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The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
vanity had helped to spread so deadly an influence. If he had lived a
little longer she might have changed him. So she thought; but Alice
knew better, and when she wept because she had been too late, the
dead man’s daughter knew that any time since Paul’s funeral would
have been too late. If she had talked to Lock every day it would not
have changed him. Only one thing, only Paul’s example, would have
taught him better, and that had gone to strengthen him in his folly.
(2’o be continued.)
IRelitjious ©tiicrs of tlje IfBititile
BY DENHAM ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLETON-BY-WIRKSWORTH.
The Monastic Orders.—The Benedictines.
E are not for a moment to imagine that such a vast and
I
I long-lived system as that which is known as ‘Monasticism,’
I
j sprung up in the Church at short notice or without signs
i of its approaching advent. On the contrary, in the
earliest pages of Church history there are unmistakable
traces of a desire for a holier life than that which could be lived in
the world. The worries and anxieties of daily occurrence were a
burden too heavy for some, who panted after a nearer approach to a
true Christian life. These sensitive people fretted, and chafed, and
pined, in the presence of so much evil as they saw around them; and
thus uneasy and unhappy,
‘ Each was ambitious of the obscurest place.’
From Apostolic times there was a class of Christian converts who
exercised greater self-denial, lived after a stricter rule, than their
fellow-men; and as it would appear, the austere and hard lives led
by these members of the Church, instead of causing a decrease, led to
an increase in their numbers. A danger seems to have been threat
ened to the peace of the Church by some of the customs and doctrines
of these more rigid and exacting Christians; for we find, in a set of
rules of great authority, called the ‘ Apostolic Canons,’ this command:
‘ If any bishop, presbyter, or deacon, or any other of the clergy,
abstain from marriage, flesh, or wine, not for exercise sake, but as
abominating the good creatures of God, &c. . . . let him either reform
himself or be deposed and cast out of the Church.’
By-and-by, not only did Christians crave to live thus severely,
but desired to give up all they had in the world and lead a life of
absolute poverty. Events happened presently which were favourable
to those who felt such desires. In the terrible times of the Docian
persecution, a.d. 249—251, when Fabianus, Bishop of Rome, Alexander
of Jerusalem, and Babylas of Antioch, suffered death, when the learned
Origen with others were imprisoned, very many Christians fled to the
deserts, woods, and caves for safety. These refuges were so prized,
became so dear to the fugitives, that'even, when all dangers had passed
away, they were chosen rather than dwellings in towns and cities.
There was now to be a fresh and strong movement in favour of
the solitary or monastic way of life. About the year a.d. 251 there
was born at the village of Coma, in Upper Egypt, one whose life
became the model of all who aimed at perfection in this point. Anthony,
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
■*
;
or, as he is sometimes styled, St. Anthony, gave up all his possessions,
retired from the society of men, dwelt in a hole of a rock, and spent
his time in acts of devotion. Crowds of admirers soon came to his
retreat, seeking counsel, desiring to settle down near to him, and spend
their lives after his pattern.
The first seeds of this system of solitary life having thus been
sown, there was soon an appearance of an abundant crop. Hilarion,
a disciple of Anthony, was ready to plant the system of monastic life
in Palestine ; whilst Basil the Great of Caesarea, the friend and fellow
student of Gregory Nazianzen, helped on the cause amongst Christ
ians in Syria and Asia Minor. The first religious house where monks
of various degrees and estates lived under the rule or guidance of a
chief or abbot was founded by Pachomius, in Egypt. ‘ Pachomius,’
as a quaint author writes, ‘ by the help of God effected this.’
It is generally supposed that Athanasius introduced this solitary
life into Europe. Living in banishment at Borne, a.d. 341, this bold
champion of the faith wrote a life of St. Anthony. This biography was
translated into Latin, and was most eagerly read by numerous citizens.
This sketch of a life of self-denial and seclusion attracted many and
convinced some. There was a company ready to adopt this life. One
by one the names of those who are familiar to us as leading Churchmen
in the fourth and fifth centuries appear as countenancing this isolated
and austere life,—St. Ambrose of Milan, St. Martin of Tours, and
St. Jerome. The last-named writer often in his letters speaks of the
joys of this life, and compares the sweetness of happiness he derived
from dwelling in the village of Bethlehem with the splendours and
attractions of Borne. ‘ At Bethlehem, Christ’s little village, there was
nothing to be heard but psalms; one could not go into the field but he
heard the ploughman singing his hallelujahs, the mower comforting
himself with hymns, and the vine-dressers tuning David’s Psalms.’
Jn the East and in the West the system had found a home within
the Church, and its friends were not slow in trying to prove what
could be done by men thus withdrawn from the business of life in
spreading the Christian religion far and wide. In France, in Britain,
in Ireland, zealous and tried members wrought, and prayed, and taught,
with little to cheer them but a strong sense of duty. Scattered far
and wide as sheep without a shepherd, under no general law, respon
sible to no central head, with many individual members of depraved
and unruly life, there needed some strong and firm master to stand
up among the monks as governor. About the year a.d. 480 such
a man was born at Norsia, in Italy, by name Benedict. Whilst at
Borne receiving his education, he became so uneasy at the evils he
saw on every side, that at the early age of fifteen he left Borne and
retired to a solitary rock, where he was supported by a daily meal
from the scanty store of a monk of Subiaco, whose name was Bomanus.
Discovered at length in his retreat by some shepherds, Benedict spent
his time in instructing them, and persuading them to devote themselves
to the service of God. When about thirty years of age, a.d. 510,
Benedict was chosen as abbot of a monastery near his retreat; but
he soon gave such offence to the brethren by his austere and holy
living, that they tried to take his life by poison.
Betiring again to his rock, there were soon vast numbers seeking
7
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
his company and desiring his advice. Shortly he was able to found
twelve monasteries or homes, with an abbot and twelve monks in each
dwelling, a.d. 528, owing to misunderstandings with a priest named
Florentius, St. Benedict left Subiaco, and after a while came with his
A bENEblCTINE, FliuM DL’GJJALE’S ‘WARWICKSHIRE.’
companions to Monte Cassino. In the neighbourhood of this small
town there was a lofty eminence, where stood a temple of the heathen
god Apollo, and a sacred grove. Benedict presently so far prevailed
that the heathen god was destroyed, the grove cut down, and a Christian
oratory, or church, was erected, which was dedicated to St. John and
St. Martin. Above the church was eventually founded the celebrated
Monastery, which has ever since been regarded as the chief and central
home of the Order.
Whilst completing his buildings in this retired spot, Benedict
S
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
drew up the laws of his famous 1 Rule of Life,’ which for a long course
of years was regarded as the model of all such religious codes. Ac
cording to the provisions of the Rules, those who after long and
anxious probation were admitted to fellowship, took upon themselves
the vows of poverty, chastity, obedience, and readiness for manual
labour, which vows were to be regarded as irrevocable. Each Monastery
BATTLE ABBEY AS IT WAS ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO.
adopting the Rule of St. Benedict, was to be governed by an abbot
chosen by the monks and approved by the bishop. The Brethren of
the Order were to rise two hours after midnight for matins, and if at
the monastery, to attend eight services daily: they were to be at manual
labour seven hours. The Psalter was to be repeated each week ; a
book was to be read aloud at every meal; two kinds of cooked vege
tables were permitted; to each monk was allowed a small measure of
wine. The Abbot of each Monastery was to discriminate and moderate
the labours which he imposed on each individual. He was to take for
his pattern the example of prudence presented in the words of the
9
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
patriarch, Gen. xxxiii. 13, ‘If men should overdrive them one day, all
the ilock will die.’ Hospitality was to be shown to all, and especially
to the poor: even the Abbot was required to share in washing the feet
of guests. It should be remembered that those monks, living thus
away from the world in retirement under the guidance of St. Benedict,
were laymen, not clergy. It is not known that even Benedict himself,
the founder of the Order, was ever ordained. The members of the
Order wore a distinctive dress or habit, usually black, but always of
a coarse and plain character.
For about fourteen years St. Benedict was spared to set a pattern
of industry, humiliation, and devotion, to his disciples, beseeching them
continually to avoid the sins of pride, idleness, and covetousness.
Finding that his life was drawing to a close he ordered his grave to
be dug; which order having been executed, he asked to be conveyed
to the spot. Looking at this narrow cell in silence, he after a while
said, ‘ Am I here to await, in this strait bed, a joyful resurrection?’
He rapidly sank, and died on March 21,543, being, as the old chroniclers
state, the eve of Passion Sunday.
The Benedictine Order from this time rapidly grew in the esteem of
devoted men. Members of influence soon founded monasteries in
Sicily, France, and Spain. In the year a.d. 596 the Order was intro
duced into England by Augustine, who was himself a member;
and it was not very long before almost every religious house in
England adopted, either by persuasion or compulsion, the Rule of the
famous Order. Gradually there sprang up in the several counties of
England noble homes of the Order, in which were presently gathered
sons of nobles and chiefs, ready to devote themselves to this life of
religious exercises. Thus we find, in a.d. 677, St. Peter’s at Wearmouth,
and St. Paul’s at Jarrow, were raised by Benedict, or Bennet Biscop, one
of whose pupils was the Venerable Bede. In a.d. 714 Croyland Abbey,
one of the very noblest of the many honies of the Order in Eng
land, was commenced. Every century saw some new house built,
and even when the Saxon rule was ended the Order of St. Benedict
was not left friendless or without a patron. Speed, in his history,
thus speaks of William the Conqueror as a supporter of the monks
of St. Benedict, p. 435:—‘Besides his many other stately buildings,
both for fortification and devotion, three Abbeyes of chiefe note he is
sayd to have raised, and endowed with large priviliges and rich pos
sessions. The first was at Battle in Sussex, where he wonne the
Diademe of England in the valley of Sangue-lac, so called in French,
for the streames of blood therein spilt. Most certain it is, that in the
very same place where King Harold’s Standard was pitched, and
under which himself was slain, there William the Conqueror laid that
foundation, dedicating it to the Holy Trinity and to S. Martin, that
ther the Monks might pray for the soules of Harold and the rest that
were slain in that place.’
From the reign of William, 1066, to the time of Henry VIII., 1546,
when all the Religious Houses of the Order were seized, there was a
gradual increase of the Order in England, so that at length a traveller
had not far to go who wished to visit the Benedictines from house to
house. Westminster Abbey was a Benedictine foundation, ro like
wise were Abingdon, St. Alban’s, and Glastonbury. Though energetic
10
�A Hint Well Taken.
and desirous of planting their Order ever in some new home, it would
be untrue to describe the Benedictines in these words:—
1 Like zealous missions, they did care pretend
Of souls in show, but made the gold their end ; ’
for it is to mon that England owes much of her mediaeval prosperity
and early civilisation. Forests were cleared by these monks, roads
were made, wastes reclaimed, fields tilled, churches built, schools taught,
books copied over and over again, heathenism rooted out. These were,
some of the many works which were done by these pioneers of enlight
enment. Though they have been styled by an eminent Frenchman,
M. Guizot, ‘ The Clearers ’ of Europe, yet their special work was the
*
foundation of schools of learning. Two silent but truthful witnesses
to the untiring zeal of the Benedictine Order on behalf of education
are those facts,— that in the precincts of their Abbey at Westminster
the first printing-press was set up in England, and that in Italy the
first printing-press which was put together was for the Order of
St. Benedict, at a small house at Subiaco, where St. Benedict had dwelt.
Though the Order was suppressed in England at the time of the
Reformation, yet it has existed in various countries of Europe; its
members toiling on still in their own line of literature, and giving the
world from time to time some of the noblest writings of ancient days,
edited with all that care and precision for which the Order has become
famous. The Benedictine edition of the early Church writers, such as
St. Augustine, is regarded as the standard edition. Though Monte
Cassino has passed through many troublous changes since the death of
the devoted Benedict, yet its substantial buildings in these days can
assure the traveller that the ‘ Benedictine Order ’ still survives, and
can welcome guests with a generous hospitality.
What an important part in the pages of history this noble Order
has played may be judged of when it is stated, that from its ranks
there have been chosen no fewer than forty popes, two hundred cardinals,
fifty patriarchs, one hundred and sixteen archbishops, four thousand
six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve empresses, forty-six kings,
and forty-one queens.
& îWint toril Œafcen.
R. LOCKHART, of Glasgow, when travelling in Eng
land, was sojourning in an inn when Sunday came round. .
On entering the public room, and about to set out for 1
church, he found two gentlemen preparing for a game
at chess. He politely said to them : ‘ Gentlemen, have
you locked up your portmanteaus carefully?’
‘ No. What 1 are there thieves in this house ? ’
‘ I do not say that; only I was thinking that if the waiter comes
in and finds you making free with the fourth commandment, he may
think of making free with the eighth commandment.’ The gentlemen
said, ‘ There is something in that,’ and laid aside their game.
* Les Défricheurs de l’Europe.
11
�3acfc anti tije Hangman.
MOW, Jack, row fair and softly,’
i * The landsman gravely said,
‘We City men, at weary desk,
Work precious hard for bread.
Long hours, and barely room to turn,
While you are gay and free,
It makes it seem one holiday,
Your life, my friend, at sea.’
‘Aye! tis a famous life, sir,
When skies are blue and bright,
And winds are soft and favouring;
But come some stormy night
And stand beside me on the deck
Of our good ship Renown,
I wager you will heave a sigh
For your snug place in town.
