JOlIN M. KELLY LIBQAQY

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St. Michael's College, Toronto

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THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY

,

'[HE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY

DEFINED AND ILLUSTRATED

I. IN NINE DISCOURSF..8 DELIVERED TO THE CATHOJ
ICS OF
DUBLIN

II. IN OCCASIONAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS ADDRESSED TO THE
MEMBERS OF THE CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY

BY

JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN

NEW IMP..WDSJON

L 0
G IVI A N 5, G R E E NAN D C O.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS
19 1 9

Hosþes eram, et collegistis J.11.I.

IN GRATEFUL NEVER-DYING REMEMBRANCE

OF HIS MANY FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS,

LIVING AND DEAD,

AT HOME AND ABROAD,

IN GREAT BRITAIN, IRELA
D, FRANCE,

IN BELGlU:\f, GERMANY, POLAND, ITALY, AND MALTA,

IN NORTH AMERICA, AND OTHER COUNTRIES,

WHO, BY THEIR RESOLUTE PRAYERS AND PENANCE,

AND BY THEIR GENEROUS STUBBORN EFFOR.TS,

AND BY THEIR MUNIFICENT ALMS,

HAVE BROKEN FOR HIM THE STRESS

OF A GREAT ANXIETY,

THE SED I S CO U R S E S,

OFFERED TO OUR LADY AND ST. PHILIP ON ITS RISE,

COMPOSED UNDER ITS PRESSURE,

FINISHED ON THE EVE OF ITS TERMINATiON,

ARE RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

BY THE AUTHOR.

IN PEST. PRÆSENT.
B. M. V.
NOV. 21, 1852.

PREFACE.

T HE vie\v taken of a University in these Discourses
is the follo\ving:- That it is a place of teaching
universal knowledge. This implies that its object is, on
the one hand, intellectual, not moral; and, on the other,
that it is the diffusion and extension of kno\vledge rather
than the advancement. If its object \vere scientific and
philosophical discovery, I do not see ,vhy a University
should have students; if religious training, I do not see
ho\v it can be the seat of literature and science.
Such is a University in its essence, and independently
of its relation to the Church. But, practically speaking,
it cannot fulfil its object duly, such as I have described
it, \vithout the Church's assistance; or, to use the theo-
logical term, the Church is necessary for its integrity.
Not that its main characters are changed by this incor-
poration: it still has the office of intellectual education;
but the Church steadies it in the performance of that
office.
Such are the main principles of the Discourses \vhich
follow; though it \vould be unreasonable for me to ex-
pect that I have treated so large and important a field
of thought \\rith the fulness and precision necessary to
secure me from incidental misconceptions of my meaning
on the part of the reader. I t is true, there is nothing

x

Preface.

novel or singular in the argul11ent \\'hich I have been
pursuing, but this does not protect nle froln such mis..
conceptions; for the very circumstance that the yie\\'s I
have been delineating are not original \vith Ine Inay lead
to false notions as to 111Y relations in opinion to\vards
those froln whom I happened in the first instance to
learn thel11, and may cause me to be interpreted by the
objects or sentiments of schools to which I shoultl be
simply opposed.
For instance, some persons 1nay be te1npted to cOin..
plain, that I have servilely follo\ved the English idea of
a University, to the disparagement of that Kno\vledge
\vhich I profess to be so strenuously upholding; and
they may anticipate that an academical systel11, formed
upon my model, \vill result in nothing better or higher
than in the production of that antiquated variety of
human nature and rClnnant of feudalism, as they consider
it, called" a gentleman." - N O\V, I have anticipated this
charge in various parts of Iny discussion; if, ho\vever,
any Catholic is found to prefer it (and to Catholics of
course this Volume is primarily addressed), I \vould have
him first of all ask himself the previous question, what
he conceives to be the reason contemplated by the Holy
See in recom1nending just now to the Irish Hierarchy
the establishment of a Catholic University? Has the
Supreme Pontiff recolnmencled it for the sake of the
Sciences, \vhich arc to be the matter, and not rather of the
Students, \vho are to be the subjects, of its teaching?
Has he any obligation or duty at all to\vards secular
knowledge as 5uch? \Vould it hecolne his Apostolical
lVlinistry, and his descent froln the Fisherman, to have a
zeal for the Baconiall or other philosophy of man for itg
* Vid. Huber's English Universities, London, 1843, vol. ii., part J., pp.
321, Gte.

Pr
ta{e.

xi

.)\\-n sake? Is the \Ticar of Christ bound by office or by
vow to be the preacher of the theory of gravitation, or
a martyr for clectro-magnctislll? \V ould he be acquit-
ting himself of the dispensation C0l111nitted to hin) if he
were snli tten with an abstract love of these 111atters, ho\v-
ever true, or beautiful, or ingenious, or useful? Or rather,
does he not contemplate such achievements of the intel-
lect, as far as he contemplates then1, solely and simply
in their relation to the interests of Revealed Truth?
Surely, what he does he does for the sake of Religion;
if he looks with satisfaction on strong temporal govern-
ments, which promise perpetuity, it is for the sake of
Religion; and if he encourages and patronizes art and
science, it is for the sake of Religion. He rejoices in
the widest and most philosophicaJ systems of intellectual
education, from an intimate conviction that Truth is his
real ally, as it is his profession; and that Knowledge
and Reason are sure ministers to Faith.
This being undeniable, it is plain that, when he sug-
gests to the Irish Hierarchy the establishment of a U ni-
versity, his first and chief and direct object is, not science,
art, professional skill, literature, the discovery of know-
ledge, but some benefit or other, to accrue, by means of
literature and science, to his own children; not indeed
their formation on any narrow or fantastic type, as, for
instance, that of an "English Gentleman" may be called,
but their exercise and growth in certain habits, moral or
intellectual. Nothing short of this can be his aim, if, as
becomes the Successor of the Apostles, he is to be able
to say vv'ith St. Paul, "Non judicavi me scire aliquid inter
vos, nisi J esum Christum, et hune crucifixum." Just as
a conln1ander \vishes to have tall and \vell-formed and
vigorous soldiers, not from any abstract devotion to the
IlliJitary standard of height or age, l?ut for the purposes
b

. .
XII

P r,fact'.

of ,var, and no one thinks it any thing but natural and
praiseworthy in hin1 to be contetnplating, not abstract
qualities, but his own living and breathing men; 50, in
like manner, when the Church founds a University, she
is not cherishing talent, genius, or knowledge, for their
own sake, but for the sake of her children, with a view to
their spiritual welfare and their religious influence and
usefulness, with the object of training them to fill their
respective posts in life better, and of making them more
intelligent, capable, active members of society.
Nor can it justly be said that in thus acting she sacri.
fices Science, and, under a pretence of fulfilling the duties
of her mission, perverts a University to ends not its own,
as soon as it is taken into account that there are other
institutions far more suited to act as instruments of
stimulating philosophical inquiry, and extending the
boundaries of our knowledge, than a University. Such,
for instance, are the literary and scientific" Academies,"
which are so celebrated in Italy and France, and which
have frequently been connected with Universities, as
committees, or, as it were, congregations or delegacies
subordinate to them. Thus the present Royal Society
originated in Charles the Second's time, in Oxford; such
just now are the A
hmolean and Architectural Societies
in the same seat of learning, which have risen in our own
time. Such, too, is the British Association, a migratory
body, which at least at times is found in the halls of the
Protestant Universities of the United Kingdom, and the
faults of which lie, not in its exclusive devotion to science,
but in graver matters which it is irrelevant here to enter
upon. Such again is the Antiquarian Society, the Royal
Academy for the Fine Arts, and others which might be
mentioned. This, then, is the sort of institution, which
lJrimarily conte(uplates Science itself, and not students ;

Prefacc.

XJ11

and, in thus speaking, I am saying nothing of my own,
being supported by no less an authority than Cardinal
Gerdil. "Ce n'est pas," he says," qu'il y ait aucune
véritable opposition entre l' esprit des Académies et celui
des Universités; ce sont seulement des vues differéntes.
Les Universités sont établies pour enseigner les sciences
auz Ilèves qui veulent s'y former; les Acadénlies se
proposent de nou'l)elles recherches à Caire dans la carrière
des sciences. Les Universités d'ltalie ont fourni des
sujets qui ont fait honneur aux Académies; et celles-ci
ont donné aux Universités des Professeurs, qui ont rempli
les chaires avec la plus grande distinction.".
The nature of the case and the history of philosophy
combine to recommend to us this division of intellec-
tual labour between Academies and Universities. To
discover and to teach are distinct functions; they are
also distinct gifts, and are not commonly found united in
the same person. He, too, who spends his day in dispens-
ing his existing knowledge to all comers is unlikely to
have either leisure or energy to acquire new. The com-
mon sense of mankind has associated the search after
truth with seclusion and quiet. The greatest thinkers
have been too intent on their subject to admit of interrup-
tion; they have been men of absent minds and idosyn-
cratic habits, and have, more or less, shunned the lecture
room and the public school. Pythagoras, the light of
Magna Græcia, lived for a time in a cave. Thales, the
light of lonia, lived unmarried and in private, and refused
the invitations of princes. Plato withdrew from Athens
to the groves of Academus. Aristotle gave twenty years
to a studious discipleship under him. Friar Bacon lived
in his tower upon the Isis. Newton indulged in an intense
severity of meditation which almost shook his reason.
it Opere, t. iii., p. 353.

>.lV

f:Jrcfa( .

'The great discoveries in ChCIuistry and electricity were
not nlade in Universities. Observatories are 1110re fre-
quently out of Universities than in thenl, and even when
\vithin their bounds need lave no moral connexion \vith
them. Porson had no classes; Elnlstey lived good part
of his life in the country. I do not say that there are
not great exalnples the other way, perhaps Socrates.
certainly Lord Bacon; still I think it nlust be allowed on
the "'hole that, while teaching involves external engage-
ments, the natural home for experinlent and 3peculation
is retirement.
Returning, then, to the consideration of the question,
from \vhich I may seem to have digressed, thus much I
think I have made
òod,-that, whether or no a Catholic
University should put be fore -i t, as its great object, to
make its students "gentlemen," still to Inake them some-
thin g or other is its great object, and not simply to pro-
tect the interests and advance the dominion of Science.
If, then, this may be taken for granted, as I think it nlay,
the only pc\nt which remains to be settled is, whether I
have formed a probable conception of the
ort of benefit
which the Holy See has intended to confer on Catholics
who speak the English tongue by recomlnending to the
Irish Hierarchy t'-'e establishment of a University; and
this I now proceed to consider.
Here. then, it is natural to ask those who are interested
in the question, whether any better interpretation of the
recommendation of the Holy See can be given than that
which I have sugge5ted in this Volume. Certainly it
does not seem to me rash to pronounce that, whereas
Protestants have great advantages of education in the
Schools, Colleges, and Universities of the United King-
dom, our ecclesiastical rulers have it in purpose that
Catholics should enjoy the like advantages, \vhatever they

Pre/arc.

xv

dre, to the full. I conceive they view it as prejudicial to
the interests of Religion that there should be any culti-
vation of mind bestowed upon Protestants which is not
given to their own youth also. As they wish their schools
for the poorer and middle classes to be at least on a par
with those of Protestants, they contemplate the same ob-
ject also as regards that higher education which is given to
comparatively the few. Protestant youths, who can spare
the time, continue their studies till the age of twenty-one
or twenty-two; thus they employ a time of life all-im-
portant and especially favourable to mental culture. I
conceive that our Prelates are impressed with the fact
and its consequences, that a youth who ends his educa-
tion at seventeen is no match (cæteris paribus) for one
who ends it at twenty-two.
All classes indeed of the community are impressed
with a fact so obvious as this. The consequence is, that
Catholics who aspire to be on a level with Protestants in
discipline and refinement of intellect have recourse to
Protestant Universities to obtain what they cannot find
at home. Assuming (as the Rescripts from Propaganda
allo\v me to do) that Protestant education is inexpedient
for our youth,-we see here an additional reason why
those advantages, whatever they are, which Protestant
cOlnn1unities dispense through the medium of Protest-
antism should be accessible to Catholics in a Catholic
form.
What are these advantages? I repeat, they are in one
word the culture of the intellect. Robbed, oppressed,
and thrust aside, Catholics in these islands have not been
in a condition for centuries to attempt thè sort of educa-
tion \vhich is necessary for the man of the world, the
slatcsu1;Ul, the landholder, or the opulent gentleluan.
Their legitinlate stations, duties, employments, have been

XVi

Prl:face.

taken from them, and the qualifications withal, social
and intellectual, which are necessary both for reversing
the forfeiture and for availing themselves of the reversal.
The time is come when this moral disability must be
removed. Our desideratùm is, not the manners and habits
of gentlemen ;-these can be, and are, acquired in various
other ways, by good society, by foreign travel, by the
I innate grace and dignity of the Catholic mind ;-but the
force, the steadiness, the comprehensiveness and the
versatility of intellect, the command over our own powers,
\ the instinctive just estimate of things as they pass before
us, which sometimes indeed is a natural gift, but com-
monly is not gained without much effort and the exercise
of years.
This is real cultivation of mind; and I do not deny
that the characteristic excellences of a gentleman are
included in it. Nor need we be ashamed that they should
be, since the poet long ago wrote, that" Ingenuas didi-
cisse fideliter artes Emollit nlores." Certainly a liberal
education does manifest itself in a courtesy, propriety,
and polish of word and action, which is beautiful in itself,
and acceptable to others; but it does much more. It
brings the mind into form,-for the mind is like the body.
Boys outgrow their shape and their strength; their limbs
have to be knit together, and their constitution needs
tone. Mistaking anilual spirits for vigour, and over-
confident in their health, ignorant what they can bear
and how to nlanage themselves, they are immoderate
and extravagant; and fall into sharp sicknesses. This
is an emblem of their minds; at first they have no prin-
ciples laid do\vn within them as a foundation for the
intellect to build upon; they have no discriminating con-
victions, and no grasp of consequences. And therefore
they talk at random, if they taìk much, and cannot hclp

Preface.

XVll

being flippant, or what is emphatically called" young. II
They are merely dazzled by phenomena, instead of per-
ceiving things as they are.
It were well if none remained boys all their lives; but
what is more common than the sight of grown men,
talking on political or moral or religious subjects, in that
offhand, idle way, which we signify by the word u1zreal?
,. That they simply do not know what they are talking
about" is the spontaneous silent remark of any man of
sense who hears them. Hence such persons have no
difficulty in contradicting themselves in successive sen-
tences, without being conscious of it. Hence others,
whose defect in intellectual training is more latent, have
their most unfortunate crotchets, as they are called, or
hobbies, which deprive them of the influence which their
e.5timable qualities would otherwise secure. Hence others
can never look straight before them, never see the point,
and have no difficulties in the 1110st difficult subjects.
Others are hopelessly obstinate and prejudiced, and, after
they have been driven from their opinions, return to them
the next moment without even an attempt to explain
why. Others are so intemperate and intractable that
there is no greater calamity for a good cause than that
they should get hold of it. It is very plain from the
very particulars I have mentioned that, in this delinea-
tion of intellectual infirmities, I .am drawing, not from
Catholics, but from the \\1orld at large; I am referring
to an evil ,vhich is forced upon us in every raihvay
carriage, in every coffee-room or table-d'hôte, in every
mixed company, an evil, however, to which Catholics are
not less exposed than the rest of mankind.
When
e intellectJlas once been prs>perly trained and
formed to have a connected view or grasp of things, it
will display its po\vers with more or k "s effect accordin a
b

XVlll

Preface.

to its particuldr quality and capacity in the individua1.
In the case of nlost men it makes itself felt in the good
sense, sobriety of thought, reasonableness, candour, self-
command, and steadiness of view, \vhich characterize it.
I n some it will have developed habits of business, po,ver
of influencing others, and sagacity. In others it will
elicit the talent of philosophical speculation, and lead
the mind forward to eminence in this or that intellectual
department. .. In all it will be a faculty of entering \vith
com arative ease into any subject of thought, and of
taking up with aptitude any science or profession. All
this it will be and will do in a measure, even \vhen the
nlental formation be made after a model but partially
true; for, as far as effectiveness goes, even false views of
things have more influence and inspire more respect than
no views at all. lVlen who fancy they see \vhat is not
are more energetic, and make their way better, than
those who see nothing; and so the undoubting infidel,
the fanatic, the heresiarch, are able to do much, while the
mere hereditary Christian, \vho has never realized the
truths which he holds, is unable to do any thing. But, if
consistency of view can add so much strength even to
error, what may it not be expected to furnish to the
dignity, the energy, and the influence of Truth!
Some one, however, will perhaps object that I atll
but advocating that spurious philosophism, \vhich sho\vs
itself in what, for want of a word, I may call "vie\vi-
ness," \vhen I speak so much of the formation, and con-
sequent grasp, of the intellect. It may be said that the
theory of University Education, which I have been
delineating, if acted upon, would teach youths nothin

soundly or thoroughly, and would dismiss then1 ,vith
nothing hetter than briJIiant general views about al1
things whatever.

Preface.

XIX

1'his indeed, if well founded, would be a nlost serious
objection to what I have advanced in this Volume, and
\vould demand my immediate attention, had I any reason
to think that I could not remove it at once, by a simple
explanation of what I consider the true 11Z0de of educa-
ting, \vere this the place to do so. But these Discourses
are directed simply to the consideration of the a-Ùns and
prÙlciples of Education. Suffice it, then, to say here, that
I hold very strongly that the first step in intellectual
training is to impress upon a boy's mind the idea of
science, method, order, principle, and system; of rule
and exception, of richness and harmony. This is com-
monly and excellently done by making him begin with
Grammar; nor can too great accuracy, or minuteness
and subtlety of teaching be used towards him, as his
f.-lculties expand, with this simple purpose. Hence it is
that critical scholarship is so important a discipline for
him when he is leaving school for the University. A
second science is the Mathematics: this should follow
Grammar, still with the same object, viz., to give him a
conception of development and arrangement from and
around a common centre. Hence it is that Chronology
and Geography are so necessary for him, \vhen he reads
History, which is otherwise little better than a story-
book. lIence, too, Metrical Composition, when he reads
Poetry; in order to stimulate his powers into action in
every practicable way, and to prevent a merely passive
reception of images and ideas which in that case are
likely to pass out of the mind as soon as they have
en tered it. Let him once gain this habit of method,
of starting from fixed points, of making his ground
good as he goes, of distinguishing \vhat he kno\vs
from what he does not kno\v, and I conceive he will be
g-radually initiated into the largest and truest philoso-

xx

Preface.

phical views, and will feel nothing but impatience and
disgust at the random theories and imposing sophistries
and dashing paradoxes, which carry away half-formed
and superficial intellects.
Such parti-coloured ingenuities are indeed one of the
chief evils of the day, and men of real talent are not slow
to minister to them. An intellectual man, as the world
now conceives of him, is one who is full of "views" on
all subjects of philosophy, on all matters of the day. It
is almost thought a disgrace not to have a view at a
moment's notice on any question from the Personal
Advent to the Cholera or Mesmerism. This is owing in
great n1easure to the necessities of periodical literature,
now so much in request. Every quarter of a year, every
month, every day, there must be a supply, for the grati..
fication of the public, of new and luminous theories on
the subjects of religion, foreign politics, home politics,
civil economy, finance, trade, agriculture, emigration,
and the colonies. Slavery, the gold fields, German
philosophy, the French Empire, Wellington, Peel, Ire-
land, must all be practised on, day after day, by \vhat
are called original thinkers. As the great man's guest
lTIUst produce his good stories 01 songs at the evening
banquet, as the platform orator exhibits his telling facts
at mid-day, so the journalist lies under the stern obliga-
tion of extemporizing his lucid views, leading ideas, and
nutshell truths for the breakfast table. The very nature
of periodical literature, broken into small wholes, and
demanded punctually to an hour, involves the habit of
this extempore philosophy. "Almost all the Ramblers,"
says Boswell of Johnson, II were written just as they
were wanted for the press; he sent a certain portion of
the copy of an essay, and \vrote the remainder while the
former part of it was printing." Few men have the gifts

Preface.

XXi

of Johnson, who to great vigour and resource of intellect,
when it was fairly roused, united a rare common-sense
and a conscientious regard for veracity, \vhich preserved
him fron1 flippancy or extravagance in writing. Few
men are Johnsons; yet how many men at this day are
assailed by incessant demands on their mental powers,
which only a productiveness like his could suitably
supply! There is a demand for a reckless originality of
thought, and a sparkling plausibility of argument, which
he would have despised, even if he could have displayed;
a demand for crude theory and unsound philosophy,
rather than none at all. It is a sort of repetition of the
(( Quid novi?" of the Areopagus, and it must have an
answer. Men must be found who can treat, where it is
necessary, like the Athenian sophist, de 011lni scibili,

"Grammaticus, Rhetor, Geometres, Pictor, Aliptes,
Augur, Schænobates, Medicus, Magus, omnia novit..

I am speaking of such writers with a feeling of real
sympathy for men who are under the rod of a cruel
slavery. I have never indeed been in such circumstances
myself: nor in the temptations which they involve; but
most men \vho have had to do with composition must
know the distress which at times it occasions them to
have to write-a distress sometimes so keen and so
specific that it resembles nothing else than bodily pain.
That pain is the token of the wear and tear of mind;
and, if works done comparatively at leisure involve such
mental fatigue and exhaustion, what must be the toil of
those whose intellects are to be flaunted daily before the
public in full dress, and that dress ever new and varied,
and spun, like the silkworm's, out of themselves! Still,
whatever true sympathy we may feel for the ministers
of this dearly purchased luxury, and \vhatever sense \ve

X
lJ

Preface.

tnay hd.ve of the great intellectual power which the
iiterature in question displays, we cannot honestly close
our eyes to its direct evil.
One other remark suggests itself, which is the last I
shall think it necessary to make. The authority, \vhich
in former times was lodged in Universities, no\v resides
in very great measure in that literary world, as it is
called, to which I have been referring. This is not satis-
factory, if, as no one can deny, its teaching be so off-
hand, so ambitious, so changeable. It increases the
seriousness of the mischief, that so very large a portion
of its writers are anonymous, for irresponsible power
never can be any thing but a great evil; and, moreover,
that, even when they are known, they can give no better
guarantee for the philosophical truth of their principles
than their popularity at the moment, and their happy
conformity in ethical character to the age which admires
them. Protestants, however, may do as they \vill: it is
a matter for their own consideration; but at least it
concerns us that our own li

erary tribunals and oracles
of moral duty should bear a graver character. At least
it is a matter of deep solicitude to Catholic Prelates that
their people should be taught a wisdom, safe from the
excesses and vagaries of individuals, embodied in institu-
tions which have stood the trial and received the sanc-
I tion of ages, and administered by men who have no need
to be anonymous, as being supported by their consis-
tency \vith their predecessors and \vith each other.

November 21, 1852.

U
IVERSITY TEACHING.

DISCOURSE
I. I
TRODUCTORY

.

.

.

.

PAGB
I

II. THEOLOGY A BRANCH OF KNOWLEDGE . 19

III. BEARING OF THEOLOGY ON OTHER KNOWLEDGE 43

IV. BEARING OF OTHER K
OWLEDGE ON THFOLOGY 71

v. KNOWLEDGE ITS OWN E
D 99

VI. KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO LFARNIXG . 124

VII. KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO PROFESSIONAL SKILl... ISI

VIII. KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO RELIGIOUS DUTY 179

I
. DUTIES OF THE CHURCH TOWARDS KNOWLEDGE 2I

I.
UNIVERSITY TEACHING
CONSIDERED IN NINE DISCOURSES.

DISCOlJRSE I.

INTRODUCTOI{ \F

I.
I N addressing myself, Gentlelnen, to the consideration
of a question \vhich has excited so much interest,
and elicited so much discussion at the present day, as
that of University Education, I feel some explanation is
due from me for supposing, after such high ability and
wide experience have been brought to bear upon it,
that any field rernains for the additional labours either
of a disputant or of an inquirer. If, nevertheless, I still
venture to ask permission to continue the discussion,
already so protracted, it is because the subject of Liberal
Education, and of the principles on \vhich it must be
conducted, has ever had a hold upon n1Y O\Vl1 mind; and
because I have lived the greater part of my life in a
place which has all that time been occupied in a series
of controversies both dOlnestic and \vith strangers, and
of measures, experimental or definitive, bearing upon it.
About fifty years since, the English U niversit)', of \vhich
I \vas so long a member, after a century of inactivity, at
length \vas roused, at a time \vhen (as I may say) it \vas
giving no education at all to the youth committed to its
keeping, to a sense of the responsibilities \vhich its pro-
fession and it

tation involved, and it presents to us
I

2

DZ:srouJ st 1.

the singular exanlple of an hcterogeneous and an inde-
pendent body of tnen, setting about a work of self-refor...
Iuation, not froln any pressure of public opinion, but
because it \vas fitting and right to undertake it. Its
initial efforts, begun and carried on alnid tnany ob-
stacle5, were met fronl \\'ithout, as often happens in such
cases, by ungenerous and jealous criticislns, which, at
the very moment that they \vere uiged, were beginning
to be unjust. Controversy did but bring out more
clearly to its own apprehension the views on which its
refornlation \vas proceeding, and thro\v them into a
philosophical form. The course of beneficial change
made progress, and \vhat was at first but the result of
individual energy and an act of the academical corpora-
tion, gradually becanle popular, and was taken up and
carried out by the separate collegiate bodies, of which
the University is composed. This was the first stage of
the controversy. Years passed a\vay, and then political
adversaries arose against it, and the system of education
\vhich it had established \vas a second titne assailed; but
still, since that contest \vas conducted for the nlost part
through the nledium, not of political acts, but of treatises
and pamphlets, it happened as before that the threatened
dangers, in the course of their repulse, did but afford
fuller developtnent and more exact delineation to the
principles of \\'hich the University was the representative
In the former of these t\VO controversies the charge
brought against its studies \vas their remoteness frotn
the occupations and duties of life, to which they are the
formal introduction, or, in other \vords, their Ùluti/ity,. in
the latter, it was their connexion \vith a particular fornl of
belief, or, in other words, their religious c..rc/usi'llêJlCSS.
Living then so long as a \vitness, though hardly as an
actor. in these scenes of intellectual conflict. I aln able

In trod ucforv.
./

3

to bear witnes5 to vic\vs of University Education, \vith-
out authority indeed in themselves, but not without
value to a Catholic, and less familiar to him, as I con-
ceive, than they deserve to be. And, while an argument
originating in the controversies to which I have referred,
may be serviceable at this season to that great cause in
\vhich we a\'"e here so especially interested, to me per-
sonally it \vill afford satisfaction of a peculiar kind; for,
though it has been my lot for many years to take a
prominent, sometin1Cs a presuluptuous, part in theological
discussions, yet the natural turn of my mind carries me
off to trains of thought like those \vhich I an1 no\v about
to open, \vhich, important though they be jor Catholic
objects, and admitting of a Catholic treatment, are
sheltered from the extreme delicacy and peril \vhich
attach to disputations directly bearing on the subject.
matter of Divine R.evelation.

2.
There are several reasons why I should open the
discussion with a reference to the lessons with which
past years have supplied me. One reason is this: It
\voulù concern me, Gentlen1en, were I supposed to have
got up nlY opinions for the occasion. This, indeed, would
have been no reflection on me personally, supposing I
\vere persuaded of their truth, \vhen at length addressing
myself to the inquiry; but it \vould have destroyed, of .
course, the force of my testirnony, and deprived such
arguments, as I might adduce, of that lnoral persuasive-
ness \vhich attends on tried and sustained conviction.
It \vould have made me seem the advocate, rather than
the cordial and deliberate lnaintainer and \vitness, of the
doctrines \vhich I was to support; and, though it might
be said to evidence the faith I reposed in the practical

4

Di.sctJU !,I! l

judgment of the Church, and the intÎ1nate concurrence
of my own reason with the course she had authoritatively
sanctioned, and the devotion \vith which I could promptly
put Inyself at her disposal, it \vould have cast suspicion
on the validity of reasonings and conclusions which
rested on no independent inquiry, and appealed to no
past experience. In that case it might have been plau-
sibly objected by opponents that I was the serviceable
expedient of an emergency, and never, after all, could
be n10re than ingenious and adroit in the managelnent of
an argulnent which \vas not my own, and \vhich I was
sure to forget again as readily as I had mastered it.
But this is not so. The views to which I have referred
have grown into my \vhole system of thought, and are,
as it \vere, part of myself. Many changes has my mind
gone through: here it has kno\vn no variation or vacilla-
tion of opinion, and though this by itself is no proof of
the truth of my principles, it puts a seal upon conviction
and is a justification of earnestness and zeal Those pïin-
ciples, \vhich I am no\v to set forth under the sanction of
the Catholic Church, ,vere IllY profession at that early
period of my life, ,vhen religion \vas to me more a matter
.of feeling and experience than of faith. 1'hey did but
take greater hold upon me, as I was introduced to the
records of Christian Antiquity, and approached in senti-
Illcnt and desire to Catholicism; and my sense of their
correctness has been increased \\rith the events of every
year since I have been brought \vithin its pale.
And here 1 am brought to a second and more important
reason for reîerring, on this occasion, to the conclusions
at \vhich Protestants have arrived on the subject of
Liberal Education; and it is as follows: Let it be ob-
served, then, that the principles on which I \vould conduct
the inquiry are attainable, as I have already implied, by

I" frot{ucloJ)'.

5

the mere experience of life. They do not come simply
of theology; they inlply no supernatural discernment;
they have no speciaJ connexion with Rcvelation; they
almost arise out of the nature of the case; they are
dictated even by hun1an prudence anù \visdom, though a
divine illumination be absent, and they are recognized
by common sense, even \vhere self-interest is not present
to quicken it ; and, therefore, though true, and just, and
good in themselves, they inlply nothing \vhatever as to
the religious profession of those who maintain them.
They may be held by Protestants as well as by Catholics;
nay, there is reason to anticipate that in certain times
and places they will be 1nore thoroughly investigated,
and better understood, and held Inore firmly by Protest-
ants than by ourselves.
It is natural to expect this ffoln the very circuIllstance
that the philosophy of Education is founded on truths
in the natural order. vVhere the sun shines bright, in
the warm climate of the south, the natives of the place
kno\v little of safeguards against cold and wet. They
have, indeed, bleak and piercing bla3ts; they have chill
- and pouring rain, but only now and then, for a day or a
\veek; they bear the inconvenience as they best may, but
they have not made it an art to. repel it; it is not worth
their while; the science of calefaction and ventilation is
reserveù for the north. It is in this \vay that Catholics
stand relatively to Protestants in the science of Edu-
cation; Protestants depending on hUlnan means mainly,
are led to make the most of them : their sole resource is
to use what they have; U I(no\vledge is" their "power')
and nothing else; they are the anxious cultivators oí a
rugged soil. I t is other\vise \vith us; "fulles ceciderullt
11lihi in præclaris." We have a goodly inheritance. This
is apt to cause us-I do not mean to rely too much on

6

!Jiscourse I.

prayer, and the Divine Blessing, for that is itnpossible, but
we s0111etimes forget that we shall please Hitn best, and get
[Dost fronl Him, \vhen, according to the Fable, \ve CI put
our shoulder to the \vheel," when we use what \VC have by
nature to the utmost, at the same time that we look out
for \vhat is beyond nature in the confidence of faith and
hope. However, we are sonletinles teInpted to let things
take their course, as if they would in one \vay or another
turn up right at last for certain; and so \ve go on, living
froal hand to mouth, getting into difficulties and getting
out of thenl, succeeding certainly on the \vhole, but with
failure in detail which might be avoided, and with much
of ilupcrfection or inferiority in our appointInents and
plans, and much disappointment, discouragenlent, and
collision of opinion in consequence. If this be in any
measure the state of the case, there is certainJy so far
a reason for availing- ourselves of the investigations
and experience of those \vho are not Catholics, \vhen we
have to address ourselves to the subject of Libera!
Education.
N or is there surely any thing derogatory to the position
of a Catholic in such a proceeding. 'The Church has
ever appealed and deferred to \vitnesses and authorities
external to herself, in those matters in ,vhich she
thought they had means of forming a judgment: and
that on the principle, Cut.que ,in arte sua credelldu1tl.
She has even used unbelievers and pagans in evidence
of her truth, as far as their testimony went. She avails
herself of scholars, critics, and antiquarians, who are not
of her comn1union. She has worded her theological teach-
ing in the phraseology of Aristotle; Aquila, Symnlachus,
Theodotion, Origen, Eusebius, and Apollinaris, all more
or less heterodox, have supplied materials for primitive
exegetics. St. Cyprian called 1'ertullian his master;

introductory.

7

St. Augustin refers to Ticonius; Bossuet, in modern
times, cotnplimented the labours of the Anglican Bull ;
the Benedictine editors of the Fathers are familiar with
the labours of Fell, U ssher, Pearson, and Beveridge.
Pope Benedict XIV. cites accordin.g to the occasion the
works of Protestants without reserve, and the late French
collection of Christian Apologists contains the writings
of Locke, Burnet, Tillotson, and Paley. J f, then, I
conle forward in any degree as borro\ving the views of
certain Protestant schools on the point which is to be
discussed, I do so, Gentlemen, as believing, first, that the
Catholic Church has ever, in the plenitude of her divine
illumination, made use of whatever truth or wisdom she
has found in their teaching or their nleasures; and next,
that in particular places or times her children are likely
to profit from external suggestions or lessons, which have
not been provided for them by herself.

3.
And here I may mention a third reason for appealing
at the outset to the proceedings of Protestant bodies in
regard to Liberal Education. It will serve to intimate
the mode in \vhich I propose to handle my subject
altogether. Observe then, Gentlemen, I have no inten-
tion, in any thing I shall say, of bringing into the argument
the authority of the Church, or any authority at all ; but
I shall consider the question sÍ1nply on the grounds of
human reason and human \visdom. I am investigating
in the abstract, and am determining \vhat is in itself right
and true. For the moment I know nothing, so to say,
of history. I take things as I find them; I have no con-
cern with the past; I find myself here; I set myself to
the duties I find here; I set myself to further, by every
ßleans in my power, doctt ines and vie\vs. true in theol-

8

Dl5course 1.

selves, recognized by Catholics as such, familiar to my
own n1ind; and to do this quite apart from the consider-
ation of questions which have been detcrn1ined without
Ine and before me. I am here the advocate and the
minister of a certain. great principle; yet not merely
ad vocate and minister, else had I not been here at all. It
has been nlY previous keen sense and hearty reception
of that principle, that has been at once the reason, as J
nlust suppose, of my being selected for this office,
and is the cause of m r accepting it. I am told on
authority that a principle is expedient, Vvhich I have
ever felt to be true. And I argue in its behalf on its
own merits, the authority, \vhich brings me here, being
my opportunity for arguing, but not the ground of my
argument itself.
And a fourth reason is here suggested for consulting
the history of Protestant institutions, when I aln going
to speak of the object and nature of University Education.
It will serve to remind you, Gentlelnen, that I aln con-
cerned with questions, not simply of Ï1nmutable truth,
but of practice and expedience. It would ill have
become me to undertake a subject, on \vhich points of
dispute have arisen among persons so far above me in
authority and name, in relation to a state of society,
about \vhich I have so much to learn, if it involved an
appeal to sacred truths, or the determination of some
imperative rule of conduct. It would have been pre-
sUlnptuous in nle so to have acted, nor am I so acting.
Even the question of the union of Theology with the
secular Sciences, which is its religious side, simple as it
is of solution in the abstract, has, according to difference
of circumstances, been at different times differently
decided. Necessity has no law, and expedience is often
one forn1 of necessity. It is no principle with sensiblt-

/1tl".'oduct01Y.

9

men, of whatever cast of opinion, to do always what is
abstractedly best. Where no direct duty forbids, we
may be obliged to do, as being best under circumstances,
what \ve murmur and rise against, while \ve do it. \Ve
see that to attempt more is to effect less; that we must
accept so much, or gain nothing; and so perforce we
reconcile ourselves to what we \vould have far otherwise,
if \ve could. 'rhus a system of what is called secular
Education, in \vhich Theology and the Sciences are
taught separately, [nay, in a particular place or time, be
the least of evils; it may be of long standing; it n1ay be
dangerous to meddle \vith; it may be professedly a
temporary arrangement; it may be under a process of
irnprovement; its disadvantages Inay be neutralized by
the per::;ons by whom, or the provisions under which, it is
administered.
Hence it \vas, that in the early ages the Church al-
iovved her children to attend the heathen schools for the
acquisition of secular accomplishments, \vhere, as no
one can doubt, evils existed, at least as great as can
attend on Mixed Education now. The gravest Fathers
recommended for Christian youth the use of Pagan
masters; the most saintly Bishops and most authorita-
tive Doctors had been sent in their adolescence by
Christian parents to Pagan lecture halls.. And, not to
take other instances, at this very time, and in this very
country, as regards at least the poorer classes of the
comlnunity, whose secular acquirements ever nlust be
1in1ited, it has seetned best to the Irish Bishops, under
the circumstances, to suffer the introduction into the
country of a system of Mixed Education in the schools
called National. Such a state of things, ho\vever, is
passing a\vay; as regards University education at least,
· Vide M. L'Ahhé Lalanne's recent work.

10

D iscott'Yse I.

the highest authority has now decided that the plan,
which is abstractedly best, is in this tilne and country
also most expedient.

.

4-

And here I have an opportunity of recognizing once
for all that higher vie\v of approaching the subject of
these Discourses, \vhich, after this formal recognition, 1
mean to dispense \vith. Ecclesiastical authority, not
argument, is the supreme rule and the appropriate guide
for Catholics in n1atters of religion. It has always the
right to interpose, and sometimes, in the conflict of
parties and opinions, it is called on to exercise that
right. I t has lately exercised it in our o\vn instance: it
has interposed in favour of a pure University system for
Catholic youth, forbidding compromise or accommodation
of any kind. Of course its decision must be heartily
accepted and obeyed, and that the more, because tht
decision proceeds, not simply from the Bishops of Ire-
land, great as their authority is, but the highest authority
on earth, from the Chair of St. Peter.
Moreover, such a decision not only demands our
submission, but has a claim upon our trust. 1 t not only
acts as a prohibition of any measures, but as an -iþso
facto confutation of any reasonings, inconsistent with it.
It carries with it an earnest and an augury of its o\vn
expediency. For instance, I can fancy, Gentlelnen,
there may be some, among those who hear me, disposed
to say that they are ready to acquit the principles of
Education, which I am to advocate, of all fault what-
ever, except that of being impracticable. I can fancy
them granting to me, that those principles are most
correct and most obvious, simply irresistible on paper, but
maintaining, nevertheless, that after all, they are nothing

Introductory

II

more than the dreams of men who live out of the world,
and \vho do not see the difficulty of keeping Catholicism
anyhow afloat on the bosom of this wonderful nine-
teenth century. Proved, indeed, those principles are, to
demonstration, but they \vill not \vork. Nay, it was
my own admission just now, that, in a particular in-
stance, it might easily happen, that what is only second
best is best practically, because what is actually best is
out of the question.
This, I hear you say to yourseives, is the state of
things at present. You recount in detail the numberless
impediments, great and small, formidable or only vexa-
tious, \vhich at every step embarrass the atteInpt to carry
out ever so poorly a principle in itself so true and
ecclesiastical. You appeal in your defence to \vise and
sagacious intellects, \vho are far from enemies to Catho-
licism, or to the Irish Hierarchy, and you have no hope,
or rather you absolutely disbelieve, that Education can
possibly be conducted, here and now, on a theological
principle, or that youths of different religions can, under
the circumstances of the country, be educated apart from
each other. The more you think over the state of
politics, the position of parties, the feelings of classes,
and the experience of the past, the more chimerical
does it seem to you to aim at a University, of \vhich
Catholicity is the fundamental principle. Nay, even if
the attempt could accidentally succeed, would not the
mischief exceed the benefit of it? How great the
sacrifices, in ho\v tnany ways, by \vhich it would be
preceded and follo\ved! how many wounds, open and
secret, 'would it inflict upon the body politic! And, if
it fails, \vhich is to be expected, then a double mischief
\vill ensue from its recognition of evils \vhich it has been
unable to remedy. These are your deep n1isgivings;

12

Discourse; 1.

and, in proportion to tIle force with \vhich they come to
you, is the concern and anxiety which YDU feel, that
there should be those whom you love, whom you
revere.. who from one cause or other refuse to enter
into them.

s.
This, I repeat, is what some good Catholics \vill say
to me, and more than this. They \vill express them-
selves better than I can speak for them in their behalf,-
with more earnestness and point, with more force of
argument and fulness of detail; and I \vill frankly and
at once acknowledge, that I shall insist on the high theo-
logical vie\v of a University \vithout attempting to give
a direct ans\ver to their arguments against its present
practicability. I do not sayan ans\ver cannot be given;
on the contrary, I have a confident expectation that, in
proportion as those objections are looked in the face,
they \vill fade away. But, ho\vever this may be, it would
not become me to argue the matter with those who
understand the circumstances of the problem so much
better than myself. What do I kno\v of the state of things
in Ireland, that I should presume to put ideas of mine,
\vhich could not be right except by accident, by the side
of theirs, who speak in the country of their birth and
their honle? No, Gentlemen, you are natural judges of
the difficulties which beset us, and they are doubtless
greater than I can even fancy or forbode. Let n1e, for
the sake of argument, adn1Ït all you say against our
enterprise, and a great deal more. Your proof of its
intrinsic impossibility shall be to me as cogent as my
own of its theological advisableness. Why, then, should
I be so rash and perverse as to involve myself in trouble
not properly mine r Why go out of my own plac
?

Introductory.

13

Why so headstrong and reckless as to lay up for myself
miscarriage and disappointment, as though I ,vere not
sure to have enough of personal trial anyhow \vithout
going about to seek for it ?
Reflections such as these would be decisive even
with the boldest and most capable minds, but for one
consideration. In the midst of our difficulties I have
one ground of hope, just one stay, but, as I think, a
sufficient one, which serves me in the stead of all other
argument \vhatever, \vhich hardens me against criticism,
which supports me if I begin to despond, and to
which I ever come round, when the question of the
possible and the expedient is brought into discussion.
It is the decision of the Holy See; St. Peter has spoken,
it is he \vho has enjoined that which seems to us so
unpromising. He has spoken, and has a claim on us to
trust him. He is no recluse, no solitary student, no
dreamer about the past, no doter upon the dead and
gone, no projector of the visionary. He for eighteen
hundred y
ars has lived in the ,\ orId; he has seen all
fortunes, he has encountered all adversaries, he has
shaped himself for all elnergencies. If ever there \vas
a power on earth \vho had an eye for the tilnes, \vho
has confined hilTIself to the practicable, and has been
happy in his anticipations, whose \vords have been facts,
and \vhose commands prophecies, such is he in the
history of ages, \\'ho sits from generation to generation
in the Chair of the Apostles, as the Vicar of Christ, and
the Doctor of His Church.

6.
These are not the words of rhetoric, Gentlenlen, but of
history. All who take part with the Apostle, are 911 the
winning side. He has long since given wårrants for the

14

]Jz"SCOIl'Sf 1_

confidence \vhich he claims. li'roin the first he has
looked through the wide \vorld, of which he has the
burden; and, according to the need of the day, and the
inspirations of his Lord, he has set hin1self now to one
thing, now to another. but to all in season, and to no-
thing in vain. He came first upon an age of refinement
and luxury like our own, and, in spite of the persecutor,
fertile in the resources of his cruelty, he soon gathered,
out of all classes of society, the slave, the soldier, the
high-born lady, and the sophist, materials enough to
form a people to his i\laster's honour. The savage hordes
come down in torrents from the north, and Peter went
out to meet thein, and by his very eye he sobered them,
and backed them in their full career. They turned aside
and flooded the \\'hole earth, but only to be more surely
civilized by hinl, and to be n1ade ten times more his
children even than the older populations which they had
ovenvheln1ed. Lawless kings arose, sagacious as the
ROIl1an, passionate as the H un, yet in him they found
their match, and Vo-ere shattered, and he lived on. The
gates of the earth were opened to the east and \vest, and
n1en poured out to take possession; but he \vent \vith
them by his n1issionaries, to China, to lYlexico, carried
along by zeal and charity, as far as those children of
tnen \vere led by enterprise, covetousness, or ambition.
I-Ias he failed in his successes up to this hour? Did he,
in our fathers' day, fail in his struggle with Joseph of
Gern1any and his confederates, with Napoleon, a greater
name, and his dependent kings, that, though in another
kind of fight, he should fail in ours l What grey hairs
are on the head of Judah, \vhose youth is renewed Jike
the eagle's, ,,,hose feet are like the feet of harts, and
underneath the Everlasting arms?
I n the first centuries of th
Church all this practical

Introductory.

15

sagacity of lloly Church \vas mere matter of faith, but
every age, as it has come, has confirmed faith by actual
sight; and shalne on us, if, \vith the accumulated testi.
nlony of eighteen centuries, our eyes are too gross to
see those victories \vhich the Saints have ever seen by
anticipation. Least of all can \ve, the Catholics of islands
\vhich have in the cultivation and diffusion of I<.no\vledge
heretofore been so singularly united under the auspices
of the Apostolic See, least of all can \ve be the men to
distrust its wisdom and to predict its failure, \vhen it
sends us on a similar mission now. I cannot forget that,
at a tÎ1ne when Celt and Saxon were alike savage, it was
the See of Peter that gave both of theIn, first faith,
then civilization; and then again bound thein together
in one by the seal of a joint cominission to convert and
illun1inate in their turn the pagan continent. I cannot
forget ho\v it was from Rome that the glorious St. Patrick
was sent to Ireland, and did a work so great that he
could not have a successor in it, the sanctity and learning
and zeal and charity \vhich followed on his death being
but the result of the one impulse which he gave. I
cannot forget ho\v, in no long time, under the fostering
breath of the Vicar of Christ, a country of heathen super.
stitions became the very ,yonder and asylum of all people,
-the wonder b)' reason of its knowledge, sacred and
profane, and the asylum of religion, literature and
science, ,yhen chased away from the continent by the
barbarian invaders. I recollect its hospitality, freely
accorded to the pilgrim; its volumes munificently pre.
sentec to the foreign student; and the prayers J the
blessings, the holy rites, the soleinn chants, which sanctj...
fied the \vhile both giver and receiver.
Nor can I forget either, hO\\F n1Y own England had
meanwhile become the solicitude of the same unwearieà

It>

Di
{o!trSf I.

eye: ho,v Augustine was sent to us by Gregory; how he
fainted in the way at the ti\.lings of our fierceness, and,
but for the Pope, \vould have shrunk as fronl an
impossible expedition; ho\\' he was forced on H in
weakness and in fear and in much trembling:' until he
had achieved the conquest of the island to Christ. Nor,
again, ho\v it came to pass that, \vhen Augustine died
and his work slackened, another Pope, unwearied still,
sent three saints from Rome, to ennoble and refine the
people Augustine had converted. Three holy Inen set
out for England together, of different nations: Theodore,
an Asiatic Greek, from Tarsus; Adrian, an African;
Bennett alone a Saxon, for Peter kno\vs no distinction of
races in his ecumenical ,york. They came with theology
and science in their train; with relics, "rith pictures, with
n1anuscripts of the Holy Fathers and the Greek classics;
and Theodore and Adrian founded schools, secular and
monastic, all over England, while Bennett brought to the
north the large library he had collected in foreign parts,
and, \vith plans and ornamental \\Tork from France,
erected a church of stone, under the invocation of St.
Peter, after the Roman fashion, (( \vhich," says the his-
torian,. "he most affected." I call to mind how St.
Wilfrid, St. John of Beverley, St. Bede, and other saintly
men, carried on the good \vork in the following genera-
tions, and ho\v from that time forth the t\vo islands,
England and I reland, in a dark and dreary age, \vere
the two lights of Christendom, and had no claims on each
other, and no thought of self, save in the interchange of
kind offices and the rivalry of love.

7.

o memorable time, when St. Aidan and the lrish

· Cíe
sy.

11lttoducto1Y.

(7

monks ,vent up to Lindisfarne and Melrose, and taught
the Saxon youth, and when a St. Cuthbert and a St.
Eata repaid their charitable toil! 0 blessed days
of peace and confidence, \vhen the Celtic Mailduf pene-
trated to Malmesbury in the south, which has inherited
his name, and founded there the famous school \vhich
gave birth to the great St. Aldhelm! 0 precious seal
and testimony of Gospel unity, ,vhen, as Aldhehn in
turn tells us, the English went to lreìand CI numerous as
bees;" \vhen the Saxon St. Egbert and St. Willibrod,
preachers to the heathen Frisons, made the voyage to
Ireland to prepare themselves for their ,vork; and when
from Ireland went forth to Germany the two noble
Ewalds, Saxons also, to earn the crown of martyrdom!
Such a period, indeed, so rich in grace, in peace, in love,
and in good works, could only last for a season; butt
even when the light was to pass away from them t the
sister islands \vere destined, not to forfeit, but to translnit
it together. The time came \vhen the neighbouring
continental country was in turn to hold the mission
which they had exercised so long and well; and when
to it they made over their honourable office, faithful to
the alliance of two hundred years, they made it a joint
act. Alcuin was the pupil both of the English and of
the Irish schools; and when Charlemagne \vould revive
science and letters in his own France, it was Alcuin, the
representative both of the Saxon and the Celt, who was
the chief of those who went forth to supply the need of
the great Emperor. Such \vas the foundation of the
School of Paris, from which, in the course of centuries,
sprang the famous University, the glory of the middle
ages.

The past never returns; the course of events, oid in
2

18

Discourse I.

its texture, is ever new in its colouring and fashion.
England and Ireland are not \vhat they once were, but
Rome is where it was, and St. Peter is the same: his
zeal, his charity, his mission, his gifts are all the same.
He of old made the two islands one by giving them
joint work of teaching; and now surely he is giving us
a like mission, and \ve shall become one again, \vhiIe \\Te
zealously and lovingly fulfil it.

IQ

")

DISCOURSE II.

THEOLOGY A BRANCH OF KKOWLEDGE.

_ [ HER E \vere t\vo questions, to which I drew your
attention, Gentlenlen, in the beginning of my first
Discourse, as being of especial importance and interest
at this titne: first) whether it is consistent with the idea

o.f..!l.!!iversity teaching to exclude Theology from a place

among the sciences which it embraces; next, whether it
is consistent \vith that idea to nlake the useful arts and
5
iè-nccs i
direct and principal concern, to the neglect
of those liberal studies and exercises of mind, in \vhich
it has heretofore been considered Inainly to consist.
These are the questions which will form the subject of
what I have to lay before you, and I shall no\v enter upon
the fonner of the two.

I.
I t is the fashion j list no\v, as you very \vell kno\v, to
erect so-called Universities, without making any provi-
sion in thenl at all for Theological chairs. Institutions
of this kind exist both here and in England. Such a
procedure, though defended by writers of the genera-
tion just passed \vith much plausible argument and not
a little wit, seems to me an intellectual absurdity; and
tny reason for saying so runs, \vith whatever abruptness,
into the forn1 of a syllogisn1 :-A University, I should

20

Discou se II.

lay do\vn, by its very name professes to teach universal
knowledge: Theology is surely a branch of knowledge:
how then is it possible for it to profess all branches of
knowledge, and yet to exclude from the subjects of its
teaching one which, to say the least, is as irnportant
and as large as any of them? I do not see that either
premiss of this argument is open to exception.
As to the range of University teaching, certainly the
very nan1e of University is inconsistent with restrictions
of any kind. Whatever \\ras the original reason of the
adoption of that term, \vhich is unknown,. I am only
putting on it its popular, its recognized sense, when I say
that a University should teach universal knowledge.
That there is a real necessity for this universal teaching
in the highest schools of intellect, I will show by-and-by;
here it is sufficient to say that such universality is con-
sidered by writers on the subject to be the very charac-
teristic of a University, as contrasted \vith other seats of
learning. Thus J ohnso11, in his Dictionary, defines it to
be "a school \vhere all arts and faculties are taught; "
dud lVlosheÏIn, ,vriting as an historian, says that, before
the rise of the University of Paris,-for instance, at Padua,
or Salamanca, or Cologne,-U the whole circle of sciences
then kno\vn was not taught;" but that the school of
Paris, U \vhich exceeded all others in various respects)
as well as in the number of teachers and students, \vas
the first to embrace all the arts and sciences, and there..
fore first became a University." t
If, with other authors, we consider the \vord to be
derived from the invitation which is held out by a Uni-
versity to students of every kind, the result is the same;
for, if certain branches of knowledge were excluded,

· In Roman law it means a Corporation. Viet KeufTel, J
&luJlis.
... Hist. vol. ii. p. 529. London, 1841.

Thlology a Branch oj' Knowledge. 21

those students of course would be excluded also, who
desired to pursue them.
Is it, then, logically consistent in a seat of learning
to call itself a University, and to exclude Theology
from the number of its studies? And again, is it won-
derful that Catholics, even in the view of reason, putting
aside faith or religious duty, should be dissatisfied with
existing institutions, which profess to be Universities,
and refuse to teach Theology; and that they should in
consequence desire to possess seats of learning, which
are, not only more Christian, but more philosophical
in their construction, and larger and deeper in their
provisions?
But this, of course, is to assume that Theology is a
science, and an important one: so I will throw my argu-
ment into a more exact form. I say, then, that if a
University be, from the nature of the case, a place of
instruction, \vhere universal kno\vledge is professed, and
if in a certain University, so called, the subject of Reli-
gion is excluded, one of two conclusions is inevitable,-
either, on the one hand, that the province of Religion is
very barren of real knowledge, or, on the other hand, that
in such University one special and important branch of
knowledge is olnitted. I say, the advocate of such an
institution must say this,or he must say tltat; he n1ust own,

either that little or nothing is kno\vn about the Supreme
Being, or that his seat of learning calls itself what it is not.
This is the thesis which I lay down, and on which I shall
insist as the subject of this Discourse. I repeat, such a
compronlise between religious parties, as is involved in
the establishnlent of a University which makes no reli-
gious profession, implies that those parties severally
consider,-not indeed that their own respective opinions
are trifles in a moral and practical point of vie\v-of

22

DiSCOU1"St" /1.

course not; but certainly as nluch as this, that they
are not kno\\'ledge. Did they in their hearts believe
that their private vie\vs of religion, \vhatevcr they are,
were absolutely and objectively true, it is inconceivable
that they would so insult them as to consent
o their
omission in an Institution \vhich is bound, fronl the
nature of the case-from its very idea and its nan1e-
to make a profession of all sorts of knowledge \vhatever.

2.
I think this \vill be found to be no nlatter of \vords.
I allow then fully, that, \vhen men combine together
for any comInon object, they are obliged, as a nlatter of
course, in ùrder to secure the advantages accruing frotTI
united action, to sacrifice n1any of their private opinions
and wishes, and to drop the minor differences, as they
are commonly called, \vhich exist behveen nlan and man.
No two persons perhaps are to be found, ho\vever inti-
tnate, ho\vever congenial in tastes and judgments, ho,v-
ever eager to have one heart and one soul, but must
deny themselves, for the sake of each other, much \vhich
they like or desire, if they are to live together bappily.
Compromise, in a large sense of the \vord, is the first
principle of combination; and anyone \vho insists on
enjoying his rights to the full, and his opinions \vithout
toleration for his neighbour's, and his o\vn \vay in all
things, \vill soon have all things altogether to himsel

anJ no one to share them \vith him. But most true a

this confessedly is, still there is an obvious linlit, on the
other hand, to these con1promises, however necessary they
be; and this is found in the pro1 J iso, that the differences
surrendered should be but" minor," or that there should
be no sacrifice of tht: nlain object of the cOlnbination, in
the concessions which are Illutual1ý nlade. Any sacrifice

Jñeolog)/ a BJ anch oj" I(Jlo'lu/e{
t;e. 23

which compron1Ìses that object is destructive of the
principle of the con1bination, and no one who would be
consistent can be a party to it.
Thus, for instance, if nlen of various religious denomi-
nations join together for the dissemination of what are
called cc evangelical" tracts, it is under the belief, that,
the object of their uniting, as recognized on all hands,
being the spiritual benefit of their neighbours, no reli-
gious exhortations, whatever be their character, can
essentially interfere with that benefit, which faithfully
insist upon the Lutheran doctrine of Justification. If,
again, they agree together in printing and circulating the
Protestant Bible, it is because they, one and all, hold to
the principle, that, ho\vever serious be their differences
of religious sentÏInent, such differences fade away before
the one great principle, which that circulation syn1bolizes
-that the Bible, the \vhole Bible, and nothing but tht
Bible, is the religion of Protestants. On the contrary,
if the committee of some such association inserted tracts
into the copies of the said Bible \vhich they sold, and
tracts in recomnlendation of the Athanasian Creed Of
the merit of good \vorks, I conceive any subscribing
men1ber would have a just right to complain of a pro-
ceeding, which con1pronlised the principle of Private
Judgment as the one true interpreter of Scripture.
These instances are sufficient to illustrate my general
position, that coalitions and com prehensions for an
object, have their life in the prosecution of that obj ect,
and cease to have any meaning as soon as that object is
compron1ised or disparaged.
vVhen, then, a number of persons come fOf\Vard, not
as politicians, not as diplomatists, la\vyers, traders, or
speculators, but with the one object of advancing Uni-
versal Knowledge, much we may allo\v them to sacrifice.

24

DiSCOllYSl II.

-an1bition, reputation. leisure, cOlllfort, party-interests,
gold; one thing they may not sacrifice,-Kno\vledge
itself. Knowledge being their object, they need not of
course insist on their own private vie\\'s about ancient or
modern history, or national prosperity J or the balance of
power; they need not of course shrink from the co-ope-
ration of those who hold the opposite views; but stipulate
they must that Kno\vledge itself is not compromised ;-
and as to those vie\vs, of whatever kind, which they do
allow to be dropped, it is plain they consider such to be
opinions, and nothing more, ho\\'ever dear, hovlever im-
portant to then1selves personally; opinions ingenious,
admirable, pleasurable, beneficial, expedient, but not
worthy the nan1e of Kno\vledge or Science Thus no
one \vould insist on the l\1althusian teaching being a sine
qud 11011- in a seat of learning, \\,ho did not think it silnpl}'
ignorance not to be a Malthusian; and no one would
consent to drop the Newtonian theory, who thought it
to have been proved true, in the saIne sense as the ex-
istence of the sun and moon is true. If, then, in an
Institution which professes all knowledge, nothing is
professed, nothing is taught about the Supreme Being,
it is fair to infer that every individual in the number of
those who advocate that Institution, supposing him con-
sistent, distinctly holds that nothing is known for certain
about the Suprenle Being; nothing such, as to have any
claim to be regarded as a material addition to the stock
of general kno\vledge existing in the \vorld. If on the
other hand it turns out that sonlething considerable is
known about the Suprenle Being, \vhether fron1 Reason
or Revelation, then the Institution in question professes
every science, and yet leaves out the foremost of them.
In a \\'ord, strong as Inay appear the assertion, I do not
see ho\\' I can avoid making it, and bear with me, Gentle-

Theology II Branch oj }{llowlt:dge. 25

men, while I do so, viz., such an Institution cannot be
what it professes, if there be a God. 1 do not \vish to
declaim; but, by the very force of the terms, it is very
plain, that a Divine Being and a University so circum-
stanced cannot co-exist.

3.
Still, however, this 1nay seem to Illany an abrupt cona
clusion, and will not be acquiesced in: what answer,
Gentlenlen, will be made to it? Perhaps this :-It will
be said, that there are different kinds or spheres of
Knowledge, human, divine, sensible, intellectual, and the
like; and that a University certainly takes in all varie-
ties of Knowledge in its o\vn line, but still that it has
a line of its o\vn. It contemplates, it occupies a certain
order, a certain platfonn, of Kno\vledge. 1 understand
the remark; but I o\vn to you, I do not understand ho\v
it can be made to apply to the matter in hand. 1 can-
not so construct my definition of the subject-l11atter of
University Kno\vledge, and so dra\v my boundary lines
around it, as to include therein the other sciences com-
monly studied at Universities, and to exclude the
science of Religion. For instance, are \\'e to limit our
idea of University Knowledge by the evidence of our
senses? then we exclude ethics; by intuition? we ex-
clude history; by testimony? we exclude lnetaphysics ;
by abstract reasoning? we exclude physics. Is not the
being of a God reported to us by testimony, handed
down by history, inferred by an inductive process, brought
honle to us by metaphysical necessity, urged on us by
the suggestions of our conscience? I t is a truth in the
natural order, as well as in the supernatural. So much
for its origin; and, when obtained, what is it worth? Is
it a great truth or a small one? Is it a comprehensive

26

JJiS((}U1
Se II.

truth? Say that no other religious idea whatever were
given but it, and you have enough to fill the n1ind; you
have at once a ,vhole dogmatic system. The \vord
II God" is a Theology in itself, indivisibly one, inex-
haustibly various, frotn the vastness and the simplicity
of its meaning. Adnlit a God, and you introduce
among the subjects of your knowledge, a fact encom-
passing, closing in upon, absorbing, evcry other fact
conceivable. I-Io\v can \ve investigate any part of any
order of Kno'\vledge, and stop short of that which enters
into every order? All true principles run over \vith it,
all phenomena converge to it; it is truly the First and
the Last. In ,vord indeed, and in idea, it is easy enough
to divide I(no\vledge into human and divine, secular and
religious, and to lay do\vn that \ve ,vill address ourselves
to the one withou t interfering with the other; but it is
impossible in fact. Granting that divine truth differs in
kind from hUtnan, so do human truths differ in kind one
from another. If the kno\vledge of the Creator is in a
different order from kno\vledge of the creature, so, in like
manner, metaphysical science is in a different order from
physical, physics from history, history fronl ethics.
You will soon break up into fragnlcnts the \vhole circle
of secular knowledge, if you begin the mutilation \vith
divine.
I have been speaking simply of Natural Theology;
my argument of course is stronger \Vhèn I go on to
Revelation. Let the doctrine of the Incarnation be
true: is it 110t at once of the nature of an historical fact,
and of a rnetaphysical? Let it be true that there are
Angels: ho\v is not this a point of knowledge in the
same sense as the naturalist's asseveration, that nlyriads
of living things might co-exist on the point of a needle?
1
hat the Earth is to be burned by fire, is, if true, as

Ineology II liranc//, o.f Knowledge. 27

lé1rge a fact as that huge rnonsters once played anlid its
depths ; that ...L\.ntichrist is to come, is as categorical a
heading to a chapter of history, as that Nero or Julian
was Emperor of Rome; that a divine influence moves
the \vill, is a subj ect of thought not more mysterious
than the result of volition on our muscles, \vhich \ve
admit as a fact in l11ctaphysics.
I do not see ho\v it is possible for a philosophical mind,
first, to believe these religious facts to be true; next, to
consent to ignore thenl; and thirdly, in spite of this, to go
on to profess to be teaching all the \vhile de o1l1ni scz"bili.
No; if a man thinks in his heart that these religious facts
are short of truth, that they are not true in the sense in
which the general fact and the law of the fall of a stone to
the earth is true, I understand his excluding Religion fronl
his University, though he professes other reasons for its
exclusion. In that case the varieties of religious opinion
under \vhich he shelters his conduct, are not only his
apology for publicly diso\vning Religion, but a cause of
his privately disbelieving it. He does not think that any
thing is known or can be kno\vn for certain, about the
origin of the \vorld or the end of Ulan.

4.
This, I fear, is the conclusion to \vhich intellects, clear,
logical, and consistent, have come, or are con1Ïng, [roln
the nature of the case; and, alas! in addition to this
þrÏ1Jlâ-facie suspicion, there are actual tendencies in the
sanlC direction in Protestantism, vie\ved \vhether in its
original idea, or again in the so-called Evangelicallnove-
ment in these islands during the last century. The reli-
gious \vorld, as it is styled, holds, generally speaking, that
Religion consists, not in kno\vledge, but in feeling or senti-
Inent. The old Catholic notion, \vhich still lingers in the

28

Discou'Y!Je II..

Established Church, was, that Faith was an intellectual
act, its object truth, and its result knowledge. Thus it
you look into the Anglican Prayer Book, you will find
definite credcJlda, a" well as definite agenda; but in pro-
portion as the Lutheran leaven spread, it became fashion-
able to say that Faith was, not an acceptance of revealed
doctrine, not an act of the intellect, but a feeling, an
emotion, an affection, an appetency; and, as this view
of Faith obtained, so \vas the connexion of Faith with
Truth and Knowledge more and more either forgotten
or denied. At length the identity of this (so-called)
spirituality of heart and the virtue of Faith was acknow-
ledged on all hands. Son1e men indeed disapproved
the pietism in question, others adnlired it; but \vhether
theyadlnired or disapproved, both the one party and
the other found then1selves in agreen1ent on the main
point, viz.-in considering that this really was in sub-
stance Religion, and nothing else; that Religion \vas
based, not on argument, but on taste and sentiment, that
nothing was objective, every thing subjective, in doctrine.
I say, even those who saw through the affectation in
which the religious school of which I alTI speaking clad
itself, still came to think that Religion, as such, consisted
in something short of intellectual exercises, viz., in the
affections, in the inlagination, in in\vard persuasions and
consolations, in pleasurable sensations, sudden changes,
and sublime fancies. 1'hey learned to believe and to
take it for granted, that Religion was nothing beyond a
fUþP/Y of the \vants of human nature, not an external
fact and a work of God. There \vas, it appeared, a
denland for Religion, and therefore there \vas a supply;
hunlan nature could not do without Religion, any nlore
than it could do without bread; a supply \vas absolutely
necessary, good or bad, and
as in the case of the articles

Theology a Branch oj' Kno'lvledge. 29

of daily sustenance, an article \vhich was really inferior
was better than none at all. Thus Religion \vas useful,
venerable, beautiful, the sanction of order, the stay of
government, the curb of self-\vill and self-indulgence,
which the la\vs cannot reach: but, after all, on \vhat wa')
it based? Why, that was a question delicate to ask,
and imprudent to ans\ver; but, if the truth must be
spoken, ho\yever reluctantly, the long and the short of
the matter \vas this, that Religion \vas based on custom,
on prejudice, on law, on education, on habit, on loyalty,
on feudalism, on enlightened expedience, on many,
many things, but not at all on reason; reason was nei-
ther its warrant, nor its instrument, and science had as
little connexion \vith it as \vith the fashions of the season,
or the state of the \veather.
You see, Gentlelnen, ho\v a theory or philosophy,
which began with the religious changes of the sixteenth
century, has led to conclusions, which the authors of
those changes would be the first to denounce, and has
been taken up by that large and influential body \\yhich
goes by the name of Liberal or Latitudinarian; and ho\v,
where it prevails, it is as unreasonable of course to de-
mand for Religion a chair in a University, as to demand
one for fine feeling, sense of honour, patriotisn1, grati-
tude, maternal affection, or good companionship, pro-
posals which \vould be simply uno1eaning.

"
).
Now, in illustration of \vhat I have been saying, I \vill
appeal, in the first place, to a statesman, but not merely
so, to no mere poli tician, no trader in places, or in votes,
or in the stock market, but to a philosopher, to an orator,
to one whose profession, whose aim, has ever been to
cultivate the fair, the noble, and the generous. I cannot

30

Dzscourse 11.

forget the celebrated discourse of the celebrated man to
\VhOIn I am referring; a man \vho is first in his peculia.r
\valk; and \vho, moreover (which is much to my purpose),
has had a share, as much as anyone alive, in effecting
the public recognition in these Islands of the principle
of separating secular and religious knowledge. This
brilliant thinker, during the years in which he was exert-
ing himself in behalf of this principle, nlade a speech
or discourse, on occasion of a public solemnity; and in
reference to the bearing of general kno\vledge upon reli-
gious belief, he spoke as follo\vs :
"As men," he said, "\vill no longer suffer thenlscl yes
to be led blindfold in ignorance, so will they no more
yield to the vile principle of judging and treating their
fello\v-creatures, not according to the intrinsic merit of
their actions, but according to the accidental and in-
voluntary coincidence of their opinions. The great
truth has finally gone forth to all the ends of the earth,"
l.nd he prints it in capital letters, II that man shall no more
render account to Olao for his belief, over which he has
hiolsclf no control. H cncefor\vard, nothing shall prevail
upon us to praise or to blame anyone for that which he
can no more change, than he can the hue of his skin or
the height of his stature." · You see, Gentlemen, if this
philosopher is to decide the nlatter, religious ideas are
just as far from being real, or representing anything
beyond thenlselves, are as truly peculiaritíes, idiosyn-
cracies, accidents of the individual, as his having the
stature of a Patagonian, or the features of a Negro.
But perhaps this ,vas the rhetoric of an excited
moment. Far from it, Gentlemen, or I should not have
fastened on the words of a fertile olind, uttered so long
ago. What 1\1:r. Brougham laid do\vn as a principle in
* ,Mr. Rr()1lßham'
Gbsgow Discourse.

Theology a BraJlch oj Knowledge. 3 1

182 5, resounds on all sides of us, ,vith ever-growing con-
fidence and success, in 1852. I open the Minutes of
the Committee of Council on Education for the years
18 4 8 -50, presented to both Houses of Parliament by com-
n1and of Her Majesty, and I find one of Her lVlajesty's
Inspectors of Schools, at p. 467 of the second volume,
dividing II the topics usually embraced in the better class
of prilnary schools" into four :-the knowledge of siglls,
as reading and writing; of facts, as geography and
:lstronomy; of relatioils and la'lfJs, as mathematics; and
lastly selltÙllellt, such as poetry and music. No\v, on
first catching sight of this division, it occurred to me to
ask myself, before ascertaining the writer's o\\'n resolu-
tion . of the matter, under which of these four heads
would fall Religion, or whether it fell under any of them.
JJid he put it aside as a thing too delicate and sacred
to be enulnerated with earthly studies? or did he dis-
tinctly conten1plate it when he made his division? Any-
ho\v, I could really find a place for it under the 1Ìrst
head, or the second, or the third ;-for it has to do
with facts, since it tells of the Self-subsisting; it has
to do \vith relations, for it tells of the Creator; it
has to do \vith signs, for it tells of the due manner of
speaking of lIhn. There \vas just one head of the
division to ,vhich I could not refer it, viz., to selltÙnc1tt;
for, I suppose, music and poetry, \vhich are the \vriter's
own examples of sentiment, have not Inuch to do with
Truth, \vhich is the main object of Religion. Judge then
I11Y surprise, Gentletnen, \vhen I found the fourth was
the very head selected by the writer of the Report in
question, as the special receptacle of religious topics.
" The inculcation of selltÙllellt," he says, "elnbraces read-
ing in its higher sense, poetry, music, together ,vith
tJ.1orai and religious I
dncation." I anI far from intro...

3 2

Discourse II.

clucing this writer for his own sake, because I have no
wish to hurt the feelings of a gentleman, who is but
exerting hin1self zealously in the discharge of anxious
duties; but, taking him as an ilIustration of the wide-
spreading school of thought to \vhich he belongs, I ask
'\\.hat can more clearly prove than a candid avowal like
this, that, in the view of his school, Religion is not
knowledge, has nothing whatever to do \vith knowledge,
and is excluded from a University course of instruction,
not sin1ply because the exclusion cannot be helped,
from political or social obstacles, but because it has no
business there at all, because it is to be considered
a taste, sentiment, opinion, and nothing Inore ?
The writer avo\vs this conclusion himself, in the ex-
planation into \vhich he presently enters, in which he
says: Ii According to the classification proposed, the
esscntial idctl of all religious Education \vill consist in the
direct cultivation of thefcelillgs." \Vhat we contemplate,
then, \vhat \ve airrl at, when \ve give a religious Educa-
tion, is, it Seell1S, not to i01part any kno\vledge \vhatever,
but to satisfy anyho\v desires after the Unseen which
""ill arise in our minds in spite of ourselves, to provide the
mind \vith a means of self-command, to irnpress on it the
beautiful ideas \vhich saints and sages have struck out, to
embellish it \vith the bright hues of a celestial piety, to
teach it the poetry of devotion, the music of well-ordered
affections, and the luxury of doing good. As for the in-
tellect, its exercise happens to be unavoidable, \vhenever
moral impressions are made, from the constitution of the
human mind, but it varies in the results of that exercise,
in the conclusions which it draws from our impressions,
according to the peculiarities of the individual.
Something like this seems to be the writer's mean
ing, but \ve need not pry into its finer issues in order to

Theology a Branch o.f Iíllow/e(lge 33

gain a distinct vie\v of its general bearing; and taking
it, as I think we fairly n1ay take it, as a specirnen of the
philosophy of the day, as adopted by those who are not
conscious unbelievers, or open scoffers, I consider it
amply explains ho\v it C0mes to pass that this day's phi-
losophy sets up a system of universal knowledge, and
teaches of plants, and earths, and creeping things, and
beasts, and gases, about the crust of the earth and the f
changes of the atmosphere, about sun, moon, and stars,
about man and his doings, about the history of the \vorld,
about sensation, memory, and the passions, about duty,
about cause and effect, about all things imaginable,
except one-and that is, about Him that made all these
things, about God. I say the reason is plain because
they consider knowledge, as regards the creature, is
illimitable, but impossible or hopeless as regards the
being and attributes and \vorks of the Creator.

6.

Here, however, it may be objected to me that this re-
presentation is certainly extreme, for the school in ques-
tion does, in fact, lay great stress on the evidence afforded
by the creation, to the Being and Attributes of the
Creator. I may be referred, for instance, to the \vords 01
one of the speakers on a memorable occasion. At the
very time of laying the first stone of the University of
London, I confess it, a learned person, since elevated to
the Protestant See of Durham, which he still fills, opened
the proceedings \vith prayer. He addressed the Deity, as
the authoritative Report informs us, "the \vhole sur-
rounding assembly standing uncovered in solemn silence."
l& Thou," he said, in the name of all present, "thou haiit
constructed the vast fabric of the universe in so wonder-
ful a manner, so arranged its motions, and so formed its
3

.i

Dl
5COU}S II.

productions, that the contemplation and study of thy
,yorks exercise at once the nlind in the pursuit of hutnan
science, and lead it on\vards to Divil1e Truth." Here is
apparently a distinct recognition that there is such a
thing as Truth in the province of Religion; and, did the
passage stand by itself, and were it the only means \ve
possessed of ascertaining the sentiments of the powerful
body \VhOln this distinguished person there represented,
it would, as far as it goes, be satisfactory'. I admit it ;
and I admit also the recognition of the Being and cer-
tain Attributes of the Deity, contained in the writings of
the gifted person whom I have already quoted, whose
genius, versatile and nlultiform as it is, in nothing has
been so constant, as in its devotion to the advancement
of knowledge, scientific and literary. He then certainly,
in his U Discourse of the objects, advantages, and p1ea-
sures of science," after variously illustrating what he
terms its U gratifying treats," cro\vns the catalogue \vith
luention of "the highest of all our gratifications in the
contemplation of science," \vhich he proceeds to explain
thus:
" \Ve are raised by then}," says he, "to an understand-
ing of the infinite wisdotn and goodness \vhich the Creator
his displayed in all His works. Not a step can be taken
in any direction," he continues, H without perceiving the
most extraordinary traces of design ; and the skill, every
\vhere conspicuous" is calcu]ated in 50 vast a .proportion
of instances to pr01110te the happiness of living creatures,
and especially of ourselves, that \ve can feel no hesitation
in concluding. that, if we kne\v the \vhole scheme of
Providence, every part would be in harmony with a plan
of absolute benevolence
Independent, however, of this
most consoling inference, the delight is inexpressible, of
being able to fQUo\v. as it "vere, \vith our eyes, the mar..

Tht.ology a BJ alllh oj }(;Z07.1,jü gt. 35

vellous ,yorks of the Great Architect of Nature, to trace
the unbounded power and exquisite skill \vhich are
exhibited in the most minute, as well as the mightiest
parts of I-lis system. The pleasure derived from this
study is unceasing, and so various, that it never tires the
appetite. But it is unlike the low gratifications of sense
in another respect: it elevates and refines our nature,
\"hile those hurt the health, debase the understanding,
and corrupt the feelings; it teaches us to look upon all
earthly objects as insignificant and belo\:v our notice,
except the pursuit of knowledge and the cultivation of
virtue, that is to say, the strict performance of our duty
in every t:elation of society; and it gives a dignity and
iOlportance to the enjoyment of life, which the frivolous
and the grovelling cannot even comprehend."
Such are the \vords of this prominent champion of
:r\'lixed Education. If logical inference be, as it un-
doubtedly is, an instrument of truth, surely, it may be
ans\vered to me, in admitting the possibility of inferring
the Divine Being and Attributes fro1n the phenomena
of nature, he distinctly admits a basis of truth for the
doctrines of Religion.

7.
I wish, Gentlemen, to give these representations their
full \veight, both from the gravity of the question, and
the consideration due to the persons \vhom I am arraign-
ing; but, before I can feel sure I understand them, I
must ask an abrupt question. When I am told, then, by
the partisans of Universities \vithout Theological teaching,
that human science leads to belief in a SupreJne Being,
without denying the fact, nay, as a Catholic, with full
conviction of it, nevertheless I am obliged to ask what
the statement means in their mouths, \vhat they, the

36

DisCOll-rSt II:

speakers, understand by the \vord It God." Let me not
be thought offensive, if I question, \vhethcr it means the
same thing on the two sides of the controversy. With
us Catholics, as with the first race of Protestants, as with
l\1ahometans, and all Theists, the \vord contains, as I
have already said, a theology in itself. At the risk of
anticipating \vhat I shall have occasion to insist upon in
my next Discourse, let me say that, according to the
teaching of l\lonotheism, God is an Individual, Self.

- -.,---
dependent, All-perfect, Unchangeable BCIng ; intelligent,
living, personal, and present; almighty, all-seeing, all-
reluenlbering; bet\veen \vhom and His creatures there is
an infinite gulf; \vho has no origin, who is all:-sufficient
for Hill1self; \\'ho created and upholds the universe; who
\vill judge everyone of us, sooner or later, according to
that La\v of right and \vrong \vhich lIe has \vrittcn on
our hearts. He is One \vho is sovereign over, operatíve
amid
t, independent of, the appointments \vhich He has
made; One in \vhose hands are all things, \vho has a pur-
pose in every event, and a standard for every deed, and
thus has relations of His o\vn to\vards the subject-matter
of each particular science which the book of kno\vledge
unfolds; who has \vith an adorable, never-ceasing energy
inlplicated lIimself in all the history of creation, the
constitution of nature, the course of the world, the
origin of society, the fortunes of nations, the action of the
hU111an nlilld ; and who thereby necessarily becomes the
subject-matter of a science, far \vider and more noble than
any of those which are included in the circle of secular
:Ed ucation.
This is the doctrine \vhich belief in a God implies in
the mind of a Catholic: if it means any thing, it means
all this, and cannot keep froln Ineanin
all this, and a
great deal more; and, even though there were nothing

Thcolog)1 a Branch oll{llo'lv!et(
e. 37

in the religious tenets of the last three centuries to dis-
parage dogInatic truth, still, even then, I should have
difficulty in believing that a doctrine so tnysterious, so
peremptory, approved itself as a Inatter of course to
educated men of this day, \vho gave their minds atten-
tively to consider it. Rather, in a state of society such
as ours, in \vhich authority, prescription, tradition, habit,
nloral instinct, and the divine influences go for nothing,
in \vhich patience of thought, and depth and consistency
of vie\v, are scorned as subtle and scholastic, in \vhich
free discussion and fallible judgment are prized as the
birthright of each individual, I n1ust be excused if I
exercise towards this age, as regards its belief in this
doctrine, some portion of that scepticism which it
exercises itself to\vards every received but unscrutinized
assertion whatever. I cannot take it for granted, I must
have it brought home to me by tangible evidence, that
the spirit of the age means by the Supreme Being \vhat
Catholics mean. Nay, it \vould be a relief to my mind
to gain some ground of assurance, that the parties in-
fluenced by that spirit had, I will not say, a true apprehen-
sion of God, but even so much as the idea of what a true
apprehension is.
Nothing is easier than to use the \vord, and Inean no..
thing by it. The heathens used to say, "God \vilIs,"
when they meant (( Fate ;" "God provides," \vhen they
n1eant "Chance;" "God acts," \vhen they meant "In-
stinct" or "Sense;" and "God is every where," \vhen
they meant "the Soul of Nature." The Altnighty is
something infinitely different froln a principle, or a
centre of action, or a quality, or a generalization of
phenonlena. If, then, by the \vard, you do but mean a
Being \vho keeps the \vorld in order, \vho acts in it, but
only in the way of general Providence, who acts to\:vards

3 8

DiJCOUYj{ II.

us but only through \vhat are called laws of Nature,
who is more certain not to act at all than to act independ-
ent of those laws, \vho is kno\vn and approached indeed,
but only through the medium of those laws; such a God
it is not difficult for anyone to conceive, not difficult for
anyone to endure. If: I say, as you would revolu-
tionize society, so you \V'ould revolutionize heaven, if you
have changed the divjne sove r
nty into_ a s
rt of con-
stitu tion al mo..narchy, in \vhich the Throne has honour
an<.1 ceremonial enough, but cannot issue the most
ordinary cOlnlnand except through legal forms and
precedents, and with the counter-signature of a minister,
then belief in a God is no more than an ackno\vledgment
of existing, sensible po\vers and phenomena, \vhich nonL
but an idiot can deny. If the Suprenle Being is po\ver.
ful or skilful, just so far forth as the telescope sho\\"

power, and the n1Ïcroscope shows skill, if His moral law
is to be ascertained simply by the physical processes of
the anilnal fraine, or His will gathered frotTI the im-
mediate issues of hUlnan affairs, if His Essence is just as
high and deep and broad and long as the universe,
and no more; if this be the fact, then will I confess
that there is no specific science about God, that theo-
logy is but a name, and a protest in its behalf an
hypocrisy. Then is I-Ic but coincident with the laws of
the universe; then is He but a function, or correlative,
or subjective reflection and mental impression, of each
phenomenon of the material or moral world, as it flits
before us. Then, pious as it is to think of Him, \vhile
the pageant of experiment or abstract reasoning passes
by, still, such piety is nothing more than a poetry of
thought or an örnan1cnt of language, and has not even
an infinitesin1al influence upon philosophy or science, of
which it is rather the parasitical production.

Theology a Branch 0.1 Kllo'lvledge. 39

I understanJ, in that case, why Theology should require
no specific teaching, for there is nothing to mistake
about; why it is powerless against scientific anticipations,
for it merely is one of them; why it is simply absurd in
its denunciations of heresy, for heresy does not lie in the
region of fact and experiment. I understand, in that
case, how it is that the religious sense is but a (( s
nti-
ment," and its exercise a U gratifying treat," for it is like
the sense of the beautiful or the sublime. I understand
how the contemplation of the universe H leJ.ds onwards to
divine truth," for divine truth is not something separate
from Nature, but it is Nature \vith a divine glow upon
it. I understand the zeal expressed for Physical Theo-
logy, for this study is but a mode of looking at Physical
Nature, a certain view taken of Nature) private and
personal, which one man has, and another has not, which
gifted minds strike out, which others see to be admirable
and ingenious, and which all would be the better for
adopting. It is but the theology of Nature, just as we
talk of the philosophy or the rOJna1tce of history, or the
poetry of childhood, or the picturesque, or the sentÎtuen-
tal, or the humorous, or any other abstract quality, \vhich
the genius or the caprice of the individual, or the fashion
of the day, or the consent of the world, recognizes in
any set of objects which are subjected to its contem-
plation.

8.
Such ideas of religion seem to me short of Monotheism;
I do not impute them to this or that individual \vho be-
longs to the school which gives them currency; but \vhat
I read about the II gratification" of keeping pace in our
scientific researches with II the Architect of Nature;"
about the said gratification" giving a dignity and import-
ance to the enjoyment of life:' and teaching us that

40

Discourse II.

knowledge and our duties to society are the only earthly
objects worth our notice, all this, I o\vn it, Gentlemen,
frightens me; nor is Dr. Maltby's address to the Deity
sufficient to reassure me. I do not see much difference
bet\veen avo\ving that there is no God, and itnplying that
nothing definite can for certain be known about HÏIn;
and when I find Religious Education treated as the cul-
tivation of sentiment, and Religious Belief as the acci-
dental hue or posture of the nlind, I am reluctantly but
forcibly reminded of a very unpleasant page of Meta-
physics, viz., of the relations between God and Nature
insinuated by such philosophers as H ume. This acute,
though nlost low-nlinded of speculators, ill his inquiry
concerning the Human Understanding, introduces, as is
well kno\vn, Epicurus, that is, a teacher of atheisn1, de-
livering an harangue to the Athenian people, not indeed
in defence, but in extenuation of that opinion. His ob-
ject is to show that, \vhereas the atheistic view is nothing
else than the repudiation of theory, and an accurate
representation of phenomenon and fact, it cannot be
dangerous, unless phenolnenon and fact be dangerous.
Epicurus is made to say, that the paralogism of philo-
sophy has ever been that of arguing from Nature in
behalf of something beyond Nature, greater than Nature;
whereas, God, as he maintains, being kno\vn only
through the visible \vorld, our knowledge of Him is ab-
solutely commensurate with our knowledge of it,-is
nothing distinct from it,-is but a mode of viewing it.
Hence it follows that, provided we admit, as we cannot.
help admitting, the phenomena of Nature and the world,
it is only a question of words whether or not we go on
to the hypothesis of a second Being, not visible but im-
material, parallel and coincident with Nature, to whom
we give the name of God. "Allowing," he S.J. ys, (( the

Theology a Brant:h oj Itl1i>wle(lge. 4 I

gods to be the authors of the existence or order of the
universe, it follo\vs that they possess that precise degree
of po\ver, intelligence, and benevolence, \vhich appear

in their \vorknlanship; but nothing farther can be proved,
except we call in the assistance of exaggeration and
flattery to supply the defects of argutnent and reasoning.
So far as the traces of any attributes, at present, appear,
so far Inay \ve conclude these attributes to exist. The
supposition of farther attributes is mere hypothesis;
much nlore the supposition that, in distant periods of
place and time, there has been, or \vill be, a n10re magni-
ficent display of these attributes, and a schelne of adtnin-
istration more suitable to such itnaginary virtues."
Here is a reasoner, \vho \vould not hesitate to deny
that there is any distinct science or philosophy possible
concerning the Supreme Being; since every single thing
we know of Him is this or that or the other phenomenon,
n1aterial or n10ral, \vhich already falls under this or that
natural science. In hill1 then it \vould be only consistent
to drop Theology in a course of University Education:
but ho\v is it consistent in anyone \vho shrinks from his
companionship? I am glad to see that the author,
several titnes mentioned, is in opposition to H ume, in
one sentence of the quotation I have made frorTI his
Discourse upon Science, deciding, as he does, that the
phenomena of the material \vorld are insufficient for the
full exhibition of the Divine Attributes, and implying
that they require a supplemental process to complete
and harmonize their evidence. But is not this supple-
n1ental process a science? and if so, \vhy not acknow-
ledge its existence? If God is more than Nature,
Theology cla
ms a place among the sciences: but, on the
other hand, if you are not sure of as much as this, ho\v
do you differ fron1 H ume or Epicurus 1

4 2

Ð1S{()UrSl II.

9.
I end then as I began: religious doctrine is knowletige.
This is the inlportant truth, little entered into at this day,
which I wish that all \vho have honoured me with their
presence here would allow me to beg them to take away
\vith them. I anl not catching at sharp arguments, but
laying do\vn grave principles.
eligious doctrine is

no \vledge, in as full a sense as Newton's doctrine is
kno\
ledge. University Teaching \vithout Theology--Ï1;
siInply un philosophical. Theology has at least as good
a right to claim a place there as Astronomy.
In my next Discourse it will be my object to sho\v
that its olnission from the list of recognised sciences is
not only indefensible in itself, but prejudicial to all the
rest,

43

DISCOURSE III.

BEARING OF THEOLOGY ON OTHER BRANCHES OF
KNO\VLEDGE.

I.
W HEN l11en of great intellect, \vho have long and
intently and exclusively given thenlselves to the
study or investigation of sonle one particular branch of
secular knowledge, whose mental life is concentrated and
hidden in their chosen pursuit, and \vho have neither
eyes nor ears for any thing which does not imlnediately
bear upon it, \vhen such men are at length made to realize
that there is a clamour all around them, \vhich must be
heard, for what they have heen so little accustomed to
place in the category of knowledge as Religion, and that
they themselves are accused of disaffection to it, they are
impatient at the interruption; they call the delnand
tyrannical, and the requisitionists bigots or fanatics.
r"fhey are tempted to say, that their only ,vish is to be
let alone; for themselves, they are not dreanling of offend-
ing anyone, or interfering \vith anyone; they are pur-
suing their own particular line, they have never spoken a
word against anyone's religion, \vhoever he may be)
and never mean to do so. It does not follo\v that they
deny the existence of a God, because they are not found
talking of it, whe-n the topic would be uttt
rly irreleva.nt.

44

Disrourse III.

All they say is, that there are other beings in the world
besides the Suprenle Being; their business is \vith them.
After all, the creation is not the Creator, nor things
secular religious. Theology and hunlan science are t\VO
things, not one, and have their respective provinces,
contiguous it nlay be and cognate to each other, but not
identical. When \ve are contemplating earth, we are not
contenlplating heaven; and when \ve are contemplating
heaven, \ve are not contemplating earth. Separate sub-
jects should be treated separately. As division of labour,
so division of thought is the only means of successful
application. "Let us go our o\vn \vay," they say, " and
you go yours. "VVe do not pretend to lecture on Theology,
and you have no clailn to pronounce upon Science."
With this feeling they attempt a sort of compronli
e,
bet\veen their opponents who claim for Theology a free
introduction into the Schools of Science, and thenlselve

who would exclude it altogether, and it is this: viz., that
it should remain indeed excluded from the public
schools, but that it should be permitted in private,
\vherever a sufficient number of persons is found to
desire it. Such persons, they seenl to say, nlay have it
all their own \vay, \vhen they are by themselves, so that
they do not attempt to disturb a cOIuprehensive system
of instruction, acceptable and useful to all, by the in-
trusion of opinions peculiar to their o\vn minds.
I am now going to attempt a philosophical ans\ver to
this representation, that is, to the project of teaching
secular knowledge in the University Lecture Room, and
remanding religious knowledge to the parish priest, the
catechism, and the parlour; and in doing so, you Inust
pardon me, Gentlemen, if my subject should oblige nle
to pursue a lengthy and careful course of thought, which
lnay be \vearisome to the hearer :-1 begin then thus:-

Bea illg oJ- Theulvgy OIl Othc.-}" }(llo({.,led gee 45

2.
Truth is the object of Knowledge of \vhatever kind;
and \vhen \ve inquire \vhat is meant by Truth, I suppose
it is right to answer that Truth means facts and their
relations, \vhich stand to\vards each other pretty much
as subjects and predicates in logic. All that exists, as
contenlplated by the human mind, forms one large
system or complex fact, and this of course resolves itself ì
into all indefinite number of particular facts, which, as j
being portions of a whole, have countless relations of
every kind, one to\vards another. Knowledge is the
'\1apprehension of these facts, whether in themselves, or in 1
.'\heir mutual positions and bearings. And, as all taken
together form one integral subject for contemplation, so
there are no natural or real lilnits bet\veen part and
part; one is ever running into another; all, a.s viewed
by the mind, are combined together, and possess a
correlative character one \vith another, froll1 the internal
tnysteries of the Divine Essence down to our own sen-
sations and consciousness, from the 1110st solelnn appoint-
ments of the Lord of all do\vn to \vhat may be called the
accident of the hour, from the Inost glorious seraph down
to the vilest and most noxious of reptiles.
Now, it is not \vonderful that, \vith all its capabilities,
the hUlllan mind cannot take in this whole vast fact at a
single glance, or gain possession of it at once. Like a
short-sighted reader, its eye pores closely, and travels
slo\vly, over the a\vful volume \vhich lies open for its in-
spection. Or again, as \ve deal with some huge structure
of many parts and sides, the mind goes round about it,
noting down, first one thing, then another, as it best may,
and vie\ving it under different aspects, by way of making
progress towards mastering the whole. So by degrees

46

/)t.\(0 l .H' I fl.

and by circuitous advances does it rise aloft and subject
to itself a kno\vledge of that universe into \vhich it has
been born.
These various partial views or abstractions, by nleans
of \vhich the mind looks out upon its object, are called
.
sciences, and embrace respectively larger or smal1cr por-
tions of the field of knowledge; sometimes extending far
and "'ide, but superficially, sometimes \vith exactness
over particular d
partments, sometinles occupied together
on one and the same portion, sometinles holding one part
in COUInlon, and then ranging on this side or that in abso-
lute divergence one from the other. Thus Optics has for
its subject the whole visible creation, so far forth as it is
sinlply visible; l\1:ental Philosophy has a narro\ver pro-
vince, but a richer one. Astronomy, plane and physical,
each has the same subject-nlatter, but views it or treats
it differently; lastly, Geology and Comparative AnatonlY
have subjcct-nlatters partly the same, partly distinct.
No\v the
e vie\vs or sciences, as being abstractions, have
far more to do with the relations of things than \vith
things themselves. They tell us \vhat things are, only or
principally by telling us their relations, or assigning pre-
dicates to subjects; and therefore they never tell us all
that can be said about a thing, even when they tell some-
thing, nor do they bring it before us, as the senses do.
They arrange and classify facts; they reduce separate
phenomena under a common la\\.; they trace effects to a
cause. Thus they serve to transîer our kno\\'ledge from
the custody of memory to the surer and nlore a biding
protection of philosophy, thereby providing both for its
spread and its advance :-for, inasmuch as sciences are
forms of kno\vledge, they enable the intellect to master
and increase it; and, inasmuch as they are instrunlents,
to communicate it readily to others. Still, after aU, they

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48

Dl
fì(()U 1 se III.

him in a variety of relations; and according to those
relations are the sciences of which he is the subject-nlatter,
and according to our acquaintance \vith them is our pos-
session of a true knowledge of him. We may view him
in relation to the material eleluents of his body, or to his
menta) constitution, or to his household and family, or
to the community in \vhich he lives, or to the Being ,vho
nlade him; and in consequence we treat of hiIn respec-
tively as physiologists, or as moral philosophers, or as
\\Titers of economics, or of politics, or as theologians.
When we think of him in all these relations together, or
as the subject at once of all the sciences I have named,
then we n1ay be said to reach unto and rest in the idea
of man as an object or external fact, similar to that \vhich
the eye takes of his out\vard fornl. On the other hand,
according as we are only physiologists, or only politicians,
or only moralists, so is our idea of man more or less
unreal; we do not take in the whole of hi m, and the
defect is greater or less, in proportion as the relation is,
or is not, important, which is onlitted, \vhether his relation
to God, or to his king, or to his children, or to his o\vn
component parts. And if there be one relation, about
which we know nothing at all except that it exists, then
is our kno\vledge of him, confessedly and to our own
consciousness, deficient and partial, and that, I repeat,
in proportion to the ÏInportance of the relation.
That therefore is true of sciences in general \vhich we
are apt to think applies only to pure mathematics, though
to pure mathenlatics it applies especially, viz., that they
cannot be considered as simple representations or in-
formants of things as they are. We are accustonled to
say, and say truly, that the conclusions of pure mathe-
matics are applied, corrected, and adapted, by mixed;
but so too the conclusions of Anatomy, Chen1Îstry,

Bearing oj Theology on Other I.[llowledge. 49

Dynanlics, and other sciences, are revised and completed
by each other. Those several conclusions do not represent
whole and substantive things, but views, true, so far
as they go; and in order to ascertain how far they
do go, that is, how far they correspond to the object
to \vhich they belong, we must compare thern with the
vicws taken out of that object by other sciences. Did
we proceed upon the abstract theory of forces, \ve should
assign a much more ample range to a projectile than in
fact the resistance of the air allo\vs it to accomplish.
Let, however, that resistance be luade the subj ect of
scientific analysis, and then we shall have a new
science, assisting, and to a certain point completing, for
the benefit of questions of fact, the science of projection.
On the other hand, the science of proj ection itself, con-
sidered as belonging to the forces it contemplates, is
not more perfect, as such, by this supplementary in-
vestigation. And in like manner, as regards the whole
circle of sciences, one corrects another for purposes of
fact, and one without the other cannot dogmatize, except
hypothetically and upon its own abstract principles. For
instance, the Newtonian philosophy requires the admis-
sion of certain metaphysical postulates, if it is to be lnore
than a theory or an hypothesis; as, for instance, that
what happened yesterday will happen to-lnorrow; that
there is such a thing as lnatter, that our senses are trust-
worthy, that there is a logic of induction, and so on.
N ow to Newton meta physicians grant all that he asks ;
but, if so be, they may not prove equally accommodating
to another who asks something else, and then all his
most logical conc1usions in the science of physics would
remain hopelessly on the stocks, though finished, and
never could be launched into the sphere of fact.
Again, did I kno\v nothing about the movement of
4

so

Discoltt"se Ill.

bodies, except \vhat the theory of gravitation supplies,
,vere I simply absorbed in that theory so as to nlake
it measure all Inotion on earth and in the sky, I should
indeed come to l11any right conclusions, I should hit off
olany inlportant facts, .,.. scertain many existing relations,
and correct many popular errors: I should scout and
ridicule \vith great success the old notion, that light bodies
llc\v up and heavy bodies fell do\vn ; but I should go on
with equal confidence to deny the phenomenon of capil-
lary attraction. I-Iere I should be \vrong, but only be..
cause I carried out nlY science irrespectively of other
sciences. In like manner, did I sinlply give Inyself to
the investigation of the external action of body upon
body, I nlight scoff at the very idea of chemical affinities
and combinations, and reject it as sinlply unintelligible.
Were I a nlere chenlist, I should deny the influence of
tnind upon bodily health; and so on, as regards the
devotees of any science, or fanlily of sciences, to the ex-
clusion of others; they necessarily become bigots and
(luacks, scorning all principles and reported facts which
do not belong to their own pursuit, and thinking to effect
everything \vithout aid from any other quarter. Thus,
before now, chemistry has been substituted for 111edicine ;
and again, political econorny, or intellectual enlighten-
111ent, or the reading of the Scriptures, has been cried up
as a panacea against vice, malevolence, and nlisery.

Summing up, Gentlenlen, \vhat I have said, I lay it
down that all knowledge forms one whole, because its
subject-nlatter is one; for the universe in its length and
breadth is so intiruately knit together, that we cannot
separate off portion from portion, and operation froIn
üpcration. except by a mental abstraction; and then

Braring o.f Theology Oil Other Itllowledge. 5 I

again, as to its Creator, though He of course in His o\vn
BèÍng is infinitely separate from it, and Theology has its
departnlents to\vards which human knowledge has no
relations, yet He has so implicated I-litnself \vith it, and
taken it into His very bosonl, by His presence in it, His
providence over it, His impressions upon it, and His
influences through it, that we cannot truly or fully con-
tenlplate it \vithout in SOlne main aspects conteluplating
Hin1. N ext, sciences are the results of that mental
abstraction, which I have spoken of, being the logical
record of this or that aspect of the \vhole subject-n1atter
of knowledge. As they all belong to one and the saIne
circle of objects, they are one anù all connected to-
gether; as they are but aspects of things, they are
severally incolnplete in their relation to the things theIn-
selves, though complete in their o\vn idea anù for their
o\vn respective purposes; on both accounts they at once
need and subserve each other. And further, the COl11-
prehension of the bearings of one science on another,
and the use of each to each, and the location and liIni-
tation and adjustIncnt and due appreciation of them all,
one \vith another, this belongs, I conceive, to a sort of
science distinct from all of them, and in some s
nse a
science of sciences, which is my o\vn conception of \vhat
- ----
is meant by Philosophy, in the true sense of the worà,
and of a philosophical habit of mind, and which in these
Discourses I shall call by that name. This is \vhat I
have to say about kno\vledge and philosophical know-
ledge generally; and now I proceed to apply it to the
particular science, which has led me to dra\v it out.
I say, then, that the systematic omission of anyone
science from the catalogue prejudices the accuracy and
cOlnpleteness of our knowledge altogether, and that, in
proportion to its itnportance. Not even Theology itself,

52

Discourst" III.

though it cornes from heaven, though its truths \vere
given once for all at the first, though they are luore
certain on account of the Giver than those of
athe-
luatics, not even Theology, so far as it is relative to us,
or is the Science of Rertgion, do I exclude fron1 the la\v
to which every n1ental exercise is subj ect, viz., fro In that
imperfection, \vhich ever must attend the abstract, when
it would det
rn1ine the concrete. N or do I speak only
of Natural Religion; for even the teaching of the Catho-
lic Church, in certain of its aspects, that is, its religious
teaching, is variously influenced by the other sciences.
Not to insist on the introduction of the Aristotelic philo-
sophy into its phraseology, its explanation of dogmas
is influenced by ecclesiastical acts or events; its inter-
pretations of prophecy are directly affected by the issues
of history; its comments upon Scripture by the con-
clusions of the astronon1er and the geologist; and its
casuistical decisions by the various experience, political,
social, and psychological, with \vhich times and places
are ever supplying it.
\Vhat Theology gives, it has a right to take; or rather,
the interests of Truth oblige it to take. If we \vould not
be beguiled by dreams, if we would ascertain facts as
they are, then, granting Theology is a real science, we
cannot exclude it, and still call ourselves philosophers.
I have asserted nothing as yet as to the pre-eminent
dignity of Religious Truth; I only say, if there be
Religious Truth at all, we cannot shut our eyes to it
without prejudice to truth of every kind, physical, meta-
physical, historical, and moral; for it bears upon all
truth. And thus I answer the objection with which I
opened this Discourse. I supposed the question put to
me by a philosopher of the day, U Why cannot you go
YQur way, and let us go ours?" I ans\ver, in the nalne

BearlJ/g 0/ Theology Oil DlflèY Know/edge. 53

of the Science of Religion, "\Vhen Newton can dis-
pense \vith the metaphysician, then may you dispense
\vith us." So much at first sight; now I am going on to
claim a little more for Theology, by classing it with
branches of knowledge \vhich may \vith greater decency
be compan.
ò to it.

s.
Let us see, then, ho\v this supercilious treattnent of so
mon1entous a science, for mOlnentous it must be, if there
be a God, runs in a some\vhat parallel case. The great
philosopher of antiquity, \vhen he \vould enumerate the
causes of the things that take place in the \\'odd, after
making l11ention of those \vhich he considered to be
physical and material, adds, "and the mind and every-
thing which is by means of man.". Certainly; it would
have been a preposterous course, when he would trace
the effects he saw arounù him to their respective sources,
had he directed his exclusive attention upon some one
class or order of originating principles, and ascribed
to these everything which happened anywhere. It
would indeed have been unworthy a genius so curious,
so penetrating, so fertile, so analy
ical as Aristotle's, to
have laid it du\vn that everything on the face of the
earth could be accounted for by the material sciences,
without the hypothesis of moral agents. It is incredible
that in the investigation of physical results he could
ignore so influential a being as man, or forget that, not
only brute force and elemental movement, but know-
ledge also is power. And this so much the more, inas-
much as moral and spiritual agents belong to another,
not to say a higher, order than physical; so that the
olll1ssion supposed would not have been merely an
· Arist. Ethic. Nicom., iii. 3.

