held him, the extreme old age at whi 
he then was, might deter him from playing the fool ; but 
least he ought to have understood that a nam de plume, how< 
secret it might* be, would in no way mend the gross immo 
of the imputed action. Neither do we see the relevance 
his adding that Athanasius Ivad vitltten. an " exposition of fai 


The Creed of Si. At/ianastus. 293. 


and Alcuin another ; or that various works of unknown authors 
were attributed to this or that Father ; or that later writers 
introduced the works of the Fathers into their own productions. 
We look for proofs of a great crime that he says has been 
committed, and we get this sort of trash, which he has the 
naivete to call "testimony." 

One point, however, remains to be spoken of If Mr. Ffoulkes 
has failed to show that there is an adequate cause for this piece 
of forgery, at least, perhaps, it was not altogether without 
effect Well, what was the effect } This he tells us, that while 
"P to this year the Nicene Creed has always had a prominent 
P'ace in Councils and liturgy, and the Athanasian was never 
Aeard of, henceforth we see the Nicene thrown into the back- 
ground and the other assume a most important place. Now we 
are quite prepared to admit that the Athanasian Creed was 
'brought during the Carlovingian epoch more conspicuously 
*orward in several ways than it was before; but, we contend, 
^at it never took the place of the Nicene Creed, that the latter 
^'^'as never thrown into obscurity, and that, divested of patent 
^^^gerations, the whole history of both can be harmoniously 
^^plained by the natural course of events without having 
^^course to plots or forgeries. 

We have already quoted some canons respecting the 
*^aming of the " Catholic faith " by the clergy and laity. We 
*^^re return to this subject. 

1. In the Synod of Aix, in 802, all Christians are com- 
'^anded to learn " the Catholic faith of St. Athanasius, and all 
^ther things on the faith. The Apostles' Creed also, and the 
"^-^rd's Prayer, to be understood thoroughly with its exposition." 

2. In the Synod of Mayence, in 813, the priests are directed 
^ admonish all to learn the symbol which is the seal of faith, 

^^d the Lord's Prayer. 

3. The Capitulars of Theodulph direct the learning by 
^^art of the Catholic faith, that is the " I believe " and the 
^^^^unque vult salvuSy &c 

-4. At the Synod of Aix, in 816, it is provided that the 
^^tliolic faith be sung in Prime. 

-After this time examples multiply, and the Athanasian 
^reed has since been admitted into the Sunday office at Prime 
^*^roughout the Latin Church. 

^e may here notice that the words "Catholic faith" evi- 
^^ntly mean a formulary distinct from the Creed, or " I believe." 

.294 '^f^ Creed of St Athanasitis. 

This Mr. Ffoulkes not only admits, but takes some trouble to 
prove. We agree with him, and still further agree that it means 
the Athanasian Creed. If, then, we inquire why the name Atha- 
nasian Creed was not mentioned, the ready answer is, that its 
more common name was, as its form suggested, the *' Catholic 
faith."* Now I have shown already, by canons which I have 
cited, that the "Catholic faith" was ordered to be read and 
learned before the time he 'has fixed on for the forging of the 
symbol. Therefore Mr. Ffoulkes* calculation is wrong. To this, 
by anticipation, he replies, that it was only after the year 800 
that ** Catholic faith " meant the Athanasian Creed, not before. 
If we ask him to explain or give a reason for this occult change, 
he tells us that it could not have that meaning before 800, as it 
then did not exist. He assumes then, at this point, what he has 
failed to prove, and if he intends this to be confirmatory- 
evidence, it is no more to be depended upon than what has goii.< 

before. The fact is, that throughout the whole of this period 
from the Council of Frankfort at the very latest onward, awc 
have the same formula, in the same place, with the sanrx< 
surroundings. At one point, just where it suits his theory, 
tells us it stands for the Athanasian Creed. Here at least 
is right ; but if events are to be followed, not wresting the 
to fantastic shapes, it must be admitted that the Athanasi 
Creed, if not known or mentioned by that name, was known 
the " Catholic faith " to the Fathers assembled at Frankfort 

During the whole period of civil and political reconstruct i or 
that succeeded the victories of Charles, the Church in Frasr^cre 
and Germany was occupied in reviving her discipline and re.^Bi.<i- 
justing her ritual. The instruction of the people was a spe^cz:ial 
object of concern, and there were but few of the earlier Syn^^zxis 
that did not make special provisions for it. We find througlm. out 
that the " Catholic faith " was always commanded to be lear—micd 
by the clergy, nor have we any right to assume that this was. an 
entirely new regulation. Nearly all the canons were taken flK-om 
earlier Roman canons, as may be seen by comparing the *wo 
codes, and if we do not find there anything about this syff»>l><>^» 
it may be because the whole legislation on the subject oF the 
divine office belonged to another department. However, ^" 
this subject we do not profess to speak. We find it in France 

• In fact, the b^inning of the last clause. Hire est fides Caiholua, is quite cdo**^' 
to have given the name of the "Catholic faith" to the Psalm Quiatnque vult, *««^ «^ 
we commonly speak of the Crcdo^ Oic Cowjitwr, 01 Oie Magnificat, 

The Creed of St. AtJianasius. 295 

recited at Prime in the beginning of the ninth century. It may 
have been recited long before, but we have no evidence — except 
that we can point to no time at which it began. We only know 
that the Church has in all ages admitted new matter into the 
divine office, just as it was judged to be suitable, and without 
any fixed rule about the authors from whom such matter was 
taken. Alcuin made a collection of prayers, hymns, and 
antiphons, and we have a very primitive form of daily office by 
him. He has selections from St. Gregory, St Jerome, Sedulius, 
and Fortunatus, and these selections we often found in the 
office now in use. ,What more natural than that, having the 
Athanasian Creed before him, he should have given it a place in 
the office, and that for its own merits, apart from the name it 
hore, it should pass into universal use } What is there myste- 
rious, on the other hand, that about this time it should become 
more generally appreciated, and that, on the breaking out of the 
Greek controversy, it should be made use of.^ People quote 
against opponents what seems to tell against them. The 
Athanasian Creed contained no argument that could be made 
^e of against the Adoptionists, or in the disputes about images, 
^r in any other question of those times. It was not therefore 
'^ade use of The question about the procession of the Holy 
Ghost arose, and because it expressed the teaching of the 
Church it was brought forward. In these two points, and in no 
others, do we see any change ; and thus it could not come into 
collision with the Creed of Nicea. It was never formally 
introduced into the professions of faith, into the liturgy, the 
^cramentary, or the catechetical instructions. It does not seem 
generally to have been proposed to the faithful. For a short 
^i^e, and in particular provinces, it seems to have been so 
taught, but its inherent inaptitude for this office must have been 
speedily felt, and the common method resorted to. 

Seeing the use, and the only use that the creed was put to 

in those days, we may well wonder hpw it could have occurred 

. ^^y ^^^ to surmise that its principle object was to cause 

^lenation between the Eastern and Western Empirqs ; but this 

^"l^'Prise will be considerably increased when we learn not only 

^^ the creed was particularly unsuited to this purpose, but 

^^ no formula could be devised better calculated to bring 

^^t an accommodation. Strange phenomenon ! Charles 

. ^Pues to his accomplices to have a receipt for setting Europe 

^ blaze, and the instrument is found adapted to settle every 

296 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

discord. This at least we learn from Mr. Ffoulkes. When 
trying to show that the creed is a compilation, speaking of the 
several verses, he says, in words already quoted — 

Of these the verse relating to the Holy Ghost is most conspicuous. 
It is literally moderation itself. Few advocates of the Latin doctrines 
would be content to stop where it stops ; few Greeks . . . would have 
declined going so far. The Holy Ghost is described as ** of the Father 
and the Son" first — ^the preposition used being "a," not ** ex;^\ and 
then, "neither made, nor created, nor begotten, but proceeding." . . . 
These words may imply, but they notably fall short of asserting, that the 
Holy Qtixo^X. proceeds from the Son (p. 263). 

The form ex Patre Filioque does not express "a different form or 
creed from " a Patre et Filio; both were allowed, either might 
have been used. If this creed had indeed been composed by 
the wish of Charlemagne to bring about a separation with the 
East, and to justify himself for having the Filioque inserted in 
the Nicene form, he would have had it ex and not a Filio. 

According to Mr. Ffoulkes' theory, the damnatory clauses 
were not the work of Paulinus, as being too strong for his 
moderate temperament, but were added on by Charlemagne. 
He tries to show that such language was new in that age and 
particularly characteristic of the Emperor. He is mistaken here. 
Hesitancy and doubt may always exist in questions of faith 
until the question proposed is clearly understood. St. Augustine 
may hesitate about using the word " person " in the mystery of 
the Trinity, and Jerome in using the word " hypostatis ; " but 
only until these words have received a fixed and authoritative^^ 
meaning. They did not doubt about the doctrine that wa^^ 
taught, or the necessity of believing Catholic doctrine in orde-^- 
to obtain eternal salvation. The absolute necessity of firmL:^ 
believing all revealed truth, as a doctrine, is simply intolerafa?! 
to a certain, and rapidly increasing, class of men. But it 
not originate with Charles, nor does its presence in the cr< 
intimate that he formed its expression. Similar forms are foi 
in his voluminous writings, but he had the creed before him, 
if we must not assume this too soon, they had been brou -*g 
before him by an authority that he was bound to respect, 
early as 791 we find Paulinus in the symbol of faith which _^ 
proposed in the Council of Friuli, using these words — " S]^r J 
bolum vero et orationem dominicam omnis Christianus me- -^i^t 
riter sciat omnis setas, omnis sexus, omnisque conditio: mas^^^-ci 
feminas, juvenes, senes, servi, Uberi, privati, conjugati, innu] 

The Creed of St. Aihanasius. 297 

puellx; quia sine hac benedictione mullus poterit in Coelonim 
r^um percipere portionem." * This is from Paulinus ; not that 
it is to be admitted that he composed the creed, but to point out 
that the damnatory clauses were not necessarily the creation of 
Charles' despotic mind. 

Neither was language like this or the doctrine it involves 
quite unknown to Athanasius. Niciphorus Gregoras quotes him 
as saying that not only those who refuse to offer sacrifice to idols 
are martyrs, but those who will not deny the truth ; and not they 
only are heathens (aXkorpioi) who worship idols, but they also 
who deny the truth.+ In his commentary on the words " all 
things are delivered to me," he says — " Whoever therefore makes 
the Son of God less (than the Father) blasphemes against God 
Himself, as thinking wrongly of His perfection ; and deserves 
fte greatest punishment For whoever dares to blaspheme 
^nst the hypostasis, he can obtain pardon neither in this 
Ifc nor the next." It appears then that there was not only 
^^ necessity for Charles to supplement the work of Paulinus, 
"''t neither Charles nor Paulinus are required to explain the 
^^ng language in the Athanasian Creed. 

We now pass to another matter which, however, is connected 
^'th the preceding by several links. It appears that the 
^^noclasts in the eighth century brought up some question 
^bout the procession of the Holy Ghost, but from want of 
^^dence little can be known about it Again in y6j the 
l^estion was brought forward, but whether it was a question 
^* doctrine or of verbal formula does not appear to be quite 
*^«tr. In 794 Charles, in his Capitularies, attacked the formula 
^ Tarasius, Patriarch of Constantinople, which had been 
t^Proved of and adopted by the Second Council of Nice. He 
VJected to the words " from the Father by the Son " (ro tx rov 
^«>«^ d! wov), and wished to substitute for it, " from the Father 
^d the Son." He was answered, as we have seen, and silenced 
'^ the Pope. Some time before the year 809 a disturbance was 
f^^ated in Jerusalem, by some Frank monks of Mount 'Olivet 
J^'^ging the creed with this alteration, and they sought to justify 
^^inselves before Leo the Third on the ground that they had 
^^^rd the creed sung in this manner in the Emperor's private 
"^^^peL Leo then wrote to Charles and forwarded through him a 
^5^^*^ssion of faith to the monks on the procession of the Holy 
"^l^cst ; he requested Charles to protect the monks, and evidently 

• Hardain, t. iv., 857, t ^«A Romana^ I. xxvii. 


298 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

expostulated with him on the interpolation of the creed Wc 
have not been able to find Leo's letter to Charles, but that 
he so expostulated is clear from the fact that shortly after we 
find Charles' envoys in Rome trying, and trying in vain, to 
obtain permission to retain the Filioque. It must be bonie in 
mind that there was no question on the doctrine of the procession 
raised in this negotiation ; neither did the Pope absolutely object 
to the clause in question, for it had been in use in Spain with full 
approval, but he objected strongly to its being introduced into 
France and Germany by the mere authority of the Emperor. 

Mr. Ffoulkes tells us that the profession of faith sent by Leo 
to the monks of Mount Olivet was tampered with by Charles. 
His only ground for making this new charge is as follows — "It 
speaks of the Holy Ghost proceeding from the Father and the 
Son in one place, and as proceeding equally from both in 
another. And at the end of the whole we read — * Him thai 
believeth not according to this faith the Holy Catholic and 
Apostolic Church condemns.'" "This," he goes on to say, 
"was the strongest and most explicit declaration that had 
hitherto emanated from any Pope in favour of the views then 
prevalent in the West on the procession. And this, / hn^^ 
become convinced since from what followed^ could never ha^^cr 
been made by Leo the Third then." We need not speak of tk^ 
suggestion that there is any contradiction between " proceeding 
from the Father and the Son " and " proceeding equally frocO 
both." It was very natural that Leo should so express himself^ 
seeing that his predecessor Adrian had laid down the sam^ 
doctrine to Charles in his answer to the Capitularies.* In tha* 
answer the constant doctrine of the Church is irresistibly demon ^ 
strated by tradition, and it does not seem wonderful that Le^ 
should condemn its denial, since he said to Charlemagne^ 
envoys — "Quisquis ad hoc sensu subtiliore pertingere potest^-* 
et id scire, aut ita sciens credere noluerit, salvus esse noC^ 
poterit""f- He makes a distinction between ignorance anc:3 
denial. The doctrine was not such that it \vas necessary for aP 
to know, but for those who knew it, necessary to be confesscil- 
Mr. Ffoulkes is confirmed in his judgment by what took placid 
between Leo and the envoys of Charles. When this latter hac3 
received the Pope's letter, he convened a Synod at Aix-la^^ 
Chapelle in 890, "to discuss the very point on which th^ 
monks had consulted the Pope with so little success— tto^ 

♦ Harduin, t iy., 776. f I^nd,^ p. 97a 

The Creed of St. Athanasius. 299 

of the interpolated clause in the creed, and deputies were 
sent from thence to Rome with a long letter from himself, 
ifl which the procession of the Holy Ghost from the Son 
'^ not only proved, but distinguished carefully from His 
temporal mission." We have a record of this conference given 
hiy Baronius* and Harduin."f- The envoys having read the 
Emperor's letter, the Pope expressed his entire concurrence 
with the doctrine expressed, and said that he rejected entirely 
(funditus abjicid) the contrary. Mr. Ffoulkes surmises that if 
the Pope had really written to Charles the words quoted above, 
he would not now merely say, " So I think, so I hold," but " So 
I wrote myself in the profession which I asked His Majesty to 
read and send on for me." Mr. Ffoulkes seems to be not very 
Well versed in the etiquette of the Roman Curia, in obliging the 
Pope to refer to a letter about which there was no question. 
There was no question at all between Charles and the Pope on 
any question of faith, and consequently, when he receives the 
Emperor's profession — for the tenth time at least — he says vir- 
tually, we are agreed ; let us come to the subject of your visit. 
Binda the Notary, who left us the record of the audience, tells 
us that he omits the earlier part of the discussion which preceded 
coiloquendo majus quam disputando^ as it had passed from his 
memory, and accordingly he gives the remainder, which was 
^najus disputando quam colloqucndo. On grounds like these 
Mr. Ffoulkes does not think it unbecoming to fling about his 
charges of forgery and foul play. The real business of the 
conference was about the formula Filioque, The envoys pleaded 
hard that it might be permitted to remain, or even be extended 
to general use. They urged the truth of the doctrine that it 
expressed, that it had been in legitimate use elsewhere, that 
instruction to the faithful would be more efficient if the truth to 
^ taught should be sung as only it could be in Mass, that there 
^as danger lest, by omitting it now, people might think that the 
doctrine it expressed was to be abandoned, that the Holy See 
'^d granted the Emperor the privilege of having the Credo 
^^^g, &C. All these reasons did not prevail on the Pope. He 
Was quite inflexible. He said they might sing the creed or 
recite it, as they thought best, but they must leave out the 
filioque. Mr. Ffoulkes' commentary at this point is highly 
interesting. He wishes to justify his theory that the Nicene 
Creed was thrown into the background to make way for the 

• Attn. 809. t Lo.c cii. 

300 TJic Creed of St. Atkanasius^ 

Athanasian. The Pope had su^ested, to meet one of 
difficulties alleged, that the singing might gradually be brou 
into disuse, by which greater conformity with the Roman cusi 
of saying the Creed should be obtained. The comment 
says — " As Charlemagne had adopted the custom of choHi 
the liturgy from Rome some years before, the not singing 
creed was in both places, then, equivalent to the not usii^ i 
This is very bad logic and worse history ; the alternative ofR 
was either to sing or recite it, and as the Credo was m 
omitted, it could not have given place to the Athanasian Sym 
as may be seen even in the words quoted by Mr. Ffoulkes. 

We have hitherto been engaged merely in examining the i 
theory which has lately been ventilated about the Athana: 
Creed. We have now to see whether any more satisfact 
account of it can be given. In the first place, we unquestiona 
find it appointed at the beginning of the ninth century, to 
learned under the name of the "Catholic faith" by the faith 
and particularly by the clergy ; and also we find it freely uso 
works of controversy. We will here quote one example of s 
use. There is a treatise, De Processione SpiriUis Sanctiy wh 
for good reasons, is attributed to Alcuin, or if that be not c 
enough, was undoubtedly written by some able theologian dui 
the lifetime of Charlemagne. The following passage occurs in i 

Wherefore the blessed Athanasius, the most renowned Bisho] 
Alexandria, who was the devoted assistant in the Council of Nici 
Alexander, the Chief Pontiff in the same city, in the exposition of 
Catholic faith which the same great Doctor wrote, and which 
Universal Church acknowledges {canfitetur), declares the processioi 
the Holy Ghost from the Father and the Son, saying : The Fathc 
not made, nor created, nor begotten. The Son is from the Father o 
not made, nor created, but begotten. The Holy Ghost from the Fa 
and the Son, not made, nor created, nor begotten, but proceeding. 

* We give a few extracts from this conference which will not be uninteresdi 
Envoy. Was not the permission of singing that very creed given by yourself? 
this custom of singing come from us ? Did not this custom come to us from here, 
not hither from us ? Leo. I gave the permission for the singing, but not to adc 
take away or alter anything that is sung. . . . And that I may speak more pl« 
for you force me to it, as long as things were going on well enough for you, that 
no necessity that we should do anything or give occasion to others to meddle with 
manner in which the Roman Church cither sings or celebrates its sacred mysttf 
. . . We do not sing but read it (the Credo). (Nos enim id ipsum mm tan0 
sed legimus). . . . Envoy, Therefore, I take it, your Paternity decides, fio^ * 
that which is in question (the Filioque) be taken away from the symbol, and then ^ 
it mxy be lawfully taught and learned either in singing or reading {eanU^ * 
/^fieh), Leo. Yes, of course* 

The Creed of St. Athajiasius. 301 

It would be out of place to multiply quotations from the different 
authors that spoke of this symbol in the time of Charlemagne in 
the same way as Alcuin speaks of it. It is so found in the works 
of Ratram of Corby, Theodulphus, Agobardus Aeneas, Bishop 
of Paris, Hincmar, and others, even by the showing of our oppo- 
nents. In fact, there is no question about its having been put 
forth openly and in public controversy, as the admitted work 
of Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria, as having been known 
generally as such, as having been in some way acknowledged by 
the Church. It is quoted in due order with the authority of the 
•other Fathers, only as much of it as is relevant, in defence of 
the truth, and by men most eminent for their learning, holiness 
of life, station and character. We see, at that time, no expression 
to intimate a doubt of its being genuine, or a suspicion of its being 
liable to be questioned, or a deprecation of foreseen criticism. It 
<xmts forth in an age of unusual intellectual activity, and there 
is not uttered a word against it ; in a time of angry theological 
■disputes, and is not rejected. In all this there is no question of 
mistake ; the imputation is one of secret and deliberate forgery. 
First we ask — Has it been shown } Next — Is it simply credible? 
We have no hesitation in giving a negative answer to both 

It must be admitted, then, that at least at the close of the 
^hth centurj*-, this symbol, at times called the '* Athanasian," 
^ at times the "Catholic faith," was in the hands of the 
dergy, and reputed to be a genuine work. This will explain 
kow the various professions of faith which we have, belonging 
to this and the previous century, seem for the most part to be 
^constructed by adding that which is special in the Athanasian 
to the Nicene Creed, and then superadding such clauses as 
^cre necessary to exclude the heresies of the time or country. 
^Ins is very obvious, to take one of many instances, in the 
Pn)fession of Friuli, made in 791, long before the alleged fabri- 
cation of the creed by Charles could have been thought of 

Of direct references to it by authors before the ninth century, 
or quotations from it, we have but few ; and singularly enough 
'^ot one that has been called in question. We may be able to 
^kowwhy as many quotations are not to be found before as after 
^c Carlovingian epoch, but we must not be surprised that the 
*^ testimonies we may bring forward are controverted, because 
ftose who have made up their minds to accept the theory of the 
Carlovingian origin, will throw overboard all testimonies that tell 

302 714^ Creed of St. Athanasius. 

against their theory. Thus Mr. Ffoulkes tells us, by way of settling 
the question of the testimony of Fortunatus, that the book has 
passages in it which are taken from Alcuin, and could not there- 
fore have been before Alcuin's time. We may, however, be abl^ 
to show that it is much more likely that Alcuin copied from it 

Wc have seen this symbol about the close of the eight!" 
century generally known as the " Catholic faith,*' and sometime:: 
called the Creed of Athanasius. When, later, it was used i J 
controversy, it was brought forward, and had its polemi< 
weight, rather as expressing the established faith of the Churc 
than as the work of any single Father. Accordingly, this latt* 
point does not appear to have been raised as an element 
the controversy of the time ; but among orthodox theologianr 
at least from the tenth century, a discussion about its authors! 
must have existed, and it is to be remembered that this d 
cussion never was concerned with its antiquity or its undoubt 
place in the formularies of the Church, both which points we 
naturally assumed as established, but solely extended to 
question of its authorship. 

Atto of Fleury, in his Apology to the Kings Hugh 
Roberts, says — "Fidem quam alternantibus choris in Fraik- 
et apud Anglorum Ecclesiam variari audivi ; alii enim dici 
ut arbitror, secundum Athanasium." Gerald of Corby, in 1 
Life of St Anaschariiis, writes — " Catholicamque Fidem qu ^ 
composuisse beatus fertur Athanasius." Otho — "Athana^3=ii 
manens in Ecclesia Trevirorum sub Maximino ejus Ecclc^^i 
Episcopo, Quicunquc vuit, etc, a quibusdam dieitur edidissc^' 
Lastly, in an Exposition of the Symbol of Athanasius publis^ti© 
by Mai, in 1837, from a manuscript of the Queen of Swed^sn' 
library, belonging to about the eleventh century, we rea-^— 
"Traditur quod hoc opusculum a beatissimo Athanasio AI^x- 
andrinse ecclesia) antistite sit editum. Ita namque semper ^wn 
vidi prsetitulatum etiam in veteribus codicibus."-|- 

These authorities point out, first, the antiquity of tiie 
tradition of its having been written at Treves by Athanasius; 
next, that as early as the eleventh century, ancient manuscripts 
had been collated and were found to bear out that tradition; 
and lastly, that Vossius, in the seventeenth century, was not 
the first, as is generally asserted, to examine the question of 

* Op. St. Athanasii, t. ii., p. 652. Maurinu 
+ Nova CoUeciio Script, Vd., noV vil.^"^» '596. 