I couldn’t stand your work, sir!
I grant you that, I own ;
But then you have your people round,
Yom family, your home:
While I, in sailing out of port,
Leave all I love behind,
And know my mother breaks her heart
With every puff of wind.
You take your walk o’ Sundays,
The girl a-near your heart,
Whom you will promise some fine day
To hold till death do part;
You saunter through the flowery lane
’Mid talk of that same day,
While I may whistle for my Jane
Some thousand miles away!
We're pretty much alike, sir—
Our lives are none too soft—
You sitting on your long-legged stool,
And I, poor Jack, aloft;
You gasping for a freer air,
I blown across the deck,
Both praying, if in different tongue,
“ Lord! keep our ship from wreck.”
I sometimes like to think, sir,
That He was once afloat,
Along with His disciples,
In that poor fisher-boat,
And saw tlie gale rise fierce and fast
In far-off Galilee,
Just as I've watched it on the deck
Of our good ship at sea.
12
�The Happiest Life.—The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
grew so fond of him that whenever, from his barking, they apprehended
danger, they would rush towards him for protection, and seek shelter
in his kennel. A farmer’s wife had a young duck which, by some
accident, was deprived of its companions, and attached itself to her.
Wherever she moved it followed her so closely that she was in constant
fear of treading upon and crushing it to death. It laid itself by the
fire and basked on the hearth, and when noticed seemed delighted.
This went on till some other ducks were procured, when, being con
stantly driven out of the house, it gradually associated with its more
natural companions.
Oe iWavincst ¡Life.
RATHER, I know that all my life
Is portioned out for me ;
And the changes that will surely come
I do not fear to see :
But I ask Thee for a present will
Intent on pleasing Thee.
I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,
To meet the glad with joyful smiles
And wipe the weeping eyes:
And a heart at leisure from itself
To soothe and sympathise.
I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro,
Seeking for some great tiling to do,
Or secret thing to know.
I would be treated like a child
And guided where to go.
Wherever in the world I am,
In whatsoe’er estate,
There is a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate :
And a work of lowly love to do
For the Lord on Whom I wait.
I
I ask Thee for the daily strength,
To none that ask denied,
And a mind to blend with outward things
While keeping at Thy side:
Content to fill a little space
So Thou be glorified.
And if some things I do not seek
In my cup of blessing be,
I would have my spirit filled the more
With grateful love to Thee;
And careful less to serve Thee much
Than to please Thee perfectly.
There are briers besetting every path
Which call for patient care,
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer:
But a lowly heart that leans on Thee
Is happy anywhere.
In service which Thy love appoints
There are no bonds for me ;
For my secret heart is taught the truth
Which makes Thy children free :
And a life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty.
M. L. Waking.
Keligious ©rtrers of tfje IBüftile
BY DENHAM ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLET0N-BY-WIRK3W0RTH.
The Monastic Orders.— II. The Augustins.
the history of the ‘ Benedictine Order ’ it was stated that
the members of the Order were chiefly, if not entirely, lay
men ; Benedict himself, the founder, never having been
ordained. In the sketch now given of another famous
religious community, it is well to remark that the ‘Augus
tins’ were chiefly ordained men, or men who were looking forward to
ordination.
If, on several important matters, there were different opinions held
by the great doctors of the Christian Church, there seems to have been
but one opinion about the need of special homes, retired from the world,
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
for those who would devote themselves wholly to God’s service. On
this point of Christian order and discipline there appears to have been
a complete unity of sentiment. There were reasons why such a manner
of common life was then most desirable and most necessary.
It was in the earlier years of the fifth century that the movement
in favour of this retired life received a great impetus. There had
been signs of a desire for such a mode of life manifest for many years,
and these signs had become more and more evident as time went on ; but
now circumstances arose in which it was no longer possible to delay the
formation of companies of earnest and holy men, who might live together
apart from the cares and worry of the world.
From the year a.d. 400, the Christians living within the limits of
the Roman empire had to endure so many terrible and crushing evils,
that unless some such provision as that afforded by the foundation of
homes for study or retirement had been made, the fate and fortune of
Christianity in those countries would have been in imminent peril. In
the years a.d. 408-410 there came three separate invasions by the Visi
goths under Alaric. A little later there came the Vandals, under
Genseric; and, after a very brief interval, the Huns, under Attila,
who called himself ‘ the Scourge of God.’ In such times as these, when
armed and savage men were ever near at hand to spoil churches and
murder clergy and people without mercy, there was need of such places
of refuge as were now being formed.
Besides the troubles which came from without—which came from
heathen hands—in Northern Africa, there was another foe. Vast num
bers of men who called themselves Christians, but who in reality were
heretics, were continually harassing the members of the Church. These
Circumcelliones (vagrants), or, as they styled themselves, Agonistici
(combatants), were such a source of constant anxiety to the faithful,
that Augustine, bishop of Hippo, determined to collect into societies
those whose desire it was to become ordained servants of the Church.
In view of such trials as then pressed on Christians, when it is remem
bered that churches were desecrated, that clergy were imprisoned and
put to death, when the holy vessels were destroyed, is it a matter for
surprise if we find that such men as Augustine sanctioned and helped
to found homes,
‘ By shady oak, or limpid spring,
where faithful and self-denying men might keep alive and free from
error the religion of Jesus Christ ?
If, as there are some reasons for believing, Eusebius, bishop of
Vercelli, in the North of Italy, who flourished about the year a.d. 354,
and Hilary, bishop of Arles, 430-449, lived together with their clergy a
i common fife, yet it is to the widely known and venerated name of
1 St. Augustine that the fame attaches of having founded an Order of
religious men whose lives were to be passed in a home specially set
apart for their use. The strong and practical mind of this great Church
leader recognised the necessity of such an institution, and at once set
about its foundation. There must be such a brotherhood living under his
eye, listening to his teaching, yielding to his guidance, each and all of
which society were to aim at fulfilling, not only the precepts of the Gospel
but its COUNSELS.
One great idea of his life—an idea which Augustine had enter4
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
tained before his conversion to Christianity—was now carried out ; he
had established a community of religious men, but now, with that
shrewd good sense for which he is noted, he would guard against evils
which were likely to beset this company and hinder them in their
AN AUGUSTINIAN.
(FROJI DUGDALE’s ‘WARWICKSHIRE.’)
spiritual duties. The kind of life he designed for his brotherhood had
attractions for numbers who would have been but indifferent and, per
chance, unworthy members, and Augustine, with jealous care, provided
strict rules for the regulation of these unpromising postulants. He
saw men coming for admittance, many of whom were of the lower and
lowest classes, to whom
‘ The shining cincture and the broidered fold ’
of the monk were of more importance than the inner life of piety and
holiness. These he would not reject. ‘ These,’ said he, ‘ may become
5
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
honoured instruments in the hands of God ; for as it is written (1 Cor. i.
26-28) “ Not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not
many noble, are called ; but God hath chosen the foolish things of the
world to confound the wise, and God hath chosen the weak things of
the world to confound the things that are mighty, and base things of
the world and things which are despised hath God chosen.” ’ But for
all who were admitted to the Order or Community there was to be a
full occupation. For every member there was to be set out a measure
or portion of work. Hard, daily manual labour, in some shape or other,
was to be done by every monk. And besides the requirement of daily
tasks from each, there was a strict rule of life laid down, which went far
to secure order, usefulness, and spiritual growth in the members.
It was thus by drawing themselves together, and when formed into
compact bodies, that these servants of the Church would carry on the
work of teaching the people in the towns and villages, and train up
6ome of their brethren for the special work of going out into heathen
lands with the offer of salvation and eternal life. Those who had been
ordained, or who were expecting to be ordained, would in this way, by
living a retired, and holy, and self-denying life, win the hearts of men
and gain them over to the faith.
What had the sanction of such names as Eusebius of Vercelli, of
Hilary of Arles, and of St. Augustine of Hippo, soon became widely
known, and in a short time there was, in a vast number of dioceses,
similar communities. Bishops, in almost every European country,
founded and presided over bodies of their clergy; and hence what had
been commenced as an absolutely necessary institution in one, two, or
three countries, soon spread its branch-houses throughout the whole of
the Western Church, until ‘ The Augustins,' or those clergy who pro
fessed to live after the plan of life drawn up for the seminary at Hippo,
became a most important and considerable organised body of Church
workers .
From the fact that St. Augustine drew up his scheme for the regu
lation of the lives of his clerical community or ‘ Order,’ so as to be in
accordance not only with the distinct teaching of Holy Writ but with the
canons which had received the sanctions of General Councils of the
Church, those who adopted and carried out his rule became known as
‘ Canons,’ and a little later as ‘ Regular Canons.’ In the early days of
the foundation of the Order, when they were called sometimes ‘ The
Lord’s Brethren’ (Jratres Dominici),those bitter lines of Chaucer could
hardly have been a faithful description, when, in the Ploughman's Tale,
he says—
i
1
,
‘ And all such other Counterfaitors,
Chanons, Canons, and sueh disguised,
Been Goddes enemies and traytours,
His true religion hav some despised.’
It was only to be expected that an important, learned, and zealous
body of men, whose lives and labours for the good of men were well
reported of, and whose kindly offices were constantly sought after,
would, in the end, come into possession of lands and money. And as a
fact of history, these Augustins did thus draw to themselves an everincreasing number of gifts and presents. Benefactors became so many
*nd so liberal, that within a while the riches of the community became
6
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
z
a burden, hindering the members in the spiritual warfare on which they
had entered. There was a falling away in these Augustins, from that
plain, hard life, from that sharp discipline, which had been insisted on
by him whose name they bore. Indeed, the loose morals, the corrupted
condition of many societies of the Order, became so notorious, that respect
and regard were rapidly fading away.
About 750 a.d. the general state of the ' Augustin Order’ was so
serious as to attract the attention of a man of noble birth—Chrodegang,
a nephew of Pepin, and Archbishop of Metz. This prudent man,
observing the very different life led by these Augustins or Canons to
that which he knew to be the rule of the Order as drawn by St. Augus
tine, set himself the task of a reformation of these Canons. After a
time of consideration, Chrodegang issued a set of rules which are known
as the ‘ Sincere Rules of Metz,—Regulce Sincerce apud Mansi.' By these
rules there was to be a common refectory, a common dormitory, an uni
form dress. The clerical members—those, that is, who had already
been ordained—were bound to attend Divine service so many times aday, and each was to spend so much time in manual labour and so much
in study. Youngers were to show respect for elders. All .were to
receive Holy Communion every Sunday and high festival. Stripes and
confinement were inflicted for certain neglects or wrongs. The code, as
drawn up by Chrodegang, was laid before a council of the Church held
at Aix-la-Chapelle (about fifty years after the death of its author),
a.d. 816, under the presidency of Louis the Pious, and having obtained
the approval of the bishops and divines there assembled, it was soon
generally received and recognised as the Augustin Rule for Canons
Regular.
In the course of the next two or three centuries these ‘Canons’
increased again rapidly, both in numbers and influence, and living more
closely to their rule, they were able to draw into their Order many noble
and religious men. In Italy, Spain, France, Germany, and England,
these Augustins founded homes. The precise date when a branch of
the Augustin Order was first introduced into England is a matter of
uncertainty. Some would have us understand that the event took place
a.d. 640, when Birinus was Bishop of Dorchester. Others, following the
Chronicon Augustin,, compiled by Josephus Pamphilus, assert that the
Augustins were settled in London a.d. 1059, before the Norman Con
quest. The most probable date is a.d. 1105, in the reign of Henry I.,
when one Eudo introduced the Order to this country. For some time
St. John’s, at Colchester, was one of their chief houses; but these
Augustins, or Black Canons as they were sometimes called from the
colour of their habit, soon gained a large amount of favour and in
terest among the English, and obtained grants of land in almost every
county.
It has been observed, that to the ‘ Benedictine Order ’ we owe many
of our noble cathedrals; it may now be stated that it is to the ‘Augustin
Order ’ that we are indebted for the cathedrals of Oxford, Lincoln, Salis
bury, Lichfield, Carlisle, and Hereford. Whatever was done by these
Canons, however, in the way of teaching, or building, or civilising, was
of no avail when the day of trouble came. One of their own Order
Martin Luther—commenced his labours, and in a brief period the
storm which he raised became so violent, not only in Germany but in
7
�Faith—Use of Time.
England, that the ‘ Augustin Order,’ like all other religious communi
ties, was suppressed, and its lands and houses alienated.
The end of the Order is thus described by Fuller, in his Holy War,
p. 252:—‘For an introduction to the suppression of all the residue,
the King had a strait watch set upon them, and the regulars therein tied
to a strict and punctual observation of their orders, without any relax
ation of the least liberty ; insomuch that many did quickly unnun and
disfriar themselves, whose sides, formerly used to go loose, were soon
galled with strait lacing. Then followed the great dissolution or judgment-day on the world of abbeys remaining ; which, of what value
soever, were seized into the King’s hands. The Lord Cromwell, one of
excellent parts, but mean parentage, came from the forge to be the
hammer to maul all abbeys; whose magnificent ruins may lesson the
beholders, that it is not the firmness of the stone nor fastness of the
mortar maketh strong walls, but the integrity of the inhabitants.'
dTaitl).