S4

Discourse III.

tJversight in matters of detail, but a philosophical error,
and a fault in division.
'" Ho\vever, we live in an age of the world \vhen the
career of science and literature is little affected by 'what
was done, or would have been done, by this venerable
authority; so, \ve \vill suppose, in England or Ireland, in
the middle of the nineteenth century, a set of persons of
name and celebrity to meet together, in spite of Aristotle,
in order to adopt a line of proceeding \vhich they conceive
the circunlstances of the time render imperative. \Ve "rill
suppose that a difficulty just no\v besets the enunciation
and discussion of all n1atters of science, in consequ
nce
of the extrenle sensitiveness of large classes of the C0111-
nlunity, clergy and laymen, on the subjects of necessity,
responsibility, the standard of morals, and the nature of
virtue. Parties run so high, that the only \vay of avoiJ-
ing constant quarrelling in defence of this or that side of
the question is, in the judgnlent of the persons I am sup-
posing, to shut up the subject of anthropology altogether.
This is accordingly done. Henceforth man is to be as if
he \vcre not, in the general course of Ed ucation ; the moral
and mental sciences are to have no professorial chairs,
and the treatment of theIn is to be sim ply left as a 11latter
of private judgn1ent, \vhich each individual may carry out
as he \vill. I can just fancy such a prohibition ab-
stractedly possible; but one thing I cannot fancy pos-
sible, viz., that the parties in question, after this s\veeping
act of exclusion, should forthwith send out proposals on
the basis of such exclusion for publishing an Encyclo-
pædia, or erecting a N ational University.
) It is necessary, ho\vever, Gentlenlen, for the sake of the
illustration \vhich I am setting before you, to imagine
what cannot be. I say, let us inlagine a project for
organizing a systcnl of scientific teaching, in which the

h-'ta,rz"ltg o.f l'heology Oil Otlter I('llow/({lgé.

,\C
.., ,-1

agency of man in the material world cannot allowably
be recognizeå, and may allowably be denied. Physical
and mechanical causes are exclusively to be treated of;
volition is a forbidden subject. A prospectus is put out,
\vith a list of sciences, \ve will say, Astronomy, Optics,
Hydrostatics, Galvanism, Pneumatics, Statics, Dynamics,
Pure 1Iathematics, Geology, Botany, Physiology, Ana-
tomy, and so forth; but not a \vord about the mind and
its powers, except what is said in explanation of the
omission. That explanation is to the effect that the
parties concerned in the undertaking have given long and
anxious thought to the subject, and have been reluctantly
driven to the conclusion that it is sinlply Ï1npracticable
to include in the list of University Lectures the Philo-
sophy of Mind. What relieves, however, their regret is
the reflection, that domestic feelings and polished man-
ners are best cultivated in the fan1ily circle and in good
society, in the observance of the sacred ties \vhich unite
father, mother, and child, in the correlative claims and
duties of citizenship, in the exercise of disinterested
loyalty and enlightened patriotism. With this apology,
.such as it is, they pass over the consideration of the
human mind and its po\vers and \vorks, "in solemn
silence," in their scheme of University Education.
'/ Let a charter be obtained for it; let professors be ap-
pointed, lectures given, examinations passed, degrees
a \varded :-\vhat sort of exactness or trust\vorthiness,
what philosophical largeness, \\"ill attach to vie\vs formed
in an intellectual atmosphere thus deprived of some of
the constituent elements of daylight? What judgment
will foreign countries and future times pass on the labours
of the most acute and accomplished of the philosophers
who have been parties to so portentous an unreality?
Here are professors gravely lecturing on Inedicine. or

56

D1SCcJurse ilL

history, or political economy, who, so far frolll being bound
to acknowledge, are free to scoff at the action of mind
upon matter, or of mind upon mind, or the clain1s of
mutual justice and charity. Coolnlon sense indeed and
public opinion set bounds at first to so intolerable a
licence; yet, as tinle goes on, an onlission \vhich was
originally but a matter of expedience, conlluends itself
to the reason; and at length a professor is found, Inore
hardy than his brethren, still however, as he himself ll1ain-
tains, with sincere respect for domestic feelings and good
Inanners, \vho takes on hin1 to deny psychology 'Ùl toto,
to pronounce the influence of nlind in the visible world
a superstition, and to account for every effect \vhich is
found in the world by the operation of physical causes.
I-litherto intelligence and volition \vere accounted real
powers; the muscles act, and their action cannot be repre-
sented by any scientific expression; a stone flies out of the
hand and the propulsive force of the muscle resides in the
will; but there has been a revolution, or at least a new
theory in philosophy, and our Professor, I say, after speak-
ing \vith the highest adnliration of the human intellect,
limits its independent action to the region of speculation,
and denies that it can be a motive principle, or can exer-
cise a special interference, in the material ,vorld. He
ascribes every work, every external act of man, to the
innate force or soul of the physical universe. He observes
that spiritual age.nts are so 11lysterious and unintelligible,
so uncertain in their laws, so vague in their operation, so
sheltered from experience, that a \vise man will have
nothing to say to then1. They bel9ng to a different
order of causes, ,vhich he leaves to th03e whose pro-
fession it is to investigate them, and he confines hilnself
to the tangible and sure. Human exploits, human devices,
human deeds, human productions, all that con1es under

Bt::arlllg if Thc:o/vgy Ull Uthe }(Ilow/edgt:. 57

the scholastic terms of" genius 11 and" art," anù the meta..
physical ideas of "duty," "right," and" heroisln," it is
his office to conteInplate all these merely in their place
in the eternal systelll of physical cause and effect. At
length he undertakes to sho\v ho\v the whole fabric of
material civilization has arisen from the constructive
powers of physical elenlents and physical laws. He
descants upon palaces, castles, temples, exchanges, bridges,
causeways, and sho\vs that they never could have gro\vn
into the imposing dimensions \vhich they present to us,
but for the laws of gravitation and the cohesion of part
with part. The pillar \vould come do\vn, the loftier the
lnore speedily, did not the centre of gravity fall within its
base; and the most admired dome of Palladio or of Sir
Christopher \vould give \yay, were it not for the happy
principle of the arch. He surveys the conlplicated
nlachinery of a single day's arrangements in a private
fan1Ïly; our dress, our furniture, our hospitable board;
\vhat \vould beconle of them, he asks, but for the laws of
physical nature? Those laws are the causes of our
carpets, our furniture, our travelling, and our social inter-
course. Firnl stitches have a natural power, in propor-
tion to the toughness of the material adopted, to keep
together separate portions of cloth; sofas and chairs
could not turn upside down, even if they would; and it
is a property of caloric to relax the fibres of anin1a.1
matter, acting through ,vater in one way, through oil in
another, and this is the \vhole mystery of the most
elaborate cuisine :-but I should be tedious if I con-
tinued the illustration.

6.
N ow, Gentlemen, pray understand ho\v it is to be here
applied. I am not supposing that the principles of

58

Dl:rrOllrse III.

1'heology and Psychology are the same, or arguing from
the \\'orks of man to the works of God, which Paley has
done, which H ume has protested against. I am not
busying myself to prove the existence and attributes of
God, by means of the .Argument froln design. I am
not proving anything at all about the Supreme Being.
On the contrary, I am assuming His existence, and I do
but say this :-that, man existing, no University Pro-
fessor, \vho had suppressed in physical lectures the idea
of volition, \vho did not take volition for granted, could
escape a one-sided, a radically false vie\v of the things
\vhich he discussed; not indeed that his o\vn definitions,
principles, and laws ,,'ould be wrong, or his abstract
statcJnents, but his considering his o\vn study to be the
key of everything that takes place on the face of the
earth, and his passing uver anthropology, this \vould be
his error. I say, it would not be his science \vhich \vas
untrue, but his so-called kno\vledge \vhich \vas unreal.
He ,vould be deciding on facts by means of theories.
The various busy \vorld, spread out before our eyes, is
physical, but it is n10re than physical; and, in Inaking
its actual sy<;teln identical \vith his scientific analysis,
formed on a particular aspect, such a Professor as I have
in1agined ,vas betraying a ,vant of philo
ophical depth,
and an ignorance of \vhat an University Teaching ought
to be. He was no longer a teacher of liberal kno\vledge,
but a narro,v-rninded bigot. While his doctrines pro-
fessed to be conclusions formed upon an hypothesis or
partial truth, they \vere undeniable; not so if they pro-
fessed to give results in facts which he could grasp and
take possession of. Granting, indeed, that a man's ann
is n10ved by a sin1ple physical cause, then of course \ve
rnay dispute about the various external influences which,
when it changes its position, sway it to and fro, like a

h"'ell "Ùtg if lïltù!ogy 0 l Other K1i(Ju.'ìt(l..e(
. 59

scarecrow in a garden; but to assert that the nlotivc
cause is physical, this is an assumption in a case, when
our question is about a matter of fact, not about the
logical consequences of an assumed prelniss. And, in
like nlanner, if a people prays, and the wind changes, the
rain ceases, the sun shines, and the harvest is safely
housed, \vhen no one expected it, our Professor may, if
he \vill, consult the barometer, discourse about the
atmosphere, and thro\v what has happened into an
equation. ingenious, even though it be not true; but,
should he proceed to rest the phenomenon, in matter of
fact, simply upon a physical cause, to the exclusion of a
divine, and to say that the given case actually belongs to
his science because other like cases no, I must tell hÌIn,
Ne sutor ultra crepidanl: he is making his particular
craft usurp and occupy the universe. This then is the
drift of my illustration. If the creature is ever setting in
motion an endless series of physical causes and effects,
much nlore is the Creator; and as our excluding volition
from our range of ideas is a denial of the soul, so our
ignoring Divine Agency is a virtual denial of God.
Ivloreover, supposing tuan can will and act of hinlself in
spite of physics, to shut up this great truth, though one,
is to put our whole encyclopædia of kno\vledge out of
joint; and supposing God can will and act of Hitnself in
this \vorkl \vhich He has made, and ,ve deny or slur it
over, then we are thro\ving the circle of universal science
into a like, or a far \vorse confusion.
Worse incomparably, for the idea of God, if there h

a God, is infinitely higher than the idea of man, if thcl

be man. If to blot out man's agency is to deface the
book of kno\vledge, on
he supposition of that agency
existing, \vhat must it be, supposing it exists, to blot out
the agency of God? I have hitherto been engaged in

60

DÙrOUYSf /1 .

sho\\'ing that all the sciences conle to us as one, that
they all relate to one and the same integral subject-
matter, that each separately is more or less an abstrac-
tion, wholly true as an hypothesis, but not wholly trust-
worthy in the concrete, conversant \vith relations 111ort...
than with facts, with principles nlore than \vith agents,
needing the support and guarantee of its sister sciences,
and giving in turn while it takes :-froll1 \vhich it fùllows
that none can safely be omitted, if we \vould obtain the
exactest kno\vledge possible of things as they are, and
that the 0111ission is nlore or less important, in propor-
tion to the field which each covers, and the depth to
which it penetrates, and the ('rder to which it belongs;
for its loss is a positive privation of an influence \vhich
exerts itself in the correction and completion of the rest.
This is a general statement; but now as to Theology in
particular, \vhat, in matter of fact, are its pretensions,
what its importance, what its influence upon other
branches of knowledge, supposing there be a God, \vhich
it would not become nle to set about proving? Has it
vast dill1ensions, or does it lie in a nutshell? \Vill its
omission be imperceptible, or will it destroy the equili-
briu111 of the \vhole system of Knowledge? This is the
inquiry to which I proceed.

7.
Now what is Theology? First, I ,vill tell you what it
is not. And here, in the first place (though of course 1
speak on the subject as a Catholic), observe that, strictly
speaking, I am not assuming that Catholicism is true,
\vhile I make myself the champion of Theology.
Catholicisn1 has not formally entered into 111Y argulnent
hitherto, nor shall I just now assume any principle
peculiar to it, for reasons \vhich will appear in the sequel,

BcarÍ1z c f of Theol
rJ' 01l 01 her l
llo'lvledge. 61

though of course I shall use Catholic language. Neither,
secondly, \vill I fall into the fashion of the day, of identi-
fying Natural Theology \vith Physical Theology; \vhich
said Physical Theology is a most jejune study, considered
as a science, and really is no science at all, for it is
ordinarily nothing more than a series of pious or polemical
retnarks upon the physical world vie\ved religiously,
\vhereas the \vord (( Natural " properly cOtnprehends man
and society, and all that is involved therein, as the great
Protestant \vriter, Dr. Butler, shows us. Nor, in the third
place, do I mean by Theology polemics of any kind; for
instance, \vhat are called (( the Evidences of Religion,"
or " the Christian Evidences; " for, though these constitute
a science supplemental to Theology and are necessary
in their place, they are not Theology itself, unless an
army is synonymous \vith the body politic. Nor, fourthly,
do I mean by Theology that vague thing called "Chris-
tianity," or "our comtnon Christianity," or (, Christianity
the la\v of the land," if there is any man alive \vho can
tell what it is. I discard it, for the very reason that it
cannot thro\v itself into a proposition. Lastly, I do not
understand by Theology, acquaintance with the Scrip-
tures; for, though no person of religious feelings can
read Scripture but he \vill find those feelings roused,
and gain much knowledge of history into the bargain,
yet hi
torical reading and religious feeling are not science.
I mean none of these things by Theoiogy, I simply'
mean the Science of God, or the truths we know about
God put into system; just as \ve have a science of the
stars, and call it astronomy, or of the crust of the earth,
and call it geology.
Iior instance, I mean, for this is the main point, that,
as in the human fralne there is a living principle, acting
upon it and through it by means of volition, so, behind

62

DiscouJse III. .

the veil of the visible universe, there is an invisible,
intelligent Being, acting on and through it, as and \vhen
I-Ie ,vill. Further, I Inean that this invisible Agent is in
no sense a soul of the \vorld, after the analogy of human
nature, but, ún the contrary, is absolutely distinct from
the world, as being its Creator, Upholder, Governor, and
Sovereign Lord. I-Icre \ve are at once brought into the
circle of doctrines ,vhich the idea of God elnbodies. I
111ean then by the Suprelne Being, one who is sÏ1nply
self-depcndent, and the only Being who is such; n10reover,
that lie is \vithout beginning or Eternal, and the only
Eternal; that in consequence He has lived a whole
eternity by Hin1self; and hence that He is all-sufficient,
sufficient for His own blessedness, and all-blessed, and
ever-blessed. Ii'urther, I mean a Being, who, having
these prerogatives, has the Supreme Good, or rather is
the Suprelne Good, or has all the attributes of Good in
infinite intenseness; all wisdolll, all truth, all justice, all
Jove, all holiness, all beautifulness; who is omnipotent,
omniscient, onlnipresent; ineffably one, absolutely perfect;
and such, that \vhat \ve do not know' and cannot even
ÍIllagine of Ilinl, is far 1110re wonderful than what \ve do
and can. I n1ean One who is sovereign over His o\vn will
and actions, though ahvays according to the eternal Rule
of right and wrong, \vhich is Himself. I mean, moreover,
that He created all things out of nothing, and preserves
thelTI every 11loInent, and could destroy them as easily as
He made them; and that, in consequence, He is separated
froln them by an abyss, and is incomn1unicable in all
His attributes. And further, He has stamped upon all
things, in the hour of thcir creation, their respective
natures, and has given then1 their work and mission and
their length of days, greater or less, in their appointed
place. I nlcan, too. that I--Ie is ever prc.scnt with I-lis

ßt'aring fl.! ThL'ol(Jg)' on Olh(r J{now/edge. 6.3

works, one by one, and confronts every thing I-Ie has
made by His particular and nlost loving Providence, and
lnanifests Hiu1self to each according to its needs; and
has on rational beings iU1printed the moral la\v, and
given them power to obey it, inlposing In theln the duty
of \vorship and service, searching and s..canning theln
through and through \vith His omniscient eye, and
putting before them a present trial and a juùgment to
come.
Such is \vhat Theology teaches about God, a doctrine,
as the very idea of its subject-matter presupposes, so
Iuysterious as in its fulness to lie beyond any systen1,
and in particulJ.r aspects to be simply external to nature,
and to seeln in parts even to be irreconcileable \vith
itself, the i01agination bèing unable to embrace \vhat the
reason determines. It teaches of a Being infinite, yet
personal; all-blessed, yet ever operative; absolutely
separate from the creature, yet in every part of the
creation at every n101uent; above all things, yet under
every thing. It teaches of a Being who, though the
highest, yet in the ,york of creation, conservation,
government, retribution, ll1akes Himself, as it were, the
lninister and servant of all; who, though inhabiting
eternity, allo\vs Himself to take an interest, and to h
lve
..1 sYlnpathy, in the matters of space anè time. His are
all beings, visible and invisible, the noblest and the vilest
of them. His are the substance, and the operation, and
the results of that sY.5tem of physical nature into which
\ve are born. His too are the po\vers and achievements
of the intellectual essences, on which He has bestowed
an independent action and the gift of origination. The
la\vs of the universe, the principles of truth, the relation
of one thing to another, their qualities and virtues, the
order and hannony of the \vholc, all th3.t exists, is from

04

Disco" se Ill. .

I-linl; and, if evil is not from llirn, as assuredly it is not,
this is because evil has no substance of its own, but is
only the defect, excess, perversion, or corruption of that
\\Thich has substance. All \ve see, hear, and touch, the re-
mote sidereal firmament, as \vell as our o\vn sea and land,
and the elements \vhich compose them, and the ordinances
they obey, are I-lis. The primary atOtns of matter, their
properties, their mutual action, their disposition and
collocation, electricity, magnetism, gravitation, light, and
\vhatever other subtle principles or operations the wit of
man is detecting or shan detect, are the work of I-lis
hands. From IIim has been every movement ,vhich
has convulsed and re-fashioned the surface of the earth
The most insignificant or unsightly insect is fronl Him,
and gooù in its kind; the ever-teeming, inexhaustible
s\varms of animalculæ, the myriads of living nlotes in-
visible to the naked eye, the restless ever-spreading
vegetation which creeps like a garment over the whole
earth, the lofty cedar, the umbrageous banana, are His.
His are the tribes and families of birds and beasts, their
graceful forms, their wild gestures, and their passionate
Crt es.
And so in the intellectual, moral, social, and political
,vorld. Man, \\.ith his motives and works, his languages,
his propagation, his diffusion, is from Him. Agriculture,
nledicine, and the arts of life, are !-lis gifts. Society,
laws, governnlent, lIe is their sanction. The pageant of
earthly royalty has the semblance and the benediction
of the Eternal King. Peace and civilization, commerce
and adventure, wars when just, conquest when humane
and necessary, have His co-operation, and His blessing
upon them. The course of events, the revolution of
empires, the rise and fall of states, the periods and eras,
the progresses and the retrogressions of the \vorid.s

Bearing 0/ Tluology on Other fellowledge. 65

history, not indeed the incidental sin, over-abundant as
it is, but the great outlines and the results of human
affairs, are from His disposition. The elements and
types and seminal principles and constructive powers of
the moral \vorld, in ruins though it be, are to be referred
to Him. He" enlighteneth every man that cometh into
this \vorld." His are the dictates of the IHoral sense, and
the retributive reproaches of conscience. 'ro Him must
be ascribed the rich endo\vments of the intellect, the
irradiation of genius, the imagination of the poet, the
sagacity of the politician, the \visdom (as Scripture calls
it), which no\v rears and decorates the Temple, now
Inanifests itself in proverb or in parable. The old saws
of nations, the majestic precepts of philosophy, the
luminous maxims of law, the oracles of individual wis-
dom, the traditionary rules of truth, justice, and religion,
even though imbedded in the corruption, or alloyed with
the pride, of the world, betoken His original agency, and
His long-suffering presence. Even \vhere there is habi-
tual rebellion against Him, or profound far-spreading
social depravity, still the undercurrent, or the heroic out-
burst, of natural virtue, as well as the yearnings of the
heart after what it has not, and its presentiment of its
true remedies, are to be ascribed to the Author of all
good. Anticipations or reminiscences of His glory haunt
the mind of the self-sufficient sage, and of the pagan
devotee; His writing is upon the wall, whether of the
Indian fane, or of the porticoes of Greece. He introd
ces
Hin1self, He all but concurs, according to His good plea-
sure, and in His selected season, in the issues of unbelief,
superstition, and false worship, and He changes the cha-
racter of acts by His overruling operation: He conde-
scends, though He gives no sanction, to the altars and
shrines of inlposture, and He makes His own fiat the
5

66

Discourse IIL

substitute for its sorceries. I-Ie speaks an1id the incan-
tations of Balaam, raises Samuel's spirit in the witch's
cavern, prophesies of the Messias by the tongue of the
Sibyl, forces Python to recognize His n1inisters, and
baptizes by the hand of the misbeliever. He is ,vith the
heathen dramatist in his denunciations of injustice and
tyranny, and his auguries of divine vengeance upon
crime. Even on the unseemly legends of a popular
mythology He casts His shadow, and is diInly discerned
in the ode or the epic, as in troubled water or in fan-
tastic dreams. All that is good, all that is true, all that
is beautiful, all that is beneficent, be it great or small, be it
perfect or fragmentary, natural as v{ell as supernatural,
moral as ,veIl as material, comes from Him.

8.

If this be a sketch, accurate in substance and as far as
it goes, of the doctrines proper to Theology, and espe-
cially of the doctrine of a particular Providence, \vhich is
the portion of it most on a level \vith human sciences, I
cannot understand at all how, supposing it to be true, it
can fail, considered a.
knowledge, to exert a powerful
influence on philosophy, literature, and every intellectual
creation or discovery \vhatever. I cannot understand
how it is possible, as the phrase goes, to blink the ques-
tion of its truth or falsehood. It meets us with a pro-
fession and a proffer of the highest truths ùf which the
humån mind is capable; it en1braces a range of subjects
the most diversified and distant from each other. \Vhat
science \vill aot find one part or other of its province
traversed by its path? \Vhat results of philosophic
speculation are unquestionable, if they have been gained
without inquiry as to what Theology had to say to them?
Does it cast no light upon history? has it no influence

Bearing oj Theology on Ot/ter KTlowlt:dge. 67

upon the principles of ethics? is it without any sort of
bearing on physics, metaphysics, and political science?
Can we drop it out of the circle of knowledge, without
allo\ving, either that that circle is thereby mutilated, or on
the other hand, that Theology is really no science?
And this dilemn1a is the more inevitable, because
Theology is so precise and consistent in its intellectual
structure. When I speak of Theism or lYlollotheism, I
am not throwing together discordant doctrines; I am
not merging belief, opinion, persuasion, of whatever kind,
into a shapeless aggregate, by the help of ambiguous
\vords, and dignifying this nledley by the name of
Theology. 1 speak of one idea unfolded in its just pro-
portions, carried out upon an intelligible method, and
issuing in necessary and immutable results; understood
indeed at one time and place better than at another.
held here and there \vi th more or less of inconsistency,
but still, after all, in all times and places, \vhere it is found,
the evolution, not of half-a-dozen ideas, but of one.

9.
And here I aln led to another and most important
point in the argument in its behalf,-I mean its wide re-
ception. Theology, as I have described it, is no accident
of particular minds, as are cel tain systems, for instance,
of prophetical interpretation. It is not the sudden birth of
a crisis, as the Lutheran or Wesleyan doctrine. It is not
the splendid development of some uprising philosophy,
as the Cartesian or Platonic. It is not the fashion of a
season, as certain medical treatments may be considered.
It has had a place, if not possession, in the intellectual
world from time immemorial; it has been received by
minds the most various, and in systeIns of religion the
most hostile to each other. It has prÙllâ facie claims

68

D'iscourse III.

upon us, so imposing, that it can only be rejected on the
ground of those claims being nothing more than im pos-
ing, that is, being false. As to our :>wn countries, it
occupies our language, it meets liS at every turn in our
literature, it is the secret assumption, too axion1atic to be
distinctly professed, of all our writers; nor can we help
assuming it ourselves, except by the most unnatural
vigilance. Whoever philosophizes, starts \vith it, and
introduces it, when he will, without any apology. Bacon,
Hooker, Taylor, Cudworth, Locke, Newton, Clarke,
Berkeley, and Butler, and it would be as easy to find
more, as difficult to find greater names among English
authors, inculcate or con1ment upon it. Men the most
opposed, in creed or cast of mind, Addison and Johnson,
Shakespeare and Milton, Lord Herbert and Baxter,
herald it forth. Nor is it an English or a Protestant
notion only; you track it across the Continent, you
pursue it into former ages. When was the world \vith-
out it ? Have the systems of Atheisn1 or Pantheism, as
sciences, prevailed in the literature of nations, or received
a formation or attained a completeness such as :r\'lono-
theism ? We find it in old Greece, and even in Rome,
as well as in J udea and the East. We find it in
popular literature, in philosophy, in poetry, as a positive
and settled teaching, differing not at all in the appear-
ance it presents, whether in Protestant England, or in
schismatical Russia, or in the Mahometan populations,
or in the Catholic Church. If ever there was a subject
of thought, \vhich had earned by prescription to be
received all10ng the studies of a University, and whicl:
could not be rej ected except on the score of convicteå
imposture, as astrology or alcherny; if there be a science
any\vhere, \vhich at least could claim not to be ignored,
but to be entertained, and either distinctly accepted or

BfarÙzg oj Thf-Ology on (Jlhcr J('1owlt:dge. 69

distinctly reprobated, or rather, which cannot be p3ssed
over in a scheme of universal instruction, \vithout involv-
ing a positive denial of its truth, it is this ancient, this
far-spreading philosophy.

10.
And no\v, Gentlemen, I may bring a somewhat tedious
discussion to a close. It will not take many words to
sum up wh3.t I have been urging. I say then, if the
various branches of knowledge, \vhich are the matter of
teaching in a University, so hang together, that none
can be neglected \vithout prejudice to the perfection of
the rest, and if Theology be a branch of knowledge, of
\vide reception, of philosophical structure, of unutterable
importance, and of supreme influence, to what con-
clusion are \ve brought from these two premisses but
this? that to \vithdraw Theology from the public
schools is to impair the completeness and to invalidate
the trustworthiness of all that is actually taught in them.
But I have been insisting simply on Natural Theology,
and that, because I wished to carry along with me those
who were not Catholics, and, again, as being confident,
that no one can really set himself to master and to
teach the doctrine of an intelligent Creator in its fulness,
without going on a great deal farther than he at present
dreams. I say, then, secondly :-if this Science, even
as human reason may attain to it, has such claims on
the regard, and enters so variously into the objects, of
the Professor of Universal Kno\vledge, how can any
Catholic imagine that it is possible for him to cultivate
Philosophy and Science \vith due attention to their
ultimate end, \vhich is Truth, supposing that system of
revealed facts and principles, which constitutes the
Catholic Faith, which goes so far beyond nature, and

J
'"

,
A
R
Y

70

)lscourse 1 .

which he knows to be most true, be omitted from among
the subjects of his teaching?
In a \vord, Religious Truth is not only a portion, but
a condition of general kno\vledge. To blot it out is
nothing short, if I may sb speak, of unravelling the web
of Univ rsity Teaching. It is, according to the Greek
proverb, to take the Spring from out of the year; it is
to imitate the preposterous proceeding of those trage-
dians who represented a drama with the omission of it

principal part.

7 1

DISCOURSE IV.

BEARING OF OTHER BRANCHES OF KNOWLEDGE ON
THEOLOGY.

I.
N OTHING is more COfIunon in the world at large
than to consider the resistance, made on the part
of religious. men, especially Catholics, to the separation
of Secular Education from Religion, as a plain token
that there is some real contrariety between human science
and Revelation. To the multitude who draw this infer-
ence, it matters not whether the protesting parties avow
their belief in this contrariety or not; it is borne in upon
the many, as if it \vere self-evident, that religious men
would not thus be jealous and alarmed about Science,
did they not feel instinctively, though they may not
recognize it, that knowledge is their born enemy, and
that its progress, if it is not arrested, will be certain to
destroy all that they hold venerable and dear. It looks
to the world like a misgiving on our part similar to that
which is imputed to our refusal to educate by means of
the Bible only; why should you dread the sacred text,
men say, if it be not against you? And in like man-
ner, why should you dread secular education, except
that it is against you? Why impede the circulation
of books which take religious views opposite to your
own? Why forbid your children and scholars the free

72

Discourse 11 .

perusal of poeIns or tales or essays or other light
literature \vhich you fear \vould unsettle their minds 1
Why oblige them to know these persons and to shun
those, if you think that your friends have reason on their
side as fully as your opponents? Truth is bold and un-
,
suspicious; \vant of self-reliance is the Inark of false-
hood.
Now, as far as this objection relates to any supposed
opposition bet\veen secular science and divine, \vhich is
the subject on \vhich I am at present engaged, I made a
sufficient answer to it in my foregoing Discourse. In it
I said, that, in order to have possession of truth at all,
we must have the \vhole truth; and no one science, no
t\VO sciences, no one fan1Ìly of sciences, nay, not even all
secular science, is the whole truth; that revealed truth
enters to a very great extent into the province of
science, philosophy, and literature, and that to put it on
one side, in complin1ent to secular science, is simply,
under colour of a compliment, to do science a great
damage. I do not say that every science will be equally
affected by the omission; pure mathematics will not
suffer at all; chen1Ïstry \vill suffer less than politics,
politics than history, ethics, or metaphysics; still, that
the various branches of science are intimately connected
with each other, and form one 'whole, which whole is i01-
paired, and to an extent which it is difficult to litnit, by
any considerable on1ission of knowledge, of whatever
kind, and that revealed kno\vledge is very' far indeed
from an inconsiderable department of kno\vledge, this I
consider undeniable. As the \vritten and un\vritten word
of God make up Revelation as a \vhole, and the \vritten,
taken by itself, is but a part of that whole, so in turn
Revelation itself may be viewed as one of the constituent
parts of human knowledge. considered as a whole. and

13fari1lg of Other K1wlvkdge on Theology. 73

its omission is the omission of one of those constituent
parts. Revealed Religion furnishes facts to the other
sciences, which those sciences, left to themselves, would
never reach; and it invalidates apparent facts, which,
left to themselves, they would imagine. Thus, in the
science of history, the preservation of our race in Noah's \(
ark is an historical fact, which history never would
arrive at without Revelation; and, in the province of
physiology and moral philosophy, our race's progress
and perfectibility is a dream, because Revelation con-
tradicts it, whatever n1ay be plausibly argued in its be-
half by scientific inquirers. It is not then that Catho-
lics are afraid of human knowledge, but that they are
proud of divine knowledge, and that they think the
omission of any kind of knowledge whatever, human or
divine, to be, as far as it goes, not knowledge, but
ignorance.

2.
Thus I anticipated the objection in question last week:
no\v I am going to make it the introduction to a further
vie\v of the relation of secular knowledge to divine. I
observe, then, that, if you drop any science out of the
circle of knowledge, you cannot keep its place vacant for
it; that science is forgotten; the other sciences close
up, or, in other words, they exceed their proper bounds,
and intrude where they have no right. For instance, I
suppose, if ethics were sent into banishment, its territory
would soon disappear, under a treaty of partition, as it
may be called, between law, political economy, and
physiology; what, again, would become of the pro-
vince of experimental science, if n1ade over to the Anti-
quarian Society; or of history, if surrendered out and
out to l'vletaphysicians ? 1-'he case is the same with the

74

D isc()urse 1 J/.

subject-matter of Theology; it would be the prey of a
dozen various sciences, if Theology were put out of
possession; and not only so, but those sciences \voulcl
be plainly exceeding their rights and their capacities in
seizing upon it. They would be sure to teach \vrongly,
where they had no n1ission to teach at all. The enemies
of Catholicism ought to be the last to deny this :-for they
have never been blind to a like usurpation, as they have
called it, on the part of theologians; those who accuse
us of wishing, in accordance with Scripture language, to
make the sun go round the earth, are not the men to
deny that a science which exceeds its lilnits falls into
error.
I neither then am able nor care to deny, rather I
assert the fact, and to-day I am going on to account ÍOi
it, that any secular science. =ultivated exclusively, n1ay
become dangerou
to Religion; and I account for it on
this broad principle, that no science whatever, ho\vever
comprehensive it may be, but will fall largely into error,
if it be constituted the sole exponent of all things in
heaven and earth, and that, for the simple reason that it
is encroaching on territory not its o\vn, and undertaking
problems which it has no instrun?ents to solve. And I
set off thus:

3-
One of the first acts of the human mind is to take
hold of and appropriate vlhat meets the senses, and here-
in lies a chief distinction between man's and a brute's use
of them. Brutes gaze on sights, they are arrested by
sounds; and what they see and what they hear are
n1ainly sights and sounå5 only. 'rhe intellect of man,
on the contrary, energizes as well as his eye or ear, and
perceives in sights and sounds sOlnething beyond them.

.Bearing oj' Other J{nowledge on Theology. 75

It seizes and unites what the senses present to it; it
grasps and fornls \vhat need not have been seen or
heard except in its constituent parts. It discerns in lines
and colours, or in tones, what is beautiful and what is
not. It gives them a meaning, and invests then1 with
an idea. It gathers upa-succession of notes into the
expression of a whole, and calls it a nlelody; it has a
keen sensibility towards angles and curves, ltghts and
shado\vs, tints and contours. I t distinguishes between
rule and exception, bet\veen accident and design. It
assigns phenomena to a general law, qualities to a subject,
acts to a principle, and effects to a cause. In a word,
it philosophizes; for I suppose Science and Philosophy,
in t heir elementary idea, are nothing else but this habit
of viewing, as it may be called, the objects which sense
.conveys to the mind, of throwing them into system, and
uniting and stamping them with one form.
This method is so natural to us, as I have said, as to be
ahnost spontaneous; and we are impatient when we can-
not exercise it, and in consequence we do not always
wait to have the means of exercising it aright, but \ve
often put up with insufficient or absurd views or inter-
pretations of what \ve meet with, rather than pave none
at all. We refer the various matters which are brought
home to us, material or moral, to causes which we happen
to know of, or to such as are simply imaginary, sooner
than refer them to nothing; and according to the activity
of our intellect do we feel a pain and begin to fret, if we
are not able to do so. Here we have an explanation of
the multitude of off-hand sayings, flippant judgments,
and shallow generalizations, with which the world
abounds. Not from self-will only, nor from malevolence,
but from the irritation \vhich suspense occasions, is the
mind forced on to pronounce, without sufficient data for

76

.lJ is
'oltrse 1 .

pronouncing. \-Vho does not form some vie\v or other.
for instance, of any public man, or any public event, nay,
even so far in some cases as to reach the mental delinea-
tion of his appearance or of its scene? yet ho\v few have
a fight to form any view. Hence the misconceptions of
character, hence the false impressions and reports of words
or deeds, which are the rule, rather than the exception,
in the world at large; hence the extravagances of un-
disciplined talent, and the narro\vness of conceited igno-
rance; because, though it is no easy matter to view things
correctly, nevertheless the busy mind will ever be viewing.
We cannot do \vithout a vie\v, and \ve put up with an
illusion, when we cannot get a truth.

4-
No\v, observe ho\v this impatience acts in luatters of
research and speculation. What happens to the ignorant
and hotheaded, will take place in the case of every person
whose education or pursuits are contracted, whether they
be merely professional, merely scientific, or of whatever
other peculiar complexion. Men, whose life lies in the
cultivation of one science, or the exercise of one method
of thought, have no more right, though they have often
more ambition, to generalize upon the basis of their o\\rn
pursuit but beyond its range, than the schoolboy or the
ploughman to judge of a Prime l\linister. But they must
have something to say on every subject; habit, fashion,
the public require it of thenl: and, if so, they can only
give sentence according to their knowledge. You might
think this ought to make such a person modest in his enun-
ciations; not so: too often it happens that, in proportion
to the narrowness of his knowledge, is, not his distrust
of it, but the deep hold it has upon him, his absolute
conviction of his own conclusions, and his positiveness in

Starin;; oj OllLer Knuwledge Oil Jluology. 77

nlaintaining them. He has the obstinacy of the bigot,
whom he scorns. without the bigot's apology, that he has
been taught, as he thinks, his doctrine from heaven.
'Thus he becomes, what is con1monly called, a man of one
idea; which proper1 y means a man of one science, and
of the view, partly true, but subordinate, partly false,
which is all that can proceed out of any thing so partial.
Hence it is that we have the principles of utility, of
combination, of progress, of philanthropy, or, in material
sciences, comparative anatomy, phrenology, electricity,
exalted into leading ideas, and keys, if not of all know-
ledge, at least of many things more than belong to them,-
principles, all of them true to a certain point, yet all
degenerating into error and quackery, because they are
carried to excess, viz. at the point \vhere they require
interpretation and restraint from other quarters, and
because they are enJployed to do what is simply too
much for then1, inasnluch as a little. science is not deep
philosophy.
Lord Bacon has set down the abuse, of which I am
speaking, among the impediments to the Advancement
of the Sciences, when he observes that" men have used
to infect their meditations, opinions, and doctrines, \vith
some conceits which they have most admired, or some
Sciences whiclt they lzave 1nost applied; and give all things
else a tincture according to them utterly U1ltrue and Ùll-
proper. So have the alchemists made a philo-
sophy out of a few experiments of the furnace; and
Gilbertus, our countryman, hath made a philosophy out
of the observations of a lodestone. So Cicero, ,vhen,
reci ting the several opinions of the nature of the soul, he
found a musician that held the soul ,vas but a harmony,
saith pleasantly, 'hic ab arte suâ non recessit,' 'he ,vas
true to his art.' But of these conceits Aristotle speaketh

78

Discourse IV.

seriously and wisely w'hen he saith, 'Qui respiciunt
ad pauca, de facili pronunciant,' 'they \vho cont
mplate
a fe\v things have no difficulty in deciding.'"

-

s.

And now I have said enough to explain the incon-
venience which 1 conceive necessarily to result from a
refusal to recognize theological truth in a course of
Universal Knowledge ;-it is not only the loss of Theo-
logy, it is the perversion of other sciences. What it
unjustly forfeits, others unjustly seize. They have their
own department, and, in going out of it, atten1pt to do
what they really cannot do; and that the more mis-
chievously, because they do teach what in its place is
true, though when out of its place, perverted or carried to
excess, it is not true. And, as every nlan has not the
capacity of separating truth from falsehood, they per-
suade the world of what is false by urging upon it ,vhat
is true. N or is it open enemies alone who encounter us
here, sometimes it is friends, sOInetilnes persons \vho, if
not friends, at least have no ,vish to oppose Religion, and
are not conscious they are doing so; and it will carry
out my meaning more fulJy if I give some illustrations
of it.
As to friends, 1 may take as an instance the cultivation
of the Fine Arts, Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, to
which I may add Music. These high ministers of the
Beautiful and the Noble are, it is plain, special attendants
and handmaids of Religion; but it is equally plain that
they are apt to forget their place, and, unless restrained
with a firm hand, instead of being servants, will ain1 at
becoming principals. Here lies the advantage, in an
ecclesiastical point of vie,v, of their more rudimental
state, I mean of the ancient style of architecture.. of Gothic

Bearx.ng o.f Other ](Jlowledge Oft Theology. 79

sculpture and painting, and of what is called Gregorian
n1usic, that these inchoate sciences have so little innate
vigour and life in them, that they are in no danger of
going out of their place, and giving the law to Religion.
But the case is very different when genius has breathed
upon their natural elements, and has developed them
into what I may call intellectual powers. When Paint-
ing, for example, grows into the fulness of its function as
a simply imitative art, it at once ceases to be a dependant
on the Church. It has an end of its o\vn, and that cf
earth: Nature is its pattern, and the obj ect it pursues is
the beauty ofN ature, even till it becomes an ideal beauty,
but a natural beauty still. It cannot imitate that beauty
of Angels and Saints which it has never seen. At first,
indeed, by outlines and emblems it shado\ved out the
Invisible, and its want of skill became the instrument of
reverence and modesty; but as time went on and it at-
tained its full dimensions as an art, it rather subjected
Religion to its o\vn ends than ministered to the ends of
Religion, and in its long galleries and stately chambers,
did but mingle adorable figures and sacred histories \vith
a multitude of earthly, not to say unseemly forms, which
the Art had created, borrowing withal a colouring and a
character from that bad company. Not content \vith
neutral ground for its development, it was attracted by
the sublimity of divine subjects to ambitious and hazar-
dous essays. Without my saying a word more, you will
clearly understand, Gentlemen, that under these circum-
stances Religion was bound to exert itself, that the world
might not gain an advantage over it. Put out of sight
the severe teaching of Catholicism in the schools of Paint-
ing, as men now would put it aside in their philosophical
studies, and in no long time you would have the hierarchy
of the Church, the Anchorite and Virgin-martyr, the

80

DiSC01trsi IV.

Confessor and the Doctor, the Angelic Hosts, the
110ther of God, the Crucifix, the Eternal 1'rinity, sup-
planted by a sort of pagan mythology in the guise of
sacred names, by a creation indeed of high genius, ot
intense, and dazzling, and soul-absorbing beauty, in
which, however, there was nothing which subserved the
cause of Religion, nothing on the other hand which did
not directly or indirectly minister to corrupt nature and
the po\vers of darkness.

6.

The art of Painting, however, is peculiar: 1\tusic and
Architecture are more ideal, and their respective arche-
types, even if not supernatural, at least are abstract and
unearthly; and yet what I have been observing about
Painting, holds, I think, analogously, in the marvellous
development \vhich 1\1 usical Science has undergone in
the last century. Doubtless here too the highest genius
may be made subservient to Religion; here too, still
more simply théln in the case of Painting, the Science
has a field of its own, perfectly innocent, into which
l<.eligion does not and need not enter; on the other
hand here also, in the case of Music as of Painting, it is
certain that Religion must be alive and on the defensive,
for, if its servants sleep, a potent enchantlnent \vill steal
over it. IVI usic, I suppose, though this is not the place
to enlarge upon it, has an object of its own; as mathe-
matical science also, it is the expression of ideas greater
and more profound than any in the visible world, ideas.
which centre indeed in Him whom Catholicism mani-
fests, who is the seat of all beauty, order, and perfection
\\'hatever, still ideas after all which are not those on
which Revelation directly and principally fixes our gaze.
If then a great master in this mysterious science (if I

Biaring oj útìter KnowLedge Oil Tluology. 8 I

lnay speak of matters \vhich seem to lie out of my own
province) throws himself on his o\vn gift. tru5ts its in-
spirations, and absorbs himself in those thoughts which,
though they come to him in the way of nature, belong
to things above nature, it is obvious he will neglect
everything else. Rising in his strength, he will break
through the trammels of words, he will scatter human
voices, even the sweetest, to the winds; he will be borne
upon nothing less than the fullest flood of sounds which
art has enabled him to draw from tnechanical contri-
vances; he \vill go forth as a giant, as far as ever his in-
struments can reach, starting from their secret depths
fresh and fresh elt:ments of beauty and grandeur as he
goes, and pouring them together into still more marvel-
lous and rapturous combinations ;-and well indeed and
la\vfully, while he keeps to that line which is his own;
but, shúuld he happen to be attracted, as he well may,
by the sublimity, so congenial to him, of the Catholic
doctrine and ritual, should he engage in sacred themes,
should he resolve by means of his art to do honour to
the lVlass, or the Divine Office,-(he cannot have a more
pious, a better purpose, and Religion will gracefully
accept what he gracefully offers; but)-is it not certain,
from the circumstances of the case, that he will be
carried on rather to use Religion than to minister to it,
unless Religion is strong on its own ground, and reminds
him that, if he would do honour to the highest of
subjects, he must make himself its scholar, must humbly
fol1o\v the thoughts given him, and must aim at the
glory, not of his own gift, but of the Great Giver 1

7
As to Architec.:ture, it is a renlark, if I recollect aright,
both of Fénélon and Eerkeiey, men so different, that it
ð"

82

Discourse IV"

carries more with it even than the names of those cele.
brated men, that the Gothic style is not as sÍ1llple d.S
befits ecclesiastical structures. I understand this to be
a similar judgment to that which I have been passing
on the cultivation of p,. inting and 1\1 usic. For myself,
certainly I think that that style which, whatever be its
origin, is called Gothic, is endowed with. a profound a n

a commanding beauty, such as no other style possesses
\vith which \ve are acquainted, and which probably the
Church will not see surpassed till it attain to the Celestial
City. No other architecture, now used for sacred pur-
poses, seen1S to be the growth of an idea, whereas the
Gothic style is as harmonious and as intellectual as it is
graceful. But this feeling should not blind us, rather it
should awaken us, to the danger lest what is really a
divine gift be incautiously used as an end rather than as
a means. It is surely quite within the bounds of pos-
sibility, that, as the renaissance three centuries ago
carried away its o\vn day} in spite of the Church, into
excesses in literature and art, so that revival of an almost
forgotten architecture, which is at present taking place
in our own countries, in France, and in Gern1any, may
in some way or other run a\\'ay with us into this or that
error, unless we keep a watch over its course. I am not
speaking of Ireland; but to English Catholics at least it
\vould be a serious evil, if it came as the emblem and
advocate of a past ceremonial or an extinct nationalism.
We are not living in an age of wealth and loyalty, of
pomp and stateliness, of time-honoured establishments,
of pilgriInage and penance, of hermitages and convents
in the wild, and of fervent populations supplying the
want of education by love, and apprehending in form
and symbol what they cannot read in books. Our rules
and our rubrics have beet} altered now to meet the

Bearing 0/ Other Knowledge on Theology. 83

times, and hence an obsolete discipline may be a
present heresy.

8.
I have been pointing out how the Fine Arts may pre-
judice Religion, by laying down the law in cases where
they should be subservient. The illustration is analo-
gous rather than strictly proper to my subject, yet I
think it is to the point. If then the most loyal and
dutiful children of the Church must deny themselves,
and do deny themselves, when they would sanctify to a
heavenly purpose sciences as sublime and as divine as
any which are cultivated by fallen man, it is not wonder-
ful, when we turn to sciences of a different character, of
which the obj ect is tangible and material, and the
principles belong to the Reason, not to the Imagination,
that \ve should find their disciples, if disinclined to the
Catholic Faith, acting the part of opponents to it, and
that, as may often happen, even against their will and
intention. Many men there are, who, devoted to one
particular subject of thought, and making its principles
the measure of all things, become enemies to Revealed
Religion before they know it, and, only as time proceeds,
are aware of their o\vn state of mind. These, if they
are writers or lecturers, while in this state of unconscious
or semi-conscious unbelief, scatter infidel principles under
the garb and colour of Christianity; and this, simply
because they have made their own science, whatever it
is, Political Economy, or Geology, or Astronomy, to the
neglect of Theology, the centre of all truth, and view
every part or the chief parts of kno\vledge as if de-
veloped from it, and to be tested and determined by its
principles. Others, though conscious to themselves of
their anti-christian opinions, have too much good feeling

84

Dis(ourse IV.

and good taste to obtrude them upon the world. They
neither \vish to shock people, nor to earn for themselves
a confessorship w'hich brings with it no gain. They
kno\v the strength of prejudice, and the penalty of in-
novation; they wish to go through life quietly; they
scorn polemics; they shrink, as from a real humiliation,
from being mixed up in religious controversy; they are
ashamed of the very name. I-Iowever, they have had
occasion at some time to publish on some literary or
scientific subject; they have wished to give no offence;
but after all, to their great annoyance, they find when
they least expect it, or when they have taken consider-
able pains to avoid it, that they have roused by their
publication what they would style the bigoted and
bitter hostility of a party. This misfortune is easily
conceivable, and has befallen many a man. Before he
knows where he is, a cry is raised on all sides of him ;
and so little does he kno\v what we may call the lie of
the land, that his attempts at apology perhaps only
make matters worse. In other words, an exclusive line
of study has led him, whether he will or no, to run
counter to the principles of Religion; which principles
he has never made his landn1arks, and which, whatever
might be their effect upon himself, at least \vould have
warned him against practising upon the faith of others,
had they been authoritatively held up before him.

9.
Instances of this kind are far from uncommon. Men
who are old enough, \vill renlenlber the trouble \\'hich
came upon a person, eminent as a professional man in
London even at that distant day, and still more eminent
since, in consequence of his publishing a book in \vhich
he so treated the subject of Comparative Anatomy as

Bearing o.f Other .I{1towletlge on 1 'heowgy.

8"
"

to seem to deny the immateriality of the soul. I speak
here neither as excusing nor reprobating sentiments
about \vhich I have not the means of forming a judg-
n1ent; all indeed I have heard of him makes me men-
tion him with interest and respect; anyhow of this I
arn sure, that if there be a calling which feels its position
and its dignity to lie in abstaining from controversy and
in cultivating kindly feelings with men of all opinions,
it is the medical profession, and I cannot believe that
the person in question would purposely have raised the
indignation and incurred the censure of the religious
public. What then must have been his fault or n1Îstake,
but that he unsuspiciously threw himself upon his own
particular science, which is of a material character, and
allowed it to carry him forward into a subject-matter,
\\-here it had no right to give the law, viz., that of spiri-
tual beings, \vhich directly belongs to the science of
Theology ?
Another instance occurred at a later date. A living
dignitary of the Established Church wrote a History of
the Jews; in which, with what I consider at least bad
judgment, he took an external view of it, and hence was
led to assimilate it as nearly as possible to secular his-
tory. A great sensation was the consequence among
the members of his own communion, from which he still
suffers. Arguing from the dislike and contempt of pole-
mical denlonstrations which that accomplished writer has
ever shown, I must conclude that he was simply betrayed
into a false step by the treacherous fascination of what
is called the Philosophy of History, which is good in its
place, but can scarcely be applied in cases where the
Almighty has superseded the natural laws of society and
history. From this he would have been saved, had he
been a Catholic; but in the Establishment he knew of

86

Ðü<<JUYSß IV.

no teaching, to which he was bound to defer, ,"yhich
might rule that to be false which attracted him by its
specIousness.
10.
I will no\\y take an instance from another science, and
will use more \vords about it. Political Economy is the
science, I suppose, of wealth,-a science simply lawful
and useful, for it is no sin to make money, any more
than it is a sin to seek honour; a science at the same
time dangerous and leading to occasions of sin, as is the
pursuit of honour too; and in consequence, if studied by
itself, and apart from the control of Revealed Truth,
sure to conduct a speculator to unchristian conclusions.
Holy Scripture tells us distinctly, that "covetousness,"
or more literally the love of money, "is the root of all
evils;" and that ". they that would become rich fall into
temptation;" and that "hardly shall they that have
riches enter into the kingdom of God;" and after draw-
ing the picture of a wealthy and flourishing peopJe, it
adds, "They have called the people happy that hath
these things; but happy is that people whose God is the
Lord: "-while on the other hand it says with equal
distinctness, " If any \vill not work, neither let him eat;"
and, "If any man have not care of his own, and espe-
cially of those of his house, he hath denied the faith,
and is worse than an infidel." These opposite injunc-
tions are summed up in the wise man's prayer, who says,
" Give me neither beggary nor riches, give me only the
necessaries of life." With this most precise view. of a
Christian's duty, viz., to labour indeed, but to labour for
a competency for himself and his, and to be jealous of
wealth, whether personal or national, the holy Fathers
are, as might be expected, in simple accordance.
U Judas," says St. Chrysostom, h \vas with Him \vho

Blaring 0/ Other Knowledge on Theology. 87

knew not where to lay His head, yet could not restrain
himself; and how canst thou hope to escape the con-
tagion without anxious effort?" " I t is ridiculous:' says
St. Jerome, U to call it idolatry to offer to the creature
the grains of incense that are due to God, and not to
call it so, to offer the \vhole service of one's life to the
creature." "1"'here is not a trace of justice in that
heart," says St. Leo, II in which the love of gain has /
made itself a dwelling." The same thing is emphatically
taught us by the counsels of perfection, and by every
holy monk and nun anywhere, who has ever embraced
them; but it is needless to collect testimonies, when
Scripture is so clear.
No\v, observe, Gentlemen, my drift in setting Scripture
and the Fathers over against Political Economy. Of
course if there is a science of wealth, it must give rules
for gaining wealth and disposing of\vealth, and can do no-
thing more; it cannot itself declare that it is a subordi-
nate science, that its end is not the ultimate end of all
things, and that its conclusions are only hypothetical,
depending on its premisses, and liable to be overruled
by a higher teaching. I do not then blame the Political
Economist for anything which follows from the very
idea of his science, from the very moment that it is
recognized as a science. He must of course direct his
inquiries towards his end; but then at the
ame time it
must be recollected, that so far he is not practical, but
only pursues an abstract study, and is busy himself in
establishing logical conclusions from indisputable pre-
misses. Given that wealth is to be sought, this and
that is the method of gaining it. This is the extent to
which a Political Economist has a right to go; he has
no right to determine that wealth is at any rate to be
sought, or that it is the way to be virtuous and the price

88

.L/iSt()ur
'e IV.

of happiness; I say, this is to pass the bounds of his
science, independent of the question whether he be
right or wrong in so determining, for he is only con-
cerned \vith an hypothesis.
To take a parallel case :-a physician may tell you,
that if you are to preserve your health, you must give
up your employment and retire to the country. He
distinctly says" if;" that is all in which he is concerned,
he is no judge whether there are objects dearer to you,
more urgent upon you, than the preservation of your
health; he does not enter into your circumstances, your
duties, your liabilities, the persons dependent on you,
he knows nothing about what is advisable or what is
not; he only says," I speak as a physician; if you
\vould be well, give up your profession, your trade,
your oftice, whatever it is." Ho\vever he may \vish it, it
would be impertinent in him to say more, unless indeed
be spoke, not as a physician but as a friend; and it
would be extravagant, if he asserted that bodily health
\vas the SUffll1lUnt bOllUl1t, and that no one could be
virtuous whose animal system was not in good order.

II.
But now let us turn to the teaching of the actual
Political Economist, in his present fashionable shape. I
will take a very favourable instance of him: he shall be
represented by a gentleman of high character, whose
religious vie\vs are sufficiently guaranteed to us by his
being the special choice, in this departmen t of science,
of a University removed more than any other Protes-
tant body of the day from sordid or unchristian princi-
ples on the subject of money-making. I say, if there
be a place \vhere Political Econon1Y \vould be kept in
order, and would not be suffered to leave the high road

Ecarzllg 0/ Other Kllowletlgt: on ThecJlogy. 89

and ride across the pastures and the gardens dedicated
to other studies, it is the University of Oxford. And if
a man could any\vhere be found who would have too
much good taste to offend the religious feeling of the
place, or to say any thing which he ,vould himself allo\v
to be inconsistent with Revelation, I conceive it is the
person \vhose temperate and well-considered composi-
tion, as it would be generally accounted, I am going to
offer to your notice. N or did it occasion any excite-
ment whatever on the part of the academical or the re-
ligious public, as did the instances which I have hitherto
been adducing. I am representing then the science of
Political Economy, in its independent or unbridled
action, to great advantage, \vhen I select, as its specimen,
the Inaugural Lecture upon it, delivered in the Univer-
sity in question, by its first Professor. Yet \vith all these
circumstances in itS favour, you \vill soon see, Gentlemen,
into \vhat extravagance, for so I must call it, a grave
lawyer is led in praise of his chosen science, merely
from the circumstance that he has fixed his mind upon
it, till he has forgotten there are subj ects of thought
higher and more heavenly than it. You will find be-
yond mistake, that it is his object to recommend the
science of \vealth, by claiming for it an etlzical quality,
viz., by extolling it as the road to virtue and happi-
ness, \vhatever Scripture and holy men may say to the
contrary.
He begins by predicting of Political Economy, that
in the course of a very few years, U it \vill rank in public
estimation among the first of 11loral sciences in interest
and in utility." Then he explains most lucidly its
objects and duties, considered as (( the science which
teaches in \vhat wealth consists, by \vhat agents it is
produced, and according to \vhat laws it is distributed..

9 0

DzscourSl 1 V.

and what are the institutions and customs by \vhich pro-
duction may be facilitated and distribution regulated, so
as to give the largest possible amount of wealth to each
individual." And he d"'
ells upon the interest which
attaches to the inquiry, U whether England has run her
full career of \\realth and improvement, but stands safe
where she is, or whether to remain stationary is impos-
sible." After this he notices a certain objection, which
I shall set before you in his own \vords, as they w"ill
furnish me with the illustration I propose.
This objection, he says, is, that, "as the pursuit of
\vealth is one of the htunblest of Quman occupations,
far inferior to the pursuit of virtue, or of knowledge, or
even of reputation, and as the possession of wealth is
not necessarily joined,-perhaps it will be said, is not
conducive,-to happiness, a science,. of which the only
subject is wealth, cannot claim to rank as the first, or
nearly the first, of moral sciences."* Certainly, to an
enthusiast in behalf of any science whatever, the temp-
tation is great to meet an objection urged against its
dignity and worth; however, from the very form of it,
such an objection cannot receive a satisfactory answer
by means of the science itself. It is an objection exter-
nal to the science, and reminds us of the truth of Lord
Bacon's remark, "No perfect discovery can be made
upon a flat or a level; neither is it possible to discover
the nlore renlote and deeper parts of any science, if you
stand upon the level of the science, and ascend not to a
higher science." t The objection that Political Economy
is inferior to the science of virtue, or does not con-
duce to happiness, is an ethical or theological objection;
the question of its" rank" belongs to that Architectonic
* Introd. Lecture on Pol. Econ. pp. I I, 12.
t Advancement of L
rning.

Bearing oj' Other J{llowledg8 Oil Theology. 9 1

Science or Philosophy, whatever it be, which is itself the
arbiter of all truth, and \vhich disposes of the claims
and arranges the places of all the departments of know-
ledge which man is able to master. I say, when an
opponent of a particular science asserts that it does
not conduce to happiness, and much more \vhen its
champion contends in reply that it certainly does con-
duce to virtue, as this author proceeds to contend, the
obvious question \vhich occurs to one to ask is, what
does Religion, what does Revelation, say on the point?
Political Economy must not be allowed to give judg-
ment in its own favour, but must come before a higher
tribunal. The objection is an appeal to the Theologian;
however, the Professor does not so view the matter; he
does not consider it a question for Philosophy; nor in-
deed on the other hand a question for Political Economy;
not a question for Science at all; but for Private J udg-
ment,-so he ans\vers it himself, and as follows:

12.
"My answer," he says, "is, first, that the pursuit of
wealth, that is, the endeavour to accumulate the means of
future subsistence and enjoyment, is, to the mass of
mankind, the great source of 1noral improvement." N o\v
observe, Gentlemen, how exactly this bears out what I have
been saying. It is just so far true, as to be able to insti]
what is false, far as the author was from any such design.
I grant, then, that, ordinarily, beggary is not the means of
moral improvement; and that the orderly habits which
attend upon the hot pursuit of gain, not only may effect
an external decency, but may at least shelter the soul
from the temptations of vice. Moreover, these habits of
good order guarantee regularity in a family or household,
a.nd thus are accidentally the means of good; moreover.

9 2

DiscO-Lt1'Je IV.

they lead to the education of its younger branches, and
they thus accidentally provide the rising generation \vith
a virtue or a truth which the present has not: but \vith-
out going into these considerations, further than to allo\v
them generally, and unqer circun1stances, let us rather
contemplate \vhat the author's direct assertion is. tIe
says, H the endeavour to accItJlzulate," the words should be
\veighcd, and for what? H for ell}oYl1ZC1lt,. "_H to accumu-
late the means of future subsistence and enjoyment, is, to
the mass of mankind, thc great source," not merely a
source, but tlte great source, and of what? of social and
political progress ?-such an ans\ver would have been
more \vithin the limits of his art,-no, but of something
individual and personal, "of 11loral Ù1ZprO'l/cllle71t." The
soul, in the case of" the mass of lnankind," improves in
moral excellence from this more than any thing else, viz.,
from heaping up the means of enjoying this \vorld in
time to come! I really should on every account be
sorry, Gentlemen, to exaggerate, but indeed one is taken
by surprise, one is startled, on meeting with so very
categorical a contradiction of our Lord, St. Paul, St.
Chrysostom, St. Leo, and all Saints.
U No institution," he continues, "could be more bene-
ficial to the morals of the lower orders, that is, to at least
nine-tenths of the whole body of any people, than one
\\'hich should increase their power and their wish to
accumulate; none nlore mischievous than one \vhich
should diminish their motives and means to save." No
institution more beneficial than one which should increase
the wish to accu1nulate! then Christianity is not one of
such beneficial institutions, for it expressly says," La))
110t up to yourselves treasures on earth . . . for \vhere
thy treasure is, there is thy heart also;" -no institution
more mischievous than one which should ditninish the

Bearing oj- Other Kllowledge on Theology. 93

'mOtives to save! then Christianity is one of such mischiefs,
for the inspired text proceeds, " Lay up to yourselves
treasures 'z"n heav
n, where neither the rust nor the moth
cloth consume, and where thieves do not dig through,
nor steal."
But it is not enough that morals and happiness are
made to depend on gain and accumulation; the practice
of Religion is ascribed to these causes also, and in the
following way. Wealth depends upon the pursuit of
wealth; education depends upon wealth; knowledge
depends on education; and Religion depends on kno\v-
ledge; therefore Religion depends on the pursuit of
wealth. He says, after speaking of a poor and savage
people, "Such a population must be grossly ignorant.
The desire of kno\vledge is one of the last results
of refinement; it requires in general to have been im-
planted in the mind during childhood; and it is absurd
to suppose that persons thus situated would have the
power or the will to devote much to the education of
their children. A further consequence is the absence
of all real religion,,. for the religion of the grossly igno-
rant, if they have any, scarcely ever amounts to more
than a debasing superstition."'" The pursuit of gain
then is the basis of virtue, religion, happiness; though
it is all the while, as a Christian knows, the "root
of all evils," and the "poor on the contrary are blessed,
for theirs is the kingdom of God."
As to the argument contained in the logical Sorites
\vhich I have been drawing out, I anticipated just now
what I should say to it in reply. I repeat, doutbtless
"beggary," as the \vise man says, is not desirable; doubt-
less, if men will not work, they should not eat; there is
doubtless a sense in which it may be said that mere
-. Intr. Leet., p. 16

94

Discourse IV.

social or political virtue tends to moral and religiou!
excellence; but the sense needs to be defined and the
statement to be kept within bounds. This is the very
point on which I am all along insisting. I am not
denying. I am granting. I am assuming. that there is
.
reason and truth in the "leading ideas." as they are
called. and "large views" of scientific men; I only
say that, though they speak truth, they do not speak the
whole truth; that they speak a narrow truth, and think it
a broad truth; that their deductions must be compared
with other truths. which are acknowledged to be truths,
in order to verify. complete, and correct them. They say
what is true, exceþ/is ercijn.endis,. what is true. but
requires guarding; true, but must not be ridden too
hard, or made what is called a hobby,. true, but not the
measure of all things; true. but if thus inordinately,
extravagantly. ruinously carried out, in spite of other
sciences, in spite of Theology. sure to become but a
great bubble, and to burst.

13.
I am getting to the end of this Discourse, before I
have noticed one tenth part of the instances with which
I might illustrate the subject of it. Else I should have
wished especially to have d\velt upon the not unfrequent
perversion which occurs of antiquarian and historical re-
search, to the prejudice of Theology. It is undeniable
that the records of former ages are of primary import.
ance in determining Catholic doctrine; it is undeniable
also that there is a silence or a contrariety abstractedly
conceivable in those records, as to an alleged portion of
that doctrine, which would be sufficient to invalidate its
claims on our acceptance; but it is quite as undeniable
that the existing documentary testimony to Catholicism

Bearing r!f Other Knowled..
e on Theology. 95

and Christianity may be so unduly valued as to be
nlade the absolute measure of Revelation, as if no part
of theological teaching were true which cannot bring its
express text, as it is called. from Scripture, and authori-
ties from the Fathers or profane writers,-whereas there
are numberless facts in past times which we cannot deny,
for they are indisputable, though history is silent about
them. I suppose. on this score, we ought to deny that
the round to\vers of this country had any origin, because
history does not disclose it; or that any individual came
from Adam who cannot produce the ta.ble of his an-
cestry. Yet Gibbon argues against the darkness at the
Passion, from the accident that it is not mentioned by
Pagan historians :-as well might he argue against the
existence of Christianity itself in the first century, be-
cause Seneca. Pliny, Plutarch, the Jewish l\iishna, and
other authorities are silent about it. Protestants argue
in a parallel way against Transubstantiation, and Arians
against our Lord's Divinity, viz., on the ground that
extant writings of certain Fathers do not witness those
doctrines to their satisfaction :-as well might they say
that Christianity was not spread by the Twelve Apostles,
because we know so little of their labours. The evidence
of History. I say, is invaluable in its place; but, if it as-
sumes to be the sole means of gaining Religious Truth,
it goes beyond its place. Weare putting it to a larger
office than it can undertake, if we countenance the
usurpation; and we are turning a true guide and bless-
ing into a source of inexplicable difficulty and inter-
minable doubt.
And so of other sciences: just as Comparative Ana-
tomy, Po1.itical Economy, the Philosophy of History, and
the Science of Antiquities may be and are turned
against Religion, by being taken by themselves, as I

9 6

DZSl"OltYSe 1 V

have been showing, so a like mistake may befall any
other. Grammar, for instance, at first sight does not
appear to admit of a perversion; yet Horne Tooke
made it the vehicle of his peculiar scepticism. Law
would seem to have enough to do \vith its own clients, and
their affairs; and yet Mr. Bentham made a treatise on
Judicial Proofs a covert attack upon the miracles of
Revelation. And in like manner Physiology may deny
moral evil and human responsibility; Geology may deny
Moses; and Logic may deny the Holy Trinity; · and
other sciences, now rising into notice, are or will be
victims of a similar abuse.

,
,
), 0
F-

14.
And now to sunl up '\vhat I have been saying in a few
words. My object, it is plain, has been-not to show
that Secular Science in its various departments may take
up a position hostile to Theology ;-this is rather the
basis of the objection \vith which I opened this Discourse;
-but to point out the cause of an hostility to \vhich all
parties will bear \vitness. I have been insisting then on
this, that the hostility in question, when it occurs, is
coincident with an evident deflection or exorbitance of
Science from its proper course; and that this exorbi-
tance is sure to take place, almost from the necessity of
the case, if Theology be not present to defend its own
boundaries and to hinder the encroachment. The human
Inind cannot keep fron1 speculating and systematizing;
and if Theology is not allowed to occupy its o\vn territory,
adjacent SCIences, nay, sciences which are quite foreign to
Theology, will take possession of it. And this occupation
is proved to be a usurpation by this circumstance, that
thcse foreign sciences \vill assume certain principles as
* Vid Abelald, for instanc
.

Bearing o.f Other Knowledge 01'1 Theology. 97

true, and act upon them, which they neither have
authority to lay down thenlselves, nor appeal to any
other higher science to lay down for then1. For example,
it is a mere unwarranted assumption if the Antiquarian
saýs, "Nothing has ever taken place but is to be found in
historical docurnents;" or if the Philosophic Historian
says, "There is nothing in J udaisn1 different from other
political institutions;" or if the Anatomist, "There is
no soul beyond the brain; " or if the Political Economist,
" Easy circumstances make men virtuous." These are
enunciations, not of Science, but of Private Judgment;
and it is Private Judgment that infects every science
which it touches with a hostility to Theology, a hostility
which properly attaches to no science in itself whatever.
If then, Gentlemen, I no\v resist such a course of
acting as unphilosophical, what is this but to do as men
of Science do when the interests of their own respective
pursuits are at stake? If they certainly would resist the
divine \vho determined the orbit of Jupiter by the
Pentateuch, why am I to be accused of cowardice or
illiberality, because I will not tolerate their attempt in
turn to theologize by means of astronomy? And if ex-
perimentalists would be sure to cry out, did I attempt
to install the Thomist philosophy in the schools of astro-
nomyand medicine, why may not I, when Divine Science
is ostracized, and La Place, or Buffon, or Humboldt, sits
down in its chair, why may not I fairly protest against
their exclusiveness, and demand the emancipation of
Theology (

15. (fc N L
And now I consider I have said enough in proof of
""
the first point, which I undertook to maintain, viz., the
claim of Theology to be represented among the Chairs
7

98

l)i5ro1Ir
Cr 1 V.

of a University. I have shown, I thillk, that exclusive-
ness really attaches, not to those \vho support that claim,
but to those who dispute it. I have argued in its behalf,
first, frorn the consideration that, whereas it is the very
profession of a U nivc;rsity to teach all sciences, on this
account it cannot exclude Theology without being untrue
to its profession..)' Next, I have said that, all sciences
being connected together, anè having bearings one on
another, it is impossible to teach theln all thoroughly,
unless they all are taken into account, and 'rheolog}
among them. 3 Moreover, I have insisted on the importdnt
influence, which Theology in matter of fact does and lllust
exercise over a great variety of sciences, completing and
correcting them; so that, granting it to be a real science
occupied upon truth, it cannot be omitted without great
prejudice to the teaching of the restr And lastly, I have
urged that, supposing Theology be not taught, its
province will not simply be neglected, but will be actually
usurped by other sciences, which ,vill teach, without
warrant, conclusions of their own in a subject-matter
\vhich needs its own proper principles for its due forma-
tion and disposition.
Abstract statements are always unsatisfactory; these,
as I have already observed, could be illustrated at far
greater length than the time allotted to me for the
purpose has allowed. Let me hope that I have said
enough upon the subject to suggest thoughts, which
those who take an interest in it ßlay pursue for them-
selves.

99

DISCOURSE 'V.

KNO\VLEDGE ITS OWN END.

^ UNIVERSITY Inay be considered with reference
.L
either to its Students or to its Studies; and the
principle, that all Knowledge is a whole and the sepa-
rate Sciences parts of one. which I have hitherto been
using in behalf of its studies, is equally important when
we direct our attention to its students. N ow then I
turn to the students, and shall consider the education
which, by virtue of this principle, a University will give
them; and thus I shall be introduced, Gentlemen, to
the second question, which I proposed to discuss, viz.
whether and in \\"hat sense its teaching, vie\ved relatively
to the taught, carries the attribute of Utility along \vlth it.

l.

1 have said that all branches of knowledge are con-

nectcd together, becåuse the subject-matter of knowledge 1,/
is intimately united in itself, as being the acts and the
work of the Creator. Hence it is that the Sciences, into
which our knowledge :nay be said to be cast, have multi-
plied bearings one on another, and an internal syn1pathy,
and admit, or rather demand, comparison and adjustment.
1'hey complete, correct, balance each other. This con.
sideration,- if well-foüñded, must be taken into account,
'10t only as regards the attainm,:,nt of truth J \
rhich j

11

R

100

ÛIscourse V.

their common end, but as regards the influence which
they exercise upon those whose education consists in the
study of them. I have said already. that to give undue
prominence to one is to be unjust to another; to neglect
or supersede these is. to divert those froo1 their proper
object. It is to unsettle the boundary lines between
science and science, to disturb their action, to destroy
the harmony \vhich binds them together. Such a pro-
ceeding will have a corresponding effect when introduced
into a place of education. 1'here is no science but tens
a different tale, when viewed as a portion of a wh..)Ie,
from what it is likely to suggest when taken by itself,
váthout the safeguard, as I may call it, of others.
Let me make use of an illustration. In the combination
of colours, very different effects are produced by a
difference in their selection and juxta-position; red, green,
and white, change their shades, according to the contrast
to v;hich they are subo1itted. And, in like manner, the
drift and meaning of a branch of knowledge varies \vith
the con1pany in which it is introduced to the student.
If his reading is confined simply to one subject, however
such division of labour n1ay favour the advancement of a
particular pursuit, a point into which I do not here enter,
certainly it has a tendency to contract his mind. If it is
incorporated with others, it depends on those others as
to the kind of influence which it exerts upon him. Thus
the Classics, which in England are the means of refining
the taste, have in France subserved the spread of revolu-
tionary and deistical doctrines. In Metaphysics, again,
Butler's Analogy of Religion, which has had so much to
do ,\"ith the conversion to the Catholic faith of n1embers
of the University of Oxford, appeared to Pitt and others,
who had received a different training, to operate only in
the direction of infidelity. And so again, 'Vatson, Bishop

f("nowledge its 07,vn End.

IOY

of Llandaff, as I think he tells us in the narrative of his
life, felt the science of Mathematics to indispose the
mind to religious belief: while others see in its investiga-
tions the best parallel, and thereby defence, of the Chris-
tian :ðlysteries. In like manner, I suppose, Arcesilas
would not have handled logic as Aristotle, nor Aristotle
have criticized poets as Plato; yet reasoning and poetry
are subject to scientific rules.
I t is a great point then to enlarge the range of studies
which a University profe
es. even for the sake of the
students; and, though they cannot pursue every subject
which is open to them, they will be the gainers by living
among those and under those who represent the whole
circle. This I conceive to be the advantage of a seat of
universal learning. considered as a place of education.
An assemblage of learned men, zealous for their own
sciences. and rivals of each other, are brought, by famïliar
intercourse and for the sake of intellectual peace, to
adj ust together the claims and relations of their respective
subjects of investigation. They learn to respect, to
consult, to aid each other. Thus is created a pure and
clear atmosphere of thought, which the student also
breathes, though in his own case he only pursues a few
sciences out of the multitude. He profits by an intel-
lectual tradition, which is independent of particular
teachers. which guides him in his choice of subjects. and
duly interprets for him those which he chooses. He
apprehends the great outlines of knowledge, the principles
on which it rests. the scale of its parts, its lights and its
shades, its great points and its little, as he otherwise
cannot apprehend them. Hence it is that his education
is called "Liberal." A habit of mind is formed which
lasts through life, of which the attributes are, freedom,
equitableness, calmness, moderation, and wisdom; or

102

Discourse 1.

what in a former Discourse I have ventured to call a
philosophical habit. This.J hen -I _ would as ?ign as t he
special fruit of the education furnish
d at a U niversitYt.
as contrasted with other places of teaching or modes of
teaching. This is the Inain purpose of a University in
its treatment of its students.
And now the question is asked me, \Vhat is the use
of it? and my answer \vill constitute the main subject of
the Discourses which are to follow.

2.
Cautious and practical thinkers, I sa}", \\
ill ask of file,
what, afte r all, is the gain_ of this Philosophy, of which I
make such account, and from which I promise so n1uch.
Even supposing it to enable us to exercise the degree of
trust exactly cine to every science respectively, and to
estimate precisely the value of every truth which is any-
\vhere to be found, ho\v are \ve better for this master view
of things, which I have been extolling? Does it not re-
verse the principle of the division of labour? will prac-
tical objects be obtained better or worse by its culti-
vation? to \vhat then does it lead? where does it end?
\vhat dops it do?' how does it profit? what does
t
promise? Particular sciences are respectively the basi

of definite arts, which carryon to results tangible and
beneficial the truths which are the subjects of the know-
ledge attained; what is the Art of this science of
sciences 1 what is the fruit of such a Philosophy? what
are we proposing to effect, what inducements do \ve hold
out to the Catholic community, when \ve set about the
enterprise of founding a University?
I an1 asked what is the end of University Education,
and of the Liberal or Philosophical Knowledge \vhich 1
conceive it to impart: .l answer, that what I have already

Knowlc{lge 'Its Ourn E'ld.

10 3

said has been sufficient to show that it has a very tan-
gible, real, and sufficient end, though the
nd cannot be
divided from that knowledge itself. Knowled ge is capa-
ble of bein cr its o,\'n end. Such is the const i t ut ion of the
"human mind, that any kind of kno\vledge, if it be really
such, is its o\vn reward. And if this is true of all kno\v-
ledge, it is true also of that special Philosophy, \\yhich
I have made to consist in a cOInprehensive view of truth
in all its branches, of the relations of science to science,
of their mutual bearings, and their respective values.
What the \vorth oÎ such an acquirement is, compared
\vith other objects \vhich we seek,-wealth or po,ver or
honour or the conveniences and comforts of life, I do not
profess here to discuss; but I would maintain, and
mean to sho\v, that it is an object, in its own nature so
really and undeniably good, as to be the cOlnpensation
of a great deal of thought in the compassing, and a
great deal of trouble in the attaining.
N ow, when I say that Knowledge is, not merely a
means to something beyond it, or the preliminary of
certain arts into \vhich it naturally resolves, but an end
sufficient to rest in and to pursue for its own sake, surely
I am uttering no paradox, for I am stating what is both
intelligible in itself, and has ever been the common
judgment of philosophers and the ordinary feeling of
mankind. I am saying what at least the public opinion
of this day ought to be slow to deny, considering how
much ,ve have heard of late years, in opposition to
Religion, of entertaining, curious, and various knowledge.
I am but saying what whole volumes have been written
to illustrate, viz., by a U selection from the records of Phi-
losophy, Literature, and Art, in all ages and countries,
of a body of examples, to show how the most unpropitious
circumstances ha ve b
cn unable to conquer an ardent

104

Dz:çcourst 1-".

desire for the acquisition of knowledge." · That further
advantages accrue to us and redound to others by its
possession, over and above \vhat it is in itself, I am very
far indeed from denying; but, independent of these,
e
are satisfying a direct need of our nature in its very
acquisition; and, whereãs oor nature, unlike that of the
inferior creation, does not at once reach its perfection,
but depends, in order to it, on a number of external aids
and appliances, Knowledge, as one of the principal of
these, is valuable for \vhat its very presence in us does
for us after the manner of a habit, even though it be
turned to no further account, nor subserve any direct
end.

3.
Hence it is that Cicero, in enumerating the various
heads of mental excellence, lays down the pursuit of
Knowledge for its o\vn sake, as the first of them. " This
pertains most of all to human nature," he says, "for we
are all of us drawn to the pursuit of Kno\vledge; in

h-to excel
consi d

xcellent, \vhereas to mis-
take :t o err, to be ignorant, to be deceived, is both an
evil and a disgrace." t And he considers Kno\vledge
the very first object to which we are attracted, after the
supply of our physical wants. After the calls and duties
of our animal existence, as they may be termed, as re-
gards ourselves, our family, and our neighbours, follo\vs,
he tells us, "the search after truth. Accordingly, as
soon as we escape from the pressure of necessary cares,
forthwith we desire to see, to hear, and to learn; and
consider the knowledge of what is hidden or is wonder-
ful a condition of our happiness."

· Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficulties. Introd.
+ Cicero Offic. init.

Knowledge 'tIS ùwn End.

10 5

This passage, though it is but one of many sitnilar
passages in a multitude of authors, I take for the very
reason that it is so fanliliarly known to us; and 1 wish
you to observe, Gentlemen, how distinctly it separates
the pursuit of Knowledge from those ulterior objects to
which certainly it can be made to conduce, and which
are, I suppose, solely contemplated by the persons who
would ask of me the use of a University or Liberal
Education. So far from dreaming of the cultivation of
Knowledge directly and mainly in order to our physical
comfort and enjoyment, for the sake of life and person,
of health, of the conjugal and family union, of the social
tie and civil security, the great Orator implies, that it is
only after our physical and political needs are supplied,
and when we are " free from necessary duties and cares,"
that we are in a condition for "desiring to see, t
he

and to learn." Nor does he contemplate in the least
degree the reflex or subsequent action of I
nowledge,
when acquired, upon those material goods which we set
out by securing before we seek it; on the contrary, he
expressly de nies its bea rinCT upon social life altogether,
strange as such a p roce cÍ
;e is to thosè who live after the
rise of the Baconian philosophy, and he cautions us
against such a cultivation of it as will interfere with our
duties to our fellow-creatures. 'c All these methods," he
says, "are engaged in the investigation of truth; by the
pursuit of which to be carried off fronl public occu pa-
tions is a transgression of duty. For the praise of virtue
lies altogether in action; yet intermissions often occur,
and then we recur to such pursuits; not to sa y that the
incessant activity of the mind is vigorous enough to
carry us on in the pursuit of knowledge, even without
any exertion of our o\vn." The idea of benefiting
society by means of c. the pursuit of science and know-

106

Dkouyst ;:

ledge" did not enter at all into the motives which he
would assign for their cultivation.
This was the ground of the opposition \vhich the elder
Cato made to the introduction of Greek Philosophy
among his countrymen,. when Carneades and his com-
panions, on occasion of their embassy, were channing
the Roman youth with their eloquent expositions of it.
The fit representative of a practical people, Cato esti-
mated every thing by what it produced; whereas the
Pursuit of KnowledKe romised nothing beyond Know-
ledge itself. He despised that refinement or enlargement
of mind of \\,hich he had no experience.

T'hings, which can bear to be cut off from every thing
else and yet persist in living, must have life in them,êelv es;
pursuits, which issue in nothing, and still maintain their
ground for ages, which are regarded as admirable, though
they have not as yet proved themselves to be useful,
must have their sufficient end in themselves, \\Thatever it
turn out to be. And we are brought to the saIne con-
clusion by considering the force of the epithet, by \vhich
the kno\vledge under consideration is popularly desig-
nated. It is common to speak of (I liberal know ledge,"
of the "liberal arts and studies," and of a "liberal edu-
C2 tion," as the e
pecial characteristic or property of a
University and of a gentleman; what is really meant
by the word? N ow, first, in its gran1n1atical sense it is
opposed to servile,. and by "servile work" is understood,
as our catl:chisms inform us, bodily labour, mechanical
employment, and the like, in which the mind has little
or no part. Parallel to such servile works are those arts,
jf they deserve the name, of which the poet speaks,.
· TÉ'X."'" TVX7J JI 100Tf:pf
Kal TUX7J rixV"'lJl.
Vide Arist. Nic.. Ethic. vL

IltUJwl d.Rf its Own h'1Ut.

loj

which owe their origin and their method to hazard, not
to skill; as, for instance, the practice and operations of
an empiric. As far as this contrast may be considered
as a guide into the meaning of the word, liberal educa-
tion and liberal pursuits are exercises of mind, of reason,
of reflection.
But we want something more for its explanation, for
there are boùily exercises \vhich are liberal, and mental
exercises which are not so. For instance, in ancient
times the practitioners in medicine \vere c.ommonly
slaves; yet it was an art as intellectual in its nature, in
spite of the pretence, fraud, and quackery with which it
might then, as now, be debased, as it \vas heavenly in its
aim. And so in like manner, we contrast a liberal
education with a commercial education or a professional;
yet no one can deny that commerce and the professions
afford scope for the highest and most diversified powers
of mind. There is then a great variety of intellectual
exercises, which are not technically called " liberal;" on
the other hand, I say, there are exercises of the body
which do receive that appellation. Such, for instance,
was the palæstra, in ancient times; such the Olympic
games, in which strength and dexterity of body as well
as of mind gained the prize. In Xenophon we read of
the young Persian nobility being taught to ride on horse-,
back and to speak the truth; both being among the
accom plishments of a gentleman. War, too, however
rough a profession, has ever been accounted liberal,
unless in cases when it becomes heroic, which would
introduce us to another subject.
Now comparing these instances together, we shall
have no difficulty in deterrnining the principle of this
apparent variation in the application of the term \vhich
I am examining. Manly games, or games of skill, or

108

Discourse V.

military pro\vess, though bodily, are, it seems, accounted
liberal; on the other hand, \vhat is merely professional,
though highly intellectual, nay, though liberal in com-
parison of trade and manual labour, is not simply called
liberal, and mercantile occupations are not liberal at alL
Why this distinction l because that alone is liberal know.
ledge, Thich stands on its own pre
ion s, which is
independent of sequel, expects no complement, refusès
to be Ùif or111cd (as it is called) by any end, or absorbed
into any art, in order duly to present itself to our con-
templation. The most ordinary pursuits have this specific
character, if they are self-sufficient and complete; the
highest lose it, \vhen they minister to something beyond
them. It is absurd to balance, in point of worth and
importance, a treatise on reducing fractures with a game
of cricket or a fox-chase; yet of the two the bodily
exercise has that quality which we call" liberal:' and
the intellectual has it not. And so of the learned pro-
fessions altogether, considered merely as professions;
although one of them be the most popularly beneficial,
and another the most politically important, and the third
the most intimately divine of all human pursuits, yet
the very greatness of their end, the health of the body,
or of the commonwealth, or of the soul, diminishes, not
increases, their claim to the appellation "liberal," and
that still more, if they are cut down to the strict exigen-
cies of that end. If, for instance, Theology, instead of
being cultivated as a contemplation, be linlited to the
purposes of the pulpit or be represented by the cate..
chism, it loses,-not its usefulness, not its divine character,
not its meritoriousness (rather it gains a claim upon these
titles by such charitable condescension),-but it does lose
the particular attribute which I am illustrating; just as
a face \vom by tears and fasting loses its beauty. or a

KllO'Wlcdge its Own E lld

109

labourer's hand loses its delicateness ;-îor 1'heology \
thus exercised is not simple knowledge, but rather is
an art or a business making use of Theology. And
thus it appears that even what is supernatural need not
be liberal, nor need a hero be a gentleman, for the plain
reason that one idea is not another idea. And in like
manner the Baconian Philosophy, by using its physical
sciences in the service of man, does thereby transfer them
from the order of Liberal Pursuits to, I do not say the
inferior, but the distinct class oÍ the Useful. And, to
take a different instance, hence again, as IS evident,
w"henever personal gain is the motive, still more distinc-
tive an effect has it upon the character of a given pursuit;
thus racing, which \vas a liberal exercise in Greece, for-
feits its rank in times like these, so far as it is made the
occasion of gambling.
All that I have been now saying is summed up in a
few characteristic words of the great Philosopher. " Of
possessions," he says, U those rather are useful, which
bear fruit; 7those liberal, wh z .
k tend to enjoyment. By
fruitful, I mean, which yield revenue; by enjoyable,
where 1/othi1zg accrues of consequence beyond the using.".
-- ...... ...,..
..... ftI)I

5.
Do not suppose, that in thus appealing to the ancients,
I am throwing back the world two thousand years, and
fettering Philosophy with the reasonings of paganism.
While the world lasts, \vill Aristotle's doctrine on these
matter:; last, for he is the oracle of nature and of truth.
While we are men, we cannot help, to a great extent,
being Aristotelians, for the great Master does but analyze
the thoughts, feelings, views, and opinions of human kind.
He has told us the meaning of our o\vn \vords and ideas,
· A nstot. Rhet. i. 5.

110

l11..;( OUYJ

before we were bonl. Iii aUd.ny subject..matters, to think
correctly, is to think like Aristotle, and we are his dis-
ciples whether we will or no, though we n1ay not kno\\?
it. N ow, as to the particular instance before us, the
\vord "liberal" as applied to Knowledge and Education,
expresses a specific idea,.which ever has been, and ever
will be, \vhile the nature of man is the same, just as the
idea of the Beautiful is specific, or of the Sublime, or of
the Ridiculous, or of the Sordid. It is in the world
now, it was in the \\.or1d then; and, as in the case of
the dogmas of faith, it is illustrated by a continuous
historical tradition, and never was out of the world, from
the time it came into it. There have indeed been dif-
ferences of opinion from time to time, a.s to what pur-
suits and \vhat arts came under that idea, but such
differences are but an additional evidence of its reality.
That idea lllust have a substance in it, which has n1ain-
tained its ground amid these conflic[s and changes,
which has ever served as a standard to Ineasure things
withal, which has passed from mind to mind unchanged.
when there was so n1uch to colour, so much to influence
any notion or thought \vhatever, which was not founded
in our very nature. Were it a mere generalization, it
w'ould have varied with the subjects fronl \vhich it Wd.S
generalized; but though its subjects vary v;ith the age,
it varies not itself. The palæstra may seen1 a liberal
exercise to Lycurgu
, and illiberal to Seneca; coach-
driving and prize-fighting may be recognized in Elis,
and be condemned in England; 111usic may be despica-
ble in the eyes of certain moderns, and be in the highest
place with Aristotle and Plato,-(and the case is the
same in the particular application of the idea of Beauty,
or of Goodness, or of Moral Virtue, there is a difference
of tastes, a difference of judgments)-still the
e \ aria

}{"'lwudidgt its GtelT End.

I I J

tions imply, instead of discrediting, the archetypal idea,
\vhich is but a previous hypothesis or condition, by
means of which issue is joined bet\veen contendinR
opinions, and without which there would be nothing to
dispute about.
I consider, then, that I am chargeable with no para-
dox, when I speak of a Knowledge \vhich is its o\vn end,
when I ca ll it lib eral knowìedge, or a gentleman's know-
ledge, when I educate for it, and make it the scope of a
University. And still less aln I incurring such a charge,
when I make this acquisition consist, not in Knowledf.;e
in a vague and ordinary sense, byt in t hat Know Ïedge
which I have especially called Philosophy or, in an ex-
tended sense of the word, Science; for whatever claims
Knowledge has to be considered as a good, these it has
in a higher degree when it is viewed not vaguely, not
popularly, but precisely and transcendently as Philo-
sophy. !(nowledge.l I say, is then especially liberal, or
sufficient for itself, apart from every external and ulterior
object, when and so far as it is philosophical, and this]
proceed to show.

6.

Now bear with lne, Gentlemen, if \vhat I aJn about to
say, has at first sight a fanciful appearance. Philosophy,
then, or Science, is related to Knowledge in this \va y :-
Knowledge is ca!1eçL by the name of Science or Philoso-
phy, \vhen it is acted upon. informed, or if I may use a
strong figure, impregnated by Reason. Reason is the
principle oÍ that intrinsic fecundity of Knowledge, \vhic

to those who possess it, is its especial value, and which
dispenses with the necessity of their looking abroad for
any end to rest upon external to itself. Knowledge, in-
deed, when thus exalted into a scientific form, is also

112

ÐUCOU1'se V.

po\ver; not only is it excellent in itself, but whatever
such excellence may be, it is something more, it has a
result beyond itsel[ Doubtless; but that is a further
consideration, with \vhich I am not concerned. I only
say that, prior to its beÜ1g a power, it is a good; that it
is, not only an instrument, but an end. I kno\v well it
may resolve itself into an art, and terminate in a
n1echanical process, and in tangible fruit; but it also
may fall back upon that Reason which informs it, and
resolve itself into Philosophy. In one case it is called
Useful Kno\vledge, in the other Liberal. The same person
nlay cultivate it in both ways at once; but this again
is a matter foreign to my subject; here I do but say
that there are two ways of using Knowledge, and in
matter of fact those who use it in one way are not likely
to use it in the other, or at least in a very limited mea-
sure. You see, then, here are two methods of Education; )
the end of the one is to be philosophical, of the other to I
be mechanical; the one rises to\vards general ideas, the
other is exhausted upon what is particular and external.
Let me not be thought to deny the necessity, or to decry
the benefit, of such attention to what is particular and
practical, as belongs to the useful or mechanical arts; life
could not go on without them; we o\v'e our daily welfare
to them; their exerci.se is the duty of the many, and we
owe to the many a debt of gratitude for fulfilling that
duty. I only say that Knowledge, in proportion as it
tends more and more to be particular, ceases to be
IC.nowledge. It is a question \\yhether Kno\vledge can
in any proper sense be predicated of the brute creation;
without pretending to metaphysical exactness of phrase-
ology, which would be unsuitable to an occasion like this,
1 say. it seems to me improper to call that passive sen-
sation, or perception of things, \vhich brutes seem to

Kno'lvledge its Own End.

I 13

possess) by the "naine of Knowledge. When I s eak of
Knowledge, I mean something intellectual, something
which grasps what it perceives through the senses; some-
thing which takes a vie\v of things; which sees more
than the senses convey; \vhich reasons upon what it
;;S
d \vh ile it sees; \vhich i rÍ
;s ts it with an idea.
It expresses itself) not ìñalnere enunciation, but by an
enthymeme: it is of the nature of science from the first,
and in this consists its dignity. The principle of real
dignity in Knowledge, its worth, its desirableness, con-
sidered irrespectively of its results, is this germ \vithin it
of a scientific or a philosophical process. This is ho\v
it comes to be an end in itself; this is \vhy it admits of
being called Liberal. N at to know the relative dispo-

ition of things is the state of slaves or children; to have
nlapped out the Universe is the boast) or at least the
ambition, of Philosophy.
110reover, such knowledge is not a mere extrinsic or
accidental advantage, which is ours to-day and another's
to-morro\v, which Inay be got up from a book, and
easily forgotten again, which we can command or com-
municate at our pleasure, which we can borrow for the
occasion, carry about in our hand, and take into the
market; it is an acquired illumination, it is a habit, a
personal possession, and an-!
ard endowment. And
this is the reason, why it is more correct, as \vell as more
usual, to speak of a University as a place of education,
than of instruction., though, when knowledge is concerned,
instruction would at first sight have seemed the more
appropriate word. We are instructed, for instance, in
manual exercises, in the fine and useful arts, in trades,
and in ways of business; for these are methods, which
have little or no effect upon the mind itself, are contained
in rules committed to memory) to tradition, or to use,
S

114

Disrou'rSf t

and b
ar upon an end external to themselves. But
education is a higher \vord; it itnplies an action upon
our n1ental nature, and the onnation of a character; it
is something individual and pernlanent, and is con1monly
spoken of in connexiQn with religion and virtue. When,
then, we speak of the con1munication of Knowledge as
being Education, \ve thereby really imply that that
Knowledge is a state or condition of n1ind; and since
cultivation of mind is surely worth seeking for its own
sake, \ve are thus brought once more to the conclusion,
\vhich the \\Tord "Liberal" and the \
lord " Philosophy"
have already suggested, that there is a Knowledge,
\vhich is desirable, though nothing come of it, as being
of itself a treasure, and a sufficient remuneration of year

of labour.

7.
This, then, is the answer \\rhich I am prepared to give
to the question \vith \\9hich 1 opened this Discourse.
Before going on to speak of the object of the Church in
taking up Philosophy, and the uses to \vhich she puts it,
I am prepared to maintain that Philosophy is its own
end, and, as I conceive, I have now begun the proof of
it. I am prepared to maintain that there is a knowledge
vvorth possessing for \vhat it is, and not n1erely for \vhat
it does; and what nlinutes ren1ain to me to-day I shall
devote to the removal of some portion of the indistinct-
ness and confusion \\pith \vhich the subject may in some
minds be surrounded.
It may be objected then, that, 'when \\rc profess to
seek Knowledge for some end or other beyond itself,
whatever it be, \ve speak intelligibly; but that, \vhat-
ever men may have said, however obstinately the idea
may have kept its ground from age to age, still it is

AJ/owle,lge its ()1.VJl End.

115

sÜnply untneaning to say that we seek Kno\vledge for
its own sake, and for nothing else; for that it ever leads
to sOlnething beyond itself, \vhich therefore is its enù,
and the cause why it is desirable ;-moreover, that this
end is twofold, either of this world or of the next; that
all knowledge is cultivated either for secular objects or
for eternal; that if it is directed to secular objects, it is
called Useful Knowledge, if to eternal, Religious or
Christian Kno\vledge ;-in consequence, that if, as I have
allo\ved, this Liberal Knowledge does not benefit the
body or estate, it ought to benefit the soul; but if the
fact be really so, that it is neither a physical or a secular
good on the one hand, nor a moral good on the' other, it
cannot be a good at all, and is not worth the trouble
which is necessary for its acquisition.
And then I may be reminded that the professors of this
Liberal or Philosophical Knowledge have themselves, in
every age, recognized this exposition of the matter, and
have submitted to the issue in \vhich it terminates; for
they have ever been attempting to make men virtuous;
or, if not, at least have assumed that refinement of mind
'was virtue, and that they themselves \vere the virtuous
portion of mankind. This they have profess
d on the
one hand; and 011 the other, they have utterly failed in
their professions, so as ever to make themselves a proverb
among men, and a laughing-stock both to the grave and
the dissipated portion of mankind, in consequence of
them. 1'hus they have furnished against themselves both
the ground and the means of their o\vn exposure, with-
out any trouble at all to anyone else. In a word, from
the time that Athens was the University of the world,
what has Philosophy taught men, but to promise without
practising, and to aspire without attaining? What has
the deep and lofty thought of its disciples ended in but

J 16

Discou'rse V.

eloquent words? Nay, what has its teaching ever medi-
tated, when it was boldest in its remedies for human ill,
beyond charming us to sleep by its lessons, that we
might feel nothing at all? like some melodious air, or
rather like those str
ng and transporting perfumes, which
at first spread their sweetness over every thing they
touch, but in a little \vhile do but offend in proportion as
they once pleased us. Did Philosophy support Cicero
under the disfavour of the fickle populace, or nerve Seneca
to oppose an imperial tyrant? It abandoned Brutus, as he
sorrowfully confessed, in his greatest need, and it forced
Cato, as his panegyrist strangely boasts, into the false
position of defying heaven. Ho\v few can be counted
atnong its professors, who, like Polemo, were thereby
converted from a profligate course, or like Anaxagoras,
thoug-ht the world weU lost in exchange for its posses-
sion? The philosopher in Rasselas taught a superhuman
doctrine, and then succumbed ,vithout an effort to a trial
of hun1an affection.
II He discoursed," we are told, "with great energy on
the government of the passions. His look was venerable,
his action graceful, his pronunciation clear, and his
diction elegant. He sho\ved, with great strength of
sentiment and variety of illustration, that human nature
is degraded and debased, when the lower faculties pre-
dominate over the higher. He communicated the
various precepts given, from time to time, for the cO.Q-
quest of passion, and displayed the happiness of those
who had obtained the important victory, after which
man is no longer the slave of fear, nor the fool of hope. . .
He enumerated many examples of heroes immoveable
by pain or pleasure, who looked with indifference on
those modes or accidents to \vhich the vulgar give the
names of good and evil."

R-llo1vledge its OW1t End.

117

Rasselas in a few days found the philosopher in a
roonl half darkened, with his eyes misty, and his face
pale. "Sir," said he, "you have come at a time ,vhen
aU human friendship is useless; 'what I suffer cannot be
remedied, \vhat I have lost cannot be supplied. l\1:y
daughter, Iny only daughter, from whose tenderness I
expected all the comforts of my age, died last night of
a fever." "Sir," said the prince, " mortality is an event
by which a wise man can never be surprised; \Ve know
that death is always near, and it should therefore always
be expected." " Young man," ans\vered the philosopher,
"you speak like one who has never felt the pangs of
separation." "Have you, then, forgot the precept," said
Rasselas, "which you so powerfully enforced? . . . con-
sider that external things are naturally variable, but
truth and reason are ahvays the same." "\Vhat comfort,"
said the mourner, "can truth and reason afford me?
Of \vhat effect are they now, but to tell me that my
daughter will not be restored?"

8.
Better, far better, to make no professions, you win
say, than to cheat others with what ,ve are not, and to
scandalize them with what we are. The sensualist, or
the man of the world, at any rate is not the victim of fine
words, but pursues a reality and gains it. The Philo-
sophy of Utility, you will say, Gentlemen, has at least
done its \vork; and I grant it,-it aitned lo,v, but it has
fulfilled its aim. If that man of great intellect who has
been its Prophet in the conduct of life played false to
his o\vn professions, he was not bound by his philosophy
to be true to his friend or faithful in his trust. Moral
virtue was not the line in which he undertook to instruct
men; and though, as the poet calls him, he were the

I 18

D,scourse V.

.. meanest" of mankind, he was so in what nlay be called
his private capacity and \vithout any prejudice to the
theory of induction. He had a right to be so, if he chose,
for any thing that the Idols of the den or the theatre
had to say to the contrary. His mission was the
increase of physical enjoyment and social comfort;'"
and most wonderfully, most awfully has he fulfilled his
conception and his design. Almost day by day have
we fresh and fresh shoots, and buds, and blossoms,
\vhich are to ripen into fruit, on that magical tree of
Kno\vledge which he planted, and to \vhich none of
us perhaps, except the very poor, but owes, if not his
present life, at least his daily food, his health, and
general well-being. He was the divinely provided
minister of temporal benefits to all of us so gre
tt, that,
whatever I am forced to think of him as a man, I have
not the heart, from mere gratitude, to speak of hinl
severely. And, in spite of the tendencies of his philoso-
phy, which are, as we see at this day, to depreciate, or
to trample on Theology, he has himsel
in his writings,
gone out of his way, as if with a prophetic misgiving
of those tendencies, to insist on it as the instrument of
that beneficent Father, t who, when He caIne on earth in
visible form, took on Him first and most prominently

· It will be seen that on the whole I agree with Lord Macaulay in his
Essay on Bacon'. Philosophy. I do not know whether be would agree
with me.
t De AugmenL iv. 2, vide Macaulay's Essay; vide also U In principio
operis ad Deum Patrem, Deum Verbum, Deum Spiritum, preces fundimus
humillimas et ardentissimas, ut humani generis ærumnarum memores, et
peregrinationis istius vitæ, in quâ dies pal1cos et mal os terimus, novis suis
eleemosyni.r, per manus nostras, familiam hurnanam dot are di b 1'J1entur.
Atque illud insuper supplices rogamus, ne hUmatl(1 divÏ1,is oj/icíallt: neve
ex reseratione viarum sens/ts, et accensione majore luminis naturali<;, aliquid
il/credulitalis et noctis, animis nostris erga divina mysteria oboriatur," et....
Præj. Instaur. Magn.