The Creed of St. Atkanasius. 303 

The " Exposition " published by Mai, and which seems to 

iave been quite unknown, as far as we can judge, to recent 

writers on the question, is of singular importance. It most 

probably belonged to the library of the abbey of Fleury, and 

was one of those many copies made from older manuscripts 

in that century. Fleury had intimate relations with Spain, and 

is thought to have received manuscripts from a Priory subject 

to its authority in Spain as early as the eighth century. Mai 

speaks of the writer as an able theologian, and it appears to us 

that the treatise shows the hand rather of a Spanish than a 

French commentator. 

It must be admitted that any other authorities we may be 

able to advance, considered each by each, are not of peremptory 

historical value, yet they may sometimes receive strength one 

from another, and though, perhaps, we may not be able to go 

much farther than we have gone, so as to prove anything with 

irresistible clearness, yet we may be able to show where the 

truth most probably lies. Let us consider first the evidence of 

Venantius Fortunatus. An old collection of manuscripts was 

found in the Ambrosian library, among which was an Expositio 

fidei CatholiccB Fortunati^ judged to be about six hundred years 

old. The collection in which this symbol was contains an 

undoubted work of Venantius, an exposition of the Apostles' 

Creed, with this inscription — Fortunato presbytcro conscripta. 

Muratori maintained that this Fortunatus was Venantius, Bishop 

of Poitiers towards the end of the sixth century. The Expositio 

*s now printed with his other works, and we can only judge 

whether its style, its matter, and all that we can ascertain about 

'^ fits him. As he became bishop long after he had been famous 

^ an author, his works were always entitled Fortunati, or Fortu- 

^H presbytori. He was known to his contemporaries by this 

^^nie, and is never mentioned in the writings of his friend 

Gregory of Tours by any other. There is no other Fortunatus 

^ho could have written a work like this, without any reference 

^^ events after the beginning of the eighth century ; and 

^n:ialaire, the Archbishop of Treves in the ninth century, who 

^^ sometimes called Fortunatus, could never have been styled 

"^esbyterus. The undertaking was congenial to him, as he also 

^^ote an Exposition on the Apostles' Creed and the Lord s 

"rayer; and a passage in his Exposition on the Apostles' Creed 

^^nis to show a knowledge of the Athanasian Creed, at least 

^^r^tori thought so. We have at the end of the first paragraph, 

304 The Creed of St. Atkaftasius. 

"Cunctis credentibus quae continentur in symbolo salus animarum 
et vitaperpetua bonis actibus praeparatur ;" and at the beginning 
of the next, " Salvus esse non poterit qui recte de salute non 
crediderit," which words are merely a paraphrase of the first two 
verses in the Athanasian Creed. These appear to be no slight 
indications of authorship, and hence Waterland and others of 
great authority have looked on Venantius Fortunatus as the 
author of this Exposition. We owe to Mr. Ffoulkes the sugges- 
tion that Fortunatus influenced a theological movement in the 
Third Synod of Toledo, in 589.* The Fourth Synod of Toledo, 
presided over by St Isidore, was convened in 633. Now in tb^ 
confession of faith of this Synod we have nearly the whole 
Athanasian Creed reproduced word for word — "Necconfundimus 
personas nee substantiam separamus — filium a Patre non factum 
sed genitum asserimus. Spiritum vero sanctum nee creatum nee 
genitum, sed procedentem a Patre et Filio profitemur."f Nor is 
this all. We have a letter from Isidore, who presided at this 
Council, to Pope Eugenius, in which we find these words — "Quod 
sicut illud sancti Athanasii de fide Sanctae Trinitatis sanct^ 
Ecclesia approbat et custodit, quasi sit fidei Catholics articulu^- 
Quod nisi quis fideliter firmiterque crediderit, salvus esse no 
poterit." J Here we have Fortunatus writing a commentary 
the Athanasian Creed when a priest, and later on influencing, 
a theologian, the Third Synod of Toledo. The same creed E 
embodied in the profession of faith at the Fourth Synod fo: 
years later, and St Isidore, its president, quotes it in a letter t 
Pope Eugenius. Take any of these testimonies separately, 
it may be weak enough : take them together as throwing ligl»- 
one on the other, and their strength will be found hard to 
They point out the way in which this creed came to be rccoC ' 
nized by the Spanish Church.§ But yet it remains to be show^''"'^ 
how Fortunatus himself could have come by it. 

His biographer, Luchi, shows that he must have come 
France from Italy, at latest in 565, as the following year hi 
friend, Nicetius, Bishop of Treves, to whom he dedicated a 

♦ P. 147. 

t Tolet, iv., cap. i. 

X Migne, Ixxxiii., 908. 

§ The fullest communication between the French and Spanish Chmcfaes 
have existed even before this through the monks of Lerins. St. Vincent, in 
fifth century, gives us the greater part of the Symbol Qutcunque word for woid, 
he could not have known it as other than the Fides Catholka ( Vide the diatribe 
Montfaucon, in Symbol Quicunque^ Op. St. Athanasii, t. ii, p. 652). 

The Creed of St. Athanasius. 305 

ed. The successor of Nicetius, Magnericus, was also his friend, 
r he also had a poem, and as he celebrates their domestic life, 
eir hospitality, and country house, we know that he must have 
^n familiar with them. He celebrates in verse his arrival at 
reves, and spent the best part of his life in its neigh- 
borhood. Moreover, Fortunatus was not only the best scholar 
f his day, but he took a particular interest in the monuments 
f saints of former days. Tombs, shrines, and relics were 
►Ejects of great devotion to him, for he has celebrated them 
tt verse ; and as he has written the lives of several saints, 
^ces of them must have had a peculiar interest in his 
yea Now, St Athanasius arrived in TrcA'es about two 
lundred years before Fortunatus went there, and he remained 
^'' about two years and four months. The good people of 
'"eves were naturally proud of this distinction, and as their 
spitality to Athanasius was known in the East, many confes- 
'^ persecuted by the Arians fled there for refuge. St Paulinus, 
- successor of St Maximinus, who had given hospitality to 
|^a.nasius, was banished to Phrygia, for refusing to sign the 
'^i\ formula in the Synod of Aries, so that Treves became 
^l>rated on account of its connection with Athanasius and 
*"^sistance to the heretics. It was visited by St Hilary, 
Jerome, and St Martin. As Fortunatus was, during his 
^> writing the life of St Martin, or, at least, preparing the 
^^ rials, he no doubt took a deep interest in the place, and 
t^o friends, the Bishops Nicetius and Magnericus, would 
^ r^ly have permitted his inspection of their archives. 
I f" the judgment of the learned and sound historical criteria 
"^o be depended on, there must have been at that very time 
^'•^ous manuscript of the Athanasian Creed in the archives of 
•'^''^s, and it does not seem an unwarrantable conjecture that 
"^xinatus got hold of it, and gave it to the world with the 
^'^sitio of which we have already spoken. Moreover, there 
^ an immemorial tradition at Treves, that Athanasius had 
en the symbol there, and this may in part account for the 
^nce of the manuscript* That known as the Colbertine 
nged to Charles the Bald, and must therefore, at the very 
^%, have existed before the year 877, when he died. Its 
^^ however, is judged from the writing to be still greater. 
^"^elmi dates it from 600. Tillemont agrees with him. There 
note on this MS., saying that it had been copied from a 

* VkU Bollandus in ii Mail ; Baronius, Ann, 2P^ 

3o6 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

MS. at Treves. The copy at Treves was not perfect, and fron 
a reference t9 the Eutychian heresy, Waterland judges it pro 
bably to be as old as the middle of the fifth, or the beginning o 
the sixth century. Antelmi sets it as high as 450 : Tillemon 
at 550.* We can hardly obtain from Mr. Ffoulkes* comments 
fair estimate of the judgment of Waterland on Montfaucon. O 
the former he says — " Waterland . . assigns them a date twc 
hundred years later than M. Antelmi. Besides, he has forgottei 
to notice what Montfaucon told Muratori personally, viz., tha 
he thought neither manuscript earlier than the reign of Charle 
magne." Now Waterland tabulates the Treves manuscript « 
660. He says — "The remaining part of the creed is vtm 
different from the common copies, and seems to have been a 
contrived with design, . . and it is to me an argument tlL_ 
the manuscript was written while the Eutychian controversy ^^" 
at its height, about the end of the fifth or beginning of the si 
century, though I have set it a great deal lower, because thi< 
not the place, to explain the matter fully, nor would I too for 
indulge a bare conjecture. It is sufficient to suppose it writ 
in the seventh century," &c.+ As for Montfaucon, whatever 
told in the anecdotes of Muratori, we have it from himself 
he judged the Colbertine manuscript to be earlier than Cha 
magne, and that every competent judge {periti quique) assi 
it to about the age of Pepin, and that its chief value was in 
testimony to the earlier manuscript of Treves4 

Now if we take the old tradition of Treves, the manuscrm 
the presence of Fortunatus there in the sixth century, ^ 
publishing the symbol with a commentary, its appearance 
Spain shortly after his influence began to be felt there, ^ 
testimony of the Fourth Council of Toledo with the letter^ 
Isidore, have we not something like a history that is nei 
fantastic nor improbable } If we come down a little more t 
a century we find the Spanish form of faith passing into Fra«:*< 
the ** Catholic faith " learnt by the people, and Alcuin ^^ 
Paulinus using the language of Athanasius. And to conn^ 
Alcuin with Fortunatus, we have only to remember that he ^*^^ 
was admitted to the Council of Frankfort on account of his gT^ 
knowledge of ecclesiastical matters, was an ardent admirer < 
the editor of St. Athanasius, wrote his epitaph, and was faaiiw 
with his works. 

Various difficulties occur here. First, how could the creed 

♦ Waterland, chap. iv. \ Qvk^. \\. % Diatribe in Symb. Qukunpte* 

The Creed of St. Athanasius. 307 

Aave remained unknown to St. Jerome when he visited Treves ? 

The difficulty is grave, and the only answer we can suggest is 

Aat its value was unknown, or perhaps its presence. Fortunatus 

was a scholar cultivated beyond his age. He may have searched 

^.niong documents which few would care to explore. He may 

have found a MS. of the Catholic faith lying unknown in the 

3.rchives of Treves, and knowing the traditions of the place, and 

leaving perhaps some other clue to its origin he may have judged 

tliat it was the work of Athanasius. Similar discoveries occur 

^^very day. His own treatise lay hundreds of years unknown. 

^Most of the classics, many of the writings of the Fathers, nearly 

half the productions of the middle ages, have lain for centuries 

in obscurity, are even in our own days frequently brought ta 

light, and many more remain to be discovered. We do not 

£>retend to have given a demonstrative proof of what we have 

said. It is merely a historical conjecture, but it is not based on 

violent suppositions or an unjust manipulation of the monuments • 

tliat stand before us. The truth, however, of any one of the 

series of events here related would in itself be fatal to Mr. 

"Ffoulkes' theory. 

The Treves and Colbertine manuscripts are not alone in speaks 

ing of the existence of the Athanasian Creed before the beginning 

of the ninth century. Out of seven tabulated by Waterland, 

and credited to the eighth or an earlier century, we may mention 

one of singular interest. Lambecius, librarian at the imperial 

library of Vienna, where this MS. is or was preserved, gives a 

description of it It is written in letters of gold, and contains a 

P^^m by Charlemagne, in which he says he gave that very copy 

^ a present to Pope Adrian. This Pope died in 795. There is 

^^so an attestation by a notary of the Empire prefixed to the 

psalter in which this copy is found, to the effect that it belonged 

^^ Hildegard, wife of Charlemagne, during her lifetime, and that 

Wer her death it was given by him to the Church of Bremen, on 

the occasion of his naming St. Willehad to that see. Mr. Ffoulkes 

^ys there is nothing either in the dedicatory verses or in the 

Notary's attestation to prevent his supposing that it was given 

nearly a century later by Charles the Bald to Pope Adrian the 

^^cond, and that it cannot have been given both to Adrian and 

j^ Church of Bremen within a few years. It is only necessary 

^^ Us to show that there is no part of the testimony given which. 

^ntradicts the statement that it once belonged to Charles the 

^^^t, and was given by him to Adrian the First If» as 

3o8 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

Lambecius judges, it was given to the Pope on the occasion < 
his coronation, the loth of February, 772, Hildegard being the 
Queen, it might afterwards, in 783, be given to the Church i 
Bremen ^s a memorial of Hildegard, with the concurrence < 
Charles, or perhaps by his own act In this way it might t 
said to have been used by Hildegard, and mention of Adria 
would have been omitted, either because he had not used it, < 
because its donation to him was sufficiently attested by tt 
verses of Charles. Anyhow, both testimonies agree in this, tk 
it once belonged to Charles, who was the husband of Hildegan 
and contemporary of Adrian. 

It remains only to be seen, by examining the creed itsel 
whether it can reasonably be attributed to Athanasius, or, s 
many undoubtedly competent persons suppose, be referred t 
some other author. The fact that it has not been mentioned b 
ecclesiastical writers or controversialists for two hundred yeai 
after the time of that Father is an evident proof of its not bein 
known as his work, even in Treves itself. But when we bear i 
mind the persecutions, the wars, the absence of literary curiosit] 
which marked that period, when we remember the multitude < 
more striking works which have remained yet longer in obscurit] 
and are nevertheless universally admitted to be genuine when n 
polemical interest militates against them, we ought to see tha 
if there is no further difficulty, this alone should have no grca 
force. Mr. Ffoulkes relies upon a work as having been th 
production of Alcuin which is nowhere referred to in h 
admitted works, which is not spoken of by his contemporarie 
and which for nearly a thousand years was utterly lost to tt 
world.* We do not find fault with him for this. There are her 
at least, good reasons for his assumption, but then he mu. 
tolerate equal liberty in those who oppose his views. There 
nothing absurd, as far as we have seen, in the time honours 
tradition ; from an examination of the work itself we may s* 
whether it is unlikely to be true. 

It is first objected that the creed is manifestly a patchwo* 
made up of sentences found scattered in the writings of t::: 
Fathers and other authors of every age. To this we reply ttr 
it exhibits a unity and completeness surpassing that of nL-^ 
works, and not exceeded by any. That every passage can 
paralleled by sentences taken from the Fathers, shows tha.^ 
is what it professes to be, a symbol of Catholic teaching ; h\Mt 

* UJber de procesnone S^. Sand. 

The Creed of St. AtJianasius. 309 

::oinparc it with attempts to summarize their teaching we shall 

that it is the type and model on which their teachings are 

^ Not that we mean to imply that they had this creed 

>re their eyes, but they had the faith of the Catholic Church 

vhich this is the most perfect exponent. There are no 

^cial seams, awkward joinings, unreciprocal Connections. We 

a sequence in the thought answering that of the verse, and a 

nee of rhythm and antithesis fujly sustained from first to last. 

opening corresponds with the closing words, and both 

'nd their significance over the whole production. There 

simplicity too in the expansion, and a continuous glow in 

expression that dispels at once all thought of its having 

^ produced but by one skilled, masterly, and almost inspired 

!• Compare it with the verses of Paulinus and you will see 

it could not belong either to him or his age. 

Sut then there are doctrinal difficulties. Athanasius refused 

;>eak of three " hypostases," and we have three " Persons " 

"essly proposed in the symbol. This is really no difficulty, 

►t the time of the Council of Nicaea the Latin persona was no 

v^alent for the Greek hypostasis. Hypostasis then meant 

istence, or at least signified subsistence, in rectOy and the 

c^nal relation, /;/ obliquo. Hence St Jerome would not say 

^ were " three hypostases," because he feared that hypostasis 

^t subsistence. In the same way St Augustine at one time 

^d to use the word persona because its theological meaning 

not yet been conventionally fixed. As has been said 

^dy, there was no hesitation on any side about the doctrine^ 

the terminology was unsettled, and they were bound to guard 

inst giving offence, just as our theologians would be at the 

^ent day if some new heresy exacted fresh verbal distinctions. 

reover, Athanasius, with qualifications, accepted the three 

:>ostases. In the form of faith which he accepted from 

alinus of Antioch, and corrected with his own hand, we 

.d — tLirablyofiMi njv rrpoysypafifitvfiif ipfiriviiav rpiuv u^rotfratfioiv xai r^g 
;; vToaraffiUij riTOi oitc/ai, xai rou; ^povouvrag ourui* When in 

eves, if he desired to arm his friends there against the machi- 
tions of the Arians, already threatening to become extended 
Western Europe, he would have taught them to use persona, 
aning by that word, as since it has ever been made to mean, 
: divine relation in recto, and the Divine Being in obliquo. 
Another objection remains, and that is that this creed seems 

* Epiphanitis, !• iL, t 3» xxi. 

3IO The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

to refer to the Nestorian and Eutychian heresies, in language that 
Athanasius could not have used. It is admitted that many 
highly competent judges have held this opinion, and accordingly 
they have sought to fix the authorship on some Latin writer. 
But with all respect to their great authority, we may be 
permitted to say, that the objection should carry no weight 
with it The creed, of its own nature, sets forth the doctrine 
of the Incarnation, and that setting forth, necessarily with a 
view to confute the Arian heresy, must speak of the " oneness " 
of the Man-God, and the distinctness of the two natures. The 
language used no more belongs to the time of these heresies 
than the words a Patre et Filio belong to the time of Photius. 
If it was desired to condemn Nestorius, words would have been 
used such as we find in the Canons of the Council of Ephesis ; 
or, if Eutyches was to be condemned, such as are given in the 
declaration of the Fathers at Chalcedon. But we only find such 
language as Athanasius himself, and the Fathers of his time, 
might have used.* 

It remains to be said, that in speaking of a tradition in 
support of our view, we do not mean a Catholic, but a local 
tradition. The fact that the symbol is called " Athanasian " in 
the breviary, or that it has been so named in a Provincial 
Synod, or even spoken of as such by one of the Popes, \s no 
indication of anything but a private judgment on its authorship. 
The tradition, then, is a matter of free historical inquiry, and 
though we are by no means disposed to submit to the verdict of 
men who ignore the high qualities and motives of those whose 
verity guarantees the genuineness of our ecclesiastical monu- — 
ments, we can never object to the fullest discussion of historica^^ 
facts, as long as history keeps within its proper sphere. Mr-^ 
Ffoulkes promises, or seems to expect, the discovery of som^.^^, 
new frauds, he leads us to understand that he is engaged in ^ 
work of Christian archaeology, that appears under the sancticr^jj 
oi a respected name, and we shall always know how to give fviii 
value to his discernment and impartiality. As for the Athanasi^ji 
Creed, one thing is certain, it existed long before Charlemagne, 
and was known in his time, and acknowledged to be a truthfui 
expression of Catholic faith. Beyond this, whatever can be 

* This is abundantly shown by Waterland (chap. viL), where he proves veiy 
clearly that there is not a word in this part of the symbol which had not been cqniw- 
lently used in the times of Athanasius, and that the express terms of condemnation 
which were used to confute these heresies are not to be found in the symbol 

The Creed of St Alhanasius. 311 

said may be received as conjecture, or historical discernment, or 

justifiable theory, as the case may be. To us it seems that the 

justification of our views is mainly supported by the authority 

of Fortunatus. If, considering all things, he judged it to be 

the work of Athanasius, all that follows is not only explained, 

but the wisdom that directed its use is vindicated. That the 

Anglican Church should withdraw it from a use that it was 

never fitted to serve, is natural enough. But, it is to be feared, 

that doing so now is a virtual abandonment of a dogmatic 

standpoint The disbelieving movement has joined its forces to 

tile rationalistic, and the unfortunate Establishment is drifting 

a^ay from every ecclesiastical landmark. - - 

J* J* 

%*. Since this article was in type, the discussion on the 

Athanasian Creed in the Upper House of Convocation has been 

published. The Bishop of Lincoln, in a very able address, has 

ocamined some of the questions that we have been dealing with, 

3-nd we are happy to say, for the most part, with the same result 

W^ith regard to Alcuin's letter, however, Dr. Wordsworth 

^^g^gcsts that it may have referred to a document sent by 

^^.ulinus from the Council of Frankfort to the bishops of Spain. 

*^ appears to us, nevertheless, that the Regjila fidei of which 

^^ have spoken must be the work referred to, and if anything, 

'^yond what we have already said, is necessary to show this, we 

*^^>"e submit it for consideration. 

^Ve have a letter from Alcuin to Charlemagne dated 798,* 

*n which he speaks of a libelbis, published by Felix the Adop- 

*^^onist. Bishop of Urgel, and urges the King to have copies of it 

^^nt to the Pope, to Paulinus, and to others, that they might 

^Hte against it ad defensionem Fidei Catliolicce, ** Et si aequaliter 

^^ concorditer cunctorum in professione vel defensione Catholicae. 

*^dei resonant scripta, intelligi potest quod per omnia ora et 

^orda unus loquitur Spiritus," &c. After this we have a 

^^atise in three books written by Paulinus, and, as we learn 

"y the dedication to Charles, undertaken by his desire ; and, 

^ '^e also read that it occupied Paulinus for a year, it could not 

^^e been finished till about the beginning of the year 800. 

^^ have also the Carmen de Regula Fidei, composed about the 

^'^e time, and, as Marfrisius tells us, forwarded with the treatise 

^ Charles, and lastly, the fragment of a letter in which Paulinus 

* Epist Ixxxv. 

312 The Creed of St. Athanasius. 

asks the King to have the Carmen, or perhaps the whol( 
work, sent as a gift to Alcuin.* Let us see whether thi 
Carmen sufficiently explains Alcuin's letter, said to be writtei 
in 8cx). The Carmen, if not strictly a compendium, is an epilogue 
to the treatise, and they mutually throw light one on the othei 
In the preface to the treatise Paulinus promises, as a safeguan 
for the future, to oppose everything that Felix has writtei 
against the rule of faith ; the Cartnen is styled the mle of faith 
Alcuin congratulates him on writing a taxatio fidei. Then, ii 
his preface, Paulinus makes a curious calculation, in which thi 
number of the cardinal virtues is the prime factor, and the sun 
total is made mystically to represent the work he has under 
taken ; in the Carmen, as we have seen, the idea is expressed b] 
the four rivers of Paradise springing from one fountain. Alcuii 
says of the work he praises — " Ubi de uno lucidissimo et salu 
berrimo Paradisi fonte, quatuor virtutum flumina . . . run 
irrigare conspexi." Lastly, Paulinus writes to the King — "I bq 
that this not very valuable, but, anyhow, little gift {munnsculum 
be sent to Albinus (Alcuin), * mihi super omnia flaventium favo 
rum dulcissimi mella,' " &c. Alcuin replies — " Cum beatitudinL 
vestrae litteras omni favo dulciores intueri," &c A comparisoi 
also of the letter which Alcuin wrote to Charles about the libellm 
of Felix, and that which he wrote to Paulinus, thanking him foi 
his work, shows that what he desired to obtain in one letter he 
acknowledges to have received in the other. In the first, he 
asks that a defence of the Catholic faith may be provided, that 
by the concordant writings of many the same spirit may speal 
in the mouths and hearts of all. " Defensione Catholics fid« 
resonant scripta . . . per omnium ora et corda unus loquitu« 
Spiritus," &c. To Paulinus he writes — " Una tamen fides ubiq^ 
resonaret" He offers to Charles to help him in writing a defea^^ 
of the Faith. He writes to Paulinus — "Quod mea opta^^ 
humilitas vestra implevit sublimitas." He is urgent in writij^ 
to Charles. He tells Paulinus that he had completed "Quocf 
diu optavi et saepius Domino Regi suasi." We find explained 
here the very words that Mr. Ffoulkes says refer to the Symbol 
Quicunque. Finally, the whole correspondence shows that the 
desideratum was to provide a rule of faith to guard the people 
against the Adoptionist heresy. Mr. Ffoulkes only points to a 
work that leaves dogmatic questions just where they were at the 
death of Athanasius. 