HE substance of things hoped for
By Christians high and low—
Hoped for! how fondly hoped for
Only our God can know.
For only our God can see
Each inmost hope and fear;
No man hath power to see and know
What is to God so clear.
T
See the great cloud of witnesses
In solemn sequence rise;
Proclaiming each the power of Faith,
They pass before our eyes.
We grasp the truth they showed in life,
And show in death again;
We thank the Lord of Heaven and earth
They witness not in vain.
The evidence of things not seen,
Things past and things to come,
By some believed, to some unknown,
And disbelieved by some.
Things written in God’s Holy Word,
Which, though by faith received,
Nor eye hath seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor heart of man conceived.
Then let us lay aside each weight,
Each strong besetting sin,
And let us run with patience
That we the prize may win;
That, looking unto Jesus,
We may follow where He trod,
And together be set down with Him
Beside the throne of God.
God’s words and works to finite sense
May hard and dark appear;
His ways are not our ways, yet all
By Faith seem plain and clear.
Even that holy mystery
By Faith we understand—
How the worlds were framed by the
Word of God,
And His glory filled the land.
Faith, Hope, and Charity— these three
Shall be with us alway—
Shall be to us a fire by night,
A guiding cloud by day.
By Faith our Love is cherished,
By Faith our Hope we see ;
We’ll live in Hope, we’ll live by Faith,
And Love our life shall be.
R. S. R. A.
of &ime.
Lord Coke wrote the subjoined distich, which he religiously
observed in the distribution of his time :—
‘ Six hours to sleep; to law’s grave study, six;
Four spend in prayer; the rest to Nature fix.'
Sir William Jones, a wiser economist of fleeting hours of life,
amended the sentiment in the following lines :—
‘Seven hours to law; to soothing slumber, seven;
Ten to the world allot; and all, all, to Heaven.’
8
�Church Proverbs.
voiced proclamation. Who does not remember the bc,y that said at
school, with head erect and fiery tongue, that the master had ‘ better
not touch me, I can tell him,’ and on turning round and seeing the
master behind him, very properly begged his master’s pardon, and put
his bluster in his pocket lor a time? ¡¿o is it with the man who talks
loudly before the battle, that boasts himself when he puts on his
armour instead of waiting till, victorious and having given proof of
better stuff than boasting, he takes it off. A red coat and a swagger
ing gait do not make a soldier any more than Cucullus facit monachum.
For there are such things as wolves in sheep’s clothing. Holy
Scripture appeals, in saying this, to our common experience and ob
servation. There were bad men in good monks’ attire in former
days, and there are still wolves in skins of sheep and lambs. This
tells us, doubtless, to beware of others, but it tells us also to take heed
to ourselves. If, for example, we meet our neighbour No. 1 with a
a smile and a handshake of warmest welcome, see we to it that we do not
go and say to our neighbour No. 2 anything unfriendly about No. 1. For
a smile and a handshake do not make friendship. A staunch word behind
the slandered back is more like true friendship. There is a saying in
9
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
this same Latin tongue which runs over with wise sayings, of which
the English is, ‘ A true friend is tested in a doubtful matter.’ That
is to say, if you get into trouble, and the world shakes its head at you
without cause, then comes the time for you to see what makes friend
ship, and what is only the outside cowl of friendship. When the sun
shines and fortune smiles, as the saying is, then everybody is smiling
too, and the world is pleasant as pleasant can be. But that does not
make friendship any more than the cowl makes the good monk.
What really did make the monk was his obedience, his poverty, his
holiness, his sincerity, and other such consistencies, added upon his
formal and due admission to the fraternity he belonged to. Then came
his cowl. That was all well enough, a part of his uniform and pro
fession. But it did not make him what he was. There are essential
parts of a character, parts, that is, which if you take away, the char
acter is altered altogether; and there are not essential parts. The
cowl or hood was a mere sign of monkery, and the monk was a monk
when he took it off as truly as when he wore it on. The hood did
not make the monk.
Œfje ïUIioious ©rïira of tïje iMiWe
BY DENIIAJI ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLETON-BY-WIRKSWORTH,
The Monastic Orders.—III. The Cistercians.
1 the troubled and unsettled years of the ninth and tenth
centuries, a.d. 800-1000, the strict rule of life which had
been drawn up by St. Benedict for the monks of his Order
was gradually relaxed. In some monasteries the standard
set up by the master was far too high to be reached, and
upon various pleas dispensations of the rule were constantly granted.
The well-known and rigid piety of the founder and the earlier mem
bers for a long time sustained the popularity of the Benedictines; but
when faults and failings of later monks became known to the laity, who
made no profession of peculiar devotion to God, there were numerous
expressions of discontent.
But though the state of many of the religious houses had thus
grown into such unsavoury repute, there was at that time so much real
need for these homes of learning—these centres of religious life—that
rather than allow them to decay and perish, wise, holy, strong-minded
men determined, from time to time, to reform them, and, if possible,
to revive the love of study and prayer among those who had devoted
themselves to such a life. That which was becoming to a monk, and
pleasant in the eye of God, and useful to the Church, was retained.
That which was unprofitable and unbecoming was to be cast away.
That which had even the appearance of evil was to be avoided with
utmost care. Very bold, stern, and firm, were some of these Reformers;
and little pity had they for the follies and weaknesses of the inmates of
the cloister. A quaint old English historian, writing his account of these
numerous efforts to amend the lives of monks and make them such men
as they professed to be, thus puts the mattery—‘ Now as mercers, when
their old stuffs begin to tire in sale, refresh them with new names to
make them more vendible; so, when the Benedictines waxed stale in the
10
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
world, the same Order was set forth in a new edition corrected and
amended.’ It is quite true, as Fuller states, that there are a number of
Orders all springing from the parent Benedictine rule; but it must he
remarked that each separate name given is a fresh testimony on behalf
of the earnest desire there was that the rule of life designed by
St. Benedict should be observed and adhered to.
One of these attempts to i refine the drossy Benedictines,’ was made
by Robert de Molesme. This man was of noble birth, and at a very
early age (15) was received into a monastery. The manner of life led
at this first religious house did not suit his ascetic turn of mind, and
long did he search for a monastery in which the laws were sharp enough
to satisfy his yearnings. In the end, he joined a congregation at
Molesme, in the diocese of Langres, in the north-east of France ; and
here for a time, as head of the house, he enforced with utmost rigour
the original rule of St. Benedict. This exact and punctual observance,
enforced with unflinching zeal, was too much for the monks; they urged
the differences of climate and situation as excuses for neglects, and
refused to obey their abbot. Robert, discovering that his labours were
likely to be in vain, with the consent of Hugh of Lyons, the Pope’s
legate, withdrew from Molesme.
In the year a.d. 1098, Robert, with about twenty followers, set out
to found a new home. This company took a fancy to a wild and barren
spot at Cistercium, or Citeaux, not far from the town of Dijon. In a
little while this band of holy men—the founders, the originators of the
far-famed ‘ Cistercian Order ’—obtained from the Duke of Burgundy a
tract of land whereon they might build a home and pasture their cattle.
Robert had not been at Cistercium many months when he was sum
moned back to Molesme. The young society was now left to the
guidance of Abbot Alberic, who drew up a set of rules for his monks.
On the death of Alberic, an Englishman, named Stephen Harding, suc
ceeded as abbot, and he added fresh regulations, which obtained the
sanction of the Pope, and became known under the title of the ‘ Charter
of Love.’
By the authority of Calixtus a special dress was worn by the Cis
tercian monks, which was to be made, says an old chronicler, ‘ in
accordance with a pattern which Alberic, the second abbot of the Order,
had been shown in a vision by the Blessed Virgin Mary, and from a
white cloth fabric.’
The utmost simplicity of food was to be used, as may be imagined
when it is stated that one of the rules was that only a single meal daily
was-to be taken between September and Easter. Their homes were
always to be chosen in retired and waste places, such as those described
by Goldsmith in his poem, The Hermit:—
* Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And stranger», led astray.'
It would appear that these monks of Citeaux—these Cistercians—
were so wonderfully exact in their lives and so austere in their devo
tions that for some years they were not increased in numbers.
‘ The scrip, with herbs and fruit supplied,
And water from the spring,’
11
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
was too hard a fare to attract men to the ranks of the fraternity. Byand-by, however, Stephen Harding was to see a result of his untiring
labours, his unceasing prayers. The little community in their seclu
sion was one day surprised by the appearance of a large company of
more than thirty men, who came under the influence of Bernard to
seek an admission. Bernard (or, as he is generally called, St. Bernard),
born at Fontaines, near Dijon, a.d. 1091, had been trained by a holy
mother, Alice or Aletha, and early in life, in a retired chapel, had
‘ poured out his heart like water before the sight of God,’ and given
himself up to God’s service for life. Having prevailed on his brothers,
father, and sister, and others, to give up the world and join him, Ber
nard with his company set out for Citeaux, drawn to that monastery
by the reports of the holy and devoted lives of its inmates. The arrival
of this large number was welcome; but now the cloisters of Citeaux
were so full that other homes were needed. In a.d. 1113 Bernard
arrived; in that same year one company went out and founded a settle
ment at La Ferte. In 1114 another band established a home at
Pontigny. In 1115 another society took up its abode at Morimond.
The Cistercians having now commenced in earnest to send forth
from the parent house at Citeaux bands of holy men, in the latter end
of a.d. 1115 parted with a company under the lead of St. Bernard, who
was to prove one of the most renowned and illustrious members of the
Order. This congregation came, after a time of search, unto a deserted
spot which had been in former years the resort of a gang of robbers,
and went by the name of Vallis Absinthialis—The Valley of Worm
wood. Here a settlement was made in this unpromising, uninviting
wilderness, which, under the more pleasing title of Clara Vallis, or
Clairvaux, or Bright Valley, has become known as the scene of the
labours of one of the most noted men of any period.
At the early age of twenty-five St. Bernard found himself Abbot
of Clairvaux ; and everything which an abbot ought to be he seems to
have striven after with untiring zeal. He prayed standing till he
became faint and exhausted. Though of a weak and frail constitution,
he laboured in the fields and woods with his monks till he fell—looking
in his work, as one record of his life has it, ‘ as if a lamb were yoked to
the plough and compelled to drag it.’ His charities were abundant, pro
viding, among other outlays, food for numbers of poor during a famine in
Burgundy. His studies, and more especially of the Word of God, were
severe and long-continued. It is hardly to be wondered at if, under the
control and direction of such an uncommon abbot as St. Bernard, the
Cistercian Order rapidly increased in numbers, wealth, and consider
ation. The monastery of Clairvaux, though its inmates had to live
upon ‘ porridge made of beech-leaves, with no other seasoning but what
was given to it by hunger or the love of God,’ was resorted to by
hundreds who were unable to gain an admission, and was regarded as
the very model of such homes. Pope Innocent II., a.d. 1131, visited
this Cistercian home at Clairvaux when Bernard was abbot; and
so well-pleasing in his eyes were these ‘ poor in Christ,’ that he granted
to Clairvaux and to the whole Cistercian Order special exemptions
and peculiar privileges. The mean chapel with its bare walls, the refec
tory or dining-room with its earthen floor, the coarse food, the scant
clothing, these were no hindrances to men of high birth—even
12
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
A CISTERCIAN.
(FROM DUGDALE’8 ‘WARWICKSHIRE.’)
royalty in the person of Henry, the king’s brother, asking for mem
bership among the monks. There was a special charm which drew
men, a charm described in a few words by St. Bernard himself, and
which have thus been translated by Wordsworth :—
« Here man more purely lives; less oft doth fall;
More promptly rises ; walks with nicer tread;
More safely rests ; dies happier ; and gains withal
A brighter crown.’
In a short time, chiefly through the wonderful repute of St. Ber
nard, the Cistercian Order became most popular in every country in
Europe. France supplied many homes, and detachments soon found
settlements in England and Germany. During the time of St. Ber
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
nard, a.d. 1115-1153, as many as one hundred and sixty branch houses
had been founded, and within a hundred years it is reckoned that there
were as many as three thousand monasteries inhabited by monks of this
Order.
These strict, austere, abstemious Cistercians—or Bernardines, as they
were sometimes called, after the great light of the Order—were intro
duced into England a very few years after the foundation at Citeaux.
In the year 1128 William Giffard, who had been chancellor to three
successive monarchs—William I., William IL, and Henry I., and at
length was consecrated Bishop of Winchester—invited over some Cister
cians, and built for them a home at Waverley, in Surrey. Another
early and liberal patron of the Order in England was William l’Epée,
who encouraged a company to come north and settle down at Rievaulx
in Yorkshire.
Besides these two earlier homes, the Cistercians had numerous
branch-houses in various parts of England, such as Woburn, Furness,
Fountains, Kirkstall, Tintern,“ Buckland, Bindon, whose ruins now tell
what men of mark these monks must have been.
Though the Cistercians were bound by rule to be in strict obedi
ence to bishops, yet they do not seem to have been careful in their con
duct to kings. Speed in his history gives an instance of want of loyalty.