K1luw/aigt.' its Own End.

1 19

the office ot a.:;suaging the bodily wounds of hUlnan
nature. And truly. like the old mediciner in the tale,
U he sat diligently at his ,york, and hUffilned, \vith
cheerful countenance, a pious song; JI and then in turn
II \vent out singing into the meadows so gaily, that those
\vho had seen him from afar might ,veIl have thought it
\\ras a youth gathering flowers for his beloved, instead
of an old physician gathering healing herbs in the
morning dew." ·
Alas, that men, in the action of life or in their heart
of hearts, are not what they seem to be in their moments
of exciteluent, or in their trances or intoxications of
genius,-50 good, so noble, so serene! Alas, that Bacon
too in his o\vn way should after all be but the fellow of
those heathen philosophers who in their disadvantages
had some excuse for their inconsistency, and who surprise
us rather in \vhat they did say than in what they did
not do! Alas, that he too, like Socrates or Seneca, must
be stripped of his holy-day coat, which looks 50 fair, and
should be but a mockery amid his most majestic gravity
of phrase; and, for all his vast abilities, should, in the
littleness of his own moral being, but typify the intel-
lectual narro,vness of his school! However, granting
all this, heroism after all was not his philosophy:- I
cannot deny he has abundantly achieved what he
proposed. lIis is simply a i\lethod ,vhereby bodily dis-
comforts and tcmporal \vants are to be most effectually
removed from the greatest number; and already, before
it has shown any signs of exhaustion, the gifts of nature,
in their most artificial shapes and luxurious profusion
and diversity, fronl all quarters of the earth. are, it is
undeniable, by its means brought even to our doors, and
we rejoice in thf'm.
· Fouque's UnknuwT\ Patient"

120

Discourse V.

9.
Useful Knowledge then, I grant, has done its work;
and Liberal Kno\vledge as certainly has not done its
\vork,-that is, supposing, as the objectors assume, its
direct end, like Reli
ous Kno\vledge, is to make men
better; but this I \vill not for an instant allo\v, and,
unless I allow it, those objectors have said nothing to
the purpose. I ad In it, rather I maintain, what they have
been urging, for I consider Knowledge to have its end in
itself. For all its friends, or its enenlies, may say, r
insist upon it, that it is as real a mistake to burden it
with virtue or religion as \vith the mechanical arts. Its
direct business is not to steel the soul against temptation
or to console it in affliction, any more than to set the
100m in motion, or to direct the stearn carriage; be it
ever so much the means or the condition of both ma-
terial and moral advancement, still, taken by and in
itself, it as little mends our hearts as it in1 proves our
temporal circumstances. And if its eulogists clain1 for
it such a po\ver, they commit the very same kind of
encroachment on a province not their own as the
political economist who should n1aintain that his science
educated him for casuistry or diplomacy. Kno\vledge
is one thing, virtue is another; good sense is not con-
science, refinement is not humility, nor is largeness and
justness of view faith. Philosophy, ho\vever enlightened,
however profound, gives no command over the passions,
no influential motives, no vivifying principles. L ibera ! I
Fk-
oQ makes n o ! the Christian, not the Catholi c,
b
g
tleman . It is ,veIl to be.a gentlernen, it is
well to have a cultivated intellect, a delicate taste, a
candid, equitable, dispassionate mind, a noble and
çourteous bearing in the conduct of life ;-these are the

KlllrLViedge -its Own E Ild.

121

connatural qualities of a large kno\vledge; they are the
Objècts of a University; I an} advocating, I shall illus-
trate and insist upon thel11; but still, I repeat, they are
no guarantee for sanctity or even for conscientiousness,
they may attach to the man of the world, to the profli-
gate, to the heartless,-pleasant, alas, and attractive as
he shows when decked out in them. Taken by them-
selves, they do but seem to be what they are not; they
look like virtue at a distance, but they are detected by
close observers, and on the long run; and hence it is
that they are popularly accused of pretence and hypo-
crisy, not, I repeat, from their o\vn fault, but because
their professors and their admirers persist in taking them
for what they are not, and are officious in arrogating for
them a praise to which they have no claim. Quarry the
granite rock with razors, or moor the vessel with a
thread of silk; then may you hope with such keen and
delicate ins truments as human knowledge and human
reason to contend against those giants, the passion and
the pride of man.
Surely \ve are not driven to theories of this kind, in
order to vindicate the value and dignity of Liberal
Knowledge. Surely the real grounds on which its pre-
tensions rest are not so very subtle or abstruse, so very
strange or improbable. Surely it is very intelligible to
say, and that is what I say here, that Liberal Education,
--
vie\ved in itself, is sim ly the cultivation of the intellect,
as such, and its obj ect is nothing nlore or less than
intellectual exce llence. Every thing has its own perfec-
tion, be it higher or lovler in the scale of things; and the
perfection of one is not the perfection of another.
Things animate, inanimate, visible, invisible, all are good
in their kind, and have a best of themselves, which is an
object of pursuit. \Vhy do you take such pains with

122

L)Ù'
ùl Yj"e V.

your garden ur your park ? You see to your walks and
turf and shrubberies; to your trees and drives; not as
if you n1eant to Inake an orchard of the one, or corn or
pasture land of the other, but because there is a special
beauty in all that is goodly in \vood, water, plain, and
-
slope, brought all together by art into one shape, and
grouped into one whole. Your cities are beautiful, your
palaces, your public buildings, your territorial mansions,
your churcht:s; and their beauty leads to nothing beyond
itself. There is a physical h
al1ty and a nloral: there is
a beauty of person, there is a beauty of our moral being,
which is natural virtue; and in like manner there is a
bea uty, there is a perfection, of the intellect. There is
an ideal perfection in these various subject-matters,
towards which individual instances are seen to rise, and
\vhich are the standards for all instances \vhatever. The
Greek divinities and demigods, as the statuary has
n10ulded them, with their symmetry of figure, and
their high forehead and their regular features, are the
perfection of physical beauty. The heroes, of whom
history tells, Alexander, or Cæsar, or Scipio, or Saladin,
are the representatives of that magnanimity or self-
mastery which is the greatness of human nature. Chris-
tianity too has its heroes, and in the supernatural order,
and we call them Saints. The artist puts before hin1
beauty of feature and forn1 ; the poet, beauty of mind;
the preclcher, the beauty of grace: then intellect too, I
repeat, has its beauty, and it has those who aim at it.
To open the mind, to correct it, to refine it, to enable it
t
know, and to digest, master, rule, and use its know-
lsdg e to give it power over !!s own faculties, applicatio
,
flexibility. method, critical exactness, sagacity, resource,
address, eloquent expression, is an ob. ect as intelligible
{for nere " \ve are inquiring, not what the object of a

Knowledge its Own .E"Jld.

(J3

Liberal Education is \vorth, nor what use the Church
lnakes of it, but what it is in itself), I say, an object as
intelligible as the cultivdtion of virtue, while, at the
same time. it is absoluteiy distinct fröm -it.

10.
This indeed is but a teInporal object, and a transitory
possession; but so are other things in themselves which
we Inake much of and pursue. The moralist will tell
us that man, in all his functions, is but a flower which
blossoms and fades, except so far as a higher principle
breathes upon him, and makes him and \vhat he is im-
mortal. Body and mind are carried on into an eternal
state of being by the gifts of Divine lVi unificence; but
at first they do but fail in a failing world; and if the
powers of intellect decay, the po\vers of the body have
decayed before them, and, as an Hospital or an Aln1s-
house, though its end be ephemeral, may be sanctified
to the service of religion, so surely may a University,
even were it nothing more than I have as yet described
it. We attain to heaven by using this \\Forld \vell,
though it is to pass away; we perfect our nature, not by
undoing it, but by adding to it what is more than nature.
and dir
cting it to\vards aÍlns hig-her than its own.

12 4

DISCOURSE VI

À.NOWLEDGE VIE\VED IN RhLA TIOl\i TO LEARN 1 Nt;.

1.
I 'r were \vell if the English, like the Greek language,
possessed son1.e definite word to express, sin1ply and
generally, intellectual proficiency or perfection, such as
" health," as used with reference to the anirnal frame, and
"virtue," 'with reference to our moral nature. I am not
able to find such a term ;-talent, ability, genius, belong
distinctly to the ra\v material, which is the subject-matter,
not to that excellence which is the result of exercise and
training. \Vhen ,ve turn, indeed, to the particular kinds
of intellectual perfection, words are forthcoming for our
purpose, as, for instance, judgment, taste, and skill; yet
even these belong, for the most part, to po\vers or
habits bearing upon practice or upon art, and not to any
perfect condition of the intellect, considered in itself
\Visdom, again, is certainly a Inore comprehensive word
than any other, but it has a direct relation to conduct,
and to human life. Kno\vledge, indeed, and Science
express purely intellectual ideas, but still not a state
or quality of the intellect; for knowledge, in its ordinary
sense, is but one of its circumstances, denoting a posses-
sion or a habit; and science has been appropriated to
the subject-matter of the intellect, instead of belonging
in English, as it ought to do. to the intellect itself. The

K nO"c.Vledge vuwtd -in Relation to Lear1ltll..
. I 25

consequence is that, on an occasion like this, nlany words
are neceSS3.ry, in order, first, to bring out and convey
what surely is no didicult idea in itself,-that of the
cultivation of the intellect as an end; next, in order to
recumlnend what surely is no unreasonable object; and
lastl y, to describe and make the mind realize the particular
perfection in \vhich that object consists. Every one
knows practically \vhat are the constituents of health or
of virtue; and everyone recognizes heaith and virtue as
ends to be pursued; it is othenvise with intellectual
excel]ence, and this must be my excuse, if I seem to
anyone to be besto\ving a good deal of labour on
a preliminary Inatter.
In default of a recognized term, I have called the
perfection or virtue of the intellect by the name of philo-
sophy, philosophical knowledge, enlargement of mind,
or illumination; terms which are not uncommonly given
to it by writers of this day: but, \vhatever name v,re
bestow on it, it is, I believe, as a matter of history, the
business of a University to make this intellectual culture
its direct scope, or to employ itself in the education of
-----. .-...-
--
the intellect,-just as the work. of a Hospital lies in
hëcîling the sick or wounded, of a Riding or Fencing
School, 3r of a Gymnasium, in exercising the limbs, of
an Almshouse, in aiding and solacing the old, of an
Orphanage, in protecting innocence, of a Penitentiary,
in restoring the guilty. I say, a University, taken in its
bare idea, and before we view it as an instrument of the
Church, has this object and this mission; it contemplates
neither moral impression nor mechanical production; it
professes to exercise the mind neither in art nor in
duty; its funct
i:in!
ctua l culture; here it m
y
leave its scholars, and it has done its work \vhen it
hilS done as much as this. It educates the intellect

126

Discourse V .

..
"

tù reason well in all u1atters, to reach out to\vards
truth, and to grasp it.

ç

2.
This, I said in my for going Discourse, was the object
of a University, viewed in itself, and apart from the
Catholic Church, or from the State, or from any other
po\ver which may use it ; and I illustrated this in various
ways. I said that the intellect must have an excellence
of its own, for there was n othing \vhich had not its
speci fic good ;thatthe word" educate" would not be
used of intellectual culture, as it is used, had not the
intellect had an end of its o\vn; that, had it not such an
end. there \vould be no n1eaning in calling certain
intellectual exercises" liberal," in contrast with II useful, ,.
as is comolonly done; that the very notion of a philo-
sophical teInper implied it, for it threw us back upon
research and system as ends in themselves, distinct from
effects and \vorks of any kind; that a philosophicaJ
scheme of kno\\Tledge, or system of sciences, could not,
froI11 the nature of the case, issue in anyone definite art
or pursuit, as its end; and that, on the other hand, the
discovery and contemplation of truth, to \vhich research
and systematizing led, were surely sufficient ends. though
nothing beyond them were added, and that they had
ever been accounted sufficient by mankind.
Here then I take up the subject; and, having deter-
mined that the cultivation of the intellect is an end distinct
and sufficient in itself, and that, so far as words go it
is an enlargement or illumination, I proceed to inquire
what this mental breadth, or power, or light, or philo-
sophy consists in. A Hospital heals a broken limb or
cures a fever: what does an Institution effect, \vhich
professes the health, not of the body, not of th e soul.

Knowled.
e vz.el,ved in RelalÙJJl to L"tlrnill..f[. t 27

but of the intellect l What is this good, which in
former tilnes, as well as our o\vn, has been found \\rorth
the notice, the appropriation, of tile Catholic Church?
I have then to investigate, in the Discourses which
follow, those qualities and characteristics of the intellect
in which its cultivation issues or rather consists; and,
with a view of assisting myself in this undertaking, I
shall recur to certain questions which have aheady beea
touched upon. These questions arc three: viz. thè
relation of intellectual culture, first, to 1nere knowledge;
secondly, to professional knowledge; and thirdly, to
religious kno\vledge. In other words,
cq ltir0 1Ze1Zts
and attainJnen ts the scope of a University Education?
õr exp7; i;;;;;-ùz "p articular arts and pursuits! or 1noral
åJld relt"gious proficiency!.. or something _besid es these

ee ? l'hese questions. I shall examine in succession,
\vith the purpose I have mentioned; and I hope to be
excused, if, in this anxious undertaking, I am led to
repeat what, either in these Discourses or else\vhere, I
have already put upon paper. And first, of J.J,fere
Ii flow/edge, or Learning, and its connexion with intel-
lectual illut11ination or Philosophy.

3.
I suppose the prÍ1ná-faCle view \vhich the public at
large \vould take of a University, considering it as a place
of Education, is :.'lothing more or less than a place for
acquiring a great deal of kno\vledge on a great many
subjects. 1'Iemory is one of the first developed of th

mental faculties; a boy's business when he goes to
school is to learn, that is, to store up things in his
nlenlory. For some years his intellect is little more
than an instrument for taking in facts, or a receptacle for
storing them; he welcomes thenl as fast as they come to

128

Dis,-,'ou,yse V 1.

him; he lives on \vhat is \vithout; he has his eyes ever
about him; he has a lively susceptibility of impressions;
he Ï1nbibes infonuation of every kind; and little does he
Inake his own in a true sense of the word, living rather
upon his neighbour
all around him. He has opinions,
religious, political, and literary, and, for a boy, is very
positive in them and sure about them; but he gets them
from his schoolfellows, or his nlasters, or his parents, as
the case may be. Such as he is in his other relations,
such also is he in his school exercises; his mind is obser-
vant, sharp, ready, retentive; he is almost passive in the
clcquisition of knowledge. I say this in no disparage-
ment of the idea of a clever boy. Geography, chronology,
hi.story, language, natural history, he heaps up the matter
of these studies as treasures for a future day. It is the
seven years of plenty with him: he gathers in by hand-
fuls, like the Egyptians, \vithout counting; and though,
as time goes on, there is exercise for his argulnentative
powers in the Elements of LVI athematics, and for his
taste in the Poets and Orators, still, while at school, or
at least, till quite the last years of his time, he acquires,
and little more; and when he is leaving for the U niver-
sity, he is mainly the creature of foreign influences and
circumstances, and Inade up of accidents, homogeneous
or not, as the case may be. l\loreover, the moral habits,
\\-hich are a boy's praise, encourage and assist this
result; that is, diligence, assiduity, regularity, despatch,
persevering application; for these are the direct conditions
of acquisition, and naturally lead to it Acquirements,
again, are emphatically producible, and at a moment;
they are a something to show, both for master and
scholar; an audience, even though ignorant themselves
of the subjects of an examination, can comprehe
d
when questions are ans\vered and when they are not.

11Ilowled..
e viewed ill l?tlation to LrLlrnÙtg. I 29

I Iere again is a reason why mental culture is in the Ininds
of men identified with the acquisition of knowledge.
The saIne notion possesses the public mind, when it
passes on fron1 the thought of a school to that of a
University: and with the best of reasons so far as this,
that there is no true culture \vithout acquirements, and
that philosophy presupposes knowlerige. It requires a
great deal of reading, or a \-vide range of information, to
\varrant us in putting forth our opinions on any serious
subject; and without such learning the most original
mind may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, to
refute, to perplex, but not to come to any useful result
or any trustworthy conclusion. There are indeed person5J
who profess a different view of the matter, and even
act upon it. Every now and then you will find a
person of vigorous or fertile nlind, who relies upon his
own resources, despises all former authors, and gives the
\\rorld, with the utlnost fearlessness, his views upon
religion, or history, or any other popular subject. And
his \-vorks may sell for a while; he may get a name in
his day; but this will be all. His readers are sure to
find on the long run that his doctrines are mere theories,
and not the expression of facts, that they are chaff in-
stead of bread, and then his popularity drops as suddenly
as it rose.
Knowledge then is the indispensable condition of
expansion of mind, and the instru[l1ent of attaining to it ;
this cannot be denied, it is ever to be insisted on; I
begin \vith it as a first principle; however, the very truth
of it carries men too far, and confirms to them the notion
that it is the \vhole of the matter. A narrow mind is
thought to be that which contains little knowledge; and
an enlarged Inind, that which holds a great deal; and
what seems to put the matter beyond dispute is, the
9

130

Discourse f,7.

fact of the great number of studies \\,hich are pursued
in a University, by its very profession. Lectures are
given on every kind of subject; examinations are held;
prizes awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, phy-
sical Professors; Professors of languages, of history,
of mathematics, of experimental science. Lists of ques-
tions are published, wonderful for their range and
depth, variety and difficulty; treatises are written, \vhich
carry upon their very face the evidence of extensive
reading or multifarious information; what then is want-
ing for Inental culture to a person of large reading and
scientific attainments? what is grasp of tnind but ac-
quiren1ent? where shall philosophical repose be found,
but in the consciousness and enjoyment of large intel-
lectual possessions?
And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mistake, and my
present business is to sho\v that it is one, and that the end
of a Liberal Education is not nlerc kno\vledge, or kno\v-
ledge considered in its l1zatter,. and I shall best attain my
object, by actually setting do\vn some cases, \vhich ,vill
be generally granted to be instances of the process of
enlightenment or enlargement of mind, and others \vhich
are not, and thus, by the comparison, you \vill be able
to judge for yourselves, Gentlenlen, whether Kno\vledge,
that is, acquirement, is after all the real principle of the
enlargernent, or whether that principle is not rather
something beyond it.

4-
:B"'or instance,. let a pers0n, whose experience has
hitherto been confined to the more cainl and un pretend-

* The pages which follow are taken almost 'll
'latitn from the author. i
14 th (Oxford) University Sennon, which, at the time of writing this
Discourse, he did not expect eVf'f to reprint.

Ilnmvledge vie'lfJ[d ill Relatlolt to Leúrllillg. 131

ing scenery of these islands, whether here or in England,
go for the first time into parts \vhere physical naturf'
puts on her \vilder and more a \vful forms, whether at
home or abroad, as into mountainous districts; or let one,
who has ever lived in a quiet village, go for the first
time to a great metropolis,-then I suppose he will have
a sensation which perhaps he never had before. He has
a feeling not in addition or increase of former feelings,
but of something different in its nature. He will perhaps
be borne forward, and find for a time that he has lost his
bearings. He has made a certain progress, and he has
a consciousness of mental enlargement; he does not
stand \vhere he did, he has a new centre, and a range of
thoughts to which he was before a stranger.
Again, the view of the heavens which the telescope
opens upon us, if allowed to fill and possess the mind,
may almost whirl it round and make it dizzy. It brings
in a flood of ideas, and is rightly called an intellectual
enlargement, whatever is meant by the term.
And so again, the sight of beasts of prey and other
foreign animals, their strangeness, the originality (if I
may use the term) of their forms and gestures and habits
and their variety and independence of each other, thro\v
us out of ourselves into another creation, and as if under
another Creator, if I may so express the temptation
which may come on the mind. We seem to have new

aculties, or a new exercise for our faculties, by this
addition to our kno\vledge; like a prisoner, who, having
been accustomed to 'year manacles or fetters, suddenly
finds. his arms and legs free.
Hence Physical Science generally, in all its depart-
ments, as bringing before us the exuberant riches and
resources, yet the orderly course, of the Universe, elevates
and excites the stuùent, and at lirst, I n
ay say, almost

13 2

DiscourSl VI.

takes away his breath, while in time it exerCises a
tranquilizing influence upon him.
Again, the study of history is said to enlarge and
en lighten the mind, and why? because, as I conceive, it
gives it a power of judging of passing events, and of all
events, and a conscious superiority over them, \vhich
before it did not possess.
And in like manner, what is called seeing the world,
entering into active life, going into society, travelling,
gaining acquaintance \vith the various classes of the
community, coming into contact \vith the principles and
mcdes of thought of various parties, interests, and races,
their views, aims, habits and manners, their religious
creeds and forms of worship,-gaining experience how
various yet ho\v alike men are, how lo\v-minded, ho,v
bad, how opposed, yet how confident in their opinions;
all this exerts a perceptible influence upon the mind,
which it is impossible to mistake, be it good or be it
bad, and is popular1y called its enlargement.
And then again, the first time the mind comes across
the arguments and speculations of unbelievers, and feels
\vhat a novel light they cast upon what he has hitherto
accounted sacred; and still more, if it gives in to them
and embraces them, and throws off as so much prejudice
\vhat it has hitherto held, and,. as if waking from a
dream, begins to realize to its imagination that there is
now no such thing as law and the transgression of law,
that sin is a phantom, and punishment a bugbear, that it
is free to sin, free to enj oy the \vorld and the flesh; and
still further, when it does enjoy them, and reflects that
it may think and hold just what it will, that" the world
is all before it where to choose," and \vhat system to
build up as its own private persuasion; \vhen this torrent
of wilful thought..c;; rushes over and inundates it, who \vil1

Knowledge vÙwed ill RelaÜ'oJl to Learll'l'ng. 133

deny that the fruit of the tree of knowledge, or what the
mind takes for knowledge, has made it one of the gods,
with a sense of expansion and elevation,-an intoxication
in reality, still, so far as the subjective state of the mind
goes, an illumination? Hence the fanaticism of individuals
or nations, who suddenly cast off their Maker. Their eyes
are opened; and, like the judgment-stricken king in the
Tragedy, they see two suns, and a magic universe, out of
,vhich they look back upon their former state of faith and
innocence with a sort of contempt and indignation, as if
they were then but fools, and the dupes of imposture.
On the other hand, Religion has its o\vn enlargement,
and an enlargelnent, not of tumult, but of peace. It is
often remarked of uneducated persons, who have hitherto
thought little of the unseen world, that, on their turning
to God, looking into themselves, regulating their hearts,
reforming their conduct, and meditating on death and
judgment, heaven and hell, they seem to become, in
point of intellect, different beings from what they were.
Before, they took things as they came, and thought no
more of one thing than another. But now every event
has a meaning; they have their own estimate of whatever
happens to them; they are mindful of times and seasons,
and compare the present with the past; and the world,
no longer dull, monotonous, unprofitable, and hopeless,
is a various and complicated drama, with parts and an
object, and an awful moral.

s.
N ow from these instances, to which many more might
be added, it is plain, first, that the communication of
knowledge certainly is either a condition or the means
of that sense of enlargement or enlightenment, of which
at this day we hear so much in certain quarters: this

134

lJiscourSf T .

cannot be denied; but next, it is equally plain, that such
communication is not the whole of the process. The
enlargement consists, not merely in the passive reception
into the mind of a number of ideas hitherto unknown to
it, but in the mind's en
ge
and simu ltane,9us action
upon and towar s and among those new ideas, which are
rushing in upon it. It is the action of a formative po\ver,
red ucing to order and meaning the matter of our acq uire-
ments; it is a making the objects of our knowledge
subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar \vord, it is a
digestion of ,,,hat we receive, into the substance of our
previous state of thought; and without this no enlarge-
rnent is said to follow. There is no enlargement, unless
there be a comparison of ideas one with another, as they
come before the nlind, and a systematizing of them.
We feel our minds to be gro\ving and expanding tlufl,
\vhen ,ve not only learn, but refer what we learn to what
we know already. It is not the mere addition to our
knowledge that is the illumination; but the locomotion,
the movement onwards, of that mental centre, to which
both \vhat \ve know, and what we are learning, the ac-
cumulating Inass of our acquirements, gravitates. And
therefore a truly great intellect, and recognized to be
such by th
n1mon opÌnion of mankind, such as the
intellect of Aristotle, or of St. Thomas, or of Newton, or
of Goethe, (I purposely take instances within and with-
out the Catholic pale, ,vhen I would speak of the intellect
as such,) is one which takes a connected view of old and
new, past and present, far and near, and which has an
insight into the influence of all these one on another;
without which there is no whole, and no centre. It
possesses the knowledge, not only of things, but also of
their mutual and true relations; knowledge, not merely
considered as acquirement, but as philosophy.

KllowtedKt viewed z'n Relation to Learll/ng. 135

Accordingly, when this analytical, distributive, har-
monizing process is away, the mind experiences no
enlargement, and is not reckoned as enlightened or
comprehensive, whatever it may add to its knowledge.
For instance, a great memory, as I have already said,
does not make a philosopher, any more than a dictionary
can be called a grammar. There are men \vho embrace
in their minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with little
sensibility about their real relations towards each other.
These may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they
may be learned in the law; they may be versed in
statistics; they 'are most useful in their own place; I
should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them;
still, there is nothing in such attainments to guarantee
the absence of narrowness of mind. If they are nothing
more than \vell-read men, or men of information, they
have not what specially deserves the name of culture of
mind, or fulfils the type of Liberal Education.
In like rnanner, we sometin1es fall in with persons \vho
have seen much of the ,vorld, and of the men \vho, in
their day, have played a conspicuous part in it, but who
generalize nothing, and have no observation, in the true
sense of the word. They abound in information in
detail, curious and entertaining, about men and things;
and, having lived under the influence of no very clear or
settled principles, religious or political, they speak of
every one and every thing, only as so many phenomena,
which are complete in themselves, and lead to nothing,
not discussing them, or teaching any truth, or instructing
the hearer, but simply talking. No one would say that
these persons, well informed as they are, had attained to
any great culture of intellect or to philosophy.
The case is the same still more strikingly where the
persons in question are beyond dispute men of inferior

136

/)iScoU1'se Vi.

po\vers and deficient education. Perhaps they have
been much in foreign countries, and they 1 eceive, in a
passive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts \vhich are
forced upon them there. Seafaring men, for example,
range from one end of the earth to the other; but the
multiplicity of external objects, which they have encoun-
tered, forms no symn1etrical and consistent picture upon
their imagination; they see the tapestry of human life,
as it were on the wrong side, and it tells no story. They
sleep, and they rise up, and they find themselves, no\v in
Europe, now in Asia; they see visions of great cities and
wild regions; they are in the marts of commerce, or anlid
the islands of the South; they gaze on Pompey's PilIar,
or on the Andes; and nothing which meets then1 carries
therl1 for\vard or backward, to any idea beyond itself.
Nothing has a drift or relation; nothing has a history or
a pron1ise. Every thing stands by itself, and COlnes and
goes in its turn, like the shifting scenes of a show, which
leave the spectator \vhere he was. Perhaps you are near
such a man on a particular occasion, and expect him to
be shocked or perplexed at sonlething which occurs;
but one thing is much the saIne to him as another, or, if
he is perplexed, it is as not knowing \vhat to say, whether
it is right to admire, or to ridicule, or to disapprove,
while conscious that some expression of opinion is ex-
pected from him; for in fact he has no standard of j udg-
rnent at all, and no landmarks to guide him to a conclu-
sion. Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one
would dream of calling it philosophy.

6.

Instances, such as these, confirn1, by the contrast, the
conclusion I have already dra\vn frorn those ,\\Thich pre-
ceded them. That only is true enlargement of mind

ÃJ20wledge 'l}te
ved ill l?clalion 10 Learning. 137

which is the power of viewing many things at once as
one \vhole, of referring them severally to their true place
in the universal system, of understanding their respective
values, and determining their mutual dependence. Thus
is that form of Universal Knowledge, of which I have on
a former occasion spoken, set up in the individual intel-
lect, and constitutes its perfection. Possessed of this
real illumination, the mind never views any part of the
extended subject-matter of Knowledge without recol-
lecting that it is but a part, or without the associations
which spring from this recollection. It makes every
thing in some sort lead to every thing else; it would
con1municate the image of the whole to every separate
portion, till that whole becomes in imagination like a
spirit, every where pervading and penetrating its com-
ponent parts, and giving them one definite meaning.
Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall thcir
function in the body, as the word" creation" suggests
the Creator, and" subjects" a sovereign, so, in the mind
of the Philosopher, as \ve are abstractedly conceiving of
him, the elements of the physical and moral world,
sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, opinions,
individualities, are all viewed as one, with correlative
functions, and as gradually by successive combinations
converging. one and all, to the true centre.
To have even a portion of this illuminative reason and
true philosophy is the highest state to \vhich nature can
aspire, in the \vayof intellect; it puts the mind above
the influences of chance' and necessity, above anxiety,
suspense, unsettlement, and superstition, which is the lot
of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed 'with
some one object, take exaggerated views of its impor-
tance, are feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the
Ineasure of things which are utterly foreign to it, and

138

Discourse 'l

are startled and despond if it happens to fail them"
They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the
other hand who have no object or principle whatever to
hold by, lose their ,yay, every step they take. They are
thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at
every fresh juncture; they have no vie\v of persons, or
occurrences, or facts, which come suddenly upon them,
and they hang upon the opinion of others, for \vant of
internal resources. But the intellect, \vhich has been
disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which knows,
and thinks while it knows, which has learned to leaven
the dense mass of facts and events \vith the elastic force
of reason, such an intellect cannot be partial, cannot be
exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, cannot
but be patient, collected, and majestically calm, because it
discerns the end in every beginning, the origin in every
end, the law in evelY interruption, the limit in each delay;
because it ever knows where it stands, and how its path lies
from one point to another. It is the TfTpá'Ywvoç of the
Peripatetic, and has the" nil admirari " of the Stoic,-

Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque Dletus omnes, et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitulnque Acherontis avari.

There are men who, when in difficulties, originate at the
moment vast ideas or dazzling projects; who, under the
influence of excitement, are able to cast a light, altnost
as if from inspiration, on a subject or course of action
which comes before them; who have a sudden presence
of mind equal to any emergency, rising \vith the occasion,
and an undaunted magnanimous bearing, and an energy
and keenness which is but made intense by opposition.
This is genius, this is heroism; it is the exhibition of a
natural gift, which no culture can teach, at which no

K1t0l1}ledge viewed Ùz I?tiatio t 10 earnuzg. t 3 <3

Institution can aim; here, on the contrary, we are con-
cerned, not with mere nature, but with training and
teaching. .Jha tperfectio Il..2f.Jh
Intellect, \vhich is the
result of Education, and its beau ideal, to be Ï1nparted
to individuals in their respective nleasures, is the clear
calIn, accurate vision and comprehension of all things,
as far as the finite mind can ern brace them, each in its
-lace, and with its own characteristics upon it. It is
almost prophetic from its knowledge of history; it is
almost heart-searching from its knowledge of human
nature; it has almost supernatural charity from its
freedom frotn littleness and prejudice; it has aln10st the
repose of faith, because nothing can startle it; it has
almost the beauty and harmony of heavenly contem-
plation, so intimate is it \vith the eternal order of things
and the nlusic of the spheres.

7.
And now, if I may take for granted
þat th e true anÈ
adeg. uate end of intellectual training and of a University
is not Learning or Acquirelnent, but rather, is Thought
ôr Reason exercised upon Kno\vledge, or what lnay be
called Philosophy, I shall be in a position to explain the
various mistakes which at the present day beset the
subject of University Education.
I say then, if we \vould improve the intellect, first of
all, we must ascend; ':V e cannot gai n reaLk nowledge on
a level; we must generalize, we must reduce to method,
we must have a grasp of principles, and g-roup and shape
our acquisitions by means of them. It matters not
whether our field of operation be wide or limited; in
every case, to cOlnmand it, is to mount above it. \Vho
has not felt the irritation of Inind and impatience
created by a deep, rich country, visited for the first tÍ!ne,

140

Ðzscourse VI

with winding lanes, and high hedges, and green steeps,
and tangled woods, and every thing smiling indeed, but
in a maze? The same feeling comes upon us in a strange
city, when \ve have no map of its streets. Hence you
hear of practised travellers, when they first corne into a
place, mounting some high hill or church tower, by way
of reconnoitring its neighbourhood. In like manner, you
must be above your knowledge, not under it, or it will
oppress you; and the more you have of it, the greater
will be the load. The learning of a Salmasius or a
Bunllan, unless you are its nlaster, will be your tyrant
h Imperat aut servit ;" if you can \vield it \vith a strong
arn1, it is a great \veapon; otherwise,

Vis consili expers
1101e ruit suâ.

You will be overwhelmed, like Tarpeia, by the heavy
wealth \vhich you have exacted from tributary
generations.
Instances abound; there are authors who are as
pointless as they are inexhaustible in their literary
resources. They measure knowledge by bulk, as it lies
in the rude block, without symmetry, without design.
I-low many commentators are there on the Classics, how
Inany on Holy Scripture, frotn whom we rise up, won-
dering at the learning which has passed before us, and
\vondering why it passed! How many writers are there
of Ecclesiastical History, such as IVlosheim or Du Pin,
who, breaking up their subject into details, destroy its
life, and defraud us of the whole by their anxiety about
the parts I The Sermons, again, of the English Divines
in the seventeenth century, how often are they mere
repertories of miscellaneous and officious learning! Of
course Catholics also may read without thinking; and

Knowledge viewed Z11 J?e/alzoll to Learlll.'llg. 141

in their case, equally as with Protestants, it holds good,
that such knowledge is unworthy of the name, kno\vlcdge
which they have not thought through, and thought out.
Such readers are only possessed by their knowledge, not
possessed of it; nay, in matter of fact they are often
èven carried a\vay by it, ,vithout any volition of their
own. Recollect, the Melnory can tyrannize, as \vell as
the Imagination. Derangement, I believe, has been
considered as a loss of control over the sequence of
ideas. l O he mind, once set in motion, is henceforth
deprived of the power of initiation, and becomes the
victim of a train of associations, one thought suggesting
another, in the way of cause and effect, as if by a
mechanical process, or some physical necessity. No
one, who has had experience of men of studious habits,
but must recognize the existence of a parallel phe-
nomenon in the case of those who have over-stimulated
the Memory. In such persons Reason acts almost as
feebly and as impotently as in the madnlan ; once fairly
started on any subject whatever, they have no po\ver of
self-control; they passively endllre the succession of
impulses which are evolved out of the original exciting
cause ; they are passed on from one idea to another and
go steadily forward, plodding along one line of thought
in spite of the amplest concessions of the hearer, or wan-
dering from it in endless digression in spite of his remon-
strances. N O\V, if, as is very certain, no one would envy the
madman the glow and originality of his conceptions, why
must we extol the cultivation of that intellect, which is
the prey, not indeed of barren fancies but of barren facts,
of random intrusions from without, though not of morbid
imaginations from within? And in thus speaking, I an1
not denying that a strong and ready memory is in itself
a real treasure; I am not disparaging a \vell-stored

142

Ðzscourse ý'l.

mind, though it be nothing besides, provided it be sober,
any more than I would despise a bookseller's shop :-it
is of great value to others, even when not so to the
o\vner. Nor am I banishing, far from it, the possessors
of deep and multifarious learning from my ideal
University; they ado
n it in the eyes of nIen; I do but
say that they constitute no type of the results at which
it aims; !.,h at it is no great gain....!.

j nt el

t to have
enlarged the memory at the expense of faculties which
àre indisputably higher. .

8.
N or indeed am I supposing that there is any great
danger, at least in this day, of over-education; the danger
is on the other side. I will tell you, Gentlemen, what has
been the practical error of the last twenty years,-not to
load the n1elnory of the student with a mass of undigested
knowledge, but to force upon him so much that he has
rejected all. It has been the error of distracting and
enfeebling the n1Ïnd by an unmeaning profusion of
subjects; of implying that a smattering in a dozen
branches of study is not shallowness, which it really is,
but enlargement, which it is not; of considering an ac-
quaintance \vith the learned names of things and persons,
and the possession of clever duodecimos, and attendance
on eloquent lecturers, and membership with scientific in-
stitutions, and the sight of the experiments of a platforn1
and the specimens of a museum, that all this was not
dissipation of mind, but progress. All things now are to
be learned at once, not first one thing, then another, not
one well. but many badly. Learning is to be without

xertion, without attention, ,vithout toil; without ground-
ing, without advance, without finishing. There is to be
nothing individual in it; and this, forsooth, is the ,vonder

]íllowledj[e vie7i.}cd in Relation tù Learning. r43

of the age. \Vhat the steanl engine does with matter l
the printing press is to do with mind; it is to act
mechanically, and the population is to be passively, almost
unconsciously enlightened, by the mere multiplication
and dissemination of volumes. Whether it be the
school boy, or the school girl, or the youth at college,
or the mechanic in the town, or the politician in the
senate, all have been the victims in one way or other of
this most preposterous and pernicious of delusions.
Wise men have lifted up their voices in vain; and at
length, lest their own institutions should be outshone
and should disappear in the folly of the hour, they have
been obliged, as far as they could with a good conscience,
to humour a spirit v:hich they could not \vithstand, and
make temporizing concessions at \vhich they could not
but inwardly smile.
It must not be supposed that, because I so speak,
therefore I have some sort of fear of the education of the
people: on the contrary, the more education they have,
the better, so that it is really education. N or am I an
enelny to the cheap publication of scientific and literary
works, which is now in vogue: on the contrary, I consider
it a great advantage, convenience, and gain; that is, to
those to whom education has given a capacity for using
them. Further, I consider such innocent recreations as
science and literature are able to furnish will be a very
fit occupation of the thoughts and the leisure of young
persons, and may be made the means of keeping them
fron1 bad employments and bad companions. l\10reover,
as to th
_
uperfici'!L acquaintance \vith chemistry, and
g-eology, ànd astronomy, and political economy, and
modern history, and biography, and other branches of
knowledge, which periodical literature and occasional
lectures and scientific institutions diffuse through the

144

DÙicou/'se VI.

community, I think it a graceful accomplishnlent, and
a suitable, nay, in this day a necessary accomplishment,
in the case of educated men. N or, lastly, am I dis-
paraging or discouraging the thorough acquisition of
anyone of these studies, or denying that, as far as it
goes, such thorough- acquisition is a real education of
the mind. All I say is, call things by their right nalnes,
and do not confuse together ideas which are essentially
different. A thorough knowledge of one science and a
superficial acquaintance with many, are not the same
thing; a sn1attering of a hundred things or a memory
for detail, is not a philosophical or comprehensive view.
Recreations are not education; accomplishments arc
not education. Do not say, the people must be edu-
cated, when, after all, you only mean, amused, refreshed,
soothed, put into good spirits and good humour, or kept
from vicious excesses. I do not say that such amuse-
nleIlts, such occupations of mind, are not a great gain;
but they are not education. You may as well call draw-
ing and fencing education, as a general knowledge of
botany or conchology. Stuffing birds or playing stringed
instruments is an elegant pastime, and a resource to the
idle, but it is not education; it does not form or cultivate
the intellect. Education js a high \vord . it is the prepara-
tion for kno\vledge, and it is the inlparting of kno\vledge
in proportion to that preparation. We require intellec-
t
al eyèSto know withal, as bodily eyes for sight. We
need both objects and organs intellectual; we cannot
gain them \vithout setti&1g about it; we cannot gain
them in our sleep, or by hap-hazard. The best telescope
does not dispense with eyes; the printing press or the
lecture room \vill assi
t us greatly, but \ve must be true
to ourselves, we must be parties in the work. A U ni-
versity is, according to the l1
ual designation, an Alma

Knowledge viewed in Relatioll to Lcarnt'ng. 145

1\1ater, kno\ving her children one by one, not a foundry,
or a mint, or a treadmill

9. -
l m:-otest to yo u, Gentlemen, that if I had to choose
bet\veen a so-called University, which dispensed with
residence and tutorial superintendence, and gave its
degrees to any person who passed an examination in a
wide range of subjects, and a University which had no
professors or examinations at all, but merely brought a
number of young men together for three or four years,
and then sent them away as the University of Oxford is
said to have done some sixty years since, if I were asked
which of these two methods was the better discipline of
the intellect,-mind, I do not say which is morally the
better, for it is plain that compulsory study must be a
good ?-nd idleness an intolerable mischief,-but if J
must determine which of the two courses was the more
successful in training, moulding, enlarging the mind,
which sent out men the more fitted for their secular
duties, which produced better public men, men of the
world, men whose names would descend to posterity, I
have no hesitation in giving the preference to that U ni-
versity which did nothing, over that which exacted of its
members an acquaintance \vith every science under the
sun. And, paradox as this may seem, still if results be
the test of systems, the influence of the public schools
and colleges of England, in the course of the last century,
.1t least will bear out one side of the contrast as I have
dra\vn it. \Vhat would COlne, on the other hand, of the
ideal systenls of education \vhich have fascinated the
imagination of this age, could they ever take effect, and
\vhether they would not produce a generation frivolous,
narro\v-n1indecl, and resourceless.. intellectually con sidered,
10

14 6

ÐÙ.co1J,rse VI.

is a fair subject for debate; but so far is certain, that the
Universities and scholastic establishments, to which I
refer, and \vhich did little more than bring together first
boys and then youths in large numbers, these institutions,
with miserable deformities on the side of morals, with a
hollow profession of Christianity, and a heathen code
of ethics,-I say, at least they can boast of a succession
of heroes and statesmen, of literary men and philosophers,
of men conspicuous for great natural virtues, for habits
of business, for knowledge of life, for practical judgment,
for cultivated tastes, for accomplishments, who have
made England what it is,-able to subdue the earth,
able to domineer over Catholics.
How is this to be explained? I suppose as follows:
When a m ultitud e of young men, keen, open-hearted,
sympathetic, "a nd obser
t, as y;
itg men are, come
together and freely mix with each other, they are sure
to learn one from another, even if there be no one to
teach th
m ; the conversation of all is a series of lectures
to each, and they gain for themselves new ideas and
vie\\Ts, fresh matter of thought, and distinct principles
for judging and acting, day by day. An infant has to
learn the meaning of the information which its senses
convey to it, and this seems to be its employment. It
fancies all that the eye presents to it to be close to it,
till it actually learns the contrary, and thus by practice
does it ascertain the relations and uses of those first
elements of knowledge which are necessary for its
animal existence. A parallel teaching is necessary for
our social being, and it is secured by a large school or a
college; and this effect may be fairly called in its own
department an enlargement of mind. I t is seeing the
\\"orld on a small field with little trouble; for the
pupils or students come from very different places, and

Knowledge v'iewed in Rela/ton to LearninK. 147

with widely different notions, and there is much to
generalize, much to adjust, much to eliminate, there are
inter-relations to be defined, and conventional rules to
be established. in the process, by which the whole
assemblage is nloulded together, and gains one tone and
one character.
Let it be clearly understood, I repeat it, that I am not
taking into account moral or religious considerations; I
am but saying that that youthful community will con-
stitute a whole, it will embody a specific idea, it wiII
represent a doctrine, it will adnlinister a code of conduct,
and it will furnish principles of thought and action. It
will give birth to a living teaching, which in course of
time will take the shape of a sel
-perpetuating tradition,
or a genius loci, as it is sometimes called; which haunts
the home where it has b
en born, and which imbues and
forms, more or less, and one by one, every individual
who is successively brought under its shadow. Thus it
is that, independent of direct instruction on the part of
Superiors, there is a sort of self-education in the academic
institutions of Protestant England; a characteristic tone
of thought, a recognized standard of judgnlent is found
in them, which, as developed in the individual who is
su bmitted to it, becolnes a twofold source ùf strength to
him, both froln the distinct starup it impresses on his
mind, and fron1 the bond of union which it creates
between him and others,-effects v.rhich are shared by
the authorities of the place, for they themselves have
been educated in it, and at all times are exposed to the
influence of its ethical atmosphere. Here then is a real
teaching, whatever be its standards and principles, true
or false; and it at least tends towards cultivation of the
intellect; it at least recognizes that kno\vledge is some-
thing more than a sort of passive reception of scraps and

148

Discou.;,"s' T
'''' .

,

dctai1s ; it is a something, and it does a omething, which
never will issue from the most strenuous efforts of a set
of teachers, with no mutual sympathies and no inter-
communion, of a set of examiners with no opinions 'which
they dare profess, an
with no common principles. who
are teaching or questioning a set of youths who do not
know them, and do not know each other, on a large
number of subjects, different in kind, and connected by
no \\-'ide philosophy, three times a \veek, or three times a
year, or once in three years, in chill lecture-rooms or on
a pon1pous annIversary.

10.
Nay, self-education in any shape, in the most restricted
sense, is preferable to a system of teaching which, pro-
fessing so much, really does so little for the mind. Shut
your College gates against the votary of knowledge,
throw him back upon the searchings and the efforts of
his own mind; he will gain by being spared an entrance
int0 your Babel. Few indeed there are who can dis-
pense with the stitllulus and support of instructors, or
\vill do any thing at all, if left to themselves. And fe\ver
still (though such great minds are to be found), who
\vill not, from such unassisted attempts, contract a self-
reliance and a self-esteem, which are not only morai
evils, but serious hindrances to the attal.ument of truth.
.A..nd next to none, perhaps, or none, who ,viII not be
reminded from tinle to time of the disadvantage
under \vhich they lie, by their imperfect grounding, by
the breaks, deficiencies, and irregularities of their kno\v-
ledge, by the eccentricity of opinion and the confusiou
of principle \vhich they exhibit. They \vill be too often
ignorant of what everyone knows and takes for granted,
of that multitude of small truths \vhich fall upon the

Kno'i1. J /cdge vWiv(tf in Relati.on to LearJll11.g-. I 49

mind like dust, impalpable aT1d ever accumulating; they
may be unable to converse, they may argue perversely,
they may pride themselves on their worst paradoxes or
their grossest truisms, they may be full of their own
mode of viewing things, unwilling to be put out of their
way, slo\v to enter into the minds of others ;-but, with
these and whatever other liabilities upon their heads,
they are likely to have more thought, more mind, more
philosophy, more true enlargement, than those earnest
b ut ill-used persons,
ho are forced to load their minds
with a score of sub. ects against an examination, who
have too m
ch on their hands to indulge themselves in
thinking or investigation, who devour premiss and con-
clusion together with indiscrin1Ïnate greediness, who
hold whole sciences on faith, and commit demonstra-
tions to memory, and who too often, as might be ex-
pected, when their eriod of education is assed, throw
up all they have learned in disgust, having gained
ñothing really by their anxious labours, except perhaps
the habit of application.
Yet such is the better specimen of the fruit of that
ambitious system which has of late years been making
way alTIOng us: for its result on ordinary minds, and on
the common run of students, is less satisfactoI y still;
they leave their place of education simply dissipated
and relaxed by the multiplicity of subjects, \vhich they
have never really mastered, and so shallo\v as not even
to kno\v their shallowness. How much better, I say, is
it for the active and thoughtful intellect, where such is
to be found, to eschew the College and the University
altogether, than to submit to a drudgery so ignoble, a
mockery so contumelious! How much more profitable
for the independent mind, after the mere rudiments of

ucation.. to range through a library at random, taking

15 0

Discou-rse VI.

do,,"n books as they meet him, and pursuing the trains
of thought \vhich his mother wit suggests!

cÈ
h_ealthier to wander into the fields, a nd th ere with the
exiled Prince to find 'I tongues fii'thetrees, -b ooks in thë
ruññingbr
oks! n How much
regenuine an educa-
tion is that of the poor boy in the Poem.-a Poem,
\vhether in conception or in execution, one of the most
touching in our language-who, not in the \\.ide world,
but ranging day by day around his widowed mother's
home, "a dexterous gleaner" in a narro\v field, and
\vith only such slender outfit

U as the village school and books a few
Supplied, "

contrived from the beach, and the quay, and the fisher's
boat, and the inn's fireside, and the tradesman's shop,
and the shepherd's walk, and the smuggler's hut, and
the mossy moor, and the screaming gulls, and the rest-
less waves, to fashion for himself a philosophy and a
poetry of his own I

Hut in a large subject, I am exceeding my necessary
limits. Gentlemen, I must conclude abruptly; and
postpone any summing up of my argument, should that
be necessary, to another day.

· Crabbe's Tales of the Hall. This Poem, let me say, I read on its
first publication, above thirty years ago, with extreme delight, and have
never lost my love of it; and on taking it up lately, found I was even more
touched by it than heretofore. A work which can please in youth and age,
seems to fulfil (in logical language) the accid
tltal dqinitüm of a Classic.
[A further course of twenty years has past, and I bear the 5ame witness in
favour of this Poem.]

15 1

DISCOURSE VII.

KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATIO
TO PROFESSIONAL
SKILL.

I.
I HAVE been insisting, in my t\VO preceding Dis-
courses, first, o n the cu ltivation of the intellect, as

end w h ich m ay reasonabl y be pu rsued for its own 'v
..ake ; and next, on the nature of that cultivation, or
'(if what !.hat cultivation cons ists i
Truth of whatever
kind is the proper object of the intellect; its cultivation
then lies in fitting it to apprehend and contemplate
truth. Now the intellect in its present state, with
exceptions which need not here be specified, does not
discern truth intuitively, or as a whole. We know, not
by a direct and simple vision, not at a glance, but, as it
were, by piecemeal and accumulation, by a mental pro-
cess, by going round an obj ect, by the comparison, the
combination, the mutual correction, the continual adap-
tation, of many partial notions, by the employment,
concentration, and joint action of many faculties and
exercises of mind. Such a union and concert of the
intellectual powers, such an enlargement and develop-
ment, such a comprehensiveness, is necessarily a matter
of training. And again, such a training is a matter of
rule; it is not mere application, ho\vever exemplary,
\vhiçh introduces the mind to truth, nor the leading

u

1

ç::
-sIT

15 2

Disc(Jurse VII.

many books, nor the getting up n1any subjects, nor the
witnessing many experiments, nor the attending n1any
lectures. All this is short of enough; a man may have
done it all, yet be lingering in the vestibule of know-
ledge :-he may not realize what his mouth utters; he
may not see with his -mental eye what confronts him; he
may have no grasp of things as they are; or at least he
may have no po\ver at all of advancing one step forward
of himself, in consequence of \vhat he has already ac-
quired, no power of discriminating between truth and
falsehood, of sifting out the grains of truth from the
mass, of arranging things according to their real value,
and, if I may use the phrase, of building up ideas.
Such a po
r is t he Esult of a scientific f rmation--cl
mind; it is an acquired fa cult of judglnent, o(sl ear-
sightedness, of sagacity, of wisdom, of philosophical
reach of mind, and of intellectual self-possession ,. nd
re po se,-q ualities wgi<:..h d.Q .2Jot come of mer e acqu!!
-
ment. The bodily eye, the organ for apprehending
material objects, is provided by nature; the eye of the
mind, of which the object is truth, is the work o f dis-
cipline and habit.
This process of training, by which the i nte llect,
instead of being forn1ed or sacrificed to some particular
or accidental purpose, some specific trade or profession,
or study or science, is gisciplined for its o\vn sake,

t
perception of its own pro er object, and for its own
highest culture, is called Liberal Education; and though
there is no one in whom it is carried as far as is con-
ceivable, or whose intellect would be a pattern of what
intellects should be made, yet there is scarcely anyone
but may gain an idea of what real training is, and at
least look towards it, and make its true scope and
result, not something else, his standard of excellence;

l(Úowledge and Profess'z"onal Skill. 153

and numbers there are \vho may submit themselves to it,
and secure it to themselves in good Ineasure. And to
set forth the right standard, and to train according to it,
and to help forward all students towards it according to
their various capacities, this I conceive to be the business
of a University.

2.
N ow this is ,vhat some great men are very slow to
allow; they insist that Education should be confined to
some particular and narrow end, and should issue in
some definite work, which can be \veighed and measured.
They argue as if every thing, as \vell as every person,
had its price; and that where there has been a gr ea t
2 utiaYL th ey_have aJight to expect a return in kind.
This they call
g E d ucation and Instruction
"u sefu l," nd
Utility" becomes their watchword.
\JVith a fundamental principle of this nature, they very
naturall y go on to ask, \vhat there is to show for the
expense of a University; \vhat is the real \vorth in the
market of the article called "a Liberal Education," on
the supposition that it does not teach us definitely how
to advance our manufactures, or to improve our lands,
or to better our civil economy; or again, if it does not
at once make this man a la\vyer, that an engineer, and
that a surgeon; or at least if it does not lead to dis-
coveries in chemistry, astronomy, geology, magnetism,
and science of every kind.
This question, as might have been expected, has been
keenly debated in the present age, and formed one main
subject of the controversy, to which I referred in the
Introduction to the present Discourses, as having been
sustained in the first decade of this century by a cele-

rated Northern Rcview on the one hand, and defenders

154

Discours
VII.

of the U uivcrsÏty of Oxford on the other. Hardly had
the authorities of that ancient seat of learning, waking
from their long neglect, set on foot a plan for the edu-
cation of the youth cOlnmitted to them, than the repre-
sentatives of science and literature in the city, which
. ..
has sometImes been called the Northern Athens, relnon-
strated, with their gravest arguments and their most
brilliant satire, against the direction and shape which
the reforrn was taking. Nothing would content them,
but that the University should be set to rights on the
basis of the philosophy of Utility; a philosophy, as
they seeln to have thought, which needed but to be pro-
claimed in order to be embraced. In truth, they were
little aware of the depth and force of the principles on
which the academical authorities were proceeding, and,
this being so, it was not to be expected that they would
be allowed to walk at leisure over the field of contro-
versy which they had selected. Accordingly they were
encountered in behalf of the University by two men of
great name and influence in their day, of very different
minds, but united, as by Collegiate ties, so in the clear-
sighted and large view which they took of the whole
subject of Liberal Education; and the defence thus
provided for the Oxford studies has kept its ground to
this day.

3.
Let me be allowed to devote a fe\v words to the
memory of distinguished persons, under the shadow of
whose name I once lived, and by whose doctrine I am now
profiting. In the heart of Oxford there is a small plot
of ground, hemmed in by public thoroughfares, which has
been the possession and the home of one Society for
above five hundred years. In the old time of Boniface
the Eighth and John the Twenty-second, in the age of

Knowledge and Profess'ional Sk1:'I. 155

Scotus and Occam and Dante, before Wiclif or H uss had
kindled those miserable fires which are still raging to the
ruin of the highest interests of Inan, an unfortunate king
of England, Ed ward the Second, fi ying from the field of
Bannockbum, is said to have made a vow to the Blessed
Virgin to found a religious house in her honour, if he
got back in safety. Prompted and aided by his
Almoner, he decided on placing this house in the city
of Alfred; and the linage of our Lady, which is oppo-
site its entrance-gate, is to this day the token of the
vow. and its fulfilment. King and Almoner have long
been in the dust, and strangers have entered into their
inheritance, and their creed has been forgotten, and
their holy rites diso\vned; but day by day a memento is
still made in the holy Sacrifice by at least one Catholic
Priest, once a member of that College, for the souls
of those Catholic benefactors who fed him there for so
many years. The visitor, whose curiosity has been
excited by its present fame, gazes perhaps with some-
thing of disappointment on a collection of buildings
which have with them so few of the circumstances of
dignity or \vealth. Broad quadrangles, high halls and
chambers, ornamented cloisters, stately walks, or um-
brageous gardens, a throng of students, ample revenues,
or a glorious history, none of these things were the
portion of that old Catholic foundation; nothing in
short which to the common eye sixty years ago would
have given tokens of what it was to be. But it had at
that time a spirit working within it, which enabled its
inmates to do, amid its seeming insignificance, what no
other body in the place could equal; not a very abstruse
gift or extraordinary boast, but a rare one, the honest
purpose to administer the trust cOlllmitted to them in
such a \vay as their conscience pointed out as best. So,

15 6

Discourse VII.

whereas the Colleges of Oxford are self-
lecting bodies,
the fello\vs in each perpetually filling up for themselves
the vacancies which occur in their number, the nlembers
of this foundation determined, at a time when, either
from evil custom or from ancient statute, such a thing
was not known else\yhere, to throw open their fellow-
ships to the competition of all conlers, and, in the choice
of associates henceforth, to cast to the \vinds every per-
sonal motive and feeling, family connexion, and friend-
ship, and patronage, and political interest, and local
claim, and prejudice, and party jealousy, and to elect
solely on public and patriotic grounds. Nay, with a
remarkable independence of mind, they resolved that
even the table of honours, awarded to literary merit by
the University in its new system of examination for
degrees, should not fetter their judgment as electors;
but that at all risks, and \vhatever criticism it might
cause, and whatever odium they might incur, they
would select the men, whoever they were, to be children
of theiJ o Founder, whom they thought in their consciences
to be most likely from their intellectual and moral
qualities to please hin1, if (as they expressed it) he were
still upon earth, most likely to do honour to his College,
most likely to promote the obj ects \vhich they believed
he had at heart. Such persons did not promise to be
the disciples of a l
Util itar i
iSìn; and consequent y,
as their coll eg iate reform synchronized with that reform
of the Academical body, in \vhich they bore a principal
part, it was not unnatural that, \vhen the storm broke
upon the University from the North, their Alma l\Iater,
\vhon1 they loved, should have found her first defenders
\vithin the walls of that small College, \vhich had first
put itself into a condition to be her champion.
These defenders, I have said, were two, of ,\
hom the

K1iO'lulcdge and PrC!jêssz,lollal S"k'lli. 157

more distinguished was the late Dr. Copl es ton, then a
Fello\v of the College, successively its Provost, and Pro-
testant Bishop of Llandaff. In that Society, \vhich owes
so much to hiIn, his name lives, and ever \vill live, for
the distinction \vhich his talents besto\ved on it, for the
academ:cal importance to which he raised it, for the
generosity of spirit, the liberality of sentiment, and the
kindness of heart, with which he adorned it, and which
even those who had least sympathy with some aspects
of his mind and character could not but admire and
love. Men come to their meridian at various periods of
their lives; the last years of the eminent person I am
speaking of were given to duties \vhich, I am told, have
been the means of endearing him to numbers, but
which afforded no scope for that peculiar vigour and
keenness of ll1ind \vhich enabled him, when a young
man, single-handed, with easy gallantry, to encounter
and overthrow the charge of three giants of the North
combined against him. I believe I am right in saying
that, in the progress of the controversy, the most
scientific, the most critical, and the most witty, ùf that
literary con1pany, all of them now, as he himself, re-
moved from this visible scene, Professor Playfair,. Lord
Jeffrey, and the Rev. Sydney Smith, threw together
their several efforts into one article of their Review, in
order to crush and pound to dust the audacious contro-
vertist who had come out against them in defence of
his own Institutions. To have even contended with
such men was a sufficient voucher for his ability, even
before we open his pamphlets, and have actual evidence
of the good sense, the spirit, the scholar-like taste, and
the purity of style, by which they are distinguished.
He was supported in the controversy, on the same
general principles, but \vith more of method and distinct-

1.18

Discourse Vi .

ness, and, I will add, ",'ith greater force and beauty and
perfection, both of thought and of language, by the other
distinguished writer, to whom I have already referred,
l\lr. Davis_ q
; \vho, though not so well known to the
world in his day, has left more behind him than the
Provost of Oriel, to make his name remembered by pos-
terity. This thoughtful man, who was the admired and
intimate friend of a very remarkable person, whom,
\vhether he wish it or not, nunlbers revere and love as
the first author of the subsequent movement in the Pro-
testant Church to\vards Catholicism,. this grave and
philosophical writer, whose works I can never look into
\vithout sighing that such a man was lost to the Catholic
Church, as Dr. Butler before him, by some early bias or
some fault of self-education-he, in a review of a work
by Mr. Edgeworth on Professional Education, which
attracted a good deal of attention in its day, goes leisurely
over the same ground, which had already been rapidly
traversed by Dr. Copleston, and, though professedly em-
ployed upon 1\lr. Edgeworth, is really replying to the
northern critic 'who had brought that writer's work into
notice, and to a far greater author than either of theIn,
who in a past age had argued on the same side.

4-
The author to whom I allude is no other than Locke.
That celebrated philosopher has preceded the Edinburgh
Reviewers in co nde mning the ordinary subjects in which
boys ar
ins tructed at school, on the ground that they
are not needed by them in after life; and before quoting
\\'hat his disciples have said in the present century, I
will refer to a few passages of the master. "'Tis matter
· ?\fr. Keble, Vicar of Bursley, late Fellow of Oriel. and Professor of
Podry in the University of Oxford.

iiIlO'lt'l4!dge and Projêssional Skt"!l. 159

of astonishment," he says in his work on Education,
h that men of quality and parts should suffer themselves
to be so far misled by custom and implicit faith. Reason,
if consulted with, would advise, that their children's time
should be spent in acquiring what might be useful to
them, when they come to be men, rather than that their
heads should be stuffed with a deal of trash, a great part
vthereof they us ua ll y n ever do ('tis certain they never
n eed tõfthink- on ag
in a s long as they live; and so
much of it as does stick by them they are only the
worse for." ·
And so again, speaking of verse-making, he says, &, I
kno\v not \vhat reason a father can have to wish his son
a poet, \v ho does not desire him to bid defia1lce to all
other callings and busÙzcss,. \vhich is not yet the worst
of the case; for, if he proves a successful rhymer, and
gets once the reputation of a wit, I desire it to be con-
sidered, what company and places he is likely to spend
his time in, nay, and estate too; for it is very seldonl
seen that anyone discovers mines of gold or silver z.n
Par1lassus. 'Tis a pleasant air, but a barren soil"
In another passage he distinctly limits utility in edu-
cation to its bearing on the future profession or trade of
the pupil, that is, he scorns the idea of any education of
the int
.p
t, sim ply

c h. "Can there be any thing
more ridiculous," he asks, "than that a father should
waste his own money, and his son's time, in setting him
to learn the R01nan language, when at the same time he
designs him for a trade, wherein he, having no use of
Latin, fails not to forget that little \vhich he brought
from school, and which 'tis ten to one he abhors for the
ill-usage it procured him? Could it be believed, unless
\ve have every where amongst us examples of it, that a

hild should be forced to learn the rudiments of a

160

Dzscourse v7L

language, which he is never to use in lIte course of lijè that
he is designed to, and neglect all the while the \vriting
a good hand, and casting accounts, which are of great
advantage in all conditions of life, and to most trades
indispensably necessary?" Nothing of course can be
more absurd than to neglect in education those matters
\vhich are necessary for a boy's future calling; but the
tone of Locke's remarks evidently implies more than
this, and is condemnatory of any teaching which tends
to the general cultivation of the mind.
No\v to turn to his modern disciples. The study of
the Classics had been nlade the basis of the Oxford
education, in the reforms which I have spoken of, and
the Edinburgh Reviewers pro tes t<:..d, after the manner
of Locke, that no good could come of a system which
wa s n ot based upon the principle of Utility.
" Classical Literature," they said, " is the great object
at Oxford. Many minds, so employed, have produced
many works and much fame in that department; but if
all liberal arts and sciences, useful to IlU11lan life, had
been taught there, if S0111e had dedicated themselves to
clzel1zistry, some to mathematics, some to exjJeri1J1Clltal
pllilosopl!)', and if e1.'ery attainment had been honoured in
the mixt ratio of its difficulty and utility, the system of
such a University would have been much more valuable,
but the splendour of its name something less."
Utility nlay be made the end of education, in two
respects: either as regards the individual educated, or the
community at large. In which light do these writers
regard it? in the latter. So far they differ from Locke,
for they consider the advancement of science as the
supreme and real end of a University. This is brought
into view in the sentences \\ hich follow.
" \Vhcn a 1Jniversity has been doing lIselcs.c- _things for

Knowledge and ProfissíoJlal Skill. 161

a long time, it appears at first degrading to theln to be
tt-seful. A set of Lectures on Political Econolny would
be discouraged in Oxford, probably despised, probably
not permitted. To discuss the inclosure of commons,
and to dwell upon imports and exports, to come so near
to common life, would seem to be undignified and con-
temptible. In the same manner, the Parr or the Bentley
of the day would be scandalized, in a University, to be
put on a level with the discoverer of a neutral salt; and
yet, what otller measure is there of dignity in Ùttellectual
labour but usefulness? And what ought the term
Univer sity to mean, but a place where every science
i
taught which is liberal, and at the same time useful
to mankind? Nothing would so much tend to bring
cl
icalliterature within proper bounds as a steady and
invariable appeal to utility in our appreciation of all
human knowledge. . . . Lookz.ng always to real utility
as our guide, we should see, with equal pleasure, a
studious and inquisitive mind arranging the produc-
tions of nature, investigating the qualities of bodies, or
mastering the difficulties of the learned languages. We
should not care whether he was chemist, naturalist, or
scholar, because we know it to be as necessary that
matter should be studied and subdued to the use oj
1nan, as that taste should be gratified, and imagination
. fl d " "'-
In ame . F -
Such then is the enunciation, as far as words go, of th

( theory of Utility in Education; and both on its own
account, and for the sake of the able men who have
advocated it, it has a claim on the attention of those
whose principles I am here representing. Certainly it is

pecious to contend that nothing is worth pursuing but
what is useful; and that life is not long enough to ex-
pend upon interesting, or curious, or brilliant trifles.
II

162

Dis(ouY
e III

Nay, in one sense, I will grant it is more than speciou",
it is true; but, if so, how do I propose directly to ffit.et
the objection? Why, Gentlèlnen, I have really met it
already, viz., in 3Ying down, that int ell ectual c ulture is
its own end; for \vhat __has its t'lld in itself, has its use.J1.1
itself also. I say, iL-a Lib eral Education consists in the
culture of the intellect, and if that culture be in itself a
good, here, without going further, is an ans\ver to l..ocke's
question; for if a healthy body is a good in itself, \vhy
is not a healthy intellect 1 and if a College of Physicians
is a useful institution, because it contemplates bodily
health, why is not an Acadenlical Body, though it \vere
simply and solely engaged in imparting vigour and
beauty and grasp to the intellectual portion of our
nature? And the Reviewers I anI quoting seem to
allo\v this in their better moments, in a passage \vhich,
putting aside the question of its justice in fact, is sound
and true in the principles to which it appeals :-
"The present state of classical education," they say,
U cultivates the Ùnagino:iol1 a great deal too much,
and other habz.ts of mÏ?td a great deal too little, and
trains up many young men in a style of elegant imbe-
cility, utterly un\vorthy of the talents \vith which nature
has endowed them . . . . The luatter of fact is, that a
classical scholar of t\venty-three or t\venty-four is a man
principally conversant \vith works of imagination. His
feelings are quick, his fancy lively, and his taste good.
Talents for speculation and original inquiry he has none,
nor has he formed the invaluable habit of pushing things
1/p to their first principles, or of collecting dry and un-
amusing facts as the nlaterials for reasoning. All th

solid and masculine parts of his understanding are left
\vholly without cultivation ,. he hates the pain of thinking-.
and suspects every Inan ","hose boldness and originality

Know/edge a?zd Pro fessiollal S"'kill. 163

call upon him to defend his opinions and prove his
assertions. "

5.
Now, I am not at present concerned with the specific.:
question of dassical education; else, I might reasonably
question the justice of calling an intellectual discipline,
which embraces the study of Aristotle, Thucydides, and
Tacitus, which involves Scholarship and Antiquities,
i1naginative,. still so far I readily grant, that the culti-
vation of the "understanding," of a "talent for specu-
lation and original inquiry," and of" the habit of pushing
things up to their first principles," is a principal portion
of a good or liberal education. If then the Reviewers
consider such cultivation the characteristic of a useful
education, as they seem to do in the foregoing passage,
it íollows, that what they mean by " useful n is just what
I mean by "good" or t( liberal:" and Locke's question
becomes a verbal one. Whether youths are to bt'"
taught Latin or verse-making will depend on the fact,
whether these studies tend to mental culture; but, ho\v-
ever this is determined, so far is clear, that in that
nlental culture consists what I have called a liberal or
non-professional, and \vhat the Reviewers call a useful
education.
This is the obvious answer which may be made to
those who urge upon us the clainls of Utility in our
plans of Education; but I am not going to leave the
subject here: I Inean to take a \vider vie\v of it. Let
us take "useful," as Locke takes it, in its proper and
popular sense, and then we enter upon a large field of
thought, to which I cannot do justice in one Discourse,
though to-day's is all the space that I can give to it. I
sa)", let us take "useful" to mean,. not \vhat is simply

164

Ðz"SCOUtSf VII..

good, but \\,hat tends to good, or is the instrument of
good; and in this sense also, Gentlemen, I will show
you how a liberal education is truly and fully a useful,
though it be not a professional, education. "Good"
indeed Ineans one thing, and II useful" tneans another;
but I lay it down as a principle, which will save us a
great deal of anxiety, that, though the useful is not
always good, the good is always useful. Good is not
only good, but reproductive of good; this is one of its
attributes; nothing is excellent, beautiful, perfect, desir-
able for its own sake, but it overflows, and spreads the
likeness of itself all around it. Good is prolific; it is
not only good to the eye, but to the taste; it not only
attracts us, but it communicates itself; it excites first
our àdmiration and love, then our desire and our grati-
tude, and that, in proportion to its intenseness and
fulness in particular instances. A great good will im-
part great good. If then the intellect is so excellent a
portion of us, and its cultivation so excellent, it is not
only beautiful, perfect, admirable, and noble in itself,
but in a true and high sense it must be useful to the
possessor and to all around him; not useful in any low,
mechanical, mercantile sense, but as diffusing good, or
as a blessing, or a gift, or power, or a treasure, first to
the owner, then through him to the world. I say then,
if a liberal education be good, it must necessarily be
useful too.

6.
You ,vill see what I nlean by the pa rallel of bodity
health. Health is a good in itself, though nothing canle
of it, and is especially worth seeking and cherishing.;
yet, after all, the blessings which attend its presence are
so great, while they are so close to it and so redound

Kno7.vledge anti Pro ess'ional Skill. I G 5

back upon it and encircle it, that we never think of it
except as useful as well as good, and praise and prize it
for what it does, as well as for what it is, though at the
sanIe time we cannot point out any definite and distinct
work or production which it can be said to effect. And
so as regards intellectual culture, I am far from denying
utility in this large sense as the end of Education, when
I lay it do\vn, that the culture of the intellect is a good
in itself and its' own end; I do not exclude from the
idea of intellectual culture what it cannot but be, from
the very nature of things; I only deny that we must be
able to point out, before we have any right to call it
useful, some art, or business, or profession, or trade, or
work, as resulting from it, and as its real and complete
end. The parallel is exact :-As the body may be
sacrificed to some manual or other toil, whether mode-
rate or oppressive, so may the intellect be devoted to
some specific profession; and I do not call this the culture
of the intellect. Again, as SOine member or organ of
the body may be inordinately used and developed, so
may memory, or imagination, or the reasoning faculty;
and this again is not intellectual culture. On the other
hand, as the body may be tended, cherished, and exer-
cised with a simple view to its general health, so may
the intellect also be generally exercised in order to its
perfect state; and this is its cultivation.
Again, as health ought to precede labour of the body,
and as a man in health can do what an unhealthy man k.-...
cannot do, and as of this health the properties are
o , strength, energy, agility, graceful carriage and action,
manual dexterity, and endurance of fatigue, so in like
manner general cultur
mind
the be s t aid j:o pro-
f
sional and s cientific s
dy, and educated men can do
what illiterate cannot j and the man who has learned to

166

Discourse VI .

think and to reason and to compare and to discriminate
and to analyze, who has refined his taste, and formed his
judgment, and sharpened his mental vision, 'will not in-
deed at once be a lawyer, or a pleader, or an orator, or
a statesman, or a physician, or a good landlord, or a
man of business, or a soldier, or an engineer, or a
chemist, or a geologist, or an antiquarian, but he will be
placed in that state of intellect in which he can.J:a ke u p

y one of the scie.!J ce s or callings I have referred to, or
any other for \vhich he has a taste or special talent, with
an ease, a grace, a versatility, and a success, to which
an othe r is a stranger. In this sense then, and as yet I
have said but a very few \vords on a large subject, mental
culture is enlphatically 1tsef!t l.
If then I am arguing, and shall argue, against Profes-
sional or Scientific knowledge as the sufficient end of a
University Education, let me not be supposed, Gentle-
111 en, to be disrespectful to\vards particular studies, or
arts, or vocations, and those who are engaged in them.
In saying that Law or l\1edicine is not the end of a
University course, I do not mean to imply that the
University does not teach La\v or Medicine. What in-
deed can it teach at all, if it does not teach something
particular? It teaches all knowledge by teaching all
brallches of knowledge, and in no other way. I do but
say that there ",rill be this distinction as regards a Pro-
fessor of Law, or of !\1edicine, or of Geology, or of
Political Economy, in a University and out of it, that
out of a University he is in danger of being absorbed
and narro\ved by his pursuit, and of giving Lectures which
are the Lectures of nothing more than a la\vyer, physi-
cian, geologist, or political economist; \vhereas in a U ni-
versity he will just know where he and his science stand,
he has conle to it, as it were, froln a height, he has taken

Knowledge anti fJrofisszonal S.kill. 167

a survey of all kno\vledge, he is kept from extravagance
by the very rivalry of other studies, he has gained from
them a special illumination and largeness of mind and
freedom and self-possession, and he treats his own in con-
sequence with a philosophy and a resource, which belongs
not to the study itself, but to his liberal education. tb
This then is how I should solve the fallacy, for so
Inust call it, by which I.locke and his disciples would
frighten us fronl cultivating the intellect, under the notion
that no education is useful which does not teach us some
telnporal calling, or some mechanical art, or some phy-
sical secret. I say that a cultivat ed .ntellect, because .t
is a good in itself, brings with it a power and a grace
to every work and occupation which it undertakes, and
. c::
ble s us to be m o;e useful, and to a greater number

-[here is a duty we owe to human society as such, to the
state to which we belong, to the sphere in which we
move, to the individuals towards whom we are variously
related, and whom we successively encounter in life;
and that philosophical or liberal education, as I have
called it, which is the proper function of a University, if
it refuses the foremost place to professional interests,
does but postpone them to the formation of the citizen,
and, while it subserves the larger interests of philan-
thropy, prepares also for the successful prosecution of
those merely personal objects, which at first sight it
seems to disparage.

p

-

7.
And now, Gentlemen, I wish to be allowed to enforce
in detail what I have been saying, by some extracts
from the writings to which I have already alluded, and to
which I am so greatly indebted.
" It is an undisputed maxim in Political Economy,"

168

DisfOlirst' VII

says Dr. Copleston, "that the separation of professions
and the division of labour tend to the perfection of
every art, to the \veal th of nations, to the general com-
fort and well-being of the community. This principle
of division is in some instances pursued so far as to
excite the \\-yonder of people to whose notice it is for the
first time pointed out. There is no saying to what ex-
tent it may not be carried; and the more the po\vers of
each individual are concentrated in one emploYlnent, the
greater skill and quickness will he naturally display in
performing it. But, ,vhile he thus contributes n10re
effectually to the accumulation of national wealth, he
becomes himself more and more degraded as a rational
being. In proportion as his sphere of action is narrowed
: his Inental powers and habits become contracted; and
he resembles a subordinate part of some po\verful ma-
chinery, useful in its place, but insignificant and worth-
, less out of it. If it be necessary, as it is beyond all
question necessary, that society should be split into
divisions and subdivisions, in order that its several duties
nla y be well performed, yet \ve must be careful not to
yield up ourselves wholly and exclusively to the guidance
of this system; we must observe what its evils are, and we
should modify and restrain it, by bringing into action
other principles, which ß1ay serve as a check and coun-
terpoise to the main force.
ce There can be no doubt that every art is ilnproved by
confining the professor of it to that single study. But.
although the art itself is advanced by thiJ" COllcentratioll oj
mind in 'its J"ervice, tIle individual who is confined to ,it
goes back. The advantage of the community is nearly in
an inverse ratio with his own.
" Society itself requires some other contribution from
each individual, besides the particular duties of his

Kn07.V/t!d ge and J)rofissz.o1lal
"kill. 169

profession. And, if no such liberal intercourse be estab-
lished, it is the common failing of human nature, to be
engrossed with petty views and interests, to underrate
the importance of all in which we are not concerned, and
to carry our partial notions into cases where they are
inapplicable, to act, in short, as so many unconnected
units, displacing and repelling one another.
,. In the cultivation of literature is found that common
link, which, among the higher anù middling departments
of life, unites the jarring sects and subdivisions into one
interest, which supplies common topics, and kindles
common feelings, unmixed with those narrow prejudices
with which all professions are Inore or less infected. The
knowledge, too, which is thus acquired, expands and
enlarges the mind, excites its faculties, and calls those
limbs and muscles into freer exercise which, by too
constant use in one direction, not only acquire an
illiberal air, but are apt also to lose somewhat of their
native play and energy. And thus, without directly
qualifying a man for any of the employments of life, it
enriches and ennobles all. Without teaching him the
peculiar business of anyone office or calling, it enables
him to act his part in each of them with better grace and
nlore elevated carriage; and, if happily planned and con-
ducted, is a main ingredient in that complete and
generous education which fits a man' to perform justly,
skilfully, and magnanimously, all the offices, both private
and public, of peace and war.' ,,*

8.
The view of Liberal Education, advocated in these
extracts, is expanded by l\lr. Davison in the Essay to
which I have already referred. He lays n10re stress on
· Vide Milton on Education.

17 0

Discourse t II.

the U usefulness" of Liberal Education in the larger sense
of the word than his predecessor in the controversy.
In
tead of arguing that the Utility of knowledge to the
individual varies inversely with its Utility to the public,
he chiefly employs himself on the suggestions contained
in Dr. Copleston's fast sentences. He shows, first, that
a Liberal Education is something far higher, even in
the scale of Utility, than what is conlffionly called a
Useful Education, and next, that it is necessary or useful
for the purposes even of that Professional Education which
commonly engrosses the title of Useful. 1"he former of
these t\VO theses he recommends to us in an argument
fron1 which the following passages are selected :-
" It is to take a very contracted view of life," he says,
"to think with great anxiety how persons may be
educated to superior skill in their department, compara-
tively neglecting- or excluding the more liberal and
enlarged cultivation. In his (Mr. Edgeworth's) systenl,
the value of every attainrnent is to be measured by its
subserviency to a calling. The specific duties of that
calling are exalted at the cost of those free and indepen-
dent tastes and virtues which come in to sustain the
common relations of society, and raise the individual in

heIn. In short, a man is to be usurped by his profession.
He is to be clothed in its garb from head to foot. His
virtues, his science, and his ideas are all to be put into a
gown or uniform, and the \vhole man to be shaped,
pressed, and stiffened, in the exact mould of his technical
character. Any interloping accomplishments, or a faculty
which cannot be taken into public pay, if they are to be
indulged in him at all, must creep along under the cloak
Qf his more serviceable privileged Inerits. Such is the
state of perfection to which the spirit and general ten-
dency of this system would lead us.

Knowledge and Profisszo1'lal Skz"ll. 17 I

't But the professional character is not the only one
which a person engaged in a Erofession has to support.
He is not always upon duty. There are services he owes,
\vhich are neither parochial, nor forensic, nor military,
nor to be described by any such epithet of civil regulation,
and yet are in no wise inferior to those that bear these
authoritative titles; inferior neither in their intrinsic value,
nor their moral import, nor their impression upon society.
As a friend, as a conlpanion, as a citizen at large; in
the connections of domestic life; in the im provement and
embellishtnent of his leisure, he has a sphere of action,
revolving, if you please, within the sphere of his profes-
sion, but not clashing with it; in which if he can show
none of the advantages of an improved understanding,
whatever may be his skill or proficiency in the other, he
is no more than an ill-educated man.
" There is a certain faculty in which all nations of any
refinement are great practitioners. It is not taught at
school or college as a distinct science; though it deserves
that what is taught there should be nlade to have some
reference to it; nor is it endowed at all by the public;
everybody being obliged to exercise it for himself in
person, which he does to the best of his skill. But in
nothing is there a greater difference than in the manner
of doing it. The advocates of professional learning will
smile when we tell them that this salne faculty which we
would have encouraged, is simply that of speaking good \
sense in English, without fee or rew"ard, in common con-
versation. They will smile \vhen we lay some stress
upon it; but in reality it is no such trifle as they
itnagine. Look into the huts of savages, and see, for
there is nothing to listen to, the dismal blank of their
stupid hours of silence; their professional avocations of
war and hunting are over; and, having nothing to do,

17 2

Discourse VII

they have nothing to say. Turn to improved life, and you
find conversation in all its forms the medium of sonle-
thing more than an idle pleasure; indeed, a very active
agent in circulating and forming the opinions, tastes, and
feelings of a whole people. It makes of itself a con-
siderable affair. Its topics are the most promiscuous-
all those which do not belong to any particular provinc
.
As for its power and influence, \ve may fairly say that it
is of just the same consequence to a man's immediate
society, how he talks, as how he acts. N ow of all those
who furnish their share to rational conversation, a mere
adept in his own art is universally admitted to be the
worst. The sterility and un instructiveness of such a
person's social hours are quite proverbial. Or if he
escape being dull, it is only by launching into ill-timed,
learned loq uacity. We do not desire of him lectures or
speeches; and he has nothing else to give. Anlong
benches he may be powerful; but seated on a chair he
is quite another person. On the other hand, \ve may
affirm, that one of the best companions is a man who,
to the accuracy and research of a profession, has joined
a free excursive acquaintance with various learning, and
caught from it the spirit of general observation."

9.
Having thus sho\vn that a liberal education is a real
benefit to the subjects of it, as nlembers of society, in the
various duties and circun1stances and accidents of life, )
he goes on, in the next place, to show that, over and
above those direct services which might fairly be ex-
pected of it, it actually subserves the discharge of those
particular functions, and the pursuit of those particular
advantages, which are connected with professional exer-
tion, and to \vhich Professional Education is directed.

lítlOUlledge and ProfissZ"onal SkilL 173

U \Ve adnlit," he observes, " that \vhen a person makes
a business of one pursuit, he is in the right way to emi-
nence in it ; and that divided attention will rarely give
excellence in many. But our assent will go no further.
For, to think tilat the way to prepare a person for excel-
ling in anyone pursuit (and that is the only point in
hand), is to fetter his early studies, and cramp the first
development of his mind, by a reference to the exigencies
of that pursuit barely, is a very different notion, and one
which, we apprehend, deserves to be exploded rather than
received. Possibly a few of the abstract, insulated kinds
of learning might be approached in that way. The ex-
ceptions to be made are very few, and need not be
recited. But for the acquisitiún of professional and
practical ability such maxims are death to it. The
main ingredients of that ability are requisite knowledge
and cultivated faculties; but, of the two, the lél.tter is by
far the chief. A man of well improved faculties has the
c omman d of another' s knõW ledge. A man with out!hem,
has not the con1mand of his own.
--UOf the intellectual powers, the judgment is that which
takes the foremost lead in life. How to form it to the \
two habits it ought to possess, of exactness and vigour, is
the problenl. I t would be ignorant presumption so
Inuch as to hint at any routine of method by which
these qualities may with certainty be imparted to every
or any understanding. Still, however, we may safely
lay it down that they are not to be got 'by a gatherer of
sÏ1nples,' but are the combined essence and extracts of
many different things, dra\vn from much varied reading
and discipline, first, and observation aftenvards. For if
there be a single intelligible point on this head, it is that
a man who has been trained to think upon one subject
or for one subject only, will never be a good judge even

174

Discourse VII.

in that one: \vhereas the enlargement of his circle gives
him increased knowledge and po-wer in a rapidly in-
creasing ratio. So much do ideas act, not as solitary
units, but by grouping and con1bination; and so clearly
do all the things that fall within the proper province of
the same faculty of the nlind, intertwine \vith and support
each other. Judgment lives as it were by comparison
and discrimination. Can it be doubted, then, \vhether
the range and extent of that assemblage of things upon
which it is practised in its first essays are of use to its
po\ver ?
U To open our way a little further on this matter, we
will define what we mean by the power of judgment;
and then try to ascertain among what kind of studies
the improvement of it may be expected at all
" Judgment does not stand here for a certain homely,
useful quality of intellect, that guards a person from
cOlnnlitting mistakes to the injury of his fortunes or
common reputation; but for that master-principle of
business, literature, and talent, \vhich gives him strength
in any subject he chooses to grapple \\Tith, and enables
him to seize the strollg þoÙtt in it. Whether this definition
be metaphysically correct or not, it comes home to the
substance of our inquiry. It d
scribes the po\yer that
everyone desires to possess when he comes to act in a
profession, or elsewhere; and corresponds with our best
idea of a cultivated nlind.
" Next, it will not be denied. that in order to do any
good to the judgn1ent, the mind must be el11ployC"d
upon such subjects as conle within the cognizance of
that faculty, and give some real exercise to its percep-
tions. Here we have a rule of selection by which the
different parts of learning nlay be classed for our purpose.
'fhose w
ich belong to the province of the j udglnent

}{l1owled ge and Profissional Skill. I 7 .5

are religion (in its evidences and interpretation), ethics,
hist ory , eloquence, poetry, theories of general speculation,
,the fine arts, and works of wit. Great as the variety of
these large divisions of learning may appear, they are all
held in union by t\vo capital principles of connexion.
First, they are all quarried out of one and the same great
subject of [nan's moral, social, and feeling nature. And
secondly, they are all under the control (more or less
strict) of the same po\ver of moral reason."
" If these studies," he continues, "be such as give a
direct play and exercise to the faculty of the judgn1ent,
then they are the true basis of education for the active
and inventive powers, whether destined for a profession
or any other use. l\1iscellaneous as the assemblage [nay
appear, of history, eloquence, poetry, ethics, etc., blended
together, they will all conspire in an union of effect.
They are necessary mutually to explain and interpret
each other. The knowledge derived from them all will
amalgamate, and the habits of a mind versed and
practised in them by turns will join to p
oduce a richer
vein of thought and of more general and practical
application than could be obtained of any single one, as
the fusion of the metals into Corinthian brass gave the
artist his most ductile and perfect material. lVlight we
venture to in1Ïtate an author (whom indeed it is much
safer to take as an authority than to attempt to copy),
Lord Bacon, in some of his concise illustrations of the
comparative utility of the different studies, we should
say that history would give fulness, moral philosophy
strength, and poetry elevation to the understanding.
Such in reality is the natural force and tendency of the
studies; but there are few minds susceptible enough
to derive from then1 any sort of virtue adequate to
those high expressions. \\!e m:Jst b: conten
there

17 6

DlSCOll rse
7 I.

fore to lower our panegyric to this, that a person cannot
avoid receiving some infusion and tincture, at least, of
those several qualities, from that course of diversified
reading. One thing is unquestionable, that the elements},
of. general reason are not to be found fully and truly ex- f /
pressed in anyone kind of study; and that he who would l
wish to know her idiom, must read it in many books. J'
" If different studies are useful for aiding, they are still
more useful for correcting each other; for as they have
their particular merits severally, so they have their
defects, and the most extensive acquaintance with one
can produce only an intellect either too flashy or too
jejune, or infected ,vith some other fault of confined
reading. History, for example, shows things as they are,
that is, the morals and interests of men disfigured and
perverted by all their imperfections of passion, folly, and
ambition; philosophy strips the picture too much; poetry
adorns it too much; the concentrated lights of the three
correct the false peculiar colouring of each, and show us
the truth. The right mode of thinking upon it is to be
had fronl them taken all together, as every one must
know who has seen their united contributions of thought
and feeling expressed in the masculine sentinlent of our
immortal statesman, Mr. Burke, whose eloquence is
inferior only to his more admirable wisdoln. If any
mind improved like his, is to be our instructor, we must
go to the fountain head of things as he did, and study
not his works but his method; by the one we may
become feeble Ï1nitators, by the other arrive at some
ability of our own. But, as a 11 biography assures us, he,
and every other able thinker, has been formed, not by \
a parsimonious admeasurement of studies to some
definite future object (\vhich is Mr. Edge,vorth's maxim),
but by taking a wide and 1iberal compass, and thinking

Knowled..
c and Projèssional Skill. 177

a great deal on nldny subjects with no better end in
view than because the exercise was one which made
them more rational and intelligent beings."

10.
But I must bring these extracts to an end. To-day 1
have confined myself to saying that that training of the
intellect, which is best for the individual hiITIself, best
enables him to discharge his duties to society. The
Philosopher, indeed, and the man of the world differ in
their very notion, but the methods, by which they are re...
spectively formed, are pretty much the saIne. The Philoso-
pher has the same command of matters of thought, which
the true citizen and gentleman has of matters of business
and conduct. If then a practical end must be assigned to a
University course, I say it is that of training good lnem-
bers of society. Its art is the art of social life, and its end is
fitness for the world. It neither confines its views to parti..
cular professions on the one hand, nor creates heroes or
inspires genius on the other. Works indeed of genius fall
under no art; heroic minds come under no rule; a U niver-
sity is not a birthplace of poets or of iminortal authors, of
founders of schools, leaders of colonies, or conquerors of
nations. It does not promise a generation of Aristotles or
Ne,vtons, of Napoleons or Washingtons, of Raphaels or
Shakespeares, though such miracles of nature it has before
now contained v.rithin its precincts. Nor is it content on the
other hand with forming the critic or the experimentalist,
the economist or the engineer, though such too it includes
within its scope. But a University training is the great,
ordinary means to a great but ordinary end; it aims at)
raising the intellectual tone of society, at cultivating the
public nlind, at purifying the national taste, at supplying
true principles to popular enthusiasm and fixed aims to
l

17 ð

j Jisrourse [7/1.

popular aspiration, at giving enlargenlent and sobr
ety to
the ideas of the age, at facilitating the exercise of political
power, and refining the intercourse of private life. I t is
the education which gives a man a clear conscious view
of his-own opinionSånd judgments, a truth in developiñg
them, an eloquence in expressi ng theÌn, and a force in
urging them. It teaches him to see things as they are,
Ito go right to the point, to disentangle a skein of thought,
to detect what is sophistical, and to discard what is irre-
levant. It prepares him to fill any post with credit, and
to master any subject with facility. It shows him how
to accommodate himself to others, how to throw himself
into their state of mind, how to bring before them his
own, how to influence them, how to come to an under-
standing with them, ho\v to bear with them. He is at
home in any society, he has common ground with every
class; he knows when to speak and when to be silent;
he is able to converse, he is able to listen; he can ask a
question pertinently, and gain a lesson seasonably, when
he has nothing to impart himself; he is ever ready, yet
never in the way; he is a pleasant companion, and a
comrade you can depend upon; he knows when to be
seri ous and when to trifle, and he has a sure tact which
enables him to trifle with gracefulness and to be serious
with effect. He has the repose of a mind which lives in
itself, while it lives in the world, and which has resources
for its happiness at home when it cannot go abroad. He
ha
a gift which serves him in public, and supports him
in retirement, without which good fortune is but vulgar.
and with which failure and disappointment have a charnl.
The art which tends to make a man all this, is in the
obj ect which it pursues as useful as the art of wealth or the
art of health, though it is less susceptible of method, and
less tangible. less certain, less complete in its result.

179

DISCOURSE VIII.

KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO RELIGION.

I.

W E shall be brought, Gentlemen, to-day, to the
termination of the investigation ,,'hich I com-
menced three Discourses back, and which, I was \vell
aware, from its length, if for no other reason, would make
demands upon the patience even of indulgent hearers.
First I employed myself in establishing the principle
that Kno\vledge is its own reward; and I sho\ved that,
when considered in this light, it is called Liberal Know-
ledge, and is the scope of Academical Institutions.
N ext, I examined what is meant by Knowledge, when
it is said to be pursued for its o\vn sake; and I showed k..
, .
that, in order satisfactorily to fulfil this idea, Philosophy

must be its form,. or, in other words, that its matter Ls: f"\
must not be admitted into the mind passively, as so mucr -

acquirement, but must be mastered and appropriated as a '\
system consisting of parts, related one to the other, and tt
interpretative of one another in the unity of a whole.
Further, I showed that such a philosophical contem-
plation of the field of Knowledge as a whole, leading, as
it did, to an understanding of its separate departments,
and an appreciation of them respectively, might in con-
sequence be rightly called an illumination; also, it was
rightly called an enlargement of mind, because it was a

t\
N.
o
,..,
I

í
t: D
6
<t I
Ii w,

'C
D.

180

Discourse V I I I.

distinct location of things one with another, as if in
space; while it \-vas nlüreover its proper cultivation and
its best condition, both because it secured to the intellect
the sight of things as they are, or of truth, in opposition
to fancy, opinion, and theory; and again, because it pre-
..
supposed and involved the perfection of its various
oo\vers.

0_4.:& 1)

.s -- Such, I said, ,vas that Knowledge, which deserves to
,.,. '"1.1. 'ou.. .....
-;.c'A.L be sought for its o\\'n sake, even though it promised no
u1terior advantage. But, ,,-hen I had got as far as thIS, I
\\ ent farther, and observed that, from the nature of the
case, \vhat was so gùod in itself could not but have a
number of external uses, though it did not promise them J
simply because it was good; and that it was necessarily
the source of benefits to society, great and diversified in
proportion to its own intrinsic excellence. Just as in
lTIorals, honesty is the best policy, as being profitable in
a secular aspect, though such profit is not the measure
of its worth, so too as regards what may be called the
virtues of the Intellect, their very possession indeed is a
substantial good, and is enough, yet still that substance
has a shadow, inseparable from it, viz., its social and
political usefulness. And this was the subject to which
1 devoted the preceding Discourse.
One portion of the subject remains :-this intellectual
culture, which is so exalted in itself, not only has a
bearing upon social and active duties, but upon Religion
also. The educated mind may be said to be in a certain
sense religious; that is, it has what may be considered a
religion of its o\vn, independent of Catholicism, partly co-
operating with it, partly th"warting it; at once a defence
yet a disturbance to the Church in Catholic countries,-
and in countries beyond her pale, at one tinle in open
warfare with her, at another in defensive alliance. The

1<1l0'lvlt,t(
.e and l?el
fious nuty. 181

history of Schools and Acadelnies, and of ljterature and
Science generally, wiH, I think, justify me in thus speak-
ing. Since, then, my aim in these Discourses is to
ascertain the function and the action of a University,
viewed in itself, and its relations to the various instru-
ments of teaching and training \vhich are round about it,
my survey of it \vould not be complete unless I attempted,
as I no\v propose to do, to exhibit its general bearings
upon Religion.

2.
Right Reason, that is, Reason rightly exercised, leads
the mind to the Catholic Faith, and plants it there, and
teaches it in all its religious speculations to act under its
guidance. But Reason, considered as a real agent in the
world, and as an operative principle in man's nature, \vith
an historical course and with definite results, is far froln
taking so straight and satisfactory a direction. It
considers itself from first to last independent and
supreme; it requires no external authority; it makes a
religion fOI itself. Even though it accepts Catholicism,
it does not go to sleep; it has an action and development
of its own, as the passions have, or the moral sentiments,
or the principle of self-interest. Divine grace, to use the
language of Theology, does not by its presence supersede
nature; nor is nature at once brought into simple concur-
rence and coalition with grace. Nature pursues its course,
now coincident with that of grace, now parallel to it, now
across, now divergent, now counter, in proportion to its
own imperfection and to the attraction and influence
which grace exerts over it. And \vhat takes place as
regards other principles of our nature and their develop-
ments is found also as regards the Reason. There is, \ve
know, a Religion of enthusiasm, of superstitious ignoran\.

182

Discourse VIII.

of statecraft; and each has that in it which resembles
Catholicism, and that again which contradicts Catho-
licism. There is the Religion of a warlike people, and
of a pastoral people; there is a Religion of rude times,
and in like manner there is a Religion of civilized times,
of the cultivated intellect, of the philosopher, scholar,
and gentleman. This is that Religion of Reason, of
\vhich I speak. Viewed in itself, however near it comes
to Catholicism, it is of course simply distinct from it; for
Catholicism is one whole, and admits of no compromise
or modification. Yet this is to view it in the abstract;
in matter of fact, and in reference to individuals, \ve
can have no difficulty in conceiving this philosophical
Religion present in a Catholic country, as a spirit in-
fluencing men to a certain extent, for good or for bad
or for both,-a spirit of the age, which again may be
found, as among Catholics, so with still greater sway
and success in a country not Catholic, yet specifically
the same in such a country as it exists in a Catholic
community. The problem then before us to-day, is to
set down some portions of the outline, if we can ascertain
them, of the Religion of Civilization, and to determine
how they lie relatively to those principles, doctrines, and
rules, which Heaven has given us in the Catholic
Church.
And here again, when I speak of Revealed Truth, it
is scarcely necessary to say that I am not referring to
the main articles and prominent points of faith, as con-
tained in the Creed. Had I undertaken to delineate a
philosophy, which directly interfered with the Creed, I
could not have spoken of it as compatible with the pro-
fession of Catholicisrl1. The philosophy I speak of,
whether it be viewed within or outside the Church, does
qot necessarily take cognizance of tij.e Creed. Where

Kno11Jledge a1ld Religious Duty. 18 3

the country is Catholic, the educated mind takes its
articles for granted, by a sort of iInplicit faith; where
it is not, it simply ignores them and the whole subject-
matter to which they relate, as not affecting social and
political interests. Truths about God's Nature, about
His dealings towards the human race, about the
Economy of Redemption,-in the one case it humbly
accepts them, and passes on ; in the other it passes thew
over, as matters of simple opinion, which never can be
decided, and which can have no power over us to make
us morally better or worse. I am not speaking then of
belief in the great objects of faith, when I speak of
Catholicism, but I am contemplating Catholicism chiefly
as a system of pastoral instruction and moral duty; and
I have to do with its doctrines mainly as they are sub-
servient to its direction of the conscience and the con-
duct. I speak of it, for instance, as teaching the ruined
state of man; his utter inability to gain Heaven by any
thing he can do himself; the moral certainty of his
losing his soul if left to himself; the simple absence of
all rights and clailns on the part of the creature in the
presence of the Creator; the illimitable claims of the
Creator on the service of the creature; the imperative
and obligatory force of the voice of conscience; and
the inconceivable evil of sensuality. I speak of it as
teaching, that no one gains Heaven except by the free
grace of God, or \vithout a regeneration of nature; that
no one can please Hhn without faith; that the heart is
the seat both of sin and of obedience; that charity is
the fulfilling of the Law; and that incorporation into
the Catholic Church is the ordinary instrument of salva-
tion. These are the lessons which distinguish Catholi-
cism as a popular religion, and these are the subjects to
which the cultivated int
l1ect will practically be turned ;-

18 4

Discourse V Ill.

1 have to compare and contrast, not the doctrinal, but
the moral and social teaching of Philosophy on the one
hand, and Catholicism on the other.

3.
Now , .2!!..P penin r the subj ect, we see at once a tnomen..
tous benefit which the philosopher is likely to confer on
th.c:: pastors of the Church. It is obvious that the fu;t
step which they have to effect in the conversion of man
and the renovation of his nature, is his rescue from that
fearful subjection to sense \vhich is his ordinary state.
To be able to break through the meshes of that thral-
dom, and to disentangle and to disengage its ten thou-
sand holds upon the heart, is to bring it, I might almost
say, half \vay to Heaven. Here, even divine grace, to
speak of things according to their appearances, is ordi-
narily bélffled, and retires, \vithout expedient or resource,
before this giant fascination. Religion seenlS too high
and unearthly to be able to exert a continued influence
upon us: its effort to rouse the soul, and the soul's eff(Jrt
to co-operate, are too violent to last. It is like holding
out the arm at full length, or supporting some great
weight, which we manage to do for a time, but soon are
exhausted and succumb. Nothing can act beyond its
own nature; when then we are called to what is super-
natural, though those extraordinary aids from Heaven
are given us, with which obedience becomes possible, yet
even with them it is of transcendent difficulty. We are
drawn down to earth every Inoment \vith the ease and
certainty of a natural grclvitation, and it is only by
sudden impulses and, as it were, forcible plunges that ,vc
atten1pt to mount up\vards. Religion indeed enlightens,
terrifies, subdues; it gives faith, it inflicts remorse, it in-
spires resolutions, it draws tears. it Ìnfian1es devotion, but

Know/edge and Religious Duty. 185

only for the occasion. I repeat, it iInparts an inward
power \vhich ought to effect more than this; I aID not
forgetting either the real sufficiency of its aids, nor the
responsibility of those in whom they fail. I am not
discussing theological questions at all, I am looking at
phenomena as they lie before me, and I say that, in
matter of fact, the sinful spirit repents, and protests it
will never sin again, and for a while is protected by disgust
and abhorrence from the malice of its foe. But that foe
knows too \vell that such seasons of repentance are wont
to have their end: he patiently waits, till nature faints
\vith the effort of resistance, and lies passive and hope-
less under the next access of temptation. vVhat we
need then is some expedient or instrument, which at least
\vill obstruct and stave off the approach of our spiritual
enemy, and which is sufficiently congenial and level
with our nature to Inaintain as firm a hold upon us as
the inducements of sensual gratification. It will be our
\visdom to employ nature against itself. Thus sorrow,
sickness, and care are providential antagonists to our
inward disorders; they come upon us as years pass on.
and generally produce their natural effects on us, in pro-
portion as we are subjected to their influence. These,
however, are God's instruments, not ours; we need a
similar remedy, which we can make our own, the object
of some legitimate faculty, or the aim of son1e natural
affection, which is capable of resting on the mind, and
taking up its familiar lodging with it, and engrossing it, .
and which thus beconles a match for the besetting power
of sensuality, and a sort ofhomæopathic medicine for the
disease. Here then I think is the important aid \vhich
intellectual cultivation furnishes to us in rescuing the
victims of passion and self-will. It does not supply re-
ligious motives; it is not the cause or proper antecedcnt

186

Ðtscourse VIII.

of any thing supernatural; it is not meritorious of
heavenly aid or reward; but it does a work, at least
11zaterially good (as theologians speak), \vhatever be its
real and forn1al character. ItEp el
the
ci tements of
sense by the iE.trQQ.uction o(J hose of the intell ef!:
This then is the prÙlld facie advantage of the pursuit
of Knowledge; it is the dra \ving the mind off from
things which ,vill harm it to subjects which are worthy
a rational being; and, though it does not raise it above
nature, nor has any tendency to make us pleasing to our
Maker, yet is it nothing to substitute what is in itself
harmless for what is, to say the least, inexpressibly
dangerous? is it a little thing to exchange a circle of
ideas which are certainly sinful, for others which are
certainly not so ? You will say, perhaps, in the words
of the Apostle, " Knowledge puffeth up:" and doubtless
this mental cultivation, even when it is successful for the
purpose for which I am applying it, may be from the
first nothing more than the substitution of pride for
sensuality. I grant it, I think I shall have something to
say on this point presently; but this is not a necessary
result, it is but an incidental evil, a danger which may
be realized or may be averted, whereas we may in most
cases predicate guilt, and guilt of a heinous kind, where
the mind is suffered to run wild and indulge its thoughts
without training or law of any kind; and surely to turn
away a soul from mortal sin is a good and a gain

far, whatever comes of it. And therefore, if a friend iñ
need is twice a friend, I conceive that intellectual employ-
ments, though they do no more than occupy the mind
\vith objects naturally noblë õr innocent, have a special
claim upon our consid
rat ioñand
ratitucJe.