* Migiifi, xcix.) p. 468. 

The Rosenberg. 

■^ERv one must agree in saying that the right time to arrive on a visit 
ywhere is the evcnii^. It is so pleasant to drive up to a hospitable door 

the dusk, and try and fancy what the grey indistinct scene really is like, 
d then to come down fresh and rested the next morning and compare 
^ conjectures with the reality. I had always heard that the Von 

wensiein's place, near S , was very pretty, but my imagination 

I failed to depict aDythIng half so charming as that summer villa and 
grounds proved to be. The house had been built by its present mistress 
the model of one which overlooks the Bay of Naples, and which had 
^ her fancy while she was travelling in Italy with her mother, many, 
■y years before I first made her acquaintance. It stood about half way 
•■ liill which had originally been covered with vines to its very surnmit j 
^ce had been cleared for the house and gardens, but with this exception 
V'ineyards still remained. The views from various points in the grounds 
- very lovely ; all around we saw other vineclad hills, and beyond them 
;»-ed dark mountains covered with forests of pine. 

Vlxiut three miles off, at the foot of the hills, and almost surrounded by 
■>., lay the charming little capital of W , with its well wooded environs 

pretty winding river. The best view of S was to be obtained from 

"■erandah which ran along the front of the house ; a flight of steps at 
> end led into the Baroness' rose garden, which was just in its greatest 
Action at the time of my visit. But the whole house was like a garden, 
k^my and so varied were the flowers which were disposed with the most 
'lammatc taste, in every available nook and comer of it. The arrange- 
V of the sitting rooms was very peculiar ; the hall, and a large and lofiy 
ng room, occupied the whole centre of the bouse from back to front, on 
k side of these were the music room, the drawing room, and the private 
ng rooms of the various members of the family, both suites of rooms 
ag in a conservatory which opened on to the verandah, as did also the 
Bg room. These conservatories were arranged as sitting rooms ; one 
them was our habitual breakfast parlour on fine mornings, and a 
-santer one could hardly exist. Altogether, if ever I felt tempted to 

How good is man's life, the mere living t 

as during the weeks that I spent at the Rosenberg, for my entertainers 
w how to make the wheels of existence move with a smoothness which 
<t have contented a Sybarite. 

There was far less formality and ostentation than English ideas would 
e ted one to expect, for the family of the Von LSwensteins is as old, and 

314 Tfte Rosenberg. 

as wealthy too, as almost any in the south of Germany, and they are jus 
proud of their long, unbroken line of noble ancestors, and of the ca^^t 
among the mountains of the Black Forest,, which was the cradle of th^<: 
race. Surely not one of all the former Barons von Lowenstein can hs^i 
been a more striking person than my host : he was an old man, but I u ^sc 
to think him quite as handsome as either of his two handsome sons ; 
the dignified courteousncss of his manner is not easy to describe. He 

the chosen friend and chief adviser of the King of W , the Prime MinL^tc 

in fact of that tiny State, and the most important personage in that miniatiixr 

Court. Every morning he used to ride into S and repair to the paL^cc 

often dining at his own town house, and not returning to the Rosenfcei^ 
till nearly supper time. It was very nice to see him and his sons togetlier, 
they got on so well with one another, and were such firm friends. The 
relation between father and son is very beautiful when seen in perfection, 
which it rarely is, more rarely perhaps than any other relation ; certsiinly 
it is more variable than any other in intensity, especially as regards the 
feeling of the son towards the father. The brothers were very much alike. 
Max, the elder, was somewhat insipid looking in his colourless fairness, 
with his pale grey eyes, and flaxen hair ; he was a dreamy, indolent, 
unpractical person, and spent nearly all his time in the music room, ioi 
he was a composer and performer of no mean kind. Karl, the younger, was 
far the handsomer of the two ; his eyes were the colour of his native skies, 
and the sunlight seemed to have got entangled somehow in the crisp curls 
of his golden hair. His talent for painting was as remarkable as his 
brother's for music, and he pursued his art with as much energetic 
industry as if he had been obliged to earn his daily bread. He rode 

into S each morning with his father and devoted the, early part 0^ 

the day to his easel. Our visits to his studio in the Von Lowensteins 
town house used to be among my greatest enjoyments. At that time he 
was painting a favourite dog and horse, belonging to the Queen, who ^*as 

away from S , the picture being intended as a surprise for her upon her 

return. He was a very clever portrait painter, too, and had the rare g^'^ 
of idealizing the faces he transferred to his canvas, without in the 1^*^ 
diminishing the truthfulness of the resemblance. His aunt said to roe one 
day — " Karl makes people look as they will look in Heaven. ** And I thin* 
she was right in thus defining the peculiar charm which the likenesses taken 
by her favourite nephew certainly possessed. 

The old Baron had lost his wife many years before, and his sister, 1*** 
von Lowenstein, had always lived with him during the greater part of ^^ 
year ever since. The Rosenberg was hers, and the whole party generally 
spent the months of May, June, and July there. In August, the iaron ^ 
his sons used to go off to the Stamm-schloss among the mountains, ^^* /• 
Ida went to a delightful little estate which belonged to her, on the shore 
the Lake of Lucerne. About the middle of November they all met ^^ 

in S , and spent the winter in their town house, for the winter moot*J^ 

arc the " season " there, and it was amusing to hear the remarks P^^ 
made to me on the absurdity of the English fashion in this respect ^ \a 
have our dinners, balls, concerts, and operas, when the weather is cold, ^f^ 
the days are dark and short," they would say ; " and then when the ^P^^ 
comes, and the weather is fine and warm, and the evenings are long, ^'^ ^ 

Tlie Rosenberg. 31 

away and enjoy the country. We manage much better than you English 
<lo.'' And I could not contradict them. 

Ida was one of the principal persons in the society of the neighbourhood; 

at the time of which I write, Ellc avait dtfj'a double Ic cap redoubtcUfle de 

-io, quarantaine^ and yet she was as attractive, in her own way, as ever. 

She had never been nice looking at any age, and now that she was no 

-longer young, she had the good sense to content herself with the sober tints 

of autumn, and never made the least attempt to appear younger than she 

really was. She talked extremely well ; indeed she had the art of making 

•an>'thing she chose to tell appear the most interesting story imaginable. 

One day she gave me a droll account of the various suitors she had had in 

bygone years, and her reasons for refusing . them. " I wonder you never 

liked any one out of them all," I remarked. " I did like a great many of 

them very much," she answered ; ** only 1 never liked any man well enough 

to be willing to give up my liberty and tie myself to him for life. Besides, 

I should have been sure to get tired of him." She told the simple truth 

•about herself when she thus spoke, as 1 heard from other people. There 

<:crtainly was a great lack of feminine softness and dependence about her, 

as a single glance at her large, determined mouth, and straight chin, was 

enough to show. 

During the months she spent at the Rosenberg her friends knew that 
she was always " at home " two afternoons in the week, and I never enjoyed 
any fomi of society half so much as these receptions ; they had not the 
fonnality which necessarily belongs to a regular garden party, or indeed to 
^y kind of premeditated entertainment ; no one came who did not want to 
or stayed longer than he liked, or did anything he would rather not have 
<ione. The guests began to arrive about three, and from that time till 
nearly seven, there was a constant coming and going. Some strolled about 
the grounds, some gathered in the music room, all seemed amused and 
'^PPy. I cannot think how the dull people, and the stupid people, and 
^he disagreeable people, were kept away, but somehow they never made 
^eir appearance. Of course the chief occupation was talking, and certainly 
if ever the difficult art of conversation was thoroughly understood, it was 
^inderstood at the Rosenberg. The tone was admirable, too ; there was so 
^uch breadth, and such an absence of anything like personal gossip, or 
P^tty slander, or prejudice. 

^Vith all this ease and freedom, however, there were very strong class 

'^^ and the invisible cordon which inclosed the charmed circle formed 

* Wrier almost impossible to be passed by those bom outside of it. 

*yealth was, in itself, no passport, for money is not a leveller of social 

^distinctions in Germany to the extent it is among ourselves. Riches are 

'^ot treated with undue honour there, nor is poverty regarded as a disgrace, 

^^^ Parvenus are held in abomination, and nouveaux-richcs sigh in vain 

^^^ admission into even the merest outskirts of good society ; or rather, 

*"^ ivmld sigh in vain, if they desired such admission, but Germans, as 

^ "^e, are free from any wish to intrude into a class above them. No one 

*^^ could be said to have ever been engaged in any kind of trade, or 

. ^sc immediate predecessors had been so engaged, would, under any 

fJ'^^Uinstances, have been received on terms of equality at the Rosenberg. 

^ Well connected persons, who were poor, came there as honoured guests, 

3i6 The Rosejiberg. 

and were treated with invariable kindness. I have seen Max mark the 
fingering of a difficult passage of music for some little governess, and Karl 
correct the sketches of a friend who was obliged to eke out a scanty income 
by giving lessons in painting. Of course English luxury and love of display, 
in dress for instance, render it almost impossible for persons equal in 
cultivation, good breeding, and refinement, but very unequal in the amount 
of their respective incomes, to mix freely in society ; but where much greater 
simplicity prevails the case becomes quite different. The Von Lowensteins^ 
class ideas were a sort of religion to them ; at least, they none of them had 
any other, but were the most complete Nihilists that could be imagined, and 
I could never have understood what that sect, if such it may be termed, now 
spreading so widely in the unhappy State Church of Russia, really is, if I 
had not stayed so long at the Rosenberg. The greater part of the nominal 
Protestants to be found among the German aristocracy are, at least in the 
south, nothing more than thorough going liberals ; and, if one could imagine 
a sufficient excuse for unbelief, that excuse might surely be found in 
the gloomy unattractiveness of the system which calls itself German 
Protestantism. But no Catholic guest of the Von Lowensteins ever 
experienced the slightest difficulty in practising his religion ; for instance, 
whatever plans might be made for Sunday, care was* invariably taken that 
a carriage should be at the disposal of any one who might be going into 
S to hear Mass, however early in the morning. 


How well I remembeV the last evening of my visit. We had music afte 
supper, as usual, and then we all went out of doors for an hour or 
according to our almost invariable custom. The evening was perhaps th 
pleasantest part of the whole day in that delicious climate, and much as 
always admired the view from the verandah when I saw it by day, I us( 
to think it looked even more beautiful by moonlight. It was specially loveET^y 
on that last evening, or else I noticed its different features more particulai^^^y 
knowing that it would, in all probability, be a long time before I saw the=r-=m 
again. The whole landscape was so distinctly visible in the soft, bright Tig" "ht 
of the golden moon, the dark mountains in the distance, the hills a lit^czile 
nearer, the picturesque city at their feet, the woods, and the shining river. 

" I don't believe anybody ever saw anything more enchanting even «» 
fairyland,'* I said to Max, who was pacing up and down the verandah w^k> th 
me. " Yes, it is a pretty view,'* he answered rather absently ; " but I w ^ 
thinking of something very different. One doesn't care much about a vi^^"^ 
when one is wretched at heart," he added, stroking his moustache 2lJ^^ 
sighing wearily. " I suppose not,'* I rejoined ; " but then we are bc::^th 
anything but wretched, and so we can't judge. I am sure / have Im-^^ 
had nothing but enjoyment ever since I came into this house, and O^^ 
doesn't need to stay in it long to see how happy you all are." " Do»5 f 
include me in the <///, please," Max said ; " but it's only natural you sho»^ 
think as you do, for 1 know my duty to myself and to those around me tco 
well not to try and be cheerful. From what you say, it appears that / 
succeed, but you little know what the effort costs me." I could hartfy 
sup^xf^s^ a smile at the idea of such selfdenying endeavours to be €dxxxM 
on the part of the selfish, indo\etvl "Nl^x \ \sv3i I composed my countenance^ 

TJie Rosenberg, 317 

•for I plainly perceived that he was longing to unburden himself of his secret 
sorrows, and I thought it would be rather amusing to hear his story, as told 
by himself. I knew its principal features tolerably well already, for Ida had 
given me several hints as to the cause of a certain expression of pseudo- 
melancholy which was occasionally to be remarked upon the countenance 
of her elder nephew, but I carefully concealed this fact, and after a little 
more preparatory conversation had passed between us, and solemn oaths 
of sccresy had been administered to me, Max proceeded to tell me *' all 
about himself," as he said. 

His father had chosen for his wife the daughter of a Norman seigneur, who 

had married one of Max^s mother's dearest friends. The arrangement had 

been formally concluded about three years before, to the great satisfaction of 

both families. Max had in no way been consulted, indeed he had been at the 

University all the time the negotiations were going on, but he had all the 

strongly marked ideas of his class as to the duty of an eldest son in deferring 

completely to his father in the matter of marriage, and his nature being ver\- 

'Huch the reverse of energetic, he had passively acquiesced in the destiny 

that was marked out for him ; so that all had gone smoothly until the 

autumn before I knew him, when he went to travel in the Pyrenees, and 

during his wanderings met a young lady who impressed his fancy a good 

deal. " I saw her several times," he said, " and sat near her once or twice 

^^ the table rPhStc, for we were at the same place for two or three days. 1 

^en went to Church one hot Sunday morning in order to look at her again. 

^He was so charming, I couldn't half describe her properly, however I were 

'^^ try. She had the loveliest eyes and complexion, and such a sweet 

Expression. Ach, sic war goltlich !^^ He paused. 1 didn't quite know 

^Hat to say, so 1 said nothing, and he presently went on — **As soon as 

* got home I told my father all about her, and begged him to find some 
^^cuse for breaking off my engagement, but he at once refused absolutely. 

* Vas angry at the time, and have been wretched ever since. However, 1 
?^ppose he is right, noblesse oblige^ and of course I would not do anything 
"*^ the least dishonourable and unworthy of my name. But yet you know a 
^an can't resign himself to a blighted life without a struggle, and sometimes 
*^ seems too hard. This afternoon, for instance, my father has been settling 
^me money matters in reference to my marriage, and I feel more depressed 

'^«Un ever. Look at this likeness of vay fiafia^e, you won't be able to say what 
Vcu think, so you needn't say anything." 

We stepped off the verandah, and out of the shadow of the house ; the 
*ight of the moon was so bright that I could perfectly distinguish every 
detail of the photograph which Max put into my hand, and it was a very 
Unattractive person that I saw, so that I scarcely knew how to console my 
Companion. ** She may be much nicer looking than that now," I said at 
*ast ; " I can tell by the dress that the likeness was taken some time ago. 
Vou haven't seen her since she was a child, and you say you shouldn't have 
"Recognized this photograph. Perhaps when she leaves the convent where 
^he is at school, and you go to visit her, you will find her quite unlike the 
X)icture. And if she's not exactly pretty, I dare say she's very nice and 
pleasant, and you know one never thinks much about the looks of the people 
M)ne lives with." 

At this moment Ida called to me from the verandah — " My dear child, 

3i8 The Rosenberg. 

are you never coming indoors ? Why don't you remind that selfish Max 

that you have a long journey before you tomorrow ? " Thereupon Max 

slipped the unfortunate photograph back into his waistcoat pocket ; I looked 

up at him with the most sympathizing face I could assume, and said, laying 

my fingers lightly on his arm — " It's ver}*, verj' kind of you to have told mc 

all this ; I shall often send my good wishes to you from over the sea, and I 

do believe it will all come right somehow. When it does, don't forget the 

Englishwoman's prophecy ! " And then wc went in. 1 must confess that I 

felt rather odd the next morning when I encountered my companion of the 

evening before, but Max's sclfpossession was equal to any emergency, and 

soon after breakfast the carriage was announced, and he and Ida drove 

down with me to the station. 'At the ver>' last moment he handed a 

beautiful bouquet in at the window of the railway carriage, saying as he did 

so — " Don't forget your promise of secresy ; trcn mid f est. you know." " Lcr 

donna I mobile^^ I answered, and the train moved off. 

I had plenty of time that day to think over his stor}', and as I did so, the 

shallowness of his nature struck mc more and more. With all his grace and 

cultivation and charm of manner, he was ver}' heartless and superficial. 

His affection could never be worth having; the affection of such a one a^ 

he was never is, for water cannot rise above its source. And his dejection. 

was so evidently unreal too ; it was nothing more than the disappointed 

caprice of a spoilt child ; he had so long been accustomed to have the trec^ 

shaken for him whenever he wished, that now he could not bear to sigl^. 

in vain for a fruit which appeared so vcr>' tempting. The ready fluenc"^^ 

with which he had spoken of his grief proved that it was not ver>' bitte"*:", 

cc ne sont que les maux vu^diocrcs qui pcnvcnt Ctrc exprimh. Besides, poc^^s 

and shallow characters like his never can have any deep grief to confid.^^ 

for they never know what such grief is, any more than they ever knc^ 

the best and purest kind even of mere earthly happiness ; both extren^ % 

are avoided in the road along which they travel steadily through life. 

course I refer only to indiscriminate and uncalled for outpourings ; th 

are many people who only unfold very slowly, and yet when their confidera. ^r< 

is gained it is absolute and entire. But then they bestow it once perhat x>2 

in their lifetime, and unconsciously pay the highest possible complim^^i^t 

to the individual who receives it; they must entertain no small amom_mnt 

of trustful affection for any one whom they will allow to see into tlie 

secret places of their souls, where " God only, and good angels " sare 

accustomed to look. 


I should have been in no danger of forgetting the Rosenberg eve^n if 
I had not brought away a lovely water colour sketch of one of the preffc iest 
views to be obtained in the grounds, for Ida was a most excel-lent 
correspondent, and as long as she lived, her racy and amusing le*.*ers 
kept me thoroughly an conrant of all that went on around her. But she 
died, almost suddenly, about two years after my visit, and the tidings of 
her death caused me many an hour of reflection. One cannot help aslcin^ 
oneself, however sadly, what is to become of people like her, so nice ^^ 
good, and kind, yet so entirely without religious belief.? She left rf»e 
^Teater part of her fortune, and both her houses, to her favourite nepbeWr 
and the family life still goes on mucVi a^v^T its accustomed fashion, tor 


Tlu Rosenberg. 319 

Karl likes his father and brother to enjoy the Rosenberg with him in the 
early summer, and they are glad that he should be an inmate of their 
town house during the winter. 

But all the friends of the Von Lowenstcin's agree in saying that their 

house is far from being as pleasant as it used to be ; for Max's young 

^•ife contrasts unfavourably, in many ways, with the former mistress of 

the Rosenberg ; but then Ida's social talent was of a very high order, 

and her equal in this respect would not easily be found. Karl gets on 

admirably with his sister in law, all the better perhaps, because she 

possesses no very distinct character or individuality of her own, and 

regards him as a wonderfully talented being, a sort of demigod in fact, 

to be treated with all deference and distant respect. He paints better than 

ever now, and more assiduously too ; from time to time his friends ask him 

«^hen he means to marry, but he always makes reply that his art is his lady 

'<^ve, and that he wishes for no other bride: He is proud, and exceedingly 

resened, so that no one tries to press him further on the subject, and it is 

only a very few people who know the truth about him, or suspect that a 

^^^anning little picture, called '' St. Agnes," which always hangs in his 

^^udio, is in reality the likeness of an English girl who was a guest at the 

'Rosenberg once upon a time, and whom Karl von Lowenstein learned to 

'^^% not knowing that her heart was not her own to give. Later on, when 

^^ dream of happiness proved to be a mirage in the desert of life, he 

'"^lewed his offer, doing this with such perfect taste and delicacy of feeling 

^^t if anything could have induced her to reconsider the determination 

^^ch she had formed, that letter must have done so. Her refusal was a 

^^^t blow to "him, but I believe that his pride was more deeply wounded 

jjT'^'i his heart ; he could not bear to think that the memory of an unknown 

""'^^lishman was preferred to him, and to feel that in spite of his beauty, and 

^^th, and talent, and faultless pedigree, he was not altogether so irresistible 

^Q had imagined. Perhaps it was a little hard for such a one as him to 

?^^ that he could not marry the only woman he had ever wished to make 

*^ Wife, but I am certain that the resolution never to marry, to which he has 

"^^licrto adhered, was more the result of pique than of disappointed affection, 

'^ Could not have exactly what he liked, and so he would have nothing at 

tr* 5 Besides, his love, such as it was, had not been returned, and a one 

^^Cfl attachment can never take any deep root, for love must be mutual 

^ ^c worth the name. Nor was he the sort of man that is capable, in any 

"^^^, of a great affection, and 1 do not believe he could ever, notwithstanding 

^" His attractive qualities, have called such an affection forth. 

The two brothers, so different in many ways, resembled one another in 

*^is, that they were neither of them at all affectionate, though Karl would no 

^^Ubt make a very nice husband for a woman as incapable as himself of 

^^^erstanding what love really is, and Max seems fond enough of his wife 

*^ liis hstless, apathetic sort of way. If ever there was a spoilt darling of 

\^t^une, he is one, though I cannot imagine what the capricious goddess sees 

^^ Him, or why she has so loaded him with her favours all his life through. 

^^en in the matter of choosing a wife he had his own way after all, and the 

**^^iMier in which this happened was so remarkable that I could never have 

P^Ucvcd the story to be true if I had known the persons concerned in it less 

^^timately. In the spring of the year after he had so pathetically (as he 

320 The Rosefiberg. 

thought) confided his sorrows to me under the verandah of the Rosenberg, 
he set out with his father for the old Norman ch&teau in which he was to be 
introduced to his future bride. For several days before the one fixed for the 
departure of the travellers, Max was more irritable than he had ever been 
known to be ; he had scarcely ever been thwarted in his whole life, and he 
had always believed that his good fortune, hitherto so invariable, would not 
desert him when the fatal step had to be taken, but that some way of release 
from his engagement would be certain to appear. He possessed all that light 
hearted confidence as to the future which is such a characteristic of people 
whose lot has been a prosperous one, and contrasts so strongly with the timid 
apprehensiveness of those whose history presents a succession of sorrows. 

Now that the crisis was close at hand, it was more than Max could beai 
with equanimity, and when his father said to him on the last evening but on' 

— "You had better ride into S with me tomorrow morning, Max, an. ^f 

then we can go to the jeweller's and choose a present for Ddsir^ ; I saw sonc^^ 
very pretty things in the window today," he could scarcely control himself 
sufficiently to answer in his usual tone of calm indifference ; as soon as Vie 
could, he escaped into the garden, where Karl joined him, and the Xt^kq 
brothers proceeded to quarrel more earnestly than they had ever done. 
They ordinarily seemed to be the best possible friends, and really were ^oo, 
in a certain way, though there was no manner of sympathy between tl&cm, 
and their characters were radically different. Now, however, Max's com- 
plaints were more than Karl knew how to endure, especially as he hiixkscif 
was far too proud and selfcontaincd ever to complain at all ; if a remedy 
could be found for any evil, he sought and applied that remedy witl* his 
accustomed energy, if not he silently acquiesced in the inevitable. " I tliinlc 
you are making yourself very ridiculous," he said to Max, at last ; " all this 
fuss is worse than useless, it annoys my father, and worries my aunt, and 
nearly drives me wild. Why on earth didn't you declare, when you came 
home from that confounded journey, that you would have your own ^^ay, 
come what might .•* Not that I see any reason for all your airs ; youll he 
happy enough with Ddsirde, I've no doubt." 

" She ought to be called Ddtestde," muttered Max ; however, he said 
nothing more upon the subject, either the next day, or during the journ^)' 
but wore the air of a very sulky martyr, if I may be allowed sucl* ^ 
expression. On arriving at the chdteaii^ he brightened up a little ; he '^^^ 
naturally anxious to make a good impression, and thus his vanity got the 
better of his ill temper. Try as he might, however, he could not at any ^^^ 
appear to advantage by the side of his father, who possessed all the ^^ 
qualities of both his sons. And is there not always a charm abo*'^.*^ 
handsome and courteous old man, which a younger one must long in ^^^^ 
to possess } I think some such thoughts as these must have passed thro«F° 
the minds of M. le Marquis and Mdmc. la Marquise as they received ^^^ 
guests, and witnessed the graceful affectionate way in which the old Baro** 
greeted his future daughter in law, stooping to kiss her on both cheeks. 