King John had just been present at the funeral of St. Hugh at Lin
coln, by which act the historian supposes great humility was shown; he
then goes on with these observations, pp. 537-8,—‘ Yet here the king
rested not to give proof in so great a height of his lowly mind, and then
benigne (however afterwards averted) to the Clergie ; when twelve
Abbots of the Cisteaux Habit (whose whole Order had displeased him,
by refusing to give Ayde towards his great payment of thirtie thousand
pounds), came now to Lincolne, and all prostrate at his feete, craved his
gracious favour, for that his Forresters had driven out (for so the King
had given command) of his Pastures and Forrests all their Cattell,
wherewith themselves and Christ’s poore were sustained. The King
touched with remorse att so venerable a troope of Suppliants (though so
great offenders), commanded them to rise, who were no sooner up, but
the King, inspired with Divine Grace, fell flat on the ground before them,
desiring pardon, adding that hee not onely admitted them to his love,
and their Beasts to his Pastures (a speciall favour which kings had
granted that Order) but would also build an Abbey for men of their sort
(if they would designe some choice seat), wherein himself meant to be
enshrined. Neither did he promise them more than he performed, nor
were those wylie “ Humiliates ” regardless of choosing a delicate plot for
the purpose, where hee built a goodly Abbey of their Order, deservedly
for the pleasance of the place named Beaulieu, and of rich Revenue and
exceedinge Priviledge. But this Cisteaux dis-Order was not alone,
either in those shamefull indignities or gamefull attonements.’
This Order has given to the Church many men of learning, and has
furnished her with popes, cardinals, bishops, and missionaries. For a
long time it was the most popular Order in Europe, and had a large
share of power in deciding the numerous questions which harassed and
perplexed the public mind. But after three centuries’ prosperity there
came a time of weakness and decay. At the Council of Pisa, held
vn March 1409, there was a public complaint made of the members of
14
�From India.
the Cistercian Order, that they were sadly wanting in those virtues
which their rules enjoined Robert Hallam, bishop of Salisbury, who
had been sent over by Henry IV. to the Council, made the charge
against the Order, and the only answer which came from the head of the
Order—the Abbot of Citeaux—was, that this falling away was caused by
the contentions and distractions of the times.
Various efforts were made to reform the Order and to regain for it
its old power and fame, but about the year 1500 there were so many
divisions amongst the members that in Spain, Italy, and Germany, there
was a complete breaking up of the old Order, with its annual chapters
under the presidency of the Abbot of Citeaux. Not many years after
came its suppression under Henry VIII. in England. There were
houses of Cistercians for two more centuries in France ; but these were
swept away in the great Revolution in a.d. 1789.
■- ♦
dfront
H, come you from the Indies ? and,
soldier, can you tell
Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are
safe and well ?
0 soldier, say my son is safe (for no
thing else I care),
And you shall have a mother’s thanks
—shall have a widow’s prayer! ’
O
‘ Oh, I’ve come from the Indies, I’ve
just come from the war,
And well I know the 90th, and gallant
lads they are:
From colonel down to rank and file, I
know my comrades well,
And news I’ve brought for you, mother,
your Robert bade me tell.’
‘And do you know my Robert now!
oh, tell me, tell me true—
0 soldier, tell me word for word all'
that he said to you !
His very words—my own boy’s words—
0 tell me every one !
You little know how dear to his old
mother is my son ! ’
‘Through Havelock’s fights and marches
the 90th were there;
In all the gallant 90th did your Robert
did his share:
Twice he went into Lucknow,untouched
by steel or ball;
And you may bless your God, old dame,
that brought him safe through all.’
‘ Oh, thanks unto the living God that
heard his mother’s prayer,
The widow’s cry that rose on high her
only son to spare !
O bless'd be God, that turned from him
the sword and shot away —
And what to his old mother did my
darling bid you say ? ’
‘ Mother, he saved his colonel’s life, and
bravely it was done;
In the despatch they told it all, and
named and praised your son :
A medal and a pension’s his; good luck
to him I say;
And he has not a comrade but will wish
him well to-day.’
‘Now,soldier.blessings on your tongue 1
O husband,that you knew
How w'ell our boy pays me this day for
all that I've gone through ;
All I have done and borne for him the
long years since you're dead !
But, soldier, tell me how he looked,
and all my Robert said.’
‘ He’sbronzed, and tanned, and bearded,
and you’d hardly know him, dame •.
We've made your boy into a man, but
still his heart’s the same ;
For often, dame, he talks of you, and
always to one tune;—
But there, his ship is nearly home, and
lie 11 be with you soon.’
‘Oh! is he really coming home? and
shall I really see
My boy again, my own bov, home ? and
when, when will it be ?
Did you say soon?'—‘Well, he is home;
keep cool, old dame; he's here.'—
‘O Robert, my own blessed boy! '—‘O
mother ¡—mother dear! ’
W. Bennett.
15
�Qtye forces of SEnglanU.
‘ Where’s the coward that would not dare
To fight for sueh a land ?’—Jiarmioii.
HE stately homes of England!
T How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
16
�Humility.—The Religious Orders of the. Middle Ages.
of some misty hill, afford more pleasure than a whole thicket full of
pheasants.’ It is not generally known that Paris is largely supplied
with pheasants from England. No less than 50,000 were sent to the
Paris market in the early part of last season.
^umiliti).
HE bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly
nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest.
In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.
When Mary chose the ‘ better part,
*
She meekly sat at Jesus’ feet;
And Lydia’s gently-opened heart
Was made for God’s own temple meet.
T
Fairest and best adorned is she
Whose clothing is humility.
The saints that wear Heaven’s brightest
crown,
In deepest adoration bends ;
The weight of glory bows him down,
Then most when most his soul
ascends.
Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.
J. Montgomery.
SHje Religious (©rtrers of tlje WW
BY DENHAM ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLETON-BY-WIRKSWORTH.
‘ What if some little pain the passage have,
That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave ?
Is not short pain well borne that brings long ease,
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave ?
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,
Ease after war, death after life, does greatly please.’
Spenser’s Faerie Queene, b. i. c. ix.
The Monastic Orders.— IV. The Carthusians.
HE life of Christian devotion could not be crushed out of
the Church even by the most wanton and worldly-minded
bishops and priests. Indeed, it often happened that the
very unworthiness in those holding high office was the
cause of a fresh revival of religious energy. Again and
again these more earnest and zealous men were provoked to act with
determined vigour by the careless and unsaintly lives of the clergy.
About the elose of the eleventh century, a.d. 1070, there was a
prelate of a covetous and aspiring turn of mind holding the Arch
bishopric of Rheims, by name Manasseh. This man was of so sordid a
disposition, was so forgetful of his sacred calling, as publicly to declare
‘ that the Archbishopric of Rlieims would be a very good post were it
not that masses had to be sung in order to receive its ample income.’
Such an open disregard for what is becoming in one placed as an over
seer and chief teacher in the Church roused the spirit of a man, who
for years had been closely watching the behaviour of Manasseh. This
zealot was Bruno, who in early years had been educated at Cologne.
Bom about 1030, he came after his school days to Rheims where he
was appointed master of the school attached to the Cathedral. Bruno
soon became famous-for his learning and piety, and drew around him
the youth of the city in large numbers. Indeed, his reputation became
so notable that scholars from afar were sent to his seminary ; amongst
3
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
others one who, in the course of a few years, became Pope under the
title of Urban II.
As may easily be supposed, there soon sprang up between men of
such totally opposite characters as Manasseli and Bruno serious and
sharp contentions. In the end Bruno grew so weary with what he saw
and heard, was so utterly disgusted with the conduct of the Arch
bishop, that he resolved to seek,
* In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,’
a retreat, where he might lead a life according to his own strong views
of duty to God. It was about the year 1084 a.d. when Bruno, with
a small company of like-minded men, hade farewell to Rheims, its
luxuries, its pomps, its ease, and found a resting-place in a wild and
barren spot in the vale of Chartreux, or Cartusium.
‘ Vainly directing his view
To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few,’
Bruno determined to secure in the members of this his little family as
near an approach to Christian perfection as possible. To this end he
caused to be built on the chosen site a set of separate cells, in which
each monk might live in retirement and seclusion. There was the
monastery proper for the celebration of divine worship on Sundays and
festivals, and other public acts of the fraternity, but the greater part of
the time every week was spent in isolation from the other members.
In this retired and elevated spot (about 4000 feet above the level of
the sea), which was some 14 miles north of Grenoble, hedged in by hills
and surrounded by lands of unpromising features, Bruno and his com
panions, the founders of the celebrated ‘ Carthusian Order’ of monks,
‘ Serene, and unafraid of solitude,’
devoted themselves with great fervour to their duties, under the friendly
prelate, Hugh, Bishop of Grenoble.
It would appear from the records of this Monastic Order, which
are found in various old chronicles, that nearly from the first, if not
from the first, there were laymen as well as clergy admitted as members
of the community; one writer asserting that the numbers, on account of
the poverty of the soil, were to be limited to thirteen or fourteen
clergy and sixteen laymen. It was understood that each of those
who had joined the company, and was living apart from the world,
had taken this step with a view of spending the rest of life in
contemplation, and in the hope that thus he might ‘ secure the
salvation of his soul.’
The Carthusians were an offshoot from the great ‘ Benedictine
Order,’ but the rule of St. Benedict was made much more severe
by Bruno and his successors. In addition to the three great demands
of Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience, there was a fourth requirement
from those who entered the Monastery at Chartreux—constant,
almost continual silence. Only once a-week was conversation per
mitted. Meals were not taken in a common room or refectory, as
■was customary with members of other Orders, but separately in the
cells, except on the great feasts of the Church. Three days in the
week bread and water were the only fare ; on high days, cheese and
fish might be added. Wine was permitted occasionally in small
■quantities, but it was always to be mixed with water. Next to their
4
�The Religious Orders of the Middle A ges.
skin they wore rough garments made from goatskins, and their clothing
was all made from materials of coarse texture and sober colour.
Bruno, after having spent about six years at ‘ Cartusium/ or
Chartreux, guiding and encouraging his associates, was summoned
A CARTHUSIAN.
(FROM DUGDALES ‘ WARWICKSHIRE.’)
to Rome by Urban II., his former scholar; but the holy man was soon
tired of the city. Having refused the offer of the Bishopric of Reggio,
which Urban urged upon his acceptance, Bruno retired to Sicily,
where he was welcomed by Roger the Count. In this wild and
desolate land Bruno sought ami found a home to his liking, and
set himself the task of building a suitable monastery for himself
and company. Sto. Stephano del Bosco, in the diocese of Squillace,
5
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
was the work of his hand; and here, in the year a.d. 1101, the pious
and unwearied monk passed away from earth at the age of seventy.
There is mention made in some old authors of writings of Bruno,
especially of some commentaries on the Psalms and Epistles of St.
Paul, but none of those fragments have come down to these days.
On the departure of Bruno from Chartreux the society enlarged
their house, improved their lands, and, above all, were diligent in
preparing for the day of death. Under Landuin, their head, these
Carthusian monks steadily increased in influence, and became more
widely known as self-denying men, and despisers of show and ex
travagant pomp. Simple they were in their demands, as may be
supposed when it is stated that, with the exception of the chalice,
which was to be of silver, all other vessels of the sanctuary were
to be of the plainest kind and least costly material. As a striking
piece of evidence on behalf of this rigid simplicity and exclusion
of expensive ornament, an incident is recorded by Guibert de Nogent,
the chronicler, which may thus be summarised : the Count de Nevers,
hearing of their fame for holiness and hatred of splendour, paid them
a visit one day. Seeing on his visit that the monks were most staid,
grave, and very austere in their mortifications, he tried to prove
their honesty. With this intent, on his return home he sent to
them a present of sundry silver vessels : the intended gift was at once
returned with this message, ‘ We want gold and silver neither to give
away, nor to decorate our church; to what use can we put them then?’
The good Count did, however, find a way to please these men, for
he sent them a roll of parchment-skins, on which they might use
their arts of writing and illuminating, for which they were famous.
About the year 1128, Guigo, fifth Prior of Chartreux, drew up
a set of ‘ Customs ’ for his fraternity, and after this date the Order
gradually rose into fame. So well was the community reported of,
that in 1178 Pope Alexander III. approved of the constitution
which had been drawn up for its governance. It is true that on
account of the strictness of the Rules, and the rigid obedience to the
Rule which was enacted, the numbers of the Carthusians were in
creased very slowly; but if, in comparison with other religious societies,
the Carthusian was a small one, it was select; its members were of
the most ascetic and pious of all monks. One witness on their
behalf, a trustworthy man, Peter of Clugni— Peter the Venerable—thus writes of them to the Pope :—‘ These holy men feast at the
table of wisdom ; they are entertained at the banquet of the true
Solomon, not in superstitions, not in hypocrisy, not in the leaven
of malice and wickedness, but in the unleavened bread of sincerity
and truth.’ However slow the progress made in the earlier years of the
Order, wise and learned Priors of Chartreux succeeded eventually, and
* Planted out their sapling stocks
Of knowledge into so«ial nurseries,’
in various countries of Europe, and established branch houses in the
midst of every nation.
Very shortly after the approbation of the Pope had been obtained
the Carthusians were invited into England, and a settlement was
effected at Witham in Somersetshire, a.d. 1181. Soon further de
tachments arrived. Amongst their most liberal benefactors in this
6
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
country was William Longespee, Earl of Salisbury, son of Henry II.
and Fair Rosamond. This nobleman gave them lands and endow
ments at Henton in Somersetshire. William, and Ella his wife, were
eager to assist in every way the labours of these holy and learned
men. In the reign of Richard II., a.d. 1398, the Carthusians
were settled by the munificence of Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Notting
ham, at Epworth in Lincolnshire, and subsequently other branch
houses were founded by other patrons at Coventry, Hull, Beauvale,
and elsewhere.