Knowledge and ReligÙJus Duty. 187

4-
N or is this all: K n....owle dz.e, the discipline by which it
is gained, and the tastes which it forms, have a natural
tendency to refine the mind, and to give it an indispo-
sition, simply natural, yet real, nay, more than this, a
disgust and abhorrence, towards excesses and enormi-
ties of evil, which are often or ordinarily reached at
length by those who are not careful from the first to
set themselves against what is vicious and criminal. It
g enerates within the mind a fastidiousness, analo
us to
the delicacy or daintin ess which good nurture or a sickly
ha bit induces in respect of food; and this fastidiousness,
though arguing no high principle, though no protection
in the case of violent temptation, nor sure in its operation,
yet will often or generally be lively enough to create
an absolute loathing of certain offences, or a detestation
and scorn of them as ungentlemanlike, to which ruder
natures, nay, such as have far more of real religion in
them, are tempted, or even betrayed. Scarcely can we
exaggerate the value, in its place, of a safeguard such as
this, as regards those multitudes who are thrown upon
the open field of the world, or are withdrawn from its
eye and from the restraint of public opinion. In many
cases, where it exists, sins, familiar to those who are
otherwise circumstanced, will not even occur to the
mind: in others, the sense of shame and the quickened
apprehension of detection will act as a sufficient obstacle
to theIn, when they do present themselves before it.
Then, again, the fastidiousness I am speaking of will
create a simple hatred of that miserable tone of conver-
sation which, obtaining as it does in the world, is a con-
stant fuel of evil, heaped up round about the soul: more-
over, it will create an irresolution and indecision in doing

188

Discourse VIii.

wrong, which will act as a 1 enlora till the danger is past
away. And though it has no tendency, I reped.t, to
n1cnd the heart, or to secure it from the dominion in
other shapes of those very evils \vhich it repels in the
particular modes of approach by \vhich they prevail over
others, yet cases may occur when it gives birth, after sins
have been committed, to so keen a renlorse and so intense
a self-hatred, as are even sufficient to cure the particular
moral disorder, and to prevent its accesses ever after-
wards ;-as the spendthrift in the story, \vho, after gazing
on his lost acres from the summit of an eminence, came
down a miser, and remained a miser to the end of his
days.
And all this holds good in a special way, in an age
such as ours, when, although pain of body and mind
may be rife as heretofore, yet other counteractions of evil,
of a penal character, which are present at other times, are
away. In rude and semi-barbarous periods, at least in a
climate such as our own, it is the daily, nay, the principal
business of the senses, to convey feelings of discomfort
to the mind, as far as they convey feelings at all. Expo-
sure to the elements, social disorder and lawlessness, the
tyranny of the powerful, and the inroads of enenlies, are
a stern discipline, allowing brief intervals, or a\varding a
sharp penance, to sloth and sensuality. The rude food,
the scanty clothing, the violent exercise, the vagrant life,
the military constraint, the imperfect pharmacy, which
now are the trials of only particular classes of the
community, were once the lot more or less of all. In the
deep woods or the wild solitudes of the medieval era,
feelings of religion or superstition \vere naturally pre-
sent to the population, which in various ways co-operated
with the missionary or 'pastor, in retaining it in a noble
simplicity of manners. But, \vh
n in the advancen1ent

Kllowledge and Religz'ous Duty. 189

of society men congregate in towns, and multiply in con-
tracted spaces, and law gives them security, and art
gives them comforts, and good government robs them of
courage and manliness, and monotony of life throws
them back upon themselves, who does not see that
diversion or protection from evil they have none, that
vice is the mere reaction of unhealthy toil, and sensual
excess the holyday of resourceless ignorance? This is
so well understood by the practical benevolence of the \
day, that it has especially busied itself in plans for sup-
plying the masses of our town population with intel-
lectual and honourable recreations. Cheap literature,
libraries of useful and entertaining kno\vledge, scientific )
lectureships, museums, zoological coIlections, buildings
and gardens to please the eye and to give repose to the
feelings, external objects of \vhatever kind, \vhich may J
take the mind off itself, and expand and elevate it in
liberal contemplations, these are the human means, vlisely
sEggested and good as far as- t he y go, for at le ast pa rrying
the assaults of moral evil, and keeping
t bay the enelnies,
not only of the individual soul, but of society at large.
Such are the instruments by which an age of advanced
civilization combats those moral disorders, which Reason
as well as Revelation denounces; and I have not been
backward to express my sense of their serviceableness
to Religion. Moreover, they are but the foremost of a
series of influences, which intellectual culture exerts
upon our moral nature, and all upon the type of Chris-
tianity, manifesting themselves in veracity, probity,
equity, fairness, gentleness, benevolence, and amiable-
ness; so much so, that a character more noble to look
at, more beautiful, more winning, in the various relations
of life and in personal duties, is hardly conceivable, than
may, or might be, its result, when that culture is bestowed

19ð

Discourse VI/I.

upon a soil naturally adapted to virtue. If you would
obtain a picture for contemplation which may seem to
fulfil the ideal, which the Apostle has delineated under
the name of charity, in its s\veetness and harmony, its
generosity, its courtesy to others, and its depreciation of
self, you could not have recourse to a better furnished
studt.o than to that of Philosophy, with the specimens of
it, which with greater or less exactness are scattered
through society in a civilized age. It is enough to refer
you, Gentlemen, to the various Biographies and Remains
of contemporaries and others, which from time to time
issue from the press, to see how striking is the action of
our intellectual upon our moral nature, where the mora]
material is rich, and the intellectual cast is perfect
Individuals will occur to all of us, who deservedly attract
our love and admiration, and whom the world alnlost
\vorships as the work of its own hands. Religious
principle, indeed,-that is, faith,- is, to all appearance,
simply away; the work is as certainly not supernatural
as it is certainly noble and beautiful. This must be
insisted on, that the Intellect may have its due; but
it also must be insisted on for the sake of conclusions
to which I wish to cond uct our investigation. The
radical difference indeed of this mental refinement fronI
genuine religion, in spite of its seeming relationship, is
the very cardinal point on which my present discussion
turns; yet, on the other hand, such refinement may
readily be assigned to a Christian origin by hasty or
distant observers, or by those who view it in a particular
light. And as this is the case, I think it advisable,
before proceeding with the delineation of its character-
istic features, to point out to you distinctly the elemen-
tary principles on which its morality is based.

Kno'Z1,ledge and ReligtouJ Dut),. 191

s.
You will bear in mind then, Gentlemen, that I spoke
just no\v of

r n and hatred wh
culti v
t ed mind
feels for
o E1e ki!!d
of vice, and t he ut ter disgust and
profound humili ati Q!! which I!!ay come over it, if it
should happen in any degree to be betrayed into them.
Now this feeling may have its root in faith and love, but
it may not; there is nothing really religious in it, con-
sidered by itself. Conscience indeed is implanted in the
breast by nature, but it inflicts upon us fear as well as
shame; when the mind is simply angry with itself and
nothing more, surely the true import of the voice of
nature and the depth of its intimations have been
forgotten, and a false philosophy has misinterpreted

emotions which ought to lead to God. Fear implies
the transgression of a law, and a law implies a lawgiver
and judge; but the tendenc y of intell
ctua l cul ture is t o
s\vall ow up the fear in the self-reproach, and self-reproacþ .
is directed and limited to our mere sense of what is fitting
and becoming. Fear carries us out of ourselves, whereas
shame may act upon us only within the round of our
own thoughts. Such, I say, is the danger which a\vaits
a civilized age; such is its besetting sin (not inevitable,
God forbid! or we must abandon the use of God's own
gifts), but stil1 the ordinary sin of the Intellect; con-
science tends to become what is called a moral se nse;
the command of du t y is a sort of taste ; sin is not an
o ffence a gainst God, but against human nature.
The les s ami able spec imens-of-this spurious religion
are those which we meet not unfrequently in my own
country. I can use wi th all my heart the poet's words,

..

" England, with all thy faults. I love thee still; "

19 2

lJzscourse v711.

t--
...

-(
p.. "

but to those faults no Catholic can be blind. We find
there men possessed of many virtues, but proud, bashful,
fastidious, and reserved. Why is this? it is because
thèy think and act as if there were really nothing
objective in their teligion; it is because conscience to
them is not the word of a lawgiver, as it ought to be,
but the dictate of their own minds and nothing more;
it is because they do not look out of themselves, because
they do not look through and beyond their own minds
to their Maker, but are engrossed in notions of what is
due to themselves, to their own dignity and their own
consistency. Their conscience has become a mere self-
respect. Instead of doing one thing and then another,
as each is called for, in faith and obedience, careless of
what may be called the keeping of deed with deed, and
leaving Him who gives the command to blend the por-
tions of their conduct into a ,vhole, their one object,
however unconscious to themselves, is to paint a smooth
and perfect surface, and to be able to say to themselves
that they have done their duty. When they do wrong,
they feel, not contrition, of which God is the object, but
remorse, and a sense of degradation. They call them-
selves fools, not sinners; they are angry and impatient,
not humble. They shut themselves up in themselves;
it is misery to them to think or to speak of their own
feelings; it is misery to suppose that others see them, and
their shyness and sensitiveness often become morbid. As
to confession, which is so natural to the Catholic, to them
it is impossible; unless indeed, in cases where they have
been guilty, an apology is due to their own character, is
expected of then1, and will be satisfactory to look back
upon. They are victims of an intense self-contemplation.
There are, ho\vever, far more pleasing and interesting
forms of this moral malady than that which I have beeN

Ii now/edge antl Relzgious Duty. 193

òepicting: I have sf>0ken of the effect of intel1ectual
culture on proud natures; but it will show to greater
advantage, yet with as little approximation to religious
faith, in amiable and unaffected minds. Observe, Gentle-
men, the heresy, as it may be called, of which I speak,
is the substitution of a moral sense or taste for con-
science in the true meaning of the word; now this error
may be the foundation of a character of far more
elasticity and grace than ever adorned the persons whom
I have been describing. It is especially congenial to men
of an imaginative and poetical cast of mind, who will
readily accept the notion that virtue is nothing more
than the graceful in conduct. Such persons, far from
tolerating fear, as a principle, in their apprehension of
religious and moral truth, \vill not be slow to call it
simply gloom and superstition. Rather a philosopher's,
a gen tlema n's_religion, is of a liberal and generous
character; it is based upon hon our ; vice is evil, bec ause
it is un\vorthy, despicable, and odious. This was the
quarrel of the ancient heathen with Christianity, that,
instead of simply fixing the mind on the fair and the
pleasant, it intermingled other ideas \vith them of a sad
and painful nature; that it spoke of tears before joy, a
cross before a
rown; that it laid the foundation of
heroism in penance; that it made the soul tremble with
the news of Purgatory and Hell; that it insisted on views
and a worship of the Deity, \vhich to their minds \vas
nothing else than mean, servile, and cowardly. The
notion of an All-perfect, Ever-present God, in whose
sight we are less than atoms, and \vho, while He deigns
to visit us, can punish as well as bless, was abhorrent to
them; they made their own minds their sanctuary, their
own ideas their oracle, and conscience in morals was but
parallel to genius in art, and \visdom in philosophy.
IJ

194

DlJCOU1'Se VIiI.

6.
I-lad I room for all that might be said upon the subject,
I might i llustrat e ..!h is in tellectual r
1igi
from
he h i sto ry
of the Emperor] ulian, the apostate from Christian Truth,
the foe of Christian education. He, in whom every
Catholic sees the shadow of the future Anti-Christ, was
all but the pattern-man of philosophical virtue. \Veak
points in his character he had, it is true, even in a merely
poetical standard; but, take him all in all, and I cannot
but recognize in him a specious beauty and nobleness of
oloral deportment, \vhich combines in it the rude great-
ness of Fabricius or Regulus with the acco[nplishments
of Pliny or Antoninus. His simplicity of manners, his
frugality, his austerity of life, his singular disdain of
sensual pleasure, his military heroisn1, his application to
business, his literary diligence, his modesty, his clernency,
his accomplishments, as I view them, go to make hin1
one of the most eminent specimens of pagan virtue
\vhich the world has ever seen. * Yet ho\v shallow, how
n1eagre, nay, how unamiable is that virtue after all, when
brought upon its critical tria] by his sudden summons
into the presence of his ] udge ! His last hours form a
,t1zique passage in history, both as illustrating the help-
lessness of philosophy under the stern realities of our

* I do not consider I have said above any thing inconsistent with the
(onowing passage from Cardinal Gerdil, though I have enlarged on the favour-
able side of Julian's character. II Du génie, des conn\issances, d
l'h,lbilité
dans Ie métier de la guerre, du courage et du désintéressement dans Je com-
mandement des armées, des actions plutôt que des qualités estimables,
mais Ie plus souvent gâtées par la vanité qui en était Ie principe, la super-
stition jointe à l'hypocrisie; un esprit fécond en res sources éclairé, mais sus-
ceptible de petitesse; des fantes essentielles dans Ie gouverneme
t;. d
s in-
nocens sacrifiés à la vengeance; une haÎne envenimée contre Ie Chnstlamsme,
qu'il avait abandonné i un attachement passionné aux folies de la Théurgie ;
tels étaient les traits SOliS k>squels on nous preignait Julien." Ope t. x. p. 54.

/úzowlt,dge tll/l{ l
elzgious Duty. 195

being, and as being reported to us on the evidence of an
eye-\vitness. "Friends and fellow-soldiers," he said, to
use the words of a writer, well fitted, both from his
literary tastes and from his hatred of Christianity, to be
his panegyrist, "the seasonable period of my departure
is no\v arrived, and I discharge, with the cheerfulness of
a ready debtor, the deIl1ands of nature. . . . I die with-
out remorse, as I have lived \vithout guilt. I am pleased
to reflect on the innocence of my private life; and I can
affirm with confidence that the supreme authority, that
emanation of the divine Po\ver, has been preserved in
my hands pur
and immaculate... I now offer my
tribute of gratitude to the Eternal Being, who has not
suffered me to perish by the cruelty of a tyrant, by the
secret dagger of conspiracy, or by the slow tortures uf
lingering disease. He has given me, in the midst of an
honourable career, a splendid and glorious departure
from this world, and I hold it equally absurd, equally
base, to solicit, or to decline, the stroke of fate. . .
" He reproved the immoderate grief of the spectators,
and conjured them not to disgrace, by unmanly tears,
the fate of a prince who in a few monlents would be
united ,vith Heaven and with the stars. The spectators
were silent; and Julian entered into a nletaphysical
argument with the philosophers Priscus and IvIaximus
on the nature of the soul. The efforts \vhich he made,
of mind as well as body, most probably hastened his
death. His \vound began to bleed \vith great violence;
his respiration was embarrassed by the s\velling of the
veins; he called for a draught of cold \vater, and as soon
as he had drank it expired \vithout pain, about the
hour of midnight.". Such, Gentlenlen, is the final '
exhibition of the H..eligion of Reason: in the insensibilitr
*
ibhon, Hist., en. 2-1.

.

19 6

Discourse l/'lfI.

of conscience, ill the ignorance of the very idea of sin, in
the contemplation of his own moral consistency, in the
simple absence of fear, in the cloudless self-confidence,
in the serene self-possession, in the cold self-satisfaction,
we recognize the mere Philosopher.

7.
Gibbon paints \vith pleasure what, conformably with
the sentiments of a godless intellectualism, was an his-
torical fulfilment of his own idea of moral perfection;
Lord Shaftesbury had already drawn out that idea in a
theoretical from, in his celebrated collection of Treatises
\vhich he has called U Characteristics of men, luanners,
opinions, views ;" and it will be a further illustration of
the subject before us, if you will allow me, Gentlenlen, to
n1ake some extracts from this work.
One of his first attacks is directed against the doctrine
of reward and punishment, as if it introduced a notion
into religion inconsistent with the true apprehension of
the beauty of virtue, and with the liberality and noble-
ness of spirit in which it should be pursued. "Men
have not been content," he says, "to show the natural
advantages of. honesty and virtue. They have rather
lessened these, the better, as they thought, to advance
another foundation. They have made virtue so mer-
cenary a thing, and have talked so much of its re\vards,
that one can hardly tell what there is in it, after all, which
can be \vorth rewarding. For to be bribed only or
terrified into an honest practice, bespeaks little of real
honesty or worth." "If," he says elsewhere, insinuating
\\'hat he dare not speak out, " if through hope merely of
re\vard, or fear of punishment, the creature be inclined
to do the good he hates, or restrained from doing the in
to \vhich he is not otherwise in the least degree averse,

Knowledge and Rt'lz:
lOUS Duty. 197

there is in this case no virtue or goodness whatever.
There is no more of rectitude, piety, or sanctity, in a
creature thus reformed, than there is meekness or
gentleness in a tiger strongly chained, or innocence and
sobriety in a monkey under the discipline of the whip
. . . . While the will is neither gained, nor the inclination
wrought upon, but awe alone prevails and forces obedi-
ence, the obedience is servile, and all which is done
through it merely servile." That is, he says that
Christianity is the enemy of moral virtue, as influencing
the mind by fear of God, not by love of good.
The motives then of hope and fear being, to say the
least, put far into the background, and nothing being
morally good but what springs simply or mainly from a
love of virtue for its o\vn sake, this love-inspiring quality
in virtue is its beauty, \vhile a bad conscience is not
much more than the sort of feeling which makes us
shrink from an instrument out of tune. "Some by mere
nature," he says, " others by art and practice, are masters
of an ear in music, an eye in painting, a fancy in the
ordinary things of ornament and grace, a judgment in
proportions of all kinds, and a general good taste in
n10st of those subjects which make the amusement and
delight of the ingenious people of the world. Let such
gentlemen as these be as extravagant as they please, or
as irregular in their morals, they must at the same time
discover their illconsistency, live at variance with them-
selves, and in contradiction to that principle on which
they ground their highest pleasure and entertainment.
Of all other beauties which virtuosos pursue, poets
:elebrate, musicians sing, and architects or artists of
whatever kind describe or form, the most delightful,
the most engaging and pathetic, is that which is dra\vn
from real life and from the passions. N otlling affects

Ig8

Discourse VIiI

the heart like that which is purely from itself, and
of its own nature: such as the beauty of sentiments,
the grace of actions, the turn of characters, and the
proþortl:ons atld features of a human mind. This lesson
of philosophy, even a romance, a poem, or a play ma)
teach us . . . . Let poets or the men of harmony deny,
if they can, this force of nature, or withstand this 1nora'
magic . . . . Everyone is cl virtuoso of a higher or
lower degree; everyone pursues a grace . . . of one
kind or other. The venustzun, the honestu1n, the decoruJn
of things will force its way . . . . The most natural
beauty in the \vorld is honesty and moral truth; for all
beauty is truth."
Accordingly, virtue being only one kind of beauty, the
principle which determines what is virtuous is, not con-
science, but taste. " Could \ve once convince ourselves,"
he says, H of what is in itself so evident, viz., that in the
very nature of things there must of necessity be the
foundation of a right and wrong taste, as well in respect
of inward character of features as of outward person, be-
haviour, and action, we should be far more ashamed of
ignorance and wrong judgment in the former than in
the latter of these subjects . . . . One who aspires to the
character of a man of breeding and politeness is careful
to form his judgment of arts and sciences upon right
n10dels of perfection . . . . He takes particular care to
turn his eye from every thing which is gaudy, luscious,
and of false taste. N or is he less careful to turn his ear
from every sort of nlusic, besides that which is of the
best manner and truest harmony. 'T\vere to be wished
we had the same regard to a right taste in lifc altd
ma1lners . . . . If civility and humanity be a taste; if
brutality, insolence, riot, be in the same manner a taste,
. . . . w'ho would not endeavour to force nature as well

Knowledge and Religious Duty. 199

in this respect as in what relates to a taste or judgment
in other arts and sciences?"
Sometimes he distinctly contrasts this taste with prin-
ciple and conscience, and gives it the preference over
them. "After all," he says, "t tis not 11terely what we
call principle, but a taste, \vhich governs men. They
may think for certain, 'This is right,' or 'that wrong; ,
they may believe' this is a virtue,' or 'that a sin;' 'this
is punishable by man: or 'that by God;' yet if the
savour of things lies cross to honesty, if the fancy be
florid, and the appetite high towards the subaltern
beauties and lo\ver orders of \vorldly syn1metries and
proportions, the conduct will infallibly turn this latter
way." Thus, somewhat like a Jansenist, he makes the
superior pleasure infallibly conquer, and implies that,
neglecting principle, we have but to train the taste to a
kind of beauty higher than sensual. He adds: U Even
conscience, I fear, such as is owing to religious discipline,
,vill make but a slight figure, when this taste is set
. "
amiSS.
And hence the well-known doctrine of this author,
that ridicule is the test of truth; for truth and virtue
being beauty, and falsehood and vice deformity, and the
feeling inspired by deformity being that of derision, as
that in'!ìpired by beauty is admiration, it follows that
vice is not a thing to weep about, but to laugh at.
II Nothing is ridiculous," he says, "but \vhat is deformed;
nor is any thing proof against raillery but what is hand-
some and just. And therefore 'tis the hardest thing in
the world to deny fair honesty the use of this \veapon,
\vhich can never bear an edge against herself, and bea
s
against every thing contrary."
And hence again, conscience, which intimates a La\v-
giver, being superseded by a moral taste or sentiment,

200

Discourse VIII.

which has no sanction beyond the constitutIon of our
nature, it follows that our great rule is to contemplate
ourselves, if we would gain a standard of life and morals.
Thus he has entitled one of his Treatises a" Soliloquy,"
with the n10tto, H Nec te quæsiveris extra;" and he
observes, "The chief interest of ambition, avarice,
corruption, and every sly insinuating vice, is to prevent
this interview and faIniliari ty of discourse, \vhich is
consequent upon close retiren1ent and inward recess.
'Tis the grand artifice of villainy and lewdness, as well
as of superstz.tz:ol!' and bigotry, to put us upon terms of
greater distance and foro1ality with ourselves, and evade
our proving method of soliloquy . . . . A passionate
lover, whatever solitude he may affect, can never be truly
by hin1self . . . . 'Tis the saIne reason which keeps the
imaginary saint or mystic from being capable of this
entertainment. Instead of looking narrowly into his own
nature and n1ind, that he may be no longer a mystery to
himself, he is taken up with the COl1te1nplati01l of othi'"
1nysterz"ous 1latll/res, \vhich he never can explain or
com prehend."

8.

...

Taking these passages as specimens of what I call the
Religion of Philosophy, it is obvious to observe that
there is no doctrine contained in them which is not in a
certain sense true; yet, on the other hand, that almost
every statement is perverted and made false, because it
. is not the whole truth. They are exhibitions of truth
under one aspect, and therefore insufficient; conscience
is most certainly a n10ral sense, but it is more; vice
again, is a deformity, but it is worse. Lord Shaftesbury
may insist, if he will, that simple and solitary fear cannot
r;ffect a moral conversion, and we are not concerned to

K nowledg-e and f<eligiC'us Dul)'.
OI

answer him; but he will have a difficulty in proving that

any real conversion follows from a doctrine which makes
:1 virtue a mere point of good taste, and vice vulgar and
, ungentlemanlike. .
Such a doctrine is essentially superficial, and such will

be its effects. It has no better measure of right and

wrong than that of visible beauty and tangible fitness.
Conscience indeed inflicts an acute pang, but that pang,
forsooth, is irrational, and to reverence it is an illiberal
superstition. But, if we will make light of what is deepest
within us, nothing is left but to pay homage to what is
more upon the surface. To see1n becomes to be,. what
looks fair will be good, what causes offence will be evil;
virtue will be what pleases, vice ,vhat pains. b.L well
may we measure virtue by utility as by such a rule.
Ñ or is this añ i ma gi
ary apprehension; we all must
recollect the celebrated sentiment into which a great and
\vise man was betrayed, in the glowing eloquence of his
valediction to the spirit of chivalry. " It is gone," cries
Mr. Burke; "that sensibility of principle, that chastity
of honour, which felt a stain like a wound; which inspired
courage, while it mitigated ferocity; which ennobled
whatever it touched, and under which vice lost half its
evil by losing all its grossness." In the last clause of this
beautiful sentence we have too apt an illustration of the
ethical temperament of a civilized age. It is detection,
not t he si n, which is t he crime; private 'life-is sacred,
and inquiry into it is intolerable; and decency is virtue.
Scandals, vulgarities, whatever shocks, whatever disgusts,
are offences of the first order. Drinking and swearing,
squalid poverty, improvidence, laziness, slovenly disor::ler,
make up the idea of profligacy: poets may say any
thing, however wicked, with impunity; works of genius
may be read without danger or shame, whatever their

202

Discourse v'll/.

principles; fashion, celebrity, the beautiful, the heroic,
,,,ill suffice to force any evil upon the cOInmunity. 'fhe
splendours of a court, and the charms of good society,
wit, imagination, taste, and high breeding, the þrestigt
of rank, and the resources of wealth, are a screen, an
.
instrument, and an apology for vice and irreligion. And.
a thus at length we find, surprising as the change may be,
that that very refinement of Intellectualism, which began
by repelling sensuality, ends by excusing it. Under the
shado\\y indeed of the Church, and in its due developluent,
Philosophy does service to the cause of morality; but,
when it is strong enough to have a \vill of its own, and is
lifted up \vith an idea of its own importance. and attempts
I to form a theory, and to lay down a principle, and to
carry out a systen1 of ethics, and undertakes the moral
education of the man, then it does but abet evils to
\vhich at first it seemed instinctively opposed.:.J True
Religion is slow in growth, and, when once planted, is
difficult of dislodgement; but its intellectual
ounterfeit
has no root in itself: it springs up suddenly, it suddenly
withers. It appeals to what is in nature, and it falls
under the dominion of the old Adam. Then, like
dethroned princes, it keeps up a state and majesty,
when it has lost the real power. Deformity is its abhor-
rence; accordingly, since it cannot dissuade men from
vice, therefore in order to escape the sight of its defof1nity,
it embellishes it. It" skins and films the ulcerous
place," which it cannot probe or heal,

" Whiles rank corruption, mining all within.
Infects unseen."

And from this shallowness of philosophical Religion
it comes to pass that its disciples seem able to fulfil certain
precepts of Christianity more readily and exactly than

Knowe,lge anti Relig'iotts DUlty. 20 3

Christians themselves. St. Paul, as I have said, gives us
a pattern of evangelical perfection; he draws the Chris-
tian character in its most graceful form, and its most
beautiful hues. He discourses of that charity which is
patient and meek, humble and single-minded, disinter-
ested, contented, and persevering. He tells us to prefer
each the other before himself, to give way to each other,
to abstain from rude words and evil speech, to avoid self-
conceit, to be calm and grave, to be cheerful and happy, to
observe peace with all men, truth and justice, courtesy and
gentleness, all that is modest, anliable, virtuous, and Of
good repute. Such is St. Paul's exemplar of the Chris-
tian in his external relations; and, I repeat, the school of
the world seems to send out living copies of this typical
excellence with greater success than the Church. At
t his day the" gentle man" is th
creation, not of C
is-
tianit , but of civilization. But the reason is obvious.
The world is content with setting right the surface of
things; the Church aims at regenerating the very depths
of the heart. She ever begins with the beginning; and,
as regards the multitude of her children, is never able
to get beyond the beginning, but is continually elnployed
in laying the foundation. She is engaged with what is
essential, as previous and as introductory to the orna-
mental and the attractive. She is curing men and keep-
ing them clear of mortal sin; she is "treating of justice
and chastity, and the judgn1ent to come :" she is insist-
ing on faith and hope, and devotion, and honesty,
and the elements of charity; and has so much to do .with
precept, that she almost leaves it to iuspirations from
[-leaven to suggest what is of counsel and perfection.
She aims at what is necessary rather than at \vhat is de-
sirable. She is for the many as \vell as for the few. She
is putting souJ.
in the
.vay of salvation, that they may

204

Discourse VII}.

then be in a condition, if they shall be called upon, to
aspire to the heroic, and to attain the full proportions, as
well as the rudin1entsl. of the beautiful

9.
Such is the method, or the poHcy (so to Cd.I1 it), of the
Church; but Philosophy looks at the matter from a very
different point of view: \vhat have Philosophers to do
with the terror of judgment or the saving of the soul?
Lord Shaftesbury calls the former a sort of U panic fear."
Of the latter he scoffingly complains that" the saving of
souls is now the heroic passion of exalted spirits." Of
course he is at liberty, on his principles, to pick and
choose out of Christianity what he will; he discards the
theological, the mysterious, the spiritual; he makes-
selection of the morally or esthetically beautiful. To
hinl it matters not at all that he begins his teaching
where he should end it; it matters not that, instead of
planting the tree, he nlerely crops its flowers for his ban-
quet; he only aims at the present life, his philosophy
dies with him; if his flowers do but last to the end of
his revel, he has nothing more to seek. When night
comes, the withered leaves may be mingled with his own
ashes; he and they will have done their work, he and
they will be no more. Certainly, it costs little to nlake
men virtuous on conditions such as these; it is like
teaching them a language or an accomplishn1ent, to
write Latin or to play on an instrument,-the profession
of an artist, not the con1mission of an Apostle.
This embellishment of the exterior is almost the be-
ginning and the end of philosophical morality. This is
why it aims at being modest rather than humble; this
is how' it can be proud at the very time that it is unas-
suming 'To humility indeed it does not even aspire;

f{no'lvlalge {uill Religiùus l)lt
v. 20 5

humility is one of the most difficult of virtues both to
attain and to ascertain. It lies close upon the heart
itself, and its tests are exceedingly delicate and subtle.
I ts counterfeits abound; however, we are little concerned
with then\ here, for, J repeat, it is hardly professed even
by name in the code of ethics which we are reviewing.
As has been often observed, ancient civilization had
not the idea, and had no word to express it: or rather,
it had the idea, and considered it a defect of mind, not
a virtue, so that the word which denoted it conveyed a
reproach. As to the modern world, you n1a y gather its
ignorance of it by its perversion of the some\vhat
parallel term u condescension." I-Iumilityor condescen-
sion, viewed as a virtue of conduct, may be said to con-
sist. as in other things, so in our placing ourselves in our
thoughts on a level \vith our inferiors; it is not only a
voluntary reHnquishtnent of the privileges of our own
station, but an actual participation or assumption of the
condition of those to whom we stoop. This is true
hunlility, to feel and to behave as if we were low; not, to
cherish a notion of our importance, while we affect a low
position. Such \vas St. Paul's humility, when he called
himself" the least of the saints;" such the humility of
those many holy men who have considered themselves
the greatest of sinners. It is an abdication, as far as their
own tho
ghts are concerned. of those prerogatives or
privileges to which others deem them entitled. Now it is
not a little instructive to contrast \vith this idea, Gentle-
meu,-\vith this theological meaning of the word C( con-
descension,"- -its proper English sense; put them in
juxta-position. and you will at once see the difference
beween the \,Torld's humility and the hUlnility of the
G-ospel. As the world uses the word, "condescension"
is a s
ooping indeed of the person, but a bending for-

200

j; iscoltr..\c V 11 .

ward, unattended \vith any the slightest effort to leave by
a single inch the seat in which it is so firmly established.
I t is the act of a superior, who protests to hinlself, while
he commits it, that he is superior still, and that he is doing
nothing else but an .act of grace towards those on whose
level, in theory, he is placing himse!( And this is the
nearest idea which the philosopher can form of the virtue
of self-abasement; to do more than this is to his n1ind a
meanness or an hypocrisy, and at once excites his sus-
picion and disgust. What the world is, such it has ever
been; we know the contempt \vhich the educated pagans
had for the martyrs and confessors of the Church; and
it is shared by the anti-Catholic bodies of this day.
Such are the ethics of Philosophy, when faithfully re-
presented; but an age like this, not pagan, but profes-
sedly Christian, cannot venture to reprobate humility in
set terms, or to nlake a boast of pride. Accordingly, it
looks out for SOlne expedient by which it nlay blind
itself to the real state of the case. Humility, with
its grave and self-denying attributes, it cannot love:
but what is more beautiful, what more winning, than
modesty? what virtue, at first sight, simulates humility
so 'well ? though what in fact is more radically distinct
from it? In truth, great as is its charm, modesty is not
the deepest or the most religious of virtues. Rather it is
the advanced guard or sentinel of the soul militant, and
\vatches continually over its nascent intercourse \vith the
world about it. It goes the round of the senses; it
mounts up into the countenance; it protects the eye and
ear; it reigns in the voice and gesture. Its province is
the outward deporto1ent, as other virtues have relation
to Inatters theological, others to society, and others to
the nlind itself. And being nlore superficial than other
1."irtues, it is T1l0re edsily disjoined [rorn their C0111pany ; it

Knowledge and Religious Duty. 207

admits of being associated with principles or qualities
naturally foreign to it, and is often made the cloak of
feelings or ends for \vhich it was never given to us. So
little is it the necessary index of humility, that it is even
compatible with pride. The better for the purpose of
Philosophy; humble it cannot be, so forthwith modesty
becomes its humility.
Pride, under such training, instead of running to waste S y:
in the education of the mind, is turned to account; it '
gets a new name; it is called self-respect; and ceases to

be the disagreeable, uncompanionable quality which it is
in itself. Though it be the motive principle of the soul,
it seldom comes to vie\\'; and when it shows itself, then
delicacy and gentleness are its attire, and good sense
and sense of honour direct its motions. It is no longer
a restless agent, without definite aim; it has a large field
of exertion assigned to it, and it subserves those social
interests \vhich it would naturally trouble. It is directed
into the channel of industry, frugality, hone
ty, and obe-
dience; and it becomes the very staple of the religion
and morality held in honour in a day like our o\vn. It
becolnes the safeguard of chastity, the guarantee of vera-
city, in high and low; it is the very household god of
society, as at present constituted, inspiring neatness and
decency in the servant girl, propriety of carriage and re-
fined manners in her mistress, uprightness, manliness, and
generosity in the head of the family. It diffuses a light
.)ver town and country; it covers the soil with handson1e
edifices and smiling gardens; it tills the field, it stocks
and embellishes the shop. It is the stimulating principle
of providence on the one hand, and of free expenditure on
the other; of an honourable an1bition, and of elegant en-
jOYInent. It breathes upon the face of the community, anrl
the holIo,v sepulchre is forth\vith beautiful to look upon.

20g

lJiscoul'se V II f.

Refined by the civilization which has brought it into
activity, this self-respect infuses into the mind an intense
horror of exposure, and a keen sensitiveness of notoriety
and ridicule. It becomes the enemy of extravagances of
any kind; it shrinks from what are called scenes; it has
no mercy on the nlock-heroic, on pretence or egotism, on
verbosity in language, or what is called prosiness in con-
versation. It detests gross adulation; not that it tends
at all to the eradication of the appetite to which the
flatterer ministers, but it sees the absurdity of indulging
it, it understands the annoyance thereby given to others,
and jf a tribute must be paid to the wealthy or the power-
ful, it demands greater subtlety and art in the prepara-
tion. Thus vanity is changed into a more dangerous
self-conceit, as being checked in its natural eruption.
It teaches men to suppress their feelings, and to control
their tempers, and to mitigate both the severity and the
tone of their judgments. As Lord Shaftesbury would
desire, it prefers playful wit and satire in putting down
what is obj ectionable, as a more refined and good-
natured, as well as a n10re effectual method, than the
expedient which is natural to uneducated minds. It is
from this in1patience of the tragic and the bombastic
that it is no\v quietly but energetically opposing itself to
the unchristian practice of duelling, which it brands as
simply out of taste, and as the remnant of a barbarous
age; and certainly it seems likely to effect what Religion
has aimed at abolishing in vain.

10.
-
Hence it is that it is almost a definition of a gentle-
man to say he is one who never inflicts pain. This.
description is both refined and, as far as it goes, ac-
çurate. He is mainly occupied in merely removing the

l{'llowlëdge and !(eligzolts Duty. 20<)

obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed
action of those about him; and he concurs with their
movements rather than takes the initiative himself. His
benefits may be considered as parallel to what are called
comforts or conveniences in arrangernents of a personal
nature: like an easy chair or a good fire, \vhich do their
part in dispelling cold and fatigue, though nature pro-
vides both means of rest and animal heat without them.
I The true gentleman in like manner carefully avoids
\vhatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the minds of those
with \vhom he is cast ;-all clashing of opinion, or
collision of feeling, all restraint, or suspicion, or gloom,
or resentment; his great concern being to Inake every
one at their ease and at home. He has his eyes on aU
his company; he is tender towards the bashful, gentle
towards the distant, and merciful towards the absurd;
he can recollect to Wh0l11 he is speaking; he guards
against unseasonable allusions, or topics \vhich may
irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and
never wearisome. lIe makes light of favours while he
does them, and seems to be receiving when he is con-
ferring. He never speaks of himself except when com-
pelled, never defends himself by a mere retort, he has no
ears for slander or gossip, is scrupulous in imputing
motives to those who interfere with him, and interprets
every thing for the best. He is never mean or little in
his disputes, never takes unfair advantage, never mis-
takes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments, or in-
sinuates evil which he dare not say out. From a long-
sighted prudence, he observes the maxim of the ancient
sage, that we should ever conduct ourselves towards our
enemy as if he were one day to be our friend. He has
too much good sense to be affronted at insults, he is too
well eæployed to remelnber injuries, and too indolent to
14

210

DIscourse VIII

bear malice. He is patient, forbearing, and resigned, ot1
philosophical principles; he subn1its to pain, becau
\e it
is inevitable, to bereavement, because it is irreparable,
and to death, because it is his destiny. If he engages in
controversy of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves
him from the blundering discourtesy of better, perhaps,
but less educated minds; \vho, like blunt weapons,
tear and hack instead of cutting clean, who mistake the
point in argument, \vaste their strength on trifles, mis.
conceive their adversary, and leave the question more
involved than they find it. He may be right or wrong
in his opinion, but he is too clear-headed to be unj ust ;
he is as simple as he is forcible, and as brief as he is
decisive. Nowhere shall we find greater candour, con

sideration, indulgence: he throws himself into the minds
of his opponents, he accounts for their mistakes. He
knows the \veakness of human reason as well as its
strength, its province and its limits. If he be an un-
believer, he will be too profound and large-minded to
ridicule religion or to act against it; he is too wise to be
a dogmatist or fanatic in his infidelity. He respects piety
and devotion; he even supports institutions as vene

rabIe, beautiful, or useful, to v.Thich he does not assent;
he honours the ministers of religion, and it contents
him to decline its mysteries without assaiìing or de.
nouncing them. He is a friend of religious toleration,
and that, not only because his philosophy has taught
him to look on all forms of faith with an impartial eye,
but also from the gentleness and effeminacy of feeling,
\\"hich is the attendant on civilization.
Not that he may not hold a religion too, in his o\\'n
\vay, even when he is not a Christian. In that case his
religion is one of imagination and sentin1ent; it is the
embodiment of those ideas of the sublime, n1ajestic.

Knowledge a1zd fielzgz.ous Duty. 2 I I

and beautiful, without which there can be no large
philosophy. Sometimes he acknowledges the being of
God, sometimes he invests an unknown principle or
quality with the attributes of perfection. And this de-
duction of his reason, or creation of his fancy, he makes
the occasion of such excellent thoughts, and the start-
ing-point of so varied and systematic a teaching, that he
even seems like a disciple of Christianity itsel( From
the very accuracy and steadiness of his logical powers,
he is able to see what sentiments are consistent in those
who hold any religious doctrine at all, and he appears to
others to feel and to hold a whole circle of theological
truths, \vhich exist in his mind no otherwise than as a
number of deductions.

Such are some of the lineaments of the ethical charac

ter-:-which t
e cultivated intellect will form, apart froIll
reli g iou s principle. '[hey are seen wi thin the pale of the
Church and wi h ut it, in holy lnen, and in profligate;
they form the beau-'ideal of th e worl d; the partly asSIst
and part! di stort th e developOlent of the Catholic.
'T h
y may subserve the education of a St. Francis de
Sales or a Cardinal Pole; they may be the limits of the
,-=ontemplation of a Shaftesbury or a Gibbon. Basil and
Julian were fellow-students at the schools of Athens;
and one became the Saint and Doctor of the Church, the
other her scoffing and relentless foe.

:!I2

DISCOURSE IX.

DUTIES OF THE CHURCH TO\\"ARDS KNOWLEDGE.

T.
I HAVE to congratulate myself, Gentlemen, that at
length I have accomplished, with whatever success,
the difficult and anxious undertaking to \vhich I have
been immediately addressing myself. Difficult and
anxious it has been in truth, though the main subject of
University Teaching has been so often and so ably dis-
cussed already; for I have attempted to follow out a line
of thought more familiar to Protestants just now than
to Catholics, upon Catholic grounds. I declared my
intention, \vhen I opened the subject, of treating it as a
philosophical and practical, rather than as a theological
question, with an appeal to common sense, not to
ecclesiastical rules; and for this very reason, while my
argument has been less ambitious, it has been deprived of
the lights and supports which another mode of handling-
it \vould have secured.
No anxiety, no effort of mind is nlore severe than
his, who in a difficuÌt matter has it seriously at heart
to investigate without error and to instruct without
obscurity; as to myself, if the past discussion has at any
time tried the patience of the kind persons who have
given it their attention, I can assure them that on no
one can it have inflicted so great labour and fdtigue as

Ð1tli,.r; if tht' Cllurclz 7ò'ioards jí1t01.Vlryl.t: f . 2 13

on tnyself. Happy they who are engaged in provinces
of thought, so falniliarly traversed and so thoroughly
explored, that they see every \vhere the footprints, the
paths, the landmarks, and the remains of former tra-
vellers, and can never step wrong; but for myself,
Gentlemen, I have felt like a navigator on a strange sea,
who is out of sight of land, is surprised by night, and has
to trust mainly to the rules and instrunlents of his science
for reaching the port. The everlasting mountains, the
high majestic cliffs, oî the opposite coast, radiant in the
sunlight, which are our ordinary guides, fail us in an
excursion such as this; the lessons of antiquity, the
determinations of authority, are here rather the needle,
chart, and plummet, than great objects, \vith distinct and
continuous outlines and completed details, which stand
up and confront and occupy our gaze, and relieve us
from the tension and suspense of our personal obser-
vation. And thus, in spite of the pains we may take
to consult others and avoid mistakes, it is not till the
morning comes and the shore greets us, and we see our
vessel making straight for harbour, that we relax our
jealous watch, and consider anxiety irrational. Such in
a measure has been my feeling in the foregoing inquiry;
in which indeed I have been in want neither of authori-
tative principles nor distinct precedents, but of treatises
ù
exten.1"O on the subject on \vhich I have written,-the
finished 'work of writers, who, by their acknowledged
judgment and erudition, might furnish me for my private
guidance with a running instruction on each point which
successively came under review.
1 have spoken of the arduousness of my "immediate"
undertaking, because what I have been attelnpting has
been of a preliminary nature, not contemplating the
duties of the Church towards a University, nor the

214

Discourse IX.

characteristics of a University which is Catholic, but
inquiring what a University is, what is its airu, what its
nature, what its bearings. I have accordingly laid down
first, that all branches of knowledge are, at least im-
plicitly, the subject-matter of its teaching; that these
branches are not isolated and independent one of an-
other, but form together a whole or system; that they
run into each other, and complete each other, and that,
in proportion to our view of them as a ,\Thole, is the
exactness and trustworthiness of the knowledge which
they separately convey; that the process of imparting
knowledge to the intellect in this philosophical way is
its true culture; that such culture is a good in itself; that
the knowledge which is both its instrument and result is
called Liberal Knowledge; that such culture, together
with the knowledge which effects it, may fitly be sought
for its own sake; that it is, however, in addition, of great
secular utility, as constituting the best and highest for-
mation of the intellect for social and political life ; and
lastly, that, considered in a religious aspect, it concurs
with Christianity a certain way, and then diverges from
it; and consequently proves in the event, sometimes its
serviceable ally, sometimes, from its very resemblance to
it, an insidious and dangerous foe.
Though, ho\vever, these Discourses have only pro-
fessed to be preliminary, being directed to the investiga-
tion of the object and nature of the Education \vhich a
University professes to impart, at the same time I do not
like to conclude without nlaking some remarks upon the
duties of the Church towards it, or rather on the ground
of those duties. If the Catholic Faith is true, a Univer-
sity cannot exist externally to the Catholic pale, for it
cannot teach Universal Knowledge if it does not teach
Catholic theology. This is certain; but still, though it

Duties of the Church Towartls f(nowledge. 2 I 5

had ever" so many theological Chairs, that would not
'5uffice to make it a Catholic University; for theology
would be included in its teaching only as a branch of
knowledge, only as one out of many constituent portions,
however important a one, of what I have called Philos-
ophy. Hence a direct and active jurisdiction of the
Church over it and in it is necessary, lest it should be-
come the rival of the Church with the community at
large in those theological matters which to the Church
are exclusively committed,-acting as the representative
of the intellect, as the Church is the representative of the
religious principle. The illustration of this proposition
shall be the subject of my concluding Discourse.

2.
I say then, that, even though the case could be so
that the whole system of Catholicism \vas recognized and
professed, \vithout the direct presence of the Church,
still this would not at once make such a University a
Catholic Institution, nor be sufficient to secure the due
weight of religious considerations in its philosophical
studies. For it may easily happen that a particular
bias or drift may characterize an Institution, which no
rules can reach, nor officers remedy, nor professions
or promises counteract. We have an instance of such
a case in the Spanish Inquisition ;-here was a purely
Catholic establishment, devoted to the maintenance, or
rather the ascendancy of Catholicism, keenly zealous for
theological truth, the stern foe of every anti-Catholic
idea, and administered by Catholic theologians; yet it
in no proper sense belonged to the Church. It was
simply and entirely a State institution, it was an expres-
sion of that very Church-and- King spirit ,vhich has pre-
,ailed in t4ese isl
nds; nay. it was an instrument of the

216

DÙìt:oUYSe l
Y.

State, dccording to the confession of the acutest Protes

tant historians, in its warfare against the Holy See. Con-
sidered "1Ilaterially," it was nothing but Catholic; but
its spirit and fonn were earthly and secular, in spite of
\vhatever faith and zeal and sanctity and charity were to
be found in the indIviduals who from tinIe to time h
d a
share in its administration. And in like nlanner, it is no
sufficient security for the Catholicity of d University,
even that the whole of Catholic theology should be pro-
fessed in it, unless the Church breathes her own pure and
unearthly spirit into it, and fashions and n1üulds its
organization, and watches over its teaching, and knits
together its pupils, and superintends its action. I'he
Spanish Inquisition canIe into collision \vith the suprenlc
Catholic authority, and that, from the íact that its imme-
diate end was of a secular character; and for the same
reason, whereas Academical Institutions (as I ha\"e been
so long engaged in sho\ving) are in their very nature
directed to social, national, temporal objects in the first
instance, and since they are living and energizing bodies,
if they deserve the name of University at all, and of
necessity have some one fonnal and definite ethical cha-
racter, good or bad, and do of a certainty imprint that
character on the individuals who direct and who frequent
them, it cannot but be that, if left to themselves, they
\vill, in spite of their profession of Catholic Truth, work
out results lnore or less prej udicial to its interests.
N or is this all: such Institutions may become hostile
to Revealed Truth, in consequence of the circumstances
of their teaching as well as of their end. They are em-
ployed in the pursuit of Liberal Knovdedge, and Liberal
Knowledge has a special tendency, not necessary OJ
rightful, but a tendency in fact, \vhen cultivated by
beings such as we are, to impress us with a n1ere philo-

Dulies oj the Cnurc}l 7ùwa1'"ds .I1.
JtUiÁ.f
dgè. 2 I 7

ophical theory of life and conduct, in the place of
Revelation. I have said much on this subject already.
Truth has two attributes-beauty and power; and
\vhile Useful Knowledge is the possession of tru.th as
powerful, Liberal Knowledge is the apprehension of it as
beautiful. Pursue it, either as beauty or as power, to its
furthest extent and its true limit, and you are Jed by
either road to the Eternal and Infinite, to the intimations
of conscience and the announcements of the Church.
Satisfy yourself with what is only visibly or intelligibly
excellent, as you are likely to do, and you vvill make
present utility and natural beauty the practical test of
truth, and the sufficient object of the intellect. It is not
that you will at once reject Catholicism, but you will
measure and proportion it by an earthly standard. You
will throw its highest and most momentous disclosures
into the background, you will deny its principles, explain
a\vay its doctrines, re-arrange its precepts, and make
light of its practices, even while you profess it. Know-
ledge, viewed as Knowledge, exerts a subtle influence in
throwing us back on ourselves, and making us our own
centre, and our minds the measure of all things. This
then is the tendency of that Liberal Education, of which
a University is the school, viz., to view Revealed ReJi-
gion from an aspect of its own,-to fuse and recast it,-
to tune it, as it were, to a different key, and to reset its
harmonies,-to circumscribe it by a circle which UtHvar-
rantably amputates here, and unduly developes there;
and all under the notion, conscious or unconscious,
that the human intellect, self-educated and self-sup-
ported, is more true and perfect in its ideas and judg-
ments than that of Prophets and Apostles, to whon1 the
sights and sounds of Heaven were in1mediately con-
veyed. I\. seqse of propriety, order) consistency, and

218

Discourse IX.

completeness gives birth to a rebellious stirring against
rniracle and Inystery, against the severe and the terrible.
This Intellectualism first and chiefly comes into colli-
sion with precept, then with doctrine, then with the very
principle of doglnatism ;-a perception of the Beautiful
becomes the substitute for faith. In a country which
does not profess the faith, it at once runs, if allo\ved, into
scepticism or infidelity; but even within the pale of the
Church, and with the most unqualified profession of her
Creed, it acts, if left to itself, as an element of corrup-
tion and debility. Catholicism, as it has come down to
us from the first, seems to be mean and illiberal; it is a
mere popular religion; it is the religion of illiterate ages
or servile populations or barbarian warriors; it must
be treated with discrimination and delicacy, corrected,
softened, improved, if it is to satisfy an enlightened
generation. It must be stereotyped as the patron of
arts, or the pupil of speculation, or the protégé of science;
it must play the literary academician, or the empirical
philanthropist, or the political partisan; it must keep
up with the age; some or other expedient it must devise,
in order to explain away, or to hide, tenets under which
the intellect labours and of which it is ashamed-its doc-
trine, for instance, of grace, its mystery of the Godhead,
its preaching of the Cross, its devotion to the Queen of
Saints, or its loyalty to the Apostolic See. Let this
spirit be freely evolved out of that philosophical condition
of mind, which in former Discourses I have so highly,
so justly extolled, and it is impossible but, first indiffer-
ence, then laxity of belief, then even heresy will be the
successive results.
Here then are two injuries which Revelation is likely
to sustain at the hands of the Masters of human reason
unless tbe Church, as in duty bound, protects the sacred

Duties o.f the Clzurch T07.vardç Knowledge. 2 19

treasure which is in jeopardy. The first is a simple
ignoring of Theological Truth altogether, under the pre-
tence of not recognising differences ùf religious opinion;
-which will only take place in countries or under govern-
ments which have abjured Catholicism. The second,
which is of a more subtle character, is a recognition indeed
of Catholicism, but (as if in pretended mercy to it) an
adulteration of its spirit. I will now proceed to describe
the dangers I speak of more distinctly, by a reference
to the general subject-matter of instruction which a
University undertakes.
There are three great subjects on which Human Reason
employs itself :-God, Nature, and Man: and theology
being put aside in the present argument, the physical
and social worlds remain. These, when respectively sub-
jected to Human Reason, form two books: the book
of nature is called Science, the book of man is called
Literature. Literature and Science, thus considered,
nearly constitute the subject-matter of Liberal Educa-
tion; and, while Science is made to subserve the former
of the two injuries, which Revealed Truth sustains,-its
exclusion, Literature subserves the latter,-its corruption.
Let us consider the influence of each upon Religion
separately.

3.
I. As to Physical Science, of course there can be no
real collision bet\veen it and Catholicism. Nature and
Grace, Reason and Revelation, come from the same
Divine Author, whose works cannot contradict each
other. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that, in matter
of fact, there always has been a sort of jealousy and
hostility between Religion and physical philosophers.
fhe name of Galileo reminds us of it at once. Not con-

220

D'l
'cou-rse IX.

tent \\lith investigating and reasoning in his own province,
't is said, he went out of his way directly to insult the
received interpretation of Scripture; theologians repell
d
an attack which \vas wanton and arrogant; and Science,
affronted in her n1inister, has taken its full revenge upon
Theology since. A vast multitude of its teachers, J fear
it must be said, have been either unbelievers or sceptics,
or at least have denied to Christianity any teaching,
distinctive or special, over the Religion of Nature. There
have indeed been most illustrious exceptions; sonle men
protected by their greatness of mind, some by their
religious profession, some by the fear of public opinion;
but I suppose the run of experimentalists, external to
the Catholic Church, have more or less inherited the
positive or negative unbelief of Laplace, Buffon, Franklin,
Priestley, Cuvier, and Humboldt. I do not of course
Inean to say that there need be in every case a resentful
and virulent opposition n1ade to Religion on the part 01
scientific men; but their emphatic silence or phlegmatic
inadvertence as to its claims have implied, more elo..
quently than any 'words, that in their opinion it had no
voice at all in the subject-nlatter, which they had ap-
propriated to thenlselves. The same antagonisn1 shows
itself in the middle ages. Friar Bacon \vas popularly
regarded with suspicion as a dealer in unlawful arts;
Pope Sylvester the Second has been accused of nlagic
for his knowledge of natural secrets; and the geographical
ideas of St. Virgil, Bishop of Saltzburg, \vere regarded
\vith anxiety by the great St. Boniface, the glory of
England, the Martyr-Apostle of Germany. I suppose,
in matter of fact, magical superstition and physical
knowledge did commonly go togethe-r in those ages:
however, the hostility between experimental science and
theology is far older th
n Christianity. Lord Bacon

Dut-ies 0/ the Church Towards I(nowledt,ye. :22 I

traces it to an era prior to Socrates; he tells us that,
among the Greeks, the atheistic ,vas the philosophy n10st
favourable to physical discoveries, and he does not hesi-
tate to imply that the rise of the religious schools was the
ruin of science. *
Now, if we \vould investigate the reason of this oppo-
sition between Theology and Physics, I suppose we must
first take into account Lord Bacon's own explanation of
it It is common in judicial inquiries to caution the
parties on whonl the verdict depends to put out of their
minds whatever they have heard out of court on the sub-
ject to \vhich their attention is to be directed. They are to
judge by the evidence; and this is a rule \vhich holds in
other investigations as far as this, that nothing of an ad

ventitious nature ought to be introduced into the process.
In like manner, from religious investigations, as such,
physics must be excluded. and from physical, as such,
religion; and if \ve mix them, we shall spoil both. The
theologian, speaking of Divine On1nipotence, for the time
simply ignores the laws of nature as existing restraints
upon its exercise; and the physical philosopher, on the
other hand, in his experitnents upon natural phenomena,
is simply ascertaining those la\vs, putting aside the ques-
tion of that Omnipotence. If the theologian, in tracing
the ways of Providence, were stopped with objections
grounded on the impossibility of physical miracles, he
would justly protest against the interruption; and ,vere
the philosopher, who ,vas determining the motion of the
heavenly bodies, to be questioned about their Final or
their First Cause, he too would suffer an illogic.al inter-
ruption. The latter asks the cause of volcanoes, and is
impatient at being told it is "the divine vengeance;" the

.. Vide Hallam's Literature of Europe,
Iacaulay's Essay, and th
Author's
OJ(ford U ruversity Sermons, IX.

222

Discourse IX.

former asks the cause of the overthrow of the guilty
cities, and is preposterously referred to the volcanic
action still visible in their neighbourhood. The inquiry
into final causes for the mon1ent passes over the exist-
ence of established laws; the inquiry into physical.
.
passes over for the moment the existence of God. In
other \vords, physical science is in a certain sense athe-
istic, for the very reason it is not theology.
This is Lord Bacon's justification, and an intelligible
one, for considering that the fall of atheistic philosophy
in ancient tinles \vas a blight upon the hopes of physical
science. "Aristotle," he says, "Galen, and others fre-
quently introduce such causes as these :-the hairs of
the eyelids are for a fence to the sight; the bones for
pillars \\
hence to build the bodies of animals; the
leaves of trees are to defend the fruit from the sun and
wind; the clouds are designed for watering the earth.
An which are properly alleged in metaphysics; but in
physics, are impertinent, and as re1noras to the ship, that
hinder the sciences from holding on their course of
improvement, and as introducing a neglect of searching
after physical causes."*' Here then is one reason for the
prej udice of physical philosophers against Theology :-
on the one hand, their deep satisfaction in the laws of
nature indisposes them towards the thought of a l'\'1oral
Governor, and makes them sceptical of His interpo-
sition; on the other hand, the occasional interference of
religious criticism in a province not religious, has made
them sore, suspicious, and resentful.

Another reason of a kindred nature is to be found
in the difference of method by,vhich truths are gained
* In Augment., 5.

Duties of the Church TO':.i.'ards ](no'lvledge. 223

in theology and in physical science. Induction is the
instrument of Physics, and deduction only is the instru-
ment of Theology. There the simple question is, vVhat
is revealed? all doctrinal knowledge flo\vs from one
fountain head. If we are able to enlarge our view and
nlultiply our propositions, it must be merely by the
comparison and adjustment of the original truths; if we
would solve new questions, it must be by consulting old
answers. The notion of doctrinal knowledge absolutely
novel, and of simple addition from without, is ißtole-
rable to Catholic ears, and never was entertained by
anyone who was even approaching to an understand...
iog of our creed. Revelation is all in all in doctrine ;
the Apostles its sole depository, the inferential method
its sole instrument, and ecclesiastical authority its sole
sanction. The Divine Voice has spoken once for all,
and the only question is about its Ineaning. Now
this process, as far as it was reasoning, was the very
nlode of reasoning which, as regards physical know-
ledge, the school of Bacon has superseded by the in-
d uctive method :-no wonder, then, that that school
should be irritated and indignant to find that a subject-
matter remains still, in which their favourite instruillent
has no office; no wonder that they rise up against this
memorial of an antiquated system, as an eyesore and an
insult; and no wonder that the very force and dazzlin

success of their own method in its own departments
should sway or bias unduly the reiigious sentiments of
any persons who come under its influence. They assert
that no new truth can be gained by deduction; Catho...
lics assent, but add that, as regards religious truth, they
have not to seek at all, for they have it already. Chris..
tian Truth is purely of revelation; that revelation we can
Lut explain, we cannot increase, except relatively to OUI

224

Discourse X.

own apprehensions; without it we should have known
nothing of its contents, with it \ve know just as much as its
contents, and nothing more. And, as it was given by a
divine act independent of man, so will it remain in spite
of man. Niebuhr may revolutionize history, Lavoisier
chemistry, N e\vton astronomy; but God Himself is the
author as well as the subject of theology. When Truth
can change, its Revelation can change; when human
reason can outreason the Omniscient, then may it
uper-
sede His work.
Avowals such as these fall strange upon the ear ot
men whose first principle is the search after truth, and
whose starting-points of search are things material and
sensible. They scorn any process of inquiry not founded
on experiment; the Mathematics indeed they endure,
because that science deals with ideas, not with facts, and
leads to conclusions hypothetical rather than real;
Ii Metaphysics" they even use as a by-\vord of reproach;
llnd Ethics they admit only on condition that it gives up
conscience as its scientific grounù, and bases itself on
tangible utility: but as to Theology, they cannot deal
with it, they cannot master it, and so they simply outlaw
it and ignore it. Catholicism, forsooth, "confines the
intellect," because it holds that God's intellect is greater
than theirs, and that \vhat He has done, man cannot
in1prove. And what in some sort justifies them to them-
selves in this extravagance is the circumstance that
there is a religion close at their doors which, discarding
so severe a tone, has actually adopted their own
principle of inquiry. Protestantism treats Scripture just
as they deal with Nature; it takes the sacred text as a
large collection of phenomena, from which, by an tn-
d uctive process, each individual Christian Inay arrive at
just those religious. conclusions which approve them..

lJutzc?s oj the Church 70waras A.'nowtedge. 225

selves to his own judgment. It considers faith a mere
modification of reason, as being an acquiescence in
certain probable conclusions till better are found.
Syolpathy, then, if no other reason, throws experimental
philosophers into alliance with the enemies of Catho-
licism.

5.
1 have another consideration to add, not less impor-
tant than any I have hitherto adduced. The physical
sciences, Astronomy, Chemistry, and the rest, are
doubtless engaged upon divine works, and cannot issue
in untrue religious conclusions. But at the same time it
must be recollected that Revelation has reference to
circumstances which did not arise till after the heavens
and the earth were made. They were made before the
introduction of moral evil into the world: whereas the
Catholic Church is the instrument of a remedial dispen-
sation to meet that introduction. No wonder then that
her teaching is simply distinct, though not divergent,
from the theology which Physical Science suggests to its
followers. She sets before us a number of attributes
and acts on the part of the Divine Being, for which the
material and animal creation gives no scope; po\ver,
wisdom, goodness are the burden of the physical world,
but it does not and could not speak of mercy, long-
suffering, and the economy of human redemption, and
but partially of the moral la\v and moral goodness.
"Sacred Theology," says Lord Bacon, If must be drawn
from the words and the oracles of God : not from the
light of nature or the dictates of reason. It is written.
that 'th
I-Ieavens declare the glory of God ;' but we no-
\vhere find it that the Heavens declare the will of God;
w.hich is pronounced a law and a testimony, that men
IS

226

Discourse IX.

should do according to it. Nor does this hold only if\
the great mysteries of the Godhead, of the creation.
of the redemption. . . . We cannot doubt that a large
part of the moral la\v is too sublime to be attained by
the light of nature; though it is still certain that men,
even with the light and law of nature, have some notions
of virtue, vice, justice, \vrong, good, and evil." '* That
the new and further manifestations of the Aln1ighty,
made by Revelation, are in perfect harmony with the
teaching of the natural \vorld, forms indeed one subject
of the profou nd work of the Anglican Bishop Butler;
but they cannot in any sense be gathered from nature,
and the silence of nature concerning them may easily
seduce the imagination, though it has no force to per-
suade the reason, to revolt from doctrines which have
not been authenticated by facts, but are enforced by
authority. In a scientific age, then, there will naturally
be a parade of what is called Natural Theology, a wide-
spread profession of the Unitarian creed, an impatience
of n1ystery, and a scepticism about miracles.
And to all this tnust be added the ample opportunity
\vhich physical science gives to the indulgence of those
sentiments of beauty, order, and congruity, of which I
have said so much, as the ensigns and colours (as they
may be called) of a civilized age in its \varfare against
Catholicism.
It being considered, then, that Catholicism differs frùnl
physical science, in drift, in method of proof, and in su b-
ject-matter, how can it fail to meet with unfair usage
from the philosophers of any Institution in which there
is no one to take its part? That Physical Science itself
will be ultimately the loser by such ill treatInent of Theo-
· Dc Au&"m.,

8.

Duties of the Church Towards Knowledge. 227

logy, I have insisted on at great length in some pre-
ceding Discourses; for to depress unduly, to encroach
upon any science, and much more on an important one,
is to do an injury to all However, this is not the con-
cern of the Church; the Church has no call to watch
over and protect Science: but towards Theology she has
a distinct duty: it is one of the special trusts committed
to her keeping. Where Theology is, there she must be;
and if a University cannot fulfil its name and office with-
out the recognition of Revealed Truth, she must be there
to see that it is a bond fide recognition, sincerely made
and consistently acted on.

6.
II. And if the interposition of the Church is necessary
in the Schools of Science, still more imperatively is it
demanded in the other main constituent portion of
the subject-matter of Liberal Education,-Literature.
Literature stands related to Man as Science stands to
Nature; it is his history. Man is composed of body
and soul; he thinks and he acts; he has appetites,
passions, affections, motives, designs; he has within him
the lifelong struggle of duty with inclination; he has an
intellect fertile and capacious; he is formed for society,
and society multiplies and diversifies in endless combina-
tions his personal characteristics, moral and intellectual.
All this constitutes his life; of all this Literature is the
expression; so that Literature is to man in some sort what
autobiography is to the individual; it is his Life and Re-
mains. l\10reover, he is this sentient, intelligent, creative,
and operative being, quite independent of any extraor-
dinary aid from Heaven, or any definite religious belief;
and as such, as he is in himself, does Literature represent
him; it is the Life and Remains of the natural man,

228

Disr01t1'Sf Ix.

innocent or guilty. I do not mean to say that it is
impossil>le in its very notion that Literature should be
tinctured by a religious spirit; Hebre\v Literature, as far
as it can be called Literature, certainly is simply theo-
logical, and has a character imprinted on it which is
above nature; but I am speaking of what is to be ex-
pected without any extraordinary dispensation; and I
say that, in matter of fact, as Science is the reflection of
Nature, so is Literature also-the one, of Nature physical,
the other, of Nature moral and social. Circumstanc
s,
such as locality, period, language, seem to make little or
no difference in the character of Literature, as such;
on the whole, all Literatures are one; they are the
voices of the natural man.
I \vish this were all that had to be said to the disad-
vantage of Literature; but while Nature physical remains
fixed in its laws, K ature moral and social has a \\rill of
its own, is self-governed, and never remains any long
\\.hile in that state from which it started into action.
Man \vill never continue in a mere state of innocence; he
is sure to sin, and his literature will be the expression of
his sin, and this whether he be heathen or Christian.
Christianity has thrown gleams of light on him and his
literature; but as it has not converted him, but only
certain choice specimens of him, so it has not changed
the characters of his mind or of his history; his literature
is either what it was, or \vorse than what it was, in pro-
portion as there has been an abuse of knowledge granted
and a rejection of truth. On the whole, then, I think it
will be fùund, and ever found, as a matter of course, that
Literature, as such, no matter of ,\\yhat nation, is the
science or history, partly and at best of the natural man,
partly of lnan in rebellion.

Duties oj" the Church TO'lvards l<llowledg-e. 229

7

Hele then, I say, you arc involved in a difficulty
greater than that \vhich besets the cultivation of Sciènce ;
for, if Physical Science be dangerous, as I have said, it is
dangerous, because it necessarily ignores the idea of
moral evil; but Literature is open to the nlore grievous
imputation of recognizing and understanding it too welL
Some one will say to me perhaps: "Our youth shall
not be corrupted. We will dispense \vith all general or
national Literature whatever, if it be so exceptionable;
'we will have a Christian Literature of our own, as pure,
as true, as the Jewish." You cannot have it :-1 do not
say you cannot form a select literature for the young, nay,
even for the middle or lo\ver classes; this is another
matter altogether: I am speaking of University Educa-
tion, which implies an extended range of reading, \vhich
has to deal \vith standard \vorks of genius, or 'what are
called tÌ1e classics of a language: and I say, from the
nature of the case, if Literature is to be made a study of
human nature, you cannot have a Christian Literature.
It is a contradiction in tern1S to attempt a sinless Litera-
ture of sinful man. You may gather together something
very great and high, something higher than any Literature
ever was; and when you have done so, you \\.ill find that
it is not Literature at all. You will have sitnply left the
delineation of man, as such) and have substituted for it,
as far as you have had any thing to substitute, that of
man, as he is or might be, under certain special advan-
tages. Give up the study of man, as such, if so it nlu
t
be j but say you do so. Do not say you are studying
him, his history, his mind and his heart, when you are
studying something else. Man is a being of genius,
passion, intellect. conscience, power. He exercises these

230

DisCOU1 se IX.

various gifts in various ways, in great deeds, in great
thoughts, in heroic acts, in hateful crimes. He founds
states, he fights battles, he builds cities, he ploughs the
forest, he subdues the elements, he rules his kind. He
creates vast ideas, aQd influences many generations.
He takes a thousand shapes, and undergoes a thousand
fortunes. Literature records them all to the life,

Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas.
Gaudia, discursus.

He pours out his fervid soul in poetry; he sways to and
fro, he soars, he dives, in his restless speculations; his
lips drop eloquence; he touches the canvas, and it
glows with beauty; he sweeps the strings, and they
thrill with an ecstatic meaning. He looks back into
himself, and he reads his own thoughts, and notes them
down; he looks out into the universe, and tells over and
celebrates the elements and principles of which it is the
prod uct.
Such is man: put hÎ1n aside, keep him before you;
but, whatever you do, do not take him for what he is
not, for something nlore divine and sacred, for man re-
generate. Nay, beware of showing God's grace and its
work at such disadvantage as to make the few whom it
has thoroughly influenced compete in intellect \vith the
vast multitude who either have it not, or use it ill. The
elect are few to choose out of, and the world is inex-
haustible. From the first, J abel and Tubalcain, Nimrod
"the stout hunter," the learning of the Pharaohs, and
the wisdom of the East country, are of the world. Every
now and then they are rivalled by a Solomon or a Be-
seleel, but the Izabitat of natural gifts is the natural man.
'lhe Church ß1ay u
e theln
she cannot at her \\Tin origi-

Duiies 01- the Church TOlvards fiuowledge. 23 1

n:1.te them. Not till the \vhole human race is made new
will its literature be pure and true. Possible of course
it is in idea, for nature, inspired by heavenly grace, to
exhibit itself on a large scale, in an originality of thought
or action, even far beyond what the world's literature
has recorded or exemplified; but, if you would in fact
have a literature of saints, first of all have a nation of
them.
What is a clearer proof of the truth of all this than
the structure of the Inspired Word itself? It is un..
deniably not the reflection or picture of the many, but
of the few; it is no picture of life, but an anticipation ot
death and judgment. Human literature is about all
things, grave or gay, painful or pleasant; but the
Inspired Word views them only in one aspect, and as
they tend to one scope. It gives us little insight into
the fertile developments of mind; it has no terms in its
vocabulary to express with exactness the intellect and
its separate faculties: it knows nothing of genius, fancy,
wit, invention, presence of mind, resource. It does not
discourse of empire, comlnerce, enterprise, learning,
philosophy, or the fine arts. Slightly too does it touch
on the more sÏInple and innocent courses of nature and
their reward. Little does it say - of those temporal
blessings which rest upon our worldly occupations, and
make them easy; of the blessings which we derive from
the sunshine day and the serene night, from the succes-
sion of the seasons, and the produce of the earth. Little
about our recreations and our daily domestic cornforts;
little about the ordinary occasions of festivity and mirth,
which sweeten hun1an life; and nothing at all about
various pursuits or amusements, which it would be going
too much into detail to mention. We r
ad indeed of the
* (Fid. the Al1thor's Parochial Sermons, vol. i.
,.

23 2

Discourse I
\.

feast when Isaac was weaned, and of Jacob's courtship,
and of the religious J11crry-makings of holy Job; but
exceptions, such as these, do but renlind us what might
be in Scripture, and is not. If then by Literature is
meant the manifestation of human nature in human lan-
guage, you will seek for it in vain except in the world.
Put up with it, as it is, or do not pretend to cultivate it;
take things as they are, not as you could \vish them.

8.
Nay, I am obliged to go further still; even if \,ve could,
still \ve should be shrinking from our plain duty, Gentle-
men, did we leave out Literature from Education. For
\vhy do we educate, except to prepare for the world?
Why do we cultivate the intellect of the many beyonrl
the first elements of kno,vledge, except for this \vorld ?
Will it be Inuch matter in the \vorld to conle \vheth<:r
our bodily health or whether our intellectual strength
\vas more or less, except of course as this \vorld is in
all its circumstances a trial for the next? If then a
University is a direct preparation for this world, let it
be \vhat it professes. It is not a Convent, it is not a
Sem inary; it is a place to fit men of the world for the
world. We cannot possibly keep them from plunging
into the world, \vith all its ways and principles and
maxims, when their time comes; but we can prepare
thenl against what is inevitable; and it is not the \vay
to learn to swim in troubled waters, never to h3ve
gone into them. Proscribe (1 do not merely say parti-
cular authors, particular works, particular passages) but
Secular Literature as such; cut out from your class
books all broad manifestations of the natural man; and
those manifestations are waiting for your pupil's benefit
at the very doors of your lecture room in Jiving 2.nd

IJutÙ:s oj the Church 1 òwards .I{nùwledgt. 233

breathing substance. They \vill nleet him there in all
the charm of novelty, and all the fascination of genius
or of alniableness. To-day a pupil, to-morrow a Inen1-
ber of the great \""odd: to-day confined to the Lives
of the Saints, to-morro\v thrown upon Babel ;-thrown
on Babel, without the honest indulgcnc..: of \vit and
hunlour and imagination having ever been permitted to
him, without any fastidiousness of taste \vrought into
him, without any rule given him for discriminating" the
precious fronl the vile," beauty fronl sin, the truth froin
the sophistry of nature, what is innocent from \vha t is
poison. You have refused him the Inasters of hutnan
thought, \vho \vould in son1e sense have educated him,
because of their incidental corruption: you have shut
up from him those whose thoughts strike hOine to our
hearts, whose words are proverbs, \vhose names are in-
digenous to all the world, who are the standard of their
mother tongue, and the pride and boast of their country-
nlen, Homer, Ariosto, Cervantes, Shakespeare, because
the old AdaTn smelt rank in them; and for \vhat have
you reserved hÎ1n ? You have given him "a libert)
unto" the multitudinous blasphemy of his day; you
have made him free of its ne\vspapers, its revic\vs, its
magazines, its novels, its controversial pamphlets, of its
Parliamentary debates, its law proceediIigs, its platform
speeches, its songs, its drama, its theatre, of its en\'elop-
ing, stifling atmosphere of death. You have succeeded
but in this,-in making the world his University.
Difficult then as the question may be, and much as it
may try the judgments and even divide the opinions of
zealous and religious Catholics, I cannot feel any doubt
myself, Gentlemen, that the Church's true policy is not
to aim at the exclusion of Literature from Secular
Schools. but at her own adn1ission into them. Let her do

234

DÙ;COU'St
fLY.

for Literature in one way what she does for Science in
another; each has its imperfection, and she has her ren1edy
for each. She fears no kno\vledge, but she purifies all ;
she represses ne element of our nature, but cultivates
the whole. Science is grave, methodical, logical; with
Science then she argues, and opposes reason to reason.
Literature does not argue, but declaims and insinuates;
it is multiform and versatile: it persuades instead of
convincing, it seduces, it carries captive; it appeals to the
sense of honour, or to the imagination, or to the stimu-
lus of curiosity; it makes its ,yay by means of gaiety,
satire, romance, the beautiful, the pleasurable. Is it
wonderful that \vith an agent like this the Church should
claim to deal with a vigour corresponding to its restless-
ness, to interfere in its proceedings \vith a higher hand,
and to wield an authority in the choice of its studies and
oî its books ,vhich would be tyrannical, if reason and
fact were the only instruments of its conclusions? But,
any how, her principle is one and the same throughout:
not to prohibit truth of any kind, but to see that no doc-
trines pass under the name of Truth but those which
claim it rightfully.

9.
Such at least is the lesson which I am taught by all
the thought \vhich I have been able to bestow upon the
subject; such is the lesson which I have gained from the
history of my own special Father and Patron, St. Philip
Neri. He lived in an age as traitorous to the interests
of Catholicism as any that preceded it, or can follow it.
He lived at a time when pride mounted high, and the
senses held rule; a time when kings and nobles never
had more of state and homage, and never less of per-
sonaì responsibility and peril; ,vhen medieval ,vinter was

Duties of the Churc/l Towards ]{1l0Wtidg-e. 235

receding, and the sunlmer sun of civilization was bring-
ing into leaf and flower a thousand forms of luxurious
enjoYlnent; when a new world of thought and beauty
had opened upon the human mind, in the discovery of
the treasures of classic literature and art. He sa\v the
great and the gifted, dazzled by the Enchantress, and
orinking in the magic of her song; he saw the high and
the wise, the student and the artist, painting, and poetry
. ,
and sculpture, and music, and architecture, drawn within
her range, and circling round the abyss: he saw heathen
fanns mounting thence, and forming in the thick air:-
all this he sa\v, and he perceived that the mischief was to
be met, nQt with argument, not with science, not with
protests and warnings, not by the recluse or the preacher,
but by means of the great counter-fascination of purity
and truth. He was raised up to do a \vork almost pecu-
liar in the Church,-not to be a Jerome Savonarola,
though Philip had a true devotion towards him and a
tender memory of his Florentine house; not to be a
St. Charles, though in his beaming countenance Philip
had recognized the aureole of a saint; not to be a St.
I gnatius, wrestling with the foe, though Philip \vas termed
the Society's bell of call, so many subjects did he send
to it; not to be a St. Francis Xavier, though Philip
had longed to shed his blood for Christ in India with him;
not to be a St. Caietan, or hunter, of souls, for Philip
preferred, as he expressed it, tranquilly to cast in his
net to gain them; he preferred to yield to the stream,
and direct the current, which he could not stop, of
science, literature, art, and fashion, and to sweeten and
to
anctify what God had made very good and man had
spoilt.
And so he
ontemplated as the idea of his mission,
not the propagation of the faith, nor the exposition of

23 6

DisCOU1'S-e IX.

Joctrine, nor the catechetical schools; \vhatever was exact
and systematic pleased him not; he put from him mo-
nastic rule and authoritative speech, as David refused the
armour of his king. No; he \VQuld be bu t an ordinary
individual priest as others: and his ".eapons should be but
unaffected htllnilít y and 'Unpretending love. All lIe did
\vas to be done by the light, and fCl'Tour. and convincing
eloquence of his personal character and his easy conver-
sation. He came to the Eternal City and he sat hirnseH
do\vn the1 e, and his home and his family gradually gre\v
up around him, by the spontaneous accession of materiab
fron1 \vithout. He did not so much seek his o\vn as
draw them to him. He sat in his small room, and they
in their gay worldly dresses, the rich and thè \vellborn,
as ,,\Tel1 as the simple and the illiterate, cro\vded into it.
In the mid-heats of sunlnler, in the frosts of \vinter, still
\vas he in that low and narro\v cell at San Girolamo,
reading the hearts of those \vho catne to him, and curinG
their souls' maladies by the vcry touch of his hand. It
was a vision of the Jvlagi \\'orshipping the infant Saviour,
so pure and innocent, so s\veet and beautiful was he;
and so loyal and so dear to the gracious Virgin
fother.
And they \vho came remained gazing and listening, till
at length, first one and then another threw off their
bravery, and took his poor cassock and girdle instead:
or, if they kept it, it W2S to put haircloth under it, or to
take on them a rule of life, \vhile to the \vorld they looked
as before.
I n the words of his biographer, .. he ,vas all things to
all men. He suited himself to noble and ignoble, young
and old, subjects and prelates, learned and ignorant;
and received those \\rho \vere strangers to him \vith
singular benignity, and embraced them with as much
10ve anrl charit>r as if he had been a long "rhile expect-

Duties oj the Church Towards Knowledge. 2';7

1ng them. When he was called upon to be merry he
was so; if there was a demand upon his sympathy he
was equally ready. He gave the saIne welcome to all :
caressing the poor equally with the rich, and wearying
himself to assist all to the utmost limits of his pOvver.
In consequence of his being so accessible and willing to
receive all comers, many ,vent to him every day, and
"orne continued for the space of thirty, nay forty years,
to visit him very often both morning and evening, so
that his room went by the agreeable nicknarne of the
Home of Christian mirth. Nay, people came to him,
not only from all parts of Italy, but from France, Spain,
Germany, and all Christendom; and even the infidels
and Jews, who had ever any communication with him,
revered him as a holy man.",yo The first families of
Rome, the Massimi, the Aldobrandini, the Colonnas, the
Altieri, the Vitelleschi, were his friends and his penitents.
Nobles of Poland, Grandees of Spain, Knights of Malta,
could not leave Rome without coming to him. Car-
dinals, Archbishops, and Bishops were his intimates;
Federigo Borromeo haunted his room and got the nan1e
of II Father Philip's soul." The Cardinal-Archbishops of
Verona and Bologna wrote books in his honour. Pope
Pius the Fourth died in his arms. Lawyers, painters,
musicians, physicians, it was the same too with them.
Baronius, Zazzara, and Ricci, left the law at his bid-
ding, and joined his congregation, to do its \vork, to
write the annals of the Church, and to die in the odour
of sanctity. Palestrina had Father Philip's ministra-
tions in his last moments. Animuccia hung about him
during life, sent him a message after death, and ,vas
conducted by him through Purgatory to Heaven. And
\\-ho \vas he, I say, all the \vhile, but an humble priest,
* Bacci, vol. i.. p. 192, ii., p. çJ.

23 8

Ð"stourse IX.

a stranger in Rome, with no distinction of family or
letters, no claim of station or of office, great simply in
the attraction \vith \vhich a Divine Po\ver had gifted
him? and yet thus humble, thus unennobled, thus empty-
handed, he has achieved the glorious title of Apostle of
Rome.

10.
W ell ,
rere it for his clients and children, Gentlemen, ii
they could promise themselves the very shadow of his
special power, or could hope to do a miserable fraction
of the sort of work in which he was pre-en1inently
skilled. But so far at least they may attempt,-to take
his position, and to use his method, and to cultivate the
arts of which he was so bright a pattern. For me, if it be
God's blessed will that in the years now coming I am to
have a share in the great undertaking, which has been
the occasion and the subject of these Discourses, so fax
I can say for certain that, whether or not I can do any
thing at all in St. Philip's way, at least I can do nothing
in any other. N either by my habits of life, nor by
vigour of age, am I fitted for the task of authority, or
of rule, or of initiation. I do but aspire, if strength is
given me, to be your minister in a work \vhich must em-
ploy younger minds and stronger lives than mine. I am
but fit to bear my witness, to proffer my suggestions, to
express my sentiments, as has in fact been my occupa-
tion in these discussions; to thro"' such light upon
general questions, upon the choice of objects, upon the
import of principles, upon the tendency of measures, as
past reflection and experience enable me to contribute.
I shall have to make appeals to your consideration, your
friendliness, your confidence, of which I have had so
many instances, on which I so tranquilly repose; and

Dutzes oj" the Church Towards Knowledge. 239

after all, neither you nor I must ever be surprised, should
it so happen that the Hand of Him,
'ith \vhom are the
springs of life and death, weighs heavy on me, and
makes me unequal to anticipations in which you have
been too kind, and to hopes in which I may have beeo
too sanguine.

II.
UNIVERSITY SUBJECTS.
DISCUSSED IN OCCASIONAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS.

16

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

\VILLIAM MONSELL, M.P., ETC., ETC.-

l\iv DEAR MaNSELL,
I seem to have some claim for asking leave of Y'ou to
prefix your name to the following small Volume, since it
is a memorial of work done in a country which you so
dearly love, and in behalf of an undertaking in which
you feel so deep an interest.
Nor do I venture on the step without some hope that
it is worthy of your acceptance, at least on account of
those portions of it which have already received the
approbation of the learned men to whom they were
addressed, and which have been printed at their desire.
But, even though there were nothing to recommend it
except that it came from me, I know well that you
would kindly welcome it as a token of the truth and
constancy with which I am,
tvIv DEAR MaNSELL,
Yours very affectionately,
[November. 1858.] JOHN H. NEWMAN.

r.Now LORD EMLV.]

ADVERTISEIVfENT.

I 'r has been the fortune of the author through life,
that the Volumes which he has published have grown
for the most part out of the duties which lay upon him,
or out of the circUlnstances of the moment. Rarely has
he been master of his o\vn studies.
The present collection of Lectures and Essays, written
by him while Rector of the Catholic University of Ire..
[and, is certainly not an exception to this remark.
Rather, it requires the above consideration to be kept in
view, as an apology for the want of keeping which is
apparent between its separate portions, some of them
being written for public delivery, others with the
privileged freedom of anonymous compositions.
However, whatever be the inconvenience which such
varieties in tone and character may involve, the author
cannot affect any compunction for having pursued the
illustration of one and the same important subject-matter,
with which he had been put in charge, by such methods,
graver or lighter, so that they were lawful, as successively
came to his hand.

No'f..'em."'". 1858.

UNJVERSIT-V' SUBJECTS.

PAGB
\. CHRISTIANiTY AND LETTERS. A Lecture read in the School
of Philosophy and Letters, :r\ovember, 18 54 - 249

H. LITERATURE. A Lecture read in the School of Philosophy
and Le
ters, November, 1858 - 268

III. CATHOLIC LITERATURE IN THE ENGLISH
18 54- 8 :-

. I. in its relation to Religious Literature -

. 2. to Science

. 3. to Classical Literature -
t. 4. to Literature of the Day

TONGUE,
- 295
- 29 6
- 299
- 3 0 7
. 3 20

IV. ELEMENTARY STUDIES, 1854-6 :-
S. I. Grammar

. 2. Composition
*. 3. Latin Writing -

. 4. General Religious Knowledge -
V. A FORM OF INFIDELITY OF THE DAY, 1854.-

. I. Its sentiments .

. 2. Its policy

. 33 1
. 334
. 34 8
. 3 62
. 37 2
- 3 81
- 381
- 39 2

VI. UNIVERSITY PREACHING, 1855

.. 4 0 5

VII. CHRISTIANITY AND PHYSICAL SCIENCE. A Lecture rt'"ad
in the School of Medicine, November, 1855 - 428

VIII.

CHRISTIANITY AND SCIENTIFIC I NVESTIGA TION.
for the School of Science, 1855 -

A Lecture
- 45 6

IX. DISCIPLINE OF MIND. An Address delivered to the Evening
Classes, November. 1858 - 480

x. CHRISTIANITY AND MEDICAL SCIENCE. An Address delivered
to the Students of Medicine, November, 1858 - . 505

249

I.

CHRISTIANITY AND LETTERS.

A LECTURE IN THE SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY AND
LETTERS.

L
I T seeIns but natural, Gentlemen, now that we are
opening the School of Philosophy and Letters, or,
3.S it was formerly called, of Arts, in this new University,
that we should direct our attention to the question, 'what
are the subjects generally included under that name,
and what place they hold, and how they come to hold
that place, in a University, and in the education ,vhich
(\ University provides. This \vould be natural on
such an occasion, even though the Faculty of Arts held
but a secondary place in the academical system ; but
it seems to be even irnperative on us, considering that
the studies which that Faculty en1braces are almost the
direct subject-matter and the staple of the mental exer-
cises proper to a University.
I t is indeed not a little remarkable that, in spite of
the special historical connexion of University Institutions
\vith the Sciences of Theology, Law, and Medicine, a
University, after all, should be formally based (as it really
is), and should emphatically live in. the Faculty of Arts;
but such is the deliberate decision of those who have

.25 0

ChYlstianilv and Letters

most deeply and iInpartially considered the subject..
Arts existed before other Faculties; the Masters of Arts
\vere the ruling and directing body; the success and
popularity of the Faculties of Law and 1\iedicine were
considered to be in no slight measure an encroachment
and a usurpation, and were filet \vith jealousy and
resistance. \Vhen Colleges arose and became the
medium and instrument of University action, they did
but confirm the ascendency of the Faculty of Arts; and
thus. even down to this day, in those academical cor-
porations \vhich have more than others retained the
traces of their medieval origin,-I mean the Universities
of Oxford and Cambridge,-we hear little of Theology,
Medicine, or Law, and almost exclusively of Arts.
Now, considering the reasonable association, to which I
have already referred, which exists in our minds between
Universities and the three learned professions, here is a
phenomenon which has to be contemplated for its own
sake and accounted for, as well as a circumstance en-
hancing the significance and importance of the act in
which we have been for some weeks engaged; and I
consider that I shall not be employing our time unprofit-
ably I if T am able to make a suggestion, which, while
it illustrates the fact, is able to explain the difficulty.

2.
If ere I must go back, Gentlemen, a very great way,
and ask you to review the course of Civilization since
the beginning of history. When we survey the stream
of hun1an affairs for the last three thousand years, we
find it to run thus :-At first sight there is so much
fluctuation, agitation, ebbing and flowing, that we may
de:)pair to discern any law in its movements, taking tht.
· Vid Huber.

Christianity and Lette?' 9.

25 1

earth as its bed, and mankind as its contents; but, on
looking Inore closely and attentively, we shall discern, in
spite of the heterogeneous materials and the various his-
tories and fortunes which are found in the race of nlan
during the long period I have Inentioned, a certain for-
Dlation amid the chaos,-one and one only,-and ex-
tending, though not over the \vhole earth, yet through a
very considerable portion of it. Man is a social being
and can hardly exist without society, and in matter of
fact societies have ever existed all over the habitable
earth. The greater part of these associations have been
political or religious, and have been comparatively
limited in extent, and temporary. They have been
formed and dissolved by the force of accidents or by
inevitable circumstances; and, when we have enumerated
them one by one, we have made of theln all that can be
made. But there is one remarkable association which
attracts the attention of the philosopher, not political
nor religious, or at least only partially and not essentially
such, which began in the earliest times and grew \vith
each succeeding age, till it reached its complete develop-
ment, and then continued on, vigorous and unwearied

and which still remains as definite and as firm as ever it
was. Its bond is a common civilization; and, though
there are other civilizations in the world, as there are
other societies, yet this civilization, together \vith the
society which is its creation and its home, is so distinc-
tive and luminous in its character J so inlperial in its ex-
tent, so imposing in its duration, and so utterly \vithout
rival upon the face of the earth, that the association rnay
fitly assume to itself the title of "Human Society," and
its civilization the abstract term "Civilization."
There are indeed great outlying portions of mankind
\vhich are not, perhaps never have been, included in this

25 2

C'hrÙ;tiallzïy and Letle s.

Human Society; still they are outlying portions and
nothing else, fragmentary, unsociable, solitary, and un-
meaning, protesting and revolting against the grand
central formation of which I am speaking, but not unit-
ing with each other into a second whole. I am not deny-
ing of course the civilization of the Chinese, for instance,
though it be not our civilization; but it is a huge, sta-
tionary, unattractive, luorose civilization. Nor do I deny
a civilization to the Hindoos, nor to the ancient IVI exicans,
nor to the Saracens, nor (in a certain sense) to the '"I'urks ;
but each of these races has its own civilization, as sepa-
rate froln one another as from ours. I do not see how
they can be all brought under one idea. Eclch stands
by itself, as if the other \vere not ; each is local ; many of
them are tenlporary; none of them will bear a com pari-
so
with the Society and the Civilization \vhich I have
described as alone having a claim to those names, and on
\vhich I am going to d\vell.
Gentlemen, let me here observe that I am not entering
upon the question of races, or upon their history. I have
nothing to do \vith ethnology. I take things as I find
them on the surface of history, and am but classing phe-
nomena. Looking, then, at the countries \vhich surround
the Mediterranean Sea as a \vhole, I see them to be, from
time irnrnemorial, the seat of an association of intellect
and mind, such as to deserve to be called the Intellect
and the Mind of the lfuman Kind. Starting as it does
and advancing from certain centres, till their respective
influences intersect and conflict, and then at length inter..
n1ingle and combine, a common Thought has been gene-
rated, and a common Civilization defined and established.
Egypt is one such starting point, Syria another, Greece
a third, Italy a fourth, and North Africa a fifth,-after-
vards :France and Spain. As time goes on, and as coloni-

Chrt.stiantty and Leltel s.

253

zation and conquest work their changes, \ve see a great
association of nations fonned, of which the l{.oman
empire is the maturity and the most intelligible expres-
sion; an association, however, not political, but mental,
based on the same intellectual ideas, and advancing by
common intellectual methods. And this association or
social commonwealth, with whatever reverses, changes,
and momentary dissolutions, continues down to this day;
not, indeed, precisely on the same territory, but \vith
such only partial and local disturbances, and on the
other hand, with so combined and harmonious a move-
ment, and such a visible continuity, that it would be
utterly unreasonable to deny that it is throughout all
that interval but one and the same.
In its earliest age it included far more of the eastern
world than it has since; in these later times it has taken
into its compass a new hemisphere; in the middle ages
it lost Africa, Egypt, and Syria, and extended itself to
Germany, Scandinavia, and the British Isles. At one
time its territory was flooded by strange and barbarous
races, but the existing civilization was vigorous enough
to vivify what threatened to stifle it, and to assimilate to
the old social fonns what caIne to expel them ; and thus
the civilization of modern times remains what it was of
old, not Chinese, or Hindoo, or
/Iexican, or Saracenic,
or of any new description hitherto unknown, but the
lineal descendant, or rather the continuation, 1nutatis
mutandis, of the civilization which began in Palestine
and Greece.
Considering, then, the characteristics of this great civi-
lized Society, which I have already insisted on, I think
it has a claim to be considered as the representative
Society and Civilization of the hunlan race, as its perfect
result and limit, in fact i-those portions of the race which

"""' 4
-.)

(ïu is/ianily and Letters.

do not coalesce \vith it being left to stand by then1selves
as anomalies, unaccountable indeed, but for that very
reason not interfering with what on the contrary has
been turned to account and has grown into a whole. I
call then this commonwealth pre-elninently and emphati-
cally H ulnan Society, and its intellect the Human l\lind,
and its decisions the sense of mankind, and its disciplined
and cultivated state Civilization in the abstract, and the
territory on which it lies the O' bis tt'rrarulfl, or the World.
For, un1ess the illustration be fanciful, the object which
I am conteulplating is like the impression of a seal upon
the wax; \vhich rounds off and gives form to the greater
portion of the soft material, and pres en ts something de-
finite to the eye, and preoccupies the space against any
second figure, so that we overlook and leave out of our
thoughts the jagged out1ine or unnIcaning lumps outside
of it, intent upon the hannonious circle \vhich fills the
Í1nagination within it.

3.
N ow, before going on to speak of the education, and
the standards of education, \vhich the Civilized VV orld, as
I nlay now call it, has enjoined and requires, I wish to
draw your attention, Gentlelnen, to the circumstance
that this saine orbis ttTraru1n, \vhich has been the seat of
Civilization, will be found, on the whole, to be the seat
also of that supernatural society and systeln which our
Maker has given us directly from I-limself, the Christian
Polity. The natural and divine associations are not
indeed exactly coincident, nor ever have been. As the
territory of Civilization has varied with itself in Jifferent
ages, \vhile on the whole it has been the sanIe, so, in like
manner, Christianity has fallen partly outside Civilization

nd Civilization partly outside Christianity; but, on the

Chrtstz"a1lzïy and Letters.

255

whole, the t\VO have occupied one and the sarne orbis tr:;r-
rarU1Jl. Often indeed they have even moved pari passu,
and at all tirnes there has been found the n10st intin1ate
connexion between them. Christianity waited till the
orbis ter1'arUffl attained its most perfect fornl before it
appeared; and it soon coalesced, and has ever since co-
operated, and often seemed identical, with the Civiliza-
tion which is its companion.
There are certain analogies, too, which hold between
Civilization and Christianity. As Civilization does not
cover the whole earth, neither does Christianity; but
there is nothing else like the one, and nothing else like
the other. Each is the only thing of its kind. Again,
there are, as I have already said, large outlying portions
of the world in a certain sense cultivated and educated
J
which, if they could exist together in one, would go far
to constitute a second orbis terra rum, the home of a
second distinct civilization; but every one of these is
civilized on its own principle and idea, or at least they
are separated from each other, and have not run together,
while the Civilization and Society which I have been
describing is one organized whole. And, in like manner,
Christianity coalesces into one vast body, based upon
common ideas; yet there are large outlying organizations
of religion independent of each other and of it. l\10re-
over, Christianity, as is the case in the parallel instance of
Civilization, continues on in the world without interrup-
tion from the date of its rise, \vhile other religious bodies,
huge, local, and isolated, are rising and falling, or arc
helplessly stationary, from age to age, on all sides of it.
There is another rem arkable analogy between Chns-
tianity and Civilization, and the mention of it \\?ill
introduce my proper subject, to which \vhat I have
hitherto said is merely a pteparation. \Vc know that

25 6

Chrislianit
, and Lille,-!.
""

Christianity is built upon definite ideas, principles,
doctrines, and writings, which were given at the time of
its first introduction, and have never been superseded,
and admit of no addition. I am not going to parallel
any thing which is the work of man, and in the natural
order, with what is fronl heaven, and in consequence
infallible, and irreversible, and obligatory; but, after
making this reserve, lest I should possibly be misunder-
stood, still I would remark that, in matter of fact, look-
ing at the state of the case historically, Civilization too
has its common principles, and views, and teaching, and
especially its books, which have Il10re or less been given
from the earliest times, and are, in fact, in equal esteeIT.L
and respect, in equal use now, as they \\"ere when they
were received in the beginning. In a word, the Classics,
and the subjects of thought and the studies to \vhich
they give rise, or, to use the term most to our present
purpose, the Arts, have ever, on the whole, been the
instruments of education which the civilized orbis ter-
rar1l1Jl has adopted; just as inspired works, and the
lives of saints, and the articles of faith, and the catechisl11,
have ever been the instrument of education in the case of
Christianity. And this consideration, you see, Genti.e-
n1en (to drop down at once upon the subject proper to
the occasion \vhich has brought us tog
ther), invests
the opening of the School in Arts with a solemnity and
moment of a peculiar kind, for we are but reiterating an
old tradition, and carrying on those august methods of
enlarging the mind, and cultivating the intellect, and
refining the feelings, in which the process of Civilization
has ever consisted.

4.
I n the Cf untry which has been the fountain head

Christiallity a1zd Letters.

257

of intellectual gifts, in the age \vhich preceded or
introduced the first formations of Human Society, in an
era scarcely historical, we may dintly discern an almost
mythical personage, who, putting out of consideration
the actors in Old Testament history, may be called th

first Apostle of Civilization. Like an Apostle in a higher
order of things, he was poor and a wanderer, and feeble
in the flesh, though he was to do such great things, and
to live in the mouths of a hundred generations and a
thousand tribes. A blind old man; whose \vanderings
\vere such that, when he became famous, his birth-place
could not be ascertained, so that it was said,-

"Seven falnous towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Hon1er begged his bread."

-ÿ et he had a name in his day; and, little guessing in
what vast measures his wish \vould be ansVt
ered, he sup
'
piicated, with a tender human sentiment, as he wandered
over the islands of the Ægean and the Asian coasts, that
those \vho had known and loved hirn ,vould cherish his
memory when he was away. Unlike the proud boast
of the Roman poet, if he spoke it in earnest, "Exegi
monumentun1 rere perennius," he did but indulge the
hope that one, \vhose coming had been expected with
pleasure, might excite regret when he had departed, and
be rewarded by the sympathy and praise of his friends
even in the presence of other minstrels. i\ set of verses
relnains, \vhich is ascribed to him, in which he addresses
the Delian \VOtuen in the tone of feeling which I have
described. "Farewell to you all," he says, "and re-
n1en1ber n1e in time to come, and when anyone of n1en
on earth, a stt anger fron1 far, shall inquire of you, 0
rnaidens, \vho is the s\veetest of rninstrels here about,
17

2.5 8

ChristianIty and Letters.

and in whom do you nlost delight? then make ans\ver
1110dcstl y, I t is a blind man, and he lives in steep
Chios."
The great poet remained unkno\vn for some centuries,
-that is, unkno\vn to what we call fame. His verses
were cherished by his countrymen, they might be the
secret delight of thousands, but they \vere not collected
into a volume, nor vie\ved as a whole, nor made a sub-
ject of criticism. .l\t length an Athenian Prince took
upon hin1 the task of gathering together the scattered
fraglnents of a genius which had not aspired to immor-
tality, of reducing them to writing, and of fitting them
to be the text-book of ancient education. Henceforth
the vagrant ballad-singer, as he might be thought, was
subn1Ïtted, to his surprise, to a sort of literary canoni-
zation, and was invested \vith the office of forming the
young mind of Greece to noble thoughts and bold deeds.
To be read in lIomer soon became the education of a
gentlen1an; and a rule, recognized in her free age, rc-
tnained as a tradition even in the tinles of her degra-
dation. Xenophon introduces to us a youth who kne\v
both Iliad and Odyssey by heart; Dio \vitnesses that
they \vere some of the first books put into the hands of
boys; and I Iorace decided that they taught the science
of life better than Stoic or Acaden1Ïc. Alexander the
Great nourished his inlagination by the scenes of the
Iliad. As time went on, other poets were associated
\vith Homer in the work of education, such as Hesiod
and the Tragedians. The tnajestic lessons concerning
duty and religion, justice and providence, ,vhich occur in
Æschylus and Sophocles, belong to a higher school than
that of flomer; and the verses of Euripides, even in his
lifetinle, were so falniliar to Athenian lips and so dear
to foreign ears, that, as is reported, the captives of

Ch,"istianity and Letters.