When Max's turn to salute her came, all his selfpossession forsook hini 
for the first time in his life ; he blushed like a girl and stammered liJ^ ^ 
school boy. For he saw in his dreaded fiancie the queen of all his drcafl*^ 
the charming girl he had met in the Pyrenees ; there were the soft dark tfj^ 
there was the clear delicate con\p\cx\OT\, axvd there was the varying expitssio^ 

The Rosenberg. 321 

too, for D<5sir^ was smiling and colouring and looking astonished all at 

once, as she glanced, in her pretty French way, first at Max, and then at her 

£uber, and then back again at Max, as much as to say — '* What does it all 

mean ? This is the handsome unknown I admired so much, how can it be 

Max von L5wenstein ? " But so it was, she had changed very much since 

the unprepossessing likeness was taken, and hers was one of the many faces 

which, for one reason or another, photography can never do anything but 

caricature. She had been travelling with old family friends at the time when 

Max met her, and their name had been given by mistake instead of her own, 

in answer to his inquiries. I don't know which of the two young people was 

^^ most pleased ; at any rate, with such an introduction, they could not fail to 

hecome friends very speedily. After dinner Ddsirdc invited Max to come 

'w'th her and see her garden ; what she really wanted was to show him 

certain passages from the journal she had kept while travelling in the 

^^enees, in which there were some not very uncomplimentary mentions of 

jhimsdf. She had called him " the charming unknown," and had expressed 

niany a childish wish that Max might only prove half as delightful as this 

stranger seemed to be. At last they returned to the house, and she sang for 

liixn the lovely ballad of "Z^•J yeitx bleusr Her singing was by no means 

first rate, nevertheless Max was enchanted ; I suppose his ear was less 

critical that evening than usual. '' You see it has all come right ; I knew 

it would," he said to his father as they parted for the night, 

With that regal, indolent air he had, 
So confident of his charm. 

I had a long account from Ida of her nephew's good fortune. " We arc 

^11 so delighted," she wrote, " at this most unexpected ddnouement of Max' 

^ory, and he is as much pleased as he ever could be about anything. 

However, I think he ought to be a great deal more rapturous than he is, and 

1 cannot help wishing that success in love had fallen to his brother's share 

father than to his, especially as I am sure you were right in saying that Max 

''^ould soon have made himself quite happy with the wife of his father's 

^oice, and would have forgotten all about his romantic fancy. I find now 

^3t he had told his tale to all our friends by turns, pledging each to secresy ; 

"C is indeed a proof of the proverb — Wo viel Schein^ da Rein Sein,^' Max 

^^^ his father are as good friends as ever, the latter always declares that he 

chose his son's wife, as every father should do, and Max slowly shakes his 

^^dsome head, and retorts — " It's no such thing ! I chose for myself, as 

^^ty man should do, if he wishes to live happily for ever after, as I have 

done," I believe the old Baron did a great deal for the wounded during the 

J^^ war ; he used to escort the Queen of W on her visits to the 

?pspitals in S . I read an account of their proceedings one day in an 

*"J*glish paper, and gathered from it that he is as great a favourite as ever 

'^^ his royal mistress. My latest news of the Von Lowensteins is of very 

'l^^nt date ; only the other morning, when dining at the house of some 

^^Tiian friends, I happened to sit next a gentleman from S ; he knew 

^^ni well, and gave me all the information I desired. It is always a 

^^^^sure to me to talk of them, for they are charming people, and 1 have a 

^''^t deal to thank them for. Certainly it is not often the lot of any one to 

^y in so pleasant a house as the Rosenberg. 

A. M. C 

Postscript to the Article on " Results of the 

Educatio7i Act!' 

St. Jerome is sometimes quoted as having said that the Christian world 
woke up one morning and found itself Arian — Inganiscms orbis icrrarumy 
sc Arianum esse miraius est, and the expression of the great Doctor o( 
the Church may perhaps serve well enough to give an idea of the 
astonishment with which the writers in this Review found on the 
morning of February lo, 1872, that they had become not exactly Arians, 
but certainly not far short of heretics — secularists in education, "desirous 
to surrender thoroughly the whole Catholic system of education to that 
infidel entity, the State ; soliciting unhesitatingly the destruction of that 
liberty of combining secular and religious instruction which the Catholic 
Church is struggling to preserve in almost every country in the world." 

This is pretty well, our readers will doubtless think, and we may pause 
to inform them on whose authority these things are said of the Month. 
They are said on the authority of an anonymous " School manager, 
writing to the Tablet newspaper. His letter occupies more than ^ 
column of close type in that paper, and is far too long to be transferred 
to our pages, nor is there any necessity that it should be quoted at 
length. The fairest way to test the truthfulness of any account of the 
sort is to try to imagine what idea would be forined of the article 
represented by it in the mind of one who had never seen the article<» 
and could only judge of it from the account in the newspaper. W^ 
think we are not overstating the effect likely to be produced upon tb^ 
mind of any reader of the Tablet who knew nothing of the Month biij 
what this anonymous correspondent told him, when we say that it woul^ 
be this — in the first place, that we had written an article on the gener^ 
subject of Primary Education, embracing the many all-importai»^ 
questions connected with tliat subject — in the second place, th»*^ 
we had advocated secular education to the exclusion of adl religioo^ 
teaching; had urged that "no shadow of liberty" for such religiott^ 
teaching should continue to exist ; that all children should be swep^ 
by the Government into "godless schools;" that no more grants 
should be made to denominational schools ; that Government should 
even compile new books of its own instead of the Poor School Qoior 
mittee*s books ; in short, for there is really no use in writing out at fttfl 
length every detail of this highly coloured picture, that in every possible 
way and to every possible degree, Catholic education should be mad* 
absolutely secular, handed over to the Government, and that this nc^ 
system should be made compulsory and enforced by penalties. As * 
charge very far short of this would amount to a very serious accusatioD 
of false doctrine, and thai oiv a matter which is at present one of the 

^^ Results of tJie Edtuation Act'' 323 

5 of conflict between the Church and the world, it is really 
mportant to state exactly the details. If we have mistaken 
feature of the case, it must be remembered that the writer is, 

very obvious reason, incoherent ; that reason being that there 
ertain parts of our article, about the rights of conscience, and the 
which he does not appear to be able to account for on his own 
y. This first assailant was followed, at the interval of a week, by 
ler, equally anonymous, " School manager," who ** capped " him by 
)r three adroit quotations from a late Pastoral of the -/^chbishop of 
minster on Christian education, certain most admirable passages of 
1 were placed in very picturesque contrast to passages stated by 
'riter to represent the principles and doctrines of the Month — if we 
rstand him rightly, not of this particular article, but of our Review 
neral. We may fairly suppose that the storm has not yet ceased, 
as these lines cannot appear in our pages for at least three weeks 
the first letter of our assailants, we may expect before the month of 
uary is over, to find ourselves confronted with the Syllabus or the 
clical, and perhaps delated to the Holy Office and reported to the 
aganda. Indeed, to say the truth, we think that if the gentlemen 
whom we are dealing, one of whom is apparently a priest, really 
;ht that we had maintained what they represent us as maintaining, 
would have taken, not only a fairer, but a far more Catholic, course 
ringing their accusation in due form before some ecclesiastical 
)rity, instead of before the readers of a weekly newspaper. Their 
•ation appears to us to amount to a charge of heresy, brought 
St one or more priests in the diocese in which the Tablet newspaper 
blished, and we conceive that it is by no means in accordance \inth 
'pint of Catholic discipline that such charges should be made 
i^niously, and in the way in which they haVe been made, to be 
•d of by an appeal to " a truly Catholic journal," instead of to the 
ary authority in ecclesiastical matters. These writers appear to be 
[ftuch in earnest in a most laudable hatred of any lay interference 
sirs or questions which belong to the Church. Why then have 
3.cted in this, which is nothing more nor less than a grave 
Jastical cause, a cause of true or false doctrine, in a manner so 
sly contrary to all ecclesiastical rule ? The accused are priests, 
'estion is one of dogoja (as the last writer puts it), the accusers 
f* to be priests also. We conceive that under such circumstances 
ying of the plaint before the so called tribunal of public opinion 

anonymous letter addressed to the Editor of a newspaper, is a 
tieglect of the legitimate tribunals of the Church, a serious oblivion 
ristian decency, and an appeal to lay judgment on questions 
cj its sphere. The Church has a right to have causeo of doctrine 
It before her authorities, as well as to educate her own children, 
>ose who are rightly sensitive of her privilege in the one case 
I not be the first to infringe it in the other. Orthodoxy is 
-eivably dear to Catholics, especially to priests, and Catholic 
apers should not be made the vehicles for charges on that head, 
bey were Anglican journals like the Church Times or the Rock. 
ifore pointing out how it appears that these wTiters have dis- 
id the mare's nest to which they have invited the attention of the 
»lic public, we may be allowed to dwell for a moment ui^vl tb& 

.324 Postscript to tlu Article on 

somewhat humiliating aspect of the story of the discovery. Here ii 
■ Catholic review, which has been for some years in the enjoyment ^ 
considerable favour and some credit with the religious body to which ^ % 
writers belong, writers who are known to be ordinarily priests a^^-x^^ 
religious men, belonging to a body which has never, we think, lost "^^lic 

• confidence of English Catholics, and never, as also we may trust, b^^en 
unfaithful to the highest principles of Christian Education. Moreoi 
the Review has within the last few years, not once or twice, but 
dozen times at least, fought to the best of its ability the battle of 

• Catholic Education, and has had more than one article on this -^^^ry 
department of Primary Education from which the principles of its 

' writers might have been gathered by any one who chose to know th ^m. 
Again, this very article which is in question had been before the piitlic 
for six or seven weeks before the attack was made upon it, and, orm its 
appearance, had been specially remarked upon, and certainly witl^out 
disfavour, and, if we remember rightly, in a complimentary manner^ t>y 
the Catholic newspapers (including the Tablet) in their usual noti<:es. 
All these circumstances, we think, might have made these anonynctous 
school managers hesitate as to the soundness of their own interpretatt^ion 
of the article, though they could not know how highly it had t>€en 
commended in private by many whose names deser\'e great weight i^ith 
the Catholic body. It might have been^ thought that at least some little 
misgiving might have crossed their minds that they might not be c^tii^e 
right in reading — if they did read — the article in the sense which chey 
have affixed to it in these letters. Even if they had felt no such 
misgiving, they might at least have dealt with a Catholic review ixi ^ 
friendly and charitable spirit, they might have suggested that there "W^s 
some misconception, that there had been some accidental omission ^ 
qualifying clauses, and the like, or they might have ascertained ^ ^X 
private inquiry or remonstrance whether they understood the arti^*^ 
rightly, whether it had got into the Month by mistake, whether ^"^y 
steps would be taken to give explanations, without the necessity o^ ^ 
public scandal. But these writers seem to have thought it the ixiost 
natural thing in the world that the writers of the Month should 
advocate an absolutely unchristian State education, and to have felt ^0 
scruple or reluctance themselves in bringing against those writers tb^^ 
public and most serious accusation which their letters convey. 

And now for the answer to this very simple and groundless U^*^- 
•representation. In the first place, the article attacked is misrepresented 
•by the name given to it in the Tabid — it is not an article on Prim^ 
Education.* It gives no general view or theory on that subject, wbi^ 
has been abundantly discussed more than once in the pages of ^5 
Month. It is an article on certain " Results of the Education Act "-^'J 
inquires simply what has issued from the first year's working p^ 
Mr. Forster's measure, which it does not discuss or criticize or qualify 
•or applaud, but simply takes for granted. It has nothing to do ^'^ 
'-what that Act found in existence and left untouched, nodfiing with th^ 
general question whether education should be religious or secular, n^' 
with the Church's right to her children, nor, indeed, with education 

* We have ascertained that the Editor of the Tablet is not responsible i^ ^ 
" in/sr^resentation, which stands at the bead of the letters in his columns, and wbicD» 
under the circumstances, is caku\aled lo m\s\eaA m \)[u& nvosx ^^tvous manner. 

'^Results of the Education Act'' 325: 

lest and true signification/' as the author words it, but simply 
provisions of this particular Act with regard to what he calk- 
ruction," the need of which he urges as greater in our days 
, and with the success of these provisions. The article is very 
ips twice as long as the letters in which it has been attacked, 
cannot be said at once, and our pages have often enough borne 
>ur sense of the importance of the questions here omitted. The 
s how the Anglicans, how the Catholics, how the Noncon- 
spectively, have dealt with the opportunities offered by the 
wells especially on the paltry manoeuvres of the last named 
[ionists, who have actually leagued with the Secularists to 
e utter elimination of religious teaching from rate-aided 
icause they find that they cannot compete on equal terms 
smbers of the Established Church. The writer then passes 
ine what has been the working of the School Board system, 
rides strongly against it He considers that Parliament has, 
emment has, done a weak and mischievous thing in putting 
nt a matter as education — or rather, instruction, for, as we 
he has set aside " education in its highest and truest sense " 
nto the hands of a "handful of London professors, Liverpool 

Sunderland tradesmen, country squires, provincial attor- 
the like, and he adds that Primary Education should be an 
mdertaking, it should be placed "beyond the sphere of 
ickerings," certain leading principles should be fixed by the 
It, and carried out thoroughly. We cannot imagine any 
misconception of this word " Imperial." The opposite which 
s is not, as our kind friends have chosen to insinuate, 
ical " or " religious," but local or municipal. The writer 
•%, whatever the State is to do, should be done by the 
It itself. Then he goes on to state certain principles laid down 

and to say that they should be enforced by the Parliament 
tnent, and not left to local Boards. He does not discuss 
:iples, any more than he discusses the Act itself. Both the 
ts principles have been at least so far accepted by the 
athorities that Catholics sit on School Boards and work their 
der the Act, and that is enough for him. The writers who 
m probably dislike the Act in itself, and so may he ; but that 
to the point. He says, let Parliament enforce the principles 

down. It has decided that primary instruction should be 

apart from religious instruction. Well then, let this principle 
yr carried out in every elementary school in the kingdom, and 
Parliament," again, "has decided that local School Boards 
le school fees of destitute children sent by their parents to 

their own denomination. Let Parliamait advance a step 
i compel School Boards to recognize the rights of conscience 
irents, and to pay the fees when the parents are unable to do 
we need not go on, for what we have said is enough to 
e general drift of the article. It speaks entirely of that part 
m which the State has undertaken to secure, and in which the 

all events as yet, has not thought it necessary to refuse the 
of the State. It addresses the State throughout, as to this- 

and ui^gres that tht Act has failed, because '\Xs eTfiiDi^<vcLVau&> 

326 Postscript to the Article on 

been committed to School Boards, and not enforced by the Govemm 
itself. This is the simple meaning of the remaining parts of the artit 
to which we need only refer ; of the suggestion that the burthen of 
solution of the difficulty of compulsory attendance should not 
thrown on School Boards, but assumed by the Home Secretary, 
of the last sentence of all, in which the instruction of " <ji/ the child^ 
. even the poorest^ in reading, writing, and arithmetics^ is said to be 
Imperial duty. Imperial in its magnitude. Imperial in its importair».cre, 
and Imperial in the results which may be expected to flow from it" 

There may be a question as to the wisdom of this suggestion, l>iit 
we know that many practical men are as ready to endorse it as oursel-^^^i^s. 
Boards are really fitted to carry out laws, not to discuss first principles, 
and the result of leaving so many questions of importance. to them lias- 
been that a good deal of time has been wasted, a great diversity of 
practice already arrived at, that in many cases the best provisions of 
the Act have been, or are likely to be, evaded, and a good dea.1 of 
suffering and difficulty thrown upon the minorities — that is, in naost 
cases, on Catholics. There are no doubt many Catholics who would 
rather see us free from the Act altogether. Some have gone so faj^ as 
to argue that Catholics cannot lawfully sit on School Boards, arid tHese, 
we suppose, must in their hearts think that the Catholic authorities in 
England are wrong in their toleration of the Act as far as they tolerate 
it. With this question the article has nothing to do : it simply inquires 
whether the working of the Act, in certain matters, is satisfactory, within 
■ the sphere which the State has, so to speak, occupied, and from which 
the Church has not yet sought to expel it Our assailants apparently 
hate the Act itself, as they have a right to do if they like. They have 
no right to deal with our article as if it treated of the theory of" the 
subject at all. 

The process by which the argument has been distorted into ^ 
attack on religious education is very simple. Wherever the State has 
been called upon to see that the principles of the Act are really carried 
out, and not left to the weak agency of local Boards, the words have 
been separated from their context, and are represented as an invitation 
to the State to exclude the Church from all share in * education. 1 ^^ 
critics vent their hostility to all interference of the State on suggestions 
to the State to do well what the Church tolerates its doing. It has been 
left out of sight, that the ^vriter was not dealing with Primary Education 
as a whole ; indeed, a title has been given to his article so as to insinuate 
that he was, and the readers of the Tablet are given to believe that «e 
was dealing with something more sacred than reading, writing, and anth- 
metic The passage which we have italicized, in which Parliament is 
<:alled upon to exceed its own principles, znAgo a step further and cofHfa 
School Boards to recognize the rights of conscience in poor parents, ana 
to pay the fees for their children in schools of their own denomination, 
is left out ; and, we may remark, that passage alone would have been 
• enough to undeceive the readers of the Tablet, But we must also 
remark, that this passage must have been before the eyes of the 6^ 
of our assailants, for he quotes, without the context and without the 
sentence from which they depend, a few words only three or four to^ 
lower down on the same page, in which — also to avoid the "miserable 
Muxtering and bargaining already too comxootL among the School 

" Results of the Edtuatign Act J' 327 

Boards" — it is suggested "let Parliament fix the fees in all schools," 
and the like. Lastly, the word ** Imperial," the sense of which it might 
have been thought is obvious enough, is always represented by the writers 
in the Tablet, as if it were opposed, as we have pointed out, to ecclesiastical 
or religious, not to local or municipal. 

We do not consider it our business to discuss the question of the 

innocence or malice of the writers who have put before the world so 

extraordinary a perversion of our article. It may possibly be that a 

writer who puts on paper rapidly and unsuspiciously his thoughts on 

some one particular branch of a great subject may not always expressly 

guard his language against misconception for those who are thinking of 

another. One very high among us, if we mistake not, had once to 

explain that it was a characteristic of his own mind to be so intent on 

the subject with which it was engaged for the moment as to forget all 

others. When people are speaking to their friends, they do not think 

it necessary to guard themselves against every monstrous supposition 

that no one who knows them will entertain as probable for a moment. 

^Vhatever excuse the anonymous assailants with whom we are dealing 

can find in the fact that the writers in the Month do not imagine that 

Catholics will suppose them guilty of heresies which they have 

denounced scores of times, they are perfectly welcome to. But on the 

other hand, we must say plainly that we cannot acknowledge that the 

article justifies such misrepresentation. There is but one way in which it 

caii be understood as consistent with itself from beginning to end, and 

that is the way in which, no doubt, our own readers, many of whom 

have greatly commended it, have understood it No one should make 

^ charge of heresy against a priest without carefully considering, not 

isolated passages and truncated quotations, but the whole of the 

document before him. An ecclesiastical judge would never decide 

"Without the whole case before him, and these gentlemen have called 

^n lay judges to decide on a few shreds of it, selected by them- 

?^lves. Again, the well known character of all that has been written 

Jti this Review on the subject of Primary Eklucation ought to have 

^een considered, and the writer's name is perfectly well known as 

^hat of a priest who has had to take a leading and successful part in 

Catholic Education as such. Lastly, the fact that we have pointed out 

that the writer who came first into the field, in order to make his 

charge colourable, w^ obliged to omit a sentence which stared him in 

^e face, and which was of itself enough to confute him, making it 

difficult for us to understand how he can excuse himself. 

And this is not a mere question of misunderstanding words. Not 
'^very misconception justifies a corresponding misrepresentation, or such 
-^ step as turning the office of the Tablet newspaper into a court of 
doctrine for the diocese of Westminster. We shall be satisfied if the 
Catholic body does us the justice which we have hitherto had at its 
hands, and shall even rejoice if the issue of this strange and wild 
accusation puts some check upon the glibness with which certain 
"^ters throw about charges of the gravest character, and, in particular, 
if the persons who write without responsibility or name in the news- 
papers are restrained, either by public opinion or by authority, from 
bringing grave doctrinal charges against Catholic priests. English 
Catholics live in the midst of a Protestant world, and \lve^ t£\^>j m^^\\sWc^ 

328 ''Results of the Education Act!' 

catch some of the bad habits of their neighbours. For many years 
there has been a growing tendency to assimilate the Catholic press to t-.~ 
Protestant press — to erect it into a power which may be less abnoi 
when there is no real ecclesiastical authority, and no strict law 
doctrine — where heresy is not considered a sin, and when even a lij 
imputation on moral character is thought a more serious injury than 
attempt to cast a slur on a man's orthodoxy or loyalty to the Faith — ^1 
which c^n never, as we trust, be tolerated where the traditions of 
Catholic Church reign supreme. 

Here we should stop, but that we have another word to say o: 
matter which has more than once been mentioned in these pages, 
which illustrates to some extent the argument of the article which 
have been vindicating. Our readers are well aware of the grievance 
the Catholic prisoners in our gaols, of the Parliamentary inquiry wl^ ich 
took place two years ago at the instance of Mr. Maguire, and of the :f^fe 
of the Prison Ministers' Bill which was introduced last year by the 
Government in consequence of the recommendations of the CommL 'fcrlee 
of the House of Commons, which passed the House of Lords, but fell 
through in the Lower House at the end of last Session. The nece^^ity 
for that Bill illustrates exactly the necessity under which, unless we 
much mistaken, the Catholics of England and Scotland will soon 
themselves as to Education, of begging for deliverance from the teirmdcr 
mercies of local Boards, and for the further interference of Parliamerii.'t in 
rendering compulsory what at present is only permissive. There is some 
difference between the two cases, but on the whole we may expec* to 
find that, in Educational matters as well as in what relates to the 
interests of Catholic Prisoners and Prison Chaplains, the safety o^ ^ 
minority such as we are is rather in the fairness of the Central Govern- 
ment than in the religious bigotries and " bickerings " of local BosLjds. 
We should not be surprised if, when some one in the MoNTti f^^ 
elsewhere says that the religious care of prisoners is an Iva^^^^^ 
matter, and ought to be dealt with as such, he is accused by so*^e 
anonymous friend, of proposing to hand the administration of the 
sacraments of the Church over to gaolers or policemen, and }^ 
exclude Catholic priests under severe penalties from meddling ^^^^ 
the souls of British subjects. What is, we fear, certain, is that we "^^fj 
soon be called upon to "fight over again the battle which we consid^*^ 
fairly won last year. It is said that the Goverament hesitates at>o*^ 
reintroducing the Prison Ministers' Bill, and that this important question 
is to be left unsettled for fear of the opposition of Messrs. Newdeg^-te 
and Whalley. Catholics will have again to petition and meraoriali^ 
again to ask for Parhamentary inquiry, and again to be baulked of the 
simplest justice, in consequence of the bigotry of Middlesex Magistrate^ 
London Aldermen, and the like — in consequence, in short, of that sort 
of half legislation which the article on which we sCre commenting depi** 
cates in the matter of Education. 





and Worship in the first three centuries of the Christian era. By Dr. 
nand Probst, Professor of Theology in the University of Breslau. 
igen, 1871. 