Perhaps the noblest and best-known house of the Order in Eng
land was that founded about a.d. 1371, in the reign of Edward III.,
by Sir Walter de Manny of Cambrey, at St. John’s Street,
Clerkenwell—the Chartreuse, or, as it is popularly called, the Charter
house. This home of the Carthusians was well endowed, and of very
considerable extent.
Times of change, however, came : grievous and troublous times for
these devout men. Little did they dream that their labours in writing
were hastening on those rueful changes; yet so it was, for the mighty
movement which came and dislodged them from their well-loved
homes may be traced back to the study of their manuscript Bibles.
In obedience to their Rules they had been most ready, and to no
requirement had they been more faithful than that which may thus
be translated from Dugdale’s Monasticon, vol. i. p. 951:—
‘ Now read, now pray, now work with a will,
So time shall be short, and toil itself light.’
In various kinds of occupation these Carthusians were found busy.
Indeed, if the impartial truth must be told, these men were the
most persevering, the most industrious, the most painstaking members
of society. Their motto almost seems to have been
* Get work, get work;
Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get
for, in some shape or other, these Carthusians would spend their time
in manual labour.
From the foundation of the Order the favourite work of the
members was that of writing, especially in writing out fresh copies
of the several books of the Old and New Testament. In their
solitary cells these men loved to reproduce that sacred treasure,
regarding their library as their chief earthly delight. Their cells
might be poor and mean, their fare might be coarse and hard, their
clothes might be simple and plain, but tlicir library must be well
stored with manuscripts: it was this craving of theirs for books —
more books—which made so acceptable the bundle of parchment
presented by the Count de Nevers. ‘ A cloister without books,’ says
one, ‘ is like a castle without arms.’
The Carthusians are also honourably known as among the first
and most successful horticulturists of their time. Wherever they
settled, their gardens soon became famous. Let the soil be what
it would, they had a reputation for being able to turn it into a
land of abundance and beauty. At Chartreux, as elsewhere, what
they found on arrival as a howling wilderness, they transformed into
a very paradise of delight. Nor can their skill as builders be over7
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
looked, some of their monasteries, as that of the Certosa, near Pavia,
being amongst the most splendid of religious houses.
A wonderful chorus of praise is bestowed by historians on these
Carthusians: one (Mosheim) thus delivering his verdict:—‘ Nor is
there any sect of monks which has departed less from the severity
THE CHARTERHOUSE.
of its original discipline .... indeed, it could never prevail much
among females, owing undoubtedly to the rigours and gloominess
of its discipline.’ Another (Robertson) thus giving his conclusions :—
‘ They preserved themselves from personal luxury more strictly than
any other Order ; thus they escaped the satire which was profusely
lavished on monks in general, and they never needed a reformation.’
Amongst the most illustrious men who have been members of the
‘ Carthusian Order,’ is one whose name is well known in English
history, St. Hugh of Lincoln. To this saintly man we owe one of
the most noble and glorious of our English cathedrals, Lincoln
■ 8
�Trust.
Minster. Arriving in England about a.d. 1130, he devoted himself
so zealously to the duties of his high office, that at his death he was
generally mourned, and as a tribute of respect to his memory, Speed
tells us that ‘ King John of England and King William of Scotland,
with their royall allyes, carried the hearse on those shoulders
accustomed to uphold the weight of whole kingdomes.’
The dread day came at length for those ‘ Carthusians ’ who had
settled in England. In the year 1535 Henry VIII. wreaked his
wrath upon these monks. In an old record of the times of this
strong-willed king, there is this touching entry: ‘ Also the same year,
the 3rd day of May was Holyrood day, and then was drawn from the
Tower unto Tyburn the three Priors of the Charter-Houses and there
hanged, headed, and quartered ; and one of the Prior’s arms was
set up at the gate into Aldersgate Street.’ Brave John Haughton,
the Prior of Charter-House, died a martyr — a martyr to a blood
thirsty tyrant’s temper; and died as a martyr should, without fear
or regret. Nor was this the only method found for getting rid of
the Carthusians, as several were cast into dungeons, and left to pine
away to death in the midst of all kinds of noisome filth.
After the suppression of the Order in England it still flourished
in Europe, retaining in a great degree its reputation for devotion,
wisdom, and industry amongst its members.
Besides the four Monastic Orders whose fortunes have been briefly
related, ‘ the Benedictine,’ ‘ the Augustine,’ ‘ the Cistercian,’ ‘ the
Carthusian,’ there were other fraternities of lesser mark,— the
Cluniacs, founded a.d. 900, by William, Duke of Aquitaine, sys
tematised by Odo, Abbot of Clugny, a.d. 927, introduced into Eng
land, a.d. 1077, by William, Earl of Warenne, son-in-law of the
Conqueror, who built them a home at Lewes, and were settled at Barn
staple and Pontefract; the Order of Camaldoli, founded about a.d. 1027
by Bomualdo, a man of high birth, a native of Ravenna; the Order
of Vallombrosa, founded by John Gualberto about 1073 ; and the
Olivetans, of which St. Bernard rtolomei was the founder.
&rust
The following Lines were written by Dr. Alford, the Dean of Canterburyt
shortly before his death.
I know not if dark or bright
My barque is wafted from the strand
Shall he my lot;
By breath Divine,
If that wherein my hopes delight
And on the helm there rests a Hand
Be best or not:
Other than mine.
One Who has known in storms to sail
It may be mine to drag for years
Toil’s heavy chain ;
I have on board ;
Or, day and night, my meat be tears
Above the raging of the gale
I have my Lord.
On bed of pain.
Dear faces may surround my hearth
He holds me when the billows smite:
I shall not fall;
With smiles and glee ;
If sharp, ’tis short; if long, ’tis light;
Or I may dwell alone, and mirth
He tempers all.
Be strange to me.
Safe to the land! ■ safe to the land!
The end is this,
And then with Him go hand in hand
Far into bliss.
9
�i £Intil Sebentg ITunes» £ebcn?
AY had not slipped away without making a change in the
life at Breezy Cottage. Two more inmates were added
to its number,—a young man, bearing so strong a likeness
to Ella that to say he was her brother was unnecessary,
and an old servant.
For these two Ella had made every preparation from the first;
all the comforts and elegancies of the cottage had been collected
together in the room intended for Malcolm Lindsay; while to old
Mary was allotted the large bed-room, in which little Eva also slept;
a tiny room near being Ella’s sleeping-apartment.
For two or three days after her brother’s arrival, Ella Lindsay’s
face wore a less harassed look ; whether she found it well to have him
constantly by her, or whether the nightly chats with old Mary relieved
her heart, certainly she was brighter and less anxious. But the cloud
came back all too soon.
‘ Master Malcolm’s breakfast, please,’ said the old woman, bringing
a tray into the room one morning when Ella was making the tea for
their early meal.
Ella’s quick glance met the stern face of Mary. She turned very
white, and sat down.
‘ It’s no use fretting,’ said the old servant. ‘ I knew it couldn’t
last; we must just bear it and say nothing.’
‘ Is Malcolm ill ?’ asked Eva.
‘ No, dear, he’s quite well, only tired,’ said Ella, with a heart
breaking sigh.
The trouble of her life was pressing heavily upon her; this one
son of the house, the brother who ought to have been her stay and
comfort, was her grief and trial, a slave to the terrible love of strong
drink.
By little and little it had crept upon him, marring all his prospects
in life; time after time he had foresworn the deadly thing, only to
return to it; and but for the command of the Lord to forgive a
brother ‘ until seventy times seven times,’ Ella’s love might hardly
have held out through the trying scenes she had had to witness, aye?
and to take a prominent part in, too !
Malcolm Lindsay’s fair face and clear blue eyes told so different a
tale to the looker-on, that few guessed the heart-break he was to
those who loved him.
Since their parents’ death, Ella had been the one person towards
whom he turned for guidance in the troubles he brought on himself;
twice she had obtained suitable situations for him, when his unsettled
habits had caused his employers to dismiss him; and at last, when
Malcolm declared his preference for the sea, and that there alone
could he find occupation and excitement likely to deter him from his
favourite sin, she made interest to get him on board a merchant-vessel,
draining their somewhat slender coffers to furnish his outfit.
One voyage was enough to show that a sea-life was no cure for
drinking habits ; no sooner was he on land shortly after the talcing of
Breezy Cottage, than his money all went in the old way, and old Mary,
who had been left in London to await his arrival, having missed the
first notice of the incoming of his ship, had a weary search for him
10
�‘ Mr. and Mrs. Broadlands—
See, they sweep along,
The important members
Of that bending throng.’
13
�&fje Religious ©mrs of tlje Wirtile &ges.
BY DENHAM ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLETON-BY-WIRKSWORTH.
‘ And more than prowess theirs, and more than fame ;
No dream, but an abiding consciousness
Of an approving God, a righteous aim,
An arm outstretched to guide them and to bless;
Fi-i m as steel bows for angels’ warfare bent,
They went abroad, not knowing where they went.’
Lyra Apostolica.
The Military Orders.—The Teutonic Knights.
WN the general excitement which prevailed in Europe about
O the Holy Places at Jerusalem, there were few towns in
which the cause of restoration to Christian use had not
SI been ably pleaded. Untiring enthusiasts had traversed
every country, stirring up the zeal and courage of believers.
Not by any means the last to be moved, or the least in importance,
were the inhabitants of that large tract of territory in central Europe
called Germany. Like France, Italy, England, and Spain, Germany
could spare numbers of her sons to go forth, some to fight for and
others to settle down in Jerusalem. Even the cool, stolid German,
took this fever of foreign enterprise, and could join in the spirit of
those words of Warton’s Ode:—
‘ Bound for Holy Palestine
Nimbly we brush’d the level brine,
All in azure steel arrayed ;
O’er the wave our weapons played,
And made the dancing billows glow.’
Pilgrims, or palmers, had gone forth to Palestine from Germany, as
from other Christian states, for purposes of devotion, for a long course
of years. As with the travellers from other nations, so also with these
Germans, it happened that many on their arrival at Jerusalem needed
both food and shelter. The increasing need of a settled home was felt
so keenly about the year a.d. 1120, that a pious German erected, and
to a certain extent endowed, a Hospital for the reception of men.
Nor was it long before this liberal and generous deed was imitated.
The wife of the founder of the Hospital, observing that female pilgrims
had not been provided for, built a similar refuge for the accommodation
of women. In a quiet, unobtrusive way, these refuges were used by
weary strangers until a.d. 1187, when, at the recapture of Jerusalem
by the Turks under Saladin, they were sharers of the common ruin
with the Christian institutions of every other nation. Though the
inmates at that time were forced to flee, they seem to have kept
together as a company in their subsequent search for a home.
1
Hopes, perchance, of a return to the well-loved sanctuary at Jeru
salem may have had an influence with the members of the community,
and constrained them to live on 1 a common life.’ Nor, as it would
appear, were these fond hopes without some degree of warrant. Almost
immediately after the loss of Jerusalem and their consequent flight, news
came to the East of the intended march of their Emperor, the brave
and invincible Frederic Barbarossa. Frederic, however, died from a
chill taken in bathing in the river Cydnus, when near to the work he
60 much wished to perform. Disappointed this little band of German
14
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
Christians must have been at this untoward and fatal accident; but
in a little while brighter days dawned upon them.
A temporary shelter had been found at A«re, on the coast, and during
the protracted siege of that famous town, a.d. 1190, the members of
this religious body rendered most effectual aid to their sick and
wounded fellow-countrymen. The numbers of invalids becoming daily
greater, the fraternity obtained from the camp several sail-cloth tents,
which were fitted up and used as infirmaries. It was whilst thus
engaged in these pious and patriotic labours of love that they attracted
the notice and won the esteem of Frederic, Duke of Suabia, who had
succeeded as leader of the German troops on the death of the Emperor
Frederic Barbarossa. Men capable of such self-denying, unrewarded
works of mercy, were worthy of encouragement, and Frederic shortly
determined to use the community of German Christians in a wider and,
as he thought, more honourable sphere of employment. The design was
soon carried out, and this humble band was raised to a rank, position,
and dignity, similar to what had been before secured by the Knights
Hospitallers and Knights Templars. Speaking quite seriously, one
of the admirers of the new Order observed on this act of Frederic in
founding it, with more of enthusiasm than reverence, ‘ It pleased
God to create this Third Order, because a threefold cord is not quickly
broken.’
An approval of this step was soon obtained; and now that this
German Order might not be a whit inferior to its elder rivals, rules
of guidance were sought, and a Grand Master desired. The choice
of the electors fell on Henry a Walpot, who had much distinguished
himself amongst his brother-members. But now all was not done.
The Emperor Frederic had been at open war with the Pope, and had
been placed under a ban of excommunication: it was doubted whether
Papal sanction to the formation of this Order could be obtained. This
difficulty, however, was overcome, for we find that Celestine IH., a.d. 1192,
not only entertained the applicatiofi, but gave to its members the rule of
St. Augustine as a code of discipline.