259

Syracuse gained their freedom at the price of reciting
them to their conquerors.
Such poetry may be cansidered oratory also r since it
has so great a power of persuasion; and the alliance
between these two gifts had existed from the time that
the verses of Orpheus had, according to the fable, made
woods and streams and wild animals to follow him
about. Soon, however, Oratory became the subject of
a separate art, which was called Rhetoric, and of ,vhich
the Sophists were the chief masters. l\loreover, as
Rhetoric was especially political in its nature, it pre-
supposed or introduced the cultivation of History; and
thus the pages of Thucydides became one of the special
studies by which Demosthenes rose to be the first orator
of Greece.
But it is needless to trace out further the formation of
the course of liberal education; it is sufficient to have
given some specimens in illustration of it. The studies,
\vhich it was found to involve, were four principal ones,
Gralnmar, Rhetoric, Logic, and
lathematics; and the
science of Mathematics, again, was divided into four,
Geometry, Arithmetic, Astronomy, and 1'1 usic; Inaking
in all seven, which are known by the name of the Seven
Liberal Arts. And thus a definite school of intellect was
formed, founded on ideas and rnethods of a distinctive
character, and (as we may say) of the highest and truest
character, as far as they went, and which graduallyasso-
ciated in one, and assimilated, and took possession of,
that multitude of nations which I have considered to
represent mankind, and to possess the orbis terrarum.
When we pass from Greece to Rome, we are met with
the common rernark, that Rome produced little that ,vas
original, but borro\ved from Greece. It is true; Terence
copied fron1 l\fenander, Virgil fron1 Hon1cr, I-Iesiod, and

260

Chrt\liaJlll)' olifl Leite .\.

'fheoCl it us ; and Cicero professed merely to reproduce
the philosophy of Greece. But, granting its truth ever
so far, I do but take it as a proof of the sort of instinct
,"'hich has guided the course of Civilization. The worlll
,vas to have certain intellectual teachers, and no others;
Homer and Aristotle, with the poets and philosophers
\vho circle round them, were to be the schoolmasters of
all generations, and therefore the Latins, falling into the
law on which the ,vodd's education was to be carried on,
so added to the classical library as not to reverse or in-
terfere \vith \vhat had already been determined. And
there 'vas the ßlore meaning in this arrangenlent, when
it is considered that Greek was to be forgotten àuring
many centuries, and the tradition of intellectual training
to be conveyed through Latin; for thus the ,vorld was
secured against the consequences of a loss ,\'hich would
have changed the character of its civilization. I think it
very renlarkable, too, ho,,' soon the Latin \vriters becaIne
text-books in the boys' schools. Even to this day Shake-
speare and J\1ilton are not studied in our course of edu-
cation; but the poems of Virgil and Horace, as those of
HOß1cr and the Greek authors in an earlier age, were in
schoolboys' satchels not much more than a hundred
years after they were written.
I need not go on to show at length that they have
preserved their place in the system of education in the
o l'b is tel rarll1n J and the Greek ,vriters ,vith them or
through thenl, down to this day. 'The induction of cen

tudes has often been lllade. Even in the Inwest state
of learning the tradition ,vas kept up. St. Gregory the
Great, whose era, not to say whose influence, is often con-
sidered especially unfavourable to the old literature, \vas
himself \vell versed in it, encouraged purity of Latinity
in his court, and is said figuratively by the contemporary

ChristianZlY anti Letter$.

261

historian of his life to have supported the hall of the
Apostolic See upon the columns of the Seven Liberal
Arts. In the ninth century, when the dark age \vas
close at hand, \ve still hear of the cultivdtion, with \vhat-
ever success (according of course to the opportunities of
the tÏ1nes, but I am speaking of the nature of the studies,
not of the proficiency of the students), the cultivation
of l\iu
ic, Dialectics, Rhetoric, Grammar, Mathematics,
Astronolny, Physics, and Geometry; of the supremacy
of Horace in the schools, (I and the great Virgil, Sallust,
and Statius." In the thirteenth or following centuries,
of i' Virgil, Lucian, Statius, Ovid, Livy, Sallust, Cicero,
and Quintilian;" and after the revival of literature in
the commencement of the modern era, we find St. Carlo
Borrolueo enjoining the use of works of Cicero, Ovid,
Virgil, and Horace.'"

s.
I pass thus cursorily over the series of informations
which history gives us on the subject, merely with a view
of recalling to your Inemory, Gentlelnen, and impressing
upon you the fact, that the literature of Greece, con-
tinued into, and enriched by, the literature of Rome, to-
gether \vith the studies which it involves, has been the
instrument of ed ucation, and the food of civilization, from
the first times of the world down to this day ;-and now
we are in a condition to answer the question \vhich there-
upon arises, when we turn to consider, by way of contrast,
the teaching which is characteristic of Universities. How
has it come to pass that, although the genius of U niversi-
ties is so different from that of the schools which preceded
then1, nevertheless the course of study pursued in those
· Vide the treatises of P. Daniel and Mgr. Landriot, referred to in H Î.$..
torical Sketches, vol. ü., p. 460, note.

262

Chn.stianity and Lelieys.

schools was not superseded in the middle ages by those
more brilliant sciences which Universities introduced?
It might have seemed as if Scholastic Theology, Law, and
Medicine would have thrown the Seven Liberal Arts into
the shade, but in the event they failed to do so. I con-
sider the reason to be, that the authority and function of
the monastic and secular schools, as supplying to the
young the means of education, lay deeper than in any
appointment of Charlemagne, who was their nominal
founder, and were based in the special character of th
t
civilization which is so intimately associated with Chris-
tianity, that it may even be called the soil out of which
Christianity gre\v. The medieval sciences, great as is
their dignity and utility, were never intended to supersede
that more real and proper cultivation of the mind which
is effected by the study of the liberal Arts; and, when
certain of these sciences did in fact go out of their pro-
vince and did attempt to prejudice the traditional course
of education, the encroachment was in matter of fact
resisted. There were those in the middle age, as John of
Salisbury, who vigorously protested against the extrava-
gances and usurpations which ever attend the introduc-
tion of any great good whatever, and which attended the
rise of the peculiar sciences of \vhich Universities were
the seat; and, though there \vere tinles when the old
traditions seemed to be on the point of failing, someho\v
it has happened that they have never failed; for the in-
stinct of Civilization and the common sense of Society
prevailed, and the danger passed away, and the studies
which seenlcd to be going out gained their ancient place,
and were acknowledged, as before, to be the best instru-
ments of mental cultivation, and the best guarantees for
in tellectual progress.
And this experience of the past \ve may apply to the

Christian'ify and Letters.

26 3

circumstances in which we find ourselves at present; for,
as there ,vas a movement against the Classics in the
middle age, so has there been now. The truth of the
Baconian method for the purposes for which it was
created, and its inestimable services and inexhaustible
applications in the interests of our material well-being,
have dazzled the irnaginations of men, somewhat in the
same way as certain new sciences carried them away in
the age of Abelard; and since that method does such
\vonders in its own province, it is not unfrequently sup

posed that it can do as much in any other province also.
Now, Bacon hin1self never would have so argued; he
\vould not have needed to be reminded that to ad vance
the useful arts is one thing, and to cultivate the n1ind
another. The simple question to be considered is, how
best to strengthen, refine, and enrich the intellectual
powers; the perusal of the poets, historians, and philo..
sophers of Greece and Rome \vill accomplish this pur-
pose, as long experience has shown; but that the study
of the experimental sciences \vill do the like, is proved
to us as yet by no experience whatever.
Far indeed am I from denying the extreme attrac

tiveness, as well as the practical benefit to the world
at large, of the sciences of Chemistry, Electricity, and
Geology; but the question is not what department of
study contains the more wonderful facts, or promises
the more brilliant discoveries, and which is in the
higher and which in an inferior rank; but simply \vhich
out of all provides the most robust and invigorating
discipline for the unformed .nlÏnd. And I conceive it is
as little disrespectful to Lord Bacon to prefer the Classics
in this point of view to the sciences which have gro\vJ1
out of his philosophy as it \vould be disrespectful to St.
Thomas in the middle ages to have hindered the study

264

Lfirisftallity t}, 1 Leiters.

of the Sumrna from doing prejudice to the Faculty of
Arts. Accordingly, I anticipate that, as in the middle
ages both the teaching and the government of the
University relnained in the Faculty of Arts, in spite
of the genius \vhich created or illustrated Theology and
.
l..a\v, so no\v too, \vhatever be the splendour of the
Jllodern philosophy, the marvellousness of its disclosures,
the utility of its acquisitions, and the talent of its masters,
still it \vill not avail in the event, to detrude classical litera-
ture and the studies connected with it from the place which
they have held in all ages in education.
Such, then, is the course of reflection obviously sug.
5'ested by the act in \vhich we have been lately engaged,
and \vhich \ve are now celebrating. In the nineteenth
century, in a country \vhich looks out upon a ne\v world,
and anticipates a c0111ing age, we have been engaged in
opening the Schools dedicated to the studies of polite
literature and liberal science, or \vhat are call\.:d the
Arts, as a fir
t step towards the establishn1ent on
Catholic ground of a Catholic University. And \vhile
\ve thus recur to Greece and Athens \vith pleasure
and affection, and recognize in that fanlOUS land the
source and the school of intellectual culture, it would be
strange indeed if we forgot to look further south also,
and there to bow before a more glorious lunlinary, and
a more sacred oracle of truth, and the source of another
sort of kno\vledge, high and supernatural, \vhich is
seated in Palestine. Jerusalem is the fountain-head of
religious kno\vledge, as Athens is of secular. In the
ancient world we see two centres of illumination, actin

independently of each other, each with its o\vn n10ve-
Inent, and at first apparently without any promise of
convergence. Greek civilization spreads over the East,
conquering in the conquests of Alexander, and, \vhen

LlzrÙ:lianil)' and Lette'rs.

.. 26 5

carried captive into the West, subdues the conquerors who
brought it thither. Religion, on the other hand, is driven
frorn its own aboriginal home to the North and West by
reason of the sins of the people \vho \vere in charge of
it, in a long course of judgments and plagues and perse-
cutions. Each by itself pursues its career and fulfils its
111ission; neither of them recognizes, nor is recognized
by the other. At length the 1'emple of Jerusalem is
rooted up by the annies of Titus, and the effete schools
of Athens are stitled by the edict of J nstinian. So pass
away the ancient Voices of religion ancllearning ; but they
are silenced only to revive more gloriously and perfectly
else\vhere. Hitherto they came from separate sources,
and performed separate works. Each leaves an heir and
successor in the West, and that heir and successor is
one and the same. The grace stored in Jerusalem, and
the gifts which radiate from Athens, are made over and
concentrated in Rome. This is true as a matter of
history. Rome has inherited both sacred and pro-
fane learning; she has perpetuated and dispensed the
traditions of Moses and David in the supernatural order,
and of Homer and Aristotle in the natural. To separate
those distinct teachings, human and divine, \vhich Ineet
in !{ome, is to retrograde; it is to rebuild the Jewish
1'emple and to plant ane\v the groves of Acadenuts.

6.

On this large subject, however, on which I might say
n1uch, time does not allow me to enter. To sho,v ho\v
sacred learning and profane are dependent on each other,
correlative and mutually complementary, how faith
operates by means of reason, and reason is directed
and corrected by faith, is really the subject of a distinct
lècture. I \vould conclude, then, with merely congratu-

66

Christianity and Letters.

lating you, Gentlemen, on the great undertaking which
\ve have so auspiciously commenced. Whatever be its
fortunes, whatever its difficulties, whatever its delays, I
cannot doubt at all that the encouragement \vhich it has
already received, and the n1easure of success which it
has been allotted, are but a presage and an anticipation
of a gradual advance towards its completion, in such
times and such manner as Providence shall appoint.
For myself, I have never had any n1isgiving about it,
because I had never kno\vn anything of it before the
time when the Holy See had definitely decided upon its
prosecution. It is my happiness to have no cognizance
of the anxieties and perplexities of venerable and holy
prelates, or the discussions of experienced and prudent
men, which preceded its definitive recognition on the
part of the highest ecclesiastical authority. It is my
happiness to have no experience of the time when good
Catholics despaired of its success, distrusted its expe-
diency, or even felt an obligation to oppose it. It has
been my happiness that I have never been in con-
troversy with persons in this country external to the
Catholic Church, nor have been forced into any direct
collision \vith institutions or measures which rest on a
foundation hostile to Catholicism. No one can accuse
file of any disrespect towards those whose principles or
\vhose policy I disapprove; nor am I conscious of any
other aim than that of working in n1Y o\vn place, without
going out of my \vay to offend others. If I have taken
part in the undertaking which has no\v brought us to-
gether, it has been because I believed it was a great
\vork, great in its conception, great in its promise, and
great in the authority from which it proceeds. I felt it
to be so great that I did not dare to incur the responsi...
bility of refusing to take part in it.

Christianity and LetttYs.

26 7

H ow far indeed, and ho\v long, I am to be l:onnected
with it, is another matter altogether. It is enough for
one man to lay only one stone of so noble and grand an
edifice; it is enough, more than enough for me, if I do
so much as merely begin, what others may more hope-
fully continue. One only arnong the sons of men has
carried out a perfect work, and satisfied and exhausted
the mission on which He came. One alone has with
His last breath said" Consunlmatum est." But all who
set about their duties in faith and hope and love, witb a
resolute heart and a devoted will, are able, weak though
they be, to do what, though incomplete, is imperishable.
Even their failures becolue successes, as being necessary
steps in a course, and as terms (so to say) in a long
series, which will at length fulfil the object which they
propose. And they will unite themselves in spirit, in
their humble degree, with those real heroes of Holy
Writ and ecclesiastical history, Moses, Elias, and David,
Basil, Athanasi us, and Chrysostom, Gregory the Se-
venth, St. "fhomas of Canterbury, and rnany others,
\vho did most when they fancied themselves least
prosperous, and died without being permitted to see
the fruit of their labours.

26X

1L

LITERATURE.

A LECTURE IN TIlE SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY AND
LETTERS.

I.
W ISHING to dòdress you, Gentlemen, at the com
menccment of a new Session, I tried to find a
subject for discussion, \vhich might be at once suitable to
the occasion, yet neither too large for your time, nor too
minute or abstruse for your attention. I think I see one
for my purpose in the very title of your Faculty. It
is the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters. N O\V the
question may arise as to w'hat is meant by " Philosophy,"
and \vhat is meant by "Letters." As to the other
Faculties, the subject-matter \vhich they profess is in

telligible, as soon as named, and beyond all dispute.
vVe know \vhat Science is, \vhat Medicine, what Law,
and \vhat Theology; but we have not so much ease in
determining ,,,hat is rneant by Philosophy and Letters.
Each department of that t\vofold province needs expla-
nation: it ,vill be sufficient, on an occasion like this, to
investigate one of them. Accordingly I shall select for
remark the latter of the two, and attempt to determine
\vhat \ve are to understand by Letters or Literature, in
"That Literature consists, anù ho\'/ it stands relatively to

LÙí.
raiu1.e.

26 9

Science. \Ve speak, for instance, of ancient and 1110dern
literature, the literature of the day, sacred literature,
light literature; and our lectures in this place are
devoted to classical literature and r
nglish literature.
Are Letters, then, synonymous \vith books? This cannot
be, or they \vould include in their range Philosophy,
Law, and, in short, the teaching of all the other Faculties.
Far froln confusing these various studies, we view the
\vorks of Plato or Cicero sometinles as philosophy, some-
tin1es as literature; on the other hand, no one would
ever be tenlpteà to speak of Euclid as literature, or of
1latthiæ's Greek Gran1mar. Is, then, literature synony-
mous \vith conlposition? with books \vritten with an
attention to style? is literature fine \vriting? again, is it
studied and artificial writing?
There are excellent persons who seeln to adopt this
last account of Literature as their o\vn idea of it. 'l'hey
depreciate it, as if it \vere the result of a mere art or
trick of \vords. Professedly indeed, they are aiming at
the Greek and Ronlan classics, but their criticisms have
quite as great force against all literature as against any.
I think I shall be best able to bring out what I have to
say on the subject by éxamining the statements \vhich
they n1ake in defence of their own vie\v of it. They
contend then, I. that fine writing, as exemplified in the
Classics, is nlainly a matter of conceits, fancies, and pret-
tinesses, decked out in choice words; 2. that thi
is the
proof of it, that the classics \vill not bear translating ;-
(and this is ,vhy I have said that the real attack is upon
literature altogether, not the classicaì only; for, to speak
generally, all literature, 1l1oderl1 as \vell as ancient, lies
under this disadvantage. '[his, ho\vever, they ,vill not
ailov;; fortheyrnaintain,) 3. that I-IolyScripture presents a
rell1arkable contrast to se(:111ar \vritings on this vcry point,

270

LiteJ aturl.

viz., in that Scripture does easily admit of translation,
though it is the most sublime and beautiful of all \vritings.

2.
Now I \vill begin by stating these three positions in
the \vords of a write;', \vho is cited by the estimable
Catholics in question as a witness, or rather as an
advocate, in their behalf, though he is far from being
able in his own person to challenge the respect which is
inspired by themselves.
"There are t\VO sorts of eloquence," says this \vriter,
" the one indeed scarce deserves the na tue of it, which
consists chiefly in laboured and polished periods, an
over-curious and artificial arrangement of figures, tin-
selled over ,vith a gaudy enlbellishment of words,
\vhich glitter, but convey little or no light to the under-
standing. This kind of \vriting is for the most part
nluch affected and adn1Íred by the people of weak
ludgnlent and vicious taste; but it is a piece of affecta-
tion and fonnality the sacred writers are utter strangers
to. It is a vain and boyish eloquence; and, as it has
ahvays been esteemed below the great geniuses of all
ages, so lHuch more so \vith respect to those writers who
\vere actuated by the spirit of Infinite \Visdon1, and
therefore \vrote with that force and majesty \vith which
never nlan writ. The other sort of eloq uenee is quite
the reverse to this, and which 1nay be said to be the true
characteristic of the I-Ioly Scriptures; \vhere the ex-
cellence does not arise from a laboured and far-fetched
elocution.. but from a surprising mixture of simplicity
and Inajesty, \vhich is a double character, so difficult to
be united that it is seldom to be met with in conlpo-
sitions merely hUluan. We see nothing in Holy Writ
of affectation and superfluous ornanlent . . . Now, it is

Lilerfllure.

271

observable that the most excellent profane authors,
whether Greek or Latin, lose most of their graces when-
ever ,ve find thenl literally translated. Homer's fanled
representation of Jupiter-his cried-up description of a
tempest, his relation of Neptune's shaking the earth and
opening it to its centre, his description of Pallas's horses,
\vith numbers of other long-since admired passages,
flag, and alnlost vanish away, in the vulgar Latip
translation.
" 1-4et anyone but take the pains to read the common
Latin interpretations of Virgil, Theocritus, or even of
Pindar, and one may venture to affirm he \vill be able tc
trace out but few remains of the graces which charmed
him so much in the original. The natural conclusion
from hence is, that in the classical authors, the expres-
sion, the sweetness of the numbers, occasioned by a
Inusical placing of words, constitute a great part of their
beauties; whereas, in the sacred writings, they consist
more in the greatness of the things themselves than in
the words and expressions. The ideas and conceptions
are so great and lofty in their own nature that they
necessarily appear magnificent in the most artless dress.
Look but into the Bible, and we see thenl shine through
the most siluple and literal translations. That glorious
descri ption 'which l\:1oses gives of the creation of the
heavens and the earth, which Longinus . . . was so
greatly taken with, has not lost the least whit of its
intrinsic worth, and though it ha3 undergone so many
translations, yet triutnphs over all, and breaks forth
with as much force and vehen1ence as in the original. . . .
In the history of Joseph, \vhere Joseph rnakes himself
kno\vn, and weeps aloud upon the neck of his dear
brother Benjan1in, that all the house of Pharaoh heard
him, at that instant none of his brethren are introduced

21 2

Lile1 atu1 t.

as uttering aug-ht, either to express their present joy
or palliate their former injuries to him. On all sides
there imnlcdiately ensues a deep and solemn silence; a
silence infinitely more eloquent and expressive than any-
thing else that could have been substituted in its place.
Had Thucydides, Herodotus, Livy, or any of the cele-
brated classical historians, been employed in writing this
history, \vhen they catne to this point they \vould doubt-
iess have exhausted all their fund of eloq uenee in fur-
nishing Joseph's brethren with laboured and studied
harangues, \\7hich, however fine they might have been in
themselves, \vould nevertheless have been unnatural, and
altogether inlproper on the occasion.".

rhis is eloquently written, but it contains, I consider,
a mixture of truth and falsehood, which it \'till be my
business to discriminate from each other. Far be it
fronI 111e to deny the unapproachable grandeur and sÏ1n-
plicity of Holy Scripture; but I shall maintain that the
classics are, as human compositions, simple and m
jestie
and natural too. I grant that Scripture ís concerned
\vith things, but I \vill not grant that classical literature
is simply concerned with words. I grant that human
literature is often elaborate, but I will maintain that
elaborate composition is not unkno\vn to the writers of
Scriptur
I grant that human literature cannot easily
be translated out of the particular language to \vhich it
belongs; but it is not at all the rule that Scripture cau
easily be translated either ;-and no\v I address myself
to my task ;-

3.
I Iere, then, in the first pJace, I observe, Gentlemen,
that I..Iiterature, fron1 the derivation of the word, Í1nplies
* Sterne, Sermol1 xlii.

Litfraturt,

273

writing, not speaking; this, however, arises from the
circumstance of the copiousness, variety, and pu blic
circulation of the matters of which it consists. \\That is
spoken cannot outrun the range of the speaker's voice,
é:t.nd perishes in the uttering. When words are in de-
mand to express a long course of thought, when they
have to be conveyed to the ends of the earth, or perpe-
tuated for the benefit of posterity, they must be written
down, that is, reduced to the shape of literature; still,
properly speaking, the terms, by which we denote this
characteristic gift of man, belong to its exhibition by
n1eans of the voice, not of handwriting. It addresses
itself, in its primary idea, to the ear, not to the eye. \Ve
call it the power of speech, we call it language, that is,
the use of the tongue; and, even when ,ve write, ,ve still
keep in mind ,vhat was its original instrument, for we use
freely such terms in our books as "saying," "speaking,"
"telling," "talking," "calling;" \ve use the terms" phrase-
ology" and "diction;" as if we were still addressing our-
selves to the ear.
Now I insist on this, because it shows that speech, and
therefore literature, which is its pennancnt record, is
essentially a personal work. It is not some production
or result, attained by the partnership of several persons,
or by Inachinery, or. by any natural process, but in its
very idea it proceeds, and must proceed, from sonle one
given individual. 1\vo persons cannot be the authors of
the sounds \vhich strike our ear; and, as they cannot be
. speaking one and the same speech, neither can they be
writing one and the same lecture or discourse,-which
must certainly belong to sonle one person or other, anù
is the expression of that one person's ideas and feelings,
-ideas and feelings personal to hÏ1nself, though others
may have parallel and similar ones,-proper to himse!f,
18

j.14

L .iteyalut t!.

in the saIne sen
t: a.
bis voice, his air, his countenance,
his carriage, and his action, are personal. In other
,vords, Literature expresses, not objective truth, as it is
called, but subjective; not things, but thoughts.
N ow this doctrine., will become clearer by considering
another use of words, which does relate to objective
truth, or to things; which relates to matters, not
personal, not subjective to the individual, but which,
even \vere there no individual man in the \vhole world
to kno\v them or to talk about them, would exist still.
Such objects become the matter of Science, and words
indeed are used to express them, but such \vords are
rather symbols than language, and however many we
use, and ho\vever \ve may perpetuate them by \vriting,
\ve never could n1ake any kind of literature out of therrl,
or call them by that name. Such, for instance, \vould
be :Euclid's Elements; they relate to truths universal
and eternal; they are not mere thoughts, but things:
they exist in themselves, not by virtue of our under-
standing theIn, not in dependence upon our will, but in
what is called the nature of things, or at least on con-
ditions external to us. The words, then, in which they
are set forth are not language, speech, literature, but
rather, as I have said, symbols. And, as a proof of. it,
you will recollect that it is possible, nay usual, to set
forth the propositions of Euclid in algebraical notation,
which, as all would admit, has nothing to do with
literature. What is true of mathematics is true also of
every study, so far forth as it is scientific; it makes use
of \vords as the mere vehicle of things, and is thereby
withdrawn froIn the province of literature. 1'hus
metaphysics, ethics, law, political economy, cheinistry,
theology, cease to be literature in the same degree as
they are capable of a severe scientific treatment. And

L ".úraiure.

275

hence it is tUat Aristotle's works on the one hand,
though at first sight literature, approach in character, at
least a great number of theIu, to mere science; for even
though the things which he treats of and exhibits may
not always be real and true, yet he treats thenl as if they
were, not as if they were the thoughts of his own mind;
that is, he treats them scientifically. On the other hand,
La\v or Natural History has before now been treated by
an author with so much of colouring derived from his
own mind as to become a sort of literature; this is
especially seen in the instance of Theology, when it
takes the shape of Pulpit Eloquence. It is seen too in
historical composition, which becomes a mere specimen
of chronology, or a chronicle, when divested of the
philosophy, the skill, or the party and personal feelings
of the particular writer. Science, then, has to do with
things, literature with thoughts ; science is universal,
literature is personal; science uses words merely as
symbols, but literature uses language in its full compass,
as including phraseology, idiom, style, composition,
rhythm, eloquence, and whatever other properties are
included in it.
Let us then put aside the scientific use of words, \vhen
we are to speak of language and literature. Literature is
the personal use or exercise of language. That this is so
is further proved from the fact that one author uses it so
differently from another. Language itself in its very
origination would seem to be traceable to individuals.
Their peculiarities have given it its character. Weare
often able in fact to trace particular phrases or idioms to
individuals; \ve know the history of their rise. Slang
surely, as it is called, comes of, and breathes of the per-
sonal. I'he connection between the force of words in
particular languages and the habits and sentiments of

27 6

Ltteratu "l.

the nations speaking then1 has often been pointed out.
And, ,vhile the many use language as they find it, the
nlan of genius uses it indeed, but subjects it \vithal to his
own purposes, and moulds it according to his own pecu-
liarities. The throng and succession of ideas, thoughts,
feelings, imaginations, aspirations, which pass ,vithin him,
the abstractions, the juxtapositions, the comparisons, the
discriminations, the conceptions, \vhich are so original in
him, his views of external things, his judglnents upon
life, manners, and history, the exercises of his ,vit, of
his humour, of his depth, of àis sagacity, all these in-
numerable and incessant creations, the very pulsation
and throbbing of his intellect, does he image forth, to all
does he give utterance, in a corresponding language,
'\vhich is as 111ultifornl as this in\\rard mental action itself
and analogous to it, the faithful expression of his in-
tense personality, attending on his o\vn in,vard ,vorld of
thought as its very shadow: so that we might as \vell
say that one man's shadow is anothèr's as that the style
of a really gifted mind can belong to any but himself.
It follows him about as a shado\v. His thought and
feeling are personal, and so his language is personal.

4.
I'hought and speech are inseparable from each other

1\latter and expression are parts of one: style is a think-
ing out into language. This is what I have been laying
do\vn, and this is literature; not things, not the verbal
symbols of things ; not on the other hand Inere words ;
but thoughts expressed in language. Call to mind,
Gentlemen, the nleaning of the Greek \vord \vhich ex-
presses this special prerogative of Inan over the feeble
intelligence of the inferior aniluals. It is called Logos:
what does Logos mean? it stands both for reaJ'ot! and for

L . J
zteratUYf.

277

sp,:ech, and it is difficult to say which it means more pro-
perly. It 111eans both at once: \vhy? because really they
cannot be divided,-because they are in a true scnse one.
\Vhen ,ve can separate light and illun1Ïnation, life and
Inotion, the convex and the concave of a curve, then \vill
it be possible for thought to tread speech under foot, and
to hope to do \vithout it-then \vill it be conceivable
that the vigorous and fertile intellect should renounce
its own double, its instrument of expression, and the
channel of its speculations and emotions.
Critics should consider this view of the subject before
they lay down such canons of taste as the writer \vhose
p]ges I have quoted. Such men as he is consider fine
writing to be an addition froln witholtt to the matter
treated of,-a sort of ornanlent superinduced, or a luxury
indulged in, by those who have time and inclination for
sllch vanities. They speak as if one 11lan could do the
thought, and allot/lcr the style. We read in Persian
travels of the way in \vhich young gentlemen go to work
in the East, when they ,vould engage in correspondence
with those \vho inspire them with hope or fear. They
cannot \vrite one sentence themselves; so they betake
themselves to the professional letter-writer. They con-
fide to hitn the object they have in view. They have a
point to gain from a superior, a favour to ask, an evil to
deprecate; they have to approach a man in power, or to
make court to some beautiful lady. The professional
man manufactures words for them, as they are wanted,
as a stationer sells them paper, or a schoolmaster might
cut their pens. Thought and word are, in their concep-
tion, two things, and thus there is a division of labour.
The lnan of thought comes to the man of \vords; and
the lHan of words) duly instructed in the thought, dips
the pen of desire into the ink of devotedness, and pro-

61 8

Liïerafurt.

ceeds to spread it over the page of desolation. Then tht
nightingale of affection is heard to \varble to the rose of
loveliness, \vhile the breeze of anxiety plays around the
brow of expectation. This is \vhat the Easterns are said
to consider fine writing; and it seems pretty filuch the idea
of the school of critics to whom I have been referring.
V\T e have an instance in literary history of this very
proceedin
nearer home, in a great University, in the
latter years of the last century. I have referred to it
before now in a public lecture else\vhere"; but it is too
much in point here to be omitted. A learned Arabic
scholar had to deliver a set of lectures before its doctor!
and professors on an historical subject in which his
reading had lain. A linguist is conversant \vith science
rather than \vith literature; but this gentleman felt thåt
his lecturf"s nlust not be without a style. Being of the
opinion of the Orientals, with whose \vritings he \vas
familiar, he determined to buy a style. He took the
step of engaging a person, at a price, to turn the matte!
which he had got together into ornanlental English.
Observe, he did not \vish for mere grammatical English,
but for an elaborate, pretentious style. An artist \vas
found in the person of a country curate, and the j ob wa

carried out. His lectures remain to this day, in theÌf
o\vn place in the protracted series of annual Discourses
to \vhich they belong, distinguished amid a number of
heavyish compositions by the rhetorical and anlbitiou

diction for which he went into the market. This learned
divine, indeed, and the author I have quoted, differ fro1l1
each other in the estÏ1nate they respectively form of
literary composition; but they agree together in this,-il1
considering such composition a trick and a trdde ; they
\\ut it on a par with the gold plate and the flo\vers ant.
f'\ Dosition of Catholics in England," pp. 101. 2

Literature.

279

the music of a banquet, which do not make the viands
better, but the entertaÏ1unent more pleasurable; as if
language were the hired servant, the mere mistress of the
reason, and not the lawful wife in her own house.
But can they really think that Homer, or Pindar,
or Shakespeare, or Dryden, or Walter Scott, were
accustomed to aim at diction for its own sake, instead of
being inspired with their subject, and pouring forth
beautiful words because they had beautiful thoughts?
this is surely too great a paradox to be borne. Rather,
it is the fire within the author's breast which overflows
in the torrent of his burning, irresistible eloquence; it is
the poetry of his inner soul, which relieves itself in the
Ode or the Elegy; and his mental attitude and bearing,
the beauty of his moral countenance, the force and
keenness of his logic, are imaged in the tenderness, or
energy, or richness of his language. Nay, according to
the well-known line, "facit indignatio versus,." not the
words alone, but even the rhythm, the metre, the verse,
will be the conten1poraneous offspring of the emotion or
imagination which possesses him. "Poeta nascitur, non
fit," says the proverb; and this is in numerous instances
true of his poems, as well as of himself. They are born,
not framed ; they are a strain rather than a composition ;
and their perfection is the monument, not so much of his
skill as of his power. And this is true of prose as well as
of verse in its degree : who will not recognize in the vision
of Mirza a delicacy and beauty of style which is very
difficult to describe, but which is felt to be in exact
correspondence to the ideas of which it is the expression?

5.
And, since the thoughts and reasonings of an author
have, as I have said, a personal character, no wonder tha t

280

Lz.'eralurè

his style is not only the image of his subject, but of his
mind. That pomp of language, that full and tuneful
diction, that felicitousness in the choice and exquisiteness
in the collocation of words, which to prosaic \vriters seems
artificial, is nothing else but the mere habit and way of a
lofty intellect. Aristotle, in his sketch of the magnani-
mous man, teJls us that his voice is deep, his motions slo,v,
and his stature c0111manding. In like n1anner, the elocu-
tion of a great intellect is g
eat. I-lis language expresses,
not only his great thoughts, but his great self. Certainly
he might use fe\ver \vords than he uses; but he fertilizes
his sin1plest ideas, and germinates into a multitude of
details, and prolongs the march of his sentences, and
sweeps round to the full diapason of his harmony, as if
KVDei rya{wv, rejoicing in his o\vn vigour and richness of re-
source. I say, a narrow critic will call it verbiage, \vhen
really it is a sort of fulness of heart, parallel to that which
luakes the fnerry boy whistle as he walks, or the strong
Inan, like the smith in the novel, flourish his club when
there is no one to fight with.
Shakespeare furnishes us \vith frequent instances of
this peculiarity, and all so beautiful, that it is difficult to
select for quotation. For instance, in Macbeth :-

" Canst thou not Ininister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
RJ.Ze out the written troubles of the brain,
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff,
\Vhich weighs upon the heart?"

Here a sinlple idea, by a process which belongs to the
orator rather than to the poet, but still conles from the
native vigour of genius, is expanded into a many-nlem-
bered period.

Lzïtrature.

281

The following from Hamlet is of the san1e kind :-

"'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor cllstOlnary suits of solemn black,
N or wind y sllspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly."

N ow, if such declamation, for d.eclarnation it is, how-
ever noble, be allowable in a poet, whose genius is so far
removed from pompousness or pretence, much more is
it allowable in an orator, whose very province it is to
put forth words to the best advantage he can. Cicero
has nothing more redundant in any part of his writings
than these passages froln Shakespeare. No lover then
at least of Shakespeare filay fairly accuse Cicero of
gorgeousness of phraseology or diffuseness of style.
N or will any sound critic be tempted to do so. As a
certain unaffected neatness and propriety and grace of
diction may be required of any author who lays clainl to
be a classic, for the sanle reason that a certain attention
to dress is expected of every gentleman, so to Cicero
may be allo\ved the privilege of the" os magna sona-
turuin," of which the ancient critic speaks. His copious,
majestic, musical flow of language, even if sometimes
beyond \vhat the subject-matter demands, is never out
of keeping \vith the occasion or \vith the speaker. It is
the expression of lofty sentilnents in lofty sentences, the
" nlcns magna in corpore magno." It is the develop-
nlent of the inner nlan. Cicero vividly realised the
status of a Roman senator and statesman, and the
U pride of place" of Rome, in all the grace and grandeur
\vhich attached to her; and he imbibed, and beça.nle

.l82

Ltïtralu t.

what he admired. As the exploits of Scipio or POll1pey
are the expression of this greatness in deed, so the
language of Cicero is the expression of it in \vord. And,
as the acts of the Ron1an ruler or soldier represent to us,
in a manner special to themselves, the characteristic
magnanimity of the lords of the earth, so do the
speeches or treatises of her accomplished orator bring it
home to our imaginations as no other writing could do.
Neither Livy, nor Tacitus, nor Terence, nor Seneca, nor
Pliny, nor Quintilian, is an adequate spokesman for
the Imperial City. They \vrite Latin;. Cicero \vrites
Roman.

6.
V ou will say that Cicero's language is undeniably
studied, but that Shakespeare's is as undeniably uaturai
and spontaneous; and that this is what is n1eant, \\ hen
the Classics are accused of being mere artists of words.
I-Iere we are introduced to a further large question,
which gives nle the opportunity of anticipating a misap-
prehension of my meaning. I observe, then, that, not
only is that lavish richness of style, which I have noticed
in Shakespeare, justifiable on the principles which I have
been laying do\vn, but, what is less easy to receive, even
elaborateness in composition is no mark of trick or
artifice in an author. Undoubtedly the \vorks of the
Classics, particularly the Latin, are elaborate; they have
cost a great deal of tinle, care, and trouble. '[hey have
had many rough copies; I grant?t. I grant also that
there are writers of name, ancient and modern, who really
are guilty of the absurdity of making sentences, as the
very end of their literary labour. Such ,vas Isocrates;
such \\.ere some of"the sophists; they \vere set on wor:ds,
to the neglect of thoughts or things; I cannot defend them.

Literahtrt.

28 3

I f I rnust give an English instance of this fault, much as
I love and revere the personal character and intellectual
vigour of Dr. Johnson, I cannot deny that his style often
outruns the sense and the occasion, and is wanting in
that simplicity which is the attribute of genius. Still,
granting all this, I cannot grant, notwithstanding, that
genius never need take pains,-that genius may not im-
prove by practice,-that it never incurs failures, and
succeeds the second time,-that it never finishes off at
leisure what it has thro\vn off in the outline at a stroke.
Take the instance of the painter or the sculptor; he
has a conception in his mind \vhich he wishes to repre-
sent in the medium of his art ;-the Madonna and Child,
or Innocence, or Fortitude, or some historical character
or event. Do you n1ean to say he does not study his
subject? does he not make sketches? does he not even
:all them H studies"? does he not call his workroon1
a studio? is he not ever designing, rejecting, adopting,
correcting, perfecting? Are not the first attempts of
Michael Angelo and Raffaelle extant, in the case of
son1e of their most celebrated compositions? Will any
one say that the Apollo Belvidere is not a conception
patiently elaborated into its proper perfection? These
departments of taste are, according to the received
notions of the world, the very province of genius, and yet
we call them arts
. they are the "Fine Arts." vVhy
may not that be true of literary composition \vhich is true
of painting, sculpture, architecture, and music? \Vhy
may not language be ,vrought as well as the clay of the
modeller? why may not words be worked up as well as
colours? why should not skill in diction be simply sub-
servient and instrumental to the great prototypal ideas
which are the contenlplation of a Plato or a VirgiJ?
Our greatest poet tells us 7

284

.Literature.

"The poet's eyc, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heavc:n,
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shr\pes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation anù a nalnc."

N O\V, is it wonderful that that pen of his should sonle..
titnes be at fault for a while,-that it should pause,
\vrite, erase, re-\vrite, amend, conlplete, before he satisfies
hinlself that his language has done justice to the
conceptions \vhich his nlind's eye contemplated?
In this point of view, doubtless, many or most writers
are elaborate; and those certainly not the least whose
style is furthest removed from ornament, being simple
and natural, or vehement, or severely business-like and
practical. Who so energetic and 11lanly as Dernos-
thenes ? Yet he is said to have transcribed Thucydides
many times over in the formation of his style. Who so
gracefully natural as Herodotus? yet his very dialëct
is not his o\vn, but chosen for the sake of the perfectivn
of his narrative. Who exhibits such happy negligence
as our own Addison ? yet artistic fastidiousness was so
notorious in hi:; instance that the report has got abroad,
truly or not, that he \vas too late in his issue of an
important state-paper, from his habit of revision and re-
Cot11position. Such great authors were working by a
nlodel \vlÜch was before the eyes of their intellect, and
they \vcre labouring to say \vhat they had to say, in
such a \vay as \vould most exactly and suitably express
it. It is not \vonderful that other authors, \vhose style
is not simple, should be instances of a sÌ1nilar literary
diligence. Virgil \vished his Æneid to be burned,
elaborate as is its COin position, because he felt it needed
Olorc laboIJr stilL in order to (nake it perfect. 'rhe

Lttirature.

285

historian Gibbon in the last century is another instance
in point. You must not suppose I am going to recom-
mend his style for imitation, any n10re than his principles;
but I refer to him as the example of a writer feeling the
task which lay before him, feeling that he had to bring
out into words for the cornprehension of his readers a
great and complicated scene, and \vishing that those
words should be adequate to his undertaking. I think
he wrote the first chapter of his History three times
over; it was not that he corrected or improved the first
copy; but he put his first essay, and then his second,
aside-he recast his matter, till he had hit the precise
exhibition of it \vhich he thought demanded by his
subject.
Now in all these instances, I wish you to observe,
that \vhat I have admitted about literary workmanship
differs from the doctrine which I am opposing in this,-
that the mere dealer in words cares little or nothing for
the subject which he is embellishing, but can paint and
gild anything whatever to order; whereas the artist,
whom I am acknowledging, has his great or rich visions
before him, and his only aim is to bring out what he
thinks or what he feels in a way adequate to the thing
spoken of, and appropriate to the speaker.

7.
The illustration which I have been borro\ving from
the Fine Arts will enable me to go a step further. I
have been showing the connection of the thought \vith
the language in literary composition; and in doing so
I have exposed the unphilosophical notion, that the
language ,vas an extra ,vhich could be dispensed \vith,
and provided to order according to the demand. But I
have not yet brought out, what imnlediateiy follo'..\':)

186

ite1 ø altt .

from this, and which was the second point which I had
to sho\v, viz., that to be capable of easy translation is no
test of the excellence of a C0111position. If I must say
what I think, I should lay do\vn, \vith little hesitation,
that the truth was almost the reverse of this doctrine.
N or are many \vords required to sho\v it. Such a
doctrine, as is contained in the passage of the author
whom I quoted \vhen I began, goes upon the assumption
that one language is just like another language,-that
every language has all the ideas, turns of thought,
delicacies of expression, figures, associations, abstractions,
points of vie\v, \vhich every other language has. Now,
as far as regards Science, it is true that aÌl languages
are pretty much alike for the purposes of Science; but
even in this respect some are more suitable than
others, \vhich have to coin words, or to borrow them, in
order to express scientific ideas. But if languages are
not all equally adapted even to furnish synlbols for
those universal and eternal truths in which Science con-
sists, ho\v can they reasonably be expected to be all
equally rich, equally forcible, equally musical, equally
exact, equally happy in expressing the idiosyncratic
peculiarities of thought of some original and fertile mind,
\vho has availed himself of one of them? A great
author takes his native language, masters it, partly
throws himself into it, partly moulds and adapts it, and
pours out his multitude of ideas through the variously
ramified and delicately minute channels of expression
which he has found or framed :-does it follow that this
his personal presence (as it may be called) can forth-
with be transferred to every other language under the
sun? Then may we reasonably maintain that Beeth-
oven's piutlO music is not really beautiful, because it
cannot be played on the hurdy-gurd}7. \Vere not this

L iteratu".i.

287

astonishing doctrine maintained by persons tar superior
to the \vriter whom I have selected for animadversion, I
should find it difficult to be patient under a gratuitous
extravagance. It seems that a really great author Inust
admit of translation, and that we have a test of his excel-
lence when he reads to advantage in a foreign language
as well as in his own. Then Shakespeare -is a genius be-
cause he can be translated into German, and not a genius
because he cannot be translated into French. Then the
multiplication-table is the most gifted of all conceivable
compositions, because it loses nothing by translation, and
can hardly be said to belong to anyone language what-
ever. Whereas I should rather have conceived that, in
proportion as ideas are novel and recondite, they would
be difficult to put into words, and that the very fact of
their having insinuated themselves into one language
would diminish the chance of that happy accident being
repeated in another. In the language of savages you
can hardly express any idea or act of the intellect at
all: is the tongue of the Hottentot or Esquimaux to
be made the Ineasure of the genius of Plato, Pindar,
Tacitus, St. Jerome, Dante, or Cervantes?
Let us recur, I say, to the illustration of the Fine
Arts. 1 suppose you can express ideas in painting
which you cannot express in sculpture; and the more
an artist is of a painter, the less he is likely to be of
a sculptor. The lnore he commits his genius to the
lnethods and conditions of his own art, the less he \vill
be able to throw himself into the circumstances of
another. Is the genius of Fra Angelico, of Francia, or
of Raffaelle disparaged by the fact that he was able to
do that in colours \vhich no man that ever lived, 'which
no Angel, could achieve in wood? Each of the Fine
Arts has its own subject-matter; from the nature of the

288

LliteratUYé..

case you can do in one what you cannot do 1n another;
you can do in painting what you cannot do in carving;
you can do in oils what you cannot do in fresco; you
can do in marble what you cannot do in ivory; you can
do in wax what ou cannot do in bronze. Then, I
repeat, applying this to the case of languages, ,vhy
should not genius be able to do in Greek \vhat it cannot
do in Latin? and why are its Greek and Latin works
defective because they will not turn into English? That
genius, of which we are speaking, did not make English;
it did not make all languages, present, past, and future;
it did not make the la\vs of all)' language: why is it to
be judged of by that in which it had no part, over which
it has no control?

8.
And now we are naturally brought on to our third
point, \vhich is on the characteristics of Holy Scripture
as conlpared with profane literature. Hitherto \ve have
been concerned with the doctrine of these writers, viz' r
that style is an extra, that it is a ß1ere artifice, and that
hence it cannot be translated; no\v \ve come to their
fact, viz., that Scripture has no such artificial style, and
that Scripture can easily be translated. Surely their
fact is as untenable as their doctrine.
Scripture easy of translation! then why have there
been so few good translators? why is it that there
has been such great difficulty in combining the two
necessary qualities, fidelity to the original and purity in
the adopted vernacular? \vhy is it that the author-
ized versions of the Church are often so inferior to
the original as compositions, except that the Church
is bound above all things to see that the version is doc-
trinally correct, and in a difficult problem is obliged to

.- .........- - --

Littrature.

28 9

put up with defects in what is of secondary Ï1nportance,
provided she secure what is of first? If it were so
easy to transfer the beauty of the original to the copy,
she would not have been content with her received
version in various languages which could be named.
And then in the next place, Scripture not elaborate!
Scripture not ornan1ented in diction, and musical in
cadence! Why, consider the Epistle to the Hebrews-
\vhere is there in the classics any composition more care-
fully, more artificially written? Consider the book of
Job-is it not a sacred dranla, as artistic, as perfect,
as any Greek tragedy of Sophocles or Euripides? Con-
sider the Psalter-are there no ornaments, no rhythm, no
studied cadences, no responsive nlembers, in that divinely
beautiful book? And is it not hard to understand? arc
not the Prophets hard to understand? is not St. Paul
hard to understand? Who can say that these are
popular compositions? who can say that they are level
at first reading with the understandings of the ITIul-
titude ?
That there are portions indeed of the inspired volunlc
more simple both in style and in meaning, and that
these are the more sacred and sublime passages, as,
for instance, parts of the Gospels, I grant at once;
but this does not n1ilitate against the doctrine I have
been laying down. Recollect, Gentlemen, my distinction
when I began. I have said L.iterature is one thing, and
that Science is another; that Literature has to do with
ideas, and Science ,vith realities j that Literature is of
3. personal character, that Science treats of what is
universal and eternal. In proportion, then, as Scripture
excludes the personal colouring of its \vriters, and rises
into the region úf pure and lucre inspiration, ,vhen it
ceases in any sense to be the writing of man, of St. Paul
19

29 0

L tterafure.

or St. John, of Moses or Isaias, then it comes to belong
to Science, not Literature. orhen it conveys the things
of heaven, unseen verities, divine manifestations, and
thenl alone-not the ideas, the feelings, the aspirations,
of its human instruments, who, for all that they were
.Inspired and infaHible, did 110t cease to be men. St.
Paul's epistles, then, I consider to be literature in a real
and true sense, as personal, as rich in reflection and

motion, as Demosthenes or Euripides; and, \vithout
ceasing to be revelations of objective truth, they are
expressions of the subjective notwithstanding. On the
other hand, portions of the Gospels, of the book of
Genesis, and other passages of the Sacred Volume,
are of the nélture of Science. Such is the beginning of
St. John's Gospel, which we read at the end of Mas:;.
Such is the Creed. I mean, passages such as these are
the mere enunciation of eternal things, without (so to
say) the medium of any human mind transmitting thern
to us. The \vords used have the grandeur, the n1ajesty,
the calm, unimpassioned beauty of Science; they are in
no sense Literature, they are in no sense personal; and
therefore they are easy to apprehend, and easy to
transla tee
Did time admit I could show you parallel instances of
\vhat I am speaking of in the Classics, inferior to the
inspired \\'ord in proportion as the subject-matter of the
classical authors is imnlensely inferior to the subjects
treated of in Scripture -but parallel, inasmuch as the
classical author or speaker ceases for the moment to
have to do ,vith Literature, as speaking of things
objectively, and rises to the serene sublimity of Science.
But I should be carried too far if I began.

Literature.

29 1

9-
I shall then merely sum up what I have said, and
come to a conclusion. Reverting, then, to my original
question, what is the meaning of Letters, as co
tained,
Gentlemen, in the designation of your Faculty, I have
answered, that by Letters or Literature is meant the
expression of thought in language, where by "thought"
I mean the ideas, feelings, views, reasonings, and other
operations of the human mind. And the Art of Letters
is the method by which a speaker or ,vriter brings out
in words, worthy of his subject, and sufficient for his
audience or readers, t
e thoughts \vhich impress him.
Literature, then, is of a personal character; it consists in
the enunciations and teachings of those who have a right
to speak as representatives of their kind, and in whose
words their brethren find an interpretation of their o\\'n
sentiments, a record of their own experience, and a
suggestion for their own judgments. A great author,
Gentlemen, is not one \vho merely has a co/ria verboru lit ,
\vhether in prose or verse, and can, as it \vere, turn on at
his will any nun1ber of splendid phrases and swelling
sentences; but he is one who has something to say and
knows ho,v to say it. I do not claim for hÏLn, as such,
any great depth of thought, or breadth of vie\v, or
philosophy, or sagacity, or knowledge of hun1an nature,
or experience of human life, though these additional
gifts he may have, and the more he has of them the
greater he is; but I ascribe to him, as his characteristic
gift, in a large sense the faculty of Expression. l-Ie is
Illaster of the two-fold Logos, the thought and the word,
distinct, but in
eparab]e frOlll each other. He may, if so

29 2

I
Zleratu1
.

be, elaborate his compositions, or he nlay pour out his
in1provisations, but in either case he has but one aim)
which he keeps steadily before him, and is conscientious
and single-nlinded in fulfilling. That aim is to give forth
what he has ,vithin him; and from his very earnestness
it conles to pass that, whatever be the splendour of his
diction or the harmony of his periods, he has with him
the charm of an incommunicable simplicity. Whatever
be his subject, high or lo\v, he treats it suitably and for
its o\vn sake. If he is a poet, "nil molitur Ùæþtè." If he
is an orator, then too he speaks, not only" distinctè" and
"splendidè," but also "aptè." H is page is the luci

Inirror of his mind and life-

" Quo tit, ut omnis
Y otivâ pateat veluti descripta tabellâ
Vita senis."

He writes passionately, because he feels keenly;
forcibly, because he conceives vividly; he sees too clearly
to be vague; he is too serious to be otiose; he can
analyze his subject, and therefore he is rich; he embraces
it as a whole and in its parts, and therefore he is
consistent; he has a firm hold of it, and therefore he is
lUlninous. \Vhen his in1agination \vells up, it overflows
in ornanlent ; when his heart is touched, it thrills along
his verse. I-Ie ahvays has the right word for the right
idea, and never a word too much. If he is brief, it is
because few \vords suffice; when he is lavish of then1, still
each word has its nlark, and aids, not enlbarrasses, the
vigorous march of his elocution. He expresses ,vhat all
feel, but all cannot say; and his sayings pass into
proverbs among his people, and his phrases beconle
household \vords and idioms of their daily speech, \vhich

Literature.

293

is tesselated with the rich fragments of hi
language,
as we see in foreign lands the marbles of Roman gran-
deur worked into the walls and pavements of modern
palaces.
Such pre-eminently is Shakespeare among ourselves;
such pre-eminently Virgil among the Latins; such in
their degree are all those writers who in every nation
go by the name of Classics. To particular nations they
are necessarily attached from the circumstance of the
variety of tongues, and the peculiarities of each; but so
far they have a catholic and ecumenical character, that
what they express is common to the whole race of man,
and they alone are able to express it.

10.
If then the power of speech is a gift as great as any
that can be named,-if the origin of language is by
many philosophers even considered to be nothing short
of divine,-if by means of \vords the secrets of the heart
are brought to light, pain of soul is relieved, hiddel1
grief is carried off, sympathy conveyed, counsel imparted.
experience recorded, and wisdom perpetuated,-if by
great authors the many are drawn up into unity, na-
tional character is fixed, a people speaks, the past and
the future, the East and the West are brought into
communication with each other,-if such men are, in a
word, the spokesmen and prophets of the hunlan family,
-it will not answer to make light of Literature or
to neglect its study; rather we may be sure that, in
proportion as \ve master it in whatever language, and
imbibe its spirit, we shall ourselves become in our
own measure the ministers of like benefits to others.

294

LtËC1 ature.

be they many or few, be they in the obscurer or the more
distinguished walks of life,--who are united to us by
social ties, and are within the sphere of our personal
infl uence.

.

2.95

III.

ENGLISH CATHOLIC LITERATURE.

O NE of the special objects which a Catholic TJni-
versity would prolnote is that of the fonnation
of a Catholic Literature in the English language. It is an
object, however, \vhich must be understood before it
can be suitably prosecuted; and which will not be
understood without some discussion and investigation.
First ideas on the subject must almost necessarily be
crude. The real state of the case, what is desirable,
what is possible, has to be ascertained; and then what
has to be done, and \vhat is to be expected. \Ve have
seen in public matters, for half a year past,. to what
mistakes, and to what disappointments, the country
has been exposed, from not having been able distinctly
to put before it what was to be aimed at by its fleets and
armies, what \vas practicable, what was probable, in
operations of 'war: and so, too, in the field of literature,
\ve are sure of falling into a parallel perplexity and
dissatisfaction, if \ve start with a vague notion of doing
sOlnething or other inlportant by means of a Catholic
University, \vithout having the caution to examine what
is feasible, and \vhat is unnecessary or hopeless. Ac-
cordingly, it is natural I should \vish to direct attention
to this subject, even though it be too difficult to handle
in any exact or complete \vay, and though my attempt
must be left for others to bring into a more perfect shape,
who are more fitted for the task.
Here I shall chiefly employ myself in investigating
what the object is /lot.
* AUP11st" 1854.

2gó

.

. I. In lts relation 10 Religious L-i!era!uYt.

W ... HEN a "Catholic Literature in the English
tongue" is spoken of as a des'ideratUlIl, no reason-
able person will mean by " Catholic \vorks" much more
than the "works of Catholics." The phrase does not
mean a ,.eligiolts literature. "Religious Literature"
indeed would mean much more than" the Literature of
religious men;" it means over and above this, that the
subj ect-matter of the Literature is religious; but by
"Catholic Literature" is not to be understood a litera-
ture \vhich treats exclusively or primarily of Catholic
matters, of Catholic doctrine, controversy, history, per-
sons, or politics; but it includes all subjects of literature
whatever, treated as a Catholic would treat them, and
as he only can treat them. Why it is important to have
them treated by Catholics hardly need be eXplained
here, though something will be incidentally said on the
point as we proceed: meanwhile I am drawing atten-
tion to the distinction between the two phrases in order
to avoid a serious misapprehension. }'or it is evident
that, if by a Catholic Literature \vere meant nothing
more or less than a religious literature, its writers would
be mainly ecclesiastics; just as writers on La,v are
mainly lawyers, and writers on !\1:edicine are mainly
physicians or surgeons. And if this be so, a Catholic
Literature is no object special to a University, unless a
University is to be considered identical with a Senlinary
or a 1'heological School.

h,' 19lish Càtho ze LiteratUYi. 297

I am not denying that a University might prove of the
greatest benefit even to our religious literature; doubt-
less it 'would, and in various ways; still it is concerned
with Theology only as one great subject of thought, as the
greatest indeed which can occupy the human mind, yet
not as the adequate or direct scope of its institution.
Yet I suppose it is not impossible for a literary layman
to wince at the idea, and to shrink from the proposal,
of taking part in a scheme for the formation of a Catholic
Literature, under the apprehension that in some \vayor
another he \vill be entangling- himself in a semi-clerical
occupation. It is not uncommon, on expressing an
anticipation that the Professors of a Catholic University
will promote a Catholic Literature, to have to encounter
a vague notion that a lecturer or writer so employed
must have soo1ething polemical about him, must
moralize or preach, must (in Protestant language)
ÙJlprove tlte occasion, though his subject is not at all a
religious one; in short, that he must do sonlething else
besides fairly and boldly go fight on, and be a Catholic
speaking as a Catholic spontaneously will speak, on the
Classics, or Fine Arts, or Poetry, or whatever he has
taken in hand. rvien think that he cannot give a lecture
on Comparative Anatomy without being bound to
digress into the Argument from Final Causes; that he
cannot recoun t the present geological theories \vi thout
forcing them into an interpretation seriatim of the first
two chapters of Genesis. Many, indeed, seem to go
further still, and actually pronounce that, since our O\V!1
University has been recommended by the Holy See, and
is established by the Hierarchy, it cannot but be engaged
in teaching religion and nothing else, and must and will
have the discipline of a Seminary; \vhich is about as
sensible and logical a view of the matter as it would be

198 E1lglz"sh Càtholic Ltte1 atur

to maintain that the Prin1c i\Iinister ipso facto holds an
ecclesiastical office, since he is always a Protestant; or
that the members of the House of Commons must neces-
sarily have been occupied in clerical duties, as long as
they took an oath about Transubstantiation. Catholic
Literature is not synonymous with Theology, nor does it
supersede or interfere with the work of catechists, divine
J
preachers, or schoohnen.

:299

. 2. hI ,,'"Is relation to Sclenæ.

I.
A ND next, it must be borne in mind, that when \ve
aim at providing a Catholic Literature for Catholics,
in place of an existing literature which is of a marked
Protestant character, we do not, strictly speaking.
include the pure sciences in our desideratum. Not that
\ve should not feel pleased and proud to find Catholics
distinguish themselves in publications on abstract or
experimental philosophy, on account of the honour it
does to our religion in the eyes of the world ;-not that
we are insensible to the congruity and respectability of
depending in these matters on ourselves, and not on
others, at least as regards our text-books ;-not that we
do not confidently anticipate that Catholics of these
countries will in time to come be able to point to
authorities and discoverers in science of their own, equal
to those of Protestant England, Germany, or Sweden ;-
but because, as regards mathematics, chemistry, as-
tronomy, and similar subjects, one man \vill not, on the
score of his religion, treat of them better than another,
and because the \vorks of even an unbeliever or idolator,
while he kept \vithin the strict range of such studies,
might be safely admitted into Catholic lecture-roolns,
and put without scruple into the hands of Catholic youths.
There is no crying demand, no imperative necessity,
for our acquisition of a Catholic Euclid or a Catholic
Newton. The object of all science is truth ;-the pure

30 Ù Engl'ish Catholic Lit,ralure.

sciences proceed to their enunciations from principles
which the intellect discerns by a natural light, and by
a process recognized by natural reason; and the experi-
mental sciences investigate facts by methods of analysis
or by ingenious expedients, ultimat
ly re50lvable into
instruments of thought equally native to the human
mind. If then we may assume that there is an objective
truth, and that the constitution of the human mind is
in correspondence \vith it, and acts truly when it acts
according to its o\vn laws; if we may assume that God
n1ade us, and that what lIe made is good, and that
no action from and according to nature can in itself be
evil; it \vill follow that, so long as it is man who is the
geometrician, or natural philosopher, or mechanic, or
critic, no matter \vhat man he be, Hindoo, Mahometan,
or infidel, his conclusions within his own science, accord-
ing to the laws of that science, are unquestionable, and
not to be suspected by Catholics, unless Catholics may
legitimately be jealous of fact and truth, of divine
principles and divine creations.
I have been speaking of the scientific treatises or
investigations of those \vho are not Catholics, to which
the subject of Literature leads me; but I might even go
on to speak of them in their persons as well as in their
books. Were it not for the scandal which they woulò
create; were it not for the example they would set;
were it not for the certain tendency of the human mind
involuntarily to outleap the strict boundaries of an
abstract science, and to teach it upon extraneous princi-
ples, to embody it in concrete examples, and to carry it
on to practical conclusions; above all, were it not for
the indirect influence, and living energetic presence, and
collateral duties, \vhich accompany a Professor in a great
school of learning, I do not see (abstracting froI11 hin1, I

English Catholic Literatza to. 30 I

repeat, in hypothesis, \vhat never could possibly be
abstracted from him in fact), \vhy the chair of Astronomy
in a Catholic University should not be filled by a La
Place, or that of Physics by a H unlboldt. Whatever
they might wish to say, still, \\yhile they kept to their
o\vn science, they would be unable, like the heathen
Prophet in Scripture, to "go beyond the word of the
Lord, to utter any thing of their o\vn head."

2.
So far the arguments hold good of certain celebrated
writers in a Northern Review, who, in their hostility to
the principle of dogmatic teaching, seem obliged to
maintain, because subject-matters are distinct, that
living opinions are distinct too, and that men are
abstractions as well as their respective sciences. " On
the morning of the thirteenth of August, in the year
17 0 4," says a just]y celebrated author, in illustration and
defence of the anti-dogmatic principle in political and
social matters, "t\VO great captains, equal in authority,
united by close private and public ties, but of different
creeds, prepared for battle, on the event of \vhich were
staked the liberties of Europe. . . 1\1arlborough gave
orders for public prayers; the English chaplains read
the service at the head of the English. regiments; the
Calvinistic chaplains of the Dutch arnlY, ,vith heads on
\vhich hand of Bishop had never been laid, poured forth
their supplications in front of their countrynlen. In the
meantinle the Danes n1Ïght listen to the Lutheran
ministers; and Capuchins Inight encourage the Austrian
squadrons, and pray to the Virgin for a blessing on the
arrns of the holy Ronlan J:1:nlpirc. The battle conl-
Inences; these IHen of various religions all act lik

members of one body: the Catholic and the Protestant

302 English Catholic Lifiratl/re.

generals exert themselves to assist and to surpass each
other; before sunset the Etn pire is sa\"ed; France has
lost in a day the fruits of eight years of intrigue and of
victory; and the allies, after conquering together, return
thanks to God separately, each after his o\vn form of
\vorship." ...
The \vriter of this lively passage \vould be doubtless
un\villing himself to carry out the principle \vhich it
insinuates to those extreme conclusions to which it is
often pushed by others, in nlatters of education. Viewed
in itself, viewed in the abstract, that principle is simply,
undeniably true; and is only sophistical when it is
carried out in practical nlatters at all. A religious
opinion, though not fonnally recognized, cannot fail of
influencing Ì1z fact the school, or society, or polity in
\vhich it is found; though in the abstract that opinion
is one thing, and the school, society, or polity, another.
Here were Episcopalians, ] lutherans, Calvinists, and
Catholics found all fighting on one side, it is true, \vith-
out any prejudice to their respective religious tenets:
and, certainly, I never heard that in a battle soldiers
did do any thing else but fight. I did not know they
had time for going beyond the matter in hand; yet,
even as regards this very illustration which he has
chosen, if \ve were bound to decide by it the contro-
versy, it does so happen that that danger of interference
and collision between opposite religionists actually does
occur upon a campaign, which could not be incurred in a
battle: and at this very tÍ1ne some jealousy or disgust
has been shown in English popular publications, \vhen
they have had to record that our ally, the Emperor of
the French, has sent his troops, \\'ho are serving with
the British against the Russians, to attel1d High 1'lass,
· Macaula).'s Essays.

EllglÙi, Cat/lolie Litirature. 30S

or has presented his sailors with a picture of the
Madonna.
It: then, \ve could have Professors who were mere
abstractions and phanton1s, marrowless in their bones,
and without speculation in their eyes; or if they could
only open their mouths on their own special subject, and
in their scientific pedantry were dead to the world; if
they resembled the well known character in the Romance,
who was so imprisoned or fossilized in his erudition,
that, though "he stirred the fire with some address,"
nevertheless, on attempting to snuff the candles, he
" was unsuccessful, and relinq 1 1ished that ambitious post
of courtesy, after having twice reduced the parlour to
total darkness," then indeed Voltaire himself might be
admitted, not without scandal, but without risk, to lecture
on astronomy or galvanism in Catholic, or Prote
tant,
or Presbyterian Colleges, or in all of them at once; and
\ve should have no practical controversy with philoso-
phers who, after the fashion of the author I have been
quoting, are so smart in proving that we, \vho differ fronl
them, must needs be so bigotted and puzzle-headed.
And in strict conformity with these obvious distinc-
tions, it will be found that, so far as we are able to
reduce scientific men of anti-Catholic opinions to the
type of the imaginary bookworm to whom I have been
alluding, \ve do actually use theln in our schools. \Ve
allow our Catholic student to use them, so far as he can
surprise theln (if I may use the expression), in their
formal treatises, and can keep them close prisoners there.

Vix defessa senem passus componere membra,
Cum clamore ruit magno, manicisque jacentelll
Occupat.

The fisherman, in the Arabian tale, took no hann from

304 EJlgi-lsh Catholzc Litt,rafurt.

the genius.. till he let him out fronl the brass bottle in
\\'hich he \vas confined. "He examined the vessel and
shook it, to see if what \vas within Inade any noise, but
he heard nothing." All was safe till he had succeeded
in opening it, and i' then caIne out a very thick smoke,
\vhich, ascending to the clouds and extending itself
along the sea shore in a thick mist, astonished hitu very
much. After a time the smoke collected, and was COI1-
verted into a genius of enornlOUS height. At the sight
of this monster, \vhose head appeared to reach the
douds, the fishern1an trembled with fear." Such is th

difference bet\veen an unbelieving or heretical philoso-
pher in person, and in the mere disquisitions proper to hi
.
science. Porson \vas no edifying companion for young
11lcn of eighteen, nor are his letters on the text of thf.
Three Heavenly \Vitnesses to be recomnlended; but
that does not hinder his being admitted into Catholic
schools, while he is confined within the limits of his Pre-
face to the Hecuba. Franklin certainly ,,"ould have
been intolerable in person, if he began to talk freely,
and throw out, as I think he did in private, that each
solar system had its own god; but such extravagances
of so able a man do not interfere \"ith the honour we
justly pay his nan1e in the history of experimental
science. Nay, the great Newton hin1self \\'ould have
been silenced in a Catholic University, when he got
upon the Apocalypse; yet is that any reason why we
should not study his Principia, or avail ourselves of the
wonderful analysis \vhich he, Protestant as he was,
originated, and \\'hich French infidels have developed?
We are glad, for their own sakes, that anti-Catholic
\"riters should, in their posthumous influence, do as
n1uch real service to the human race as ever they can,
and we have no \"ish to interfere \\,ith it.

English Catholic Literature. 305

3.

Returning, then, to the point from which we set out, I
observe that, this being the state of the case as regards
abstract science, viz., that ,ve have no quarrel \vith its
anti-Catholic commentators, till they thrust their persons
into our Chairs, or their popular \vritings into our read-
ing-rooms, it follows that, when we contemplate the
formation of a Catholic Literature, we do not consider
scientific works as atnong our most prominent des-iderata.
They are to be looked for, not so much for their own
sake, as because they are indications that we have able
scientific men in our communion; for if we have such,
they will be certain to write, and in proportion as they
increase in nunlber will there be the chance of really
profound, original, and standard books issuing from our
Lecture-rooms and Libraries. But, after all, there is no
reason why these should be better than those which we
have already received from Protestants; though it is at
once more becoming and more agreeable to our feelings
to use books of our ovvn, instead of being indebted to
the books of others.
Literature, then, is not synonymous with Science;
nor does Catholic education imply the exclusion of
\vorks of abstract reasoning, or of physical experinlent,
or the like, though \vritten by persons of another or of
no conlffiunlon.
There is another consideration in point here, or rather
prior to what I have been saying; and that is, that,
considering certain scientific ,yorks, those on Criticism,
for instance, are so often written in a technical phrase-
ology, and since others, as mathematical, deal so largely
in signs, symbols, and figures, \vhich belong to all Ian.
guages, these abstract studies cannot properly be said to
20

3 06 E 1zglislt [tltholic Lit;. raluYt;.

fall under English Literature at all ;-for by Literature
I understand Thought, conveyed under the forms of
sonle particular language. And this brings me to speak
of Literature in its highest and most genuine sense, viz.,
as an historical and national fact; and I fear, in this
sense of the '''lord also, it is altogether beside or beyond
any object which a Catholic University can reasonably
contemplate, at least in any moderate term of years;
but so large a subject here opens upon us that I lTIUst
postpone it to another Section.

3 0 7

3. liz its relall
J1l to Classical Lt1el'a!1lre.

1.

I HAVE been directing the reader's attention, Í1rst
to what \ve do not, and next to what \ve need not
contetnplate, \vhen \ve turn our thoughts to the fonnation
of an English Catholic Literature. I said that our
object was neither a library of theological nor of scien-
tific knowledge, though theology in its literary aspect,
and abstract science as an exercise of intellect, have
both of course a place in the Catholic encyclopædia.
One undertaking, ho\vever, there is, which not nlerely
does not, and need not, but unhappily cannot, corne into
the reasonable conten".plation of any set of persons,
,vhether men1bers of a University or not, who are desi-
rous of Catholicizing the English language, as is very
evident; and that is si1nply the creation of an English
Classical Literature, for that has been done long ago,
and would be a work beyond the powers of any body of
men, even if it had still to be done. If I insist on this
point here, no one must suppose I do not consider it to
be self-evident; fer I shall not be aiming at proving it, so
much as at bringing it hon1e distinctly to the mind, that
\ve may, one and all, have a clearer perception of the
state of things with which \ve have to deal. There is
many an undeniable truth ,vhich is not practically felt
and appreciated; and, unless we master our position in
the matter before us, we tnay be led off into various
,vild inlaginations or impossible schenles, \vhich \vill, as
a matter of course, end in disappointnlent.

308 English Catl/oLic L'lteralUYe.

\Vere the Catholic Church acknowledged from this mo-
Inent through the length and breadth of these islands, and
the English tongue henceforth baptized into the Catholic
faith, and sealed and consecrated to Catholic objects, and
were the present intellectual activity of the nation to con-
tinue, as of course it \vould continue, we should at once
have an abundance of Catholic works, which would be
English, and purely English, literature and high litera-
ture; but still all these would not constitute U English
Literature," as the words are commonly understood, nor
even then could we say that the U English Literature II
was Catholic. 1\1: uch less can we ever aspire to affirm it,
\vhile \ve are but a portion of the vast English-speaking
\\'orld-\vide race, and are but striving to create a current
in the direction of Catholic truth, \vhen the waters are
rapidly flowing the other way. In no case can we,
strictly speaking, form an English Literature; for by
the Literature of a Nation is meant its Classics, and its
Classics have been given to England, and have been
recognized as such, long since.

2.
A Literature, when it is formed, is a national and
historical fact; it is a matter of the past and the present,
and can be dS little ignored as the present, as little undone
as the past. \Ve can deny, su persede, or change it, then
only, ,vhen \ve can do the same towards the race or lan-
guage \vhich it represents. Every great people has a cha-
racter of its own, which it manifests and perpetuates in
a variety of ways. It developcs into a nlonarchy or re-
public ;-bymeans of con1merce or in war, in agriculture or
in n1anufactures, or in all of these at once; in its cities, its
public edifices and \vorks, bridges, canals, and harbours;
in its la\vs, traditions, customs. and manners; in its songs

English Catholic j.,iierature. 309

and its proverbs; in its religion; in its line of policy, its
bearing, its action towards foreign nations; in its alliances,
fortunes, and the whole course of its history. All these
are peculiar, and parts of a whole, and betoken the
national character, and savour of each other; and the
case is the same \vith the national language and litera-
ture. They are \vhat they are, and cannot be any thing
else, whether they be good or bad or of a Inixed nature;
before they are formed, \ve cannot prescribe them, and
afterwards, \ve cannot reverse them. vVe may feel great
repugnance to 1\1::ilton or Gibbon as men; we may most
seriously protest against the spirit which ever lives, and
the tendency \vhich ever operates, in every page of
their writings; but there they are, an integral portion
of English Literature; \ve cannot extinguish them; we
cannot deny their po\ver ; \ve cannot write a new Milton
or a new Gibbon; we cannot expurgate what needs to
be exorcised. They are great English authors, each
breathing hatred to the Catholic Church in his own \vay,
each a proud and rebellióus creature of God, each gifted
with incon1parable gifts.
\Ve must tal<e things as they are, if \\Te take them at alL
\Ve may refuse to say a \vord to English literature, if we
,,vill; we may have recourse to French or to Italian instead,
if \ve think either of these less exceptionable than our o\vn;
we may fall b
ck upon the Classics of Greece and Ron1e ;
"pe may have nothing whatever to do with literature, as
such, of any kind, and confine ourselves to purely amor-
phous or monstrous specimens of language; but if \ve
do once profess ill our Universities the J:i:nglish language
and literature, if we think it allowable to kno\v the state
of things \ve live in, and that national character which \ve
share, if we think it desirable to have a chance of "Triting
what may be read after our day, and praise\vorth 11 to aim

310 l!,'ngli'sh Catholic LiteriltUYi'.

at providing for Catholics \vho speak English a Cat110
lie Literature then-I do not say that we must at on..:e
throw open every sort of book to the young. the weak, or
the untrained,-I do not say that we Inay dispense \"ith
our ecclesiastical indexes and enlcndations, but-\ve 111Ust
not fancy ourselves cre-ating what is already created in
spite of us, and which never could at a mon1ent be created
by Ineans of us, and we must recognize that historical
literature, which is in occupation of the language, both
as a fact, nay, and as a standard for ourselves.
There is surely nothing either u temerarious " or para-
doxical in a statement like this. The gro\vth of a nation
is like that of an individual; its tone of voice and subjects
for speech vary with its age. I
ach age has its own pro-
priety and charm: as a boy's beauty is not a man's, and
the sweetness of a treble differs fronl the richness of a
bass, so it is with a \vhole people. The saIne period does
not produce its most popular poet, its most effective orator,
and its Inost philosophic historian. Language changes
\vith the progress of thought and the events of history, and
style changes \vith it; and \vhile in successive generations
it passes through a series of separate excellences, the
respective deficiencies of all are supplied alternately by
each. Thus language and literature may be considered as
Jependent on a process of nature, and admitting of subjec-
tion toher laws. Father Hardouin indeed, who maintained
that, with the exception of Pliny, Cicero, Virgil's Georgics,
and Horace's Satires and Epistles, Latin literature was the
work of the medieval n10n ks, had the conception of a
literature neither national nor historical; but the rest of
the world \vill be apt to consider time and place as neces-
sary conditions in its forn1ation, and ,vill be unable to con-
ceive of classical authors, except as either the elaboration
of centuries, or the rare and fitful accident of genius.

Englt"sh Catholic Litcrabtr".. 3 1 I

FIrst-rate excellence in literature, as in other Inatters,
is either an acciJent or the outcome of a process; and Ï1
either case demands a cour
e of years to secure. We can-
not reckon on a Plato, we cannot force an Aristotle, any
nlore than we can com mand a fine harvest, or create a
coal field. If a literature be, as I have said, the voice of a
particular nation, it requires a territory and a period, as
large as that nation"s extent and history, to IIlature in.
It is broader and deeper than the capacity of any body
of men, however gifted, or any system of teaching,
ho,vever true. It is the exponent, not of truth, but of
nature, ,vhich is true only in its elements. It is the
result of the mutual action of a hundred simultaneous
influences and operations, and the issue of a hundred
strange accidents .in independent places and times; it is
the scanty conlpensating produce of the wild discipline
of the \vorld and of life, so fruitful in failures; and it is
the concentration of those rare Inanifestations of intel-
lectual power, which no one can account for. It is made
up, in the particular language here under consideration.
of hunlan beings as heterogeneous as Burns and Bunyaf'

De Foe and Johnson, Goldsmith and Co""per, Law and
Fielding, Scott and Byron. The remark has been made
that the history of an author is the history of his works;
it is far ITIOre exact to say that, at least in the case of great
writers, the history of their works is the history of their
fortunes or their tinles. Each is, in his turn, the tnan of
his age, the type of a generation, or the interpreter of a
crisis. He is made for his day, and his day for hinl.
Hooker would not have been, but for the existence of
Catholics and Puritans, the defeat of the former and the
rise of the latter; Clarendon \vould not have been ,vith-
out the Great Rebellion; Hobbes is the prophet of the
reaction to scoffing infidelity; and Addison is the chi
d

3 12 Englz"sh Cafholzc Literature.

of the Revolution and its attendant changes. If there be
any of our classical authors, who n1ight at first sight have
been pronounced a University Blan, ,\-ith the exct:ption of
Johnson, Addison is he; yet even A ddison, the son and
brother of clergynlen, the fello\v of an Oxford Society,
the resident of a Colrege \\'hich still points to the walk
\vhich he planted, nlust be soo1ething nl0re, in order to
take his place among the Classics of the language, and
o,ved the variety of his matter to his experience of life,
and to the call n1ade on his resources by the exigencies
of his day. The \vorld he lived in n1ade him and used
hirn. \Vhile his ,vritings educated his ov:n generation,
they have delineated it for all posterity after him.

3.
I have been speaking of the authors of a literature, in
their relation to the people and course of events to
which they belong; but a prior consideration, at which
I have already glanced, is their connection \vith the
language itself, \\Thich has been their organ. If they are
in great measure the creatures of their tinles, they are
on the other hand in a far higher sense the creators of
their language. It is indeed commonly called their
mother tongue, but virtually it did not exist till they
g..tve it life and fonn. All greater matters are carried
on and perfected by a succession of individual Ininds;
what is true in the history of thought and of action is
true of language also. Certain nlasters of composition,
as Shakespeare, Milton, and Pope, the writers of the
Protestant Bible and Prayer Book, Hooker and Addi-
son, S,vift, H unIe, and Goldsmith, have been the making
of the English language; and as that language is a fact,
so is the literature a fact, by \vhich it is fonncd, and in
\vhich it lives. Men of great ability have taken it ip

Bnglisll Catholic Lt"teral1tJ f. 3 1 3

hand, each in his own day, and have done for it what
the master of a gYInnasium does for the bodily frame.
They have fonned its linlbs, and developed its strength;
they have endo\ved it with vigour, exercised it in sup-
pleness and dexterity, and taught it grace. They have
made it rich, harmonious, various, and precise. They
have furnished it with a variety of styles, \vhich from
their individuality may almost be cal1,,
d dialects, and are
monuments both of the pov.'ers of the language and the
genius of its cultivators.
How real a creation, ho\v sui gelleris, is the style of
Shakespeare, or of the Protestant Bible and Prayea
Book, or of S\vift, or of Pope, or of Gibbon, or of J Oh11-
son! Even \vere the subject-matter without meaning,
though in truth the style cannot really be abstracted
fronl the sense, still the style \vould, on that supposition,
remain as perfect and original a work as Euclid's ele-
ments or a symphony of Beethoven. And, like music,
it has seized upon the public mind; and the literature
of England is no longer a Inere letter, printed in books,
and shut up in libraries, but it is a living voice, which
has gone forth in its expressions and its sentiments into
the world of Olen, which daily thrills upon our ears and
syllables our thoughts, which speaks to us through our
correspondents, and dictates when we put pen to paper.
Whether we will or no, the phraseology and diction of
Shakespeare, of the Protestant formularies, of IVlilton,
of Pope, of Johnson's Tabletalk, and of Walter Scott,
have become a portion of the vernacular tongue, the
household words, of which perhaps we little guess the
origin, and the very idioms of our familiar conver
ation.
The man in the comedy spoke prose without knowing
it; and we Catholics, \vithout consciousness and without
offence, are ever repeating the half sentences of dissolute

314 J!,'lígizs l Catholic Literature.

play\vrights and heretical partizans and preachers. So
tyrannous is the literature of a nation; it is too ll1uch
for us. We cannot destroy or reverse it; we may con-
front and encounter it, but \ve cannot make it over
agaIn. It is a great ,,'ork of luan, \vhen it is no \vork of
God's.
I repeat, then, \vhatever \ve be able or unable to effect
in the great problenl which lies before us, any ho\v we
cannot undo the past. English Literature win ever have
been Protestant. Swift and Addison, the most native
and natural of our \vriters, Hooker and lVlilton, the most
elaborate, never can becolne our co-relig-ioni'3ts; and,
though this is but the enunciation of a truisJn, it is not
on that account an unprofitable enunciatkn}.

4-
J trust we are not the men to give up an undertaking
because it is perplexed or arduous; and to do nothing
because we cannot do everything. IVr uch nlay be at-
tempted, much attainl
d, even granting English Litera-
ture is not Catholic. SOßlething indeed nlar be said
even in alleviation of the misfortune itself, on \vhich I
have heen insisting; and with two renlarks bearing upon
this latter point J .vill bring this Section to an end.
I. First, then, it is to be considered that, \vhether \ve
look to countries Christian or heathen, \ve find the state of
1 iterature there as little satisfactory as it i
in these islands;
so that, \vhatever are our difficulties here, they are not
\vorse than those of Catholics all over the \vorld. I \vould
not indeed say a word to extenuate the calamity, under
\vhieh ,ve He, of having a literature formed in Protestant-
isn1; stin, other literatures have disadvantages of their
o\vn; and, though in such matters comparisons are im-
?ossible. I doubt whether we should be better pleased if

R ltg/ish Catho!Ù: Literature. 3 15

our English Classics \vere tainted with licentiousness, or
defaced by infidelity or scepticism. I conceive \ve should
not much mend matters if \ve \vere to exchange litera-
tures with the French, Italians, or Germans. About
Germany, ho\vever, I will not speak; as to France, it
has great and religious authors; its classical drama, even
in conlcdy, compared with that of other literatures, is
singularly unexceptionable; but \vho is there that holds
a place among its \vriters so historical and important,
who is so copious, so versatiie, so brilliant, as that Voltaire
who is an open scoffer at every thing sacred, venerable,
or high-minded? N or can Rousseau, though he has
not the pretensions of Voltaire, be excluded from the
classical writers of France. Again, the gifted Pascal)
in the work on which his literary fame is mainly founded,
does not approve hinlself to a Catholic judgment; and
Descartes, the first of French philosophers, \vas too
independent in his inquiries to be ahvays correct in his
conclusions. The witty Rabelais is said, by a recent
critic,. to show covertly in his former publications,
and openly in his latter, his U'dislike to the Church of
Rome." La Fontaine \vas with difficulty brought, on
his death-bed, to make public satisfaction for the scandal
\vhich he had done to religion by his immoral COIl!t:S,
though at length he threw into the fire a piece which he
had just finished for the stage. lVlontaigne, \vhose
Essays" nlake an epoch in literature," by "their influence
upon the tastes and opinions of Europe;" whose Hschool
embraces a large proportion of French and English
literature;" and of whose "brightness and felicity of
genius there can be but one opinion," is disgraced, as the
same \\Triter tells us, by "a sceptical bias and great indiffer-
ence of tenlperanlent;" and ., has led the ,va}''' ac; an
· ;Ha11ap-n.

3 I 6 English Catholic Literal! r .

habitual offender, "to the indecency too characteristic of
French literature."
Nor does Italy present a more encouraging picture.
Ariosto, one of the fe\v names, ancient or modern, who
is allo\ved on all hands to occupy the first rank of Litera-
ture, is, I suppose, rigñtly arraigned by the author I have
above quoted, of "coarse sensuality." Pulci," by his
sceptical insinuations, seems clearly to display an inten-
tion of exposing religion to contempt." Boccaccio, the
first of Italian prose-\vriters, had in his old age touch-
ingly to laInent the corrupting tendency of his popular
compositions; and Bellarmine has to vindicate him,
Dante, and Petrarch, from the charge of virulent abuse
of the Holy See. J)ante certainly does not scruple to
place in his Inft'rllo a Pope, \vhom the Church has since
canonized, and his work on llIonarckia is on the Index.
Another great Florentine, Macchiavel, is on the Index
also; and Giannone, as great in political history at
Naples as Macchiavel at Florence, is notorious for his
disaffection to the interests of the ROn1d.n Pontiff
These are but specin1ens of the general character of
'-
cular literature, whatever be the people to whom it be-
longs. One literature may be better than another, but
bad will be the be
t, \vhen weighed in the balance of
truth and morality. It cannot be othenvise; hunlan
nature is in all ages and all countries the same; and its
literature, therefore, will ever and everywhere be one and
the same also. rvlan's work \vill savour of man; in his
elenlents and po\vers excellent and adlnirable, but prone
to disorder and excess, to error and to sin. Such too
\vill be his literature; it will have the beauty and the
fierceness, the sweetness and the rankness, of the natural
man, and, \vith all its richness and greatness, ,vill neces-

arily of {end the senses of those \vho l in the Apostle's

English Catholtc L'iterature. 3 17

words, are really" exercised to discern between good
and evi1." "It is said of the holy Sturme," says an Ox-
ford writer, "that, in passing a horde of unconverted
Gern1ans, as they \vere bathing and gambolling in the
stream, he was so overpowered by the intolerable scent
which arose from them that he nearly fainted away.1)
National Literature is, in a parallel way, the untutored
movements of the reason, imagination, passions, and
affections of the natural man, the leapings and the
friskings, the plungings and the snortings, the sportings
and the buffoonings, the clun1sy play and the aimless
toil, of the noble, lawless savage of God's intellectual
creation.
It is well that we should clearly apprehend a truth so
simple and elementary as this, and not expect from the
nature of man, or the literature of the world, what they
l1ever held out to us. Certainly, I di
not know that the
world was to be regarded as favourable to Christian faith
or practice, or that it would be breaking any engagement
vlith us, if it took a line divergent from our o\vn. I have
never fancied that we should have reasonable ground for
surprise or complaint, though man's intellect puris na-
turalibus did prefer, of the two, liberty to truth, or though
his heart cherished a leaning towards licence of thought
and speech in comparison with restraint.

s.
2. If we do but resign ourselves to facts, we shall soon
be led on to the second reflection \vhich I have prornised
-viz., that, not only are things not better abroad, but
they might be worse at honle. We have, it is true, a
Protestant literature; but then it is neither atheistical
nor immoral; and, in the case of at least half a dozen
of its highf'st and most influential departments, and of

3 18

llgIÙ'h (,
lthiJlic Lileratu' e.

the nlost popular of its authors, it comes to us \vith very
considerable alleviations. For instance, there surely is
a call on us for thankfulness that the most illustrious
amongst English writers has so little of a Protestant
about him that Catholics have been able, without ex-
travagance, to clainl him as their own, and that enemies
to our creed have allo\ved that he is only not a Catholic,.
because, and as far as, his times forbade it. It is an
additional satisfaction to be able to boast that he offends
in neither of those hvo respects, \vhich reflect so seriously
upon the reputation of great authors abroad. Whatever
passages may be gleaned from his dramas disrespectful
to ecclesiastical authority, still these are but passages; on
the other hand, there i
in Shakespeare neither contempt
of religion nor scepticislU, and he upholds the broad la\vs
of moral and divine truth \vith the consistency and severity
of an Æschylus, Sophocles, or Pindar. There is no 111is-
taking in his works on ,vhich side lies the right; Satan
is not made a hero, nor Cain a victim, but pride is pride,
and vice is vice, and, whatever indulgence he Inay allow
hinlself in light thoughts or unseemly words, yet his
aÙlniration is reserved for sanctity and truth. Frolll the
second chief fault of Literature, as indeed lUY last words
imply, he is not so free; but, often as he may offend
against modesty, he is clear of a \\Forse charge, sensuality,
and hardly à passage can be instanced in all that he
has \vritten to seduce the Ï1nagination or to excite the
passions.
A rival to Shakespeare, if not in genius, at least in
copiousness and variety, is found in Pope; and he Vla

actually a Catholic, though personally an unsatisfactory
one. His freedom indeed fronl Protestantism is but a poor
compensation for a false theory of religion in one of his
poems; but, taking his works as a whole, \ve may surely

English Catieolit Literature. 319

acquit them of being dangerous to the reader, whether
on the score of morals or of faith.
Again, the special title of moralist in English Litera-
ture is accorded by the public voice to Johnson, whose
bias towards Catholicity is \vell known.
If we were to ask for a report of our philosophers, the
investigation would not be so agreeable; for we have
three of evil, and one of unsatisfactory repute. Locke
is scarcely an honour to us in the standard of truth, grave
and manly as he is; and Hobbes, Hume, and Bentham,
in spite of their abilities, are simply a disgrace. Yet,
even in this department, we find some compensation in
the names of Clarke, Berkeley, Butler, and Reid, and in
a name more famous than them all. Bacon was too
intellectually great to hate or to contemn the Catholic
faith; and he deserves by his \vritings to be caned the
most orthodox of Protestant philosophers.

""2ð
..)

. 4. In its relation to the Literatuyt 0 the Day.

I.
T HE past cannot be undone. That our English
Classical Literature is not Catholic is a plain fact,
which v:e cannot deny, to \vhich we must reconcile our-
selves, as best ,ve may, and which, as I have shown above>
has after all its compensations. When, then, I speak of
the desirableness of forming a Catholic Literature, I am
contemplating no such vain enterprise as that of reversing
history; no, nor of redeeming the past by the future. I
have no dream of Catholic Classics as still reserved for the
English language. In truth, classical authors not only
are national, but belong to a particular age of a nation's
life; and I shou Id not wonder if, as regards ourselves,
that age is passing away. Moreover, they perform a
particular office towards its language, which is not likely
to be called for beyond a definite time. And further,
though analogies or parallels cannot be taken to decide
a question of this nature, such is the fact, that the series of
our classical writers has already extended through a
longer period than \vas granted to the Classical Litera-
ture either of Greece or of Rome; and thus the English
1auguage also may have a long course of literature still
to come through many centuries, \vithout that LIterature
being classical.
Latin, for instance, ,vas a living language for many
hundred years after the date of the writers who brought
it to its perfection; and then it continu
d for a second

E1lglish Catholic Liferature. 32 J

long period to be the medium of European correspon-
dence. Greek ,vas a living language to a date not very
far short of that of the taking of Constantinople, ten cen.
turies after the date of St. Basil, and seventeen hundred
years after the period commonly called classical. And
thus, as the year has its spring and sumtner, so even for
those celebrated languages there was but a season of splen-
dour, and, cornpared \vith the \vhole course of their dura-
tion, but a brief season. Since, then, English has had its
great writers for a term of about three hundred years,-as
long, that is, as the period from Sappho to Demosthenes,
or from Pisistratus to Arcesilas, or from Æschylus and
Pindar to Carneades, or from Ennius to Pliny,-we
should have no right to be disappointed if the classical
reriod be close upon its termination.
By the Classics of a national Literature I Inean those
authors who have the foremost place in exemplifying
the powers and conducting the development of its lan-
guage. The language of a nation is at first rude and
clunlsy; and it demands a succession of skilful artists to
Blake it malleable and ductile, and to \\.ork it up to its
proper perfection. It itnproves by use, but it is not
everyone \vho can use it while as yet it is unfofl11ed.
To do this is an effort of genius; and so nlen of a pecu-
liar talent arise, one after another, according to the cir-
cumstances of the tin1es, and accolnplish it. One gives it
flexibility, that is, sho\vs how it can be used ,vithout
difficulty to express adequately a variety of thoughts anJ
feelings in their nicety or intricacy; another n1akes it
perspicuous or forcible; a third adds to its vocabulary;
and a fourth gives it grace and harmony. The style of
each of such clninent Blasters becomes henceforth in
sonl c sort a property of the language itself; words,
phrases, collocations, and structure, which hitherto did
21

322 El1glzsh Catholi Litttature.

not exist, gradually passing into the conversation and
the composition of the educated classes.

2.
N ow I \vill attenl pt to sho\v how this process of im-
provement is t:fiected, and \vhat is its linlit. I conceive
then that these gifted \vriters act upon the spoken and
"rritten language by means of the particular schools
which fornl about then1 respectively. Their style, using
the ,vord in a large sense, forcibly arrests the reader, and
dra\vs him on to imitate it, by virtue of \vhat is excellent
in it, in spite of such defects as, in comnlon \vith all human
\vorks, it may contain. I suppose all of us \vill recognize
this fascination. For myself \vhen I \vas fourteen or
fifteen, I ilnitated Addison; \vhen I ,\ras seventeen, I
,vrote in the style of Johnson; about the same time I fell
in \vith the t\\relfth volume of Gibbon, and my ears rang
\vith the cadence of his sentences, and I drealned of it for
a night or Ì\\'O. Then I began to make an analysis of
Thucydides. in Gibbon's style. In like manner, most
Oxford undergraduates, forty years ago, \vhen they would
write poetry, adopted the versification of Pope Dar\vin,
and the Pleasures of Hope, \vhich had been made popular
by Heber and l\lilnlan. The literary schools, indeed,
\vhich I am speaking of, as resulting from the attractions
of some original, or at least novel artist, consist for the
n10st part of mannerists, none of \vhon1 rise much above
nIediocrity; but they are not the less serviceable as
channels, by nleans of \vhich the achievements of genius
Inay be incorporated into the language itself: or become
the common property of the nation. Henceforth, the
most ordinary conI poser, the very student in the lecture-
room, is able to write \vith a precision, a grace, or a copi-
ousness, as the case may b
unkno\vn before the date

English Cat/lolit.- Littl aiU1 c.

3 2 3

of the authors whoIn he inlitates, and he wonders at, if
he does not rather pride himself on, his

novas frondcs, et non sua poma.

If there is anyone \vho illustrates this remark, it i:"'
Gibbon; I seem to trace his vigorous condensation and
peculiar rhytlun at evc=ry turn in the literature of the
present day. Popc, again, is said to have tuned our
versification. Since his tÏ1ne, anyone, \vho has an ear
and turn for poetry, can \vith little pains thro\v off a copy
of verses equal or superior to the poet's o\vn, and \vith
far less of study and patient correction than \\'ould have
been den1anded of the poet himself for their production.
COlnpare the choruses of the Samson Agonistes \vith any
stanza taken at randon1 in Thalaba: ho\v much had the
language gained in the interval between theu1! Without
denying the high nlerits of Southey's beautiful romance,
\ve surely shall not be \vrong in saying, that in its unem-
barrassed eloquentflo\v,itis the language of the nineteenth
century that speaks, as much as the author himself:
I \vill give an instance of \vhat I mean: let us take the
beginning of the first chorus in the Samson :-
Just are the \Va ys of God,
And justifiable to men;
Unless there be who think not God at all ;
If any be, they walk obscure,
F or of such doctrine never was there school,
But the heart of the fool,
And no man therein doctor but himself.
But men there be, who doubt His ways not just,
As to His own edicts found contradicting,
Then give the reins to wandering thought,
Regardless of I-lis glory's ditninution j
Till, by their own perplexities involved,
They ravel more, 5tillless resolved,
But never find se 1 f-satis{ying solution

324 E:ll..glt:
1 Catholic Lzlt: alllil.

And no\v take the opening stanza of Thalaba :-

How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven.
In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine
RoBs through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert circle spreads,
Like the round ocean girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!

Does not Southey sho,v to advantage here? yet the
voice of the world proclaims Milton pre-eminently a
poet; and no one can affect a doubt of the delicacy and
exactness of his ear. Yet, much as he did for the lan-
guage in verse and in prose, he left 111uch for other artists
to do after hinl, \vhich they have successfully accom-
plished. \Ve see the fruit of the literary labours of
Pope, Thonlson, Gray, Goldstnith, and other poets ot
the eighteenth century, in the musical eloquence of
Southey.

3.
So much for the process; now for its termination. I
think it is brought about in SOine such way as the
follo\ving :-
The influence of a great classic upon the nation \vhjch
he represents is twofold; on the one hand he advances
his native language towards its perfection; but on the
other hand he discourages in some measure any advance
beyond his own. Thus, in the parallel case of science,
it is commonly said on the continent, that the very
Inarvellousness of Newton's powers \\"as the bane of
English mathematics: inasmuch as those who succeeded

English Catholic Lzïera!uYt. 325

him \vcre content with his discoveries, bigoted to his
nlethods of investigation, and averse to those ne\v instru-
Inents which have carried on the French to such brilliant
and successful results. In Literature, also, there is some-
thing oppressive in the authority of a great writer, and
something of tyranny in the use to \vhich his admirers
put his name. The school \vhich he forms \vould fain
1110nopolize the language, draws up canons of criticisln
from his writings, and is intolerant of innovation. Those
\vho come under its influence are dissuaded or deterred
from striking out a path of their o\vn. Thus Virgil's
transcendent excellence fixed the character of the hexa-
meter in subsequent poetry, and took a\vay the chances,
if not of improvement, at least of variety. Even J uvenal
has much of Virgil in the structure of his verse. I have
kno\vn those \vho prefer the rhythm of Catullus.
However, so sum11lary a result is not of necessary
occurrence. The splendour of an author may excite a
generous em ulation, or the tyrannous formalism of his
follo\vers are-action j and thus other authors and other
schools arise. We read of Thucydides, on hearing
Herodotus read his history at Olympia, being incited to
attempt a similar \vork, though of an entirely different
and of an original structure. Gibbon, in like manner,
writing of Hume and Robertson, says: "The perfect com-
position, the nervous language, the \vell-turned periods
of Dr. Robertson, inflamed me to the ambitious hope
that I 111ight one day tread in his footsteps; the cahn
philosophy, the careless inimitable beauties of his friend
and rival, often forced 11le to close the volunle with a
mixed sensation of delight and despair.""
As to re-actions, I suppose there has been somethinO'
ð
of the kind against the supremacy of Pope, since the tinle
· l\1iSc. 'Yorks, p. SSe

32Ó English Clllho/ic Lileralu .

that his successors, Campbell especially, have developed
his peculiarities and even defects into extravagance.
Crabbe, for instance, turned back to a versification having
much more of Dryden in it; and Byron, in spite of his
high opinion of Pope, thre\v into his lines the rhythnl of
blank verse. Still, on the ,vhole, the influence of a Classic
acts in the \vay of discouraging any thing ne\v, rather than
in that of exciting rivalry or pro\Toking re-action.
And another consideration is to be taken into account.
\Vhen a language has been cultivated in any particular
dcpartnlcnt of thought, and so far as it has been generally
perfected, an existing \\'ant has been supp!ied, and there
is no need for further \vorkmen. In its earlier times,
\vhile it is yet unfonned, to \vrite in it at all is almost a
\vork of genius. It is like crossing a country before
roads are madc con1ffiunicating between place and place.
The authors of that age deserve to be Classics, both
because of \vhat they do and because they can do it. It
requires the courage or the force of great talent to com-
pose in the långuage at all; and the composition, \vhen
effectcd, makes a permanent impression on it. In
those early times, too, the licence of speech unfettered
by precedents, the novelty of the ,york, the state of
society, and the absence of criticism, cnable an author to
write \vith spirit and freshness. But, as centuries pass on,
this stimulus is taken away; the language by this time
has becoll1e manageable for its various purposes, and is
ready at command. Ideas have found their correspond-
ing expressions; and one \vord \vill often convey \vhat
once required half a dozen. Roots have been expanded.
derivations nlultiplied, terms invented or adopted. A
variety of phrases has been provided, \vhich form a sort
of compound \vords. Separate professions, pursuits, and
provinces of liter;lture have gained their
onventional

.h:Jlglish Catlwlic Literality!. 327

terminology. There is an historical, political, social, COffi-
n1ercial style. The ear of the nation has become accus-
tOlned to useful expressions or conlbinations of words,
\vhich otherwise would sound harsh. Strange metaphors
have been naturalized in the ordinary prose, yet cannot
be taken as precedents for a similar liberty. Criticism
has become an art, and exercises a continual and jealous
\vatch over the free genius of new writers. It is difficult
for them to be original in the use of their mother tongue
without being singular.
Thus the language has become in a great measure
stereotype; as in the case of the human fraine, it has
expanded to the loss of its elasticity, and can expand no
Inore. Then the general style of educated men, formed
by the accumulated improvenlents of centuries, is far
superior perhaps in perfectness to that of anyone of
those national Classics, \vho have taught their country-
men to \vrite more clearly, or more elegantly, or more
forcibly than themselves. And literary men subrnit
themselves to what they find so well provided for them;
or, if impatient of conventionalities, and resolved to
shake off a yoke which tames them down to the loss of
individuality, they adopt no half measures, but indulge
in novelties which offend against the genius of the lan-
guage, and the true canons of taste. Political causes may
co-operate in a revolt of this kind; and, as a nation
declines in patriotism, so does it" language in purity.
It seems to me as if the sententious, epigrammatic style
of \vriting, which set in with Seneca, and is seen at least
as late as in the \vritings of St. Ambrose, is an attempt
to escape from the simplicity of Cæsar and the n1ajestic
elocution of Cicero; \vhile Tertullian, \vith more of
genius than good sense, relieves himself in the harsh
originality of his provincial 1-4atin.

328 Ellglish Catholic Llle1
alu'.e.

There is another impediment, as time goes on, to the
rise of fresh classics in any nation j and that is the
IT
ct
which foreigners, or foreign literature, \\'ill exert upon
it. It may happen that a certain language, like Greek, i

adopted and used fanliliarly by educated nlcn in other
countries; or again, that educated men, to \\yhonl it is
native, may abandon it for sonle other language, as the
Romans of the second and third centuries wrote in
Greek instead of Latin. The consequence \vill be, that
the language in question \vill tend to lose its nationality
-that is, its distinctive character; it will cease to be
idiomatic in the sense in 'v hich it once was so; and
\vhatever grace or propriety it may retain, it ,viII be
conlparatively tame and spiritless; or, on the other
hand, it \vill be corrupted by the admixture of foreign
elements.