;OR Probst has kept his word with the public, and has not 
5 wait as long as might have been expected for the second 
of his larger work, the first part of which has already been 
I in the pages of this periodical. As the author remarks in the 
the second part also is little more than a compilation : he 

have treated questions of doctrine, preaching, the Catechu- 
and love-feasts, in a new and independent manner, but in regard 
lymnology of the early Church, he does not profess to have 
his researches to a conclusion, but leaves the reader to draw his 
luctions on the subject from what is laid before him. 

work is divided naturally into two parts; the first treats of 
, the second of public services. After the author has established 
of a divine message, he treats in the first chapter the office of 
;, the bearers of this office, namely, deacons, priests, and 

and finally the qualifications which should be found in every 

1 teacher, according to Scripture and the testimony of the first 
liristian centuries. That Word of God, which the Church has 

the commission to teach, has, according to Dr. Probst, a double 

object — the glory of God and the sanctification of man. The 
' God is promoted by liturgical services, the sanctification of 
iefly by preaching. And the preacher's office is a threefold 

account of the three different classes of hearers (unbelievers, 
5, and the faithful), missionary sermons, catechetical instruction, 
lilies being suited to them respectively. But the sermons of the 
» remained in their very essence a pattern for all time, however 
n of instruction may have varied, and we still have the 
iry discourses of the Apostles in the rule of faith of the 

an abstract of their catechetical instruction in the Creed, and 
;, or addresses intended for the faithful alone, in the Gospels, 
arrying out this idea, the author treats, in the first two chapters, 
octrine to be taught and of its earliest development, and takes 
I to consider the style of our Lord's teaching, the missionary 

of the Apostles to the Jews and heathens, the rule of faith as 
m by the earliest Fathers, and finally, the Creeds. The third 
proves the existence and internal organization of the Catechu- 

the latter part forming a short treatise on \.Vv^ ^cVvoo\& Ssst 

'OL, XVI, Nl 

330 Doctrine and Worship in the 


catechists. In the fourth chapter, Dr. Probst treats the form aiK 
subject-matter of the homily more in detail, and explains both 
views of the Fathers with respect to the manner in which Scriptu 
should be interpreted, and the relation of natural science to theology. 

The second part of the work is considerably the shorter of the 
The first chapter treats of hymns, and the author shows that even in 
writings of St Paul, of Theophilus, and of the author of the Epistle 
Diognetus, traces may be found of the earliest Christian hymns, which 
seem to be in strict accordance with the laws of rhythm. In the seconc/ 
chapter the various forms employed' for united prayer are passed in 
review, together with the ceremonies connected with them: for instance, 
agapae, processions, &c 

As far as the first volume is concerned, the author might justly 
claim for. many of his deductions the merit of originality. And, 
indeed, many well known names in the literary world may be found in 
the ranks of his admirers. The chief merit of this second voluiae 
appears to lie, on the other hand, less in any considerable number of 
fresh or important deductions, than in a new and painstaking exami- 
nation of those facts which are commonly held to have been already 
proved, and which one may find treated at great length in the writings 
of other authors. But it will always be very much to the credit of (h^t 
author, to have explained and brought to light, as he has done, ^ 
number of passages from the Fathers which had hitherto been passe" 
over almost unheeded. 

And in this respect we find the same merits as were to be observe^ 
in the first volume, combined, now as then, with a plan of researcti 
which is somewhat too minute, and imparts, at times, an air of weariness 
and constraint to the whole subject. Although the present work »*» 
intended in the first place only to serve as a historical basis for ^ 
portion of pastoral theology, yet the writer on dogma, the exegetic^ 
commentator, and the ecclesiastical historian, will find in its pages many 
collateral questions treated with thoroughness and skill. 

This remark applies, for instance, to the first division upon the ofl6c^ 
of the Church as a teacher, in which the universal liberty as to public 
teaching prevalent among Protestants is combated with much decision ; 
Catholics being at the same time reminded that according to tbc 
principles laid down by the earliest Fathers, " Theological science aiKi 
its professors are subject to the bishop, and must remain under bis 
surveillance." Yet in this very section we must draw attentien to ^ 
statement which is, to say the least of it, wanting in exactness. P^- 
Probst mentions by the side of the Apostles the seventy disciples as 
being immediately empowered by Christ to watch over the teaching of 
the Church. We cannot agree with this view of the subject; it is of 
course true that Christ did send forth the seventy disciples, but the 
object, duration, and province of their mission were all very limited, 
and they had merely to prepare the way for the real teachers, who woe 
to come after them. The Church's office as a teacher is to prodaim 
truth all over the world, and never to prepare the way for its reception. 
A new and universal commission of this kind can be proved from 
Matthew xxxviii. to have been given to the Apostles in the my 
beginning of the Church ; for that of the disciples we can find no 
standing-point either in Scripture or tradition, and the idea of attn* 

First Three Cetituries of the Christian Era. 331 

bnting sucfe a mission to them appears to be, therefore, an utterly 
groundless one. Together with this distorted view of a fundamentJil 
point, we find a somewhat misty statement of the relation in which the 
seventy disciples stand to priests. This confusion appears specially in 
the remarks upon i Cor. xiL 28, and the parallel passages. According 
to Dr. Probst, St Paul means by prophets, priests, and by teachers, 
deacons, and the author considers this view of the subject to be a 
perfectly self-evident one; he only adds that the deacons were also 
called Evangelists, and as a proof of this he mentions Philip. Yet 
Timothy is also termed an Evangelist by St Paul, the word being, 
moreover, not to be considered as a special designation of deacons, but 
rather as bearing the wider signification of a messenger of the faith, or 

Further than this, the author understands the word doctors, as used 

by Hernias, to mean priests. Is it possible that any language could 

change so much in so short a space of time ? Should not the author 

rather allow that the word doctor was not, in the ecclesiastical language 

of the first three centuries, connected with any definite office in the 

Church, but was applied interchangeably to the reader, the deacon, and 

^e presbyter ? To understand prophet to mean presbyter, in the 

I^sage referred to, seems to us quite unwarrantable. The author 

^^crtainly appeals to Ephes. ii. 20, where the Apostle says the faithful 

^^ "built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus 

Christ Himself being the chief comer stone ; " for the bishops (apostles) 

^d priests (prophets), or the priesthood in general, are the foundation 

^^ the Church. But in this text the Old Testament prophets are 

J^fened to ; they alone can be compared to the apostles, and termed a 

^^Undation, for die prophets of the New Testament play a very subordi- 

^^te part In this sense the passage has hitherto been generally 

^'^derstood, to the exclusion of this new idea that priests may be 

^Polcen of as foundations of the Church. But we have entered at too 

S^^at length upon this point, and can only add that we are far from 

^Si'eeing with the views which the author sets forth in several of the 

^^er explanations which he gives in this part of his work. 

Much more instructive, on the contrary, is the portion which he 

^^votes to the consideration of the qualifications necessary for the 

Christian teacher. His materials are gathered from the earliest writers, 

^^d he has certainly woven them into a beautiful whole. The Christian 

Preacher, we are here told, should not take for the basis of his teaching 

*^is own impressions and ideas, but the Church's rule of faith. He 

^"^ould, moreover, be adorned with sanctity of life, with wisdom and 

P^ety, so that his actions may confirm the effect of his words. And he 

^ho desires to devote himself to the office of a preacher must see that 

^^5 intention be pure ; he must be well versed in Holy Writ, and must 

Combine the wisdom of the serpent with the simplicity of the dove. All 

^^se qualifications are backed up, in their minutest details even, by 

Quotations from the Fathers. The remarks of the author upon the 

JiJ^tter to be taught are, on the whole, worthy of approval ; yet we 

/^^k that the connection between the missionary sermons of the 

J Postles and the rule of faith of the Fathers, ought hardly to be taken 

^ naean that this latter has its source only in those «\vss\ot\^x^ dxv 

^^ea^ i,e., apologetic sermons. Rather should its on©xi\i^ ^o\!L^\.m 

332 Doctrhie afid Worship. 

the collective preaching of the Apostles before Jews, heathen, 
believers. And if it is positively affirmed that we hkve in 
Gospels the sermons of the Apostles, yet the Epistles of the Apos 
themselves declare that the Gospels do not contain the whole of t 

From the writing of Hermas, Origen, and Clement of Alexandri^^^ ^ 
well as by means of a peculiarly dexterous appropriation of suci^^lr 
passages in various heretical and pseudo-Clementine works, the 
existence and internal organization of the Catechumenate is shc^vTi, 
and the author goes on to prove to us, with a great display of, 
that the Catechumenate was at that time divided into two princripa/ 
classes alone — a fact, moreover, which may be easily and evident/) 
gathered from the fifth canon of the Council of Neocaesarea, and the 
fourteenth canon of the Council of Nicea. Yet Dr. Probst asserts tht 
existence of a preparatory class outside the Catechumenate proper, and 
as he will certainly not refuse to allow that the worshipping catechiimeDs 
received more careful instruction immediately before their baptism, he 
must further be willing to grant that the class of aspirants is also dis- 
coverable in the third century, less perfectly developed, indeed, than in 
the fourth, but substantially the same. In this part of the book we 
particularly notice that want of breadth in the treatment of which we 
have already expressed disapproval above. 

We must not pass over in silence the fourth chapter, which is the 
best and most instructive portion of the whole work. It brings before 
our notice with much scholarly exactness and warm enthusiasm the 
preaching of the Apostles and Fathers of the Church. The matter 
which it furnishes is more particularly suited for the commentator; as 
for ourselves, we merely wish to draw attention to the admirable picture I 
it gives us of the nature of apostolic preaching. The author believ^ ] 
that the Apostles were in the habit of beginning their addresses with 
some incident from the life of Christ, which they in the next pl^ 
proceeded to explain and apply in a practical manner. In proof of this 
view he refers us to the Epistles of St Paul, which are, so to spe^ 
written homilies, the incidents with which they commenced being fouDfl 
in the Gospels. Thus the author decidedly rejects the view of thc^^ 
who see in the sermons of the Apostles the materials for the Gosp^^ 
and thus explain the striking coincidence which is to be observed 
between the three first. In the beginning of his work Dr. Probst to<>' 
occasion to address a word or two of admonition to certain Qtvco^ 
scholars, and in this concluding section he certainly does not s"^^ 
those easy going parish priests who content themselves with committi^ 
to memory printed discourses. **For such a proceeding is death : 
everything like eloquence. An ordinary parish priest doing battle r\ 
the armour of a Bossuet is a more pitiable spectacle than ^^^\^ 
essaying to fight with Saul's weapons. Let him rather choose a peb t> 
from the brook, and go forth with his sling to meet the enemy." ^ 

Of the remaining portions of the treatise we will only mention tJ^^, 
one which treats of Agapa^. Dr. Probst's opinion is that they w^^ 
originally held every evening, conjointly with the holy Eucharist F^^^^ 
the accounts given by Pliny he gathers that, later. on, the Eucharist 
ceiebiated in the morning, and teemed fasting, while the Agapse 
held only on Sunday eveTiing;^, V\ve c^m^^ ol ^^Nks Ooasi^^ being 

Christian Doctrine of Prayer for tJie Departed. 333 

itolic injunction. It must be allowed that the author considerably 
cens the position of his opponents, and at the same time brings 
aid weighty arguments in support of his own. 


Christian Doctrine of Prayer for the Departed, By the Rev. Frederick George 
<ce, D.C.I^, F.S.A., Vicar of All Saints, Lambetli. Strahan and Co., 
.ondon, 1872. 

)r. Lee was prompted to write this work by " the ex cathedra dichtm 
is Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury to a distinguished Eastern 
larch, that the Church of England did not authorize nor sanction 
ers for the dead ; " and by a similar utterance on the part of one of 
Tait's suffragans. Dr. EUicott, Bishop of Gloucester. The book 
ists mainly of the history of prayers for the departed ; the historical 
ion being supplemented by some chapters on the theological 
:nples on which the practice rests. 

Vith the history of prayers for the dead we do not find fault ; it 
rves all praise for the care and industry which it reveals, and for the 
ess with which it is written. The chapter on the use of Prayers for 
Departed among the Jews will suggest to many of Dr. Lee's readers 
importance of trying to connect the thoughts and manners of the 
«tolic age with the thoughts and usages of the chosen people of God. 

statement of the influence of the Reformation on the practice of 
ing for the dead is candid and full ; and we believe the catena from 
writings of the eminent men who strove against the Reformation 
5 no more than justice to their opinions. Whether Dr. Lee is 
fied in claiming the teaching of these men as more faithfully 
esenting the teaching of the Established Church in England than 
dictum of the Archbishop of Canterbur}', we do not pretend to 

3f the theological portion of the book we cannot speak so favourably. 
Lee does not possess the talent of stating clearly and forcibly his 
ghts on theological subjects ; his language is vague and lacks 
ision. Neither in the chapter on the Communion of Saints, nor in 
on the Rationale of Prayers for the Dead, do we find any distinct 
^xing. The saints are said to be in communion with God the 
ler, again with God the Son, again with God the Holy Ghost, with 
angels, with each other; but is this the Communion of Saints 
issed in the Apostles' Creed ? In what do the saints communicate 

one another? Again, what is the Rationale of Prayers for the 
d? may be asked by the reader of chapter 11. Is it the relaxation 
sser sins ? Is ** the condition of souls between death and judgment 
of gradual purification," in which ** the intercessions of the living 
aid " ? Dr. Lee returns no distinct, clear answer. 
5till more unsatisfactory is chapter ix., on the doctrine of Purgatory. 
Lee quotes the Council of Trent — " Whereas the Catholic Church, 
Ticted by the Holy Spirit, has from the sacred writings and ancient 
tions of the Fathers taught in sacred Councils, and very recently in 
CEcumenical Synod, that there is a Purgatory, and VYvaX >i!cvt ^wiNsi 

334 Christian Doctrine of Prayer for t/ie Departed, 

there detained are relieved by the suffrages of the faithful, but chiefly 
the acceptable sacrifice of the altar," &c Within a few pages we 
told that the common belief of people during the middle ages, held 
souls in Purgatory to be punished with corporeal fire. We are \x 
" Venial sin, that is, all sin that can coexist with grace in the sou' 
expiated by the pains of Purgatory, not simply as to its punishment, 
also as to its guilt " (p. 1 1 9). And again, " The Purgatorial fire fi 
from the liability to punishment, under which sin lays the sinner." 'WT^hkh 
is described as the general faith of the Western Churches during tbe 
middle ages. In the same chapter. Dr. Neale is quoted with approval 
as condemning Rome " for thrusting a precise, dogmatic, matter of faith 
belief on her converts." 

Dr. Lee ought to have seen that where the defined belief is so ^very 
restricted and asserts so little, popular belief and popular modes of 
speech must assume more than the definition expresses. The popular 
language respecting Purgatory was shaped on St Paul's teaching,* that 
souls should be purged by fire; but such popular language no more 
implied a definite faith as to the nature of the pains of Purgatory tlixui 
Father Faber*s poetical fervour implied that his faith went beyond tlie 
teaching of the Council of Trent. It would be impossible to speak or 
write about Purgatory within the limits of what is strictly of faitl^^ at 
least in popular language, and any one attempting, as Dr. Lee has dooe, 
to trace back the faith from the popular form it assumed, would probaWy 
be misled. Dr. Lee has not escaped the danger. Where, for instance, <Jid 
he learn that venial sin is expiated — not simply as to its punishment, l>u^ 
also as to its guilt ? Is it not the more received opinion among tl^eolo- 
gians, that the guilt of venial sin is remitted at the Particular Judgment? 
Are not the souls in Purgatory in several languages called the 1^^^^ 
Souls, because they are held to be free from all guilt ? This expiation 
of sin as to its punishment is an instance of what we understanci ^X 
Dr. Lee's want of precision. Another instance occurs in the same p^H^ 
— "The. purgatorial fire frees from the liability to that punishment under 
which sin lays the sinner." The explanation follows — "A person is 
loosed from a debt who pays it" What a vague way of saying that tne 
suffering in purgatorial fire is the chastisement visited on venial sin ! 

The claptrap about the sale of indulgences is unworthy of one wijo 
writes on so grave a subject as prayers for the dead in a reverential sp^ 
Dr. Lee, at p. 136, says — "No such extensive changes as were effected 
under Henry the Eighth and his illegitimate daughter, Elizabeth, coiwQ 
have been carried out, had not corruptions existed of a nature such 
as to have practically eaten out the religion of the main body oi the 
people, who, with only a few exceptions, passively witnessed the steady 
progress of Change and the triumphant success of Robbery." We asi 
him to turn to Italy and seek the explanation of the facts which ait 
passing in our own day, under our own eyes. If Dr. Lee, and thos^ 
who think with him, were as zealous in looking for points in which tbej^ 
can join the Western Church as they are in exaggerating what the)' 
imagine to be the points of divergence, the work on Prayers for the 
Dead would have been far more complete, more explicit, and bet^ 
adapted for the instruction of the English public to which it is addressed. 

* I Cor. 3- 

Le Lendemain de la Mort. 335 


4 Lendemain de la Morty ou la Vie future selon la Science. Par Louis Figuier. 

Paris: Hachette, 1 871. 

The sun, says M. Figuier, is the first agent of life and organization. 
\ rays of the sun, falling upon the land and the water, bring about 

formation of plants and zoophytes. The solar rays do this, by 
ositing on the waters and on the earth animated germs, which 
nate from the spiritualized beings who inhabit the sun. Thus it was 

life began in the world, in the appearance of plants and zoophytes 
; called into existence. Plants and zoophytes have life and " sensi- 
y." They contain within themselves an animal germ. This animal 
a is perpetually passing upward in the scale of existence, rising 
ler at the termination of the life of each organization which contains 
from the zoophyte to the mollusc, thence to the ** articulated " 
nal, fish or reptile. From the reptile it rises to the bird, from the 
, to the mammalia. Many germs, dispersed in an inferior state of 
tence, may unite themselves to form a superior being. The rudi- 
itary soul which thus passes through the series of animal existences 
lually acquires greater perfection and the beginning of new faculties. 
se, conscience, will, judgment, are successively added. In the 
nmalia the soul numbers among its faculties the principle of causa- 
I, which is the basis of reason. From the higher order of mammalia 
soul passes into the body of a new born infant 
The human infant has no memory, any more than the animal from 
ich it received its soul. But it soon acquires memory — ^at the age of 
mt one year-^and memory henceforth grows stronger, and the mind 
urther enriched by imagination, thought, reason, and the like. The 
il is, however, imperfect up to the age of twelve, and so, if the child 
s before that time, the soul must begin again, and enter another new 
"n infant. In other cases, after death, the soul leaves the body, and 
ses to the ether which surrounds all the planets, where it enters into 

body of an angel — a superhuman being. Not always, however, 
he soul has not been sufficiently purified or ennobled during its 
>urn on the earth, it must begin over again, enter yet another new 
II infant, and lose all memory of its former existence. So that this 
Id is, in many cases, the scene of many " reincarnations " of the 
L When the process of purification is complete, the soul goes, as 

have said, to the ether, constitutes a superhuman being, and . 
embers all its former existences. 

The earth on which we live is not the only scene of life such as we 
e described. The same process goes on in Mercury, Venus, Mars, 
iter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. Only the poor little asteroids 
left out in the cold. There is everywhere just the same progress from 
Its up to beings answering to men — planetary men. The souls of 
*c planetary men pass in the same way as the souls of men to the 
^Umambient ether, and constitute super-(planetary)-human existences, 
>le swarms of which throng the ether of which we have spoken. 
5y have faculties indefinitely superior to ours, there is comparatively 

5 matter in their composition, their bodies are light and vaporous, 
^ senses and powers wonderfully acute and m3cr*€i\\Qi>i's»Vj ^^ax. 

336 Le Lendemain de la Mort. 

Superhuman beings of this kind can communicate with men if wortj 
of such communications. They can help them, watch over them, ai 
receive them after death into their new spheres of existence. But If] 
men, they are mortal. After living their allotted time in the ethere: 
regions, they pass into new bodies, those of archangels and aid 
human beings, and their transmigrations continue through a series c 
changes the number of which science, with all its perspicacity, is as ye 
unable to determine. As they rise higher and higher, their facultie 
and powers increase and develope immensely. When they arrive at tli« 
highest grade in the celestial hierarchy, these spiritualized beings ar 
perfect in power and intelligence. They are pure spirits, with n< 
material alloy about them. In this state — they tumble into the sun. 

The sun, then, is the final and common abode of these spiritualize 
beings, who have started from the different planets, and finished th 
long series of intermediate ethereal changes. What they do in the sai 
M. Figuier does not tell us, but they send forth by means of the sob 
rays, as we have said, the animated germs which start life on earth an 
in the planets, and which are to rise gradually in the scale till the 
become fullblown spiritual beings like those from which they proceeded 

Such, according to M. Louis Figuier, is the last word of moda 
science. We have not consciously omitted any feature in the systec 
and we have done little more than translate his own words. M. Figuic 
who has written a number of books on different physical subjects, a li 
of which may be seen at the end of the little volume which we a 
reviewing, and many of which have been thought worthy of translati< 
into English, has a certain amount of knowledge of the matters of whi« 
he treats. Many of his books really deserve their popularity. Aj 
now, in the full blaze of the nineteenth century, he sets* down and pu 
forward the system of which we have given a sketch. He is evident 
entirely in earnest, he is not conscious that he has done anythii 
childish, much less anything unscientific We have no doubt tb 
many scientific men will laugh him to scorn, and certainly with justi( 
enough, but it is worth while to consider in what the rottenness of b 
system consists. He has taken a great many ascertained facts, far mw 
than are usually employed in dreamy imaginations and arbitrary expb 
nations of the phenomena of the universe, and he has drawn inference 
from them and made them elements of an argument according to hi 
own fancy. And now, how many scientific men are there who ca 
throw a stone at M. Figuier on this account ? How many are tha 
who reason much better than he ? Science is supposed to be the reig 
of calm inquiry, of severe logic, of processes of thought carefully teste 
of inferences and deductions which are put to the strictest argumentatP 
tests before they are allowed to do service in affirming a theory. It 
perfectly easy to expose M. Figuier's logic For instance, he has 
chapter in which he proves to his own satisfaction his theory abo 
what he calls the frequent " reincarnation " of souls. His first proof 
the misery of human life, and the inequality of the distribution of gif 
and of evils of various sorts among men. God would be unjust 
make this inequality, unless there had been some antecedent state 
the soul of which its present allowance of good or evil is the fti 
Another argument is from the case of those who die in into 
Christianity, indeed, sa^s thax if iKey have been baptized they go 

South Sea Bubbles. 337 

lut God would not be just if He gave them for a life of 
es the same reward which He gives to others after a long and 
ice, or again, which He denies to those infants who die 
d. Again, in the same chapter he argues that all souls must 
d," meaning by salvation that sort of progressive rise in the 
existence of which we have spoken. Chemistry, since the 
avoisier, has taught the great truth that nothing is lost in this 
^orld ; so also in the moral world nothing must be lost. These 
1 are childish enough, certainly. M. Figuier knows a great 
igs — what a pity he never learnt logic ! His book is a mass 
ributed middle terms and illicit processes one after another, 
ir it must be allowed that he is not much worse than many of 
iries of the day. We question whether any bad syllogism or 
in his book could not be paralleled from Mr. Darwin or 
Huxley. What is the use of boasting of the progress of 
1 our time when the laws of reasoning are falling into 
? Every new discovery is a fresh demand for the right use 
> give it a proper place and a proper force, and unless these 
led to it, it only adds another element of confusion to a 
I already overburthened with knowledge that it cannot 

outh Sea Bubbles, By the Earl and the Doctor. Bentley, 1872. 

se — very properly named — ^bubbles had been blown by an 
mortal, and not by a young Earl, it is probable that they 
/er have found a publisher, never have been reviewed in the 
d never have been indulgently or enthusiastically noticed in 
ers — some of them more religious in their character than the 
'onans of the English press — nor should we be at the pains 
g our readers against them. They have a certain undeniable 
bout them, for the book contains some pretty descriptions 
y, and some amusing anecdotes, besides having the attraction 
venture or two of some peril, and the far greater charm which 
;o every tolerable account of the fairy islands of the Pacific. 
10 may remember Herman Melville's Residence in the Mar- 
id his successive volumes, Omoo and Typet^ will be prepared 
^t deal that is interesting in the account of the graceful, 
goodnatured natives of the Pacific islands, as well as for 
:tual presence of the foulest and most open moral degradation, 
tself felt at almost every page. We venture to think that the 
2d element is only more mischievous than ever when it is 
I in the form of smiling, amiable, natural voluptuousness \ and 
ever lightly it may be touched upon, it is very far better that 
not be touched upon at all. For this reason the book before 
objectionable book, whatever excuses may be alleged for the 
goodnature" and "animal spirits" with which much of it is 
all the more objectionable, for the "boyish frolicksomeness " 
aracterizes it If novels, bad in their plots and character, are 
tndemned notwithstanding the grace and bnWAAxic^ ol ^€yl 

338 South Sea Bubbles. 

colouring, and even the possible good lesson which may be drawn fi 
the vicious incidents of which they are made up, the same stem jus 
should be meted out to books of travel which are crowded with 
of what in any Christian sense is simple licentiousness, though 
dressed in its grossest and most revolting garb. If the excuse 
be allowed in one case, it must be allowed in all, and we must 
to tolerate on Christian tables a class of books, perhaps at the pre^ 
time more practically mischievous than any other. 