As there had been a Special solemn dedication of each of the elder
‘ Military Orders,’ so now a similar ceremony was observed; and hence
forward the community is known in history by the title of ‘ The
Teutonic Knights of St. Mary in Jerusalem.’ AU the members of this
Order were of German or Teutonic birth: were Teutons — that is,
‘ Thuath-duine,’ or North-men. As with the Hospitallers and Templars,
so in this Order there were members of noble birth and others of more
humble descent, divided into classes according to their rank. In order
still further to distinguish the members of this German fraternity a
special dress was assigned to them—a white mantle, and upon it a
black cross edged with gold.
Thus fully recognised as a ‘ Military Order,’ these Germans took
upon themselves a share of the work of maintaining the Christian
influence in the Holy Land during the century a.d. 1191-1291, and in
caring for the suffering poor and sick during that period of partial
occupation. Large benefactions of lands and money were made to
them, but these gifts of their countrymen were so profuse as to do
harm to the Order instead of good. That simplicity of life, that earnest
devotion, that rigorous self-denial, that plainness of dress, so character15
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
istic of the community in earlier days, became at length, as wealth
increased, utterly lost virtues. It is said, however, that with all its
shortcomings the Order of Teutonic Knights were more cordial to
the Christian cause than the Templars ; who, ‘ sometimes to save their
own stakes, would play booty with the Turks.’
The end of the long contest, however, drew near. The final battle
at Acre at length commenced; and we learn, that those of the Teutonic
Knights who were left in Palestine were at the post of danger. That
supreme moment, when ‘ God hath no need of waverers round His
shrine,’ arrived, and then called upon by Henry II., King of Cyprus
and nominal King of Jerusalem, to defend the tower near him to the
utmost, these brave men rushed to the rescue, but only to. stem the
tide of victorious onslaught for a little while, and then perish in the
fray.
Such Knights of the Teutonic Order as escaped from this last and
crushing fight returned to Europe; and with this character, as Fuller
describes them,—‘ Frequent mention hath been formerly made of the
“ Teutonic Order,” or that of Dutch Knights, who behaved themselves
right valiantly clean through the Holy War; and, which soundeth.
much to their honour, they cannot be touched either for treason or
faction, but were both loyal and peaceable in the whole service.’
Tennyson tells us in a couplet that —
‘ A slow-developed strength awaits
Completion in a painful school
which idea is thoroughly true of the future history of the ‘ Military
Order.’ As early in its history as the year a.d. 1230, the Grand
Master, Herman, had been invited to send part of his Order into
Europe, on an errand of war against some barbarous and heathen tribes.
Conrad, Duke of Massovia in Poland, had sent pressing messages, and
had made most tempting proposals: whatever territory was gained
by the Knights in the undertaking was to be held by them as their own
possessions, in right of war. Conrad, a prudent man, was so teased with
these savage troublers of his peace, that, having failed to rid himself
of thptu by the aid of a band he himself had raised, under the style of
‘ The Order of Knights-brethren of Dobrin,’ a company of ‘ sword
bearing brethren, brave, slashing lads,’ he now sends to the ‘ Teutonic
Knights ’ with proposals of a most generous sort, which in the end
were accepted. Herman, with a large number of the Knights of the
Order and men-at-arms, set out for Europe a.d. 1230, and entered on
the long campaign against the heathen and cruel inhabitants of Eastern
Europe. When Acre was lost in 1291, the few members of the
Order who survived hastened to join their companions in Europe,
whom they found now settled down in the possession of extensive
provinces.
If it be true,—
‘ Meet is it changes should control
Our being, least we rust in ease,’
then those Knights who returned from Palestine found only what might
have been expected. Little time was given them wherein to rest.
The Christian faith, even here in Prussia, and now at once on their
return, needed defenders and propagators, and these ‘ booted Apostles,
%s one writer calls them, were ready, under the sanction of the Church,
16
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
to go forth to the work. Avery terrible page of history is this, which
relates the struggle between the Teutonic Knights and the Pagan
Prussians. The conversion to Christianity of a race of barbarians,
one of whose customs was ‘ to destroy or sell all the daughters of a.
family excepting one,5 was a most laudable undertaking, but the means
used in that endeavour seem shockingly severe and harsh. But thi®
work the Teutonic Knights had commenced, and from it they did not
shrink, until, in outward appearance at least, those Prussians whom
they had conquered acknowledged the faith of Christ.
The daring and courage exhibited by these champions of the
Church in their conflicts with the enemy soon became noised abroad,
and attracted to their standard recruits from well-nigh every land.
Amongst those who ventured their lives in this holy but perilous
EFFIGY OF HENRY IV.
cause was one who eventually became Henry IV., King of England.
Speed, in his history, p. 735, thus narrates the incident:—‘ a.d. 1390,
Henry of Bullingbroke, Earle of Derbie, son of the Duke of Lan
caster, loath to spend his houres in sloath, but desirous to pursue
renown by martiall Acts in forraine parts, sailed over to the warres ira
Prussia, where in sundry enterprizes against tbe Lithuanians he won
great honour, which, by comparison of King Richard’s calmness, pre
pared a wav for him in the Englishes affections to poynts more
eminent.’ The result of these military exploits, continued through a
long course of vears, is thus very pithily summed up and stated by
Fuller, who, on p. 218 of the Helu Rom, says,—‘ By their endeavours the
Prussians, who before were but heathen Christians, were wholly con
verted, many a brave city builded . . . and those countries of Prussia
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
and Livonia which formerly were the coarse list, are now become the
rich fringe of Europe.1
In possession of such provinces, these Teutonic Ivnignts grew
haughty and self-indulgent, and lived with but small regard to the
strict rule of St. Augustine, which was the professed code of discipline.
Within a while those who liad for so long been conquerors had to
submit to defeat and humiliation. In the year 1410, in a great battle
near Tannenburg, their army was defeated, the Grand Master and
many of the Knights losing their lives. The influence of the Order
was on the wane. Little by little encroachments weie made on then
territories. About a.d. 14GG a large province was taken fiom them by
Poland. Nor did this signal warning of decaying power affect the
lives of these once austere but now luxurious Knights these soldiers
of the Church, these favoured children of the Pope. Irreligious and
immoral themselves, they cared not to see others zealous, holy, and
learned. Their treatment of the celebrated astronomer, Nicolas Coper
nicus, canon of Frauenburg, was utterly unworthy of men of honour,
to say nothing of men who were bound by clearest vows to defend the
cause of truth. In the years 1504—7 this famous man and leained
divine defended his rights against the arrogant and ambitious claims
which were made by these Teutonic Knights.
The doom of such a community could not long be uncertain ; their
acts were frequently of such a hard, merciless, unchristian character, that
enemies on all sides rose up against their unjust and inhuman rule. In
the year a.d. 1521 Brandenburg took another large portion of their
country, and from this time very little remained to them of all their once
vast domain. Dantzic and other seaports on the Baltic, which had once
flourished under their rule, were lost. Internal disputes and bitter
divisions ensued, until at last, in 1525, the Grand Master accepted the
position of a Prince of the Empire, and became a subject instead of an
independent ruler.
The Military Order of ‘The Teutonic Knights of St. Mary in Jeru
salem,’ after this fatal act, gradually sunk into a very weak and insig
nificant position, and entirely forsook their ancient patron the Pope.
The extinction of the Order is thus described by the historian Wad
dington :—‘ The Teutonic Order continued to subsist in great estimation
with the Church ; and this patronage was repaid with persevering
fidelity, until at length, when they perceived the grand consummation
approaching, the holy Knights generally deserted that tottering fortress
and arranged their rebellious host under the banners of Luther.’ The
\ Order is mentioned some times in the years that have succeeded, but in
no honourable way. Some few members have tried to keep up a show
of an existence for the Order, but only to earn for themselves the
repute of being a ‘ cheap defence of nations.’
18
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
It will be a pleasure to wear it, and to feel that you are doing it for
the sake of him that’s gone. There’s everything complete, and the
children’s things, too. I’ll run home and fetch them up after tea : it
will be well to try everything on to-night, or there'll be something to
alter, perhaps, just at last. It’s just tlie same with weddings : if you
don’t see to it all, there’s sure to be a fuss and trouble when you ought
to be starting ; and if your bonnet isn’t comfortable, or your gown is
too tight, you can’t give your thoughts properly to anything else all
the time you’ve got them on.’
{To be continued.)
ST. JOHN’S GATE, CLERKENWELL, 1841.
lAdigious ©rlira of tfjc
ages.
BY DENHAM ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLETON-BY-WIRKSWORTH.
The Military Orders.—Knights Hospitallers, or Knights of St. John.
HE desire to become members of this famous Order grew
so rapidly, that those who guided the counsels of the com
munity advised greater care in selecting candidates. The
rules of entrance were revised and made more stringent.
At length none but members of noble and ancient families
could hope for enrolment.
It was necessary as well as convenient, as the Order came to
embrace recruits from all parts of Europe, to divide the knights into
9
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
Ir
what were called ‘ Languages.’ These sections were inscribed, one for
England and one each for France, Provence, Auvergne, Italy, Germany,
Aragon. For every one of these seven divisions there was a separate
code of bye-laws and instructions, binding only on the knights of the
language for which it had been drawn up.
As time went on, the Order increased greatly in popularity, and
constantly rendered effective service to the weary pilgrims, as well
to the failing cause of Christian rule in Palestine But with this
esteem, ever on the advance, these Knights of St. John waxed proud
and overbearing. Aware of their importance as defenders of the
Christian Church and supporters of the Christian King, they became
most troublesome to King, Patriarch, and Clergy. Under cover of
an edict of the Pope of Rome they claimed exemption from payment
of tithes, not only in the Holy Land, but in whatever countries their
property might be situated. Nor was relief to be obtained from this
patent wrong. Fulcher the Patriarch travelled to Rome to seek
redress, but without avail. The Pope’s Bull was the final settlement
of the case.
The interests of the Order became so vast, and friends became so
numerous and lavish, that it was essential to have special homes in
every country, where selected recruits might be maintained until re
quired for service in the Holy Land. In England, several charitably
disposed and religious-minded men adopted the cause of these Hospi
tallers; the very foremost being one Jerdan or Jordan Briset, of
Wellinghall, in Kent According, to Speed the historian, this worthy,
with Muriel his wife, in the reign of Henry I., a.d. 1130, endowed
what was called a ‘ Commandery,’ or Religious House, at Clerkenwell.
This house eventually, when several additions had been made to the
first design, became a remarkably fine building, and was used by the
members of the Order who might happen to be in this country on the
business of the knights. It was called the Hospital of St. John, and
for centuries was noted for its beauty and grandeur.
Close by the Hospital of St. John at .Clerkenwell was an oratory,
or church, and this building was consecrated by Heraclius the Patriarch
of Jerusalem, a.d. 1185, in the presence of the Grand Master of the
Order, who was then in England as an embassy from the King of
Jerusalem
In course of time several smaller branch-houses were
built in England in connexion with this large home at Clerkenwell; as
for instance, at Carbrook in Norfolk, and Bucklands in Somersetshire.
Their wealth increasing continually, these knights were ready to
espouse the cause of Christians at all times, even when occasionally
those requiring succour were not very friendly disposed towards them.
It came to pass about the year a.d. 1237, that their rivals the Tem
plars had met with a crushing defeat. At once the Hospitallers
hastened to revenge the insult. Detachments of knights of the Order
hurried away to Palestine to the aid of the Templars. There is a
very imposing account given of the departure of the English con
tingent on that occasion. Starting from their House at Clerkenwell,
the company consisting of more than three hundred knights, and a
vast retinue of followers of various grades, the procession passed along
the roads and through the streets, receiving everywhere marks of
popular favour and approval. Hearty and long-continued wrere the
10
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
cheers that greeted those gallant men as they embarked for their dis
tant and perilous voyage.
The ending of this martial enterprise does not appear to have been
very satisfactory, for in less than two years the two Orders are found
to be taking different sides in the settlement of a question of succes
sion,—the Knights of St. John entering into a treaty with the ruler
of Egypt, pledging themselves to defend him against the ruler of
Damascus ; the Templars at the same time contracting with a subor
dinate of the ruler of Damascus to defend his master and himself
against the ruler of Egypt. Indeed it is clear that these two great
religious Orders were at constant feud. Much of the misery, many o!
the misfortunes, and the early collapse of the Christian kingdom in
Palestine, can be assigned to no other cause than the perpetual wranglings between these : Hospitallers ’ and ‘ Templars; ’ the former, as
was supposed, ever struggling to maintain Imperial views, and the
latter the desires of the Pope of Pome. On more than one occasion
the dispute between them was not settled by words. In the year
1259 there was such a fierce contention, that nothing short of open
combat could settle it; and so bitter was the enmity, that the
Hospitallers, who were victors, allowed scarcely a ‘ Templar to escape
their swords.’
Soon, however, there were enemies in the land, brave and thirsting
for conquest—the Mamelukes. These hardy and savage men, led by
their chief Bibars, came to ravage and lay waste the Holy Land, and
to destroy utterly what remained of the Christian Church and king
dom. Town after town was taken by these ruthless invaders. Caesarea
was captured At.Azotus there was a fortress, and in it a garrison of
a small'company of the Knights of St. John, about ninety in number
This handful of troops, with heroic courage, stood for days the assaults
of these Mameluke zealots. Death, however, so reduced their numbers,
that on entrance upon the walls few knights were found to defend
them, and of these, not one was left alive at the close of the contest.