+
Such, as I consider, being the fortunes of Classical
I...iterature, vie\ved generally, I should never be sur-
prised to find that, as regards this hemisphere, for I can
prophesy nothing of Arl1erica, \ve have well nigh seen
the end of English Classics. Certainly, it is in no ex-
pectation of Catholics continuing the series here that I
speak of the duty and necessity of their cultivating
English literature. vVheI) I speak of the formation of a
Catholic school of \vriters, I have respect principally to
the matter of \\rhat is \vritten, anò to conlposition only
so far forth as style is necessary to convey and to reCOOl-
mend the matter. I nlean a literature ,vhich resen1bles
the literature of the day. This is not a day for great
\vriters, but for good \vriting J and a great deal of it.
There never ,vas a time \vhen nlen ,vrote so n1uch and
so \vell, anù that, ,vithout being of anygreat account thcn1-

Ellglisll Catholic Literlltu1
c. 329

selves. \Vhile our literature in this day, especially the
periodical, is rich and various, its language is elaborated
to a perfection far beyond that of our Classics, by the
jealous rivalry, the incessant practicc, the mutual in-
fluence, of its many \vriters. In point of mere style, I
suppose, nlany an article in the T'Ùnes ne\vspaper, or
Edinburgh Review, is superior to a preface of Dryden's,
or a Spectator, or a pamphlet of S\vift's, or one of
South's sennons.
Our writers \vrite so \vell that there is little to choose
between them. What they lack is that individuality,
that earnestness, most personal yet tnost unconscious of
self, \vhich is the greatest chann of an author. The very
fonn of the compositions of the day suggests to us their
n1ain deficiency. They are anonyn10us. So was it not in
the literature of those nations \vhich \ve consider the
special standard of classical \vriting; so is it not with
our o\vn Classics. The Epic was sung by the voice of
the living, present poet. The drama, in its very idea,
is poetry in persons. Historians begin, "Herodotus, of
Halicarnassus, publishes his researches;" or, "Thucy-
dides, the. Athenian, has conlposed an account of the
war." Pindar is all through his odes a speaker. Plato,
Xenophon, and Cicero, thro\v their philosophical disser-
tations into the form of a dialogue. Orators and preachers
are by their very profession kno\vn persons, and the per-
sonal is laid down by the Philosopher of antiquity as the
source of their greatest persuasiveness. Virgil and
I-Iorace are ever bringing into their poetry thcir own
characters and tastes. Dante's poems furnish a series of
events for the chronology of his times. Milton is frequent
in allusions to his own history and circulnstances. Even
when Addison vvrites anonynlously, he writes under a
profe.5sed character, and that in a great Oleasure his o\vn;

330 -.!,'nglish ("alholi.c ifer" II Of.

he writes in the first person. The U I " of the Spectator,
and the" \\re " of the Inodern Review or N e\vspaper, are
the respective symbols of the t\VO ages in our literature.
Catholics must do as their neighbours; they must be
content to serve their generation, to promote the interests
of religion, to recommend truth, and to edify their breth-
ren to-day, though their names are to have little weight,
and their works are not to last much beyond themselves.

5.
And no\v having sho\vn \vhat it is that a Catholic
University does not think of doing, what it need not do,
and what it cannot do, I might go on to trace out in
detail ,vhat it is that it really might and \\rill encourage
and create. But, as such an investigation would neither
be difficult to pursue, nor easy to terminate, I prefer to
leave the subject at the preliminary po
nt to which I
have broue-ht it.

jJ1

IV.

ELEl\IENTARY STUDIES.

I T has often been observed that, \vhen the eyes of the
infant first open upon the \vorld, the reflected rays of
light \\.hich strike them from the myriad of surrounding
objects present to him no image, but a medley of colours
and shadows. 1'hey do not form into a \vhole; they do
not rise into foregrounds and Inelt into distances; they
do not divide into groups; they do not coalesce into
unities; they do not combine into persons; but each
particular hue and tint stands by itself, \vedged in atnid
a thousand others upon the vast and flat mosaic, having
no intelligence, and conveying no story, any Inore than
the \vrong side of some rich tapestry. The little babe
stretches out his arms and fingers, as if to grasp or to
fathom the many-coloured vision; and thus he gradually
learns the connexion of part \vith part, separates \vhat
moves from \vhat is stationary, "patches the coming and
going of figures, masters the idea of shape and of per-
spective, calls in the information conveyed through the
other senses to assist him in his l11ental process, and thus
gradually converts a calidoscope into a picture. The
first vicw was the n10re splendid, the second the more
real; the former morc poetical, the latter more philoso-
phical. Alas! what are \ve doing all through life, both
as a necessity and as a duty, but unlearning the \vorld'

33 2

Elellzental')' Studies.

poetry, and attaining to its prose! This is Our educa-
tion, as boys and as men, in the action of life, and in the
closet or library; in our affections, in our aims, in our
hopes, and in our memories. And in like manner it is
the education of our intellect; I say, that one main por-
tion of intellectual education, of the labours of both
school and university, is to remove the original dimness
of the mind's eye; to strengthen and perfect its vision;
to enable it to look out into the ,vorld right fonvard,
steadily and truly; to give the mind clearness, accuracy,
precision; to enable it to use \vords aright, to understand
\"hat it says, to conceive justly \vhat it thinks about, to
abstract, compare, analyze, divide, define, and reason, cor-
rectly. l'here is a particular science \vhich takes these
matters in hand, and it is called logic; but it is not by
logic, certainly not by logic alone, that the faculty I
speak of is acquired. The infant does not learn to spell
and read the hues upon his retina by any scientific rule;
nor does the student learn accuracy of thought by any
manual or treatise. The instruction given him, of what-
ever kind, if it be really instruction, is mainly, or at least
pre-eminently, this,-a discipline in accuracy of mind.
Boys are al\\
ays n10re or less inaccurate, and too many,
or rather the majority, remain boys all their lives. When,
for instance, I hear speakers at public nleetings declaim-
ing about U large and enlightened vie\vs," or about "free-
dom of conscience," or about" the Gospel," or any other
popular subject of the day, I am far from denying that
some among thenl kno\v \vhat they are talking about;
but it \vould be satisfactory, in a particular case, to be
sure of the fact; for it seen1S to me that those household
"Fords may stand in a man's nlind for a something or
other, very glorious indeed, but vcry tnisty, pretty much
like the idea of "civilization" \vhich floats before the

E 1-l111entary Studies.

333

tuclltal vision of a 'furk,-that is, if: \vhen he interrupts
his s010king to utter the word, he condescends to reflect
whether it has any Ineaning at all. Again, a critic in a.
periodical dashes off, perhaps, his praises of a ne\" \vork,
as H talented, original, replete \vith intense interest, irre-
sistible in argument, and, in the best sense of the \vord,
a very readable book; "-can we really believe that he
cares to attach any definite sense to the \vords of \vhich
he is so lavish? nay, that, if he had a habit of at-
taching sense to them, he could ever bring himself to so
prodigal and wholesale an expenditure of them?
To a short-sighted person, colours run together and
intermix, outlines disappear, blues and reds and yellows
become russets or browns, the lamps or candles of an
illumination spread into an unlueaning glare, or dissolve
into a milky \vay. He takes up an eye-glass, and the
mist clears up; every image stands out distinct, and the
rays of light fall back upon their centres. It is this
haziness of intellectual vision which is the malady of an
classes of men by nature, of those who read and write
and cùmpose, quite as \vell as of those who cannot,-of
all who have not had a really good education. Those
\vho cannot either read or write nlay, nevertheless, be in
the number of those who have relnedied and got rid of
it; those who can, are too often still under its po\ver.
It is an acquisition quite separate from miscellaneous in-
formation, or knowledge of books. Thi3 is a large sub-
ject, which might be pursued at great length, and of
\vhich here I shall but attempt one or two illustrations.

334

. I
Grll1l1mar.

I.
O NE of the subjects especially interesting to all
persons ,vho, from any point of vie\v, as officials
or as students, are regarding a University course, is that
of the Entrance Examination. No,v a principal subject
introduced into this exanlination ,vill be (( the elements
of Latin anù Greek Gramnlar." (t Grammar" in the
Iniddlc ages ,,,as often used as almost synonymous with
II literature," and 3. Grammarian ,vas a II Professor litera-
rum." This is the sense of the \vord in ,vhich a youth
of an inaccurate Inind delights. He rejoices to profess
all the classics, and to learn none of them. On the
other hand, by (( Gramlnar" is no\v more c0111nlo111y
meant, as Johnson defines it, II the art of using words
properly," and it U comprises four parts-Orthography,
Etytnology, Syntax, and Prosody." Granlmar, in this
sense, is the scientific analysis of language, and to be
conversant ,,,ith it, as regards a particular language, is
to be able to understand the meaning and force of that
language when thru,vn into sentences and paragraphs.
Thus the ,vúrd is used when the II elements of Latin
and Greek Gramnlar" are spoken of as subjects of our
Entrance Examination; not, that is, the elelnents of
Latin and Greek literature, as if a youth \vere intended
to have a smattering of the classical \vriters in general,
and were to be able to give an opinion about the elo-
quence of Demosthenes and Cicero, the value of Livy,

E/fiJtentary Studits.

335

or the existence of HOluer; or need have read half a
dozen Greek and Latin authors, and portions of a dozen
others :-though of course it \vould be much to his credit
if he had done so; only, such proficiency is not to be
expected, and cannot be required, of hÏ1n :-but \ve Inean
the structure and characteristics of the Latin and Greek
languages, or an exanlination of his scholarship. That is,
an examination in order to ascertain \vhether he knows
EtYlnology and Syntax, the t\vo principal departments
of the science of language,-whether he understands
ho\v the separate portions of a sentence hang together,
how they form a \vhole, ho\\' each has its o\vn place in
the government of it, what are the peculiarities of con-
struction or the idiolnatic expressions in it proper to the
language in which it is \vritten, what is the precise mean-
ing of its terms, and \vhat the history of their formation.
All this will be bcst arrived at by trying ho\v far he
can frame a possible, or analyze a given sentence. To
translate an English sentence into Latin is to fra1Jlè a
sentence, and is the best test \vhether or not a student
knows the difference of Latin from English construction;
to construe and parse is to analyze a sentence, and is an
evidence of the easier attainlnent of kno\ving \vhat
Latin construction is in itself. And this is the sense of
the \vord "Gralnmar" \vhich our inaccurate student
detests, and this is the sense of the word which every
sensibl
tutor will ll1aintain. His maxim is, "a little,
but \vell ;" that is, really know what you say you know:
kno\v what you kno\v and \\"hat you do not know; get
one thing \vell before you go on to a second; try to
ascertain \vhat your \vords mean; \vhen you read a sen-
tence, picture it before your mind as a whole, take in the
truth or information contained in it, express it in your
Q\Vn words, and.. if it be important, commit it to the

33 6

Ele111enlary Slttdi
.

faithful men10ry. Again, compare one idea \vith another;
adjust truths and facts; fonn them into one \vhole, or
notice the obstacles \vhich occur in doing so. This is
the 'yay to make progress; this is the ,yay to arrive at
results; not to s\vallo\v knowledge, but (according to the
figure sometimes used) to masticate and digest it.

2.
To illustrate 'i\'ha.t I lnean, I proceed to take an in-
stance. I \vill draw the sketch of a candidate for entrance,
deficient to a great extent. I shall put him below par,
and not such as it is likely that a respectable school \vould
turn out, ,vith a vie,v of clearly bringing before the reader,
by the contrast, what a student ought 110t to be, or ,vhat
is meant by z.naccuracy. And, in order to simplify the
case to the utmost, I shall take, as he \vill perceive as I
proceed, one slllgle word as a sort of text, and show' hú\v
that one \vord, even by itself, affords matter for a suffi-
cient examination of a youth in grammar, hbtory, and
geogra phy. I set off thus :-
Tutor. Mr. Brown, I believe? sit do\vn. Calldidate.
Yes.
T. What are the Latin and Greek books you propose
to be exan1ined in? C. l-I onler, Luci
n, Demosthenes,
Xenophon, Virgil, Horace, Statius, J uvenal, Cicero,
Analecta, and l\iatthiæ.
T. No; I mean \vhat are the books I anI to exanline
you in ? C. tS silent.
T. The t\VO books, one Latin and one Greek: don't
flurry yourself. C. Oh, . . . Xenophon and Virgil.
T. Xenophon and Virgil. Very \vell; \\"hat part of
Xcnophon ? C. 'is silent.
T. 'VVhat \vork of XCllophon ? C. Xellophon.
T. Xenophon \vrote many ,vorks. Do you kno\v the

Elt11lelltaty Studies.

337

names of any of them? C. I . . . Xenophon
Xenophon.
T. Is it the A1zabasis you take up 1 C. (wzth surprise)
o yes; the Anabasis.
T. \Vell, Xenophon's Anabasis; now what is the
meaning of the word anabasis' C. tS silent.
T. You know very \vell; take your time, and don't
be alarn1ed. Anabasis means. . . C. An ascent.
T. Very right; it means an ascent. N O\V how con1es
it to mean an ascent? What is it derived from? C. It
comes from . . . (a pause). A 1tabasis . . . it is the
nominative.
T. Quite right: but what part of speech is it ? C. A
noun,-a noun substantive.
T. Very well; a noun substantive, no\v what is the
verb that anabasis is derived from? C. is silent.
T. From the verb àvaßalvro J isn't it? from àva,ßalllro.
C. Yes.
T. Just so. Now, what does àvaßalvw mean? C. To
go up, to ascend.
T. Very \vell; and which part of the \vord means to
go, and which part up f C. àvá is up, anJ ßalvw is go.
T. Balv(;) to go, yes; no\v ßtía'lS? What does ßá(],18
mean? C. A going.
T. That is right; and àvá-ßaulS ?
T. N o\V \vhat is a going dow1t?
T. What is do\vn? . . . KaTá. . .
KaTá. C. KaTlÍ.
T. \Vell, then, \vhat is a going dOUJ11! Cat . . . cat
C. Cat. . . .
T. Cata . .. C. cata. . . .
T. Catabasis. C. Oh, of course, catabasis.
T. No\v tell n1C \vhat is the future of ßalvll}? C. (thinks)
Bavw.

C. A going up.
C. zs silell t.
don't you recollect?

22

338

EIt:1JtC:JztaJ)' StUdtL
.

1: No, no; think again; you kno\v better than that.
C. (ob./ects) tþaív6>, cþav6J ?
1: Certainly, cþavw is the future of cþalvw; but ßalv(iJ
is, you kno\v, an irregular verb. C.Oh, I recollect, ß'l}UCIJ.
T. 'V ell, that is much better; but you are not quite
right yet; ß
uoJ.Lat
C. Oh, of course, ßÍJuoJ.tat.
T. B'lJuoJLut. Now do you mean to say that ß1JuoJLat
COJlICS fr01Jl ßaívw ? C. is silent.
T. For instance: TvtW comes from -rÍJ7rTw by a change
of letters; does ß
(jOJ-ULl in any similar way come from
ßalvw? C. It is an irregular verb.
T. \ Vhai: do you n1ean by an irregular verb? does it
fonn tenses anyhow and by caprice? C. It does not
go according to the paradign1.
T. Yes, but how do you account for this? C. is sil"lIt.
T. Are its tenses formed from several roots? C. is
silellt. T. is silcnt,o thell he changes the subject.
T. "Vell, no\\' you say A 11abasis means an asccnt. fVho
ascended? C. The Greeks, Xenophon.
T. Very ,yell : Xenophon and the Greeks; the Greeks
ascended. To \vhat did they ascend? C. Against the
Persian king: they ascended to fight the Persian king.
T. That is right . . . an ascent; but I thought \ve
called it a descent when a foreign anny carried war into
a country? C. is silent.
T. Don't \ve talk of a descent of barbarians? C. Yes.
T. \Vhy then are the Greeks said to go up! C. They
\vent up to fight the Persian king.
T. Yes; but \vhy up . . . \vhy not dOUJ1t! C. They
came down after\vards, when they retreated back to
Greece.
T. Perfectly right j they did . . . but could you give
no reason \\Thy they are said to go up to Persia, not
dO'lI."J ? C. They ,vent tt/' to P
rsia.

.

ElfJ/leJltary 51t1tdif,';.

339

T. \Vhy do you not say they ,vent dO'lvll1 C. pal/ses,
thal, . . . They \vent dOWIZ to Persia.
T. You have misunderstood me.
A sile1lce.
T. Wh)' do you not say do.wll! C. I do . . . do,;vJl.
T. You have got confused; you kno\v very well. C.
I understood you to ask ,vhy I did not say" they \vent
d07JJ1t ". .
A silcJlCe Oll both sides.
T. Have you come up to Dublin or do\vn t I came
up.
T. Why do you call it coming up , C. thinks, thcll
SlIIZteS, thell . . . \Ve always call it coming up to Dublin.
T. W cll, but you always have a reason for \vhat you
do . . . \vhat is your reason here? C. is silent.
T. Come, COIne, 1\lr. Brown, I \von't believe you don't
know; I anl sure you have a very good reason for saying
you go up to Dublin, not dow1t. C. tkinks, t/len . . . It
is the capital.
T. Very well; no\v was Persia the capital? C. Yes.
T. Well . . . no . . . not exactly . . . explain your-
self; ,vas Persia a city? C. A country.
T. That is right; ,yell, but did you ever hear of Susa?
IVOZV, why did they speak of going 1lþ to Persia? C. IJ'
s ilellt.
T. Because it \vas the seat of govcrnn1ent; that was
one reason. Persia \vas the seat of governn1ent; they
,vent up because it "'as the seat of government. C. Be-
cause it \vas the seat of government.
T. N O\V \vherc did they go up from? C. Froin Greece.
T. But \vhere did this army assemble? \vhence did it
set out? C. is sz"lellt.
T. It is mentioned in the first book; where did the
troops rendezvous? C. tS szïl'llt.

340

.//e1l1i'lltf.l1Y Studi;!s.

.T. Open your book; no\v turn to Buok I., é11apter ii.;
no\v tell me. C. Oh, at Sardis.
T. Very right: at Sardis; no\v \vhere ,vas Sardis?
C. In Asia l\iinor? . . . ño . . . it's an island . . . (l
pal/se, thell . . . Sardinia.
T. In Asia Minor; the anny set out from Asia !\linor,
and \vent on towards Persia; and therefore it is said to
go lp-because . .. C. is sile-Ilt.
T. Because . . . Persia . .. C. Because Persia . . .
T. Of course; because Persia held a sovereignty over
Asia Ivlinor. C. Yes.
T. N o\V do you know ho\v and \vhen Persia came to
conquer and gain possession of Asia Minor? C. is
silent.
T. Was Persia in possession of many countries? C.
is silent.
T. "VVas Persia at the head of an empire? C. is silellt.
T. \Vho \vas Xerxes? C. Oh, Xerxes. . . yes. . .
Xerxes; he invaded Greece; he flogged the sea.
T. Right; he flogged the sea: what sea? C. is silent.
T. Have you read any history of Persia? . . . \vhat
history? C. Grote, and Mitford.
T. \Vell, no\v, l\1r. Brown, you can name SOlne other
reason \vhy the Greeks spoke of going up to Persia?
Do we talk of going tlþ or dO'lvn from the sea-coast?
(,
Up.
T. That is right; \vell, going from Asia Minor, \\'ould
you go from the sea, or towards it? O. From.
T. What countries would you pass, going from the
coast of Asia l\linor to Persia 1 . . . mention any of then1.
C. is silellt.
T. What do :rou ß1ean by Asia lIfÍ11or! . . . \vhy
called l\iinor 1 . . . how does it lie? C. is silcllt.
E te., etc.

hïe11le1ztar)'
'tlidleS.

341

3.
I have dra\vn out this specimen at the risk of \\yeary-
ing the reader; but I have \vished to bring out dearly
\\rhat it really is which an Entrance Examination should
aim at and require in its students. This young man had
read the Anabasis, and had some general idea what the
\vard meant; but he had no accurate kno\vledge ho\v the
word came to have its n1eaning, or of the history and
geography implied in it. This being the case, it \vas
useless, or rather hurtful, for a boy like hinI to amuse
himself \vith running through Grote's Inany volumes, or
to cast his eye over lVlatthiæ's minute criticisms. Indeed,
this seen1S to have been Mr. Brown's stumbling-block; he
began by saying that he had read Demosthenes, Virgil,
J uvenal, and I. do not kno\v how many other authors.
Nothing is nlore common in an age like this, \vhen books
abound, than to fancy tha t the gratification of a love of
reading is real study. Of course there are youths \vho
shrink even from story books, and cannot b
c,oaxed into
getting through a tale of romance. Such 1\1 r. Bro\vn
was not; but there are others, and I suppose he was in
their number, \vho certainly have a taste for reading, but
in whom it is little more than the result of nIental rest-
lessness and curiosity. Such minds cannot fix their
gaze on one object for two seconds together; the very
impulse \vhich leads them to read at all, leads them to
read on, and never to stay or hang over anyone idea.
The pleasurable excitement of reading \vhat is new is
their motive principle; and the imagination that they
are doing something, and the boyish vanity \vhich accom-
panies it, are their re\vard. Such youths often profess
to like poetry, or to like history or biography; they are
fond of lectures on certain of the physical sciences; or
they may possibly have a real and true taste for natural

34 2

E/el1lelltalY Studies.

history or other cognate subjects ;-and so far they may
be regarded \\"ith satisfaction; but on the other hand
they profess that they do not like logic, they do not like
algebra, they have no taste for nlathematics ; which only
means that they do not like application, they do not
like attention, they shrink fron1 the effort and labour of
thinking, and the process of true intell(;
tual gymnastics.
The consequence \vill be that, when they grow up, they
may, if it so happen, be agreeable in conversation, they
may be \vell inforn1ed in this or that departnlent of
kno\vleclge, they may be \\rhat is called literary; but
they ,vill have no consistency, steadiness, or perseve-
rance; they will not be able to nlake a telling speech, or
to \\i'rite a good letter, or to fling in debate a snlart
antagonist, unless so far as, no\v and then, mother-wit
supplies a sudden capacity, \vhich cannôt be ordinarily
counted on. They cannot state an argument or a ques-
tion, or take a clear survey- of a \vhole transaction, or
give sensible and appropriate advice under difficulties, or
do any of those things \vhich inspire confidence and gain
influence, \\'hich raise a nlan in life, and make him useful
to his religion or his country.

l\nd now, having instanced \vhat I Inean by the wall!
of accuracy, and stated the results in \vhich I think it
issues, I proceed to sketch, by ,vay of contrast, an ex-
amination \vhich displays a student, ,,,ho, \vhatever may
be his proficiency', at least knows \vhat he is about, and
has tried to master what he has read. I anI far froln
saying that every candidate for admission must come up
to its standard :-
T. I think you have !lamed Cicero's Letters ad Fami-
Hares, Mr. Black? Open, if you please, at Book xi.!
Epistle 29, and begin reading.

.E:/:.1Jl.illtaJ)' StudÙ:s.

343

C. reads. Cicero Appio salutem. Dubltanti mihi (quod
scit Atticus noster), de hoc toto consilio profectionis, quod
in utraInque partcIn in mentem D1ulta veniebant, magnum
pondus access it ad tollendanl dubitationem, judiciun1 ct
consilium tuum. Nan1 et scripsisti aperte, quid tibi vide-
retur; et Atticus ad me sermonem tuun1 pertulit. Senlper
judicavi, in te, et in capiendo consilio prudentiam summan1
esse, et in dando fiden1 ; maximeque sum expertus, cùm,
initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissen1 quid mihi
facienduIn esse censeres; eundumne ad Pompeiuln dn
manendunl in Italiâ.
T. Very well, stop there; N O\V construe. C. Cicero
Appio salutem. . . Cicero greets Appius.
T. H Greets Apþius." True; but it sounds stiff in
English, doesn't it? What is the real English of it?
C. II M J A .
"
. y uear ppl us . ...
T. That \vill do; go on. C. Dubitanti n1ihi, quod scit
Atticus noster, While I 'it/as hesitating, as our friend
A tticus ktlOWS. . .
T. That is right. C. De hoc toto consilio profectionis,
about tlte whole plaIt. . . entire prOlix!. . . de hoc toto
consilio profectionis. . . on the subject of l1ty proþosed
j01t1"11e:J'. . . on n1)l proposed Journey altogether.
T. Never mind; go on; any of them will do. C
Quod in utramque partern in men tern multa veniebant:o
Ùlas11t1tC!t as 1nan)! considerations botk for a1td against it
ca1ne into nty mÙ/d, magnum pondus accessit ad tollen-
dam dubitationeln, it came with great force to relno've In)!
hesitation.
T. What do you Inean by II accessit"? C. It means
it contributed to tUr1Z the scale,. accessit, it was alt additioll
to one side.
T. Well, it n1ay l11ean so, but the \vords run, ad
tollendam dubitationenl. C. It was a great. . . it 'Ulas

344

Etel/zentary Studús.

a powerful Ile/þ towards refflOvillg 1'lJ' hesitation. . .
no. . . lItis was a poweiful help, vi::., your J.udg1ncllt and
advice.
T. Well, ,vhat is the construction of "pondus" and
" judicium"? C. Your advice ca1ne as a great weight.
T. Very well, go on. C. N am et scripsisti aperte quid
tibi videretur ; for YOl distÍ1lctly wrote your opinion.
T. N O\V, what is the force of U nam"? C. pauscs,. then,
It refers to II accessit IJ . . . it is an explanation of the
fact, that Appius's opinion was a help.
T. II Et " ; you omitted CI et" . . . "et scripsisti." C.
I t is one of two 'c ets "; et scripsisti, et Atticus.
T. Well, but \vhy don't you construe it? C. Et
scripsisti, you both distillctly. . .
T. No; tell n1e, why did you leave it out? had you a
reason? C. I thought it ,vas only the Latin style, to
dress the sentence, to n1ake it antithetical; and ,vas not
English.
T. Very good, still, you can express it; try. C. Also,
with the second clause?
T. That is right, go on. C. N an1 et, for you distiNctly
stated ill 'ivritÙzg your opi1lion, et Atticus ad tue ser-
monem tuun1 pertulit, ,uld A tficus 100 sellt 1ne 'Zvord of
,(}llat you said, . . . of WIlli! you said to hil1t Ùl COllver-
satio1l.
T. "Pertulit." C. It means that Atticus conveyed on
to Cicero the conversation he had \vith Appius.
T. Who \vas Atticus? C. zs silent.
T.
Vho was Atticus? C. I didn't think it came into
the exalnination. . .
T. Well, I didn't say it did: but still you can tell file
\\rho Atticus \vas. C. A great friend of Cicero's
T. Did he take much part in politics? C. No.
T. What ,vere his opinions? C. He \vas an Epicurean.

E le1Jle JZtary Studies.

345

T. \Vhat \vas an Epicurean? C. t.s silent, th
Jl,
Epicureans lived for thenlselves.
T. You are answering very \vell, sir; proceed. c:
Semper judicavi, I have ever considered, in te, et in
capiendo consilio prudentiam summam esse, et in dandc
fidem; that your wisdol1l was of the highest order. . .
that )'Ol/' had the greatest 'Zvisdo1l1 . . . tllat not/zing could
exceed the WZ"sd01Jl of your resol'l1cs, or tlte honesty of your
advice.
T. "Fidem." C. It means faithfullless to tIle þerson
asking. . . nlaximeque sutn expertus, a11d I had a great
proof of it. . . . . .
T. Great,. why don 7 t you say greatest? If maxi me "
is superlative. C. The Latins use the superlative, when
they only mean the positive.
T. You mean, \vhen English uses the positive; can
you give me an instance of \vhat you mean? C. Cicero
always speaks of others as amplissimi, optimi, doctissinli,
clarissimi.
T. Do they ever use the conlparative for the positive?
C. thi1lks, then, certior factus suni.
T. vVell, perhaps; ho\vever, here, "maxime" may mean
special, may it not? C. And 1 had a special proof of it,
cùm, initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissenl, whe1l,
Oil the C0I1t1Jle1lCe1nellt of the c'ivi/ war, I had writtcIl to ask
jlour advice, quid mihi faciend urn esse censeres, 'if/hat YOlt
thought I ought to do, eundunlne ad Pompeium, an Ina-'
nendum in Italiâ, to go to P01J/pey, or to le111aill in Italy.
T. Very \vell, no\v stop. Dubitanti rnihi, quod scit
Atticus noster. You construed quod, as. C. I meant
the relative as.
T. Is as a relative? C. As is used in English for the
relative, as \vhen \ve say such as for those who.
T. Well, but why do you use it here? What is the

34 6

/el1hJl/a'J'
ïlldies.

antecedent to II quod"? C. The sentence Dubitanti
nlihi, etc.
T. Still, construe Ie quod JI literally. C. A thi1lg'lv/lich.
T. \Vhere is a thil1g! C. It is understood.
T. \\'elI, but put it in. C. Illud quod.
1: Is that right? ,,,hat is the conlmon phrase? C. is
si ICllt.
T. Did you ever see" illud quod" in that position? is
it the phrase? C. is silent.
T. It is commonly" id quod," isn't it? id quod. C.
Oh, I recollect, id quod.
T. \Vell, \vhich is more conlmon, "quod," or "id
quod," ,vhen the sentence is the antecedent? C. I think
"id quod."
1: At least it is far more distinct; yes, I think it is
nlûre conln1on. \Vhat could you put instead of it? C.
Quod q uidenl.
T. Now, dubitanti Inihi; \vhat is It mihi" governed
by ? C. Accessit.
T. :Ko; hardly. C. is si/
1tt.
T. Does II accessit" go\"ern the dative? C. I thought
it did.
1". \VeIl, it may; but \vould Cicero use the dative
after it? \vhat is the more COllunon practice \vilh \vords
of nlotion ? Do you say, Venit nlihi, he callIe to 11lC! C.
No, Venit ad me ;-1 recollect.
T. 1
hat is right; venit ad Inc. No\v, for instance,
" incumbo:" ,,-hat case does h incumbo" govern? C. In-
cuolbite remis ?
T. \Vhere is that? in Cicero? C. No, in Virgil. Cicero
uses " in "; I recollect, incul11bere in opus . . . ad opus.
T. 'vVell, then, is this H mihi " governed by "accessit " ?
111hat comes after accessit? C. I see; it is, accessit ad
tollendam dubitationem.

E lenlt1t 1 ùry Studies.

.3-f 7

T. 1'hat is right; but then, what after all do you do
with u Inihi " ? ho\v is it governed? C. is silent.
T. How is "mihi " governed, if it does not conle after
" access it "1 C. pauses, then, "Mihi" . . . "mihi" is
often used so; and (( tibi" and "sibi": I mean U suo
sibi gladio hunc jugulo "'; . . . "venit mihi in mentem" ;
that is, ,it ca111C 'into my l1lilld,. and so, "accessit mihi ad
tollendam," etc.
T. That is very right. C. I recollect sOt11ewhere in
Horace, vellunt tibi barbam.
Etc., etc.

4-
And no\v, my patient reader, I suspect you have had
enough of me on this subject; and the best I can expect
from you is, that you will say: II His first pages had'some
amusement in thetn, but he is dullish towards the end."
Perhaps so; but then you must kindly bear in mind
that the latter part is about a steady careful youth, and
the earlier part is not; and that goodness, exactness,
and diligence, and the correct and the unexceptionable,
though vastly more desirable than their contraries in
fact, are not near so entertaining in fiction.

34 S

2.-LòlltþOsitioll.

I
I A
1 able to present the reader by anticipation ,viti.
the correspondence which will pass between ùlr.
.Bro\vn's father and 1\lr. White, the tutor, on the subject
of 1\lr. Bro\vn's examination for entrance at the U niver-
sity. And, in doing so, let me state the reason \vhy I
d\vell on \vhat many will think an extreme case, or even
a caricature. I do so, because what olay be called exag-
gera tion is often the best means of bringil1g out certai n
faults of the mind which do indeed exist con1monly, if
not in that degree. I f a master in carriage and deport-
ment \vishes to carry' honle to one of his boys that he
slouches, he will caricature the boy hinlself, by \va)" of
inlpressing on the boy's intellect a sort of abstract and
typical representation of the ungraceful habit \vhich he
wishes corrected. \Vhen \ve once have tbe simplc and
perfect ideas of things in our minds, \ve refer the parti-
cular and partial manifestations of them to these types;
\ve recognize what they are, good or bad, as we never
did before, and \ve have a guide set up ,vithin us to
direct our course by. So it is \vith principles of taste,
good breeding, or of conventional fashion; so it is in
the fine arts, in painting, or in music. vVe cannot even
understand the criticisn1 passed on these subjects until
\ve have set up for ourselves the ideal standard of ,vhat
is admirable and what is absurd.
So is it \vith the cultiv
tion and discipline of the mind,

Ele nentary Studies.

349

as it should be conducted at College and University, and
as it manifests itself aftenvards in life. Clearness of
head, accuracy, scholarlike precision, method, and the
like, are ideas obvious to point out, and easy to grasp;
yet they do not suggest themselves to youths at once,
and have to be urged and inflicted upon them. And
this is done best by a caricature of their opposites.
And, as I am no\v going to continue the caricature by
bringing in Mr. Bro\vn's father as \vell as himself, I have
to make a fresh explanation, lest I should seem to
imply there are fathers altogether such as he \vill prove
to be. I do not mean to say there are; yet it may
easily happen that many excellent fathers, many even
able and thoughtful men, may be found, who in a certain
n1easure are under the bias of that error of which 1\'lr.
Brown senior is the typical instance, and \vho may be
led possibly to reconsider sonle of their views, and in a
measure to modify them, if they are confronted \vith
an exhibition of them in their full dimensions ;-and
that. in consequence of their being forced to master the
typical representation, though the error is never found
thus pure and con1plete in fact, but only in degrees an

portions, so that, when represented pure, it is called, and
nlay fairly be called, a caricature. With this explana-
tion of my meaning, and this apology in anticipation, I
hope to be able without misconstruction to put before
the reader the correspondence of \vhich I have spoken.

2.
lv/r. Brown,Jull., to his fatlter.
,-I Mv DEAR FATHER,
" It seems odd I never was in Dublin before, though
\ve have been no\v some tÎIne in Ireland. Well, I find

35 0

iJ"feJlliJlllll y StUdl
'S.

it a halldsolner place th
ul I thought for-really a re-
spectable to\vn. But it is sadly behind the \vorld in
many things. Think of its having no Social Science, not
even a National Gallcry or British lYluseuln! nor have
they any high art here: some good public buildings, but
very pagan. The bay is a fine thing.
"I called ,vith your letter on l\'lr. Black, who intro-
duced me to the professors, some of whom, judging by
their skulls, are clever Inen.
"There is a lot here for examination, and an Exhi-
bition is to be given to the best. I should like to get it.
Young Black,-you sa\v him once,-is one of them; J
kne\v him at school; he is a large fello\v no\v, though
younger than I am. I f he be the best of them, I shall
not be much afraid.
"\Vell-in I \vent yesterday, and \vas examined. It
\vas such a queer concern. One of the junior Tutors had
me up, and he nlust be a ne\v hand, he was so uneasy.
I-Ie gave me the slo\vest examination! I don't kno\v
to this minute ,vhat he \vas at. He first said a ,vord or
t\vo) and then ,vas silent. He then asked me \vhy \ve
can1e up to Dublin, and did not go do\vn ; and put
ome
absurd little questions about BalvCIJ. I \vas tolerably
satisfied \\,ith nlyself) but he gave me 110 opportunity to
sho\v oft He asked me literally nothing; he did not
even give me a passage to construe for a long time, and
then gave nle nothing more than t\VO or three easy
sentences. And he kept playing ,vith his paper knife,
and saying: C Ho\v are you no\v, 1\lr. BrO\Vll? don't be
alarn1ed, l\1r. Bro\vn; take your tin1e) rvI r. Bro\vn; you
kno\\' very ,veIl, 7\1r. Brown;' so that I could hardly
help laughing. I never \vas less afraid in my life. It
\vould be wonderful if such an exarnination could put me
out of countenance.

Elefnclllary St1/,dús.

351

"There's a lot of things which I know ve:ry w.ell,
which the Examiner said not a \vord about. Indeed, I
think I have been getting up a great many things for
nothing ;-provoking enough. I had read a good dea 1
of Grote; but though I told him so, he did not ask filC
one question in it; and there's \Vhe\vell, l\iacaulay, and
Schlegel, all thrown away.
"He has not said a \vord yet \vhere I am to be
lodged. He looked quite confused \vhen I asked him.
He is, I suspect, a character.
" Y OUf dutiful son, etc.,
" ROBERT."

..

11/,.. 1 Vhitt O to JI r. BroItlJl, Sc!/J.
., l\Iv DEAR SIR,
U I have to acknowledge the kind letter rou sent
lue by your son, and I aIn much pleased to find the
confidence you express in us. Your son seems an
anliable young 1nan, of studious habits, and there is
every hope, ,vhen he joins us, of his passing his academi-
cal career \vith respectability, and his examination w'ith
credit. This is \vhat I should have expected from his
telling nle that he had been educated at home under
your own paternal eye; indeed, if I do not mistake, you
have undertaken the interesting office of instructor your-
selC
"I hardly kno\v \vhat best to rCC0111n1end to hitn at
the moment: his reading has been desultory,. he kno\vs
s011lethÙzg about a great many things, of which youths of
his age cOInmonly kno\v nothing. Of course \ve could
take him into residence no\v, if you urge it; but nlY
advice is that he should first direct his efforts to distinçt
preparation for our examination, and to study its par-

J5 2

Ele?ne ltalY
ìltdies.

ticular character. Our rule is to recommend youths to
do a little 'ivett, instead of thrq\ving themselves upon a
large field of study. I conceive it to be your son's fault
of mind not to see exactly the point of things, nor to be
so \vell groullded as he might be. Young men are in-
deed always \vantlng in accuracy ,. this kind of deficiency
is not peculiar to him, and he will doubtless soon over-
come it \vhen he sets about it.
U On the whole, then, if you will kindly send him up
six months hence he \vill be more able to profit by our
lectures. I \vill tell him \vhat to read in the mean\vhiIe.
Did it depend on me, I should send him for that time to
a good school or college, or I could find you a private
Tutor for him.

" I am, etc."

Mr. Braum, sen., to .J.
Ir.
Vhite.

"SIR,

" Your letter, \vhich I have received by this morning's
post, is gratifying to a parent's feelings, so far as it bears
\vitness to the impression \vhich nlY son's amiableness
and steadiness have made on you. He is indeed a
most exen1plary lad: fathers are partial, and their \vord
about their children is con1n1only not to be taken; but
I flatter myself that the present case is an exception to
the rule; for, if ever there \vas a \vell-conducted youth,
it is my dear son. He is certainly very clever; and a
closer student, and, for his age, of more extensive read- .
ing and sounder judgment, does not exist.
"With this conviction, you will excuse me if I say
that there were portions of your letter which I could not
reconcile \vith that part of it to which I have been allud-
ing. You say he is 'a young man of studious habits,'
having í every hope of passing his academical career ,vith

Elenlentary Studies.

353

respectability, and his e.ra1nination with credit;' you
allow that 'he knows something about a great 1na1l)l
things, of which youths of his age commonly know no-
thing:' no common commendation, I consider; yet, in
spite of this, you recommend, though you do not exact,
as a complete disarrangement of my plans (for I do not
kno\v how long my duties will keep me in Ireland), a
postponement of his coming into residence for six
months.
"Will you allow me to suggest an explanation of this
inconsistency? I t is found in your confession that the
examination is of a 'particular character.' Of course it
is very right in the governors of a great Institution to be
'particular,' and it is not for me to argue with them.
Nevertheless, I cannot help saying, that at this day
nothing is so much wanted in education as general know-
ledge. This alone will fit a youth for tlte world. In a
less stirring time, it may be well enough to delay in
particularities, and to trifle over minutiæ; but the world
will not stand still for us, and, unless we are up to its
requisitions, we shall find ourselves thrown out of the
contest. A man must have something in him now, to
make his way; and the sooner we understand this, the
better.
"It mortified me, I confess, to hear from my son, that
you did not try him in a greater number of subjects, in
handling which he would probably have changed your
opinion of him. He has a good memory, and a great
talent for history, ancient and modern, especially con-
.stitutional and parliamentary; another favourite study
'with him is the philosophy of history. He has read
Pritchard's Physical History, Cardinal vViseman's Lec-
:tures on Science, Bacon's Advancement of Learning 1
.Macaulay) and Hal1am : I never met \vith a fa
t.er reader.
,23

354

Elementary Studzts.

I have let him attend, in England, some of the nlost:
talented lecturers in chemistry, geology, and comparative
anatomy, and he sees the Quarterly Reviews and the
best Magazines, as a matter of course. Yet on these
matters not a word of examination!
"I have forgotten to mention, he has a very pretty
idea of poetical composition: I enclose a fragnlent
which I have found on his table, as well as one of his
prose Essays.
" Allow me, as a warm friend of your undertaking, to
suggest, that the substance of knowledge is far more valu-
able than its teckl1z"calities,. and that the vigour of the
youthful mind is but wasted on barrell learning, and its
ardour is que11ched in dry disquisition.
" I have the honour to be, etc.'"
On the receipt of this letter, Mr. White wilJ find, to
his dissatisfaction, that he has not advanced one hair's
breadth in bringing home to 1\'lr. Bro\vn's father the real
state of the case, and has done no more than present
himself as a mark for certain con1n1onplaces, very true,
but very inappropriate to the Inatter in hand. Filled
\vith this disappointing thought, for a while he will not
inspect the enclosures of Mr. Brown's letter, being his
son's attempts at composition. At length he opens them,
and reads as follows:

Mr. Brown's poetl')'.

THE TAKING OF SEBASTOPOL.*
Oh, might I flee to Araby the blest,
The world forgetting, but its gifts possessed,
Where fair-eyed peace holds sway from shore to shore,
And war's shrill clarion frights the air no more.
· This was written in June, 1854, before the siege began.

.Eltmentary Studies.

355

Heard ye the cloud-compelling blast. awake r Bombarding)
The slumbers of the inhospitable lake? t (+ The Black Sea)
,Saw ye the banner in its pride unfold
The blush of crimson and the blaze of gold?

Raglan and St. Arnaud, in high command,
Have steamed from old Byzantium's hoary strand;
The famed Cyanean rocks presaged their fight,
Twin giants, with the astonished Muscovite.
So the loved maid, in Syria's balmy noon,
Forebodes the coming of the hot simoon,
And sighs . . . . .
And longs . . . . . .
And dimly traces. . . . .

..

'*

...

...

...

..

*

Mr. Brown's prose.
"FORTES FORTUNA AD]UVAT."

Ie Of all the uncertain and capricious po\vers which rule
our earthly destiny, fortune is the chief. Who has not
heard of the poor being raised up, and the rich being laid
low? Alexander the Great said he envied Diogenes in
his tub, because Diogenes could have nothing less. We
need not go far for an instance of fortune. Who was so
great as Nicholas, the Czar of all the Russias, a year
ago, and now he is U fallen, fallen from his high estate,
'without a friend to grace his obsequies." t The Turks
are the finest specilnen of the human race, yet they, too,
have experienced the vicissitudes of fortune. Horace
3ays that we should wrap ourselves in our virtue, when
fortune changes. Napoleon, too, shows us how little we
can rely on fortune; but his faults, great as they were,
are being redeemed by his nephe\v, Louis Napoleon, who
has sho\vn hin1self very different fron1 what we expected,

Here again Mr. Bro\\n prophesies. He wrote in June, 1854-

35 b

E le1ltlltar)1 SÜuiies.

though he has never explained how he came to swear to
the Constitution, and then mounted the imperial throne.
"From all this it appears, that we should rely on for-
tune only while it remains,-recollecting the words of
the thesis, 'Fortes fortuna adjuvat;' and that, above all,
we should ever cultivate those virtues which will never
fail us, and which are a sure basis of respectability, and
will profit us here and hereafter."

On reading these compositions over, Mr. \Vhite wiU
take to musing; then he will reflect that he may as well
spare himself the trouble of arguing with a correspondent,
whose principle and standard of judgment is so different
f
.om his own; and so he will write a civil letter back to
Mr. Brown, enclosing the two papers.

3.
Mr. Brown, ho\vevcr, has not the resignation of Mr.
White; and, on his Dublin friend, IVIr. Black, paying
him a visit, he will open his mind to him; and I am
going to tell the reader all that will pass bet\veen the
two.
IVIr. Black is a man of education and of judgment. He
knows the difference bet\vecn show and substance; he is
penetrated \vith the conviction that Rome was not built
in a day, that buildings will not stand \vithout founda-
tions, and that, if boys are to be taught well, they must
be taught slo\vly, and step by step. Moreover, he thinks
in his secret heart that his own son Harry, whose ac-
quaintance we have already formed, is worth a dozen
young Browns. To him, then, not quite an Ï1npartial
judge, 1\1r. Brown unbosonls his dissatisfaction, present-
ing to hin1 his son's 1'hetne as an ezperi1JteJltu1n c1"'1/cis
between hirn anù 1\1 r. White. Mr. RJack reads it

Elementary Sfudiej,

357

through once, and then a second time; and then he
observes-
"Well, it is only the sort of thing which any boy
would write, neither better nor worse. I speak candidly."
On Mr. Brown expressing disappointment, inasn1uch
as the said Theme is not the sort of thing which any boy
could write, Mr. Black continues-
'(There's not one word of it upon the thesis; but all
boys write in this way.".
Mr. Brown directs his friend's attention to the kno,v-
ledge of ancient history which the composition displays,
of Alexander and Diogenes; of the history of Napoleon;
to the evident interest which the young author takes in
contemporary history, and his prompt application of
passing events to his purpose; moreover, to the apposite
quotation from Dryden, and the reference to Horace;-
all proofs of a sharp wit and a literary mind.
But Mr. Black is more relentlessly critical than the
occasion needs, and more pertinacious than any father
can comfortably bear. He proceeds to break the butter-
fly on the wheel in the foIlo,ving oration :-
U Now look here," he says, "the subject is (Fortes
fortuna adjuvat' ; now this is a propos,z"tion,. it states a
certain general principle, and this is just what an ordinary
boy WOll Id be sure to miss, and Robert does miss it.
He goes off at once on the word · fortuna.' 'Fortuna'
was not his subject; the thesis was intended to guide hinl,
for his own good; he refuses to be put into leading-
strings; he breaks loose, and runs off in his o,vn fat;hion
on the broad field and in wild chase of ( fortune,' instead
of closing with a subject, which, as being definite, \vould
have supported him.
H It would have been very cruel to bave told a boy to
write on · fortune'; it would have been like asking him

35 8

Eúmentar.y Studiøs.

his opinion C of things in general.' Fortune is C good,'
'bad,' , capricious,' , unexpected,' ten thousand things all
at once (you see them all in the Gradus), and one or
them as much as the other. T en thousand things may
be said of it: give me one of them, and I will write upon
it; I cannot write on more than one; Robert prefers to
write upon all.
'" Fortune favours the bold;' here is a very definite
subject: take hold of it, and it will steady and lead you
on : you \vill know in what direction to look. N at one
boy in a hundred does avail himself of this assistance;
your boy is not solitary in his inaccuracy; all boys are
luore or less inaccurate, because they are boys ; boyish....
ness of rnind nleans inaccuracy. Boys cannot deliver a
nlessage, or execute an order, or relate an occurrence,
\vithout a blunder. 'rhey do not rouse up their attention
and reflect: tJley do not like the trouble of it: they
cannot look at anything steadily; and, when they
attempt to write, off they go in a rignlarole of words,
\vhich does them no good, and never \vould, though they
scribbled themes till they wrote their fingers oft
" A really clever youth, especially as his mind opens,
is impatient of this defect of nlind, even though, as being
a youth, he be partially under its influence. He shrinks
from a vague subject, as spontaneously as a slovenly
mind takes to it; and he will often show at disadvan-
tage, and seem ignorant and stupid, from seeing more
and knowing n10re, and having a clearer perception of
things than another has. I recollect once hearing such
a young n1an, in the course of an examination, asked
very absurdly what 'his opinion' was of Lord Chatham.
Well, this was like asking him his view of 'things in
general.' The poor youth stuck, and looked like a fool,
though it was not he. The examiner, blind to his own

E lenzen tarv Studz.es.

359

absurdity, went on to ask hinl ' \vhat were the charac-
teristics of English history.' Another silence, and the
poor fello\v seenled to lookers-on to be done for, when
his only fault was that he had better sense than his
in terrogator.
"\Vhen I hear such questions put, I admire the tact
of the worthy Milnwood in Old JJIortalz"ty, when in a
similar predicament. Sergeant Bothwell broke into his
house and dining-room in the king's name, and asked
him what he thought of the murder of the Archbishop ot'
St. Andrew's; the old man was far too prudent to hazard
any opinion of his own, even on a precept of the Decalogue,
when a trooper called for it; so"he glanced his eye do\vn
the Royal Proclamation in the Sergeant's hand, and ap-
propriated its sentiments as an ans\yer to the question
before him. Thereby he was enabled to pronounce the
said assassination to be 'savage,' 'treacherous,' 'diabolical,'
and' contrary to the king's peace and the security of the
subject;' to the edification of all present, and the satis-
faction of the military inquisitor. It was in some such
way my young friend got off. His guardian angel re-
minded him in a whisper that l\Ir. Grey, his examiner,
had himself \\"ritten a book on Lord Chatham and his
times. This set him up at once; he drew boldly on his
knowledge of his man for the political vie\vs advanced in
it; was at no loss for definite propositions to suit his pur-
pose; recovered his ground, and came off triumphantly:'
Here 1Ir. Black stops; and 11r. Bro\vn takes advantage
of the pause to insinuate that l\fr. Black is not himself a
disciple of his o\vn philosophy, having travelled some
way from his subject ;-his friend stands corrected, and
retraces his steps.
"The thesis," he begins again, "is 'F aTtune favours
the brave;' Robert has gone off with the nominative

360

Elementary Studies.

without waiting for verb and accusative. He might as
easily have gone off upon 'brave: or upon 'favour,' except
that' fortune' comes first. He does not merely ramble
from his subject, but he starts from a false point. Nothing
could go right after this beginning, for having never gone
off his subject (as I did off mine), he never could come
back to it. However, at least he might have kept to
some subject or other; he might have shown some exact-
ness or consecutiveness in detail; but just the contrary;
-observe. He begins by calling fortune' a power' ; let
that pass. N ext, it is one of the powers 'which rule
our earthly destiny,' that is, fortune rules destiny. Why,
where there is fortune, there is no destiny; where there
is destiny, there is no fortune. N ext, after stating gene..
rally that fortune raises or depresses, he proceeds to ex-
emplify: there's Alexander, for instance, and Diogenes,-
instances, that is, of \vhat fortune did not do, for they died,
as they lived, in their respective states of life. Then comes
the Emperor Nicholas hic et 11U11C,. with the Turks on the
other hand, place and time and case not stated. Then
examples are dropped, and we are turned over to poetry,
and what we ought to do, according to Horace, when for-
tune changes. N ext, we are brought back to our exan1-
pIes, in order to commence a series of rambles, beginning
with Napoleon the First. Aproþos of Napoleon the First
comes in Napoleon the Third; this leads us to observe
that the latter has acted 'very differently from what we
expected;' and this again to the further remark, that no
explanation has yet been given of his getting rid of the
Constitution. He then ends by boldly quoting the thesis,
in proof that we may rely on fortune, when we cannot
help it; and by giving us advice, sound, but unexpected,
to cultivate virtue."
" O! Black, it is quite ludicrous" . . . breaks in Mr.

Eleme1zta'rY Studies.

3 61

Brown j-this Mr. Brown must be a very good-tempered
man, or he would not bear so much :-this is my remark,
not Mr. Black's, who will not be interrupted, but only
raises his voice: (( N O\V, I know how this Theme was
written," he says, "first one sentence, and then your boy
sat thinking, and devouring the end of his pen; presently
down went the second, and so on. The rule is, first
think, and then write: don't write when you have nothing
to say; or, if you do, you will make a mess of it. A
thoughtful youth may deliver himself clumsily, he may
set do\vn little; but depend upon it, his half sentences
will be worth more than the folio sheet of another boy,
and an experienced examiner .will see it.
"Now, I will prophesy one thing of Robert, unless this
fault is knocked out of him," continues merciless Mr.
Black. "When he grows up, and has to make a speech,
or write a letter for the papers, he will look out for
flowers, full-blo\vn flowers, figures, smart expressions, trite
quotations, hackneyed beginnings and endings, pompous
circumlocutions, and so on: but the meaning, the sense,
the solid sense, the foundation, you may hunt the slipper
long enough before you catch it."
" Well," says Mr. Brown, a little chafed, "you are a
great deal worse than Mr. White; you have missed your
vocation: you ought to have been a schoolmaster." Yet
he goes home somewhat struck by what his friend has
said, and turns it in his mind for some tilne to come
,
when he gets there. He is a sensible man at bottonl. as
well as good-tempered, this Mr. Brown.

36

. 3---La
n TfTrilhzg.

I.
M ' R. WIfITE, the Tutor, is nlore and more pleased
1 \vith young Mr. Black; and, when the latter asks
hiln for some hints for writing Latin, Mr. White takes
him into his confidence and lends him a number of his
O"wn papers. Among others he puts the following into
2VIr. Black's hands.

Mr. Wilite's view of Latin translation.
({ There are four requisites of good Composition,-cor-
rectness of vocabulary, or diction, syntax, idiom, and
elegance. Of these, the two first need no explanation,
and are likely to be displayed by every candidate. The
last is desirable indeed, but not essential. The point
\vhich requires especial attention is z.diomatic þroþriety.
({ By Ùiiol1Z is meant that use of words \vhich is peculiar
to a particular language. T\vo nations may have corre-
sponding words for the same ideas, yet differ altogether
in their l1tode of using those words. For instance, 'et '
11zeans ' and,' yet it does not ahvays admit of being used
in Latin, where' and' is used in English. 'Faire' may
be French for' do '; yet in a particular phrase, for' How
do you do l' C faire ' is not used, but' se porter,' viz., , Com-
lnent vous porte
-vous'" An Englishman or a French-
man would be almost unintelligible and altogether ridi-
culous to each other, who used the French or English
words, with the idioms or peculiar test's of his own Ian-

Elementary Studies.

363

guage. Hence, the most cOlnplete and exact acquain-
tance with dictionary and grammar \vill utterly fail to
teach a student to write or compose. Something more
is wanted, vis., the knowledge of the use of words and
constructions, or the knowledge of idiont.
" Take the following English of a modern writer:
" 'This is a serious consideration :-Among men, as
among wild beasts, the taste of blood creates the
appetite for it, and the appetite for it is strengthened
by indulgence.'
"Translate it word for \-vord literally into Latin,
thus :-
" , Hæc est seria consideratio. Inter homines, ut inter
feras, gustus sanguinis creat ejus appetitum, et ejus
appetitus indulgentiâ roboratur.'
"Purer Latin, as far as diction is concerned, more
correct, as far as syntax, cannot be desired. Every word
is classical, every construction grammatical: yet Latinity
it simply has none. From beginning to end it follows
the English 1node of speaking, or English idiom, not the
Latin.
" In proportion, then, as a candidate advances from
this Anglicism into Latinity, so far does he write good
Latin.
" We might tnake the follo\ving remarks upon the
above literal version.
"I. 'Consideratio' is not' a consideration;' the Latins,
having no article, are driven to expedients to supply its
place, e.g., quidam is sometimes used for a.
"2. 'Consideratio' is not' a consideration,' i.e., a thing
considered, or a subject; but the act of considering.
"3. It must never be forgotten, that such words as
, consideratio' are generally metaphorical, and therefore
cannot be used si"tply, and without limitation or ex-

364

Elementary Studies.

planation, in the English sense, according to which the
11lental act is primarily conveyed by the word. 'Con-
sideratio,' it is true, can be used absolutely, with greater
propriety than most \vords of the kind; but if we take
a parallel case, for iQstance, 'agitatio,' we could not use
it at once in the mental sense for 'agitation,' but we
should be obliged to say' agitatio 11Zentis, alli1Jzz:' etc.,
though even then it would not answer to 'agitation.'
"4- 'Inter homines, gustus,' etc. Here the English, as
is not uncommon, throws t\VO ideas together. It means,
first, that something occurs among men, and occurs
an10ng wild beasts, and that it is the same thing which
occurs among both; and secondly that this son1ething
is, that the taste of blood has a certain particular effect.
In other ,vords, it means, (I) , this occurs among beasts
and men,' (2)
/Z.Z., that the' taste of blood,' etc. There-
fore, 'inter homines, etc., gustus creat, etc.,' does not ex-
press the English 111caning, it only translates its expression.
" 5. 'Inter homines' is not the Latin phrase for 'among.'
, Inter' generally involves sonle sense of division, viz.,
interruption, contrast, rivalry, etc. Thus, vnth a singular
noun, 'inter cænam hoc accidit,' i.e., this interruþted
the supper. And so with two nouns, 'inter me et Brun-
dusiunl Cæsar est.' And so with a plural noun, 'hoc
Ùzter honzincs ambigitur,' i.e., man with man. ' Micat
inter 011lttCS J ulium sidus,' i.e., in the rivalry of star
against star. 'Inter tot annos unus (vir) inventus est,'
i.e., though all those years, one by one, put in their
claim, y
t only one of them can produce a man, etc.
, Inter se diligunt,' they love each other. On the contrary,
the Latin word for' among,' simply understood, is ' in.'
6. "As a general rule, indicatives active follo\ved by
accusatives, are foreign to the main structure of a Latin
sentence.

Ekl1lelltary Studies.

3 6 5

"7. (Et ;' here two clauses are c01lnected, having
different subjects or nominatives; in the former' appe-
titus' is in the nominative, and in the latter in the accu-
sative. It is usual in Latin to carry on the Sa1tlC subject,
in connected clauses.
"8. 'Et' here connects two distinct clauses. 'Autem'
is more common.
"These being some of the faults of the literal version,
I transcribe the translations sent in to me by six of my
pupils respectively, who, ho\vever deficient in elegance of
composition, and though more or less deficient in hitting
the Latin idiom, yet evidently kno\v what idiom is.
"The first wrote :- Videte rem graviorem; quod feris,
id hominibus quoque accidit,-sanguinis sitirn semel
gustantibus intus concipi, plenè potantibus maturari.
"The second wrote :-Res seria agitur; nalD quod in
feris, illud in hominibus quoque cernitur, sanguini,
appetitionern et suscitari lambendo et epulando inflam-
n1an.
" The third :-Ecce res sUlnmå consideratione digna;
et in feris et in hominibus, sanguinis semel delibati sitis
est, sæpius hausti libido.
U The fourth :-Sollicitè animadvertendum est, cum in
feris turn in hominibus fieri, ut guttæ pariant appetitum
sanguinis, frequentiores pûtus ingluviem.
"And the fifth :-Perpende sedulo, gusturn sanguinis
tam in hominibus quam in feris primò appetitionem sui
tandem cupidinem inferre.
"And the sixth :-Hoc grave est, quod hominibus
cum feris videmus commune, gustasse est appetere san-
guinem, hausisse in deliciis habere."
lVlr. Black, junr., studies this paper, and considers that
he has gained something from it. Accordingly, \vhen
he sees his father, he nlentions to him l\ir. 'VVhite. his

366

Elt111f1ltary Studies.

kindness, his papers, and especially the above, of which
he has taken a copy. His father begs to see it; and,
being a bit of a critic, fortl1\vith delivers his judgment
on it, and condescends to praise it; but he says that it
fails in this, vic., in overlooking the subject of structure.
He maintains that the turning-point of good or bad
Latinity is, not idiom, as Mr. White says, but structure.
Then Mr. Black, the father, is led on to speak of himself,
and of his youthful studies; and he ends by giving Harry
a history of his own search after the knack of writing
Latin. I do not see quite ho\v this is to the point of
IVIr. 'i\Thite's paper, which cannot be said to contradict
!VIr. Black's narrative; but for this very reason, I n1ay
consistently quote it, for from a different point of view
it may thro\v light on the subject treated in common by
both these literary authorities.

2.
Old Mr. Black's Confession of his search after a Latin
style.
II The attempts and the faiI-...;.res and the successes of
those who have gone before, my dear son, are the direc-
tion-posts of those who come after; and, as I am only
speaking to you, it strikes me that I may, without
egotism or ostentation, suggest views or cautions, 'which
might indeed be usefuJ to the University Student gene-
rally, by a relation of some of my'o\vn endeavours to
improve my o\vn mind, and to increase my own know-
ledge in my early life. I am no great adnlirer of self-
taught geniuses; to be self-taught is a n1isfortune,
except in the case of those extraordinary 111inds, to
whüln the title of genius justly belongs; for in 010st
cases, to be self-taught is to be badly grounded, to be

Elelnt.-Ittary Studus.

3 6 7

slovenly finished, and to be preposterously conceited.
Nor, again, was that misfortune]; speak of really mine;
but I have been left at times just so much to myself, as
to make it possible for young students to gain hints from
the history of my mind, which will be useful to them-
selves. And now for my subject.
"At school I was reckoned a sharp boy; I ran through
its classes rapidly; and by the time I was fifteen, my
masters had nothing more to teach me, and did not kno\v
what to do with me. I might have gone to a public
school, or to a private tutor for three or four years; but
there were reasons against either plan, and at the unusual
age I speak of, with some inexact acquaintance with
Homer, Sophocles, Herodotus, and Xenophon, Horace,
Virgil, and Cicero, I was matriculated at the University.
I had from a child been very fond of composition, verse
and prose, English and Latin, and took especial interest
in the subject of style; and one of the \vishes nearest
my heart ,vas to write Latin \vell. I had some idea of
the style of Addison, H ume, and Johnson, in English;
but I had no idea what was meant by good Latin style.
I had read Cicero without learning \vhat it \vas; the
books said, 'This is neat Ciceronian language," this is
pure and elegant Latinity,' but they did not tell me \vhy.
Some persons told me to go by my ear; to get Cicero
by heart; and then I should know ho\v to turn my
thoughts and marshal my words, nay, more, where to
put subjunctive moods and \vhere to put indicative. In
consequence I had a vague, unsatisfied feeling on the
subject, anq kept grasping shadows, and had upon me
something of the unpleasant sensation of a bad dream.
"When I was sixteen, I fell upon an article in the
Quarterly, \vhich reviewed a Latin history of (1 think)
the Rebellion of 171
: perhaps by Dr. \Vhitaker..

36ö

E le1Jlc1llary Studtes.

\:T ears afterwards I learned that the critique was the
\vriting of a celebrated Oxford scholar; but at the time,
it was the subject itself, not the writer, that took hold of
me. I read it carefully, and made extracts which, I
believe, I have to this day. .Had I known more of Latin
writing, it would have been of real use to me; but as it
was concerned of necessity in verbal criticisms, it did but
lead me deeper into the mista..ke to which I had already
ueen Introduced,-that Latinity consisted in using good
phrases. Accordingly I began noting down, and using
in my exercises, idiomatic or peculiar expressions: such
as ' oleum perdidi,' 'haud scio an non,' 'cogitanti mihi,'
'verum enimvero,' 'equidem,' 'dixerim,' and the like;
and I made a great point of putting the verb at the end
of the sentence. What took me in the same direction
\vas Dumesnil's Synonymes, a good book, but one ,vhich
does not even profess to teach Latin writing. I was
aiming to be an architect by learning to make bricks.
"Then I fell in with the Germanz"a and Agricola of
Tacitus, and was very much taken by his style. Its
feculiarities "
re much easier to understand, and to
copy, than Cicero's; 'decipit exemplar vitiis imitabile ; ,
and thus, without any advance whatever in understanding
the genius of the language, or the construction of a Latin
sentence, I added to my fine words and cut-and-dried
idioms, phrases smacking of Tacitus. The Dialogues of
Erasmus, which I studied, carried me in the same direc-
tion; for dialogues, from the nature of the case, consist
of words and clauses, and smart, pregnant, or colloquia!
expressions, rather than of sentences with an adequate
structure."
Mr. Black takes breath, and then continues:
"The labour, then, of years came to nothing, and when
I was t\venty I knew no nlore of Latin cOlnpositioll than

hïtmcllfary Studies.

3 6 9

1 had kno\vn at fifteen. It \vas then that circumstances
turned my attention to a volume of Latin Lectures,
which had been published by the acconlplished scholar
of \vhose critique in the Q21arterlJl RevieuJ I have already
spoken. The Lectures in question had been delivered
terminally \vhile he held the Professorship of Poetry,
and were afterwards collected into a volume; and various
circumstances con1bined to give them a peculiar character.
Delivered one by one at intervals, to a large, cultivated,
and critical audience, they both demanded and admitted
of special elaboration of the style. As coming from a
person of his high reputation for Latinity, they were dis-
plays of art; and, as addressed to persons \vho had to
follow a te1nþore the course of a discussion delivered in
a foreign tongue, they needed a style as neat, pointed,
lucid, and perspicuous as it \vas ornamental. 11 oreover,
as expressing modern ideas in an ancient language, they
involved a nc\v developnlent and application of its powers.
The result of these united conditions \vas a style less
silnple, less natural and fresh, than Cicero's; more studied,
more ambitious, more sparkling; heaping together in a
page the flo\vers \vhich Cicero scatters over a treatise;
but still on that very account nlore fitted for the purpose
of inflicting upon the inquiring student \vhat Latinity \vas.
Any how, such was its effect upon me; it was like the
'Open Sesame' of the tale; and I quickly found that I
had a ne\v sense, as regards conlposition, that I under-
stood beyond mistake what a Latin sentence should be,
and sa\v how an English sentence must be fused and
remoulded in order to make it Latin. I-I enceforth Cicero,
as an artist, had a meaning, \vhen I read him, \vhich he
never had had to me before; the bad dream of seeking
and never finding ,vas over; and, \vhether I ever wrote
Latin or not, at least I kne\v what good Latin ,vas.
24

37 0

Elenzentary Sïudzes.

" I had no\v learned that good Latinity lies in struc-
ture; that every word of a sentence nlay be Latin, yet
the whole sentence remain English; and that diction-
aries do not teach composition. Exulting in my dis-
covery, I next proceeded to analyze and to throw into
.
the shape of science that idea of Latinity to which I had
attained. Rules and remarks, such as are contained in
works on composition, had no led me to master the
idea; and now that I really had gained it, it led me to
form from it rules and remarks for mysel( I could now
turn Cicero to account, and I proceeded to make his
\vritings the materials of an induction, from \vhich I
drew out and threw into form what I have called a
science of Latinity,-with its principles and peculiaritit::S J
their connection and their consequences,-or at least
considerable specimens of such a science, the like of
which I have not happened to see in print. Consider-
ing, ho\vever, how much has been done for scholarship
since the time I speak of, and especially how many
German books have been translated, I doubt not I
should now find my own poor investigations and dis-
coveries anticipated and superseded by works which are
in the hands of every school-boy. At the same time,
I am quite sure that I gained a very great deal in the
way of precision of thought, delicacy of judgment, anp
refinement of taste, by the processes of induction to
which I am referring. I kept blank books, in which
every peculiarity in every sentence of Cicero was
minutely noted down, as I went on reading. The
force of words, their combination into phrases, their
collocation-the carrying on of one subject or nOlnina-
tive through a sentence, the breaking up of a sentence
into clauses, the evasion of its categorical form, the reso-
lution of abstract nouns into verbs and participles j-

E le1ne1ltary Studie!i.

37 1

what is possible in Latin composition and \vhat i
not,
how to compensate for want of brevity by elegance, anó
to secure perspicuity by the use of figures, these, and a
hundred similar points of art, I illustrated with a dili-
gence \vhich even bordered on subtlety. Cicero became
a mere magazine of instances, and the main use of the
river was to feed the canal. I am unable to say \vhether
these elaborate inductions \vould profit anyone else, but
I have a vivid recollection of the great utility they \vet e
at that time to IllY own Iilind.
"The general subject of Latin composition, nlY dear
son, has ever interested me much, and you see only one
point in it has made me speak for a quarter of an hour;
but now that I have had my say about it, what is its
upshot? The great moral I would impress upon you is
this, that in learning to write Latin, as in all learning,
you must not trust to books, but only make use of
them; not hang like a dead weight: upon your teacher,
but catch some of his life; handle what is given you,
not as a formula, but as a pattern to copy and as a
caþital to improve; throw your heart and mind into
\vhat you are about, and thus unite the separate advan-
tages of being tutored and of being self-taught,-self-
taught, yet without oddities, and tutorized, yet without
conventionalities. "
"Why, my dear father," says young Mr. Black, U you

peak like a book. You must let me ask you to \vrite
do\vn for me what you have been giving out in conver..
sation. "
1 have had the advantage of the \vritten copy.

37 2

4.-Ge11cral Rel

io1ls Kllo1vledR"c.

I.

I T has been the custom in the English Universities
to introduce religious instruction into the School of
Arts; and a very right custonl it is, \vhich every U niver-
sity nlay \vell imitate. I have certainly felt it ought to
have a place in that School; yet the subject is not \vith-
out its difficulty, and I intend to say a fe\v \vords upon
it here. That place, if it has one, should of course he
deternlined on some intelligible principle, which, \vhile
it justifies the introduction of Religion into a secular
I
"'aculty, will preserve it from becomin
an intrusion, by
fixing the conditions under which it is to be adnlittcd.
There are nlany \vho \vould make over the subject 01
l{.eligion to the theologian exclusively; there are others
\v1
0 allow it alnlost unlimited extension in the province
of Letters. The latter of these t\VO classes, if not large,
at least is serious and earnest; it seems to consider that
the Classics should be superseded by the Scriptures and
the Fathers, and that Theology proper should be taught
to the youthful aspirant for University honours. I am
not here concerned with opinions of this character, \vhich
I respect, but cannot follow. N or am I concerned with
that large class, on the other hand, who, in their ex-
clusion of Religion from the
ëcture-rooms of Philosophy
and Letters (or of Arts, as it used to be called), are
actuated by scepticism or indifference; but there are
other persons, much to be consulted, who arrive at the

EÚ1J1enlaJ y Stltdu
s.

373

sarne practical conclusion as the sceptic and unbeliever,
from real reverence and pure zeal for the interests of
Theology, which they consider sure to suffer from the
superficial treatn1ent of lay-professors, and the superficial
reception of young- minds, as soon as, and in whatever
degree, it is associated \vith classical, philosophical, and
historical studies ;-and as very many persons of great
consideration seem to be of this opinion, I will set do\vn
the reasons why I follo\v the English tradition instead,
and in what sense I follo\v it.
I might appeal, I conceive, to authority in my favour,
but I pass it over, because mere authority, however
sufficient for my o\vn guidance, is not sufficient for the
definite direction of those ,vho have to carry out the
matter of it in practice.

2.
In the first place, then, it is congruous c
rtainly that
youths \vho are prepared in a Catholic University for
the general duties of a secular life, or for the secular
professions, should not leave it \vithout some kno\vledge
of their religion; and, on the other hand, it does, in
matter of fact, act to the disadvantage of a Christian
place of education, in the \vorld and in the judg-ment of
nlen of the world, and is a reproach to its conductors,
and even a scandal, if it sends out its pupils accomplished
in all knowledge except Christian knowledge; and hence,
even though it were impossible to rest the introduction
of religious teaching into the secular lecture-room upo

any logical principle, the imperative necessity of its in-
troduction would remain, and the only question \vould
be, what nlatter ,vas to be introduced, and Ì10\V much.
And next, considering that, as the mind is enlarged
and cultivated gencrallr, it is capable, or rather is

374

Elet11tllta1)' Studies.

desirous and has need, of fuller religious infonnation, ít
is difficult to maintain that that knowledge of Christi-
anity which is suft.cient for entrance at the University is
all that is incumbent on students who have been sub-
mitted to the acadamical course. So that we are un.
avoidably led on to the further question, viz., shall 'we
sharpen and refine the youthful intellect, and then leave
it to exercise its new powers upon the most sacred of
subjects, as it will, and with the chance of its exercising
them wrongly; or shall we proceed to feed it ,,"ith divine
truth, as it gains an appetite for kno\vledge ?
Religious teaching, then, is urged upon us in the case
of University students, first, by its evident propriety;
secondly, by the force of public opinion; thirdly, fronI
the great inconveniences of neglecting it. And, if the
subject of Religion is to have a real place in their course
of study, it must enter into the examinations in \vhich
that course results; for nothing ,,,ill be found to inlpress
and occupy their minds but such matters as they have
to present to their Examiners.
Such, then, are the considerations ,vhich actually oblige
us to introduce the subject of Religion into our secular
schools, \vhether it be logical or not to do so; but next..
I think that we can do so ,vithout any sacrifice of prin-
ciple or of consistency; and this, I trust, \vill appear, if
I proceed to explain the nlode \vhich I should propose
to adopt for the purpose :-
I would treat the subject of Religion in the School of
Philosophy and Letters simply as a branch of know-
ledge. If the University student is bound to have a
kno\vledge of I-listory generally, he is bound to have
inclusively a kno,vledge of sacred history as well as
profane; if he ought to be well instructed in Ancient
Literature, Bib1ical I..iterature comes under that general

Elenu;ntaty Studies.

375

èescnption as \vell as Classical; if he knows the Philo...
sophy of men, he will not be extravagating from his
general subject, if he cultivate also that Philosophy which
is divine. And as a student is not necessarily superficial,
though he has not studied all the classical poets, or all
Aristotle's philosophy, so he need not be dangerously
superficial, if he has but a parallel knowledge of Religion.

3.
Ho\vever, it may be said that the risk of theological
error is so serious, and the effects of theological conceit
are so mischievous, that it is better for a youth to know
nothing of the sacred subject, than to have a slender
kno\vledge which he can use freely and recklessly, for
the very reason that it is slender. And here we have
the maxim in corroboration: "A little learning is a
dangerous thing."
This obj ection is of too anxious a character to be dis-
regarded. I should ans\ver it thus :-In the first place it
is obvious to remark, that one great portion of the know-
ledge here advocated is, as I have just said, historical
kno\vledge, which has little or nothing to do \vith doc-
trine. If a Catholic youth mixes with educated Protes-
tants of his o\vn age, he will find them conversant with
the outlines and the characteristics of sacred and eccle-
siastical history as \vell as profane: it is desirable that
he should be on a par with them, and able to keep up a
conversation \vith them. It is desirable, if he has left
our University \vith honours or prizes, that he should
kno\v as \vell as they about the great primitive divisions
of Christianity, its polity, its luminaries, its acts, and its
fortunes; its great eras, and its course do\vn to this day.
He should have some idea of its propagation, and of the
order in \vhich the nations, \'Thich have submitted to it,

376

1!.,'ltJJltJlla 1:J) Sllu/ies.

entered its pale; and of the list of its Fathers, and of
its writers generally, and of the subjects of their ,yorks.
J Ie should kno\v who St. Justin i\1artyr was, and when
he lived; ,vhat language St, Ephraim wrote in ; on what
St. Chrysostom's literary fd.Ine is founded; ,,'ho \\'as
.
Celsus, or Ammonius, or Porphyry, or Ulphilas, or Sym-
machus, or Theodoric. vVho were the N estorians ; what
,vas the religion of the barbarian nations who took pos-
session of the ROinan ElTIpire: \vho \vas Eutyches, or
Bcrengarius, who the Albigenses. He should know
something about the Benedictines, Donlinicans, or Fran-
ciscans, about the Crusades, and the chief nlovers in
then1. He should be able to say what the Holy See
has done for learning and science; the place which these
islands hold in the literary history of the dark age; ,,,hat
part the Church had, and how her highest interests fared,
in the revival of letters; who Bessarion ,vas, or Xinlenes,
or Willianl of \VykehalTI, or Cardinal Allen. I do not
say that we can insure all this kno,vledge in every ac-
complished student who goes from us, but at least we
can admit such knowledge, \ve can encourage it, in our
lecture-rooms and examination-halls.
And so in like nlanner, as regards Biblical knowledge,
it is òcsirable that, ,vhile our students are encouraged to
pursue the history of classical literature, they should
al
o be invited to acquaint themselves with some general
facts about the canon of Holy Scripture, its history, the
Jewish canon, St. Jerome, the Protestant Bible; again,
about the languages of Scripture, the contents of its
separate books, their authors, and their versions. In all
such kno\vledge I conceive 110 great harm can lie in being
superficial.
But no\v as to Theology itself. To meet the appre-
hended danger, I wonld exclude the teachin
Ùl extCllSC of

.f!,'le lellta1Y Studzts.

377

pure dogma from the secular schools, and l;ontent n1Y-
self with enforcing such a broad kno\vledge of doctrinal
subjects as is contained in the catechisms of the Church,
or the actual writings of her laity. I \vould have students
apply their minds to such religious topics as laymen
actually do treat, and are thought praiseworthy in
treating. Certainly I admit that, when a lavvyer or
physician, or statesman, or merchant, or soldier sets
about discussing theological points, he is likely to suc-
ceed as ill as an ecclesiastic who meddles with la\v, or
medicine, or the exchange. But I am professing to con-
template Christian kno\vledge in what n1ay be called its
secular aspect, as it is practically useful in the intercourse
of life and in general conversation; and I would encou.
rage it so far as it bears upon the history, the literature,
and the philosophy of Christianity.
I t is to be considered that our students are to go out
into the world, and a \vorld not of professed Catholics,
but of inveterate, often bitter, commonly contemptuous,
Protestants; nay, of Protestants who, so far as they
come from Protestant Universities and public schools,
do kno\v their own system, do know, in proportion to
their general attainments, the doctrines and arguments
of Protestantism. I should desire, then, to encourage
in our students an intelligent apprehension of the rela-
tions, as I may call them, bet\veen the Church and
Society at large; for instance, the difference between
the Church and a religious sect; the respective preroga-
tives of the Church and the civil power; what the Church
claims of necessity, what it cannot dispense with, what
it can; what it can grant, what it cannot. A Catholic
hears the celibacy of the clergy discussed in general
society; is that usage a matter of faith, or is it not of
faith? He hears the Pope accusad of interfering with

378

EÚ1nenlary Studm.

the prerogatives of her Majesty, because he appoints an
hierarchy. What is he to answer? What principle is to
guide him in the remarks which he cannot escape froni
the necessity of making? He fills a station of impor-
tance, and he is addr ssed by some friend who has political
reasons for wishing to kno\v \vhat is the difference be-
tween Canon and Civil Law, whether the Council of
Trent has been received in France, \vhether a Priest
cannot in certain cases absolve prospectively, what is
meant by his intention, what by the oþus operatum
.
whether, and in what sense, we consider Protestants to
be heretics; whether anyone can be saved without
sacramental confession; whether we deny the reality of
natural virtue, or what worth we assign to it?
Questions may be multiplied without limit, which
occur in conversation bet\veen friends, in social inter-
course, or in the business of life, when no argument is
needed, no subtle and delicate disquisition, but a few
direct words stating the fact, and when perhaps a few
words may even hinder most serious inconveniences to the
Catholic body. Half the controversies which go on in
the world arise from ignorance of the facts of the case ;
half the prejudices against Catholicity lie in the misin-
formation of the prejudiced parties. Candid persons are
set right, and enemies silenced, by the mere statement
of \vhat it is that we believe. It will not ans\ver the
purpose for a Catholic to say, II I leave it to theologians,"
" I will ask ß1Y priest;" but it will commonly give him
a triumph, as easy as it is complete, if he can then and
there lay do\vn the la\v. I say" lay down the law; " for
remarkable it is that even those who speak against
Catholicism like to hear about it, and \vill excuse its
advocate frOITI alleging arguments if he can gratify
their curiosity hy giving them information. Generally

.

EI11 zenta"y Studies.

3ï9

speaking, nowever,as I have said, what is given as informa-
tion will really be an argument as well as inforn1ation. I
recollect, some twenty-five years ago, three friends of my
own, as they then were, clergymen of the Establishment,
making a tour through Ireland. In the West or South
they had occasion to become pedestrians for the day;
and they took a boy of thirteen to be their guide. They
amused themselves with putting questions to him on the
subject of his religion; and one of them confessed to me
on his return that that poor child pu t them all to silence.
Ho\v? Not, of course, by any train of argun1ents, or re-
fined theological disquisition, but Inerely by kno,ving and
understanding the ans\vers in his catechism.

4.
Nor will argulnent itself be out of place in the hands
of laymen mixing with the world. As secular po\ver,
influence, or resources are never more suitably placed
than when they are in the hands of Catholics, so secular
kno\vledge and secular gifts are then best employed
\vhen they minister to Divine Reveìation. Theologians
inculcate the matter, and determine the details of that
Revelation; they view it from within; philosophers view
it from \vithout, and this external view may be called
the Philosophy of Religion, and the office of delineating
it externally is most gracefully perfonned by laymen.
In the first age laymen were !llost commonly the Apolo-
gists. Such were Justin, T atian r Athenagoras, Aristides,
Hermias, :IYIinucius Felix, Arnobius, and Lactantius. In
like manner in this age some of the most prominent
defences of the Church are from laymen: as De lVlaistre,
Chateaubriand, Nicolas, Monb
lembert, and others. If
laymen may \vrite, lay student
may read; they surely
tnay read what their fathers nru.r have written. They

3 80

E lClllclltarJ' Stztllies.

might sure1y study other \vorks too, ancient and modern,
\vritten \"hether by ecclesiastics or laYlnen, \vhich, al-
though they do contain theology, nevertheless. in theit
structure and drift, are polemical. Such is Origen's great
work against Celsu
; and Tertullian's Apolo6Y; such
sonle of the controversial treatises of Euscbius and
I'heodoret; or St. Augustine's City of God; or the tract
of Vincentius Lirinensis. And I confess that I should
not even object to portions of Bellarmine's Controversies,
or to the \\'ork of Suarez on laws, or to Melchior Can us's
treatises 011 the Loci Theologici. On these questions in
detail, however,-\vhich are, I readily acknowledge, very
delicate,-opinions may differ, even where the general
principle is admitted; but, even if we confine ourselves
strictly to the Philosophy, that is, the external contem-
plation, of Religion, we shall have a range of reading
sufficiently wide, and as valuable in its practical applica-
tion as it is liberal in its character. In it will be included
\vhat are commonly called the Evidences; and what is
a subject of special interest at this day, the Notes of the
Church.

But I have said enough in general illustration of the
rule which I am recomlTIcnding. One more remark I
make, though it is implied in \vhat I have been saying :-
Whatever students read in the province of Religion,
they read, and would read from the very nature of
the case, under the superintendence, and with the expla-
nations, of those who are older and more experienced
than themselves..

3 81

v.

A FORM OF INFIDELITY OF THE DAY.

9- I. Its SentÙnellts.

I.

T HOUGH it cannot be denied that at the present
day. in consequence of the close juxtaposition and
intercourse of men of all religions, there is a considerahle
danger of the subtle, silent, unconscious perversion and
corruption of Catholic intellects, who as yet profess, and
sincerely profess, their submission to the authority of
Revelation, still that danger is far inferior to \vhat it \vas
in one portion of the middle ages. Nay, contrasting the
two periods together, we may even say, that in this very
point they differ, that, in the medieval, since Catholicism
"'las then the sole religion recognized in ChristendolTI,
unbelief necessarily made its advances under the lan-
guage and the guise of iaith; 'whereas in the present,
\vhen universal toleration prevails, and it is open to
assail revealed truth (\vhether Scripture or 'fradition,
the Fathers or the" Sense of the faithful"), unbelief in
consequence throws off the mask, and takes up a position
over against us in citadels of its own, and confronts us
in the broad light and with a direct assault And I have
no hesitation in saying (apart of course from moral and
ecclesiastical considerations, anù under correction of the

3 82 A For11l 0/ Inj1fùiityo.f the Da)l.

conlnlanù and policy of the Church), that I prefer to live
in an age \vhen the fight is in the day, not in the
t\vilight; anò think it a gain to be speared by a foe, rather
than to be stabbed by a friend.
I do not, then, repine at all at the open developn1ent
.
of unbelief in Germany, supposing unbelief is to be, or at
its gro\ving audacity in Engl
nd; not as if I were satis-
fied with the state of things, considered positively, but
because, in the unavoidable alternative of avo\ved unbe-
lief and secret, my o\vn personal leaning is in favour of
the former. I hold that unbelief is in some shape una-
voidable in an age of intellect and in a world like this,
considering that faith requires an act of the will, and
presupposes the due exercise of religious advantages.
You may persist in calling Europe Catho1ic, though it is
not; you may enforce an out\vard acceptance of Catho-
lic dogma, and an outward obedience to Catholic pre-
cept; and your enactments n1ay be, so far, not only
pious in themselves, but even merciful towards the
teachers of false doctrine, as well as just towards their
victims; but this is all that you can do; yåu cannot
bespeak conclusions which, in spite of yourselves, you
are leaving free to the human \vill. There will be, I say,
in spite of you, unbelief and imnlorality to the end of
the world, and you must be prepared for immorality
more odious, and unbelief more astute, more subtle,
n10re bitter, and Illore resentful, in proportion as it is
obliged to dissemble.
It is one great advantage of an age in \vhich unbelief
speaks out, that Faith can speak out too; that, if false-
hood assails Truth, Truth can assail falsehood. In such
an age it is possible to found a University nlore empha-
tically Catholic than could be set up in the middle age,
because Truth can entrench itself carefully, and define

A Forn/, o.f infidelity 0/ the Day. 3 8 3

its own profession severely, and display its colours
unequivocally, by occasion of that very unbelief which
so shamelessly vaunts itself. And a kindred advantage
to this is the confidence which, in such an age, we can
place in all who are around us, so that \ve need look for
no foes but those who are in the enemy's camp.

2.
The medieval schools were the arena of as critical
a struggle bet\veen truth and error as Christianity has
ever endured; and the philosophy which bears their
name carried its supremacy by means of a succession
of victories in the cause of the Church. Scarcely had
Universities risen into popularity, when they were found
to be infected with the most subtle and fatal forms of
unbelief; and the heresies of the East germinated in the
West of Europe and in Catholic lecture-rooms, \vi th a
mysterious vigour upon which history throws little li 6 ht.
The questions agitated were as deep as any in theology;
the being and essence of the Almighty were the main
subjects of the disputation, and Aristotle was introduced
to the ecclesiastical youth as a teacher of Pantheism.
Saracenic expositions of the great philosopher \vere in
vogue; and, when a fresh treatise was imported fronl
Constantinople, the curious and impatient student thre\v
himself upon it, regardless of the Church's warnings,
and reckless of the effect upon his o\vn mind. The
acutest intellects becanle sceptics and misbelievers; and
the head of the Holy Roman Empire, the Cæsar Frede-
rick the Second, to say nothing of our miserable king
John, had the reputation of meditating a profession of
Mahometanism. It is said that, in the community at
large, men had a vague suspicion and n1istrust of each
othee s belief in Revelation. A secret society w dS dis-

384 A FOY1n 0 In.fidtlity of thf Day.

covered in the Universities of I
ombaròy, Tuscany, and
France, organized for the propagation of infidel opinions;
it was bound together by oaths, and sent its missionaries
among the people in the disguise of pedlars and vagrants.
The success of such efforts was attested in the south
of France by the great extension of the Albigenses, anò
the prevalence of Manichean doctrine. The University
of Paris was obliged to limit the number of its doctors in
theology to as fe\v as eight, from misgivings about the
orthodoxy of its divines generally. The narrative of
Simon of T ournay, struck dead for crying out after
lecture, "Ah! good Jesus, I could disprove Thee, did I
please, as easily as I have proved," whatever be its
authenticity, at least may be taken as a representation
of the frightful peril to which Christianity was exposed.
Anlaury of Chartres \vas the author of a school of Pan-
theism, and has given his name to a sect; Abelard,
Roscelin, Gilbert, and David de Dinant, Tanquelin, and
Eon, and others who might be named, show the extra-
ordinary influence of anti-Catholic doctrines on high
and lo\v. Ten ecclesiastics and severàl of the populace
of Paris v.rere condemned for nlaintaining that our Lord's
reign \vas past. that the Holy Ghost was to be incarnate,
or for parallel heresies.
Frederick the Second established a University at
Naples with a view to the propagation of the infidelity
which \vas so dear to him. It gave birth to the great
St. Thomas, the champion of revealed truth. So inti-
mate was the internlixture, so close the grapple, between
faith and unbelief. It was the conspiracy of traitors, it
was a civil strife, of which the medieval seats of learning
were the scene.
In this day, on the contrary, Truth and Error lie over
against each other with a valley behveen theIn, an...ì

A For11t if Injidelity 0/ the Day. 3 8 5

David goes forward in the sight of all men, and from
his own camp, to engage with the Philistine. Such is
the providential overruling of that principle of toleration,
which was conceived in the spirit of unbelief, in order to
the destruction of Catholicity. The sway of the Church
is contracted; but she gains in intensity what she loses
in extent. She has now a direct command and a reliable
influence over her own institutions, which was wanting
in the middle ages. A University is her possession in
these times, as well as her creation: nor has she the
need, which once was so urgent, to expel heresies from
her pale, which have now their own centres of attrac-
tion elsewhere, and spontaneously take their departure.
Secular advantages no longer present an inducement to
hypocrisy, and her members in consequence have the
consolation of being able to be sure of each other. How
much better is it, for us at least, whatever it may be for
themselves (to take a case before our eyes in Ireland),
that those persons, who have left the Church to become
ministers in the Protestant Establishment, should be in
their proper place, as they are, than that they should
have perforce continued in her cOll1ffiunion! I repeat
it, I would rather fight with unbelief as we find it in the
nineteenth century, than as it existed in the twelfth and
thirteen th.

3.
I look out, then, into the enemy's camp, and I try to
trace the outlines of the hostile movements and the
preparations for assault which are there in agitation
against us. The arn1ing and the manæuvring, the earth-
works and the mines, go on incessantly; and one cannot
of course tell, without the gift of prophecy, which of his
projects will be carr
(
d into effect and atta.in its purpose,
25

386 A For'Nt of Iujideltïy t!f the Day.

and which will eventually fail or be abandoned. Threatcn-
ing demonstrations may come to nothing; and those
who are to be our most forn1idable foes, may before the
attack elude our observation. All these uncertainties,
\ve know, are the Jot of the soldier in the field: and
they are parallel to those \vhich befall the warriors of
the Temple. Fully feeling the force of such considera-
tions, and under their correction, nevertheless I make
my anticipations according to the signs of the times;
and such must be my proviso, when I proceed to describe
some characteristics of one particular form of infidelity,
which is coming into existence and activity over against
us, in the intellectual citadels of England.
It Inust not be supposed that I attribute, what laIn
going to speak of as a form of infidelity of the day, to
any given individual or individuals; nor is it necessary
to ß1Y purpose to suppose that anyone man as yet con-
sciously holds, or sees the drift, of that portion of the
theory to which he has given assent. I am to describe
a set of opinions which may be considered as the true
explanation of many floating vie\vs, and the converging
point of a multitude of separate and independent minds;
and, as of old Arius or Nestorius not only was spoken
of in his own person, but was viewed as the abstract and
typical teacher of the heresy which he introduced, and
thus his name denoted a heretic more complete and
explicit, even though not more formal, than the here-
siarch himself, so here too, in like manner, I may be
describing a school of thought in its fully developed
proportions, which at present everyone, to whom mem-
bership with it is imputed, will at once begin to disown,
and I may be pointing to teachers \VhOnl no one will be
able to descry. Still, it is not less true that I may be
speaking of tet1dcncie
and elements \\rhich exist.; and

A Form qf Illjideltty 0/ the Dayw 3 8 7

he filay conle in person at last, ,vho comes at first to us
merely in his spirit and in his power.
The teacher, then, whom I speak of: will discourse
thus in his secret heart :- He will begin, as many so far
have done before hin1, by laying it do\vn as if a position
\vhich approves itself to the reason, immediately that it
is fairly examined,-which is of so axiomatic a character
as to have a claim to be treated as a first principle, and
is firnl and steady enough to bear a large superstructure
upon it,-that Religion is not the subject-n1atter of a
science. u You may have opinions in religion, you nlay
have theories, you may have arguments, you may have
probabilities; you may have anything but den1onstration,
and therefore you cannot have science. In mechanics
you advance from sure premisses to sure conclusions; in
optics you form your undeniable facts into system,
arrive at general principles, and then again infallibly
apply them: here you have Science. On the other
hand, there is at present no real science of the \veather,
because you cannot get hold of facts and truths on \vhich
it depends; there is no science of the coming and going
of epidemics; no science of the breaking out and the
cessation of \vars; no science of popular likings and dis-
likings, or of the fashions. It is not that these subject-
matters are themselves incapable of science, but that,
under existing circumstances, we are incapable of sub-
jecting them to it. And so, in like manner," says the
philosopher in question, "\vithout denying that in the
matter of religion some things are true and some things
false, still \ve certainly are not in a position to determine
the one or the other. And, as it \vould be absurd to
dognlatize about the \ve:lther, anlI say that 1860 \vill be
a \vet sea.;on or a ùry season, a titue of peace or \vax, so
it is absurù for men in our present state to teach any..

3 8 8 A FOllll 0/ Injidelity 0/ the Day.

thing positively about the next ,vorld, that there is a
heaven, or a hell, or a last judgment, or that the soul is
immortal, or that there is a God. It is not that you have
not a right to your own opinion, as you have a right to
place implicit trust in your own banker, or in your o\vn
physician; but undeniably such persuasions are not
kno\vledge, they are not scientific, they cannot become
public property, they are consistent with your allo\ving
your friend to entertain the opposite opinion; and. if
you are tempted to be violent in the defence of your o\vn
view of the case in this nlatter of religion, then it is well
to lay seriously to heart whether sensitiveness on the
subject of your banker or your doctor, when he is handled
sceptically by another, would not be taken to argue a
secret misgiving in your mind about hil11, in spite of your'
confident profession, an absence of clear, unruffled cer-
tainty in his honesty or in his skill."
Such is our philosopher's primary position. He does
not prove it; he does but distinctly state it; but he
thinks it self-evident when it is distinctly stated. And
there he leaves it.

4-
Taking his primary position henceforth for granted,
he ,,,ill proceed as follows :-'" Well, then, if Religion is
just one of those subjects about which we can know no-
thing, ,,-hat can be so absurd as to spend tin1e upon it?
what so absurd as to quarrel with others about it? Let
us all keep to our own religious opinions respectively,
and be content; but so far fronl it, upon no subject
whatever has the intellect of nlan been fastened so in-
tensely as upon Religion. And the misery is, that, if
once \ve allow It to engage our attention, \ve are in a
circle ft orn which we never shall be aLlc to extricate

A FOr1Jl of Infidelity oj'the Day. 389

ourselves. Our mistake reproduces and corroborates itself.
A small insect, a wasp or a fly, is unable to make his way
through the pane of glass; and his very failure is the oc-
casion of greater violence in his struggle than before. He
is as heroically obstinate in his resolution to succeed as
the assailant or defender of some critical battle-field; he
is unflagging and fierce in an effort which cannot lead to
anything beyond itself. When, then, in like manner, you
have once resolved that certain religious doctrines shall be
indisputably true, and that all men ought to perceive their
truth, you have engaged in an undertaking which, though
continued on to eternity, will never reach its aim; and,
since you are convinced it ought to do so, the more you
have failed hitherto, the more violent and pertinacious will
be your attenlpt in time to come. And further still t since
you are not the only man in the world who is in this error,
but one of ten thousand, all holding the general principle
that Religion is scientific, and yet all differing as to the
truths and facts and conclusions of this science, it follows
that the misery of social disputation and disunion is added
to the nlisery of a hopeless investigation, and life is not
only wasted in fruitless speculation, but embittered by
bigotted sectarianism.
" Such is the state in which the world has lain," it will
be said, "ever since the introduction of Christianity.
Christianity has been the bane of true knowledge, for it
has turned the intellect away from what it can know, and
occupied it in what it cannot. Differences of opinion crop
up and nlultiply themselves, in proportion to the diffi-
culty of deciding theln; and the unfruitfulness of Theo-
logy has been, in matter of fact, the very reason, not for
seeking better food, but for feeding on nothing else.
Truth has been sought in the wrong direction, and the
attainable has been put aside for the visionary."

39 0 A FOY111 0/ Infideli
J' of the Da)I.

Now, there is no call 011 nlC here to refute these argu-
ments, but merely to state thenl. I need not refute what
has not yet been proved.. It is sufficient for n1e to repeat
what I have already said, that they are founded upon a
n1ere assumption. Supþosi1lg, indeed, religious truth can-
not be ascertained, hell, of course, it is not only idle, but
mischievous, to atten1 pt to do so; theil, of course, argu-
ment does but increase the Inistake of attempting it. But
surely both Catholics and Protestants have \vritten solid
defences of Revelation, of Christianity, and of dogma, as
such, and these are not simply to be put aside without
saying why. It has not yet been shown by our philo-
sophers to be self-evident that religious truth is really
incapable of attainment; on the other hand, it has at
least been powerfully argued by a nun1ber of profound
ßlinds that it call be attained; and the onus probandi
plainly lies with those who are introducing into the world
\vhat the whole world feels to be a paradox.

5.
Ho,vever, where men really are persuaded of all this J
however unreasonable, \vhat will follow? A feeling, not
merely of contempt, but of absolute hatred, towards the
Catholic theologian and the dogmatic teacher. The
patriot abhors and loathes the partizans \vho have de-
graded and injured his country; and the citizen of the
world, the advocate of the human race, feels bitter indig-
nation at those whom he holds to have been its Inisleaders
and tyrants for two thousand years. "The world has
lost two thousand years. It is pretty much where it \vas
in the days of Augustus. This is what has come of priests."
There are those who are actuated by a benevolent liberal-
ism, and condescend to say that Catholics are not worse
than other Inaintainers of dogmatic theology. There an:

A Fornz qf Infidelity 0/ the Day. 39 t

those, again, who are good enough to grant that the
Catholic Church fostered kno\vledge and science up to
the days of Galileo, and that she has only retrograded
for the last several centuries. But the new teacher, whom
I am conten1plating in the light of that nebula out of
which he will be concentrated, echoes the words of the
early persecutor of Christians, that they are the" enemies
of the human race." "But for Athanasius, but for
Augustine, but for Aquinas, the world would have had
its Bacons and its N e\vtons, its Lavoisiers, its Cuviers, its
\Vatts, and its Adam Slniths, centuries upon centuries
ago. And now, when at length the true philosophy has
struggled into existence, and is making its way, what is
left for its champion but to make an eager desperate
attack upon Ch!.
stian theology, the scabbard flung away,
and no quarter given? and what will be the issue but
the triunlph of the stronger,-the overthrow of an old
error and an odious tyranny, and a reign of the beautiful
Truth?" Thus he thinks, and he sits dreaming over the
inspiring thought, and longs for that approaching, that
inevitable day.
There let us leave him for the present, dreaming and
longing in his impotent hatred of a Power which Julian
and Frederic, Shaftesbury and Voltaire, and a thousand
other great sovereigns and subtle thinkers, have assailed
in vain.

.
92

i

2. Its Policy.

I.
I T is a miserable time when a man's Catholic profes-
sion is no voucher for his orthodoxy, and when a
teacher of religion may be within the Church's pale, yet
external to her faith. Such has been for a season the
trial of her children at various eras of her history. It was
the state of things during the dreadful Arian ascendancy,
\vhen the flock had to keep aloof from the shepherd,
and the unsuspicious Fathers of the Western Councils
trusted and followed some consecrated sophist from
Greece or Syria. It was the case in those passages of
medieval history when simony resisted the Supreme
Pontiff: or when heresy lurked in Universities. It \vas a
longer and more tedious trial, while the controversies
lasted volÏth the Monophysites of old, and with the J an-
senists in modern tÏ1nes. A great scandal it is and a
perplexity to the little ones of Christ, to have to choose
between rival claimants upon their allegiance, or to find
a condemnation at length pronounced upon one whom
in their simplicity they have admired. We, too, In this
age have our scandals, for scandals must be: but they
are not what they were once; and if it be the just com-
plaint of pious men now, that never was infidelity so
rampant, it is their boast and consolation, on the other
hand, that never was the Church less troubled \vith false
teachers, never Inore united.
li'alse teachers do not reo1ain \vithin her pale now,

A FOY11l 0/ hifidelity of the Day. 393

because they Cdll edsily leave it, and because there are
seats of error external to her to which they are attracted.
"They went out from us," says the Apostle, " but they
were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would
no doubt have continued \vith us: but that they might
be made manifest that they are not all of us." I t is a
great gain when error becomes manifest, for it then ceases
to deceive the simple. With these thoughts I began to
describe by anticipation the formation of a school of
unbelief external to the Church, which perhaps as yet
only exists, as I then expressed it, in a nebula. In the
middle ages it might have managed, by means of subter-
fuges, to maintain itself for a while within the sacred
limits,-now of course it is outside of it; yet still, froll1
the intermixture of Catholics with the world, and the
present immature condition of the false doctrine, it may
at first exert an influence even upon those who would
shrink from it if they recognized it as it really is and as
it will ultimately show itself. Moreover, it is natural, and
not unprofitable, for persons under our circuInstances to
speculate on the forms of error with which a University
of this age will have to contend, as the medieval Univer-
sities had their own special antagonists. And for both
reasons I am hazarding some remarks on a set of opinions
and a line of action which seems to be at present, at least
in its rudiments, in the seats of English intellect, whether
the danger dies a\vay of itself or not.
I have already said that its fundamental dogma is,
that nothing can be known for certain about the unseen
world. This being taken for granted as a self-evident
point, undeniable as soon as stated,it goes on,or will go on,
to argue tnat, in consequence, the immense outlay which
has been n1ade of time, anxiety, and toil, of health, bodily
and Inenta 1, upon theological researches, has been simply

394 A Fornz of Infidelity q/ the Day.

thrown away j nay, has been, not useless merely, but
even mischievous, inasmuch as it has indirectly tlnvarted
the cultivation of studies of far greater promise and
of an evident utility. This is the main position of the
School I am contemplating; and the result, in the nlinds
of its nlenlbcrs, is a deep hatred and a bitter resentment
against the Po\ver which has managed, as they consider,
to stunt the world's kno\vledge and the intellect of man
for so many hundred years. Thus much I have already
said, and no\v I am going to state the line of policy which
these people will adopt, and the course of thought which
that policy of theirs will make necessary to them or
natural.