The other feature which is specially characteristic of the volvixse 
is quite in keeping with that on which we have already remarked. By 
the side of the sensuous accounts of the " Paphian Bowers," and tlie 
like, in which the writer or writers revel, there is frequent evidence of" a 
feeling which is very often found in alliance with sensuousness — an 
intense unreasoning hatred of the Catholic religion. In one place 
Catholicism is spoken of as ** the most dogmatic and conceited of all 
religions," and the writer adds, "I will back half a dozen enthusiastic 
Jesuists or Marists, going the round of Polynesia, to do more to 
demoralize the people, and shake what small hold Christianity has 
upon them, than five hundred of the most dissolute sailors " (p. 302). 
We give this as a specimen of what we call "unreasoning" hatred. 
There is no sense in it; and the writer would find it hard to justify it at 
length, even to himself. . The book is defaced in many places by 
sceptical speculations as to whether Christianity is the only true 
religion, as to prayer, as to Providence, and the like, and will probably 
soon be forgotten in favour of other elegant but fresher flippancies. H 
as is reported, the author be the son of a late distinguished statesman, 
who, if he had not been prematurely cut off, would now perhaps be 
the very foremost man amongst us, nothing could be a more cruel 
kindness to the heir of such a name than to speak too indulgently of 
the foolish conceit and inexcusable bad taste which have characterized 
his first public appearance. 


David Lewis has followed up his beautiful translation of St 
s autobiography by giving us another and a companion volume^ 
ok of the Foundations (Burns and Oates). We had hoped ta 

in our present number an essay on this book in the series of 
ws of Famous Books,'* but we have been obliged to omit it on 
t of the great pressure of other matter. For the present, therefore, 
X content ourselves with noticing the volume in this place. It is, 
», the most generally attractive of any of the works of St. Teresa, 
is more of direct narrative, more incident, a greater variety of 
matter, than in the account of herself which is commonly called 
J, though it is not by any means a full biography. Sl Teresa 
writes with force, clearness, wonderful judgment, and loftiness of 
lOugh she is by no means averse to digression, in fact, her own 

thoughts master her from time to tmie, and she is utterly 
ess of the ordinary laws of narration. This absolute freedom 
of the many charms of her writings. The present work, which 
tten at different times, embraces nearly all that stormy period of 
which was coincident with the gradual spread of her reform and 
secution which she and her friars had to undergo at the hands of 
litigated '' Carmelites. She says but Httle about these troubles 

but her translator has made himself perfectly familiar with their 
Mr. Lewis has certainly spared no pains to render this a 

edition, as well as a good translation, of the Book of the 
tions. An immense amount of information is condensed in 
face and notes, and we cannot help admiring the very modest 
obtrusive manner in which the fruits of so much labour are used. 

Mrs. Hope's Conversion of the Teutonic Race^ the first part of 
is before us (published by Mr. Washbourne), bids fair to be a 
luable book. It is edited by Father Dalgaims of the London 
U The first volume gives an account of the conversion of the 
and the English, and is to be followed by a second, which is to 
; Sl Boniface and the conversion of Germany. The appearance 
I a work by an English Catholic is thoroughly refreshing, and 
us hope that better days are beginning to dawn for our literature. 
I of confining herself to translation of some German or French 
Ozanam's Les Gcrmains avant le Christianisme^ for instance — 
!ope has gone to authorities for herself, and compiled an original 
which gives constant evidence of great erudition and sound 
al judgment. The latter part of the volume, which gives us a capital 
of the first Christian centuries of our own race, has a special 
n our attention, and the subject is well arranged. We trust to- 
work become very popular. 

340 Life and Letters of St. Fraruis Xavier. 

3. We are precluded in these pages from giving any criticism on 
Father Coleridge's Life and Letters of St, Francis Xavier (Bums and 
Gates), the first volume of the Quarterly Series conducted by the 
managers of this Review. But we may be allowed to quote a few 
passages from the Preface, which will give our readers an idea of the 
reason for which a new Life of St. Francis has been thought desirable 
"There can be no doubt," the author says, "that if St. Francis XavieJ 
had lived within the present century, the first thought of his biographer' 
would have been to collect every detail within reach, even as to tJi 
external circumstances and scenery of his career, and that, in particulai 
•every scrap of writing that ever proceeded from his pen would hair 
been religiously preserved and examined, even if it had not be^ 
published. Such was not the way in which biographies were written i 
the generation which succeeded that of Francis Xavier and Ignatius 
and the Lives which that generation and subsequent generations pr< 
duced differ in proportion from those which we require. At this distant 
of time, and under all the circumstances of the case, it might be impo 
sible, even for one with far greater opportunities than it is my lot 1 
possess, to supply fully what is to us a sort of deficiency in earlier Liv< 
of the Saint. A very large number of his letters have perished alt' 
gether. Those which remain to us exist chiefly in a Latin translation 
which appear to have the merit of conscientious fidelity, but which mu 
certainly fail to give us much of the fire, much of the delicate grao 
much of the intense tenderness, which must have breathed in every lin 
of the original. Moreover, a great many collateral facts, which woiil< 
render the letters more complete as an integral portion of his biographj 
have certainly been lost to us. . . . In the meantime, it may ser« 
to the glory of God and the honour of St. Francis, to have done thai 
which has been now attempted ; that is, to give a clear narration of his 
life as it stands in the ordinary biographies, and to use the whole oi 
his letters and fragments which have survived to us, in the form hi 
which we possess them, to illlistrate the life and to speak to us of hfi 
character for themselves. The only former biographer of St. Frands 
who has made much direct use of the letters is P^re Bouhours, whose 
work is known in England from its translation by Dryden. But ow 
acquaintance with the letters has been increased since his time, and he 
did not use those which he had as fully as might be wished. He had 
the advantage, which is shared by the excellent Italian writer Massci, 
over the earlier biographers, Turselline and Lucena, of writing after the 
Processes had been completed and largely used by Bartoli, who, in hi 
Asiay has really furnished the storehouse from which all subsequcn' 
authors have supplied themselves. . . . Bartoli is very full, accurate 
and industrious, but the letters were less perfectly known to him thai 
to us. We have the great advantage of the very useful though unosten 
tatious labours of Father Menchacha, who, at the end of the last centur 
and during the suppression of the Society, published the letters in t# 
volumes at Bologna, summing up at the same time in his Prol^omcw 
all that can be said about them, and goingthrough them cardiilly, i 
the " Chronotaxis " which form a portion of those Prolegomena, widi 
view to their arrangement and connection ^vith the life of St Fraud 
Father Menchacha once or twice expresses a hope that a Life iM 
some day be written \\Vv\c\v ma^ ^n^ xo the letters their due weig^ i 

Professor Heiiriley on the Athaiiasian Creed. 341 

illustrating the history. No one could have been more fit than himself, 

from his devotion to the Saint and his intimate knowledge of all that 

remains to us concerning him, to have undertaken such a task ; but he 

has been content to make it possible for others" (Pref., pp. viii. — x.). 

The present volume of the work embraces the life and letters of 

Sl Francis to the beginning of 1548, leaving nearly six years of the 

busiest part of his career for the second volume, which is to be 

published at Midsummer, making the third of the Quarterly Series. 

4. Among the pile of publications which have been called forth by 
this subject — the Athanasian Creed — we notice with pleasure the very 
able pamphlet of Professor l^^yix\\Qy (The Athanasian Creed; Reasons 
for rejecting Mr. Ffoulkes* theory as to its age and author. By Charles 
A. Heurtley, D.D., Margaret Professor of Divinity, and Canon of Christ 
Church. Oxford : James Parker and Co., 1872), which of itself should 
completely set at rest all doubts about the pretentious theory of Mr. 
Ffoulkes. We select two from the various arguments put forward in it, 
not because they are at all more urgent than the rest, but because they 
are, to us at least, quite new. First our attention is directed to a 
passage in the Exposition of the Creed by Fortunatus — In isto sexto 
fniUiario^ in quo nunc sumus. By all the methods of calculation which 
were before the writers of the middle ages the sixth millenary terminated 
^t latest witl? the year 799. Morever, if this exposition had been written 
in the very last years of this era, undoubtedly there would be some 
reference to its impending close, but there is none. Therefore, it is fair 
to conclude that it was written before the Carlovingian period, and 
^hen it was written, the symbol was at least old enough to be believed 
^e work of Athanasius. Again, " The thirty sixth and thirty seventh 
^crses of the Athanasian Creed were, with the exception of the first 
^use of the former, simply incorporated from the Apostles' Creed, or 
^reed of the Western Church." But they give us the old form — Sedet 
^ dexteram FatriSj without the addition Dei Omnipotmtis, Therefore, 
^ey must have been taken before the new form was generally introduced, 
^ in other words, before the middle of the seventh century. The 
learned Professor has done a good service to historical truth in calling 
^^emion to these important considerations. We may venture to add 
^t in the MS., from which in our article we have quoted an exposition 
^^ the Athanasian Creed, published by Cardinal Mai, there is also an 
^^position of the Apostles' Creed, judged to be by the same writer, in 
^nich the text is according to the older form. This speaks for the 
^tiquity of both expositions, and gives strong evidence of the much 
heater antiquity of the Symbol Quicunque. The words Dei Omnipotentis 
^e found in the Spanish, Gallic, Hispano-Gallic, and Mozarabic forms 
^^ the West, and would be found in any quotation from this part of the 
^eed in Spain or France from the tenth century onwards. 

^, 5- Mr. Lewin Bowring, lately Chief Commissioner of Mysore and 
VP^'Kj has published a very interesting volume under the title of Eastern 
^^perimces (Henry S. King, 1871). About half the volume is devoted 
, Mysore, of which we have a very fair history and a very good 
^cription. The remaining, more serious, chapters axe s»Vvoi\.ei. TVv^\^ 
^«ie on Coorg, one on tht Punjaub (Pan}ab) befoi^ aTvxiexa.\\o\\^ •a.xs. 

342 Mr. L. Bowring's Eastern Experiences. 

account of the Sikh invasion of the Cis-Sutlej country, and a sketch 
of the Taepings in 1854. The latter part of the volume contaiDS 
Mr. Bowring's letters to friends at home, which are very bright aa^ 
amusing indeed. Here, for instance, is an account of what Mr. Bowrimg 
saw at Mercara, in Coorg — " In the afternoon Captain and Mrs. C. tool^ 
us in their carriage to the tombs of the Rajas of Coorg, handsonB^ 
buildings with gilt minarets. It is noteworthy that, inside, the stones 
above the graves of Dodda Virrajendra and Lingarajendra and theii 
two wives are in the shape of a cross. The tombs were covered witb 
flowers, a light was burning, and an attendant came out to present \3S 
with fruit We did not go inside, but looked through the door. Somic 
of the carvings about the buildings are very rich. The two tombs arc 
exactly alike, a third building being a sort of sanctuary, in which the 
god Shiva is supposed to reside. 

"The Coorgs themselves do not believe in Shiva, and have no 
temples, but have a great respect for the god Pan, and the goddess ^ 
the Cavary river. They are very superstitious, and believe in wood 
demons, spirits, &c, and, except at certain seasons of the year, will not 
enter parts of the forest. Amongst the upper classes there are do 
conversions to Christianity, and although the children attend the 
Government schools, the slightest interference in religious matters 
would be resented at once, so in all the schools it is forbidden. 

"The Catholic missionaries have a school, not under Government 
and after school hours they give religious instruction to those who like 
to remain, but only the low castes ever venture to do so. It seems a 
sad state of things. We can educate them as much as we like, and 
many of the higher officials are clever and refined in manners, but we 
cannot convert them. 

"On the 7th I saw all over the fort, and went into the rooms 
formerly occupied by Mr. K. when he was Superintendent All the 
Coorgs ask after him with respect and affection, for they say they never 
had such a Superintendent Troops now occupy the palace. Horrible 
stories are told of the cruelty of the last of the Coorg Rajas, a man who 
ended his days in England. It is said that he used to sit in a bow- 
window in the palace, and make people run across from the entrance to 
a stone elephant in the courtyard while he shot at them ! In this way 
he killed all his relations but one sister, who escaped, and is still living. 
Certainly the Coorgs are much happier under our rule, and they are 
very loyal. 

" I expressed a wish to see some Coorg ladies, so one of the head 
men brought his wife and cousin to see me. They came thickly veiled, 
but uncovered their faces when in the drawing-room. They were fin^ 
young women, with large eyes, and were not very dark. Their hair was 
worn en chignon^ only they had splendid gold ornaments on it, and 
bunches of white flowers. They wore white jackets with short sleeves, 
embroidered with red cotton, white muslin skirts, embroidered with a 
narrow gold lace, and very short. Their legs and feet were bare, and 
round their ankles they had massive silver bands, from which hung » 
number of little bells, with a silver chain from the band to each toe, 
held on a number of rings. Their aims were covered with bracelets) 
and round their necks hung a number of gold chains with jewel oniar 
roents. L. was allowed to b^ ^i^^wit, 'Wx. \k«.^ were very shy, Thqf 

OrsinVs History of the Blessed Virgin. 343 

me some work, a sort of fine embroidery, which they were 
md with which they ornament their husbands' clothes. They 
)ught with them all their ornaments, and I showed them my 

necklace, which is not very unlike what they wear, and it 

the afternoon, in honour of our visit, all the Coorgs assembled, 
number of four hundred and upwards, and had a national 
1 front of the old palace in the fort We drove at a foot's 
\x the crowd round the carriage was so great that it was 
>le to go quicker. They went, dancing and singing, in front of 
le way up to the fort, with drums and horns and war shouts. 
row ! I thought every moment the horses would take fright, 
)£ All the English had assembled at the front windows of the 
)ut we remained below in the courtyard, where we had a better 
d of course it pleased the people to see us among them, 
out two hundred Coorgs formed into a circle. The first figure 
mce was called Balakata, and was a slow movement, the men 
ng round, singing, aud waving about gracefully chowrees (long 
>f hair like horses' tails), with an accompaniment of drums. 
; followed by the second figure, called Kolhata, or stick dance, 

each man was provided with a couple of sticks, just like those 

La Grace.' They all moved round as before, beginning slowly, 
jort of prancing step, which got quicker and quicker. They 
ping their neighbours' sticks in time, getting more and more 
and hitting harder, as if they were going to have a fight, but at 
iignal they all instantly stopped. The third figure consisted of 
combat One man leaped into the circle with a war whoop, 
rith a long switch and a metal shield, challenging the ring, 
t sprang another, and away both danced. At last they rushed 

hitting as hard as they could. The laws of the game do not 
tting above the knees, although some, in their excitement, 

transgressed. The ankles, however, suffered most, and must 
irted terribly after an encounter. When one of the combatants 
he other embraced him, to show there was no ill-will. At the 
le third figure the assembly had a grand flourish, dancing about, 
ing vigorously into the air. The entertainment was brought to 
by v/restling for cocoa nuts, the victors coming forward and 

them open before us. 

ey then formed into a long line, through which we passed to 
age. Nothing could have been more orderly than the whole 
ng, nor more respectful than the manner of the people as they 

the carriage out of the fort and up the road. L. stopped and 
em a little speech, after which they dispersed. Hundreds of 
ad assembled to witness the dance, and I shall never forget the 
The old fort, the picturesque crowd, the fine men in their 
costume, and the graceful manner in which they danced. 
t is quite unique, and that there is nothing like it in any other 

lie Abb^ Orsini's History of tJie Blessed Virgin Mary has been 
i by Provost Husenbeth, and published in a handsome volume 
Vash2x)urae. It is a very learned and very pvoMS ^oxV^ ^xA 

344 ^^' Hayes Land of Desolation. 

gathers up the ancient legends about our Blessed Lady in a nm^^ 
pleasing manner. Some eighty pages at the end of the volume conL^-*^ 
Dr. Husenbeth's tract on the Definition of the Immaculate Concepti^^^' 
with the Apostolic Letter Ineffabilis Deus, 

7. The Arctic regions have a strange attraction for some reade^ 
as well as for some adventurers. Now that the Northwest Passage 1»- ^ 
been discovered, we cannot expect to hear quite so much about them 
we heard some years ago : but there is still the open Polar Sea to 
navigated, and the North Pole to have the Union Jack or the Americ 
Stars and Stripes hoisted upon it. Dr. Hayes is already known to tl 
readers of Polar literature. His present work, The Land of DesolatU 
(Sampson Low, 187 1), is an account of a visit to Greenland, and 
discourses about Julianashaab, Upernavik, Disco, Jacobshavn, Godha\ 
their inhabitants and scenery, in a very pleasant and 

8. All who are conversant with French literature are aware of tl 
great pretensions and success of the Histoire de France of H. H 
Martin. The French Academy and the Academic des Inscriptions ha 

twice awarded to it the " prix Gobert," and it has received another si 
stantial mark of approval in the shape of a quinquennial prize of twei .at 
thousand francs allotted by this Institute. Unfortunately, M. Marti ^m! 
history is eminently uncatholic and even unchristian, and it has 

severely and learnedly criticized in a series of articles by M. 'H^-airi 
TEpinois in that very valuable French Review — ^and would that ^we 
had its counterpart in England ! — the Revue des Question Historiq^K^es, 
M. I'Epinois has now published his criticisms in a single volu"«:x«; 
M, Henri Martin et son Histoire de France (Paris : L Sandret, i8y 2), 
The volume should be on the table of every student of French history 

9. As it is not our habit to criticize sermons, especially by thos« in 
authority, we must simply announce the publication of a new volume 
on Ecclesiastical Subjects by the Archbishop of Westminster (Bums 3nd 
Gates). Father Harper's long expected volume of Sermons has also 
appeared, as the second volume of the Sermons by Fat/urs of the Sodefy 
of yesus (ib,). 'The same publishers have also sent us Miss Bowies' 
charming little volume, French Eggs in an English Basket^ a Rd^w 
Reading Book (No. 3), by a Diocesan Inspector, and new editions d 
Lady Georgiana Fullerton's Laurentia and of the Life of Marie Eustdle 
Harpain, edited by Mr. Healy Thompson. 

Sf. Ambrose. 

The advice which the dying Mathathias gave to his sons, that 
they should "call to remembrance the deeds of the fathers 
which they have done in their generations," is a piece of 
•counsel which we should do well to take more heed of than 
perhaps we do. Nothing is so refreshing to the soul amid the 
•changed circumstances and new dangers of these latter days 
*is to converse, across the gulf which separates us, with those 
great men whom God's providence gave to earlier ages of 
His Church, to realize from their utterances with ever greater 
force that we are hewn from the same rock as they, that the 
foundation on which we stand is that whereon they stood, that 
whatever else has changed, the Church has not, that she 
<^nfronts the Liberalism and Communism of our day in the 
^ame guise in which she confronted die Imperialism and the 
Barbarism of fifteen centuries ago, with the same hopes, and 
^ms, and ambitions, and pretensions, the same unflinching 
assertion of her rights, the same everlasting non possiimus when 
^ed to sanction wrong ; looking, amid present prospects that 
'^^ht seem hopeless, calmly and undoubtingly to a triumph in 
"^c future, because her confidence is in Him Whom " none that 
^st fail in strength." 

From no one, perhaps, in the whole catalogue of the Fathers, 
"^^ We learn these lessons with greater clearness than from the 
S^^t Bishop of Milan, whose name stands at the head of this 
^Per ; who, from the prominent position which he was called 
^Pon to fill before the world, amid vicissitudes the most extra- 
'^inary and in face of difficulties and duties the most opposite 
"^^ the most grave, has been enabled to leave us a typical 
Picture, singular in its completeness, of the spirit of the Church 
^*^ch he represented, applying to a number of the most 
r^^nientous questions, and showing to the eyes of the world 
f^o\v all the imaginings of philosophers are eclipsed by the realities 

V01» X\l. MAY— JUNE, l8j2, "X. 


46 S/. Ambrose. 

of Christianity. There is no one, moreover, who was called i 
to speak more unflinchingly on questions which have a livii 
interest for us in our day too, upon the mutual relations of tl 
spiritual and the temporal — whether they happen to stai 
towards each other as open enemies, or as seeming friends ; ai 
while none was ever more rigidly dogmatic, more intolerant 
error, or of concession, none also more conspicuously and mc 
unmistakeably exhibited a large, a generous, and a practi 
philanthropy ; and to none, while seeking with all his eame 
ness in the first place God's kingdom and His justice, was 
more markedly given in addition to prove himself even tempera 
a benefactor of his kind, whose deeds outshine those of men \« 
profess their whole aim to be such benefactors. 

The times in which Ambrose was called to play so higl 
part were such as to enhance tenfold the difficulties which it m 
always and everywhere present. The Church had found, in ^ 
converted Caesars, friends frequently more dangerous than w 
the open enemies who had persecuted her. Men in whom it 1 
to be noted as a stretch of generosity that they refused to 
honoured as gods, even when entreated by a servile senate 
permit themselves so to be ; who knew that their predecessc 
had claimed omnipotence, and that there was no earthly pow 
to hinder themselves from trying to exercise it; w^ho were force 
by the very instability of the eminence on which they stood, 
be violent and energetic, and to make the world feel that tb 
were in truth its masters — men such as these were prone to thii 
that the condescension was theirs v/hen they made friends wi 
the Church, that they did her a mighty favour when they deign 
to lend their august minds to the consideration of her conti 
versies, and that she ought, even in matters of dogma, to subn 
only too thankfully to their imperial award. At the momt 
when Ambrose received the burden of the episcopate, the evik 
Caesarism were conspicuously manifested both in East and W< 
In the East, Valcns had declared for the Arians, and brought 
the Church all the troubles which an imperial heretic can brir 
• making bitter the last years of Athanasius and installing in 
chair a worthless successor, attempting to bully and browb 
Basil of Caesarea, putting to death the Catholic deputies of C 
stantinople who dared to ask him for a Catholic Patriarch, J 
on every occasion making violence and cruelty do duty for w 
he lacked in firmness and in strength. In the West, if things n 
not actually so bad for the Church, it might be said that the 

Si. Ambrose. 347 

was, in a different and truer sense than is usually attributed to 
the much used phrase, conspicuous by its absence. Valentinian 
was a Catholic, and moreover, with rare moderation, he declined 
to use his civil power in matters ecclesiastical ; but a mind 
at all acquainted with his character cannot help reflecting 
that if he had chosen to be otherwise he would have been a 
persecutor beside whom his brother would have paled. The 
prince who could have a page beaten to death for being 
too frightened to manage a hound, who could order a groom's 
arm to be cut off for not hindering a horse from prancing, who 
could send an artizan to execution because a breastplate was 
an ounce or two short of weight, and who could keep pet bears 
in his palace to feed on the flesh of his victims, had plainly 
qualities which might easily have made him a far more formi- 
dable plague of the Church than was the more timorous Valens. 
It was in an age when the peace of the world depended on 
the whim of men like these, that the disunited flock of Milan 
resolved to convert Ambrose, their civil governor, into their 
bishop. Catholics and Arians had been emulously clamouring 
for a pastor, each of their own creed ; but all were united with 
enthusiastic unanimity when his name was mentioned. In the 
wiidst of hubbub and tumult so great as to have called him in 
his official capacity to quell it, the clamorous partizans having 
"Cen hushed up for a moment by his presence, a child's voice 
. from the midst of the throng that filled the great Basilica, had, 
^^ a sudden, been heard to cr>% "Ambrose is the Bishop;" and 
"^is nomination of a layman — nay, of a catechumen, who not 
only was in no sense a churchman, but had not yet even been 
"^ptized into the Church — had silenced all contention and 
^tisfied every heart except his who was the object of it And 
^ he was swept away, protesting and resisting with all his 
'^^ght, declaring his unfitness and trying to destroy his character, 
"^ving prisoners put to the torture that he might seem cruel, 
^'^d using a still more extravagant expedient that he might be 
ftought unchaste — but all in vain. The people knew their man, 
^^d had made up their minds to have him, and so, as they saw 
*"e criminals laid on the rack, or the bad characters brought 
^^ his house, they only replied- by the cry, " On us be thy sin." 
■^^ last, flight having been tried and having failed, the Emperor 
'^^ing consented to lose the service of his officer, and no possible 
^'^cuse being left to urge, the Saint accepted the situation, and 
*owed that if he became bishop by compulsion, ti^ d\A t^^N. 