From this time troubles multiplied, and little leisure was obtained
by these Soldiers of the Church, a.d. 1268, Jaffa, and the still more
important town of Antioch, fell into the hands of these Mameluke foQS.
The restless Bibars and his troops were ever on the march, engaged in
their mission of exterminating Christianity. At one small stronghold
of Christians—the tower of Karac, which was situated between the
seaports of Tripoli and Tortosa—the Knights of this Order of St.
John again distinguished themselyes by acts of intrepid bravery. Not
withstanding the valour and heroism displayed, the numbers of the
Mamelukes were too great, and Karac, as other citadels, shared the
common fate.
/
In the closing years of the Christian effort to retain a old
h
*
on
Palestine, there were unseemly disputes as to the succession to the
throne of Jerusalem : which conduct has drawn from Fuller this remark {Holy War, p. 238)—‘ Like bees, making the greatest hum
ming and buzzing in the hive, when now ready to leave it.’ It is,
however, to the credit of this Order of St. John that they declined
taking part in such uncalled-for strife. ‘ Better,' said they, ‘ first ob
tain possession of the land, and rid it of enemies, and then it will be
time to settle who shall be its sovereign.’
11
�anti tfje Strong Spirit.
IGHT not even onr religions conversation be more fruitful
than it is ? St. James, from whose Epistle we might derive
a complete code of rules for the government of the tongue,
says, ‘ Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow
to wrath; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousiK'hH of God.’
lie is speaking of religious things, of hearing and
speaking ‘the word of truth’ mentioned in the former verse. Does
not religion suffer often from our hot and impetuous advocacy ? We
are zealous for God, and that, we think, excuses everything; and we
are ready with the nickname or the good story against those whose
views differ from our own, and we separate readily from those that will
not go so far as we; and the lines that separate Church parties are
<htily more deeply marked. We meant to do what was righteous before
God ; our fault is only zeal. But ‘ the wrath of man worketh not the
righteousness of God.’ God's great purposes, in the growth of Ilis
kingdom, will gain nothing from our noisy warmth. Our righteous
ness before God would be to speak the truth, but to speak it in love ;
and to he slow to speak, lest perhaps we should utter the word of
poison instead of that of truth. It is a great misfortune if those that
arc firmest in the faith should disfigure the beauty of it by a want of
love. You despise tho gainsayer of your truth; you denounce him ;
you soo in him nothing but stupidity and perverseness, and you tell
tho world so. Yet he is your brother after all. Your Lord could pity
that porvcrsencss and stupidity which kindles in you so much irritation.
Is there, after all, anything more moving to a good man’s heart than
tho fact that many are losing sight, from one cause or another, of
Christ their only guide ? Tho world was redeemed, not by fiery indig
nation, but by a manifestation of unspeakable love. And what was
true of our redemption is still true. No man is ever reclaimed from
an error by more robuko and anger. Go to your Lord in prayer and
say to llim, 1 Lord, wo have kept Thy faith:’ ‘ Well done, good and
faithful servant I ’ ‘ Lord, we have been indignant against those who
kept it not; wo have smitten them, and degraded them, and brought
them into disrepute :’’Put up thy sword within thy sheath. The
wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. Judge not, that
ye bo not judged.’
The Archbishop of Y’ork.
-
0------
CTijc iJnoto-Storni.
Tp 11 ROUGH the hushed air the whitening shower descends,
At first thin, wavering, till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. Tho cherished fields
Put on their winter robe of purest white:
lis brightness all, save where the snow melts
Along the maiy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar heads, and ere the languid sun,
Faint from the west, emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill.
Is one wide daxxling waste, that buries wide the works of man.
�‘ Dust to Dust:
there’s many that will be so glad to be quiet they won’t scarce niindB
whether they are buried or not,’ said Alice, hardly heeding his words.
Paul looked at her as she spoke.
‘ You’ve seen trouble, Alice! Nay, Im not asking what it is—I
don’t want to know,’ he added hastily, seeing how she started and'
turned pale. 4 But there’s a deal of comfort for such as you in the'
burial part of the Prayer-book. Like leaving everything behind and!
starting afresh after a rest: that don't seem to make death so very
bad, does it?’
‘ Pm not afeard of dying; living is harder.’
‘ Maybe, but we’ve got to do what’s set us.’
‘ And what’s set you is none so hard,’ replied the worn wotnan;
‘ none so hard but what it’s easy done, I reckon.’
Paul looked at her again.
‘I suppose folk think so yet; whiles Im tired, Alice, works work,,
whether it brings in money or whether it only keeps folk from clam
ming and striving, and there are times when I m very weary.
‘ Are you, Paul? I’m sorry, it looks as if you had no care, notrouble, no sorrow; yet you’re kind to them as has lots of them. Go
and see father, and talk to him a bit, happen he’ll listen to you.’
But old Lock would not listen.
‘ It’s all very well for you, Paul Crowley ; if you was to die to
morrow, your burying would be the grandest bturton town has ever set
eyes on: you don’t need to lie awake nights thinking of the parish
coffin, and none to follow you to your grave.’
‘ If I was to die to-morrow I should have the plainest funerab
Sturton has seen this many a day,’ said Paul, quietly.
‘ Nay, now, would you ?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ How canst thou be sure ? ’
‘ Because I have left written word about it, and my wife knowswhat I think. Big funerals are the ruin of Sturton. Keep your
money, Ben; but don’t tie them down to spending it on a grand
funeral.’
‘ Well, my lad, if thee sets the example, I’ll follow,’ said the old
man with a slow chuckle; 1 but thee 11 have to look sharp if thee is to
be buried afore me.’
Four days later the sudden toll of the passing bell had startled
Ben Lock from his evening doze. He sat up counting the strokes as
they beat across the summer air.
‘ Who is it for, Alice ?’ he asked, as she came softly to his side.
‘ Who is it for ?’ he repeated, impatiently turning round when she did
not answer, and then he saw that her lips were trembling, and that;
heavy tears were falling down her thin cheeks.
‘ Can t thee speak ? Who’s gone?’
‘ Paul Crowley,’ she said, with a sob; and throwing her apron over
her head she passed swiftly away to her own room.
(Te be continued.)
�^Tlje Religious
of tijc
&grs.
BY DENHAM ROWE NORMAN, VICAR OF MIDDLETON-RY-WIRKSWORTH.
The Military Orders.— II. Knights Templars, or Red-Cross Knights.
‘ And on his breast a bloody cross he bore,
The dear remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose street sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead, as living ever, Him adored:
Upon his shield the like was also scored,
For sovereign hope, which in His help he had.
Right, faithful, true, he was in deed and word,
But of his cheere did seem too solemn sad ;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad (dreaded).’
Spenser, Faerie Queene.
¡HE spirit of enterprise liad been shown in such a marked
manner by the members of St. John’s Hospital at Jeru! salem, that it is nothing of a surprise to find that soon
the Hospitallers had imitators. Very quickly after those
religious knights had ventured to become ‘ Military Friars,’
there was another little knot of men ready to start a new community.
It may be, that these eager enthusiasts saw with some shade of envy
the public favour bestowed on the Hospitallers, and desired to obtain
for themselves a share of that respect and esteem.
The honour of being founders of this new ‘ Order’ is due to Hugh
de Payens and Geoffrey (or Ganfred) de Saint Omer, and six or seven
other individuals whose names have not come down to us. These
worthies had seen with shame the ills inflicted on pilgrims by the
Mahometan inhabitants of Palestine as they passed from the sea
coast to Jerusalem. Tales of oppression and hard usage had been
reported so frequently, that at last the step was taken of forming a
company of able and trustworthy Christians, whose duty it should be
to preserve order along the line of road from Acre and other seaports
to Jerusalem. It is said that for the first nine years, 1118-27, there
were only nine members of this brotherhood.
The kind of persons these Templars had to defend and procure
safe-conduct for, who were called Palmers, is thus described by one of
our most gifted early English poets, Spenser,—
‘ A silly man, in simple weeds foreworne,
And soiled with dust of the long dried way;
His sandales wore with toilsome travell torne,
And face all tand with scorching sunny ray,
As he had traveild many a sommer’s day
Through boyling sands of Arabie and Inde;
And in his hand a Jacob’s staffe, to stay
His weary limbs upon ; and eke behind
His scrip did hang, in which his needments he did bind.’
Faerie Queene. Book I.
Such a company was sure, however, to attract associates when it
had established itself and made known its purposes. The energy and
courage displayed in dealing with the Mahometan robbers by these
Christian worthies soon came to be favourably spoken of in Jerusalem,
and to be reported in the states of Western Europe. So praiseworthy
did the object appear in the eyes of men of mark, that in a little
while there were numerous applications for admission to the rau'.s of
the Order—applications, too, not from mere common folk, but from
members of good families in France, Italy, England, and other
18
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
■
J.
-■•di'
<.1V®
ir4]
,..<S
»
*
to
■jß|
countries. The re
nown and ability
of the first few
members were so
celebrated,
that
numbers of high
born men craved
admittance to the
Order.
A home was
given for the mem
bers of the Order
by King Baldwin
IT., who began to
reign a.d. 11 IS.
The spot assigned
was close to the
Temple of the HolySepulchre,and from,
the fact of their
residence being
nigh the Temple,
the title of Tem
plars was taken by
the knights.
In.
their earliest years
the members of the
Order are reported
to have been ex
tremely poor ; in
deed so poor, that
food and clothing
had to be found for
them by the Hos
pitallers. Matthew
Paris, an old chro
nicler, affirms that
A KNIGIIT TE3IPLAR.
the Order had a
seal, on which the figures of two men on one horse were engraven, as a
symbol of the narrowness of their means. They styled themselves
‘ Soldiers of Christ,’ and ‘ Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the
Temple of Solomon.’
Finding them exceedingly useful as guardians of the peace in.
his kingdom, Baldwin treated them with favour, and conferred on
them gifts and honours. The Patriarch of Jerusalem — Stephen—
was also kindly disposed towards them, inasmuch as through their
assiduity travellers were able to come up to the Holy Places with
but little fear of harm.
The Hospitallers also regarded these
brave, active, and self-denying men with the utmost affection. The
Patriarch went so far in his zeal to assist them, that he prayed
Pope Honorius II. to confirm the Order; which request was grant©!
at the Council of Troyes, a.d. 1128. Everard was elected as first
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
■Grand Master of the Order, and held that office for about eight
years.
The vows taken on admission as a Knight Templar were 1 poverty,
chastity, obedience, and to defend pilgrims coming to the Holy Sepulchre.’
EFFIGIES ON THE TOMES OF KNIGHTS TEMPLARS.
What kind of life the knights were expected to lead may be judged of
by an exhortation addressed to them on a certain occasion by St.
Bernard. ‘ They were never to be idle, mending their old clothes
when wanting other work; never to hawk, hunt, play chess, or dice,
or witness plays. They were to arm themselves with faith within,
with steel without; to aim more at strength than pomp ; to be feared,
20
�The Religious Orders of the Middle Ages.
not admired; to strike terror with their valour, not stir covetousness
with their wealth in the heart of their enemies.’
Pope Honorius II., after the fashion of the times, sanctioned as
the peculiar habit of these Knights Templars a white mantle. In a
few years after, however, these valiant and daring men had shown
such an amount of readiness and promptitude in the discharge of
their duties, that Pope Eugenius III. honoured them with the special
privilege of wearing a cross of red cloth sewn on the mantle at the
breast. From this circumstance they are frequently spoken of as
‘ Bed-Cross Knights.’ From about this time in their history there
was a regular and withal rapid rise in wealth and popularity. Large
manors were conferred upon the community, and men of very highest
rank entered the Order. The fatigues and hardships and losses con
sequent on membership were no hindrance, but, on the contrary, appear
to have had a certain charm for resolute and high-minded soldiers.
In course of time, the Knights Templars, who regarded them
selves as allies of the king and not as his subjects, entered upon a
wider sphere of work. From being maintainers of a safe journey for
pilgrims between Acre and Jerusalem, they became a very strong and
well-trained body of troops, able to assist materially the forces of the
king in his battles with Mahometan enemies. Indeed, by the year
a.d. 1150, when a march was proposed against Damascus, it was
observed that the Knights of the Bed Cross were amongst the best
armed, best mounted, best drilled soldiers in the army. It is worthy
of remark, that occasionally this spirit of independence and selfreliance, which was constantly shown, suffered severe mortifications,
by defeat and humiliations at the hands of foes. An instance of this
rebuke occurred about a.d. 1154. The town of Ascalon was besieged.
Baldwin promised the Knights Templars, who were great favourites
with him, the spoil of the town if they could take it. The order
came—none but Templars were to make the attempt. Their rashness
or their lust of gain cost them their lives.
Henceforward, the Knights Templars may be regarded more
properly as an independent corps of the Christian army in Palestine
than as members of a small and insignificant Order. Frequently
they refused to act with the Boyal troops, and on certain occasions
they espoused the cause of men who had little love for Christ and
the Holy Places.
A very startling reminder that these knights at times were not
so prudent or faithful as their vows would bespeak them, is afforded
in a short sentence in Fuller’s Holy War, p. 311,—‘ 12 Templars
hanged for traitors, a.d. 1165.’ Very questionable also was their
behaviour when refusing King Almeric aid in his attack on Egypt.
It is more than probable that this conduct arose from jealousy of the
.rival Order of Hospitallers.