2.
Supposing, then, it is the main tenet of the School
in question, that the study of Religion as a science has
been the bane of philosophy and knowledge, \vhat
remedy will its masters apply for the evils they de-
plore? Should they profess themselves the antagonists
of theology, and engage in argumentative exercises with
theologians? This evidently would be to increase, to
perpetuate the calamity. Nothing, they will say to them.
selves, do religious men desire so ardently, nothing would
so surely advance the cause of Religion, as Controversy.
The very policy of re1igious nlen, they will argue, is to get
the world to fix its attention steadily upon the subject of
Religion, and Controversy is the most effectual means of
doing this. And their o\vn game, they will consider,
is, on the contrary, to be elaborately silent about it.
Should they not then go on to shut up the theological
schools, and exclude Religion from the subjects scienti-
fically treated in philosophical education? This indeed
has been, and is, a favourite mode of proceeding with vel")

A For-In of Infidelity 0/ the Day. 395

nlany of the cnelnies of Theology; but still it cannot be
said to have Þeen justified by any greater success than the
policy of Controversy. The establishment of the Lon-
don University only gave immediate occasion to the
establishlnent of I<'ing's College, founded on the dogma.
tic principle; and the liberalism of the Dutch govern-
nlent led to the restoration of the University of Louvain.
It is a well-known story how the very absence of the
statues of Brutus and Cassius brought them more vividly
into the recollection of the Roman people. When, then,
in a comprehensive scheine of education, Religion alone
is excluded, that exclusion pleads in its behalf. What-
ever be the real value of Religion, say these philosophers
to themselves, it has a name in the world, and must not
be ill-treated, lest men should rally round it from a feel-
ing of generosity. They will decide, in consequence, that
the exclusive method, though it has met with favour in
this generation, is quite as much a mistake as the con-
troversial.
Turning, then, to the Universities of England, they
\vill pronounce that the true policy to be observed there
would be simply to let the schools of Theology alone.
Most unfortunate it is that they have been roused from
the state of decadence and torpor in which they lay some
twenty or thirty years ago. Up to that time, a routine
lecture, delivered once to successive batches of young
nlen destined for the Protestant Ministry, not during
their residence, but when they were leaving or had
already left the U niversity,-and not about dogrnatics,
history, ecclesiastical law, or casuistry, but about the list
of authors to be selected and works to be read by those
who had neither curiosity to read them nor money to
purchase ;-and again a periodical advertisement of a
lecture on the Thirty-nin
Articles, which was nev
r

39 6 A Form 0/ InjidelilJ' 0/ the Day.

delivered because it was never attended,-these two de-
monstrations, one undertaken by one theological Pro-
fessor, the other by anotJ.ler, comprised the theological
teaching of a seat of learning which had been the home
of Duns Scotus and Alexander Hales. What envious
mischance put an end to those halcyon days, and revived
the odium thcologÙ:zt1n in the years \vhich followed? Let
us do justice to the authoritative rulers of the University;
they have their failings; but not to them is the revo-
lution to be ascribed. It was nobody's fault among all
the guardians of education and trustees of the intellect
in that celebrated place. However, the mischief has
been done; and now the wisest course for the interests
of infidelity is to leave it to itself, and let the fever
gradually subside; treatment \vould but irritate it. Not
to interfere with Theology, not to raise a little finger
against it, is the only means of superseding it. The
more bitter is the hatred which such men bear it, the
less they must sho\v it.

3.
What, then, is the line of action which they must pur-
sue? They think, and rightly think, that, in all contests,
the wisest and largest policy is to conduct a positive,
not a negative opposition, not to prevent but to antici-
pate, to obstruct by constructing, and to exterminate by
supplanting. To cast any slight upon Theology, whether
in its Protestant or its Catholic schools, would be to
elicit an inexhaustible stream of polemics, and a phalanx
of dogmatic doctors and confessors.

" Let alone Camarina, for 'tis best let alone."

The proper procedure, then, is, not to oppose Theology,
but to rival it. I
eave its teachers to themselves; Jnerely

A FOY111 oj" IJlfidcbïy 0/ the ]Jay. 397

aim at the introduction of other studies, which, \vhile
they have the accidental charm of novelty, possess a
surpassing interest, richness, and practical value of their
own. Get possession of these studies, and appropriate
them, and monopolize the use of them, to the exclusion
of the votaries of Religion. Take it for granted, and
protest, for the future, that Religion has nothing to do
\vith the studies to which I aln alluding, nor those studies
with Religion. Exclaim and cry out, if the Catholic
Church presumes herself to handle \vhat you mean to
use as a weapon against her. The range of the Experi-
ßlental Sciences, viz., psychology, and politics, and political
economy, and the many departments of physics, various
both in their subject-matter and their method of re-
search; the great Sciences \vhich are the characteristics
of this era, and \vhich become the more marvellous,
the more thoroughly they are understood,-astronomy,
nlagnetism, chemistry, geology, comparative anatolny,
natural history, ethnology, languages, political geography,
antiquities,-these be your indirect but effectual means
of overturning Religion! They do but need to be
seen in order to be pursued; you \viI] put an end,
in the Schools of learning, to the long reign of the un-
seen shadowy world, by the mere exhibition of the
visible. This was impossible heretofore, for the visible
world was so little kno\vn itself; but now, thanks to the
N e\v Philosophy, sight is able to contest the field with
faith. The medieval philosopher had no weapon against
}{evelation but 1\1etaphysics; Physical Science has a
better temper, if not a keener edge, for the purpose.
Now here I interrupt the course of thought I am
tracing, to introduce a caveat, lest I should be thought
to cherish any secret disrespect to\vards the sciences J
}13ve clllllneratcd, or dPprehension of their legitinlc.lte

3g8 A FOt/11 0/ InJldclity 0/ the Day.

tendencies; whereas my very object is to protest against
a monopoly of them by others. And it is not surely a
heavy imputation on them to say that they, as other
divine gifts, may be used to wrong purposes, with which
they have no natural connection, and for which they
were never intended; and that, as in Greece the element
of beauty, 'with which the universe is flooded, and the
poetical faculty, which is its truest interpreter, were
made to minister to sensuality; as, in the middle ages,
abstract speculation, another great instrument of truth,
\-vas often frittered away in sophistical exercises; so no\v,
too, the department of fact, and the method of research
and experiment which is proper to it, may for the moment
eclipse the light of faith in the imagination of the studeht,
and be degraded into the accidental tool, hic et nunc, of
infidelity. I am as little hostile to physical science as I
am to poetry or metaphysics; but I wish for studies of
every kind a legitimate application: nor do I grudge
them to anti-Catholics, so that anti-Catholics \vill not
claÎ1n to monopolize them, cry out when we profess
them, or direct them against Revelation.
I wish, indeed, I could think that these studies were
not intended by a certain school of philosophers to bear
directly against its authority. There are those ",'ho hope,
there are those who are sure, that in the incessant inves-
tigation of facts, physical, political, and moral, something
or other, or nlany things, will sooner or later turn up,
and stubborn facts too, simply contradictory of revealed
declarations. A vision comes before then1 of some phy-
sical or historical proof tnat mankind is not descended
from a con1ffion origin, or that the hopes of the world
"'ere never consigned to a ,vooden ark floating on the
,vater:" or that the 111anifestations on 1\10unt Sinai \vere
the \\'ork of man or nature, or that the I Iebrcw patriarchs

4'1 ÞòrJll 0/ lujÙlclily oj the Day. 399

or the judges of Israel are tnythical personages, or that
St. Peter had no connection with Rome, or that the doc-
trine of the Holy Trinity or of the Real Presence was
foreign to primitive belief. An anticipation possesses
them that the ultimate truths embodied in mesmerism
will certainly solve all the Gospel miracles; or that to
Niebuhrize the Gospels or the Fathers is a simple
expedient for stultifying the whole Catholic system.
They hnagine that the eternal, immutable word of God
is to quail and come to nought before the penetrating
intellect of man. And, where this feeling exists, there
will be a still stronger motive for letting Theology alone.
That party, with whom success is but a matter of time,
can afford to \vait patiently; and if an inevitablc train
is laid for blo\ving up the fortress, why need we be
anxious that the catastrophe should take place to-day.
rather than to-nlorrow ?

4-
But, without n1aking too Inuch of their O\Vl1 anticipa-
tions on this point, which mayor may not be in part
fulfilled, these Inen have secure grounds for knowing that
the sciences, as they would pursue them, will at least be
prejudicial to the religious sentiment. Anyone study,
of whatever kind, exclusively pursued, deadens in the
Il1ind the interest, nay, the perception of any other. Thus.
Cicero says that Plato and Demosthenes, Aristotle and
Isocrates, might have respectively excelled in each other's
province, but that each "vas absorbed in his own; his
\vords are emphatic; "quorum uterque, suo studio delec-
tatus, conte111sit alterum." Specimens of this peculiarity
occur every day. You can hardly persuade some men
to talk about any thing but their own pursuit; they refer
the whole world to their own centre, and measure all

400 A For/Il of /1ljidclit), of the Day.

matters by their own rule, like the fisherman in the
drama, whose eulogy on his deceased lord \vas, that" he
was so fond of fish." The saints illustrate this on the
other hand; St. Bernard had no eye for architecture;
St. Basil had no nose for flowers; St. Aloysius had no
palate for meat and drink; St. Paula or S1. Jane Frances
could spurn or could step over her own child ;-not that
natural faculties were wanting to those great servants of
God, but that a higher gift outshone and obscured every
lower attribute of man, as human features may remain
in heaven, yet the beauty of them be killed by the sur-
passing light of glory. And in like manner it is clear
that the tendency of science is to make men indiffer-
entists or sceptics, merely by being exclusively pursued.
The party, then, of whom I speak, understanding this
\vell, would suffer disputations in the theological schools
every day in the year, provided they can manage to keep
the students of science at a distance from them.
N or is this all; they trust to the influence of the
modem sciences on what may be called the Imagination.
When any thing, which comes before us, is very unlike
what we commonly experience, we consider it on that
account untrue; not because it really shocks our reason
as improbable, but because it startles our imagination as
strange. N ow, Revelation presents to us a perfectly dif-
ferent aspect of the universe from that presented by the
Sciences. The two informations are like the distinct
subjects represented by the lines of the same drawing,
which, accordingly as they are read on their concave or
convex side, exhibit to us now a group of trees with
branches and leaves, and now human faces hid amid the
leaves, or some majestic figures standing out from the
branches. Thus is faith opposed to sight: it is parallel
to the contrast affon1ed by plane astronomy and physical j

.A For}}/. oj-Ill lde/i
'v nf tl'f [)a)l. 401

planc, in accordance with our senses, discourses of the
sun's rising and setting, while physical, in accordance
with our reason, asserts, on the contrary, that the sun is
all but stationary, and that it is the earth that moves.
This is what is meant by saying that truth lies in a well;
phenomena are no measure of fact; prÙlltÎ facie repre-
sentations, which we receive froin without, do not reach
to the real state of things, or put thel11 before us siInply
as they are.
vVhile, then, Reason and Revelation are consistent in
fact, they often are inconsistent in appearance; and
this seen1ing discordance acts Inost keenly and alarnl-
ingly on the Imagination, and may suddenly expose a
man to the temptation, and even hurry him on to the
conllnission, of definite acts of unbelief, in which reason
itself really does not come into exercise at all. I n1ean,
let a person devote himself to the studies of the day

let him be taught by the astronomer that our sun is but
one of a n1Ïllion central luminaries, and our earth but OI1ß
of ten Inillion globes moving in space; let him learn
from the geologist that on that globe of ours enonnous
revolutions have been in progress through innumerable
ages; let him be told by the comparative anatomist
of the minutely arranged system of organized nature;
by the chemist and physicist, of the perernptory yet
intricate laws to which nature, organized and inorganic,
is subjected; by the ethnologist, of the originals, and
ramifications, and varieties, and fortunes of nations; by
the antiquarian, of old cities disinterred, and primitive
countries laid bare, \vith the specific forms of human.
society once existing; by the linguist, of the slo\v form-
ation and development of languages; by the psycho-
logist, the physiologist, and the economist, of the subtle,
cornplicated structure of the breathing. energetic, restless
26

4 02 A FOY}J2 0/ Infidelity of the Da.)'.

\vorld of n1en; I say, let him take in and master the
vastness of the view thus afforded hin1 of r\ ature, its
infinite con1plexity, its awful comprehensiveness, and its
diversified yet harmonious colouring; and then, when he
has for years drank in and fed upon this vision, let him
turn round to peruse the inspired records, or listen to
the authoritative teaching of Revelation, the book of
Genesis, or the warnings and prophecies of the Gospels,
or the Symbolum Quicu1nque, or the Life of St. Antony
or St. H ilarion, and he may certainly expc=rience a most
distressing revulsion of feeling,.-not that his reason
really deduces any thing from his much loved studies
contrary to the faith, but that his imagination is be-
\vildered, and swims with the sense of the ineffable dis..
tance of that faith frolTI the vie\v of things which is
familiar to him, with its strangeness, and then again
its rude simplicity, as he considers it, and its apparent
poverty contrasted with the exuberant life and reality
of his o\vn world. All this, the school I am speaking
of understands well; it comprehends that, if it can
but exclude the professors of Religion from the lecture-
halls of science, it may safely allow them full play in
their own; for it will be able to rear up infidels, without
speaking a word, merely by the terrible influence of that
faculty against \vhich both Bacon and Butler so solemnly
warn us.
I say, it leaves the theologian the full and free pos-
session of his own schools, for it thinks he will have no
chance of arresting the opposite teaching or of rivalling
the fascination of modern science. Kno\ving little, and
caring less for the depth and largeness of that heavenly
Wisdom, on which the Apostle delights to expatiate, or
the variety of those sciences, dogmatic or ethical, mysti-
* Vide University Sennons, vii., 14-

A Form ojlnjÙlelity o.f thi' Da)l. 403

calor hag-iological, historical or exegetical, which Reve-
lation has created, these philosophers kno\v perfectly
well that, in luatter of fact, to beings, constituted as \ve
are, sciences \vhich concern this \vorld and this state of
existence are \vorth far more, are more arresting and
attractive, than those \vhich relate to a system of things
which they do not see and cannot master by their natura]
po\vers. Sciences \vhich deal with tangible facts, prac-
ticdl results, evergrowing discoveries, and perpetual
novelties, \vhich feed curiosity, sustain attention, and
stimulate expectation, require, they consider, but a fair
stage and no favour to distance that Ancient Truth,
\vhich never changes and but cautiously advances, in
the race for popularity and power. And therefore they
look out for the day when they shall have put down
H..eligion, not by shutting its schools, Lut by etnptying
them; not by disputing its tenets, but by the superior
\vorth and persuasiveness of their own.

5.
Such is the tactic which a new school of philosophers
adopt against Christian Theology. They have this
characteristic, compared \vith former schools of infidelity,
viz., the union of intense hatred with a large toleration
of Theology. 'fhey are professedly civil to it, and run
a race with it. 1
hey rely, not on any logical disproof
of it, but on three considerations; first, on the effects of
studies of whatever kind to indispose the mind to\vards
other studies; next, on the special effect of modern
5ciences upon the in1agination, prejudicial to revealed
truth; and lastly, on the absorbing interest attdched to
those sciences from their marvellous results. This line
of action \vill be forced upon these persons by the pecu-
liar character and position of H..elision in England.

104 A P01"}}! 0/ ll1jìdtli
r 0 II,f Dll.Y.

1\ nd here I have atrivcll at the liUlits of IllY paper
before I have finished the discussion upon which I have
entered; and I must be content with having made SOffif>
suggestions which, if \\'orth anything, others n1ay use.

.

..

4 U 5

VI.

UNIVERSITY PREACHING.

I.
W HEN I obtained from various distinguished per-
sons the acceptable promise that they \vould give
me the advantage of their countenance and assistance by
appearing fron1 time to time in the pulpit of our ne\v
University, some of then1 accompanied that promise with
the natural request that I, who had asked for it, should
offer theln my own views of the mode and form in \vhich
the duty \vould be most satisfactorilyaccolnplished. On
the other hand, it was quite as natural that I on my part
should be disinclined to take on myself an office which
belongs to a higher station and authority in the Church
than my own; and the n10re so, because, on the definite
subject about which the inquiry is made, I should have
far less direct aid from the writings of holy men and great
divines than I could desire. vVere it indeed my sole
business to put into shape the scattered precepts which
saints and doctors have delivered upon it, I might have
ventured on such a task \vith comparatively little mis-
giving. Under the shadow of the great teachers of the
pastoral office I might have been content to speak, with-
out looking out for any living authority to pronlpt Inc.
Hut this unfortunately is nut the G:se; sllch venerau]('
guidance dues not c).. t{'IHl heyond the
;enl'raI principle:-

4 0 6

UlliVerl i(v }-) reachil
l[.

and rules of preaching, and these require both expansion
and adaptation when they are to be made to bear on
compositions addressed in the name of a University to
University men. They define the essence of Christian
preaching, which is one and the same in all cases; but
not the subject-matter or the method, which vary accord-
ing to circunIstances. Still, after all, the points to which
they do reach are more, and more important, than those
which they fall short of. I therefore, though with a good
deal of anxiety, have attempted to perform a task \vhich
seemed naturally to fall to me; and I am thankful to
say that, though I must in some measure go beyond the
range of the simple direction to which I have referred,
the greater part of my remarks \vill lie \vithin it.

2.
I. So far is clear at once, that the preacher's object is
the spiritual good of his hearers. " Finis prædicanti sit,"
says St. Francis de Sales; "ut vita1n (justitiæ) Ilabeallt
k01J1ÙleS, et abundantius habeant." And St. Charles:
" Considerand unI, ad Dei omnipotentis gIorianl, ad ani-
marumque salutem, referri omnem concionandi vim ac
rationem." Moreover," Prædicatorem esse Ininistruln
Dei, per queln verbum Dei à spiritÍìs fonte ducitur ad
fidelium aninlas irrigandas." As a marksman airns at
the target and its bull's-eye, and at nothing else, so the
preacher must have a definite point before him, ,vhich he
has to hit. So Inuch is contained for his direction in this
simple maxim, that duly to enter into it and use it is half
the ba ttIe; and if he mastered nothing else, still if he
really mastered as much as this, he would know all that
,vas inlperative for the due discharge of his office.
l:;or \vhat is the conduct of filen who have one object
definitely before thcln, and one only? \Vhy, that, \vlwt-

University Preaching.

4 0 7

ever be their skill, \vhatever their resources, greater or
less, to its attainment all their efforts are simply, spon-
taneously, visibly, directed. This cuts off a number of
questions sometimes asked about preaching, and extin-
guishes a number of anxieties. " Sollicita es, et turbaris,"
says our Lord to St. l\Iartha; "erga plurima; porro unUITJ
est necessarium." \Ve ask questions perhaps about dic-
tion, elocution, rhetorical power; but does the commander
of a besieging force dream of holiday displays, reviews,
mock engagements, feats of strength, or trials of skill,
such as \vould be graceful and suitable on a parade
ground when a foreigner of rank \vas to be received and
fêted,. or does he aim at one and one thing only, viz., to
take the strong place? Display dissipates the energy,
which for the object in view needs to be concentrated
and condensed. We have no reason to suppose that the
Divine blessing follows the lead of human accomplish-
nlents. Indeed, St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians,
\vho Inade much of such advantages of nature, contrasts
the persuasive words of human wisdom II with the show-
ing of the Spirit," and tells us that "the kingdom of God
is not in speech, but in power."
But, not to go to the consideration of divine influences,
\vhich is beyond my subject, the very presence of simple
earnestness is even in itself a po\verful natural instrument
to effect that toward \vhich it is directed. Earnestness
creates earnestness in others by sympathy; and the more
a preacher loses and is lost to himself, the more does he
gain his brethren. Nor is it without some logical force
also; for \vhat is po\verful er.l.ough to absorb and possess
a preacher has at least a prinz&- facie claim of attention
on the part of his hearers. On the other hand, any thing
\vhich interferes \vith this earnestness, or which argues
its absence, is still nlore certain to blunt the force of the

408

[hUl ' {} siy jJ} LllChulg.

IHost cogent argull1Cnt conveyed in the !uost clotl uent
language. l-Ience it is that the great philosopher of
antiquity, in speaking, in his rrreatise on H..hetoric, of
the various kinds of persuasives, which are available in
the Art, considers the most authoritative of these to be
that \vhich is drawn from personal traits of an ethical
nature evident in the orator; for such matters are cog-
nizable by all n1cn, and the common sense of the \vorld
decides that it is safer, where it is possible, to COlnlnit
oneself to the judgment of men of character than to any
considerations addressed merely to the feelings or to the
reason.
On these grounds I would go on to lay down a precept,
which I trust is not extravagant, when allowance is Jnade
for the preciseness and the point which are unavoidable
in all categorical statements upon matters of conùuct.
It is, that preachers should neglect everything whatever
besides devotion to their one object, and earnestness in
pursuing it, till they in some good nleasure attain to these
requisites. Talent, logic, learning, words, nlanner, voice,
action, all are required for the perfection of a preacher;
but it one thing is necessary,"-an intense perception and
appreciation of the end for which he preaches, and that is,
to be the minister of some definite spiritual good to those
who hear him. \iVho could \vish to be more eloquent,
(nore po\verful, more successful than the Teacher of the
Nations? yet who more earnest, \vho Inore natural, who
nlore unstudied, who more self-forgetting than he ,

3.
(I.) And here, in order to prevent J11isconception, two
remarks must be made, \vhich will lead us further into
the subject we are engaged upon. '[he first is, that, in
\vhat 1 have been saying, I do not Il1Can that a prcach
J'

UUlVC}
lLJ' j_J 1 cac:lull g.

4 0 9

Illust clilll at carncstncss, but that he 111USt aitn at his
ol!fecl, \vhich is to do some spiritual good to his hearers,
and \vhich will at once nlake him earnest. It is said
that, when a man has to cross an abyss by a narrow
plank thrown over it, it is his wisdoln, not to look at the
plank, along which lies his path, but to fix his eyes
steadily on the point in the opposite precipice at which
the plank ends. It is by gazing at the obj ect which he
must reach, and ruling himself by it, that he secures to
hin1self the power of walking to it straight and steadily.
The case is the same in moral matters; no one will
become really earnest by aiming directly at earnest-
ness; anyone may become earnest by meditating on
the motives, and by drinking at the sources, of earnest-
ness. We may of course work ourselves up into a pre-
tence, nay, into a paroxysm, of earnestness; as we may
chafe our cold hands till they are ,varnl. But when we
cease chafing, we lose the warmth again; on the con-
trary, let the sun caine out and strike us with his bealns,
and we need no artificial chafing to be warm. The hot
words, then, and energetic gestures of a preacher, taken
by thenlselves, are just as much signs of earnestness as
rubbing the hands or flapping the arms together are
signs of warmth; though they are natural where earnest-
ness already exists, and pleasing as being its spontaneous
concomitants. To sit down to compose for the pulpit
with a resolution to be eloquent is one impeditnent to
persuasion; but to be determined to be earnest is abso-
lutely fatal to it.
He who has before his mental eye the Four Last
Things will have the true earnestness, the horror or the
rapture, of one who witnesses a conflagration, or discerns
S0111e rich and sublinlc prospect of natural scenery. IIis
countenance. his Olanner, his voice, speak for hin1, in pro-

4 10

U1liversity PYl'll{hing.

portion as his view has been vivid and minute. 1'he
great English poet has described this sort of eloquence
when a calamity had befallen:-

Yea, this man's brow, like to a title page,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.

It is this earnestness, in the supernatural order, which
is the eloquence of saints; and not of saints only, but of
all Christian preachers, according to the measure of
their faith and love. As the case would be with one
who has actually seen what he relates, the herald of
tidings of the invisible world also will be, from the
nature of the case, whether vehement or calm, sad or
exulting, always simple, grave, emphatic, and peremp-
tory; and all this, not because he has proposed to hin1-
self to be so, but because certain intellectual convictions
involve certain external manifestations. St. Francis de
Sales is full and clear upon this point. It is necessary,
he says, "ut ipsemet penitus hauseris, ut persuasissimam
tìbi habeas, doctrinam quam aliis persuasam cupis.
Artificium summum erit, nullum habere artificium. In-
flammata sint verba, non clamoribus gesticulationibusve
immodicis, sed interiore affectione. De corde plus quànl
de ore proficiscantur. Quantumvis ore dixerimus, sanè
cor cordi loquitur, lingua non nisi aures pulsat." St.
Augustine had said to the same purpose long before:
"Sonus verborum nostrorum aures percutit; magister
intus est."
(2.) My second remark is, that it is the preacher's duty
to aim at imparting to others, not any fortuitous, unpre-
tneditated benefit, but SOIne definite spiritual good. It is
here that design and study find their place; the more

UlLiversity PreachinK.

41 I

exact and precise is the subject which he treats, the more
impressive and practical will he be; whereas no one will
carry off much from a discourse which is on the general
subj ect of virtue, or vaguely and feebly entertains the
question of the desirableness of attaining Heaven, or the
rashness of incurring eternal ruin. As a distinct image
before the mind makes the preacher earnest, so it will give
him something which it is worth while to comlnunicate to
others. Mere sympathy, it is true, is able, as I have said,
to transfer an emotion or sentiment from mind to mind,
but it is not able to fix it there. He must aim at imprint-
ing on the heart what will never leave it, and this he
cannot do unless he employ himself on some definite
subject, which he has to handle and weigh, and then, as it
\vere, to hand over from himself to others.
Hence it is that the Saints insist so expressly on the
necessity of his addressing himself to the intellect of
tuen, and of convincing as well as persuading. "Necesse
est ut daccat et moveat," says St. Francis; and St.
Antoninus still more distinctly: "Debet prædicator
clare loq ui, ut z"1lstruat Ï1ztellcctzt1n auditoris, et doceat."
Hence, moreover, in St. Ignatius's Exercises, the act of
the intellect precedes that of the affections. Father
Lohner seems to n1e to be giving an instance in point
when he tells us of a court-preacher, who delivered what
would be conunonly considered eloquent sermons, and
attracted no one; and next took to sitnple explanations
of the l\-1:ass and similar subjects, and then found the
church thronged. So necessary is it to have something
to say, if we desire anyone to listen.
Nay, I would go the length of recommending a
preacher to place a distinct categorical proposition
before him, such as he can write do\vn in a fonn of \vords,
a.oll to guide and litnit his preparation by it, and to aitn

4 1 2

U/liV(,'jll)' I}'((U/ll1/
.

in all he says to bring it out, and nuthing else. This
seems to be inlplied or suggested in St. Charles's direc-
tion: II Id olnnino studebit, ut quod in concionc dicturus est
antea bClle cogllitUl1t habeat." Nay, is it not expressly coo-
vcyeù in the Scripture phrase of " preaching the word" ?
for ,,'"hat is meant by "the word" but a proposition ad-
dressed to the intellect? nor will a preacher's earnestness
show itself in anything more unequivocally than in his re-
jecting, whatever be the ten1ptation to admit it, every
remark, however original, every period, ho\vever eloquent.
\vhich does not in some way or other tend to bring out this
one distinct proposition which he has chosen. Nothing is
so fatal to the effect of a sermon as the habit of preac
1Ïng
on three or four subjects at once. I ackno\vledge I an1
advancing a step beyond the practice of great Catholic
preachers when I add that, even though we preach on
only one at a time, finishing and dismissing the first
before we go to the second, and the second before we
go to the third, still, after all, a practice like this, though
not open to the inconvenience which the confusing of one
subject with another involves, is in matter of fact nothing
short of the delivery of three sermons in successi.on with-
out break between them.
Sununing up, then, what I have been saying, I observe
that, if I have understood the doctrine of St. Charles,
St. Francis, and other saints aright, definitcness of object
is in various ways the one virtue of the preacher ;-and
this means that he should set out with the intention of
conveying to others SOIne spiritual benefit; that, \vith
a view to this, and as the only ordinary \vay to it, he
should select some distinct fact or scene, some passage
in history, some truth, silnple or profound, SOB1C doctrinc,
some principle, or sOlne sentin1ent, ,.lull shoulJ study it
\\'l'll .\nd thoro\1
hly, and first Blake it his O\Vl1 J or else

UnÙ'ersih' [J re (7(hillP.
. ,

113

ha ve ah cady thvelt 011 it a fllt nlastcrcd it, su ;1 <; tu be
able to use it for the occasion frolll an habitual under-

tanding of it; and that then he should employ hirnself,
as the one business of his discourse, to bring honle to
others, and to leave deep \vithin them, \vhat he has, be-
fore he began to speak to them, brought home to hin1self.
\tVhat he feels himself, and feels deeply, he has to make
others feel deeply; and in proportion as he comprehends
this, he will rise above the tell
Ftation of introducing
collateral matters, and will have no taste, no heLlrt, for
going aside after flowers of oratory, fine ti
ures. tuneful
periods, which are worth nothing, unless they come l\.')
him spontaneously, and are spoken "out of the abun-
dance of the heart." Our Lord said on one occasion:
" I anI conle to send fire on the earth, and what will I
but that it be kindled?" He had one work, and He
acconlplished it. " The words," I-Ie says, "which Thou
gavest lYle, I have given to them, and they have received
thein, . and 110W I come to Thee." And the
Apostles, again, as they had received, so were they to
give. "That which we have seen and have heard," says
one of then1, U we declare unto you, that you may have
fellows/tip with us." If, then, a preacher's subject only
be some portion of the Divine message, however elelnen-
tary it may be, however trite, it will have a dignity such
as to possess him, and a virtue to kindle him, and an in-
fluence to subdue and convert those tc \"hom it goes
forth fronl hitn, according to the \vords of the pron1Ïse,
Ai My word, \vhich shal\ go forth from My mouth, shall
not return to Me void, but it shall do whatsoever I please,
and shall prosper in the things for which I sent it."

2. And tl0\V having got as far as this, \ve shall sep

414

U"iver.flrv Prl'fl{hiJl.
.

without difficulty \vhat a University Sermon ought to bt.
just so far as it is distinct frolll other sennons; for, if all
preaching is directed towards a hearer, such as is the
hearer will be the preaching, and, as a University audi-
tory differs from other auditories, so will a sennon
addressed to it diffe
from other sern10ns. This, indeed,
is a broad maxim which holy men lay down on the
subject of preaching. Thus, St. Gregory Theologus, as
quoted by the Pope his namesake, says: "The self-saIne
exhortation is not suitable for all hearers; for all have
not the satne disposition of nlind, and \vhat profits these
is hurtful to those." The holy Pope himself thro\vs the
Inaxim into another form, still nlore precise: "Debet
prædicator," he says, "perspicere, ne plus prædicet,
quàn1 ab audiente capi possit." And St. Charles ex-
pounds it, referring to Pope St. Gregory: H Pro audien-
tiuln genere locos doctrinarum, ex quibus concioncln
conficiat, non modo distinctos, sed optimè explicatos
habebit. Atque in hoc quidenl multiplici genere con-
cionator videbit, ne quæcumque, ut S. Gregorius scitè
rnonet, legerit, aut scientiâ comprehenderit. omnia enun-
ciet atque effundat; sed delectulTI habebit, ita ut do-
cumenta alia exponat, alia tacitè relinquat, prout locus,
ordo, conditioque auditoruin depüscat." And, by way of
obviating the chance of such a rule being considered a
human artifice inconsistent with the sitllplicity of the
Gospel, he had said shortly before: H Ad Dei gloriam, ad
cælestis regni propagationem, et ad anin1arum salutem,
plurimum interest, non solum quales sint prædicatores,
sed quâ viâ, quâ ratione prædicent."
It is true, this is also one of the elementary principles
of the Art of Rhetoric; but it is no scandal that a
saintly Bishop should in this Inattcr borrow a maxinl
from secular, nay, from pagan schools. ].or di,-ine gr3ce

[hlivers/I)' Preaching.

415

does not overpo'wer nor supersede the action of the hunlan
mind according to its proper nature; and if heathen
"writers have analyzed that nature well, so far let them
be used to the greater glory of the Author and Source
of all Truth. Aristotle, then, in his celebrated treatise
on Rhetoric, makes the very essence of the Art lie in the
precise recognition of a hearer. It is a relative art, and in
that respect differs fron1 Logic, which simply teaches the
right use of reason, whereas Rhetoric is the art of per-
suasion, which implies a person who is to be persuaded.
As, then, the Christian Preacher aims at the Divine
Glory, not in any vague and general way, but definitely
by the enunciation of some article or passage of the
Revealed "\tV ord, so further, he enunciates it, not for the
instruction of the whole world, but directly for the sake
of those very persons who are before him. He is, when
in the pulpit, instructing, enlightening, informing, ad..
vancing, sanctifying, not all nations, nor all classes, nor
all callings, but those particular ranks, professions, states,
ages, characters, which have gathered around him.
Proof indeed is the sanle all over the earth; but he has
not only to prove, but to persuade ;- Who1n f A hearer,
then, is included in the very idea of preaching; and we
cannot determine ho\v in detail we ought to preach, till
\ve know whom we are to address.
In all the most ilnportant respects, indeed, all hearers
are the same, and what is suitable for one audience is
suitable for another. All hearers are children of Adam
,
all, too, are children of the Christian adoption and of the
Catholic Church. The great topics which suit the
multitude, which attract the poor, which sway the un-
learned, which warn, arrest, recall, the wayward and
wandering, are in place within the precincts of a
University as elsewhere. A StudÙt1n Gellerate is not a

--1 lh

Ullà. 1 trsilJl Prt'a{hill.
.

cloister, or noviciatc, or SCfl1inary, or boarding-school; it
IS an assenlblagc of the young, the inexperienced, the
lay and the secular; and not even the simplest of
religious truths, or the most elementary article of the
Christian faith, can be unseasonable fronl its pulpit. A
sermon on the Divine Omnipresence, on the future judg-
nlent, on the satisfaction of Christ, on the intercession of
saints, \vill be not less, perhaps more, suitable there than
if it were addressed to a parish congregation. Let no
one suppose that any thing recondite is essential to the
idea of a University sermon. The most obvious truths
are often the most profitable. Seldonl does an oppor-
tunity occur for a subject there \vhich might not under
circurnstances be treated before an)' other auditory what-
ever. Nay, further; an academical auditory nlight be
\vell content if it never heard any subject treated at all
out what would be suitable to any general congregation.
Ho\vever, after all, a University has a character of its
own; it has some traits of human nature more prolIli-
ncntly developed than others, and its members are brought
together under circunlstanceswhich impartto the auditory
a peculiar colour and expression, even \vhere it does not
substantially differ from another. It is composed of
nlen, not women; of the young rather than the old; and
of persons either highly educated or under education.
T!lese are the points which the preacher will bear in
n1ind, and which will direct him both in his choice of
subject, and in his mode of treating it.

s.
(I.) And first as to his 1/latter or subject. I-Icre I
would remark upon the circumstance, that courses of
sermons upon theological points, polenlicaI discussions,
treatises itl extenso, and the like, are often induded in

[Jllt.versify Preaching.

4 1 7

the idea of a University Sermon, and are considered to
be legitimately entitled to occupy the attention of a
University audience; the object of such compositions
being, not directly and mainly the edification of the
hearers, but the defence or advantage of Catholicism at
large, and the gradual formation of a volume suitable
for publication. Without absolutely discountenancing
such important works, it is not necessary to say more of
them than that they rather belong to the divinity school,
and fall under the idea of Lectures, than have a claim
to be viewed as University Sermons. Anyhow, I do
not feel called upon to speak of such discourses here.
And I say the same of panegyrical orations, discourses
on special occasions, funeral sermons, and the like.
Putting such exceptional compositions aside, I will con-
fine myself to the consideration of what may be calleå
Sermons proper. And here, I repeat, any general sub-
ject \vill be seasonable in the University pulpit which
would be seasonable elsewhere; but, if we look for sub-
jects especially suitable, they will be of two kinds. The
temptations which ordinarily assail the young and the
intellectual are two: those which are directed against
their virtue, and those which are directed against their
faith. All divine gifts are exposed to misuse and per

version; youth and intellect are both of them goods,
and involve in them certain duties respectively, and can
be used to the glory of the Giver; but, as youth becomes
the occasion of excess and sensuality, so does intellect
give accidental opportunity to religious error, rash specu-
lation, doubt, and infidelity. That these are in fact the
peculiar evils to which large Academical Bodies are
liable is shown from the history of Universities; and if
a preacher \vould have a subject which has especial sig-
nificancy in such a place, he must select one which bears
, 27

4 18

U,tiveysity Preaching.

upon one or other of these two classes of sin. I mean,
he would be treating on some such subject with the
same sort of appositeness as he would discourse upon
almsgiving when addressing the rich, or on patience,
resignation, and industry, when he was addressing the
.
poor, or on forgiveness of injuries when he was aòdress-
ing the oppressed or persecuted.
To this suggestion I append two cautions. First, I
need hardly say, that a preacher should be quite sure
that he understands the persons he is addressing before
he ventures to aim at what he considers to be their ethical
condition; for, if he mistakes, he will probably be doing
harm rather than good. I have known consequences
to occur very far from edifying, when strangers have
fancied they knew an auditory \vhen they did not, and
have by implication imputed to them habits or motives
which were not theirs. Better far would it be for a
preacher to select one of those more general subjects
which are safe than risk what is evidently ambitious, if
it is not successful.
My other caution is this :-that, even when he ad-
dresses himself to some special danger or probable defi-
ciency or need of his hearers, he should do so covertly,.
not showing on the surface of his discourse what he is.
aiming at. I see no advantage in a preacher pro-
fessing to treat of infidelity, orthodoxy, or virtue, or the
pride of reason, or riot, or sensual indulgence. To say
nothing else, common-places are but blunt weapons;:
whereas it is particular topics that penetrate and reach
their mark. Such subjects rather are, for instance, the
improvement of time, avoiding the occasions of si!1,
frequenting the Sacralnents, divine warnings, the inspi-
rations of grace, the n1ysteries of the Rosary, natul al
virtue, beauty Qf the rites of the Church, consistency of
I

University Preachz1lg.

4 1 9

the Catholic faith, relation of Scripture to the Church, the
philosophy of tradition, and any others, which may touch
the heart and conscience, or may suggest trains of
thought to the intellect, without proclaiming the maIn
reason why they have been chosen.
(2.) Next, as to the 1node of treating its subject, which
a University discourse requires. It is this respect, after all,
I think, in which it especially differs from other kinds of
preaching. As translations differ from each other, as
expressing the same ideas in different languages, so in
the case of sermons, each may undertake the same sub-
ject, yet treat it in its own way, as contemplating its
own hearers. This is well exemplified in the speeches of
St. Paul, as recorded in the book of Acts. To the J e\vs he
quotes the Old Testament; on the Areopagus, addressing
the philosophers of Athens, he insists,-not indeed upon
any recondite doctrine, contrariwise, upon the most ele-
mentary, the beingand unityof God ;-but he treats it"with
a learning and depth of thought, which the presence of that
celebrated city naturally suggested. And in like manner,
while the most simple subjects are apposite in a Univer-
sity pulpit, they certainly would there require a treatment
more exact than is necessary in merely popular exhorta-
tions. It is not asking much to demand for acadelnical
discourses a more careful study beforehand, a more
accurate conception of the idea \vhich they are to enforce,
a more cautious use of words, a more anxious consulta-
tion of writers of authority, and somewhat more 01
philosophical and theological kno\vledge.
But here again, as before, I would insist on the nece
-
sity of such compositions being unpretending. It is n It
necessary for a preacher to quote the Holy Fathers, or
to show eruùition, or to construct an original argument,
pr to be ambitious in style and profuse of orna ruc...: nt, 011

420

U1l iversity jY'rcacltÙz g.

the ground that the audience is a University: it is only
necessary so to keep the character and necessities of his
hearers before him as to avoid what may offend them,
or mislead, or disappoint, or fail to profit.

6.

3. But here a distinct question opens upon us, on which
I must say a few words in conclusion, viz., whether or not
the preacher should preach without book.
This is a delicate question to enter upon, considering
that the Irish practice of preaching without book, which
is in accordance with that of foreign countries, and, as it
would appear, with the tradition of the Church from the
first, is not universally adopted in England, nor, as I
believe, in Scotland; and it might seem unreasonable
or presumptuous to abridge a liberty at present granted
to the preacher. I will simply set down what occurs to
file to say on each side of the question.
Iiirst of all, looking at the matter on the side of usage,
I have always understood that it was the rule in Catholic
countries, as I have just said, both in this and in former
times, to preach without book; and, if the rule be really
so, it carries extreme weight with it. I do not speak as
if I had consulted a library, and made my ground sure;
but at first sight it would appear impossible, even from
the number of homilies and commentaries which are
assigned to certain Fathers, as to St. Augustine or to St.
Chrysostom, that they could have delivered theln froll1
formally-written compositions. On the other hand, St.
Leo's sermons certainly are, in the strict sense of the word,
compositions; nay. passages of them are carefully dog-
matic; nay,further still, they have sonletÍ1nes the character
of a symbol, and, in consequence, arc found rcpeatcù in
other parts of his ,vorks; and again, though I do not

Unz.versz"1y Preachz.llg.

4 21

profess to be well read in the works of St Chrysostom,
there is generally in such portions of them as are known
to those of us who are in Holy Orders, a peculiarity, an
identity of style, which enables one to recognize the
author at a glance, even in the latin version of the Bre-
viary, and \vhich would seem to be quite beyond the mere
fidelity of reporterï:. It \vould seem, then, he must after
all have written them; and if he did write at all, it is
more likely that he wrote with the stimulus of preaching
before him, than that he had time and inducement to
correct and enlarge them afterwards from notes, for what
is now called "publication," which at that time could
hardly be said to exist at all. To this consideration we
must add the remarkable fact (which, though in classical
history, throws light upon our inquiry) that, not to pro-
duce other instances, the greater part of Cicero's po\ver-
ful and brilliant orations against Verres were never
delivered at all. Nor must it be forgotten that Cicero
specifies memory in his enumeration of the distinct talents
necessary for a great orator. And then \ve have in corro-
boration the French practice of writing sermons and
learning them by heart.
These remarks, as far as they go, lead us to lay great
stress on the preparation of a sermon, as amounting in
fact to composition, even in writing, and in extenso. Now
consider St. Carlo's direction, as quoted above: "Id
omnino studebit, ut quod in concione dicturus est, antea
bene cognitum habeat." N ow a parish priest has neither
time nor occasion for any but elementary and ordinary
topics; and any such subject he has habitually made
his own, "cognitum habet," already; but when the
matter is of a more select and occasional character, as
in the case of a University Sermon, then the preacher
has to study it well and thoroughly, and mast{"r it before-

422

Unz.vers ity Preaching".

hand. Stuòy and meditation being inlpcrative, can it
be denied that one of the nlost effectual nleans by \vhich
\ve are able to ascertain our understanding of a subject,
to bring out our thoughts upon it, to clear our meaning,
to enlarge our views of its relations to other subjects,
and to develop it generally, is to \vrite down carefully
an we have, to say about it? People indeed differ in
n1atters of this kind, but I think that \vriting is a stiInu..
Ius to the nlcntal faculties, to the logical talent) to
originality, to the power of illustration, to the arrange-
ment of topics, second to none. Till a man begins to
put down his thoughts about a subject on paper he will
not ascertain what he knows and what he does not
know; and still less will he be able to express \vhat he
does know. Such a formal preparation of course cannot
be required of a parish priest, burdened, as he may be,
with other duties, and preaching on elementary subjects,
and supported by the systematic order and the sugges-
tions of the Catechism; but in occasional sermons the
case is otherwise. In these it is both possible and gene-
rally necessary; and the fuller the sketch, and the more
clear and continuous the thread of the discourse, the more
the preacher will find himself at home when the time 01
delivery arrives. I have said II generally necessary:' for
of course there will be exceptional cases, in which such
a nlode of preparation does not answer, whether from
some mistake in carrying it out, or from some special
gift superseding it.
To many preachers there \vill be another advantage
besides ;-such a practice will secure them against ven-
turing upon reallyeztellzjJore matter. The more ardent
a man is, and the greater power he has of affecting his
hearers, so much the more will he need self-control and
sustained recollection, and feel the advantage of COffi-

University Preaching.

4 2 3

mitting himself, as it were, to the custody of his previous
intentions, instead of yielding to any chance current of
thought which rushes upon hirn in the n1idst of his
preaching. His very gifts may need the counterpoise
0f more ordinary and h0111ely accessories, such as the
drudgery of con1position.
It must be borne in mind too, that, since a University
Sermon will commonly have more pains than ordinary
bestowed on it, it will be considered in the number of
those which the author would especially wish to preserve.
SOlne record of it then will be natural, or even is involved
in its composition; and, while the least elaborate will be
as much as a sketch or abstract, even the most minute,
exact, and copious assemblage of notes will not be found
too long hereafter, supposing, as tÎ1ne goes on, any reason
occurs for wishing to commit it to the press.
Here are various reasons, which are likely to lead, or
to oblige, a preacher to have recourse to his pen in pre-
paration for his special office. A further reason might
be suggested, which would be more intimate than any
we have given, going indeed so far as to justify the in-
troduction of a manuscript into the pulpit itself, if the
case supposed fell for certain under the idea of a U ni-
versity Sermon. It may be urged with great cogency
that a process of argument, or a logical analysis and in-
vestigation, cannot at all be conducted with suitable
accuracy of wording, cOlnpleteness of staten1ent, or suc-
cession of ideas, if the composition is to be prompted at
the moment, and breathed out, as it were, from the
intellect together with the very words which are its
vehicle. There are indeed a few persons in a generation,
such as Pitt, who are able to converse like a book, and
to speak a pamphlet; but others must be content to write
and to read their writing. This is true; but I have

4 2 4

U1t'i,,'ersz/y Preachillg.

already found reason to question whether such delicate
and complicated organizations of thought have a right
to the name of Sermons at all. In truth, a discourse,
vd1Ïch, from its fineness and precision of ideas, is too
difficult for a preacher to deliver ,vithout such extraneous
assistance, is too difficult for a hearer to follow; and, if
a book be imperative for teaching, it is imperative for
learning. Both parties ought to read, if they are to be
on equal terms ;-and this remark furnishes me with a
principle which has an application wider than the par-
ticular case which has suggested it.
While, then, a preacher will find it becoming and advis-
able to put into \vriting any inlportant discourse before-
hand, he will find it equally a point of propriety and
expedience not to read it in the pulpit. I am not of
course denying his right to use a manuscript, if he wishes;
but he will do \vell to conceal it, as far as he can, unless,
which is the most effectual concealment, whatever be its
counterbalancing disadvantages, he prefers, mainly not
verbally, to get it by heart. To conceal it, indeed, in one
way or other, will be his natural impulse; and this very
circumstance seems to show us that to read a sermon needs
an apology. For, why should he commit it to memory, or
conceal his use of it, unless he felt that it was more natural,
more decorous, to do without it? And so again, if he em-
ploys a manuscript, the more he appears to dispense with
it, the more he looks off from it, and directly addresses his
audience, the more will he be cùnsidered to preach; and,
on the other hand, the more will he be judged to come
short of preaching the n10re sedulous he is in following
his manuscript line after line, and by the tone of his
voice makes it clear that he has got it safely before him.
What is this but a popular testimony to the fact that
preaching is not reading, and reading is not preaching?

University Priafhirtg.

4 2 5

There is, as I have said, a principle involved in this
decision. It is a common answer made by the Protestant
poor to their clergy or other superiors, \vhen asked why
they do not go to church, that "they can read their book
at home quite as well" It is quite true, they can read
their book at home, and it is difficult what to rejoin, and
it is a problem, which has eU1ployed before now the more
thoughtful of their communion, to fi1ake out what is got
by going to public service. The prayers are from a
printed book, the sennon is from a rnanuscript. The
printed prayers they have already; and, as to the manu-
script sermon, why should it be in any respects better
than the volulne of sern10ns 'which they have at home?
Why should not an approved author be as good as one
who has not yet submitted himself to criticism? And
again, if it is to be read in the church, why Inay not one
person read it quite as well as another? Good advice is
good advice, all the world over. There is something
more, then, than composition in a sermon; there is
something personal in preaching; people are drawn and
moved, not simply by what is said, but by how it is said,
and who says it. The same things said by one man are not
the same as when said by another. The same things when
read are not the same as when they are preached.

7.
In this respect the preacher differs from the Ininister
of the sacraments, that he comes to his hearers, in some
sense or other, \vith antecedents. Clad in his s
cerdotal
vestments, he sinks what is individual in himself alto-
gether, and is but the representative of Him from whom
he derives his commission. His words, his tones, his
actions, his presence, lose their personality; one bishop,
one priest, is like another; they all chant the same notes,

4 2 6

Univers'z"ty P'reaching

and observe the same genuflexiuns, as they gIve one
peace and one blessing, as they offer one and the
same sacrifice. The Mass must not be said without a
lVlissal under the priest's eye; nor in any language but
that in which it
as come do\vn to us from the early
hierarchs of the \Vestern Church. But, \vhen it is over,
and the celebrant has resigned the vestn1ents proper to
it. then he resumes himself, and comes to us in the gifts
and associations which attach to his person. He kno\vs
his sheep, and they know him; and it is this direct bear-
ing of the teacher on the taught, of his mind upon their
n1inds, and the mutual sympathy \\.hich exists behveen
them, \vhich is his strength and influence when he ad-
dresses them. They hang upon his lips as they cannot
hang upon the pages of his book. Definiteness is the
life of preaching. A definite hearer, not the whole
world; a definite topic, not the whole evangelical tradi-
tion; and, in like nlanner J a dcfinite speaker. Nothing
that is anonymous will preach; nothing that is dead and
gone; nothing even which is of yesterday, however
religious in itself and useful. Thought and \vord are
one in the Eternal Logos, and must not be separate in
those \\.ho are His shado\vs on earth. They must issue
fresh and fresh, as from the preacher's mouth, so from
his breast, if they are to be "spirit and life" to the hearts
of his hearèrs. And \vhat is true of a parish priest ap-
plies, mulatis 11l1tlalldis, to a University preacher; who,
even more, perhaps, than the ordinary parochus, con1CS to
his audience \vith a name and a history, and excites a
personal interest, and persuades by what he is, as well a

by what he delivers.
I am far from forgetting that every one has his o\vn
talent, and that one has not what another has. Elo-
quence is a divine gift, which to a certain poil1t SUpCJ-

Uni'l}e1"sity Preaching.

4 2 7

sedes rules, and is to be used, like other gifts, to the g10ry
of the Giver, and then only to be discountenanced when
it forgets its place, when it throws into the shade and em-
barrasses the essential functions of the Christian preacher,
and clain1s to be cultivated for its o\vn sake instead of
being [nade subordinate and subservient to a higher work
and to sacred objects. And how to Inake eloquence sub-
servient to the evangelical office is not more difficult
than how to use learning or intellect for a supernatural
end; but it does not come into consideration here.
In the case of particu1ar preachers, circunlstances may
constantly arise which render the use of a manuscript the
more advisable course; but I have been considering
ho\v the case stands in, itself, and attempting to set down
what is to be aimed at as best. If religious men once
ascertain what is abstractedly desirable, and acquiesce
in it with their hearts, they will be in the way to get over
many difficulties \vhich otherwise will be insurmountable.
For myself, I think it no extravagance to say that a
very inferior sermon, delivered without book, answers
the purpoies for which all sermons are delivered more
perfectly than one of great merit, if it be written and
read. Of course, all men will not speak without book
equally well, just as their voices are not equally clear
and' loud, or their manner equally impressive. Elo-
quence, I repeat, is a gift; but most men, unless they
have passed the age for learning, may with practice
attain such fluency in expressing their thoughts as will
enable them to convey and manifest to their audience
that earnestness and devotion to their object, which is the
life of preaching,-which both covers, in the preacher's
own consciousness, the sense of his own deficienci
s, and
Inakes up for them over and over again in the judgment
of his hearers.

4 28

VII.

CHRISTIAN ITY AND PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

A LECTURE IN THE SCHOOL OF MEDICINE.

I.
N OW that we have just comnlenced our second
Academical Year, it is natural, Gentlemen, that,
as in November last, when \ve were entering upon our
great undertaking, I offered to you some remarks sug...
gested by the occasion, so now again I should not suffer
the first weeks of the Session to pass away without
addressing to you a few words on one of those subjects
which are at the moment especially interesting to us.
And \vhen I apply myself to think what topic I shall in
lonsequence submit to your consideration, I seem to be
directed \\?hat to select by the principle of selection which
I followed on that former occasion to which I have
been referring. Then. \ve were opening the Schools of
Philosophy and Letters, as now we are opening those
of Medicine; and, as I then attempted some brief in-
vestigation of the mutual bearings of Revelation and
Literature, so at the present time I shall not, I trust, be
unprofitably engaging your attention, if I make one or
t\VO parallel reflections on the relations existing between
Revelation and Physical Science.
This subject, indeed, viewed in its just dimensions, is
far too large for an occasion such as this; still I may be
· Vide Article I.

Chy-istianity a-lld Physical SèulI,:e. 429

able to select some one point out of the many which it
offers for discussion, and, \vhile elucidating it, to throw
light even on others which at the moment I do not
formally undertake. I propose, then, to discuss the an-
tagonism which is popularly supposed to exist between
})hysics and Theology; and to show, first, that such
antagonism does not really exist, and, next, to account
for the circumstance that so groundless an imagination
should have got abroad.
I think I am not mistaken in the fact that there exists,
both in the educated and half-educated portions of the
comm unity, something of a surmise or misgiving, that
there really is at bottom a certain contrariety between
the declarations of religion and the results of physical
inquiry; a suspicion such, that, while it encourages those
persons who are not over-religious to anticipate a coming
day, when at length the difference will break out into
open conflict, to the disadvantage of Revelation, it leads
religious minds, on the other hand, who have not had
the opportunity of considering accurately the state of the
case, to be jealous of the researches, and prejudiced
against the discoveries, of Science. The consequence is,
on the one side, a certain contempt of Theology; on the
other, a disposition to undervalue, to deny, to ridicule,
to discourage, and almost to denounce, the labours of the
physiological, astronomical, or geological investigator.
I do not suppose that any of those gentlemen \vho are
now honouring me with their presence are exposed to
the temptation either of the religious or of the scientific
prejudice; but that is no reason why some notice of it
may not have its use even in this place. It may lead us
to consider the subject itself more carefully and exactly;
it may assist us in attaining clearer ideas than before
(h9W Physics and 'rheology stand relati vcly to each other.

<'i-30 (Ill Ùliallity and IJhYSt"ul1
ètellce.

2.
Let us begin with a first approximation to the real

tate of the case, or a broad view, which, though it may
require corrections, will serve at once to illustrate and to
.
start the subject. We may divide kno\vledge, then, into
natural and supernatural. Some knowledge, of course,
is both at once; for the moment let us put this circum-
stance aside, and view these two fields of knowledge in
themselves, and as distinct from each other in id
a. By
ndture is meant, I suppose, that vast systenl of things,
taken as a whole, of which we are cognizant by means of
our natural powers. By the supernatural \vorld is meant

hat still more marvellous and awful universe, of which
the Creator Hin1self is the fulness, and which becomes
known to us, not through our natural faculties, but by
superadded and direct communication from Him. These
two great circles of knowledge, as I have said, intersect;
first, as far as supernatural knowledge includes truths
and facts of the natural world, and secondly, as far as
truths and facts of the natural world are on the other
hand data for inferences about the supernatural. Still,
lllowing this interference to the full, it will be found,
on the \vhole, that the two worlds and the t\VO kinds

f kno\vledge respectively are separated off from each
ether; and that, therefore, as being separate, they can-
not on the whole contradict each other. That is, in
other \vords, a person who has the fullest knowledge of
one of these \vorlds, may be nevertheless, on the \vhole,
as ignorant as the rest of mankind, as unequal to form a
judgment, of the facts and truths of the other. He who
knows all that can possibly be known about physics,
about politics, about geogr dphy, ethnology, anù ethics,
will have n1ade no approximation whatever to decide

Christianity and Physúal Science. 43

the question whether or not there are angels, and how
many are their orders; and on the other hand, the most
learned of dogmatic and mystical divines,-St. Augustine,
St. Thomas,-will not on that score know more than a
peasant about the laws of motion, or the wealth of nations.
I do not mean that there may not be speculations and
guesses on this side and that, but I speak of any conclu-
sion which merits to be called, I will not say knowledge,
but even opinion. If, then, Theology be the philosophy
of the supernatural world, and Science the philosophy of
the natural, Theology and Science, whether in their re-
spective ideas, or again in their own actual fields, on the
whole, are incommunicable, incapable of collision, and
needing, at most to be connected, never to be reconciled.
Now this broad general view of our subject is found to
be so far true in fact, in spite of such deductions from
it that have to be made in detail, that the recent French
editors of one of the works of St. Thomas are able to
give it as one of their reasons why that great theologian
made an alliance, not with Plato, but with Aristotle,
because Aristotle (they say), unlike Plato, confined him-
self to human science, and therefore was secured from
coming into collision with divine.
"Not without reason," they say, "did St. Thomas
acknowledge Aristotle as if the Master of human philo-
sophy; for, inasmuch as Aristotle was not a Theologian,
he had only treated of logical, physical, psychological,
and Inetaphysical theses, to the exclusion of those which
are concerned about the supernatural relations of man to
God, that is, religion; which, on the other hand, had
been the source of the worst errors of other philosophers,
and especially of Plato."

43 2 Cnristianzfy and Physical Sciell

3.
But if there be so substantial a truth even in this
very broad statement concerning the independence of the
fields of Theology and general Science severally, and the
consequent impo
sibi1ity of collision between them, how
much more true is that statement, from the very nature
of the case, when we contrast Theology, not with Science
generally, but definitely with Physics! In Physics is
comprised that family of sciences which is concerned
with the sensible world, with the phenomena which we
see, hear, and handle, or, in other \vords, with matter. It
is the philosophy of matter. Its basis of operations,
what it starts from, \vhat it falls back upon, is the phe-
nomena which meet the senses. Those phenomena it
ascertains, catalogues, compares, com bines, arranges, and
then uses for determining something beyond themselves,
viz., the order to \vhich they are subservient, or what we
cOlnmonly call the laws of nature. It never travels be-
yond the examination of cause and effect. Its object is
to resolve the complexity of phenomena into simple ele..
ments and principles; but when it has reached those first
elements, principles, and laws, its mission is at an end;
it keeps within that material system with which it began,
and never ventures beyond the " flammantia mænia
mundi." It may, indeed, if it chooses, feel a doubt of
the completeness of its analysis hitherto, and for that
reason endeavour to arrive at more simple la\vs and fe\ver
principles. It may be dissatisfied with its own combina-
tions,hypotheses, systems; and leave Ptolemy for Newton,
the alchemists for Lavoisier and Davy i-that is, it may
decide that it has not yet touched the bottom of its own
subject; but still its ain1 will be to get to the bottom,
and nothing more. vVith matter it began, \vith Inatter it

ChristirlllilJl and Physical S{I
'IlCe. 433

will cud; it will never trespass into the province of mind.
The Hindoo notion is said to be that the earth stands
upon a tortoise; but the physicist, as such, will never
ask himself by what influence, external to the universe,
the universe is sustained; simply because he is a physicist.
If indeed he be a religious man, he will of course have
a very definite view of the subject; but that view of his
is private, not professional,-the view, not of a physicist,
but of a religious man; and this, not because physical
science says any thing different, but simply because it
says nothing at all on the subject, nor can do so by the
very undertaking with which it set out. The question
is simply extra arte1n. The physical philosopher has
nothing whatever to do with fi nal causes, and will get
into inextricable confusion, if he introduces them into his
investigations. He has to look in one definite direction,
not in any other. It is said that in some countries, when
a stranger asks his way, he is at once questioned in turn
what place he came from: something like this would be
the unseasonableness of a physicist, who inquired how the
phenomena and laws of the nlaterial ,vorld prÎInarily
came to be, \vhen his sinlple task is that of ascertaining
\vhat they are. Within the linlits of those phenomena
he may speculate and prove; he may trace the operation
of the laws of matter through periods of time; he may
penetrate into the past, and anticipate the future; he
may recount the changes which they have effected upon
matter, and the rise, growth, and decay of phenomena;
and so in a certain sense he may write the history of
the material world, as far as he can; still he will ahvays
advance from phenomena, and conclude upon the internal
evidence \vhich they supply. He will not come near the
tluestions, 'what that ultimate element is, which we call
Inatter, how it caDle to be, whether it can cease to be,
28

434 Ch rt"sfiallity and Physical Scicnce.

\vhether it ever was not, whether it will ever come to
nought, in what its laws really consist, whether they can
cease to be, whether they can be suspended, what causa-
tion is, what time is, what the relations of time to cause
and effect, and a hundred other questions of a similar
..
character.
Such is Physical Science, and Theology, as is obvious,
is just what such Science is not. Theology begins, as its
name denotes, not with any sensible facts, phenomena,
or results, not with nature at all, but with the Author of
nature,-with the one invisible, unapproachable Cause
and Source of all things. It begins at the other end of
knowledge, and is occupied, not \vith the finite, but the
Infinite. It unfolds and systenlatizes what He Himself
has told us of Himself; of His nature, His attributes,
His will, and His acts. As far as it approaches towards
Physics, it takes just the counterpart of the questions
which occupy the Physical Philosopher. He contem-
plates facts before him; the Theologian gives the reasons
of those facts. The Physicist treats of efficient causes;
the Theologian of final. The Physicist tells us of laws;
the Theologian of the A uthor, Maintainer, and Controller
of them; of their s..:ope, of their suspension, if so be; of
their beginning and their end. This is how the two
schools stand related to each other, at that point where
they approach the nearest; but for the most part they
are absolutely divergent. vVhat Physical Science is en-
gaged in I have already said; as to Theology, it con-
templates the world, not of matter, but of mind; the
Supreme Intelligence; souls and their destiny; conscience
and duty; the past, present, and future dealings of the
Creator with the creature.

Christianity and Ph..ysical Scien( '. 435

4-
So far, then, as these remarks have gone, Theology and
Physics cannot touch each other, have no intercommunion,
have no ground of difference or agreement, of jealousy or
of sympathy. As well may musical truths be said to
interfere with the doctrines of architectural science; as
well may there be a collision behveen the mechanist and
the geologist, the engineer and the grammarian ; as well
might the British Parliament or the French nation be
jealous of some possible belligerent power upon the sur-
face of the moon, as Physics pick a quarrel with Theology.
And it may be well,-before I proceed to fill up in detail
this outline, and to explain what has to be explained in
this statement,-to corroborate it, as it stands, by the
remarkable words upon the subject of a writer of the
day :.-
U We often hear it said," he observes, writing as a Pro-
testant (and here let file assure you, Gentlemen, that
though his words have a controversial tone \vith .them, I
do not quote them in that aspect, or as \vishing here to
urge any thing against Protestanfs, but merely in pur-
suance of my own point, that Revelation and Physical
Science cannot really come into collision), "we often hear
it said that the \vorld is constantly becoming more and
more enlightened, and that this enlightenment must be
favourable to Protestantism, and unfavourable to Catho-
licism. We wish that we could think so. But we see
great reason to doubt whether this is a well-founded ex-
pectation. We see that during the last two hundred and
fifty years the human mind has been in the highest degree
active; that it has made great advances in every branch
of natural philosophy; that it has produced innumerable
· Maeaulay's Essays.

436 Ch1
istiÍ1lli/y and Ph)'SlCal S(1l'11 ce.

inventions tending to pron1ote the convenience of life;
that medicine, surgery, chemistry, engineering, have been
very greatly improved, that government, police, and la\v
have been improved, though not to so great an extent as
the physical sciences. Yet we see that, during these two
hundred and fifty years, Protestantisn1 has Inade no con-
'-luests \vorth speaking of. Nay, we believe that, as far
as there has been change, that change has, on the whole,
been in favour of the Church of Rome. We cannot,
therefore, feel confident that the progress of knowledge
will necessarily be fatal to a system which has, to say the
least, stood its ground in spite of the imlnense progress
111ade by the human race in knov.rledge since the days of
Queen Elizabeth.
"Indeed, the argument which ,ve are considering
seems to us to be founded on an entire mistake. There
are branches of kno\vledge \vith respect to which the Ia\v
of the human mind is progress. In mathematics, \vhen
once a proposition has been den10nstrated, it is never
afterwards contested. Every fresh story is as solid a
basis for a new superstructure as the original foundation
,vas. Here, therefore, there is a constant addition to
the stock of truth. In the inductive sciences, again, the
law is progress. . .
"But with theology the case is very different. As
respects natural religion (Revelation being for the pre-
sent altogether left out of the question), it is not easy to
see that a philosopher of the present day is more favour-
ably situated than Thales or Simonides. He has before
him just the same evidences of design in the structure of
the universe which the early Greeks had. . . As to the
other great question, the question what becomes of lnan
after death, we do not see that a highly educated Euro-
pean, left to his unassisted reason, is more likely to be

Chris/iallit.J' and JJI1)'sical Science. 437

in the right than a Blackfoot Indian. Not a single one
of the nlany sciences, in which we surpass the Blackfoot
Indians, throws the smallest light on the state of the soul
after the aninlallife is extinct. . .
" Natural Theology, then, is not a progressive science.
That knowledge of our origin and of our destiny which
we derive from Revelation is indeed of very different
clearness, and of very different importance. But neither
is Revealed Religion of the nature of a progressive

cience. . . In divinity there cannot be a progress ana-
logous to that which is constantly taking place in phar-
macy, geology, and navigation. A Christian of the fifth
century with a Bible is neither better nor \vorse situated
than a Christian of the nineteenth century with a Bible,
candour and natural acuteness being of course supposed
equal. It matters not at all that the compass, printing,
gunpowder, stealn, gas, vaccination, and a thousand other
discoveries and inventions, which \vere unknown in the
fifth century, are familiar to the nineteenth. N one of
these discoveries and inventions has the smallest bear-
ing on the question whether man is justified by faith
alone, or whether the invocation of saints is an orthodox
practice. . . We are confident that the \vorld \vill never
go back to the solar system of Ptolemy; nor is our con-
fidence in the least shaken by the circumstance that so
great a man as Bacon rej ected the theory of Galileo
with scorn; for Bacon had not all the means of arriving
at a sound conclusion. . . But when we reflect that Sir
'Thomas More was ready to die for the doctrine of
Transubstantiation, we cannot but feel some doubt
whether the doctrine of Transubstantiation may not
triumph over all opposition. More was a nlan of emi-
nent talents. I-Ie had all the information on the sub-
ject that we ha.ve, or that, 'Zvhile the world lasts, a'
y

43
Chrislianity and Plzysical St-ü/J, e.

human being will have. . . No progress tllat scieflCe It.as
made, or wlll1l1akc, can add to what seems to us the
overwhelming force of the argument against the Real
Presence. Weare therefore unable to understand \\rhy
what Sir Thomas More believed respecting Transubstan-
tiation may not be believed to the end of time by men
equal in abilities and honesty to Sir Thomas More. But
Sir Thomas More is one of the choice specimens of
human wisdom and virtue; and the doctrine of Tran-
substantiation is a kind of proof charge. The faith
which stands that test will stand any test. . .
" The history of Catholicism strikingly illustrates these
observations. During the last seven centuries the public
mind of Europe has made constant progress in every
department of secular knowledge; but in religion we
can trace no constant progress. .. Four times since
the authority of the Church of Rome was established in
Western Christendom has the human intellect risen up
against her yoke. T\vice that Church remained com-
pletely victorious. Twice she came forth fronl the con-
fEct bearing the marks of cruel wounds, but with the
principle of life still strong within her. When we reflect
on the tremendous assaults she has survived, we find it
difficult to conceive in what way she is to perish."
You see, Gentlenlen, if you trust the judgnlent of a
sagacious mind, deeply read in history, Catholic Theo-
logy has nothing to fear from the progress of Physical
Science, even independently of the divinity of its doc-
trines. It speaks of things supernatural; and these, by
the very force of the words, research in to nature cannot
touch.

5.
It is true tl1at the author in question, ,vhile saying a11

Chrt"stianZlY and Ph)'s'ical Science. 439

this, and much lllore to the same purpose, also makes
mention of one exception to his general statement,
though he mentions it in order to put it aside. I, too,
have to notice the same exception here; and you will
see at once, Gentlemen, as soon as it is named, ho\v little
it interferes really with the broad view which I have
been drawing out. It is true, then. that Revelation has
in one or two instances advanced beyond its chosen
territory, which is the invisible world, in order to throw
light upon the history of the material universe. Holy
Scripture, it is perfectly true, does declare a few mo-
mentous facts, so few that they may be counted, of a
physical character. It speaks of a process of formation
out of chaos \vhich occupied six days; it speaks of the
firmament; of the sun and moon bèing created for the
sake of the earth; of the earth being immovable; of a
great deluge; and of several other similar facts and
events. It is true; nor is there any reason why we
should anticipate any difficulty in accepting these state-
ments as they stand, whenever their meaning and drift
are authoritatively determined; for, it must be recol-
lected, their meaning has not yet engaged the formal
attention of the Church, or received any interpretation
which, as Catholics, we are bound to accept, and in
the absence of such definite interpretation, there is per-
haps some presumption in saying that it means this, and
does not mean that. And this being the case, it is not
at all probable that any discoveries ever should be made
by physical inquiries incompatible at the same time
with one and all of those senses \vhich the letter admits,
and which are still open. As to certain popular interpre-
tations of the texts in question, I shall have something
to say of them presently; here I am only concerned
with the letter of the I-Ioly ScriIJtures itself, as far as it

440 C'h, istiaJilty a1ld E:Jhysicai
Cle)tl-(.

bears upon the history of the heavens and the earth; and
I say that we may wait in peace and tranquillity till
there is some real collision bet\veen Scripture authorita-
tively interpreted, and results of science clearly ascer-
tained, before \\re consider ho\v we are to deal \vith a
difficulty which we have reasonable grounds for think-
ing will never really occur,
And, after noticing this exception, I really have Inade
the utmost admission that has to be made about the
existence of any comn10n ground upon which Theology
and Physical Science may fight a battle. On the whole,
the two studies do most surely occupy distinct fields, in
which each may teach without expecting any inter-
position from the other. It might indeed have pleased
the Almighty to have superseded physical inquiry by
revealing the truths which are its object, though He has
not done so: but whether it had pleased Him to do so
or not, anyhow Theology and Physics would be distinct
sciences; and nothing which the one says of the ma-
terial world ever can contradict what the other says of
the immaterial. Here, then, is the end of the question;
and here I might come to an end also, were i not in-
cumbent on me to explain ho\v it is that, though Theo-
logy and Physics cannot quarrel, nevertheless, Physical
Philosophers and Theologians have quarrelled in fact,
and quarrel still. To the solution of this difficulty I
shall devote the ren1ainder of my Lecture.

6.
I observe, then, that the elementary methods of reason-
ing and inquiring used in Theology and Physics are
contrary the one to the other; each of them has a
method of its own; and in this, I think, has lain the
point of controversy between the two schools, viz., that

Christianity and Physical Science. 44 I

neither of them has been quite content to remain on its
own hunlestead, but that, whereas each has its own
ll1ethod, which is the best for its own science, each has
considered it the best for all purposes whatever, and has
at different tÏInes thought to impose it upon the other
science, to the disparagement or rejection of that opposite
n1ethod which legitimately belongs to it.
The argumentative method of Theology is that of
a strict science, such as Geometry, or deductive; the
method of Physics, at least on starting, is that of an
empirical pursuit, or inductive. This peculiarity on either
side arises from the nature of the case. In Physics a
vast and omnigenous mass of information lies before the
inquirer, all in a confused litter, and needing arrangement
and analysis. In Theology such varied phenomena are
wanting, and Revelation presents itself instead. What is
known in Christianity is just that which is revealed, and
nothing more; certain truths, communicated directly from
above, are committed to the keeping of the faithful, and
to the very last nothing can really be added to those
truths. From the time of the Apostles to the end of
the world no strictly new truth can be added to the theo-
10gicaJ information which the Apostles ,vere inspired to
deliver. It is possible of course to make numberless de-
ductions from the original doctrines; but, as the conclu-
sion is ever in its premisses, such deductions are not,
strictly speaking, an addition; and, though experience
may variously guide and modify those deductions, still,
on the whole, Theology retains the severe character of
a science, advancing syllogistically fronl prenlisses to
conclusion.
The method of Physics is just the reverse of this: it
has hardly any principles or truths to start with, exter-
nally delivered and alreaùy ascertained. It has to ÇOffi-

442 Christiauily old Physz.cal Science.

mence with sight and touch; it has to handle, weigh,
and measure its own exuberant sylva of phenomena, and
from these to advance to new truths,-truths, that is,
which are beyond and distinct froIn the phenomena from
which they originate. Thus Physical Science is experi-
mental, Theology-traditional; Physical Science is the
richer, Theology the more exact; Physics the bolder,
Theology the surer; Physics progressive, Theology, in
comparison, stationary; Theology is loyal to the past,
Physics has visions of the future. Such they are, I repeat,
and such their respective methods of inquiry, from the
nature of the case.
But minds habituated to either of these two nlethods
can hardly help extending it beyond its due limits,
unless they are put upon their guard, and have great
command of themselves. It cannot be denied that
divines have from time to time been much inclined to
give a traditional, logical. shape to sciences which do not
admit of any such treatment. N or can it be denied, on the
other hand, that men of science often show a special
irritation at theologians for going by antiquity, precedent,
authority, and logic, and for declining to introduce
Bacon or Niebuhr into their own school, or to apply
some ne\v experimental and critical process for the
improvement of that \vhich has been given once for all
from above. Hence the lTIutual jealousy of the two
parties; and I shall no\v attempt to give instances of it.

7.
First, then, let me refer to those interpretations of
Scripture, popular and of long standing, though not
authoritative, to which I have already had occasion to
allude. Scripture, \ve know, is to be interpreted accord-
ing to the unaninlous consent of the Fathers; but,

Chrt:\lia lily and Physu:al !:'èience. 443

besides this consent, which is of authority, carrying with
it the evidence of its truth, there have ever been in
Christendom a number of floating opinions, more or less
appended to the divine tradition; opinions \vhich have a
certain probability of being more than human, or of having
a basis or admixture of truth, but which admit of no test,
whence they came, or how far they are true, besides the
course of events, and which meanwhile are to be received
at least with attention and deference. Sometimes they
are comlnents on Scripture prophecy, sometimes on other
obscurities or mysteries. It was once an opinion, for
instance, drawn from the sacred text, that the Chris-
tain Dispensation was to last a thousand years, and no
more; the event disproved it. A still more exact and
plausible tradition, derived from Scripture, was that
\vhich asserted that, when the Roman Empire should
fall to pieces, Antichrist should appear, who should be
followed at once by the Second Coming. Various Fathers
thus interpret St. Paul, and Bellarmine receives the inter-
pretation as late as the sixteenth century. The event
alone can decide if, under any aspect of Christian history,
it is true; but at present we are at least able to say that
it is not true in that broad plain sense in which it was
once received.
Passing from comments on prophetical passages of
Scripture to those on cosmological, it \vas, I suppose, the
common belief of ages, sustained by received interpreta-
tions of the sacred text, that the earth was immovable.
f-Ience, I suppose, it was that the Irish Bishop who as-
serted the existence of the Antipodes alarmed his con-
temporaries; though it is \vell to observe that, even in
the dark age in \vhich he lived, the Holy See, to which
reference \vas made, did not con1mit itself to any condem-
nation of the unusual opinion. The same alarm again

444 (,1l11:ç/Ùlnity alld 1 )/lysical SClfnce.

occupieù the public mind ,vhen the Copernican System
was first advocated: nor 'were the received traditions,
\vhich \vere the ground of that alarm, hastily to be
rcjected; yet rejected they ultin1ately have been. If
in any quarter these human traditions were enforced,
and, as it were, enacted, to the prej udice and detriment
of scientific investigations (and this ,vas never done by
the Church herself), this was a case of undue interference
on the part of the Theological schools in the province
of Physics.
So much may be said as regards interpretations of
Scripture; but it is easy to see that other received
opinions, not resting on the sacred volume, might ,vith
less claim and greater inconvenience be put forward to
harass the physical inquirer, to challenge his submission,
and to preclude that process of examination \vhich is
proper to his own peculiar pursuit. Such are the dicta-
torial formulæ against ,vhich Bacon inveighs, and the
effect of ,vhich ,vas to change Physics into a deductive
science, and to oblige the student to assunle ilnplicitly,
as first principles, enunciations and maxims, which \vere
venerable, only because no one could tell \vhcnce they
can1e, and authoritative, only because no one could say
what argulncnts there were in their favour. In proportion
as these encroachments \vere Inade upon his own field of
inquiry \vould be the indignation of the physical philo-
sopher; and he would exercise a scepticism which re-
lieved his feelings, ,vhile it approved itself to his reason,
if he was called on ever to keep in mind that light bodies
\\.ent up, and heavy bodies fell do,vn, and other similar
nlaxims, which had no pretensions to a divine origin, or
to be considered self-evident principles, or intuitive truths.
And in like manner, if a philosopher with a true genius
for physical research found the Physical Schools of hi

ChrlstÙl1l1fy fInd Ph)'.'\U'ill ___",ltt'Jlre. 4 4 5

day occupicd with the discussion of final causes, and
solving difficulties in material nature by means of them;
if he found it decided, for instance, that the roots of trees
make for the river, because they need moisture, or that
the axis of the earth lies at a certain angle to the plan<.'"
of its motion by reason of certain advantages thence
accruing to its inhabitants, I should not \\yonder at his
exerting himself for a great reform in the process of in-
quiry, preaching the nlethod of Induction, and, if he
fancied that theologians were indirectly or in any respect
the occasion of the blunder, getting provoked for a time,
however unreasonJ.b1y. with Theology itself
I wish the experimental schooi of Philosophers had
gone no further in its opposition to Theology than in-
dulging in some indignation at it for the fault of its dis-
ciples; but it must be confessed that it has run into
excesses on its o\vn side for \vhich the school of high
Deductive Science has afforded no precedent; and that,
if it once for a time suffered fron1 the tyranny of the
logical method of inquiry, it has encouraged, by way of
reprisals, encroachments and usurpations on the province
of Theology far lnore serious than that unintentional ana
long obsolete interference with its o,vn province. on the
part of Theologians, which has been its excuse. And to
these unjustifiable and mischievous intrusions made by
the Experimentalists into the departInent of l'heology
I have now, Gentlemen, to call your attention.

8.
You \vill let nle repeat, then, \vhat I have already said,
that, taking things as they are. the very idea of Revela-
tion is that of a direct intt:rference from above, for tht
introduction of truths otherwise unknown; moreover, as
such a C0I11111Unication iIl1plies recipif:nts. an authoritative

446 Christialli<)1 (llUl Pllysical ScÙ'llC .

depositary of the things revealed will be found practically
to be involved in that idea. Kno,vledge, then, of these
revealed truths, is gained, not by any research into facts,
but simply by appealing to the authoritative keepers of
then1, as every Catholic knows, by learning what is a
matter of teaching, and by d\velling upon, and dra\ving
out into detail, the doctrines which are delivered; ac-
cording to the text, "Faith cometh by hearing." I do
not prove what, after all, does not need proof, because
I speak to Catholics; I am stating \vhat we Catholics
know, and ever will maintain to be the method proper
to Theology, as it has ever been recognized. Such, I
say, is the theological method, deductive; however, the
history of the last three centuries is only one long course
of attempts, on the part of the partisans of the Baconian
Philosophy, to get rid of the method proper to Theology
and to make it an experimental science.
But, I say, for an experimental science, we must have
a large collection of phenomena or facts: where, then, are
those which are to be adopted as a basis for an inductive
theology? Three principal stores have been used, Gentle-
men: the first, the text of Holy Scripture; the second,
the events and transactions of ecclesiastical history; the
third, the phenomena of the visible world. This triple
subject-matter,-Scripture, Antiquity, Nature,-has been
taken as a foundation, on which the inductive method may
be exercised for the investigation and ascertainment of
that theological truth, \vhich to a Catholic is a matter of
teaching, transmission, and deduction.
Now let us pause for a nloment and make a reflection
before going into any detail. Truth cannot be contrary
to truth; if these three subject-matters were able, under
the pressure of the inductive method, to yield respectively
theological conclusions in unison and in concord with each

(nristia lity and Plzysical Scie7u;e. 447

other, and also contrary to the doctrines of Theology as
a deductive science, then that Theology would not indeed
at once be overthro\vn (for still the question ,vould remain
for discussion, \vhich of the two doctrinal systems \vas the
truth, and which the apparent truth), but certainly the
received deductive theological science would be in an
anxious position, and would be on its trial.
Again, truth cannot be contrary to truth ;-if, then, on
the other hand, these three subject-matters,-Scripture,
Antiquity, and Nature,-worked through three centuries
by men of great abilities, with the method or instrument
of Bacon in their hands, have respectively issued in con-
clusions contradictory of each other, nay, have even issued,
this or that taken by itself, Scripture or Antiquity, in
various systems of doctrine, so that on the whole, instead
of all three resulting in one set of conclusions, they have
yielded a good score of them ; then and in that case-
it does not at once follow that no one of this score of
conclusions may happen to be the true one, and all the
rest false; but at least such a catastrophe will throw
a very grave shade of doubt upon them aU, and bears out
the antecedent declaration, or rather prophecy, of theo-
logians, before these experimentalists started, that it was
nothing more thanahuge mistake to introduce the method
of research and of induction into the study of Theology
at all.
N ow I think you \vill allow me to say, Gentlemen, as
a matter of historical fact, that the latter supposition has
been actually fulfilled, and that the former has not. I
mean that, so far from a scientific proof of some one
system of doctrine, and that antagonistic to the old
Theology, having been constructed by the experimental
party, by a triple convergence, from the several bases of
Scripture, Antiquity, and Nature, on the contrary, that

448 Christinnil)' and Fh)'sira/ ...')rifllcc.

empirical tnethod, which has done such wonderful things
in physics and other human sciences, has sustained a n10st
emphatic and eloquent reverse in its usurped territory,-
has come to no one conclusion,-has illuminated no de-
finite vie\v,-has brought its glasses to no focus,-has
sho\\Tn not even a tendency to,vards prospective success;
nay, further still, has already confessed its own absolute
failure, and has closed the inquiry itself, not indeed by
giving place to the legitimate method which it dispos-
sessed, but by announcing that nothing can be known
on the subject at all,-that religion is not a science, and
that in religion scepticism is the only true philosophy;
or again, by a still more remarkable avowal, that the
decision lies betwEen the old Theology and none at all,
and that, certain though it be that religious truth is no-
\vhere, yet that, if anywhere it is, it undoubtedly is not
in the ne\v empirical schools, but in that old teaching.
founded on the deductive method, \vhich was in honour
and in possession at the time when Experiment and In-
duction commenced their brilliant career. \Vhat a sin-
gular break-down of a noble instrun1ent, when used for
the arrogant and tyrannical invasion of a sacred territory!
\Vhat can be more sacred than Theology? \Vhat can
be more noble than the Baconian n1ethod? But the two
do not correspond; they are mismatched. The age has
Il1istaken lock and key. It has broken the key in a lock
which does not belong to it; it has ruined the \vard
by
a key \vhich never \vill fit into then1. Let us hope that
its present disgust and despair at the result are the pre-
lin1Ìnaries of a generous and great repentance.
I have thought, Gentlemen, that you would allo\v ll1e
to dr
l\v this moral in the first p1ace; and now I wilJ say
a fe\v \\'ords on one specimen of this error in detail.

Ckristzan-ity and Physlcal Science. 449

9-
It seems, then, that instead of having recourse to the
tradition and teaching of the Catholic Church, it has been
the philosophy of the modern school to attempt to de-
termine the doctrines of Theology by means of Holy
Scripture, or of ecclesiastical antiquity, or of physical
phenomena. And the question may arise, why, after all,
should not such informations, scriptural, historical, or
physical, be used? and if used, why should they not lead
to true results ? Various ans\vers may be given to this
question: I shall confine myself to one; and again, for
the sake of brevity, I shall apply it mainly to one out of
the three expedients, to which the opponents to Theology
have had recourse. Passing over, then, what might be
said respecting what is called Scriptural Religion, and
Historical Religion, I propose to direct your attention, in
conclusion, to the real character of Physical Religion, or
Natural Theology, as being more closely connected with
the main subject of this Lecture.
The school of Physics, from its very drift and method
of reasoning, has, as I have said, nothing to do ,vith
Religion. Ho\vever, there is a science which avails itself
of the phenomena and laws of the material universe, as
exhibited by that school, as a means of establishing the
existence of Design in their construction, and thereby
the fact of a Creator and Preserver. This science has, in
these modern times, at least in England, taken the. name
of Natural Theology;- and, though absolutely distinct
fronl Physics, yet Physical Philosophers, having furnished
its most curious and interesting data, are apt to claim it
as their own, and to pride themselves upon it accordingly.

· I use the word, not in the seu')e of " N aturalis Theologia," but, in the
sense in w}ùch Paley uses it in the work which he has 5Q entitled.
29

JO Chrz'stÚlJlÙy and Ph)'sÙ-al Sèicllrt.

1 have no wish to speak lightly of the merits of this
so-called Natural or, more properly, Physical Theology.
There are a great many minds so constituted that, when
they turn their thoughts to the question of the existence
of a Supreme Being, they feel a comfort in resting the
proof mainly or solely on the Argument of Design which
the Universe furnishes. To them this science of Physical
Theology is of high importance. Again, this science
exhibits, in great prominence and distinctness, three of
the more elementary notions which the human reason
attaches to the idea of a Supreme Being, that is, three of
His simplest attributes, Power, vVisdom, and Goodness.
These are great services rendered to faith by Physical
Theology, and I acknowledge them as such. Whether,
however, Faith on that account owes any great deal to
Physics or Physicists, is another matter. The Argument
from Design is really in no sense due to the philosophy
of Bacon. The author I quoted just now has a striking
passage on this point, of \vhich I have already read to
you a part. II As respects Natural Religion," he says, "it
is not easy to see that the philosopher of the present day
is more favourably situated than Thales or Simonides.
He has before him just the same evidences of design in
the structure of the universe which the early Greeks had.
We say, just the same; for the discoveries of modern astro-
nomers and anatomists have really added llothÙtg to the
force of that argument which a reflecting mind finds in
every beast, bird, insect, fish, leaf, flower, and shell. 1"'he
reasoning by which Socrates, in Xenophon's hearing,
confuted the little atheist, Aristodemus, is exactly the
reasoning of Paley's Natural Theology. Socrates nlakes
precisely the sanle use of the statues of Polycletus and
the pictures of Zeuxis, ,,'hieh Paley nlakes of the \vatch."
l)hysical Theology, then, is pretty llluch \vhat it wa

Christian-ity and Ph...vsÙ;al ,Science. 45 I

t\VO thousand years ago, and has not received much help
from modern science: but no\v, on the contrary, I think
it has received from it a positive disadvantage,-I mean,
it has been taken out of its place, has been put too promi-
nently for\vard, and thereby has almost been used as an
instrument against Christianity,-as I will attclnpt in a
few \vords to explain.

10.
I observe, then, that there are many investigations in
eVE
ry subject-matter which only lead us a certain ,yay
to\vards truth, and not the whole \vay: either leading us,
for instance, to a strong probability, not to a certainty, or

gain, proving only some things out of the \vhole number
which are true. And it is plain that if such investiga-
tions as these are taken as the measure of the whole
truth, and are erected into substantive sciences, instead
of being understood to be, what they really are, inchoate
and subordinate processes, they \vill, accidentally indeed,
but seriously, mislead us.
I. Let us recur for a moment, in illustration, to the
instances which I have put aside. Consider \vhat is called
Scriptural Religion, or the Religion of the Bible. The
fault which the theologian, over and above the question of
private judgment, \vill find with a religion logically dra\vn
from Scripture only, is, not that it is not true, as far as it
goes, but that it is not the \vhole truth; that it consists of
only some out of the whole circle of theological doctrines,
and that, even in the case of those which it includes, it
does not ahvays invest them \vith certainty, but only with
probability. If, indeed, the Religion of the Bible is made
subservient to Theo
ogy, it is but a specimen of useful
induction; but if it is set up, as sOIncthing complete in
jtst>lf, against
rheolo6Y' it is turneù into a nlischievous

45 2 Chl'istiall'ity and Ph)'sical Scienct.

paralogisn1. And if such a paralogism has taken place,
and that in consequence of the influence of the Baconian
philosophy, it sho\vs us what comes of the intrusion of that
philosophy into a province \vith \vhich it had no concern.
2. And so, again, as to Historical
eligion, or what is
often called Antiquity. A research into the records of
the early Church no Catholic can vie\v with jealousy:
truth cannot be contrary to truth; \\'e are confident that
what is there found \vill, when maturely weighed, be
nothing else than an illustration and confirmation of
our own Theology. But it is another thing altogether
whether the results will go to the full lengths of our
Theology; they \vill indeed concur with it, but only as far
as they go. There is no reason \\'hy the data for investi-
gation supplied by the extant documents of Antiquity
should be sufficient for an that \vas included in the Divine
Revelation delivered by the Apostles; and to expect
that they will is like expecting that one \\pitness in a
trial is to prove the ,,,hole case, and that his testil110ny
actually contradicts it, unless it does. While, then, this
research into ecclesiastical history and the writings of
the Fathers keeps its proper place, as subordinate to the
magisterial sovereignty of the Theological Tradition
and the voice of the Church, it deserv
s the ackno\v-
ledglnents of theologians; but when it (so to say) sets
up for itself, when it professes to fulfil an office for which
it was never intended, when it claims to issue in a true
and full teaching, derived by a scientific process of
induction, then it is but another instance of the encroach-
ment of the Baconian empirical n1ethod in a depart-
ment not its o\vn.
3. And no\v \ve come to the Celse of PhysicaI1"'heology,
\vhich is directly before us. I confess, in spite of whdt-
ever may be said in its favour. I have ever viewed it with

Christiallitv and Ph)lsical Sci'ence. 453

the greatest suspicion. As one class of thinkers has
substituted \vhat is called a Scriptural Religion, and
another a Patristical or Primitive Religion, for the theo-
logical teaching of Catholicism, so a Physical Religion
or Theology is the very gospel of many persons of the
Physical School, and therefore, true as it may be in itself,
still under the circumstances is a false gospel. Half of
the truth is a falsehood :-consider, Gentlemen, what this
so-called Theology teaches, and then say whether what
I have asserted is extravagant.
Anyone divine attribute of course virtually includes
all; still if a preacher always insisted on the Divine
Justice, he would practically be obscuring the Divine
Mercy, and if he insisted only on the incommunic3.bleness
and distance from the creature of the U ncreated Essence,
he would tend to thro\v into the shade the doctrine of a
Particular Providence. Observe, then, Gentlemen, that
Physical Theology teaches three Divine Attributes, I may
say, exclusively; and of these, most of Power, and least
of Goodness.
And in the next place, what, on the contrary, are those
special Attributes, which are the immediate correlatives
of religious sentiment? Sanctity, omniscience, justice,
mercy, faithfulness. What does Physical Theology, what
does the Argument from Design, \vhat do fine disquisitions
about final causes, teach us, except very indirectly, faintly,
enigmatically, of these transcendently important, these
essential portions of the idea of Religion? Religion is
Clore than Theology; it is something relative to us; and
it includes our relation towards the Object of it. \Vhat
does Physical Theology tell us of duty and conscience?
of a particular providence? and, coming at length to
Christianity, \vhat does it teach us even of the four ]ast
things, death, judgment, heaven, and hell, the mere ele-

454 ChristiallilJ' alld Physical Science.

nlents of Christianity? It cannot tell us anything of
Christianity at all.
Gentlenlen, let nle press this point upon your eat nest
attention. I say Physical Theology cannot, from the
nature of the case, tell us one ,vord about Christianity
proper; it cannot be Christian, in any true sense, at all :
-and fronl this plain reason, because it is derived from
informations \vhich existed just as they are now, before
man ,vas created, and Adam fell. How can that be a
real substantive Theology, though it takes the name,
\vhich is but an abstraction, a particular aspect of the
\\"hole truth, and is dumb almost as regards the moral
attributes of the Creator, and utterly so as regards the
evangelical?
Nay, more than this; I do not hesitate to say that,
taking men as they are, this so-called science tends, if it
occupies the nlind, to dispose it against Christianity. And
for this plain reason, because it speaks only of laws; and
cannot contemplate their suspension, that is, miracles,
,vhich are of the essence of the idea of a Revelation.
Thus, the God of Physical Theology may very easily
beconle a mere idol; for He comes to the inductive mind
in the medium of fixed appointnlents, so excellent, so
skilful, so beneficent, that, when it has for a long time
gazed upon them, it ,vill think thenl too beautiful to be
broken, and \vill at length so contract its notion of Him
as to conclude that He never could have the heart (if I
may dare use such a term) to undo or mar His own work;
and this conclusion will be the first step towards its de-
grading its idea of God a second time, and identifying
Him \\lith His works. Indeed, a Being of Po\ver, Wisdom,
and Goodness, and nothing else, is not very different from
the God of the Pantheist.
In thus speaking of the Theology of the modern Phy-

Christianily and PhysI{at Sciel1te. 455

sical School, I have said but a fe\v words on a large sub-
ject; yet, though few words, I trust they are clear enough
not to hazard the risk of being taken in a sense \vhich I
do not intend. Graft the science, if it is so to be called,
on Theology proper, and it will be in its right place, and
will be a religious science. Then it \vill illustrate the
awful, incomprehensible, adorable Fertility of the Divine
Omnipotence; it will serve to prove the reallniraculous-
ness of the Revelation in its various parts, by impressing
on the mind vividly what are the la\vs of nature, and ho\\
inlffiutable they are in their own order; and it \vill in
other \vays subserve theological truth. Separate it fronl
the supernatural teaching, and make it stand on its own
base, and (though of course it is better for the individual
philosopher himself), yet, as regards his influence on the
world and the interests of Religion, I really doubt \vhether
I should not prefer that he should be an Atheist at once
than such a naturalistic, pantheistic religionist. His
profession of Theology deceives others, perhaps deceives
himself.
Do not for an instant suppose, Gentlemen, that I \vould
identify the great mind of Bacon with so serious a delu-
sion: he has expressly warned us against it; but I cannot
deny that many of his school have irom time to time in
this way turned physical research against Christianity.

But I have detained you far longer than I had in-
tended; and no\v I can only thank you for the patience
which has enabled you to sustain a discussion \vhich
cannot be complete, upon a subject which, however
Inomentous, cannot be popular.

45 6

VIII.

CHRISTIANITY AND SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION.

A LECTURE WRITTEN FOR THE SCHOOL OF SCIENCE.

I.
T HIS is a time, Gentlemen, when not only the
Classics, but much n10re the Sciences, in the largest
sense of the word, are looked upon with anxiety, not
altogether ungrounded, by religious men; and, whereas
a University such as ours professes to embrace all depart-
ments and exercises of the intellect, and since I for
my part wish to stand on good tern1S with all kinds of
kno\vledge, and have no intention of quarrelling with
any, and would open my heart, if not my intellect (for
that is beyond n1e), to the whole circle of truth, and
would tender at least a recognition and hospitality even
to those studies which are strangers to me, and would
speed them on their way,-therefore, as I have already
been making overtures of reconciliation, first behveen
Polite Literature and Religion, and next bet\veen Physics
and Theology, so I would no\v say a word by \vayof de-
precating and protesting against the needless antagonism,
which sometimes exists in fact, between divines and the
cultivators of the Sciences generally.

2.
I I ere I anI led at once to expatiate on the grandeur

ChristiallilJ' and Scientific Investigati o ll. 4-57

.

of an Institution \vhich is cOtnprehensive enough to
admit the discussion of a subject such as this. l\mong
the objects of human enterprise,-I may say it surely
without extravagance, Gentlemen,-none higher or
nobler can be natned than that which is contemplated
in the erection of a University. To set on foot and to
maintain in life and vigour a real University, is con-
fessedly, as soon as the \vord "University" is under-
stood, one of those greatest works, great in their difficulty
and their importance, on which are deservedly expended
the rarest intellects and the most varied endowments.
For, first of all, it professes to teach whatever has to be
taught in any whatever department of human knowledge,
and it embraces in its scope the loftiest subjects of
human thought, and the richest fields of human inquiry.
Nothing is too vast, nothing too subtle, nothing too dis-
tant, nothing too minute, nothing too discursive, nothing
too exact, to engage its attention.
This, however, is not the reason why I claim for it so
sovereign a position; for, to bring schools of all kno\v-
ledge under one name, and call them a University, may
be fairly said to be a mere generalization; and to pro-
claim that the prosecution of all kinds of kno\vledge to
their utmost limits demands the fullest reach and range
of our intellectual faculties is but a truism. My reason
for speaking of a University in the terms on \vhich I
have ventured is, not that it occupies the whole territory
of knowledge merely, but that it is the very realm; that
it professes much more than to take in and to lodge as
in a caravanserai all art and science, all history and
philosophy. In truth, it professes to assign to each
study, which it receives, its o\vn proper place and its just
boundaries; to define the rights, to establish the mutual
relations, and to effect the intercon1ffiunion of one and

458 Christianity ce-rid SCïe1/tijic I1zvf!dixation

all; to keep in check the anIbitious and encroaching,
and to succour and maintain those which from tinIe to
time are succumbing under the more popular or the
more fortunately circumstanced; to keep the peace be-
tween them all, and to convert their nlutual differences
and contrarieties ihto the common good. This, Gentle-
men, is \vhy I say that to erect a University is at once
so arduous and beneficial an undertaking, viz., because
it is pledged to admit, without fear, without prejudice,
\vithout compromise, all conlers, if they conle in the
name of Truth; to adjust views, and experiences, and
habits of mind the most independent and dissimilar;
and to give full play to thought and erudition in their
most original forms, and their most intense expressions,
and in their most ample circuit. Thus to dra\v many
things into one, is its special function; and it learns to
do it, not by rules reducible to writing, but by sagacity,
wisdom, and forbearance, acting upon a profound insight
into the subject-matter of knowledge, and by a vigilant
repression of aggression or bigotry in any quarter.
We count it a great thing, and justly so, to plan and
carry out a wide political organization. To bring under
one yoke, after the manner of old Rome, a hundred
discordant peoples; to maintain each of them in its own
privileges within its legititnate range of action; to allow
them severally the indulgence of national feelings, and
the stimulus of rival interests; and yet withal to blend
them into one great social establishment, and to pledge
then1 to the perpetuity of the one inlperial po\ver ;-this
is an achievement \vhich carries \vith it the unequivocal
token of genius in the race \vhich effects it.

" Tu reg-ere imperio populos, Romane, memento."

This wa
the special boast, as the poet considered it,

Ch,-istiaJlil;y and .S"-lenlific Ill'l.1estigfltioJ/. 4SIJ

of the ROlnan; a boast as high in its own line as that
other boast, proper to the Greek nation, of literary pre-
eminence, of exuberance of thought, and of skill and
refinement in expressing it.
vVhat an empire is in political history, such is a
University in the sphere of philosophy and research. It
is, as I have said, the high protecting power of all know-
ledge and science, of fact and principle, of inquiry and
discovery, of experiment and speculation; it maps out
the territory of the intellect, and sees that the boundaries
of each province are religiously respected, and that there
is neither encroachlnellt nor surrender on any side. It
acts as umpire between truth and truth, and, taking into
account the nature and importance of each, assigns to all
their due order of precedence. It maintains no one
department of thought exclusively, however ample and
noble; and it sacrifices none. It is deferential and loyal,
according to their respective weight, to the claims of
literature, of physical research, of history, of metaphysics,
of theological science. It is impartial towards them aU,
and promotes each in its own place and for its own
object. It is ancillary certainly, and of necessity, to the
Catholic Church; but in the same way that one of the
Queen's judges Ïs an officer of the Queen's, and never-
theless determines certain legal proceedings between the
Queen and her subjects. It is ministrative to the Catholic
Church, first, because truth of any kind can but minister
to truth; and next, still more, because Nature ever will
pay homage to Grace, and Reason cannot but illustrate
and defend Revelation; and thirdly, because the Church
has a sovereign authority, and, when she speaks ex cathe-
dra, must be obeyed. But this is the remote end of a
University; its immediate end (with which alone \ve
have here to do) is to secure the due disposition, accord-

4 6 0 ChristiaJ/ity and ScicJltijic Investigation.

ing to one sovereign order, and the cultivation in that
order, of all the provinces and methods of thought which
the human intellect has created.
In this point of vie\v, its several professors are like the
ministers of variou
political powers at one court or con-
ference. They represent their respective sciences, and
attend to the private interests of those sciences respec-
tively; and, should dispute arise between those sciences,
they are the persons to talk over and arrange it, without
risk of extravagant pretensions on any side, of angry
collision, or of popular commotion. A liberal philosophy
becomes the habit of minds thus exercised; a breadth
and spaciousness of thought, in which lines, seemingly
parallel, n1ay converge at leisure, and principles, recog-
nized as incommensurable, may be safely antagonistic.