348 ^SV. Avtbrosc. 

therefore hold himself excused from that change of habits 
character which was needed for the due fulfilment of the saciv 
office. There is something like our own St Thomas k Beclcr 
in this part of the history of St Ambrose. They had been aJift 
successful and glorious in their worldly career, in the midst «^ 
which they had both kept free from the faults of worldling^ 
alike they were forced into the episcopate, and with equ^ 
thoroughness did they accept the necessities and the duties C 
the new office. They had both also in the sequel to make a stan- 
for the rights of the Church against the encroachments of tla 
State, though the Archbishop of Milan had to make in will onh 
that last sacrifice which was demanded in deed from his brothc 
of Canterbury. 

We know from our Saint's words and deeds alike how hj 
thought and felt of his new character and its duties. ''Lor- 
Jesus," he cries,* " how should it be said of me, * Many sins ar 
forgiven him, for that he hath loved much?* I own that m 
debt was more grievous, that more was remitted to me, who was 
called from the wranglings of the courts and the unenviabE 
execution of public justice, to Thy priesthood ; and therefoi 
do I fear lest I should be found ungrateful in loving less whe 
I have had more forgiven." Nor did he stop at words. H 
hastened to shape himself in earnest after the counsels of th 
Gospel His personal property — his gold and silver, says \m 
deacon, Paulinus — he bestowed on the poor; his lands on tt 
Church, making his sister tenant for life. He next forme 
himself and his clergy into a sort of religious house, where rz 
employment was to find place but the love and service of Go 
for he thought that though a priest was called to dwell befo 
the eyes of the world, and not in a desert-hut like a monk, I 
was no less bound than was the latter to a hard and toilson 
existence ; " for the life of the one," he says, " is spent in tl 
arena, the other in his grotto; the one in combating the tumul 
of the world, the other the lusts of the flesh ; the one subdi* 
bodily delight, the other flees it ; the one life is more meritorid 
the other- more secure; but each alike renounces itself that 
may belong to Christ" f In accordance with this progratnrr 
he devoted himself body and soul to the service of God and 
his flock. Not to go into all the holy particulars of his sel 
sanctification, his days of fasting and nights of prayer, his teai 
for his offences, and his pilgrimages to beg grace and strengtl 

Si. A7nbrose. 


at the tombs of the martyrs, we may well find in the external 

side of his life, with which alone we can at present attempt to 

deal, the model of a Christian pastor who treads resolutely in 

the steps of the Good Shepherd. On every Sunday and holiday 

(which latter category included the feasts of martyrs), and 

throughout the whole of Lent, he mounted the marble pulpit 

of his Basilica to break the bread of the Word to his people, 

his lips ministering, as his great convert, St. Augustine, declares,* 

" unto the people of the Lord the fat of His wheat, the gladness 

of His oil, and the chaste inebriation of His wine." Nor was 

it in the Church alone that his subjects pressed around him. 

Every day, and at all hours, as the same authority tells us,-f- 

crowds besieged him with petitions or grievances, or to ask advice, 

and to all he gave his attention and his aid. And when he 

found a moment to himself, he set himself to study — "reading 

with the eye only, and searching after the meaning in his heart, 

while his voice and tongue were quiet ;" and as there was no 

hindrance ever put upon any one walking in upon him when he 

would, and no necessity for a visitor to be announced, it often 

happened that his disciple and friend came in and found him 

"^us employed, so intent on the page before him as to be 

Unaware of the others presence, who was able, unperceived, to 

^*'P away again, unwilling to break in upon that hard earned 


His studies were devoted to those matters a full knowledge 
^* which was necessar}- in his position in those days of dogmatic 
^^ntroversy, matters with which his life previous to the episco- 
pate had made him but little acquainted, so that, as he himself 
^^niplained,^ he had to become a teacher without having ever 
^^^n a scholar. To Scripture accordingly, and to the Fathers of 
the earlier Church, he devoted his attention, as also to the 
Writings of his great contemporary, Basil of C«xsarea, and what 
*^*s earnestness and labour in this direction must have been 
^^s position in the Church attests. In his audiences with his 
People he had to play a no less difficult and delicate part. 
^^^ civil power in those days was, we know, anything but 
P^^'^ntal, the administration of the laws anything but what it 
siiould have been, and not unnaturally it came to pass that the 
P^^ple, ground down by highhanded and corrupt magistrates, 
^^^d to have recourse to them in any circumstances, and 
^^ed instead to the new dignitaries whom the triumph of 

* Confess. y v., 13. t Coitfcss.y vi., 3. % Dc Offic Min,^ i.. 

I— V 

350 Si. Ambrose. 

Christianity had placed in every town on an elevation not less 
conspicuous than that of the praetor or prefect. In the case of 
all bishops, speaking broadly, this sort of jurisdiction — at first 
not sanctioned by force of any law, but in some way approved 
by Constantine and afterwards legalized by Arcadius — seems 
to have obtained, but Ambrose, who was known as a singularly 
just and equitable magistrate before his elevation to the sacred 
office, came to exercise it in a more marked manner than his 
brethren. But while his time and his counsel were at the - 
service of all, he would neither himself forget nor suffer others^ 
to forget that it was as a priest of the living God that he acted^ j 
and that no business should be handled by him that wa^^ 
repugnant to his character. *' A priest ought," he tells hiat i 
clergy,* *'to be of harm to none and of good to all ; if on^^ 
cannot be benefited without another being hurt, it is better t^ca 
assist neither than to aggrieve one. And so a priest shouU ^ 
not mix in money matters, in which it cannot be but that 
loser shall often take offence, imputing his loss to the arbitrate 
A priest should thus desire to do good to all ; to succeed ^ 

doing so belongs to God alone. In a criminal case, to brir 1 

injury on him whom you should help in his necessity is grave ij 
sinful ; in a question of money, to expose yourself to odium is 
the part of folly." With equal care did our Saint shun ^siJl 
interference in match making ; he never would persuade amny 
one to serve in the army, nor would he recommend any one 'to 
a place at Court, The exception often proves the rule, aiK^^d 
what we learn cf one instance in which he overstepped lr»is 
usual practice 'as to money matters, best illustrates the spirit ^^ 
which he always regarded them. A brother bishc^, Marcell"-^^ 
had made over his lands to the Church, making his unmarri ^^^ 
sister tenant for life. His brother La^tus contested the arran^'^' 
ment, and it seemed likely that, in the process of litigation, tJ^^ 
property would melt away. Then Ambrose, ** thinking '^^ 
unfitting that a prefect should sit in judgment on a bishol^* 
consented to arbitrate. And what was his award } He himsci* 
tells Marcellusf — " I knew that if I decided for you, he {yo^^ 
brother) might refuse to agree ; if I gave my verdict for WitHf 
your opposition and that of your holy sister would cease. . • • 
I thought that I should follow such a course that none shouW 
lose, but all should gain. I have succeeded ; you are ^^ 
gainers — in brotherly love, in the bonds of nature, in conformiO' 

* De Offic, Mill,, u\., 9. f A^/V/. Ixxii. 

Si. Ambrose. 351 

to Scripture. But you may think yourself injured for having 

been deprived of your right and having lost your money. In 

truth, for priests the Ipsses of this world are better than its 

grains. ... I have decided that Laetus shall have the land, 

and shall provide his sister yearly with a fixed amount of oil, 

com, and wine. . . . You are therefore all gainers ; Laetus in 

having possession of the land, your sister in having a yearly 

revenue without litigation or wrangling, and yourself more 

gloriously than all in having conferred on both of them the 

benefaction you intended for one. And for the Church, she 

loses nothing where there is gain of right feeling, for charity is 

no injury to Christ, but His greatest gain. . . . And fear not 

lest the Church should have no share in your liberality. She 

also possesses your fruits, and your best fruits — the fruits of 

your learning, the riches of your life, the fertility of your 

doctrine. She does not care for temporal benefactions while 

she has these that are eternal." 

Leaving this typical example to indicate the character of 
others, which time and space preclude us from recounting, we 
niust pass on to those more public scenes in which the Saint was 
<^alled to figure, and the more striking — we would not say 
^i^nder — parts which he was forced to play before the world. 
Here again we must be content with the slightest indication of 
the various lights in which his grqatncss and sanctity shone 
p^rth ; or rather, while we can in no instance do more than 
^*idicate, in many we cannot even do so much, and must be 
content with touching on what seems best to give some notion 
*^* what he was, ^nd best to serve as encouragement and 
^^ainple for ourselves. We are not attempting to write a life, 
'^^ We shall not tic our narrative to chronology, but shall arrange 
the events to be noticed rsfther by the character in which they 
^^.used him to appear than by the order in which they happened 
^^ occur. 

We have seen that in the service — even the temporal service 

""^^^f his flock. Ambrose was ready and willing to expend his 

^bour and his time. He did not hesitate, in the same good 

5?^^^, to face cveft ijravcr forms of trouble. Valentinian the 

**"st was a prince whose path it was not altogether safe to 

*"^s. His great qualities were tarnished by brutal severity, 

. ^n exercised in defiance of all justice, and his maxim, that 

*^Out harshness there could be no law or order, was eagerly 

^^ght up by his lieutenants, v.ho proved by their performances 

352 Si. A77tbrose. 

that at least the presence of the one did not always ensure that 
of the others. Against some of these excesses Ambrose under- 
took to protest to the Caesar himself, and though the words it 
which he did so have not come down to us, we learn thei 
tenour from the imperial reply. " I was already aware," sa>r 
Valentinian, "*of your freedom of speech."* The said freedonc: 
however, he took in wonderfully good part ; reminded the Sain 
that in spite of it he had approved his elevation, and begge« 
him to continue to apply the same salutary medicine to th 
evils of the imperial soul. 

But the violent and powerful Emperor passed away; aA 
the Goths, admitted by the folly of his brother into the Empin 
not only overwhelmed with misery that prince himself and !». 
dominions in the East, but swept in the West even to tl: 
confines of Italy. Amid the woes and afflictions which the 
brought in their train, Ambrose found occasion to prove, in 
memorable manner, how sincere was his attachment to Id 
spiritual children, and his neglect of the goods of this world 
A vast number of captives had fallen into the hands of tic 
barbarians, at whose hands they experienced the most bnitaJ 
treatment, and were exposed to the greatest evils alike of body 
and of soul. The story of their sad case reached Milan, where 
it caused pity and consternation in the minds of all. The holy' 
Bishop heard of it, and his active practical charity would not 
allow him to remain content \vith unavailing sentiments. His 
church was rich ; it had much valuable plate, the gift o^ 
fimperors and the wealthy faithful. Not content to expend 
what money he still possessed on their behalf, he, on his own 
responsibility — it is particularly noted that, contrary to his 
custom, he did not consult his clergy — broke up first such of 
the vessels as had not yet been hallowed by use in the sacred 
mysteries, then, finding the metal so obtained was insufficient 
for his purpose, he treated in like manner some of those whidi 
had been so employed ;-f' then melting the gold into ingotSr 
he sent ofif ambassadors provided with them, who brought back 
a goodly number of ransomed captives. But the boldness of 
the deed, and its strangeness, 4: furnished a handle to the 
Saint's enemies — and there was a strong Arian part>' at Milan— 

* Theodor., //. E.j iv., 8, 9. 

t This is not stated explicitly, but seems clear from the words of the Saint'i 
apology quoted below. 

X Tlie like had, however, been done in similar circumstances by St. Cyril. 

Si. Ambrose. 353. 

who murmured against what they styled this unbecoming 

employment of God*s property. But mounting the pulpit, he 

justified his act in this glorious apology : " Who is so hard, so 

crviel, so stony-hearted as to begrudge the rescue of men from 

death, of women from insults worse than death, of children 

from the worship of idols to which they werq driven by their 

fears ? . . . The Church has gold not for the sake of keeping 

it, but of using it! What is the good of hoarding that which is 

of no use? . . . Would not the Lord have asked, 'Why 

suffer so many to die for want of food ?. Thou hadst gold, 

tliou mightst have provided them with sustenance. Why were 

so many led unransomed to slavery or death ? It were better to 

liave preserved my living vessels than those of metal' And 

'W'hat answer could I have made thereto.^ Could I say, *I' 

feared, O Lord, that Thy temple should lack adornment ? * The 

Sacraments need no gold, they arc not enhanced by it, as they 

cannot be bought. But the redeeming of captives is their 

adornment Truly those are precious vessels which redeem 

souls from death. That is the true treasure of the Lord which 

'^V'orks that which His own Blood worked ; then do we see that 

^ vessel is worthy of the Lord's Blood when in each we see 

^^demption, in the one from slavery, in the other from sin.- 

How beautiful that it should be said of the line of captives - 

5^nsomed by the Church, * These hath Christ ransomed ! ' Here 

*^ gold that we may esteem ; gold that is of value, gold that is- 

Christ's, which ransoms modesty and preserves purity. . . . 

^ see that the Blood of Christ poured upon it has not 

Empurpled it merely, but endowed it with the power of 


Tender as the heart of Ambrose could show itself for the 

love of Christ, it could for the same love be stern and relentless. 

^3- ^as no mere philanthropy or human compassion which led 

jI^^ in such instances as that above, it was his duty to his- 

~^3^ter, and for the sake of that duty he could no less put forth 

. ^Se qualities which an age careless of principle lightly stigma- 

*^^s as the stupid intolerance of the churchman. Believing with 

, . His heart in a dogmatic creed, he did not find in the object of 

f belief that aridity and lifelessness which it is the fashion 

^^H some writers to consider that a faith pinned to dogma must 

^^ys present. On the contrary, it was in the vividness with 

^^ch he realized the truths of faith that he found courage andl 

♦ £>f Ofic, Mitt,, ii., 28. 

354 '^'- Ambrose. 

strength for his life of toil, just as we easily see that the 
tenderness of heart which prompted him to the ransom of the 
captives sprang out of the firm grasp he had of the doctrine of 
the Redemption. 

The two great obstacles to the Catholic Church in the latter 
part of the fourth century were Paganism, not yet extinct, and 
the rampant Arian heresy. As for Paganism, it had continues 
still to leave its mark in one of the most conspicuous parts o^ 
the Roman world. The Senate, as a political assembly, mightt".^-:^ 
be but a shadow without substance, but the Senate House, was. 
for all that, a notable and official place. In this house the 
Pagans had contrived to keep up an altar to Victory, the mos.^» ^s 
thoroughly Roman of all the gods, and though Constantine ha<^ jEsac 
caused it for a moment to be removed or veiled, yet eithe^^.«iei 
covertly in his reign, or openly in Julian's, it had found its wa^jis^ ay 
back, and in the official hall of an Empire officially Christiar^K^ ,«an, 
sacrifices were still burnt and libations poured. 

This altar the devout Gratian, the disciple and admirer 
our Saint, caused to be definitively and finally removed ; thouj 
we are not expressly told that in so doing he acted under 
influence of Ambrose. The holy Bishop's undoubted influenc 
was, however, employed to prevent the restoration of the odioi 
shrine, and after his roy^l pupil's untimely death, the 
influence was used to the same effect with the younger ValeK ^^n- 
tinian, in words which will paint to us what was the Saint's id^ -Bea 
of the positive relation of a monarch and a priest The youi 
prince had been well nigh overcome by the importunities of 
Pagan party, and was minded to order the restoration of 
altar. This is the manner in which the Bishop opposed tT 
resolution.* *' What answer will you make to God's priest wh 
he says, *The Church wants not your gift, for you have adorn 
with gifts the temple of the Gentiles?' The altar of Chr — ist 
rejects your offering, for you have built an altar to idols ; for to 
order is to do, and your signature is your handiwork. 1 ^^ 
Lord Christ refuses and disdains your service, who have dczz^ue 
service for false gods, for He has told you, * You cannot se '^rve 
two masters.' " And so in like manner did he oppose with a// 
his might the great Theodosius when he wished to force ^c 
Christians of Callinicus to rebuild a Jewish synagogue wliicft 
they had destroyed. And when the same pious and po\verfi// 
Emperor was at one moment inclined on grounds of policy to 

.S/. Ambrose. 355 

aliow the restoration of the odious altar in the Senate House, 

the Saint not only did not fear "to tell him to his face"* that 

he was wrong to entertain the thought, but when the prince 

still hesitated, and would not promise to follow his counsel, he 

retired, and did not seek his presence for several days, and, as 

himself relates, "the Emperor did not take it ill, for I acted not 

for my own gain, but for what profited his soul and mine."-j- 

So again when the Emperor Eugenius, after the murder of 
the younger Valentinian by Arbogastes, came to Milan, having 
pr-eviously given some signs of indulgence to Paganism" to gain 
its followers to his cause, Ambrose left the city, and would not 
even see him ; and let him know the reason of this conduct 
in no ambiguous termsj — "To the most clement Emperor 
Eugenius, Ambrose the Bishop. The cause of my going was the 
fear of the Lord, for my practice is to direct all my acts, as far 
3.S in me lies, to Him, never to turn my mind away from Him, 
^nd never to make more account of the favour of any man 
than of the grace of Christ. I do injury to no one if I put 
God before all ; and, trusting in Him, I do not fear to tell 
you Emperors what, for my poor part, I think ; and so what 
* have not been silent on before other Emperors I will not be 
Silent on to you. . . . Although imperial power be great, take 
bought, O Emperor, how much greater is God. He sees the 
heart, He questions the inmost conscience, He knows all things 
^fore they come about. How will you offer your gift to Christ ? 
-Although you are an Emperor, you ought still more to be the 
subject of God." 

As to the Arian faction, it had — as a still more dangerous 

^nemy — to encounter his more vehement opposition ; and in 

^his contest he had the most marked occasion to show that 

he Was that **just and steadfast" man, the even tenour of whose 

^^nd circumstances could not affect. At the very time when 

^he heresy was well nigh stamped out in the East, which had 

*^en its stronghold, partly by the Council of Constantinople 

^^d partly by the civil action of Theodosius, it found occasion 

^5 ^ temporary official triumph in the West. Valentinian the 

**"st and his son Gratian had been firm Catholics. Valentinian 

J^pist. Ivii. 
^ Ibid. 
^?' *t is hardly needful to remark that the title " Clemen I is^imus " was a formula 
*y»>x^ as a thing of course to every Emperor's name, and in no way implied the 
*^e view of him who employed it. 

356 . S/. Ambrose. 

the Second began life under his mother's tutelage as a patro: 
of Arianism, and it was during the short period of his residenc 

at Milan that the holy Bishop was called upon to resist mor 
openly than ever the encroachments of the civil power on th 
domain of Christ. The Arian party, which included man^ 
officers of the Court, having managed to procure a Bishop 
their own sect to contest the see with Ambrose, went on t 
demand from him — the Emperor being their spokesman — t 
surrender of one of the Milanese churches for their use. 
first it was for the Portian Basilica, outside the walls, that the 
asked ; then for the larger or new Roman Basilica— othenvis 
the Ambrosian — within the walls : but for both equally th 
asked in vain. Seeking as we are, primarily, to know the m 
rather than to trace every circumstance of his life, there is 
need to go through the history of the struggle, the fury of 
Court against him, and the enthusiasm of his people in 
behalf; the plots and expedients of Justina and her crew, 
projects to kidnap him, the chariot prepared and harnessed a 
kept near the church to whirl him away on the shortest noti J 
if they could but get him out of sight of his faithful flock, tT 
siege which he and his subjects endured in the Basilica, a o 
sided siege, in which there was little or no resistance from insic^ -< 
while the soldiers without would not suffer the Bishop's pa 
to leave the sacred precincts for several days and nights — d 
and nights which Ambrose spent in introducing to the faith 
around him the sacred chants which till then had not penetra 
from the East, and which are still known by the name 
Ambrosian. Suffice it to say that he triumphed, that he k 
both his Basilicas, though throughout great part of the H 
Week one of them had been occupied in the Emperor s na — 3ne 
by armed men. Rather, we would examine the mood in \\\m dch 
he went through the combat, the motives of his action, and ^c 
sources of his strength. As before, he shall speak for himselfl 

And first as to the grounds of his obstinate refusal to 
consider the question of a surrender, he thus explains himself 
to Valentinian * — " Trouble not yourself, O Emperor, with the 
thought that as an emperor you. have power over sacred things 
Lift yourself not up, but as you would have your power endure, 
be God's subject. It is written, God's to God, and Caesar's to 
Caesar. The palace is the emperor's, the churches are the 
bishops'." And thus, again, he decribes the matter to his sisterf 

• Episi, XX. \ EphU x^ 

Si. Ambrose. 357 

— **The captains and the counts came to me to get me to give 

^ip the Basilica and to take measures that no disturbance should 

be raised by the people. I replied according to the obligation 

of my order, that God's temple could not be surrendered by His 

Priest ... If the Emperor should ask for what was my own, 

for my lands or my money, or anything of the like, I would not 

refuse, though my property in truth belongs to the poor; but 

^Wfhat belongs to God the imperial power cannot touch. If you 

ivish my patrimony, seize it ; if my person, here I am. Would 

^ou cast me into chains, or lead me to death 1 I shall rejoice 

in it I will not defend myself behind the rampart of my 

people, nor as a suppliant will I cling to the altar, but rather 

'^vill I willingly be a sacrifice in behalf of the altar." And thus, 

again, did he address his faithful flock in the midst of their 

-oommon trouble * — *' I see that you are disturbed beyond your 

"W'ont, and more than usually your attention is on me. . . . Do 

you fear then that I shall desert the Church, and in anxiety for 

^^y own safety abandon you ? But you might have known how 

I had spoken, and that I could not think of abandoning the 

Church, for I fear the Lord of all things more than the Emperor 

^^this world. . . . Why, then, are ye disturbed } Never will I, 

^f my own accord, abandon you ; if force be used, I cannot 

'^sist I may grieve, and weep, and sigh ; against their arms, 

^«eir soldiers, their Goths, tears shall be my weapons : these are 

^"e protection of a priest Otherwise, I neither can, nor should 

^^ist ... I have answered their demands that I can give up 

Nothing from God's temple, which has been given me to keep 

^nd not to surrender; that in thus doing I look to the Emperor's 

good as well ; for it would be neither good for me to give nor for 

*^ini to take it ; for let him give ear to the free spoken words of 

•^ Priest, and shrink from this injury to Christ, if he would have 

"ftings go well. . . . You remember what we read today, how 

holy Naboth when ordered by the King to give up his 

^^eyard, made answer — 'God forbid that I should give thee 

"^^ inheritance of my fathers.* ... If he would not give up 

nis vineyard, shall we give up the Church of Christ ? How then 

^^ my answer contumacious } when I said, * Far be it from me 

J^ give up the heritage of Christ! And,' as I added, 'the 

^Htage of my Fathers, the heritage of Denis who died in exile 

^^ the faith, the heritage of Eustorgius who confessed it, the 

^''itage of Myrocles, and all the other bishops that have gone 

* Serm, contra Auxentium dc Basilicis tradendis^ 

358 S/. Ambrose. 

before.* I have answered as a Priest, let him act as an Emper* 
But sooner shall he touch my life than my faith. And to wk 
am I asked to give it up ? . . . To the support of that syno 
doctrine* which has called the Lord a creature." 

But in the midst of the struggle he received comfort a 
encouragement from a source that is eloquent as to the r 
temper of his soul. He was inspired to search a certaia s; 
of ground near the tomb of the martyr, St Nabor, in the coi 
dent hope of finding some fresh relics to place under the al 
of his new Basilica. He was rewarded by finding the skelet 
of St. Gervasius and St. Protasius.-f" A blind man was hea 
by the touch of the sacred relics, and the Catholics took he 
at this manifest sign of the approval of heaven. \ As for 
Saint, he thus thanked his Master for the timely consolatioi 
" I thank Thee, Lord Jesus, that Thou hast aroused in us I 
spirit of Thy holy martyrs, at this time when Thy Church ha 
need of Thy special help. Let all men know what manner 
champions it is I want — such as can defend, but do not attat 
These soldiers have I enlisted for thee, O holy people : soldi( 
who do good to all and harm to none. I fear no odium < 
their account, whose patronage I desire for those who grud 
it to me. The Scriptures tell us that Eliseus, when hemmed 
by the army of the Syrians, bade his frightened servant not 
fear, * for,* said he. * there are more for us than against us ;* a 
in proof he prayed the eyes of Giezi might be opened, and 4 
he beheld standing by the prophet a mighty host of angels. \ 
the Lord hath opened our eyes, and we see the defenders 
whom we are guarded.** 

It need hardly be added after this, with what dignified sec 
the Saint rejected the proposal of the youthful Caesar, that 
should submit his creed — as his rival, Auxentius, was, on I 
part, willing to submit his — to the judgment of the Empci 
and other courtly arbitrators. "When did you ever hear," 

• The Council of Rimini. ' 

t It is curious to note how short a period constituted antiquity in the ideas of 
ancients and how fixed was their persuasion of the constant degeneracy of the hn 
race. St. Ambrose writing an account of this discovery to his sister, says — "i 
nimus mine magnitudinis viros duos, ut prisca oetas ferebat ;" just as Virgfl a 
doubted that the skeletons of Pharsalia and Philippi would strike awe into 
husbandman of the future. ** Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.*' 

X Even a Protestant like Dr. Cave feels bound to submit to the testimoajv 
witnesses to this miracle. It is, however, no part of our object to pursue this qtn 

S/. Ambrose, 359 

says, "most clement Emperor, of a layman passing judgment 

on a bishop ? . . . Who can deny that in questions of faith — 

of faith, I say — Bishops are wont to judge of Christian Emperors, 

not Emperors of Bishops. . . . Ambrose is not so precious as to 

dare for his own sake to degrade the priesthood.'* 

But, as iEsop has told us, the sun is ofttimes more powerful 
to disarm than is a blustering tempest ; and some men, rather 
than cross a friend, will relax that sternness which all the 
opposition of an enemy only makes them more determined to- 
preserve. That Ambrose was superior to this temptation, also, we- 
see from the history of his relations with the great Theodosius, a 
prince who most fully appreciated and honoured, both in word 
and deed, the consistency and fearlessness of the great Bishop,, 
and whom the world would probably, therefore, have set down 
as a priestridden and incapable prince, if he did not happen to* 
l>e manifestly about the mightiest and most successful ruler 
^hom the Roman world had found since Trajan. The story 
of the relations of Theodosius with our Saint is probably better 
^nown than any other part of the history of either; we shall 
therefore confine ourselves to the most cursory notice of its chief 

When tlic Emperor, who had been allowed by the more 

Courtly bishops of the East to take up a place in the sanctuary 

during the performance of the Holy Sacrifice, came to Milan, 

^^ never doubted that he should be allowed and expected to do 

^e same there. Accordingly, on his first occasion of attending 

the Basilica, after, according to custom, going up to place his- 

Sift before the altar, he did not retire to the body of the church 

^s did the others. Ambrose perceived this, and if we would 

^^derstand the full dignity of his conduct, we should try to- 

^^niember what was the position and what the power of the 

'^^n who tacitly asked him for this mark of honour before the 

people. On the will of that man, humanly speaking, depended 

^^^ safety of the Church throughout the world. He was 

^^peror of the East, which he had found a prey to barbarians, 

and which he had brought round to a state of prosperity and 

P^ce undreamed of for years. He had, moreover, just led a 

Victorious army into the West, to suppress a usurper and restore 

"^ rightful sovereign. In this man was centered Ambrose's 

^"^rished hope of seeing the Empire saved and restored to the 

S'^riies of its youth by the influence of the Church, and then, in 

'^^ turn, aiding the Church to subdue all the nations of tKe 

360 Si. Ambrose. 

world. How many in such circumstances would have shut th 
eyes to what the Emperor was doing, and, rather than 
offending so necessary a patron, would have allowed him 
small privilege which the Patriarch of Constantinople 
pressed him to accept! 

But Ambrose was not such a man. He sent his archdeao' 
to the monarch to ask him for what he was waiting inside 
rails. The Emperor replied that he was waiting to assist 
the sacred mysteries. And Ambrose answered,* "The 
tuary, O Emperor, is for Priests alone. . . . The purple mal 
Emperors, but not Priests." Theodosius submitted, and then 
after took a place without the rails ; and when he returned t 
Constantinople he pursued the same course. The Patriarx: 
Nectarius, observing this, sent to request him to remain, as Ira^ 
been his wont, within. " I have at last heard the truth," replies 
the prince ; " I have at last met a bishop indeed, and that i 

But still more wonderful, and also more generally knovn 
is the history of the penance of the same Emperor. He loBi 
in a fit of passion given orders, under pressure from his Ministei 
Rufinus, to chastise the turbulence of the Thessalonians by « 
massacre of the most cruel description. Ambrose had attemptec 
before the event to counsel moderation, and had flattered himself 
that he would be heard, but when he found how things had 
really gone, he could not contain his grief and indignation. At 
first he thought it well to wait without taking action, in the hope 
that the Emperor might, in his more sober mood, recognize the 
greatness of the crime which he had committed under the 
influence of passion. When no sign of repentance appeared 
he wrote to Theodosius. He explained his estrangement fro*" 
Court and his silence, and set forth in his usual fashion the 
grounds on which he felt himself bound to speak. " Is it not 
written, * If God's minister fail to speak to the sinner, the latter 
shall die in his sin ; but he shall answer for not speaking.' . • 
I thought it best to leave your own reflections to overcome your 
passion, instead of running the risk of increasing it by so^ 
public interference. So I made up my mind to be if anything 
rather wanting in what my office called for than in respect 
towards you, and that others might think me deficient in 
priestly vigour rather than that you should accuse my loyalV J 
so that you might be unhampered in coming to a right nahiA 

♦ Thtodoitl, IL £., N.^ \^ 

Sf. Ambrose. 361 

• • . A deed has been done at Thessalonica which has no 
precedent . . . Are you ashamed to act as David acted ? 
who confessed, * I have sinned before the Lord.' Do not you, 
then, Emperor, take it ill if it be said to you, 'What the 
Prophet told David, that you have done/ For if you will 
hearken duly, and will say, * I have sinned before the Lord/ 
that also shall be said to you, * For that thou hast repented, 
the Lord taketh away thy sin, and thou shalt not perish/ " 

This letter did not produce the hoped for effect, and 

Ambrose was called on to speak more plainly by action. On 

Ae next occasion when the Emperor came to the Basilica, he 

found the way blocked at the porch by the resolute Archbishop. 

**You seem to be unaware, O Emperor," he cried, "of the 

gravity of the massacre which you have caused ; and even 

'^ow, when your passion is cooled, your reason does not 

recognize your crime. Perchance imperial power blinds you, 

l^ut you might know the frailty of your being and the 

ancestral dust from which we all are sprung, and to which 

^c all must again return. You rule those who are of a nature 

^ike your own — who are your fellow slaves. There is but one 

King and Lord of all — He Who made us all. With what eyes, 

^en, will you look on the temple of our common Lord ? With 

^vhat feet will you tread the sacred threshold } How will you 

'^ise up your hands, still reeking with unjust slaughter ^ How 

^^ill you receive in those hands the Body of the Lord } How 

]^m you approach His precious Blood to your mouth, which 

^^ its fury has shed so much blood unjustly i Begone hence ; 

^^d not a fresh crime to your old one. Submit to the bonds 

^^ith which the Lord of all would have you bound — it will be a 

^^dicine to cure your soul."* The Emperor, recalled by this 

"^Id admonition to a better mind, returned to his palace 

^^Shing and weeping, for, says the historian, bred as he was in 

the discipline of the faith, he knew what belonged to the 

Priest and what to the prince. During eight months he 

•^^stained from attempting again to enter the sacred building, 

"^t yet he took no active means to restore himself to the 

^^nimunion of the Church. The feast of Christmas came, and 

the unprincipled Rufinus found his royal master in tears, and on 

^king their cause, was answered — "Slaves and beggars may 

freely enter the church to join in prayer, but against me the 

S^tes of heaven are shut ; for well I know that the Lord has 

* Theod., ff, E.^ v. 

362 St Ambrose. 

plainly said — ' Whomsoever ye bind shall be bound in heaven/ 
The Minister undertook to hasten to the Bishop, and 
persuade him to revoke his sentence. The Emperor warm 
him that the attempt would fail, ** for," said he, " I know wh 
manner of man he is ; " but at last, overcome by the other'* 
importunity, he not only allowed him to go off to make tlu 
attempt, but, hoping against hope that the appeal would b- 
successful, he started with his retinue for the Basilica. Rufinus 
however, instead of obtaining grace for his master, only gav 
Ambrose an occasion to overwhelm him himself with reproach 
both for being the original cause of the crime and for showing s 
little appreciation of the need of repentance. Finding mattei 
hopeless, the Minister despatched a messenger warning Th< 
dosius not to come on, as he would only expose himself 
shame ; but the contrite monarch, saying that he would submit 
to the confusion he had deserved, proceeded onwards to tlie 
church, gave humble ear to the prelate's unsparing repre- 
hensions, accepted penance at his hands, appeared in the guise 
of a 'penitent in the Basilica, and, to guard himself against a 
like crime in future, agreed to pass a law that thirty days should 
always elapse between sentence and execution in all cases of 
death and confiscation. 

To many minds, however, all this firmness 'and fearlessness 
will seem tainted by its object Some men there are who can 
see nothing admirable in the conduct of a churchman so long 
as he is battling for the Church. Whilst he professes himself to 
be anxious only for the glory of God and the good of souls, 
his firmness is set down as obstinacy and his zeal as priestly 
ambition, and it is only when he steps out of his own proper 
province and does something in the cause of mere human 
interests that he becomes capable of anything good. And so 
we see that men who deny the smallest meed of praise to 
Dunstan or Becket or Fisher, are quite ready to applaud the 
seven Bishops, and even, in spite of his Cardinalate, Stephen 
Langton. In the minds of such, some promise of interest may 
be awakened on hearing that Ambrose too could in troublous 
times take upon himself a political office and import into the 
discharge of it all that greatness of soul of which we have 
already seen so much. We hardly think, however, that further 
investigation will afford any satisfaction, if such is to depend 
upon finding evidence of human motives. In political things, 
as elsewhere, Ambrose was in the first place and before all 

Si. Ambrose. 363 

•a bishop; he would neither himself forget the fact nor suffer 
others to forget it : he held fast here also to the notion that the 
only rule of action about which he need trouble himself was 
tte rule of God's good pleasure, and he embarked in such 
niatters only so far as he saw that by so doing he might defend 
the right and just, and so virtually, in things political as in 
^ngs more strictly religious, carry out one only end. He had 
inking occasion to manifest this spirit on occasion of his double 
^nibassy to the tyrant Maximus at Treves, for the better under- 
standing of which a word of preface must be said as to the 
*^'story of the time. 

Valentinian the First, at his death in 375, left the Western 

Empire to his two sons — by different wives — Gratian and 

Valentinian the Second, of whom the latter was still an infant. 

Gratian was, therefore, virtually the sole ruler ; and four years 

^ter, on the defeat and death of his uncle Valens, the East was 

^^ded to his rule. Feeling himself, however, unable to manage 

^^ch vast dominions, he made Theodosius Emperor of the East, 

^hile the West was supposed to be divided between himself 

^^d Valentinian, the latter living at Milan and being the 

Nominal ruler of Italy, while Gratian assumed the more difficult 

^le of Gaul and the westermost provinces. In 383, however, 

^^aximus. General of the troops in Britain, revolted against his 

faster, and, having put Gratian to death, usurped his power. 

* heodosius, too much occupied with his own troubles in the 

^last, could not at once avenge his benefactor, while the young 

V^alentinian and his mother, utterly unable to contend with the 

^t^aster of the most warlike provinces in the Empire, only feared 

that, unsatisfied with these, he would extend his ambition to 

Italy also. If he would refrain from doing so, they were willing 

to recognize him as lawful ruler of what he already possessed — 

^nd it was to such an agreement that Ambrose was sent to 

luring him. He was also to beg for the surrender of the body 

of the murdered Gratian. It should be added, in order to show 

Vrith what manner of man he had to deal, that the efforts of 

our Saint were fruitless. The body of Gratian was not obtained, 

^nd Maximus did finally take the course which had been feared 

-^nd cross the Alps into the almost defenceless regions of Italy. 

Valentinian and his mother had to take ship and fly to the 

protection of the great Theodosius, who, having finally reduced 

^o order his own hitherto chaotic dominions, was able to 

turn his arms against the usurper of the West, whom having 

364 Si. Ambrose, 

defeated and slain, he replaced the rightful Prince upon h 

Such was the tyrant to whose Court at Treves Ambro: 
undertook a double embassy, first in the year 383 or 384, ar 
again just before the final crisis in 387. These dates a 
themselves deeply significant. It was in the year 385, abo 
half way between them, that the contest about the Basilic 
occurred, and in that contest Maximus, desirous to borrc 
every possible lustre for his insecure authority, affecting 
cTiampionship of orthodoxy, uttered a solemn protest agair 
the violence of which the holy Bishop was the obje< 
Valentinian, it should also be noted, remained an Arian, and 
far an enemy of Ambrose, until he fell under the influen 
of the good Theodosius after his flight from Italy. It w; 
therefore, at a time when they stood in such a position 
antagonism to each other that the Emperor asked the Bish< 
to undertake on his behalf this grave and dangerous tas 
Can there be a more unmistakeable proof of the conspicno 
rectitude which guided the Saint throughout, which made hi 
struggle only when he felt that he was responsible for intere* 
not his own, and bear no grudge for injuries received — n 
allowing him to hesitate when the Prince claimed what w 
his right, just as he did not hesitate when the same Prin 
exceeded his province and asked for what was wrong ? And n 
only does the Bishop's conduct prove his notions right in thei 
selves, but the Emperor's act in choosing him for such an offi 
proves that these notions were so clearly expressed as to 
liable to no misconstruction. Otherwise, how could the Prin 
have so soon and so thoroughly forgotten that fear which 
that does an injury proverbially feels } 

Such, then, was the honourable and perilous mission wi 
which Ambrose was intrusted. Of tlie first embassy we sh; 
say nothing, as the Saint has not himself left us any accou 
of it, and our other chief authority^ the Deacon Paulinus, dec 
with the two embassies as one. But from the full account whii 
we have of the second,* we can perfectly w^ell judge the dif 
culties of the first. The complications that must have perplex( 
any envoy were in this case aggravated by the temper both 
the tyrant and of him who was sent to him. Maximus seen 
from the commencement to have conceived displeasure at tf 
choice made by Valentinian, while on his part Ambrose, aft< 

* Ambrose, EpUU xxW. od VaUntiniaymm, 

Si. Ambrose. 365 

sual fashion, refused to observe diplomatic reticence, and 
/ told the usurper what he thought of the murder of 
an. Nay, he refused communion with the murderer,* 
ning him to do penance for the blood which he had shed 

blood of his master — and, moreover, innocent blood ; 
wise he could not make his peace with God.'* On his 

Maximus strove by marked discourtesy to cow the 
iding spirit of the ambassador, that he might then be 

easily able to work his will with him. He refused to 
^c him, as was usual, in private audience, but summoned 
to a meeting in public consistory. Ambrose protested 
i'as unbecoming towards a priest, and there were some 
irs of moment that needed privacy;" but finding that 
rotcst was vain, he gave in, preferring, as he tells us, his 
3r s interest to his own right. He accordingly entered the 
story, and Maximus must at once have seen that, if 
idation was his object, he had mistaken his man. *'When 
id taken his seat," Ambrose tells Valentinian,-f- " I came in. 
3se to ^\.vc me the kiss. I stood still amongst the members 
c Court. Then they began to bid me go up to him, and 
:gan to call me. I made answer — *Why kiss him whom 
ivill not recognize .^ for had you recognized me I should 
)e here.' *You are put out,' said he, *0 Bishop.' *Not 
th resentment,' I replied, ' but as with shame to see myself 
Dosition not my own.* " And then he went on to remind 
5urper that he came to treat with him on behalf of an equal, 
whose gift my equal V asked Maximus, indignantly. " By 
of the Almighty," replied Ambrose, "Who preserves to 
itinian the kingdom He has given him." At this the 
t lost his temper, and proceeded to reproach the Saint 
the results of the former embassage. " You befooled me. 
Had I not at that time been kept back, who would have 
tood my valour?" "To this," says Ambrose, "I rephed 
y. 'There is no need,' I said, 'for you to be indignant, 
;re is no cause for indignation ; but listen patiently to my 
For this very reason have I come, because in my former 
ssy you say you were taken in by me. A glorious charge 
St me, that I should have so looked to the safety of my 
the Emperor. For of whom should we Bishops take more 
than of wards committed to our charge .'*... But I will 
lead this good service towards Valentinian. In truth, how 

* Paulinus, lit. Amb.^ xix. "V Ephi, ^ckis.' 

366 Sf. Ambrose. 

did I withstand your legions, to hinder their entrance into Italy 
with what works ? with what forces ? Did I with this body 
mine shut the Alps against you ? Would that I could ha^ 
done it, I should not be hindered by what you might say.' 
And in such terms as these did the fearless prelate go on t ^^ 

speak his mind to the murderer of Gratian. "Why deny t 

Valentinian the remains of his brother ? You fear, as yo-^ 
allege, that the translation of the body might awake 
recollections of the soldier}^ Do you think they will aven{ 
him dead whom they betrayed when alive ? Why do you fc 
him after death whom you slew, when you might have save 
him ? ' It was my enemy,' you say, * whom I slew/ No ; Y 

was not your enemy, but you were his. . . . Unless I a- 
quite wrong, a usurper makes war, and an emperor but defeni 
his right. . . . And how can it be thought that you had 
grudge against his life, when you grudge him even a grave 
The letter giving an account to Valentinian of this stran; 
interview, then concludes — " Such is the history of my embas< 
Farewell, O Emperor. And be much on your guard agaii 
a who under the guise of peace conceals designs of w 
This prophecy was not long in being verified by facts. 

But the visit to Treves was not to close without anot 
display of boldness on the Saint's part, and one that we shot 
perhaps hardly have expected. From what we have hithe 
seen of him, it might seem unlikely that a profession 
orthodoxy should embroil any one with Ambrose, still 1 
perhaps shall we be prepared to find him disapprove of a 
form of State protection for the Church, as it might be suppos 
that his steadfastness in enduring persecution would, w! 
occasion served, become sternness in inflicting it. But h 
again we see that his dogmatic and polemical zeal no\w^ 
interfered with the largeness and tenderness of his he^»-^ 
He, doubtless, considered it the duty of the civil pc^?*'^^ 
to lend its utmost aid towards the triumph of the fa.i^^ 
But he well knew what the limits of that power are; tti^^ 
it may silence the voice of error, but that it steps beyoHu 
its province if it attempts to compel an acceptance of truth. 
Also, while with all his heart he detested the errors of the 
Arians and other sectaries, he never forgot to distinguisn 
between the hateful doctrines and his misguided brethror 
whom they enslaved. And consequently, although at various , 
times, in the days of GraW^tv Tvo\.^b\7 ^tv^ TVxfc^Qsius, ht ] 

S/. Ambrose. 367 

'^glit have extended to his opponents that measure which 
^y in their day did not scruple to mete to him, he yet 
•trained his zeal, while he did not seem to feel even a 
*^ potation to revenge. " Let us act," he says, " by moral 
-^ns, let us convince them of that which is to their advantage. 
Us send up our prayers and entreaties to the Lord Who 
••ci^ us. For we desire not to overcome, but to heal. Often- 
kindness master* those whom neither strength nor 
ning could subdue." 

\it it happened, as we have already had occasion to 

■^^xk, that Maximus affected a zeal for orthodoxy, under 

^<^li guise he had protested in favour of Ambrose himself 

^i irist the violence of Valentinian. But the zeal of the usurper 

^ "Ringed with the fierceness of his character, and the murderer 

rratian had also ordered, or permitted, the execution of 

illian, the heretic bishop of Avila. Against this high- 

^^^ed method of vindicating the faith, the bishops of the 

^^^-^inces about Treves had been afraid to protest, and they 

^ made the act their own by their approval : some of them, 

*^«d, had originally instigated it One prelate alone had 

bold enough to lift up his voice against the deed — 

_ Martin of Tours* — and it had needed all the ascendancy 

^^^h he had acquired over the mind of the tyrant to induce 

to take such remonstrances in good part. Ambrose was 

more delicate position than Martin, and there might have 

"^med to be difficulties enough in his path already without 

^^ing another. But unable, as usual, to keep silence where 

^'Mty bade him speak, he refused to communicate-f* with the 

*^tViacians, as the persecuting faction were called. We have 

already seen that all along he declined to communicate with 

Maximus himself This insult to hfs bishops seems to have 

been too much for the tyrant's patience, for Ambrose himself 

tells us — " Afterwards, seeing that I held aloof from the bishops 

who were of his communion, or who sought to put to death 

certain men who had gone astray from the faith, in a rage, he 

bade me begone. I, on my part, started with joy, although 

many thought I should not escape some snare. The one thing 

that troubled me, was to see the aged bishop Hyginus led forth 

into exile — although his last breath must have been close at 

* Sulp. Severus, II. A., iL, 51, and in Vita B. Martini. 

+ To communicate — that Is, in the ecclesiastical sense of recognizing the person 
communicated with as a coreligionist. See Epist. xxiv. and xkvL 

368 6V. Ambrose. 

hand. When I made application to the counts of his Court, 
that they would not suffer the old man to be thrust forth 
without cloak or coverlet— I was thrust forth myself." Such 
was the close of the bootless embassy ; but it is not improbable 
that political reasons had as much to do with this discourtesy 
as personal resentment. Maximus could make nothing of 
Ambrose — he could neither browbeat nor hoodwink him, and 
so he got rid of the envoy who stood so steadfastly in his 
way, and found in Domninus, who was sent instead, a more 
facile tool, whose foolish blindness made possible the contem- 
plated seizure of the passes of the Alps. 

It was not only in theory, nor in criticism on the work o( 
others, that our holy Bishop gave his countenance to a gentle 
and kindly treatment of those who differed from him in faith. 
The trophy of his practice in this regard is the conversion of 
another, who is now one of the Church's Doctors, like hi