3.
And here, Gentlemen, we recognize the special cha-
racter of the Philosophy I am speaking of, if Philosophy
it is to be called, in contrast with the method of a strict
science or system. Its teaching is not founded on one
idea, or reducible to certain formulæ. Newton might
discover the great law of motion in the physical world,
and the key to ten thousand phenomena; and a similar
resolution of complex facts into simple principles may
be possible in other departments of nature; but the
great Universe itself, moral and material, sensible and
supernatural, cannot be gauged and meted by even the
greatest of human intellects, and its constituent parts
admit indeed of comparison and adjustment, but not
of fusion. This is the point which bears directly on the
subject which I set before me when I began, and to\vards
\vhich I anl nloving in all I have said or shall be saying.
I observe, then, anù ask you, Gentlemen, to bear in mind,

ChristiantËy and
èi'entific Investigalzon. 461

that the philosophy of an imperial intellect, for such I
am considering a University to be, is based, not so much
on simplification as on discrimination. Its true repre-
sentative defines, rather than analyzes. He aims at no
complete catalogue, or interpretation of the subjects of

nowledge, but a following out, as far as man can, what
in its fulness is mysterious and unfathomable. Taking
into his charge all sciences, methods, collections of facts,
principles, doctrines, truths, which are the reflex ions of
the universe upon the human intellect, he admits them all,
he disregards none, and, as disregarding none, he allows
none to exceed or encroach. H is watchword is, Live
and let live. He takes things as they are; he submits to
them all, as far as they go ; he recognizes the insuperable
lines of demarcation which run between subject and
subject; he observes ho\v separate truths lie relatively
to each other, where they concur, where they part com-
pany, and where, being carried too far, they cease to be
truths at all. It is his office to detennine how much can be
known in each province of thought; when we must be
contented not to kno\v; in \vhat direction inquiry is
hopeless, or on the other hand full of promise; \vhere it
gathers into coils insoluble by reason, where it is absorbed
in mysteries, or runs into the abyss. It will be his care to
be familiar with the signs of real and apparent difficulties,
with the methods proper to particular subject-matters,
what in each particular case are the limits of a rational
scepticism, and what the clailns of a peremptory faith. If
he has one cardinal maxim in his philosophy, it is, that
truth cannot be contrary to truth; ifhe has a second, it is,
that truth often seems contrary to truth; and, if a third,
it is the practical conclusion, that ,ve must be patient
with such appearances, and not be hasty to pronounce
them to be really of a 111tJre formidable character.

462 (. Ïtristz"a I'llt)' and Sèlelltific Investigation.

I t is the very immensity of the systein of things, the
human record of which he has in charge, which is the
reason of this patience and caution; for that immensity
suggests to him that the contrarieties and mysteries, which
meet him in the various sciences, may be simply the
consequences of our necessarily defective comprehension.
There is but one thought greater than that of the universe,
and that is the thought of its lVlaker. If, Gentlemen, for
one single instant, leaving my proper train of thought, I
allude to our knowledge of the Supreme Being, it is in
order to deduce from it an illustration bearing upon nlY
subject. He, though One, is a sort of '\vorld of \vorlds in
l-limself, giving birth in our nlinds to an indefinite number
of distinct truths, each ineffably more mysterious than
any thing that is found in this universe of space and time.
Anyone of His attributes, considered by itself: is the
object of an inexhaustible science: and the attempt to
reconcile any t\VO or three of them together,-love, po\ver,
justice, sanctity. truth, \visdom,-affords matter for an
everlasting controversy. 'Ve are able to apprehend and
receive each divine attribute in its elementary forn1, but

till we are not able to accept theln in their infinity-,
either in themselves or in union \vith each other. Yet
\ve do not deny the first because it cannot be perfectly
reconciled \vith the second, nor the second because it is
in apparent contrariety with the first and the third The
case is the same in its degree with His creation Inaterial
and moral. It is the highest wisdom to accept truth of
\vhatever kind, wherever it is clearly ascertained to be
such, thou:;h there be difficulty in adjusting it with other
known truth.
Instances are easily producible of that extren1e con-
trarietyof ideas,one with another, \\Jhich the contelnplation
(If the U uiverse forces upon ul1r ac<
( ï )t
lnce, nlaJ....ing- it

ChI l
litlJlily and S'l-ii'1ltijic IJl.'lJestzgatton. 463

clear to us that there is nothing irrational in submitting to
undeniable incompatibilities, which we call apparent, only
because, if they were not apparent but real, they could
not co-exist. Such, for instance, is the contel.nplation of
Space; the existence of which we cannut deny, though its
idea is capable, in no sort of posture, of seating itself (if I
may so speak) in our minds;-for we find it impossible to
say that it comes to a limit anywhere; and it is incompre-
hensible to say that it runs out infinitely; and it seems to
be unmeaning if we say that it does not exist till bodies
come into it, and thus is enlarged according to an accident.
And so again in the instance of Time. We cannot
place a beginning to it without asking ourselves \vhat
was before that beginning; yet that there should be no
beginning at all, put it as far back as \ve will, is simply
incomprehensible. Here again, as in the case of Space,
we never dream of denying the existence of ,vhat we
have no means of understanding.
And, passing from this high region of thought (which,
high as it may be, is the subject even of a child's contem-
plations), when we come to consider the mutual action
of soul and body, we are specially perplexed by incom-
patibilities which we can neither reject nor explain.
How it is that the will can act on the muscles, is a ques-
tion of which even a child may feel the force, but which
no experimentalist can ans\ver.
Further, when we contrast the physical \vith the social
la,vs under which man finds himself here below, we must
grant that Physiology and Social Science are in collision.
Man is both a physical and a social being; yet he can-
not at once pursue to the full his physical end and his
social end, his physical duties (if I may so speak) and
his social duties, but is forced to sacrifice in part one or
the other. If we were \vilù enough to fancy that there;

464 Chrislzallzry aJld SCientific Investigation.

were two creators, one of whom was the author of our
animal frames, the other of society, then indeed we
might understand how it comes to pass that labour of
mind and body, the useful arts, the duties of a statesman,
government, and the like, which are required by the
social system, are so destructive of health, enjoyment,
and life. That is, in other words, we cannot adequately
account for existing and undeniable truths except on the
hypothesis of what we feel to be an absurdity.
And so in Mathematical Science, as has been often
insisted on, the philosopher has patiently to endure the
presence of truths, which are not the less true for being
irreconcileable with each other. He is told of the exist-
ence of an infinite number of curves, which are able to
divide a space, into which no straight line, though it be
length without breadth, can even enter. He is told, too,
of certain lines, which approach to each other con-
tinually, with a finite distance between them, yet never
meet; and these apparent contrarieties he must bear as
he best can, without attempting to deny the existence
of the truths which constitute them in the Science in
q uestiol1.

Now, let me call your attention, Gentlemen, to what
I would infer from these familiar facts. I t is, to urge
you with an argument à fortiori: viz., that, as you
exercise so much exemplary patience in the case of the
inexplicable truths which surround so many departments
of knowledge, human and divine, viewed in themselves;
as you are not at once indignant, censorious, suspicious,
difficult of belief, on finding that in the secular sciences
one truth is incompatible (according to our human ìn-
tellect) with another or inconsistent with itself j so you

CïlJislÙlI/l!y {Pl
/ ,
ï
'JJliJic IJI'ill'st'/;flllOJl. 465

.hould not think it very hard to be told that there
exists, here and there, not an inextricable difficulty, not
an astounding contrariety, not (much less) a contradic-
tion as to clear facts, bet\veen Revelation and Nature;
but a hitch, an obscurity, a divergence of tendency, a
temporary antagonism, a difference of tone, bet\veen the
two,-that is, bet\veen Catholic opinion on the one hand,
and astronomy, or geology, or physiology, or ethnology,
or political economy, or history, or antiquities, on the
other. I say that, as we admit, because we are Catho-
lics, that the Divine Unity contains in it attri1;>utes,
which, to our finite minds, appear in partial contrariety
\vith each other; as we admit that, in His revealed
Nature are things, ,vhich, though not opposed to Reason,
are infinitely strange to the Imagination; as in His works
'..ve can neither reject nor admit the ideas of space, and
of ti[ne, and the necessary properties of lines, ,vithout
intellectual distress, or even torture; really, Gentle-
men, I am making no outrageous request, ,vhen, in the
name of a University, I ask religious \vriters, jurists l
econo[uists, physiologists, chen1ists, geologists, and his-
torians, to go on quietly, and in a neighbourly way, in
their o,vn respective lines of speculation, research, and
experiment, with full faith in the consistency of that
multiform truth, \vhich they share bet\veen them, in a
generous confidence that they ,vill be ultimately consist-
ent, one and all, in their con1bined results, thouglJ there
nlay be momentary collisions, a\vkward appearances,
and many forebodings and prophecies of contrariety, and
at all times things hard to the Inlagination, though not,
I repeat, to the Reason. It surely is not asking them a
great deal to beg of them,-since they are forced to
admit Inysteries in the truths of Revelation, taken by
themselves, and in the truths of Reason. taken by thcm-
3 0

466 Christian it;, and S'{z"cJZt1jir [}''llcsl1j;alion.

selves,-to beg of thenl. J say, to keep the peace, to live
in good \vill, and to exercise equanin1ity, if, when Nature
and R.evelation are compared with each other, there be,
as I have said, discrepancies,-not in the issue, but in
the reasonings, the circumstan"ces, the associations, the
anticipations, the åccidents, proper to their respective
teachings
It is most necessary to insist seriously and energeti-
cally on this point, for the sake of Protestants, for they
have very strange notions about us. In spite of the
testimony of history the other way, they think that the
Church has no other method of putting down error than
the arm of force, or the prohibition of inquiry. They
defy us to set up and carryon a School of Science. For
their sake, then, I am led to enlarge upon the subject
here. I say, then, he \vho believes Revelation with that
absolute faith which is the prerogative of a Catholic, is not
the nervous creature \vho startles at every sudden sound,
and is fluttered by every strange or novel appearance
which meets his eyes. H
has no sort of apprehension,
he laughs at the idea, that any thing can be discovered
by any other scientific method, which can contradict any
one of the dogmas of his religion. He knows full well
there is no science \vhatever, but, in the course of its ex-
tension, runs the risk of infringing, without any meaning
of offence on its own part, the path of other sciences:
and he kno\vs also that, if there be anyone- science
which, from its sovereign and unassailable position can
calmly bear such unintentional collisions on the part of
the children of earth, it is Theology. He is sure, anG
nothing shall make him doubt, that, if anything seems
to be proved by astronomer, or geologist, or chronologist,
or antiquarian, or ethnologist, in contradiction to the
dogmas of faith, that point will eventually turn out, first,

Christianity anti Scientific li/'l!estigalzoJZ. 467

not to be proved, or, secondly, not contradictory, or thirdly

not contradictory to any thing really revealed, but to
something \vhich has been confused \vith revelation. And
if, at the monlent, it appears to be contradictory, then he
is content to \vait, knowing that error is like other delin-
quents; give it rope enough, and it will be found to have
a strong suicidal propensity. I do not mean to say he
\vill not take his part in encouraging, in helping fonvard
the prospective suicide; he \vill not only give the error
rope enough, but sho\v it how to handle and adjust the
rope ;-he \vill conlmit the matter to reason, reflection,
sober judgment, common sense; to 'fin1e, the great in-
terpreter of so many secrets. Instead of being irritated
at the mOlnentary triumph of the foes of Revelation, if
such a feeling of triumph there be, and of hurrying on
a forcible solution of the difficulty, which may in the
event only reduce the inquiry to an inextricable tangle,
he will recollect that, in the order of Providence, our
seeming dangers are often our greatest gains; that in the
words of the Protestant poet,
The clouds you so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
I n blessings on your head.

5.
To one notOrIOUS instance indeed it is obvious to allude
here. When the Copernican system first made progress,
what religious man \vould not have been tempted to
uneasiness, or at least fear of scandal, from the seeming
contradiction which it involved to some authoritative tra-
dition of the Church and the declaration of Scripture?
It was generally received, as if the Apostles had ex-
pressly delivered it both orally and in writing, as a truth
of Revelation, that the earth was stationary, and that

46R ChI Ù;/iflll"
V alltf .
{ l>llli/ìt .11l7 I i'JligaIÙJ11.

the :sun, fixed it! a solid finnanlent, ,vhiried round the
cat tho After a little tinIe, ho\vever, and on full considera-
tion, it \vas found that the Church had decided next to
nothing on questions such as these, and that Physical
Science might range in this sphere of thought alnlost at
\vill, \vithout fear of encountering the decisions of eccle-
'3iastical authority. N O\V, besides the relief \vhich it
afforded to Catholics to find that they were to be spared
this addition, on the side of Cosmology, to their many
controversies already existing, there is something of an
argument in this very circumstance in behalf of tht
divinity of their Religion. For it surely is a very re-
n1arkable fact, considering how \vid el y and how long Oflt:
certain interpretation of these physical statenlents in
Scripture had been received by Catholics, that the
Church should not have forn1ally ackno\vledgcd it.
Looking at the n1atter in a human point of vie\v, it \\'a:J
inevitable that she should have made that opinion her
own. But now we find, on ascertaining \vhere \ve stand, in
the face of the new sciences of these latter times, that in
spite of the bountiful comments which froln the first
she has ever been making on the sacred text, as it is her
duty and her right to do, nevertheless, she has nevel
been led formally to explain the texts in question, or to
give them an authoritative sense \vhich modern science
may question.
Nor \vas this escape a mere accident, but rather the
result of a providential superintendence; as \vould ap..
pear from a passage of history in the dark age itself.
When the glorious St. Boniface, Apostle of Germany,
great in sanctity, though not in secular knowledge, com-
plained to the Holy See that St. Virgilius taught the
existence of the Antipodes, the I-Ioly See was guided
what to do; it did not indeed side with the Irish phiIo-

Lïu/stiaJlity alld Sr:z.entiJic investigation. 469

sopher, \vhich \vould have been going out of its place, but
it passed over, in a matter not revealed, a philosophical
opInIon.
Tin1e went on; a new state of things, intellectual and
social, came in; the Church was girt with temporal
po\ver; the preachers of St. Dominic were in the ascen-
dant: no\vat length we may ask \vith curious interest,
did th(! Church alter her ancient rule of action, and pro-
scribe intellectual activity? Just the contrary; this is
the very age of Universities; it is the classical period of
the school men ; it is the splendid and palmary instance
of the \viSd policy and large liberality of the Church, as
regards philosophical inquiry. If there ever was a time
\vhen the intellect went \vild, and had a licentious revel,
it \vas at the date I speak of. vVhen \vas there ever a
Inore curious, more meddling, bolder, keener, more pene-
trating, more rationalistic exercise of the reason than at
that time? vVhat class of questions did that subtle,
metaphysical spirit not scrutinize? What premiss \vas
allo\ved \vithout examination? What principle was not
traced to its first origin, and exhibited in its most naked
shape? What \vhole was not analyzed? \Vhat complex
idea was not elaborately traced out, and, as it were, finely
painted for the contemplation of the mind, till it \vas

pread out in all its nlinutest portions as perfectly and
delicately as a frog's foot sho\vs under the intense scrutiny
of the microscope ? Well, I repeat, here \vas something
\vhich canle some\vhat nearer to Theology than physical
research comes; Aristotle \vas a somewhat more serious
foe then, beyond all mistake, than Bacon has been since.
Did the Church take a high hand with philosophy then?
No, not though that philosophy was tnetaphysical. It
\vas a tinle \vhen she had ten1poral pûwer, and could
have exterrrdn
tcd the s!)irit of inquiry \vith fin.
and

70 Lnl istiaJlity and Sèu:.nt1jze lnvcstiga'lvJl.

sword; but she determined to put it down byarglt1ncl1t,
she said: II Two can play at that, and my argulnent is
the better." She sent her controversialists into the
philosophical arena. It was the Dominican and Fran-
ciscan doctors, the greatest of theIn being St. Thomas,
who in those medieval Universities fought the battle of
Revelation with the weapons of heathenism. It was no
matter \vhose the weapon was; truth was truth all the
\vorld over. With the jawbone of an ass, with the skele-
ton philosophy of pagan Greece. did the Samson of the
schools put to flight his thousand Philistines.
Here, Gentlemen, observe the contrast exhibited be-
t\veen the Church herself, \vho has the gift of ,visdom, and
even the ablest, or \visest, or holiest of her children. As
St. Boniface had been jealous of physical speculations,
so had the early Fathers sho\\Tn an extreme aversion to
the great heathen philosopher v.phom I just now named,
Aristotle. I do not know ,\Tho of them could endure
him; and when there arose those in the middle age who
'
ould take his part, especially since their intentions
were of a suspicious character, a strenuous effort was
made to banish him out of Christendom. The Church
the while had kept silence; she had as little denounced
heathen philosophy in the mass as she had pronounced
upon the meaning of certain texts of Scripture of a
cosmological character. From Tertullian and Caius to
the two Gregories of Cappadocia, [ron1 then1 to Anasta-
sius Sinaita, from hin1 to the school of Paris, Aristotle
was a \vord of offence; at length St. Thomas made him
a hewer of wood and drawer of water to the Church. A
strong slave he is; and the Church herself has given her
sanction to the use in Theology of the ideas and terms
of his philosophy.

Christianity and SfÙïltijiC Investigation. 471

6.

Now, \vhile this free discussion is, to say the least, so
":1afe for Religion, or rather so expedient, it is on the other
hand simply nccessary for progress in Science; and I
shall no\v go on to insist on this side of the subject.
I say, then, that it is a matter of primary importance in
the cultivation of those sciences, in which truth is dis-
coverable by the human intellect, that the investigator
should be free, independent, unshackled in his movements;
that he should be allowed and enabled, without impedi-
ment, to fix his mind intently, nay, exclusively, on his
special object, \vithout the risk of being distracted every
other minute in the process and progress of his inquiry,
by charges of temerariousness, or by warnings against
extravagance or scandal. But in thus speaking, I must
premise several explanations, lest I be misunderstood.
First, then, Gentlemen, as to the fundamental principles
of religion and lTIorals, and again as to the fundamental
principles of Christianity, or \vhat are called the dog1nas
of faith,-as to this double creed, natural and revealed,
-\ve, none of us, should say that it is any shackle at all
upon the intellect to maintain these inviolate. Indeed,
a Catholic cannot put off his thought of them; and they
as little impede the movements of his intellect as the laws
of physics impede his bodily movements. The habitual
apprehension of them has become a second nature with
him, as the la\vs of optics, hydrostatics, dynamics, are ,....
latent conditions \vhich he takes for granted in the
use of his corporeal organs. I am not supposing any
collision \vith dognla, I anI but speaking of opinions of
divines, or of the 111ultituùc, parallel to those in former
titllc') of the 'iun going round the earth, or of the last day

472 C"'hrÎsttllJlI/) l
lld !3o"clllijic: lIlZlcsll:::alioll.

Lcing close at hand, or of St. Dionysius the Arco}Jagit<;
being the author of the \vorks \vhich bear his nanlC.
Nor, sccondly, evcn as regards such opinions, anl 1
supposing any direct intrusion into the provinceof religion,
or of a teacher of Science actually laying do\vn the hl\\'
il1 a 1Jtatter of Rcligion.. but of such unintcntional colli-
sions as are incidental to a discussion pursued on some
subject of his own. It \vould be a great mistakc in such
a one to propose his philosophical or historical conclusions
as the formal interpretation of the sacred text, as Galileo
is said to have done, instead of being content to hold his
doctrine of the Inotion of the earth as a scientific con-
clusion, and leaving it to those whom it really concerned
to cOlnpare it with Scripture. And, it must be confessed,
Gentlemen, not a fe,v instances occur of this nlistake at
the present day, on the part, not indeed of men of science,
but of religious nlen, \vho, fronl a nervous inlpatience lest
Scripture should for one moment seem inconsistcnt \vith
the results of SOUle speculation of the hour, are ever pro-
posing geological or ethnological comments upon it, which
they have to alter or obliterate before the ink is well dry,
fronl changes in the progressive scicnce, \\Thich they have
so officiously brought to its aid.
And thirdly, I observe that, when I advocate the in-
dependence of philosophical thought, I am not speaking
of any for1Jzal teae/ling at all, but of investigations, specu-
lations, and discussions. I am far indeed fronl allowing,
in any matter \vhich even borders on Religion, what an
cnlinent Protestant divine has advocated on the most

acred subjects,-I mean U the liberty of Prophesying."
I have no \vish to degrade the professors of Science, who
ought to be Prophets of the Truth, into lucre advertisers
of crude fancies or notorious absurdities. I am not plead-
ing th(lt they should at rand0111 shower do\vn upon their

Ch ristianity and ScÙ"llfi/Ù Investigation. 47 j

hearers ingenuities and novelties; or that they should
teach even \vhat has a basis of truth in it, in a brilliant,
off-hand \vay, to a collection of youths, who may not
perhaps hear them for six consecutive lectures, and \vho
will carry a\vay with thenl into the country a luisty idea
of the half-created theories of SOIne ambitious intellect.
Once more, as the last sentence suggests, there must
be great care taken to avoid scandal, or shocking the
popular mind, or unsettling the weak; the association
between truth and error being so strong in particular
ruinds that it is impossible to \veed them of the error
without rooting up the wheat \vith it. I
then, there is
the chance of any current religious opinion being in any
way compromised in the course of a scientific investiga-
tion, this \vould be a reason for conducting it, not in light
cphen1eral publications, which conle into the hands of
the careless or ignorant, but in works of a grave and
business-like character, answering to the medieval schools
of philosophical disputation, which, removed as they were
from the region of popular thought and feeling, have, by
their vigorous restlessness of inquiry, in spite of their
extravagances, done so rn uch for theological precision.

7.
I am not, then, supposing the scientific investigator (I)
to be cOIning into collision with dogl1za,. nor (2) venturing,
by means of his investigations, upon any interpretation
of
"criþtltrc, or upon other conclusion in the 1/tatter of
rel1ition
. nor (3) of his teaching, even in his own science,
religious paradoxes, when he should be investigating
and proposing; nor (4) of his recklessly sca1ldaltzing tlu:
weak,. but, these explanations being made, I still say
that a scientific speculator or inquirer is not bound, in
conducting his researches, to be every JU0111cnt adjusting-

47..J. Christianity and ","JlÙ'ntiJl
Inv.:stigalion.

his course by the nlaxÎnls of the schools or by popular
traditions, or by those of any other science distinct from
his own, or to be ever narrowly \vatching \vhat those
external sciences have to say to him, or to be determined
to be edifying, or to be ever answering heretics and un-
believers; being confident, from the Ï1npulse of a generous
faith, that, however his line of investigation may s\verve
now and then, and vary to and fro in its course, or
threaten momentary collision or embarrassment with
any other department of knowledge, theological or not,
yet, if he lets it alone, it will be sure to come home,
because truth never can really be contrary to truth, and
because often what at first sight is an "exceptio," in the
event most emphatically" probat regulam."
This is a point of serious importance to him. Unless he
is at liberty to investigate on the basis, and according to
the peculiarities, of his science, he cannot investigate at
all. It is the very law of the human mind in its inquiry
after and acquisition of truth to make its advances by a
process which consists of many stages, and is circuitous.
There are no short cuts to kno\vledge ; nor does the road
to it ahvays lie in the direction in which it terminates,
nor are we able to see the end on startil1g. It may often
seem to be diverging from a goal into which it will soon
run \vithout effort, if we are but patient and resolute in
following it out; and, as we are told in Ethics to gain
the mean merely by receding from both extremes, so in
scientific researches error may be said, without a paradox,
to be in some instances the way to truth, and the only
\vay. Moreover, it is not often the fortune of anyone
man to live through an investigation; the process is one
of not only many stages, but of many minds. What
one begins another finishes ; and a true conclusion is at
If'ngth \vorked out by the co-operation of independcut

ChristiallilJl artd SClrlltijlc IltvestigatÙJlt. 475

schools and the perseverance of successive generations.
This being the case, we are obliged, under circum..
stances, to bear for a while with \vhat we feel to be error,
in consideration of the truth in which it is eventually to
ISSU e.
The analogy of locomotion is most pertinent here.
No one can go straight up a Inountain; no sailing vessel
makes for its port without tacking. And so, applying
the illustration, we can indeed, if we will, refuse to allow
of investigation or research altogether; but, if we invite
reason to take its place in our schools, we must let reason
have fair and full play. If we reason, \ve must submit
to the conditions of reason. We cannot use it by halves;
we must use it as proceeding from Him who has also
given us Revelation; and to be ever interrupting its
processes, and diverting its attention by objections
brought from a higher knowledge, is parallel to a lands-
man's dismay at the changes in the course of a vessel on
which he has deliberately embarked, and argues surely
some distrust either in the powers of Reason on the one
hand, or the certainty of Revealed Truth on the other.
The passenger should not have embarked at all, if he
did not reckon on the chance of a rough sea, of currents,
of \\Tind and tide, of rocks and shoals; and \ve should
act more \visely in discountenancing altogether the exer-
cise of Reason than in being alarmed and impatient
under the suspense, delay, and anxiety'which, from the
nature of the case, may be found to attach to it. Let
us eschew secular history, and science, and philosophy
for good and all, if we are not al!o\ved to be sure that
Revelation is so true that the altercations and perplexi-
ties of hun1an opinion cannot really or eventually injure
its authority. '[hat is no intellectual triumph of any
f ruth (if l{eli. T inn, \vhich has not been preceded by a full

476 C/lristÙzJlity and
èientijic Invesfigation.

stateluent of what can be said against it; it is but the
ego vapulando, ille verberando, of the Comedy.
Great minds need elbow-room, not indeed in the
domain of faith, but of thought. And so indeed do lesset
nlinds, and all minds. There are many persons in the
world who are called, and with a great deal of truth,
geniuses. They had been gifted by nature with some
particular faculty or capacity; and, while vehemently
excited and imperiously ruled by it, they are blind to
everything else. They are enthusiasts in their own line,
and are simply dead to the beauty of any line exceþt
their own. Accordingly, they think their own line the
only line in the whole \vorld worth pursuing, and they
feel a sort of contempt for such studies as move upon
any other line. N ow, these men may be, and often are,
very good Catholics, and have not a dream of any thing
but affection and deference towards Catholicity, nay,
perhaps are zealous in its interests. Yet, if you insist
that in their speculations, researches, or conclusions in
their particular science, it is not enough that they should
.sublnit to the Church generally, and acknowledge its
dogmas, but that they must get up all that divines h:tve
said or the multitude believed upon religious matters,
you sin1ply crush and stalnp out the flame within them,
and they can do nothing at all.
This is the case of men of genius: now one word on
the contrary in behalf of master minds, gifted \vith a
broad philosophical vic\v of things, and a creative power,
and a versatility capable of accommodating itself to
various provinces of thought. These persons perhaps,
like those I have already spoken ot: take up some idea
and are intent upon it ;-some deep, prolific, eventful
idea, which grows upon theIn, till they develop it into a
great system. Now, if any such thinker st;1rts fro!}}

ChrisfÙlJlil;' and S(il'J//
ft( hl'(ll'slr:f?aIÙ> /.. t 77

radically unsound principles, or airIlS at dit cct1y false
conclusions, if he be a Hobbes, or a Shaftesbury, or a
Hume, or a Bentham, then, of course, there is an end of
the whole rnatter. He is an opponent of Revealed
rfruth, and he nleans to be so ;-nothing more need be
said. But perhaps it is not so; perhaps his errors are
those which are inseparable accidents of his system or
of his mind, and are spontaneously evolved, not perti-
naciously defended. Every hUlnan system, every human
writer, is open to just criticism. l\1:ake him shut up his
portfolio; good! and then perhaps you lose \vhat, on
the \vhole and in spite of incidental mistakes, would
have been one of the ablest defences' of Revealed Truth
(directly or indirectly, according to his subject) ever
given to the world.
This is ho\v I should account for a circumstance, \vhich
has sometimes caused surprise, that so many great
Catholic thinkers have in SOIne points or other incurred
the criticism or animadversion of theologians or of eccle-
siastical authority. It must be so in the nature of
things; there is indeed an animadversion which implies
a condelnnation of the author; but there is another
which means not much 1110re than the" piè legendunl "
written against passages in the F'athers. The author
may not be to blame; yet the ecclesiastical authority
would be to blame, if it did not give notice of his im-
perfections. I do not know what Catholic would not
hold the name of Malebranche in veneration;. but he
may have accidentally come into collision with theolo-
gians, or made temerarious assertions, notwithstanding.
* Cardinal Gerdil speaks of his "Metaphysique," as "brillante à la verité,
rnais non moins solide" (p. 9.), and that" la liaison qui enchaine toutes les
parties du système philosophique du Père :'Malebranche, . . pourra servir
d'apologie à 1a noble assurance, avec laquelle i1propose ses sentiments."
(p. 12, CEuvres, t. iv.)

, I

4- 7 8 ChristiaJlity and Sci{J1 tiJic l1z'l'estigatioll.

The practical question is, whether he had not much
Letter have \vritten as he has written, than not have
\\Tritten at all. And so fully is the Holy See accustomed
to enter into this vie\v of the matter, that it has allowed
of its application, nQt only to philosophical, but even to
theological and ecclesiastical authors, who do not come
within the range of these remarks. I believe I am right
in saying that, in the case of three great names, in
various departments of learning, Cardinal Noris, Bossuet,
and Muratori, - \vhile not concealing its sense of their
having propounded each \vhat might have been said
better, nevertheless it has considered: that their services
to Religion were on the whole far too important to allow
of their being molested by critical observation in detail.

8.

Anù now, Gentlemen, I bring these remarks to a con-
clusion. What I would urge upon every one, whatever
may be his particular line of research,-what I ,vould
urge upon men of Science in their thoughts of Theology,
-what I would venture to recon1mend to theologians,
when their attention is dra,vn to the subject of scientific
investigations,-is a great and firm belief in the sove-
reignty of Truth. Error may flourish for a time, but
Truth will prevail in the end. The only effect of error
ultimately is to promote Truth. Theories, speculations,
hypotheses, are started; perhaps they are to die, still
not before they have suggested ideas better than them-
selves. These better ideas are taken up in turn by other
men, and, if they do not yet lead to truth, nevertheless
they lead to what is still nearer to truth than themselves;
and thus knowledge on the whole makes progress. The

· Muratori's work was not directly theological. Vui. note at the end of
the Volume.

C h rÙ;tia Jl iry (111("/ ",)t"ie 1l1ijie Ill'l'estigatioll. 479

errors of SOIne minds in scientific investigation are more
fruitful than the truths of others. A Science seems
Inaking no progress, but to abound in failures, yet im-
perceptibly all the time it is advancing, and it is of
course a gain to truth even to have learned what is not
true, if nothing more.
On the other hand, it must be of course remembered,
Gentlemen, that I am supposing all along good faith,
honest intentions, a loyal Catholic spirit, and a deep
sense of responsibility. I am supposing, in the scientific
inquirer, a due fear of giving scandal, of seeming to
countenance views \vhich he does not really countenance,
and of siding with parties from whom he heartily differs.
I am supposing that he is fully alive to the existence
and the po\ver of the infidelity of the age; that he
keeps in mind the moral \veakness and the intellectual
confusion of the majority of men; and that he has no
wish at all that anyone soul should get harm from
certain speculations to-day, though he may have the
satisfaction of being sure that those speculations will, as
far as they are erroneous or misunderstood, be corrected
in tile course of the next half-century.

4 80

IX.

DISCIPLINE OF 1\IIND.

AN ADDRESS TO THE EVENING CLAS
ES..

I.

W HEN I found that it was in DIY power to be pre-
sent here at the commencen1ent of the new Ses,
sion, one of the first thoughts, Gentleu1en, which thereupon
occurred to nle, was this, that I should in consequence
have the great satisfaction of meeting you, of 'VhOIl1 I
had thought and heard so much, and the opportunity of
addressing you, as Rector of the University. I can truly
say that I thought of you before you thought of the
University; perhaps I may say, long before ;-for it ,vas
previously to our como1encing that great \vark, \vhich is
now so fully before the public, it \\9as \vhen I first caIne
over here to make preparations for it, that I had to
encounter the serious objection of wise and good men,
who said to me, "There is no class of persons in Ireland
who llccd a University;" and again, "\Vhom \vill you
get to belong to it? \vho \vill fill its lecture-rooms?)t
This was said to me, and then, without denying their
knowledge of the state of Ireland, or their sagacity, I
filade answer, "vV e will give lectures in the evening, we
will fill our classes \vith the young nlen of Dublil1."
And sonle persons here filay recollect that the very

.D isciplille o.f Mind.

481

first thing I did, when we opened the School of Philoso-
phy and Letters, this time four years, was to institute a
system of Evening Lectures, \vhich were suspended after
a while, only because the singularly inclement season
which ensued, and the want of publicity and interest
incident to a new undertaking, made them premature.
And it is a satisfaction to n1e to reflect that the Statute,
under which you will be able to pass examinations and
take degrees, is one to which I specially obtained the
consent of the Academical Senate, nearly two years ago,
in addition to our original Regulations, and that you
will be the first persons to avail yourselves of it.
Having thus prepared, as it \vere, the University for
you, it was with great pleasure that I received from a
number of you, Gentlemen, last rvlay year, a spontaneous
request which showed that my original anticipations were
not visionary. You suggested then what we have since
acted upon,-acted upon, not so quickly as both you
might hope and we might \vish, because all important
commencements have to be maturely considered-still
acted on at length according to those anticipations of
mine, to which I have referred; and, while I recur to
them as an introduction to \vhat I have to say, I might
also dwell upon them as a sure presage that other and
broader anticipations, too bold as they may seem now,
will, if we are but patient, have their fulfiln1ent in their
season.

2.
For I should not be honest, Gentlenlen, if I did not
confess that, much as I desire that this University
should be of service to the young men of Dublin, I do
not desire this benefit to you, simply for your o\vn sakes.
For your own sakes certainly I wish it, but not on your
3 1

482

Dz.sciþline o.f ltfiJld.

account only. Man is not born for himself alone, as the
classical moralist tells us. J/' ou are born for Ireland;
and, in your advancement, Ireland is advanced ;-in
your advancement in what is good and what is true, in
knowledge, in learning, in cultivation of mind, in enlight-
ened attachment to your religion, in good name and
respectability and social influence, I am contemplating
the honour and renown, the literary and scientific aggran-
disement, the increase of political power, of the Island
of the Saints.
I go further still. If I do homage to the many virtues
and gifts of the Irish people, and am zealous for their
full development, it is not simply for the sake of them-
selves, but because the name of Ireland ever has been,
and, I believe, ever will be, associated with the Catholic
Faith, and because, in doing any service, however poor it
may be, to Ireland, a man is ministering, in his own
place and measure, to the cause of the Holy Roman
Apostolic Church.
Gentlemen, I should consider it an impertinence in
me thus to be speaking to you of myself, were it not
that, in recounting to you the feelings with which I have
witnessed the establishment of these Evening Classes, I
am in fact addressing to you at the same time words of
encouragement and advice, such words as it becomes a
l
ector to use in speaking to those who are submitted to
his care.
I say, then, that, had I been younger than I was when
the high office \vhich I at present hold was first offered
to me, had I not had prior duties upon me of affection
and devotion to the Oratory of St. Philip, and to my
own dear country, no position whatever, in the whole
range of adn1inistrations \vhich are open to the ambition
of those who wish to serve God in their generation, and

1.J
ctþlinL 0/ j}filld.

4 8 3

to do some great work before they die, \vould have had
more attractions for me than that of being at the head
of a University like this. When I became a Catholic, one
of my first questions was, "vVhy have not our Catholics a
University?" and Ireland, and the metropolis of Ireland,
was obviously the proper seat of such an institution.
Ireland is the proper seat of a Catholic University, on
account of its ancient hereditary Catholicity, and again
of the future which is in store for it. It is inlpossible,
Gentlenlen, to doubt that a future is in store for Ireland,
for more reasons than can here be enumerated. First,
there is the circumstance, so highly suggestive, even if
there was nothing else to be said, viz., that the Irish
have been so miserably ill-treated and misused hitherto;
for, in the times now opening upon us, nationalities are
waking in to life, and the remotest people can make
themselves heard into all the quarters of the earth. The
lately invented methods of travel and of intelligence
have destroyed geographical obstacles; and the wrongs
of the oppressed, in spite of oceans or of mountains, are
brought under the public opinion of Europe,-not before
kings and governments alone, but before the tribunal of
the European populations, who are becoming ever more
powerful in the determinatiôn of political questions. And
thus retribution is demanded and exacted for past crimes
in proportion to their heinousness and their duration.
And in the next place, it is plain that, according as
intercommunion grows between Europe and America, it
is Ireland that must grow with it in social and political
importance. For Ireland is the high road by which that
intercourse is carried on; and the traffic bet\veen hemi-
spheres must be to her a source of material as well as
social benefit,-as of old tÏ1ne, though on the minute
geographical scale of Greece, Corinth, as being the

4 8 4

DiscI-þ/zone oj- filz"nd.

thoroughfare of commerce by sea and land, became and
was called " the rich."
And then, again, we must consider the material re-
sources of Ireland, so insufficiently explored, so poorly
developed,-of which it belongs to them rather to speak,
who by profession and attainments are masters of the
subj ect
That this momentous future, thus foreshadowed, will
be as glorious for Catholicity as for Ireland we cannot
doubt from the experience of the past; but, as Provi-
dence works by means of human agencies, that natural
anticipation has no tendency to diminish the anxiety and
earnestness of all zealous Catholics to do their part in
securing its fulfilment. And the wise and diligent culti-
vation of the intellect is one principal means, under the
Divine blessing, of the desired result.

3.
Gentlemen, the seat of this intellectual progress nlust
necessarily be the great towns of Ireland; and those
great towns have a remarkable and happy characteristic,
as contrasted with the cities of Catholic Europe. Abroad,
even in Catholic countries, if there be in any part of
their territory scepticism and insubordination in religion,
cities are the seat of the mischief. Even Rome itself
has its insubordinate population, and its concealed free-
thinkers; even Belgium, that nobly Catholic country,
cannot boast of the religious loyalty of its great towns.
Such a calamity is unknown to the Catholicism of Dublin,
Cork, Belfast, and the other cities of Ireland; for, to say
nothing of higher and more religious causes of the dif-
ference, the very presence of a rival religion is a per-
petual incentive to faith and devotion in In en \vho, frolll
the circumsta.nces of the case, would be in dange-r ot

DisciþlÙZt of AIÙlt{.

4 8 5

becoming worse than lax Catholics, unless they resolved
on being zealous ones.
H ere, then, is one ren1arka ble ground of promise in
the future of Ireland, that that large and important class,
members of \vhich I am no\v addressing,-that the
middle classes in its cities, \vhich \vill be the depositaries
of its increasing political power, and which else\vhere are
opposed in their hearts to the Catholicism \vhich they
profess,-are here so sound in faith, and so exemplary
in devotional exercises, and in works of piety.
And next I would observe, that, while thus distin-
guished . for re1igio
s earnestness, the Catho1ic population
is in no respect degenerate from the ancient fame of
Ireland as regards its intellectual endowments. It too
often happens that the religiously disposed are in the
same degree intellectually deficient; but the Irish ever
have been, as their worst enemies must grant, not only a
Catholic people, but a people of great natural abilities,
keen-witted, original, and subtle. This has been the
characteristic of the nation from the very early times:,
and was especially prominent in the middle ages. As
Rome was the centre of authority, so, I may say, Ire-
land was the native home of speculation. In this respect
they were as remarkably contrasted to the English as they
are now, though, in those ages, England \vas as devoted
to the Holy See as it is now hostile. The Englishman
was hard-working, plodding, bold, determined, persever-
ing, practical, obedient to law and precedent, and, if he
cultivated his minJ, he was literary and classical rather
than scientific, for Literature involves in it the idea of
authority and prescription. On the other hand, in Ire-
land, the intellect seems rather to have taken the line of
Science, and we have various instances to show how fu 11 y
this was recognized in those times, and with what succes') it

486

Disciþlzne of lIIi1ld.

\vas carried out. "Philosopher," is in those titnes ahnost
the name for an Irish monk. Both in Paris and Oxford,
the two great schools of medieval thought, we find the
boldest and most subtle of their disputants an Irishman,
-the monk John. Scotus Erigena, at Paris, and Duns
Scotus, the Franciscan friar, at Oxford.
No\v, it is my belief, Gentlemen, that this character of
mind remains in you still. I think I rightly recognize in
the Irishnlan now, as formerly, the curious, inquisitive
observer, the acute reasoner, the subtle speculator. I
recognize in you talents which are fearfully mischievous,
when used on the side of error, but which, when wielded
by Catholic devotion, such as I am sure will ever be the
characteristic of the Irish disputant, are of the highest im-
portance to Catholic interests, and especially at this day,
when a subtle logic is used against the Church, and de-
mands a logic still more subtle on the part of her defenders
to expose it.
Gentlemen, I do not expect those who, like you, are
enI ployed in your secular callings, who are not monks or
friars, not priests, not theologians, not philosophers, to
come for\vard as cham pions of the faith; but I think
that incalculable benefit may ensue to the Catholic cause,
..
greater almost than that which even singularly gifted
theologians or controversialists could effect, if a body of
men in your station of life shall be found in the great to\vns
of Ireland, not disputatious, contentious, loquacious, pre-
sumptuous (of course I am not advocating inquiry for
mere argunIent's sake), but gravely and solidly educated
in Catholic kno\vledge, intelligent, acute, versed in their
religion, sensitive of its beauty and majesty, alive to the
arguments in its behalf, and aware both of its difficulties
and of the nIode of treating them. And the first step in
attaining this desirable end is that you should submit

DÙ;ciþline of lIfind.

4 8 7

yourselves to a curriculum of studies, such as that which
brings you \vith such praiseworthy diligence within these
walls evening after evening; and, though you may not
be giving attention to them with this view, but from the
laudable love of knowledge, or for the advantages which
will accrue to you personally from its pursuit, yet my
own reason for rejoicing in the establishment of your
classes is the same as that which led me to take part
in the establishment of the University itself, viz., the
wish, by increasing the intellectual force of Ireland, to
strengthen the defences, in a day of great danger, of the
Christian religion.

4-
Gentlemen, within the last thirty years, there has been,
as you know, a great movement in behalf of the exten-
sion of knowledge among those classes in society whom
you represent. This movement has issued in the estab-
lishment of what have been called Mechanics' Institutes
through the United Kingdom; and a new species of
literature has been brought into existence, with a view,
among its objects, of furnishing the members of these
institutions with interesting and instructive reading. I
never will deny to that literature its due praise. It has
been the production of men of the highest ability and
the most distinguished station, \vho have not grudged,
moreover, the trouble, and, I may say in a certain sens

the condescension, of presenting themselves before the
classes for whose intellectual advancement they were
showing so laudable a zeal; who have not grudged, in
the cause of Literature, History, or Science, to make a
display, in the lecture room or the public hall, of that
eloquence, which \vas, strictly speaking, the property, as
1 may call it, of Parliament, or of the august tribunals of

,t88

Disrip/Ùlt' o.f J.
fi1/d.

the Law. Nor will I deny to the speaking and writing,
to which I am referring, the n1erit of success, as well as
that of talent and good intention, so far as this,-that it
has provided a fund of innocent amusement and informa-
tion for the leisure hours of those who migh t otherwise
have been exposed to the temptation of corrupt reading
or bad company.
So much may be granted,-and must be granted in
candour: but, \vhen I go on to ask n1yself the question,
what permanent advantage the mind gets by such desul-
tory reading and hearing, as this literary movement en-
courages, then I find myself altogether in a new field of
thought, and am obliged to return an ans\ver less favour-
able than I could wish to those who are the advocates of
it. We must carefully distinguish, Gentlemen, between
the mere diversion of the mind and its real education.
Supposing, for instance, I am tempted to go into some
society which will do me harm, and supposing, instead, I
fall asleep in my chair, and so let the time pass by, in
that case certainly I escape the danger, but it is as if by
accident, and my going to sleep has not had any real
effect upon me, or made me more able to resist the
temptation on some future occasion. I wake, and I am
what I \vas before. The opportune sleep has but removed
the temptation for this once. It has not made me better;
for I have not been shielded from temptation by any act
of my own, but I was passive under an accident, for such
I may call sleep. And so in like manner, if I hear a
lecture indolently and passively, I cannot indeed be else-
\vhere 'Zi,hile I am here hearing it,-but it produces no
positive effect on my tnind,-it does not tend to create
any power in my breast capable of resisting temptation
by its o\vn vigour, should temptation come a second tinle.
No\v this is no fault. Gentlemen, of the books .or the

Disci}" Ill' lylJIilld.

4 8 9

lectures of the Mechanics' Institute. They could not du
more than they do, from their very nature. They do
their part, but their part is not enough. A man may
hear a thousand lectures, and read a thousand volumes,
and be at the end of the process very nluch where he 'was,
as regards kno\vledge. Something more than merely
adnlÌttillg it in a negative ,yay into the n1ind is necessary,
if it is to remain there. It nlust not be passively received,
but actually and actively entered into, embraced, mastered.
The n1Ïnd must go half-\vay to meet \vhat comes to it
from without.
This, then, is the point in which the !nstitutions I am
speaking of fail; here, on the contrary, is the advantage
of such lectures as you are attending, Gentlemen, in our
University. You have come, not Inerely to be taught,
but to learn. You have come to exert your n1inds. You
have come to make \vhat you hear your own, by putting
out your hand, as it \vere, to grasp it and appropriate it.
You do not come merely to hear a lecture, or to read a
book, but you come for that catechetical instruction,
which consists in a sort of conversation between your
lecturer and you. He tells you a thing, and he asks you
to repeat it after him. He questions you, he examines
you, he will not let you go till he has proof, not only that
you have heard, but that you know.

s.
Gentlemen, I am induced to quote here some relnarks
of my own, which I put into print on occasion of those
Evening Lectures, already referred to, \vith which we
introduced the first terms of the University. The at-
tendance upon them \\Tas not large, and in consequence
wi discontinued thenl for a time, but I attempted to ex-
plain in prin: \vhat the object of them had been; and

49 0

1)/,.,\(--1pli"r o.f lI/ind.

while what I then said is pertinent to the subject I am
now pursuing, it will be an evidence too, in addition to
my opening remarks, of the hold which the idea of these
Evening Lectures has had upon me.
"I will venture to give you my thoughts," I then said,
writing to a friend,. "on the ob.ject of the Evening Public
Lectures lately delivered in the University House, which,
I think, has been misunderstood.
"I can bear witness, not only to their remarkable merit
as lectures, but also to the fact that they were very satis-
factorily attended. rvlany, however, attach a vague or
unreasonable idea to the word C satisfactory: and main-
tain that no lectures can be called satisfactory which do
not make a great deal of noise in the place, and they are
disappointed otherwise. This is \vhat I mean by n1is-
conceiving their object; for such an expectation, and
consequent regret, arise from confusing the ordinary with
the extraordinary object of a lecture,-upon which point
we ought to have clear and definite ideas.
cc The ordz.nary object of lectures is to teach,. but there
is an object, sometimes demanding attention, and not
incongruous, which, nevertheless, cannot be said properly
to belong to them, or to be more than occasional. As
there are kinds of eloquence which do not aim at any
thing beyond their o\vn exhibition, and are content with
being eloquent, and with the sensation \vhich eloquence
creates; so in Schools and Universities there are sea-
sons, festive or solemn, anyhow extraordinary, \vhen
academical acts are not directed towards their propel"
ends, so much as intended to amuse, to astonish, and to
attract, and thus to have an effect upon public opinion.
Such are the exhibition days of Colleges; such the
annual Commemoration of Benefactors at one oÎ the

· University Gazette, No. 42. p. 420.

Disciþli1U 0/ ltlind.

49 1

English Universities, when Doctors put on their gayest
gowns, and Public Orators nlake Latin Speeches. Such,
too, are the Terminal Lectures, at which divines of the
greatest reputation for intellect and learning have before
no\v poured forth sentences of burning eloquence into the
ears of an audience brought together for the very sake
of the display. The object of all such Lectures and
Orations is to excite or to keep up an interest and rever-
ence in the public mind for the Institutions from which the
exhibition proceeds :"-1 might have added, such are the
lectures delivered by celebrated persons in Mechanics'
Institutes.
I continue: II Such \ve have suitably had in the new
University;-such were the Inaugural Lectures. Dis-
plays of strength and skill of this kind, in order to succeed,
should attract attention, and if they do not attract atten-
tion, they have failed. They do not invite an audience,
but an attendance; and perhaps it is hardly too much to
say that they are intended for seeing rather than for
hearing.
"Such celebrations, ho\vever, from the nature of the
case, must be rare. It is the novelty \vhich brings, it is
the excitement \vhich recompenses, the assemblage. The
academical body \vhich attempts to make such extraordi-
nary acts the normal condition of its proceedings, is
putting itself and its Professors in a false position.
"It is, then, a simple misconception to suppose that
those to whom the government of our University is con-
fided h3.ve aimed at an object, \vhich could not be con-
templated at all \vithout a confusion or inadvertence, such
as no considerate person will impute to them. Public
lectures, delivered with such an object, could not be suc-
cessful; and, in consequence, our late lectures have, I
cannot doubt (for it could not be other\vise), ended unsatis-

49 2

Discipline 0/ lVIi?/ d.

factorily in the judgment of any zealous person who ha!
assumed for them an office with which their projectors
never invested them.
"What their object really was the very !neaning of
academical institutions suggests to us. It is, as I said
\vhen I began, to teach. Lectures are, properly speaking,
not exhibitions or exercises of art, but matters of business ;
they profess to impart something definite to those who
attend them, and those \vho attend them profess on their
part to receive what the lecturer has to offer. I t is a
case of contract :-' I will speak, if you will listen:' -' I
will come here to learn, if you have any thing worth
teaching me.' In an oratorical display, all the effort is
on one side; in a lecture, it is shared bet\veen two parties,
who co-operate to\vards a common end.
H There should be ever something, on the face of the
arrangements, to act as a memento that those who come,
come to gain something, and not from mere curiosity. And
in matter of fact, such "rere the persons \vho did attend, in
the course of last tern1, and such as those, and no others,
will attend. Those came \\"ho \vished to gain information
on a subject ne\v to them, from informants whom they
held in consideration, and regarded as authorities. It
\vas impossible to survey the audience which occupied
the lecture-room without seeing that they came on \vhat
n1ay be called business. And this is \vhy I said, when
I began, that the attendance was satisfactory. That
attendance is satisfactory,-not \vhich is numerous, but
-which is steady and persevering. But it is plain, that to
a mere by-stander, who came merely from general in-
terest or good will to see how things were going on, and
who did not catch the object of advertising the Lectures,
it would not occur to look into the faces of the audience;
he would think it enough to be counting their heads; he

D isc-iþlille 0/ }J;Iind.

493

would do little more than observe whether the staircase
and landing were full of loungers, and whether there
was such a noise and bustle that it was impossible to
hear a word; and if he could get in and out of the room
without an effort, if he could sit at his ease, and actually
hear the lecturer, he would think he had sufficient
grounds for considering the attendance unsatisfactory.
"The stimulating system may easily be overdone, and
does not ans\ver on the long run. A blaze among the
stubble, and then all is dark. I have seen in my time
various instances of the way in which Lectures really
gain upon the public; and I must express my opinion
that, even were it the sole object of our great under-
taking to make a general impression upon public opinion,
instead of that of doing definite good to definite persons,
I should reject that method, which the University indeed
itself has not taken, but which young and ardent minds
may have thought the more promising. Even did I
wish merely to get the intellect of all Dublin into our
rooms, I should not dream of doing it all at once, but
at length. I should not rely on sudden, startling effects,
but on the slow, silent, penetrating, overpo\vering effects
of patience, steadiness, routine, and perseverance. I
have known individuals set themselves do\vn in a neigh-
bourhood where they had no advantages, and in a place
which had no pretensions, and upon a \vork which had
little or nothing of authoritative sanction; and they have
gone on steadily lecturing week after week, \vith little
encouragement, but much resolution. For months they
were ill attended, and overlooked in the bustle of the
world around them. But there was
secret, gradual
movement going on, and a specific force of attraction,
and a drifting anù accumulation of hearers, \vhich at
length made itself felt, and could not be Inistaken. In

494

Disciþline 0/ Jl1i1zd.

this stage of things, a friend said in conversation to me,
\\.hen at the moment I knew nothing of the parties:
'By-the-bye, if you are interested in such and such a
subject, go by all means, and hear such a one. So and
so does, and says there is no one like him. I looked in
myself the other night, and was very much struck. Do
go, you can't mistake; he lectures every Tuesday night, or
Wednesday, or Thursday,' as it might be. An influence
thus gradually acquired endures; sudden popularity
dies a\vay as suddenly."
As regards ourselves, the time is passed now, Gentle-
men, for such modesty of expectation, and such caution
in encouragement, as these last sentences exhibit. The
few, but diligent, attendants upon the Professors' lectures,
with whom we began, have grown into the diligent and
zealous many; and the speedy fulfilment of anticipations,
which then seemed to be hazardous, surely is a call on
us to cherish bolder hopes and to form more extended
plans for the years which are to follo\v.

6.
You will ask Ole, perhaps, after these general rCInarks,
to suggest to you the particular intellectual benefit which
I conceive students have a right to require of us, and
which we engage by means of our evening classes to pro-
vide for them. And, in order to this, you must allow
me to make use of an illustration, \vhich I have hereto-
fore employed,. and \vhich I repeat here, because it is
the best that I can find to convey what I wish to impress
upon you. It is an illustration which includes in its
application all of us, teachers as \vell a
taught, though
it applies of course to some more than to others, and to
those especially who come for instruction.
·
uJ. supr. p. 231.

Dlsc'lplille 0/ lJlilld.

495

I consider, then, that the position of our minds, as far
as they are uncultivated, towards intellectual objects,-l
n1ean of our minds, before they have been disciplined and
formed by the action of our reason upon them,-is analo-
gous to that of a blind man tøwards the objects of vision,
at the moment when eyes are for the first time given to
him by the skill of the operator. Then the multitude of
things, which present themselves to the sight under a mul-
tiplicity of shapes and hues, pour in upon him from the
external world all at once, and are at first nothing else
but lines and colours, without mutual connection, depend-
ence, or contrast, without order or principle, without
drift or meaning, and like the wrong side of a piece of
tapestry or carpet. By degrees, by the sense of touch,
by reaching out the hands, by walking into this maze of
colours, by turning round in it, by accepting the princi-
ple of perspective, by the various slo\v teaching of ex-
perience, the first information of the sight is corrected,
and what was an unintelligible wilderness becomes a land-
scape or a scene, and is understood to consist of space,
and of bodies variously located in space, with such con-
sequences as thence necessarily follow. The kno\vledge is
at length gained of things or objects, and of their rela-
tion to each other; and it is a kind of knowledge, as is
plain, which is forced upon us all from infancy, as to the
blind on their first seeing, by the testimony of our other
senses, and by the very necessity of supporting life; so
that even the brute animals have been gifted with the
faculty of acquiring it.
Such is the case as regards material objects; and it is
much the same as regards intellectual. I mean that
there is a vast host of matters of all kinds, 'which address
thelTIselves, not to the eye, but to our mental sense; viz.,
all those matter... of thought \vhich, in the course of life

49 6

Dtsciþline 0/ lIfilld.

and the intercourse of society, are brought before us,
which we hear of in conversation, which we read of in
books; matters political, social, ecclesiastical, literary,
domestic; persons, and their doings or their writings;
events, and works, and undertakings, and laws, and in-
stitutions. These make up a much more subtle and
intricate world than that visible universe of which I was
just now speaking. It is much more difficult in this
world than in the material to separate things off from
each other, and to find out how they stand related to
each other, and to learn how to class them, and where
to locate them respectively. Still, it is not less true
that, as the various figures and forms in a landscape
have each its own place, and stand in this or that direc-
tion towards each other, so all the various objects which
address the intellect have severally a substance of their
own, and have fixed relations each of them \vith every-
thing else,-relations which our minds have no power of
creating, but which we are obliged to ascertain before
we have a right to boast that we really kno\v any thing
about them. Yet, when the n1ind looks out for the first
time into this manifold spiritual world, it is just as much
confused and dazzled and distracted as are the eyes of
the blind when they first begin to see; and it is by a
long process, and with much effort and anxiety, that we
begin hardly and partially to apprehend its various con-
tents and to put each in its proper place.
We grow up from boyhood; our minds open; we go
into the world; we hear what men say, or read what
they put in print; and thus a profusion of matters of all
kinds is discharged upon us. Some sort of an idea we
have of most of them, from hearing what others say;
but it is a very vague idea, probably a very mistaken
idea. Young people, especially, because they are young,

.DisciPlint oj 111Ùzfí.

497

colour the assemblage of persons and things which they
encounter with the freshness and grace of their own
springtide, look for all good from the reflection of the it
own hopefulness, and worship what they have created.
Men of ambition, again, look upon the world as a theatre
for fame and glory, and make it that magnificent scene
of high enterprise and august reconlpence which Pindar
or Cicero has delineated. Poets, too, after their wont,
put their ideal interpretation upon all things, material
as well as moral, and substitute the noble for the true.
Here are various obvious instances, suggestive of the
discipline which is imperative, if the mind is to grasp
things as they are, and to discriminate substances frorr!
shado\vs. For I am not concerned merely with youth,
ambition, or poetry, but with our mental condition gene-
rally. It is the fault of all of us, till we have duly
practised our minds, to be unreal in our sentiments and
crude in our judgments, and to be carried off by fancies,
instead of being at the trouble of acquiring sound know-
ledge.
In consequence, when we hear opinions put forth on
any new subject, \ve have no principle to guide us in
balancing them; we do not know what to make of them;
we turn them to and fro, and over, and back again, as if
to pronounce upon them, if \ve could, but with no means
of pronouncing. It is the same \vhen we attenlpt to
speak upon them: we make some random venture; or
\ve take up the opinion of some one else, which strikes
our fancy; or perhaps, \vith the vaguest enunciation
possible of any opinion at all, we are satisfied with our..
selves if \ve are merely able to thro\v off some rounded
sentences, to make some pointed remarks on some other
subject, or to introduce some figure of speech, or flowers
of rhetoric, which, instead of being the vehicle, are the
3 2

4q8

IJis,:iplillC ql111illd.

luere substitute of 11lcaning-. \Vc ,,,ish to take a pa.rt hi
politics, and then nothing is open to us but to follow
SOIne person, or sOlne party, and to learn the con1n10n-
places and the \\ratch\vords v.'hich belong to it. We
h
ar about landed interests, and mcrcantil,
interests
. I
and trade, and higher and lo\ver classes, and their rights,
duties, and prerogatives; and we attempt to transmit
what we have received; and soon our minds become
loaded and perplexed by the incumbrance of ideas \vhich
we have not mastered and cannot use. We have some
vague idea, for instance, that constitutional government
and slavery are inconsistent \vith each other; that there
is a connection between private j udgn1ent and democracy,
between Christianity and civilization; \ve attempt to find
arguments in proof: and our arguments are the most
plain demonstration that \\re simply do not understand the
things themselves of \vhich \ve are professedly treating.

7.
Reflect, Gentlemen, ho\v many disputes you must have
listened to, which were intenninable, because neither part)"
understood either his opponent or himself. Consider the
fortunes of an argun1ent in a debating society, and the
need there so frequently is, not simply of some clear
thinker to disentangle the perplexities of thought, but of
capacity in the combatants to do justice to the clearest
explanations which are set before them,-so much so,
that the lun1inous arbitration only gives rise, perhaps, to
more hopeless altercation. "Is a constitutional govern-
n1ent better for a population than an absolute rule?"
vVhat a number of points have to be clearly apprehended
before we are in a position to say one \vord on such a
question! What is meant by "constitution"? by .. con.
stitutional government"? by "better"? by "a popula-

Disciflill
of lIfilld.

499

tìon "? and by II absolutism"? The ideas represented
by these various \vords ought, I do not say, to be as per-
fectly defined and located in the minds of the speakers
as objects of sight in a landscape, but to be sufficiently,
even though inconlpletely, apprehended, before they have
a right to speak. "How is it that democracy can admit
of slavery, as in ancient Greece?" "How can Catho-
licism flourish in a republic?" N O\V, a person \vho knows
his ignorance \vill say, "These questions are beyond me;"
and he tries to gain a clear notion and a firm hold of
them; and, if he speaks, it is as investigating, not as
deciding. On the other hand, let him never have tried
to throw things together, or to discriminate between them,
or to denote their peculiarities, in that case he has no
hesitation in undertaking any subject, and perhaps has
most to say upon those questions \vhich are most new to
him. This is why so many men are one-sided, narrow-
minded, prej udiced, crotchety. This is why able men
have to change their minds and their line of action in
middle age, and to begin life again, because they have
followed their party, instead of having secured that faculty
of true perception as regards intellectual objects which
has accrued to them, \vithout their knowing how, as re-
gards the objects of sight.
But this defect will never be corrected,-on the contrary,
it will be aggravated,-by those popular institutions to
which I referred just now. The displays of eloquence, or
the interesting Inatter contained in their lectures, the
variety of useful or entertaining knowledge contained in
their libraries, though admirable in themselves, and advan-
tageous to the student at a later stage of his course, never
can serve as a substitute for methodical and laborious
teaching. A young man of sharp and active intellect, \vho
has had no other training, has little to show for it beside

,.')00

Disriflint o/llfÙul.

a litter of ideas heaped up into his Inind anyhow. I-Ie-
can utter a nUl11ber of truths or sophisms, as the case
may be, and one is as good to him as another. He is up
with a nun1ber of doctrines and a nUluber of facts, but
they are all loose and straggling, for he has no principles
set up in his mind round \vhich to aggregate and locate
then}. He can say a word or two on half a dozen sciences,
but not a dozen \vords on anyone. I-I e says one thing
no,v, and another thing presently; and \vhen he atteInpts
to write down distinctly \vhat he holds upon a point in
dispute, or ,vhat he understands by its terms, he breaks
down, and is surprised at his failure. He sees objections
more clearly than truths, and can ask a thousand ques-
tions which the wisest of men cannot answer; and withal,
he has a very good opinion of himself, and is ,veIl satis-
fied with his attainlnents, and he declares against others,
as opposed to the spread of kno\vledge altogether, \vho
do not happen to adopt his \vays of furthering it, or the
opinions in which he considers it to result.
1'his is that barren Inockery of knowledge which comes
of attending on great Lecturers, or of mere acquaintance
with reviews, magazines, newspapers, and other literature
of the day, \vhich, however able and valuable in itself, is
not the instrument of intellectual education. If this is
all the training a man has, the chance is that, \vhen a fc\v
years have passed over his head, and he has talked to the
full, he wearies of talking, and of the subjects on ,vhich
he talked. He gives up the pursuit of kno\vledge, and
forgets what he knew, \vhatever it was; and, taking
things at their best, his mind is in no very different con-
dition from what it was \vhen he first began to improve
it, as he hoped, though perhaps he never thought of more
than of al11using hin1self. I say, U at the best," for per-
haps he will suffer from exhaustion and a distaste of the

DisciþlÙlc 0/ jjIilld.

501

subjects which once pleased him; or perhaps he has
suffered some real intellectual mischief; perhaps he has
contracted some serious disorder, he has admitted some
taint of scepticism, which he will never get rid of.
And here we see 'Nhat is meant by the poet's maxim,
"A little learning is a dangerous thing." Not that
knowledge, little or much, if it be real knowledge, is
dangerous; but that many a man considers a mere hazy
vie\v of many things to be real knowledge, \vhereas it
does but mislead, just as a short-sighted man sees only
so far as to be led by his uncertain sight over the
precipice.
Such, then, being true cultivation of mind, and such the
literary institutions which do not tend to it, I might pro-
ceed to show you, Gentlemen, did time admit, how, on
the other hand, that kind of instruction of \vhich our
Evening Classes are a specimen, is especially suited to
effect what they propose. Consider, for instance, \vhat
a discipline in accuracy of thought it is to have to con-
strue a foreign language into your own; \vhat a still
severer and more improving exercise it is to translate
from your o\vn into a foreign language. Consider, again,
what a lesson in memory and discrÍ1nination it is to get
up, as it is called, anyone chapter of history. Consider
what a trial of acuteness, caution, and exactness, it is to
master, and still more to prove, a number of definitions.
Again, \vhat an exercise in logic is classification, what
an exercise in logical precision it is to understand and
enunciate the proof of any of the more difficult pro-
positions of Euclid, or to master anyone of the great
arguments for Christianity so thoroughly as to bear ex-
alnination upon it j or, again, to analyze sufficiently, yet
in as fe\v \vords as possible, a speech, or to dra\v up a
critique Uj 1011 a paetn. .l\nd ..
ú of any other science,--

5 02

Discipli1lt' vj .f111Jld.

chemistry, or comparative anatomy, or natural histOIY ;
it does not matter \vhat it is, if it be really studied and
mastered, as far as it is taken up. The result is a forma.-
tion of mind,-that is, a habit of order and system, a
habit of referring every accession of knowledge to what
we already know, and of adjusting the one with the
other; and, moreover, as such a habit implies, the actual
acceptance and use of certain principles as centres of
thought, around which our knowledge grows and is
located. Where this critical faculty exists, history is no
longer a nlere story-book, or biography a romance;
orators and publications of the day are no longer in-
fallible authorities; eloquent diction is no longer a
substitute for n1atter, nor bold statements, or lively
descriptions, a substitute for proof. This is that faculty
of perception in intellectual matters, which, as I have
said so often, is analogous to the capacity we all have of
mastering the multitude of lines and colours \vhich pour
in upon our eyes, and of deciding what every one of
them is worth.

8.
But I should be transgressing the limits assigned to
an address of this nature were I to proceed. I have
not said any thing, Gentlelnen, on the religious duties
which become the members of a Catholic University,
because we are directly concerned here with your studies
only. It is my consolation to know that so many of you
belong to a Society or Association, which the zeal of
some excellent priests, one especially, has been so in-
strumental in establishing in your great towns. Yau
do not come to us to have the foundation laid in your
breasts of that knowledge \vhich is highest of all: it has
been 1aid already. Yau have begun your tnental train-

DiSl-ïþ/ille q/"i11Ù,J.

5 0 3

ing with faith and devotion; and then you COllle to us
to add the education of the intellect to the education of
the heart. Go on as you have begun, and you will be
one of the proudest achievements of our great under-
taking. We shall be able to point to you in proof that
zeal for kno\vledge n1ay thrive even under the pressure
of secular callings; . that mother-wit does not necessarily
make a man idle, nor inquisitiveness of mind irreverent;
that shre\vdness and cleverness are not incompatible
with firm faith in the mysteries of Revelation; that
attainment in Literature and Science need not make
men conceited, nor above their station, nor restless, nor
self-willed. We shall be able to point to you in proof
of the power of Catholicism to make out of the staple of
great to\vns exemplary and enlightened Christians,-of
those classes which, external to Ireland, are the problem
and perplexity of patriotic statesmen, and the natural
opponents of the teachers of every kind of religion.

As to myself, I \vish I cOü.ld by actual service and
hard work of my o\Vn respond to your zeal, as so many
of my dear and excellent friends, the Professors of the
University, have done and do. They have a merit, they
have a clailn on you, Gentlemen, in which I have no
part. If I admire the energy and bravery with which
you have undertaken the work of self-improvement, be
sure I do not forget their public spirit and noble free
devotion to the University any more than you do. I
know I should not satisfy you with any praise of this
supplement of our academical arro.ngements which did
not include those who give to it its life. It is a very
pleasant and encouraging sight to see both parties, the
teachers and the taught, co-operating \vith a pure esþrit-
de-corps thus voluntarily,-they as fully as you can do,-

5 0 4

DìsciplZllt.. i'.i JI1^Ui.

for a great object; and I ofler up my earnest prayers to
the Author of all good, that He will ever bestow on you I
all, on Professors and on Students, as I feel sure He will
bestow, Rulers and Superiors, who, by their zeal and I
diligence in their own place, shall prove themselves I
worthy both of your cause and of yourselves.

5 0 5

.

CHRISTIANITY AND MEDICAL SCIENÇE.

AN ADDRESS TO THE STUDENTS OF MEDICINE.

I.
I HAVE had so few opportunities, Gentlen1en, of ad-
dressing you, and our present meeting is of so interest-
ing and pleasing a character, by reason of the object
\vhich occasions it, that I am encouraged to speak freely
to you, though I do not know you personally, on a sub-
ject which, as you may conceive, is often before my own
mind: I mean, the exact relation in which your noble
profession stands towards the Catholic University itselí
and towards Catholicism generally. Considering my
o\vn most responsible office as Rector, my vocation as
an ecclesiastic, and then again my years, which increase
my present claim, and diminish my future chances, of
speaking to you, I need make no apology, I am sure,
for a step, which will be recommended to you by my
good intentions, even though it deserves no consideration
on the score of the reflections and suggestions themselves
\vhich I shall bring before you. If indeed this U niver-
sity, and its Faculty of Medicine inclusively, were set up
for the promotion of any merely secular object,-in the
spirit of religious rivalry, as a measure of party politics,
or as a conlmercial speculation,-then indf"ed I should

506 Christianity tll:.L:'- .JJälical SèÛ:llce.

be out of place, not only in addressing you in the tone
of advice, but in being here at all; for \\
hat reason could
I in that case have had for having now given some of
the most valuable years of my life to this University,
for having placed it foremost in my thoughts and anxie-
ties,-(I had well nIgh said) to the prejudice of prior,
dearer, and more sacred t!cst-except that I felt that
the highest and most special religious interests were
bound up in its establishment and in its success? Suffer
me, then, Gentlemen, if \vith these views and feelings I
conform my observations to the sacred building in \vhich
we find ourselves, and if I speak to you for a few minutes
as if I were rather addressing you authoritatively from
the pulpit than in the Rector's chair.
No'v I am going to set before you, in as fe,v words as
I can, what I conceive to be the principal duty of the
1Iedical Profession towards Religion, and SOlne of the
difficulties \vhich are found in the observance of that
duty: and in speaking on the subj ect I am conscious
how little qualified I am to handle it in such a \vay as
will come home to your minds, from that \vant of ac-
quaintance with you personally, to \vhich I have alluded,
and from my necessary ignorance of the influences of
whatever kind \vhich actually surround you, and the
points of detail ,vhich are likely to be your religious em-
barrassments. I can but lay do\vn principles and maxims,
which you must apply for yourselves, and \vhich in some
respects or cases you nlay feel have no true application
at alL

2.
All professions have their dangers, all general truths
have their fallacies, all spheres of action have their limits,
:lnd are liable to improper extension or alteration. Every

Chrz"stÙ1JJity a/hi l1fc{lical Science. 507

professional man has rightly a zeal for his profession,
and he would not do his duty towards it without that
Leal. And that zeal soon becomes exclusive, or rather
necessarily involves a sort of exclusiveness. A zealous
professional man soon comes to think that his profession
is all in all, and that the world \vould not go on without
it. We have heard, for instance, a great deal lately in
regard to the war in India, of pOlitical views suggesting
one plan of campaign, and military views suggesting
another. How hard it must be for the military man to
forego his own strategical dispositions, not on the ground
that they are not the best,-not that they are not ac-
knowledged by those who nevertheless put them aside
to be the best for the object of military success,-but
because military success is not the highest of objects,
and the end of ends,-because it is not the sovereign
science, but Inust ever be subordinate to political con-
siderations or maxims of government, which is a higher
science with higher objects,-and that therefore his sure
success on the field must be relinquished because the
interests of the council and the cabinet require the sac-
rifice, that the war must yield to the statesman's craft, the
cOlnmander-in-chief to the governor-general. Yet what
the soldier feels is natural, and 'what the statesman does
is just. This collision, this desire on the part of every
profession to be supreme,-this necessary, though reluc-
tant, subordination of the one to the other,-is a process
ever going on, ever acted out before our eyes. The
civilian is in rivalry \vith the soldier, the soldier with the
civilian. The diplomatist, the lawyer, the political econo-
mist, the merchant, each wishes to usurp the powers of
the state, and to Inould society upon the principles of
his own pursuit.
Nor do they confine therll
clves to the lnere province of

s08 CII} isliallilJ' and AIcl/ical Scimce.

secular n1atters. They intrude into the province of Re-
ligion. 1 n England, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, law-
yers got hold of religion, and never have let it go. Abroad,
bureaucracy keeps hold of Religion ,vith a more or less
firm grasp. The circles of literature and science have
in like manner before now made Religion a mere province
of their universal empire.
I remark, moreover, that these various usurpations are
frequently made in perfectly good faith. There is no
intention of encroachment on the part of the encroachers.
The commander recommends what with all his heart and
soul he thinks best for his country \vhen he presses on
Governnlent a certain plan of campaign. The political
economist has the most honest intentions of improving
the Christian system of social duty by his reforms. The
statesman may have the best and most loyal dispositions
towards the Holy See, at the time that he is urging
changes in ecclesiastical discipline \vhich would be
seriously detrimental to the Church.
And now I will say how this applies to the Medical
Profession, and \vhat is its special danger, viewed in re-
lation to Catholicity.

3.
Its province is the physical nature of man, and its
object is the preservation of that physical nature in its
proper state, and its restoration when it has lost it. It
lintits itself, by its very profession, to the health of the
body; it ascertains the conditions of that health; it
analyzes the causes of its interruption or failure; it seeks
about for the means of cure. But, after all, bodily health
is not the only end of nlan, and the Inedical science is
not the highcst science of \vhich he is the subject. lYlan
liLlS a moral and a religious natun', as well as a physical.

Chris/irl1:i!;' anti .Jf{diral Science. 50n

He has a n1ind and a soul; and the tnind and soul have
a legitimate sovereignty over the body, and the sciences
relating to them have in consequence the precedence
of those sciences which relate to the body. And as the
soldier must yield to the statesman, when they come into
collision \vith each other, so must the medical tnan to the
priest; not that the medical man may not be enunciating
\vhat is absolutely certain, in a n1edical point of view,
as the comlnander may be perfectly right in what he
enunciates strategically, but that his action is suspended
in the given case by the interests and duty of a superior
science, and he retires not confuted but superseded.
Now this general principle thus stated, all \vill adn1Ít :
who will deny that health must give way to duty? So
far there is no perplexity: supposing a fever to break
out in a certain place, and the nledical practitioner said
co a Sister of Charity who ,vas visiting the sick there,
" You will die to a certainty if you remain there," and
her ecclesiastical superiors on the contrary said, " You
have devoted your life to such services, and there you
nlust stay; 'J and supposing she stayed and \vas taken
off; the medical adviser \vould be right, but who \vould
say that the Religious Sister ,vas wrong? She did not
doubt his word, but she denied the importance of that
word, compared \vith the word of her religious superiors.
rrhe n1edical man was right, yet he could not gain his
point. He ,vas right in what he said, he said \vhat ,vas
true, yet he had to give way.
Here \ve are approaching what I conceive to be the
especial temptation and danger to which the medical
profession is exposed: it is a certain sophism of the in-
tellect, founded on this maxim, implied, but not spoken
or even recognized--" What is true is la'wfu!." Not so.
Observe, here is the fa IIacr,- \Vhat is true in one scienc

,(,10 (:'lJ7'S/tllli!;' flJl(llJ {,(Iical
(:i('h ".

is dictated to us indeed accordi.ng to that science, but
not according to another science, or in another depart-
Inent. \Vhat is certain in the nlilitalY art has force in
the n1ilitary art, but not in stateslnanship; and if states-
n1anship be a higher departInent of action than war, and
enjoins the contrary, it has no claim on our reception and
obedience at all. And so what is true in luedical science
nlight in all cases be carried out, were n1an a luere
anÏ1nal or brute without a soul; but since he is a rational,
responsible being, a thing n1ay be ever so true in 111edicine,
yet filay be unlawful in fact, in consequence of the Itig/ter
la\v of morals and religion having COlne to some different
conclusion. Now I must be allowed some few \vords tü
express, or rather to suggest, more fully what I mean.
The whole universe conIes frol11 the good God. It is
His creation; -it is good; it is all good, as being the work
of the Good, though good only in its degree, and not after
His Infinite Perfection. The physical nature of man is
good; nor can there be any thing sinful in itself in acting
according to that nature. Every natural appetite or func-
tion is lawful, speaking abstractedly. No natural feeling
or act is in itself sinful. There can be no doubt of all
this; and there can be no doubt that science can deter-
mine what is natural, what tends to the preservation 01
a healthy state of nature, and what on the contrary i

injurious to nature. Thus the n1edical student has a vast
field of knowledge spread out before him, true, because
knowledge, and innocent, because true.
So much in the abstract-but when we conle to fact,
it may easily happen that what is in itself innocent may
not be innocent to this or that person, or in this or that
mode or degree. Again, it may easily happen that the
impressions made on a man's mind by his own science
may be indefinitely more vivid and operative than the

Chrz:stzß1lit), alld lIJellical Science. 5 I I

enunciations of truths beionging to sontc other branch of
kno\vledge, which strike indeed his ear, but do not come
home to him, are not fixed in his memory, are not im-
printed on his imagination. And in the profession before
us, a medical student may realize far more po\verfully and
habitually that certain acts are adviscble 'in thenzselves
according to the law of physical nature, than the fact that
they are forbidden according to the la\v of some higher
science, as theology; or again, that they are accidentally
\vrong, as being, though la\vful in themselves, \vrong in
this or that individual, or under the circumstances of the
case.
Now to recur to the instance I have already given: it
is supposable that that Sister of Charity, who, for the
sake of her soul, would not obey the law of self-preserva-
tion as regards her body, might cause her medical adviser
great irritation and disgust. His own particular profes-
sion might have so engrossed his mind, and the truth of
its maxims have so penetrated it, that he could not
understand or admit any other or any higher system.
He might in process of time have become simply dead
to all religious truths, because such truths were not present
to him, and those of his own science \vere ever present.
And observe, his fault \vould be, not that of taking error
for truth, for what he relied on was truth-but in not
understanding that there were other truths, and those
higher than his own.
Take another case, in which there will often in parti-
cular circumstances be considerable differences of opinion
among really religious men, but which does not cease on
that account to illustrate the point I am insisting on. A
patient is dying: the priest wishes to be introduced! lest
he should die \vithout due preparation: the medical man
says that the thought of religion ,vill disturb t1Îs [lllnd

5 12 C//J is/ia J/ ilJ' (lJlff fift'rliral Srit!t'cc.

dud imperil his recovery. Now in the particular case,
the one party or the other may be Tight in urging his
own view' of what ought to be done. I am merely
directing attention to the principle involved in it. I-Iere
are the representatives of two great sciences, Religion
and Medicine. Each says what is true in his o\vn science,
each will think he has a right to insist on seeing that the
truth \vhich he hirl1self is maintaining is carried out in
action; whereas, one of the two sciences is above the
other, and the end of Religion is indefinitely higher than
the end of Medicine. And, however the decision ought
to go, in the particular case, as to introducing the subject
of religion or not, I think the priest ought to ha,.e that
decision; just as a Governor-General, not a ConlIl1ander-
in-Chief, would have the ultin1ate decision, \\Tere politics
and strategies to con1e into collision.
You will easily understand, Gentlen1en, that I dare
not pursue my subject into those details, which are of
the greater importance for the very reason that they
cannot be spoken of. A medical philosopher, who has
so sin1ply fixed his intellect on his o\vn science as to have
forgotten the existence of any other, \vill view man, who
is the subject of his contenlplation, as a being who has
little more to do than to be born, to grow, to eat, to drink,
to \valk, to reproduce his kind, and to die. He sees him
born as other animals are born; he sees life leave hÎIn,
with all those phenomena of annihilation \vhich accom-
pany the death of a brute. He compares his structure,
his organs, his functions, \vith those of other animals"
and his own range of science leads to the discovery of no
facts which are sufficient to convince him that there is
any difference in kind between the human animal and
them. His practice, then, is according to his facts and
his theory. Such a, person will think hill1self free to give

Christianity u1zd Medical Sa"ellce. 5 13

advice, and to insist upon rules, which are quite insuffer-
able to any religious mind, and simply antagonistic to
faith and morals. It is not, I repeat, that he says what
is untrue, supposing that man were an animal and nothing
else: but he thinks that whatever is true in his own
science is at once lawful in practice-as if there were not
a number of rival sciences in the great circle of philosophy,
as if there were not a number of conflicting views and
objects in human nature to be taken into account and
reconciled, or as if it were his duty to forget all but his
own; whereas

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

I have known in England the most detestable advice
given to young persons by eminent physicians, in con-
sequence of this contracted view of man and his destinies.
God forbid that I should measure the professional habits
of Catholics by the rules of practice of those \vho were
not! but it is plain that what is actually carried out
where religion is not kno\vn, exists as a temptation and
a danger in the Science of Medicine itself, where religion
is known ever so well.

4-
And now, having suggested, as far as I dare, what I
consider the consequences of that radical sophism to
which the medical profession is exposed, let me go on to
say in what way it is corrected by the action of Catho-
licism upon it.
You will observe, then, Gentlemen, that those higher
sciences of which I have spoken, Morals and Religion,
are not represented to the intelligence of the world by
intimations and notices :strong and obvious, such as those
33

5 14 Ch rz"slian it;, and llIedicat .sèien(:e

which are the foundation of Physical Science. The
physical nature lies before us, patent to the sight, ready
to the touch, appealing to the senses in so unequivocal a
way that the science which is founded upon it is as
real to us as the fact of our personal existence. But
the phenomena, which are the basis of morals and Reli-
gion, have nothing of this luminous evidence. Instead
of being obtruded upon our notice, so that we cannot
possibly overlook them, they are the dictates either of
Conscience or of Faith. They are faint shado\vs and
tracings, certain indeed, but delicate, fragile, and almost
evanescent, which the mind recognizes at one time, not
at another,-discerns \vhen it is calm, loses when it is in
agitation. The reflection of sky and mountains in the
lake is a proof that sky and mountains are around it,
but the twilight, or the mist, or the sudden storm hurries
:).way the beautiful image, which leaves behind it no
memorial of what it was. Something like this are the
Moral Law and the informations of Faith, as they pre-
sent themselves to individual minds. Who can deny
the existence of Conscience 1 who does not feel the force
of its injunctions? but how dim is the illumination in
which it is invested, and how feeble its influence, COll1-
pared with that evidence of sight and touch which is the
foundation of Physical Science! How easily can ,ve be
talked out of our clearest views of duty! how does this
or that moral precept crumble into nothing when \ve
rudely handle it I how does the fear of sin pass off fronl
us, as quickly as the glow of modesty dies away from
the countenance! and then we say, 'I It is all supersti-
tion." Ho\vever, after a time we look round, and then
to our surprise we see, as before, the same law of duty,
the saIne Inoral precepts, the same protests against sin,
appearing over against us, in their old places. as if they

Christianity and MellÙ:al Science. 5 I 5

never had been brush
d away, like the divine hand\vriting
upon the wall at the banquet. Then perhaps we ap-
proach them rudely, and inspect them irreverently, and
accost them sceptically, and a\vay they go again, lik
so
many spectres,-shining in their cold beauty, but not
presenting themselves bodily to us, for our inspection, so
to say, of their hands and their feet. And thus these
awful, supernatural, bright, majestic, delicate apparitions,
much as \ve may in our hearts acknowledge their sove-
reignty, are no match as a foundation of Science for
the hard, palpable, material facts \vhich make up the
province of Physics. Recurring to my original illus-
tration, it is as if the India Commander-in-Chief, instead of
being under the control of a local seat of government at
Calcutta, \vere governed simply from London, or from
the moon. In that case, he would be under a strong
temptation to neglect the home government, \vhich
nevertheless in theory he acknowledged. Such, I say,
is the natural condition of mankind :-we depend upon
a seat of government \vhich is in another world; we are
directed and governed by intimations from above; \ve
need a local government on earth.
That great institution, then, the Catholic Church, has
been set up by Divine Mercy, as a present, visible anta-
gonist, and the only possible antagonist, to sight and
sense. Conscience, reason, good feeling, the instincts of
our moral nature, the traditions of Faith, the conclusions
and deductions of philosophical Religion, are no match
at all for the stubborn facts (for they are facts, though
there are other facts besides them), for the facts, which
are the foundation of physical, and in particular of medi-
cal, science. Gentlel11cn, if you feel, as you must feel,
the whisper of a law of lnoral truth within you, and the
iInpulse to believe, be sure there is nothing \vhatever on

516 Chrzstia/l'it;, and .JIf!dical Science.

earth which can be the sufficient champion of these
sovereign authorities of your soul, which can vindicate
and preserve them to you, and make you loyal to them,
but the Catholic Church. You fear they will go, you
see with dismay that they are going, under the continual
impression created on your mind by the details of the
material science to which you have devoted your lives.
It is so-I do not deny it ; except under rare and happy
circumstances, go they will, unless you have Catholicism
to back you up in keeping faithful to them. The world
is a rough antagonist of spiritual truth: sometimes \vith
mailed hand, sometimes with pertinacious logic, some-
times with a storm of irresistible facts, it presses on
against you. What it says is true perhaps as far as it
goes, but it is not the whole truth, or the most important
truth. These more important truths, which the natural
beart admits in their substance, though it cannot main-
tain,-the being of a God, the certainty of future retri-
bution, the claims of the moral la\v, the reality of sin,
the hope of supernatural help,-of these the Church is in
rnatter of fact the undaunted and the only deiender.
Even those who do not look on her as divine must
grant as much as this. I do not ask you for more here
than to conten1plate and recognize her as a fact,-as
other things are facts. She has been eighteen hundred
years in the world, and all that time she has been doing
battle in the boldest, most obstinate \vay in the cause of
the human race, in maintenance of the undeniable but
comparatively obscure truths of Religion. She is ahvays
alive, ahvays on the alert, when any enemy whatever
attacks them. She has brought them through a thou-
sand perils. SometÎInes preaching, sometimes pleading,
sO!lletimes arguing,-son1etitnes exposing her nlinisters
.to death, anØ sometinles, though rarely, inflicting blu\v

Christianity and Medical Sczence. 5 I 7

herselt:-by peremptory deeds, by patient concessions,-
she has fought on and fulfilled her trust. No wonder
so many speak against her, for she deserves it; she has
earned the hatred and obloquy of her opponents by her
success in opposing them. Those even who speak against
her in this day, own that she was of use in a former day.
The historians in fashion with us just now, much as they
may disown her in their own country, where she is an
actual, present, unpleasant, inconvenient monitor, ac-
knowledge that, in the middle ages which are gone, in
her were lodged, by her were saved, the fortunes and
the hopes of the human race. The very characteristics
of her discipline, the very maxims of her policy, which
they reprobate now, they perceive to have been of ser-
vice then. They understand, and candidly avow, that
once she was the patron of the arts, the home and sanc-
tuary of letters, the basis of law, the principle of order
and government, and the saviour of Christianity itself.
They judge clearly enough in the case of others, though
they are slow to see the fact in their own age and coun-
try; and, while they do not like to be regulated by her,
and kept in order by her, themselves, they are very well
satisfied that the populations of those former centuries
3hould have been so ruled, and tamed, and taught by
her resolute and wise teaching. And be sure of this,
that as the generation now alive admits these benefits
to have arisen from her presence in a state of society
now gone by, so in turn, when the interests and pas-
sions of this day are passed away, will future generations
ascribe to her a like special beneficial action upon this
nineteenth century in \vhich we live. For she is ever
the same,-ever young and vigorous, and ever overcom-
ing new errors with the old
Weapons.

5) 8 Christianl.f ' a11d Jl1édÚ:al Srle11ce

And now I have explained, Gentlenlen, why it has
been so highly expedient and desirable in a country like
this to bring the }iaculty of rvledicine under the shadow
of the Catholic Church. I say U in a country like this;"
for, if there be any country which deserves that Science
should not run wHd, Ìike a planet broken loose from its
celestial systenl, it is a country which can boast of such
hereditary faith, of such a persevering confessorship, of
such an accunlulation of good works, of such a glorious
name, as Ireland. liar be it from this country, far be it
from the counsels of Divine lVlercy, that it should grow
in knowledge and not grow in religion! and Catholicism
is the strength of Religion, as Science and Systen1 ar

the strength of Knowledge.
Aspirations such as these are met, Gentiemen, I am
well a\\.are, by a responsive feeling in your own hearts;
but by my putting thetn into words, thoughts which
already exist \vithin you are brought into livelier exercise,
and sentinlents which exist in nlany breasts hold inter-
comnlunion with each other. Gentlemen, it will be your
high office to be the links in your generation bet\\reen
Religion and Science. Return thanks to the Author of
all good that He has chosen you for this work. Trust
the Church of God implicitly, even \vhen your natural
judgment would take a different course from hers, and
would induce you to question her prudence or her correct-
ness. Recollect what a hard task she has; how she is
sure to be criticized and spoken against, whatever she
does ;-recollect how much she needs your loyal and
tender devotion. Recollect, too, how long is the experi-
ence gained in eighteen hundred years, and what a right
she ha'5 to claim your assent to principles which have

Christiallz"tyand !Jledital Science. 5 t 9

had so extended and so triuluphant a tria1. Thank her
that she has kept the faith safe for so many generations,
and do your part in helping her to transmit it to genera-
tions after you.
For me, if it has been given me to have any share in
so great a ,york, I shall rejoice with a joy, not such indeed
as I should feel \vere I myself a native of this generous
land, but \vith a joy of my o\\'n, not the less pure, because
I have exerted myself for that \\7hich concerns others
1110re nearly than Inyself. I have had no other motive,
as far as I know myself, than to attempt, according to
n1Y strength, some service to the cause of Religion, and
to be the servant of those to whom as a nation the whole
of Christendom is so deeply indebted; and though this
University, and the Faculty of Medicine which belongs
to it, are as yet only in the comtnencement of their long
career of usefulness, yet while I live, and (I trust) after
life, it will ever be a theme of thankfulness for my heart
and my lips, that I have been allowed to do even a little,
and to witness so much, of the arduous, pleasant, and
hopeful toil which has attended on their establishment.

5 20

NOTE ON PAGE 478.

I THINK it worth \vhile, in illustration of what I have
said dbove at the page specified, to append the fol-
lowing passage from Grandorgæus's catalogue of Mura-
torits works.
"Sanctissinlus D.N. Benedictus xiv. Pont. 1\1 ax. Epis-
tolam sapientiæ ac roboris plenam dederat. . . ad
Episcopum T erulensem Hispaniæ lnquisitionis Majorem
Inquisitorem, quâ illum hortabatur, ut 'Historiam Pela-
gianam et dissertationem, etc.,' editas à claræ memoriæ
Henrico Cardinali Norisio, in lndicem Expurgatorium
Hispanunl nuper ingestas, perinde ac si aliquid Baia-
nismi aut] ansenismi redolerent, prout auctor' Bibliothecæ
J ansenisticæ' imn1erito autumavit, quamprimum expun-
gendas curaret. Eoque nomine Sapientissimus Pontifex
plura in mediuol attulit prudentis æconomiæ exempla,
qua semper usun1, supren1uln S. R. Congr. lndicis Tribu-
nal, à proscribendis virorunl doctissimonlm operibus
aliquando temperavit.
"Quunl autcm 5U111n1US Pontifex, ea inter nomina
illustria Tillemontii, Bollandistarum, Bosoueti Ep. Meld.,
et illud recensuerit L. A. Muratorii, his ad Auctoren1
nostrum delatis, quaol maxinlè indoluit, veritus ne in
tantâ operum copiâ ab se editorum, aliquid Fidei aut
Religioni minùs consonum sibi excid sset. . .
"Verùm clementissimus Pontife;x ne animum despon..
dcret doctus et hunlilis filius, pernulnaniter ad ipsum
rcscripsit. . . CU111QUC paternè consolatus, inter alia hæc

Note on Page 478.

5 21

habet: C Quanto si era detto nella nostra Lettera all'
Inquisitore di Spagna in ordine alle di Lei Opere, non
aveva che fare con la materia delle Feste, nè con verun
dogma 0 disciplina. II contenuto delle Opere chi qui
non è piaciuto (nè che Ella poteva mai lusingarsi che
fesse per piacere), riguarda la Giurisdizione Temporale
del Romano Pontifice nè suoi stati, ,,, etc. (pp. Ix., lxi).

INDEX

ABELARD, 96, age or, 2 6 3
Accomplishments not education, 144
Addison, his Vision of i1Brf;a, 279 j his care in writing, 28
; the child of
the Revolution, 3 I 2, 329
Æschylus,258
Alcuin, 17
Aldhelm, St., 11
Alexander the Great, his delight i" Homer, 258; conquests of, 204
Anaxagoras, I 16
Andes, the, 136
Animuccia and St. Philip Neri, 237
Apollo Belvidere, the, 283
Aquinas, St. Thomas, 134, 26 3, 384
Arcesilas, 101
Architecture, 8 I
Arian argument against our Lord's Divinity, 95
Ariosto, 3 16
Aristotelic philosophy, the, 52
Aristotle, xii., 6, 53 j quoted, 78, 101, 106, 10<), 134, 222, 275; his sketch
of the magnanimous man, 280, 3 8 3, 43 1 , 469
Athens, the fountain of secular knowledge, 264
Augustine, St., of Canterbury, mission of, 16
Augustine, S1., of Hippo, quoted, 410
BACCI'S Life of St. Philip N eri, quoted, 236
Bacon, Friar, xiii, 220
Baconian philosophy, the, 10<)
Bacon, Lord, quoted, 77, 90, 117-119, 175, 221, 225. 26 3, 3 1 9. 437
llalaam, 66
Beethoven, 286, 3 I 3
Bentham's Preuve.r Judiâaire.r, 96
Berkeley, Bishop, on Gothic Architecture, 81
Boccaccio, 316
Boniface, St., 220
Borromeo, St. Carlo, enjoins the use of some of the Latin c1assìcs, 261 ; on
preaching, 406, 412, 4 1 4, 421
Bossuet and Bishop Bull, 7
Brougham, Lord, his Discourse at Glasgow, quoted, 30, 34-35
Brutus, abandoned by philosophy, 116
Burke, Edmund, 176; his val
ictio
to the spirit of chivalry, 201

5 2 4

.I nde.x.

Burman, 140
Butler, Bishop, his Analogy, 61, 100, IS!, 226
Byron, Lord, his versification, 326
CAIETAN, St., 235
Campbell, Thomas, 322, 326
Carneades, 106
Cato the elder, his opposition to the Greek philosophy, too
Catullus, 325
Chinese civilization, 252
Christianity and Letters, 249
Chrysostom, St., on Judas, 86
Cicero, quoted, 77 ; on the pursuit of knowledge, J04, 116, 260; style of,
281, 282, 327 ; quoted, 399; his orations against Verres, 421
Civilization and Christianity, 255
Clarendon, Lord, 3 II
Colours, combination of, 100
"Condescension," two senses of, 205
Copleston, Dr., Bishop of Uandaff, 157 ; quoted, 167-169
Corinthian brass, 175
eo\\'Per, quoted, 19 1 , 467
Crabbe, his Tales oj the Hall, ISO; his versification, 326
Craik, Dr. G. L, his Pursuit of A"'nowl
dg
undw Difficu/tiu, quoted, 103,
104-
DANTE, 316, 329
Davison, John, 158; on Liberal Education, l&}u177
Definiteness, the life of preaching, 426
Demosthenes, 259, 284
Descartes, 3 I 5
lJumesnil's Synonymes, 368
Du Pin's Ecclesiastical History, 140
EDGEWORTH, Mr., on Professionn.1 Education, 158, 170, 176
Edinburgh, 154
Edinburgh Rntinu, the, 153, 157, 160, 3 01 , 329
Edward II., King of England, vow at his flight from Bannockbum, 155
Elmsley, xiv.
Epicurus, 40
Euclid's Elements, 274, 3 1 3, 501
Euripides, 258
FENELON, on the Gothic style of Architecture. 82
:Fontaine, La, his immoral C()nt
s, 3 I 5
Fouqué, Lamotte, his tale of the UnÑnuwn Patiml, 119
Fra Angelico, 287
Franklin, 304
Frederick II., 3 8 3, 384
GALEN, 222
Gentleman, the true, defined, 208
Gerdil, Cardinal, quoted, xili., on the Emperor JuHan, 194; 011 Mal...
branche, 4'17

Index.

5 2 5

Giannone, 3 J 6
Gibbon, on the darkness at the Passion, 95; his batred of Christianity,
195, 196; his care in writing, 285 ; influence of bis style on the litera-
ture of the present day, 323; his tribute to Hume and Robertson, 325
Goethe, 134
Gothic Architecture, 82
Grammar, 9 6 , 334
Gregory the Great, St., 260
HARDOUIN, Father, on Latin literature, 310
HeaIth, 16 4
Herodotus, 284, 3 2 5, 329
Hobbes, 3 II
Homer, his address to the Delian women, 257; his bestdcscriptions, accord-
ing to Sterne, marred by translation, 271
Hooker, 311
Horace, quoted, 257, 25 8 , 329
Home Tooke, 96
Hume, 40, 58; style of 32.5
Humility, 206
Russ, 155
JACOB'S courtship, 232
Jeffrey, Lord, 157.
Jerome, S1., on idolizing the creature, 87
Jerusalem, the fountain-head of religious knowledge, 264-
Ignatius, St. 235
Job, religious merry-makings of, 232; Book of, 289
John, King, 383
John of Salisbury, 262
Johnson, Dr., his method of writing the Ramblers, xx. ; his vigour and
resource of inteUect, xxi. ; his definition of the word University 20; his
Rass
las quoted, 116-117 i style of, 28 3; his Table-talk, 313; his bi3$
towards Catholicity, 319 ; his definition of Gramma" 334
Joseph, history of, 271
Isaac, feast at his weaning, 232
Isocrates, 282
Julian the Apostate, 194
Justinian, 26 5
Juvenal, 325
KEBLE, John, 158; his Latin Lectures, 369
Knowledge, its own end, 99; viewed in relation to learning, 124; to pro.
fessional skill, 151 ; to religion, 179
LALANNE, Abbé, 9
Leo, St., on the love of gain, 87
Literature, 268
Locke, on Education, 15 8 - 160 , 16 3, 319.
Logos, 276
Lohner, Father, his story of a court-preacher, 411
Long-intis, his admiration of the 11 osaic ar.count ùf Creation, 271
Lutheran leaven, spread of the, 28

.s26

Index.

MACAULA v, Lord, his Essay on Bacon's philosophy, 118, 221; his EssaJ's
quoted, 301, 435-43 8 , 450
:\lachiavel, 316
Malebranche, 477
.Maltby, Dr., bishop of Durham, hi:; Address to the Deity, 33, 40

nchaeI Angelo, first attempts of, 283
}I, ilman Dean, his History of the Jews, 85

[iIton, on Education, I6g ;J1Ïs Samson Agvnistn quoted, 323; Iili allu
lions to himself, 329
Modesty, 200
Montaigne's Essays, 315
More, Sir Thomas, 437
l\losheim's Ecclesiastical History, 140
Muratori, 478, 520
Music, 80
NERI, St. Philip, 234
N ewton, Sir Isaac, xiii., 49, 53 j on the Apocalypse, 304; his marvelloUl
powers, 324

ewtonian philosophy, the, 49
Noah's ark, 73
OLYMPIC games, the, 10;
Optics, 46
PAINTING, 79
Palestrina, 237
Paley, 58, 449
Palladio, 57
Pascal, 315
Patrick, St., greatness of his work, tS
Periodical criticism, 333
Persian mode of letter-writing, 277
Pindar, 329
Pitt, \Villiam, his opinion of Eutlees Analogy, 100
Pius IV., Pope, death of, 237
Plato, on poets, 101 ; on music, 110
Playfair, Professor, 157
Political Economy, 86
Pompey's Pillar, 136
Pope, Alex., quoted, 118; an indifferent Catholic, 318: has tuned our
versification, 3 2 3; quoted, 375, 501
Porson, Richard, xiv., 304
Pride and self-respect, 207
Private Judgment, 97
Protestant argument against Transubstantiation, 95
Psalter, the, 289
Pulci, 316
Pythagoras, xiü
RAßELAIS, 315
RafTaelle, first attempts of, 283; 28,
Rassdas quoted. 116

T , .
.1 IUl CL.

5 2 7

Recreations not Education, 144-
Robertson, style of, 325
Rome, 265
Round Towers of Ireland, the, 9S
SALES, St. Francis de, on preaching, 406, 4I
4n
Salmasius, 140
Savonarola, 235
Scott, Sir \Valter, 313; his Old .lIIortality, 359
Seneca, 110, 116, 327
Sermons of the seventeenth century, 140
Shaftesbury, Lord, his Characteristics, 196-201, 204
Shakespeare, quoted, 150; his J,facbeth quoted, 280; llamlet quoted, 28r j
quoted, 284, 287; morality of. 318; quoted, 4 10 , 513
Simon of Toumay, narrative of, 384
Smith, Sydney, 157
Sophocles, 258
Southey's Thalaóa, 323; quoted, 324-
Sterne's Sermons, quoted, 270-272
Stuffing birds not education, 144
Sylvester II., Pope, accused of magic, 220
r ARPEIA, 140
Taylor, Jeremy, his Liberty of Prophesying, 47 2
Terence a..n.d
IenandeT, 259
Tertullian, 327
Thales, xiii.
Theology, a branch of knowledge, 19; definition of, 60
Thucydides, 259, 3 2 5, 3 2 9
Titus, armies of, 265
VIRGIL, his obligations to Greek poets, 259; wishes his Æneid burnt, 2S-t,
fixes the character of the hexameter, 3 2 5, 329
Voltaire, 303, 3 I 5
UTILITY in Education, 161
\V ATSON, Bishop, on 1\fathematics, 101
\Viclif, 155
\Vren, Sir Christopher,
7
.XAVIER, St. .FrancIs, 235
Xenophon quoted, 107, 25 8

FINIS.

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