�BY W. R. CLARK, M.A. PREBENDARY OF WELLS AND VICAR OF TAUNTON.
Luke, ii. 49.—‘ Wist ye not that I must be about my
Father's business?'.
N the narrative of our Lord's manifestation in the Temple,
short as it is, there are many points of deep interest and
suggestiveness.
Every word is full of meaning, and
invites thoughtful study and devout meditation.
But
there are none more deeply significant than those which
have just been read. It would indeed be difficult to find any words
the whole range of human literature, sacred or profane, which express
a meaning more solemn, more profound, than that which is conveyed in
the answer of the youthful Jesus to His loving and anxious mother:
‘ Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business ?’
They tell us what is the true idea of man’s life and work here on
earth; they express the true meaning of that sense of responsibility
which ought to rest upon every moral and accountable being ; and they
exhibit a calm confidence in the habitual intention of the Speaker, which
is as beautiful as it is rare.
I. These words of our Lord tell us, first of all, what is the true idea
of man's life and work here on earth. It is, to be about our Father's
business. The question is often asked, and it needs to be asked oftener
than it is,1 What is our life ? ’ What is the meaning and object and end
of human life on earth ? What were we made for ? What ought we
to be and to do ? Many answers have been given to these questions.
Some of them are true, some of them are false, and some of them are
half true and half false. Well would it be for us all if we began life
with these words of our Lord as the answer to that question, ‘ I
must be about my Father’s business.’ How many false and baseless
theories it would dash to the ground ! From what aimless gropingin
the dark it would deliver us ! And yet, how few really receive this as
the true and complete answer to the great question of life !
In a certain sense, doubtless, we all perceive the beauty and confess
the truth of this thought. But our hearts do not feel it, and our
lives do not respond to it. With our lips we confess the vanity and
emptiness of mere worldly ideals, but in our lives we show that we
believe them to be real and substantial. Pleasure, we say—what a.
deception it is ! The favour of man—what a phantom! Wealth—what a
snare! Power—what a burden and anxiety ! Yet we go after pleasure
with all our might, and we wear ourselves out in the pursuit of
popularity ; and we treat money as a god, and we are eager for power
and wretched when we lose it; and amid the roar and tumult of lust, and
ambition, and avarice, how few hear the still small voice which says, in
the depth of our hearts, ‘ I must be about my Father’s business ! ’
Here, at least, in the house of God, we may listen to it for a
moment, and pray that it may not be silenced for a little while; that
it may be heard by us in the silent hour of prayer, when no one is with
us but God; in our family and social life, to give it a high and noble
character: in our days and hours of business and relaxation, to remind us
22
S
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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The religious orders of the Middle Ages
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Norman, Denham Rowe
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 6-10, 3-8, 10-15, 3-9, 14-18, 9-11, 18-21 p. ; ill. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From seven issues of Parish Magazine [journal title from World Cat]. Date of publication from KVK.
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[Parish Magazine]
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[1873]
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G5557
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Religion
History
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Text
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English
Church History-600-1500
Conway Tracts
Middle Ages
Monasticism and Religious Orders
Religious Orders
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��TWELVE YEARS
IN A
MONASTERY
By Joseph McCabe
(Formerly the Very Rev. Father Antony, O.S.F.),
Author of “ Peter Aboard,” “ The Story
of Evolution,” “ Goethe,” etc.
Third and Revised Edition
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�TRANSLATED BY JOSEPH McCABE.
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�PREFACE
TO THE THIRD EDITION
When this work first appeared, in 1897, the only
aj criticism which the author observed among the many
(columns of press notices was that he would have
done well to refrain for a few years from writing
a about the Church he had abandoned. The painful
?, experiences which are recorded in its later chapters
I
! would not unnaturally suggest that the book must
have been written in an embittered mood. The
implication was, however, inaccurate, and when, in
1903, a second edition was prepared, after the work
had been out of print for five years, very little
change was needed. The author had had the good
fortune, on leaving the Church, to come under the
genial influence of Sir Leslie Stephen, and had
endeavoured to write in the mood of “ good-natured
contempt,” which the great critic recommended to
him. Neither in this nor in any subsequent work
of his will there be found any justification for the
petulant Catholic complaint that the author writes
with “bitterness” or “hatred” of the Roman
Church.
The truth is that, on re-reading the book after
an interval of nine years, for the purpose of pre
paring a popular edition, the moderation of its
temper somewhat surprises the author. The reader
�vi
PREFACE
may judge for himself whether the system depicted
in the following pages has been harshly judged in
the few phrases of censure which have been admitted
into the work. The author himself looks back with
astonishment on features of that system which had
almost faded from his memory, and is amazed to
think that such a system still commands the nominal
allegiance of large numbers of educated men and
refined women. The Rome of history we all know
—the Rome which retained the bandage of ignor
ance about the eyes of Europe for a thousand years,
and, while exhibiting a spectacle of continuous and
unblushing immorality in its most sacred courts,
employed the rack and the stake to intimidate any
man who would venture to impugn its sanctity or
its truth. But there is a widespread feeling that
the Reformation chastened the Church of Rome,
and that at least in the nineteenth and twentieth
century it has ground, whatever its superstitions,
to claim to be one of the greatest spiritual forces
in the world.
This description of the Roman system by one who
had intimate experience of it for many years,
written with cold impartiality at a time when every
feature was still fresh in his memory, must give
ground for reflection to those who would grant
Catholicism some strange preference over the
Reformed Christian Churches. The work is not an
indictment, but a simple description. A distin
guished London priest once told the author that it
had had a considerable influence in checking the
flow of “ converts ” from the English to the Roman
Church. To such “ movements of population ” the
�PREFACE
vii
author is genially indifferent. His aim was solely to
present to those who were interested a candid
account of intimate Roman Catholic life and of the
author’s career as monk, priest, and professor; and
the constant circulation of the book fifteen years
after its first publication, no less than the cordial
welcome extended to it by men so diverse as Sir
John Robinson, Sir Walter Besant, Dr. St. George
Mivart, and Mr. Stead, have encouraged the author
to think that it was interesting in substance and
moderate in temper. Yet, when he looks back upon
that system across sixteen years’ experience of
“ worldly life ”—to use the phrase of his monastic
days—he is disposed to use a harsher language in
characterising its profound hypocrisy and its wilful
encouragement of delusions. More than sixteen
years ago the author looked out, timidly and
anxiously, from the windows of a monastery upon
what he had been taught to call, with a shudder,
the world ”—the world into which an honest
change of convictions now forced him. He has
found a sweeter and happier life, and finer types
of men and women, in that broad world, and now
looks back with a shudder on the musty, insincere,
and oppressive life of the cloister from which he was
happily delivered.
Yet the temptation to add a censorious language
to the book shall be resisted. It remains, in its
third edition, a cold and detached depictment of
modern monasticism, and of so much of the inner
life of the Roman clergy as came within the author’s
knowledge. Considerable revision was needed in
preparing the book for the wider public to which
B 2
�viii
PREFACE
it now appeals, but this has consisted only in some
literary correction of the juvenility of the original
and the substitution for certain technical passages of
material of more general interest. Here and there
the text has been brought up to date, but the author
must confess to a certain indifference to the for
tunes of the Church of Rome which prevents him
from bringing it entirely up to date. The fiction
of the Catholic journalist, that the author hovers
about the fringes of the Church in some mysterious
eagerness to assail it, is too ludicrous for words;
and the grossly untruthful character and low
cultural standard of such Catholic publications
(especially of the “ Catholic Truth Society ”) as are
occasionally sent to him, on account of their lurid
references to himself, deter him from taking such
interest in Romanist literature as he should like to
take. The work must, therefore, be regarded as
a plain statement of personal experience, which, in
the fifteen years of its circulation, has attracted
considerable and most virulent abuse, but no serious
criticism.
J. M.
September, 1912,
�CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAP.
I
II
.
INTRODUCTION
VOCATION
.
.
II
.
.
.
.
.
18
HI
NOVITIATE .
31
IV
STUDENTSHIP
59
81
V
PRIESTHOOD
THE CONFESSIONAL
IOI
VII
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN .
121
VIII
MINISTRY IN LONDON .
146
OTHER ORDERS AND THE I ONDON CLERGY
168
COUNTRY MINISTRY
.
192
SECESSION .
.
VI
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
.
.
.
208
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM .
224
THE CHURCH OF ROME
239
IX
��TWELVE YEARS IN A
MONASTERY
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
Monasticism, inseparable as it is from every
advanced religious system, seems to be a direct out
growth from the fundamental religious idea. The
great religions of Asia, Europe, and America, despite
their marked differences in conceiving the ultimate
objects of religious belief, and the distinct racial and
territorial influences that have affected them, have been
equally prolific in monastic institutions; they seem to
have been evoked by the story which is common to
them all. Nor is it strange that that story inspired
such an abdication of earthly joys as the monastic
system embodies. If philosophers have, on their cold
reasonings, been led to despise the changeful forms
for the enduring realities they thought they perceived,
it is not strange that religion should have taught the
same theme with yet deeper effect. Men gazed on
the entrancing vision of a world beyond, until the
attitude of hope and expectancy satisfied them even,
now. In the hermit’s cell or in the cloistered abbey
11
�12
INTRODUCTION
they withdrew from earth and awaited the removal
of the veil.
But the religious mind has entered upon a more
troubled phase of its development. Physical and
economical science have drawn its attention more
eagerly to its present home; a growing self-conscious
ness has made it more critical and reflective; the
outlines of the eternal city are once more fading.
The vision has lost all the sharpness of outline and the
warmth of colour that once made it so potent an
agency in human life. The preacher must speak more
of “the city of men,” and be less, disdainful of its
interests and pleasures. The age of martyrs, the age
of Crusaders, the age of public penance, or even of
private mortification, must hope for no revival. The
sterner dictates of the older supernaturalism must be
explained away as unsuited to our more energetic age,
or as a blunder on the part of a less enlightened
generation.
Hence when, a few years ago, Dr. St. George Mivart
confessed that he looked forward to a revival of the
religious orders of the thirteenth century, he was
greeted with a smile of incredulity outside the narrow
sphere of his own co-religionists. Monasticism was
dying—not in the odour of sanctity. Men visited
the venerable ruins of abbeys and monasteries, and
re-peopled in spirit the deserted cells and dreary
cloisters and roofless chapel with a kindly archaeological
interest; smiled at their capacious refectories and
wine-cellars; dwelt gratefully on the labours of the
Benedictines through the Age of Iron; conjured up
the picturesque life and fervent activity of the Grey
Friars before their corruption; and shuddered at the
�INTRODUCTION
13
zeal of the White Friars in Inquisition days. But
people would as soon have thought to see the dead
bones of the monks re-clothed with flesh as to see
any great revival of their institutions. France and
Portugal have already expelled the monks for ever;
Italy and Spain will probably follow their example
within the next twenty years. And how could one
expect them to prosper in the lands of the Reformers?
In point of fact, however, there has been a revival
of monastic institutions in England, Germany, and
the United States proportionate to the revival of Roman
Catholicism. A hundred years ago England flattered
itself that the monastic spirit—if not Popery itself—
was extinguished for ever within its frontiers: the
few survivors of the old orders were still proscribed,
and crept stealthily about the land in strange disguises.
Then the French refugees surreptitiously reintroduced
it, just as they brought over large quantities of the
hated “ popish baubles ” in their huge boxes, which,
on the king’s secret instructions, passed the custom
house untouched. The long Irish immigration set in,
and the zeal of the aliens kept pace with growing
British tolerance. The removal of Catholic disabilities,
the Oxford movement, and the establishment of the
hierarchy followed in quick succession, and, as Catholi
cism spread rapidly through the land, the Continental
branches of the monastic orders grasped the oppor
tunity of once more planting colonies on the fruitful
British soil.
At the present day every order is represented in
England and America, and the vast army of monks
and nuns is tens of thousands strong. The expulsions
from France and Portugal are increasing the number
�14
INTRODUCTION
yearly. From train and road one sees the severe
quadrangular structures springing up on the hillsides
and in the quiet valleys as in days of old. Any
important ecclesiastical function in England or the
States attracts crowds of monks in their quaint
mediaeval costumes. After three long centuries they
have started from their graves, and are walking
amongst us once more.
It is true that the fact is not wholly realised outside
their own sphere, for the monks have fallen under
the law of evolution. The Benedictine does not now
bury himself with dusty tomes far from the cities of
men; he is found daily in the British Museum and
nightly in comfortable hotels about Russell Square.
The Grey Friar, erstwhile (and at home even now)
bareheaded and barefooted, flits about the suburbs in
silk hat and patent leather boots, and with silver
headed cane. The Jesuit is again found everywhere,
but in the garb of an English gentleman. Still, what
ever be their inconsistency, they come amongst us with
the old profession, the archaic customs and costumes,
of their long-buried brethren.
Their reappearance has provoked several contro
versies of some interest. When the monks last
vanished from the stage in England they left behind
them a dishonourable record which their enemies were
not slow to publish. Are modern monasteries and
convents the same whited sepulchres as their pre
decessors, on whom the scourge of the Reformation
fell so heavily? A strong suspicion is raised against
them by their former history; the suspicion is con
firmed by a number of “ escaped ” monks and nuns
who have traversed the land proclaiming that such
�INTRODUCTION
15
is the case, and it is not allayed by the impenetrable
secrecy of modern monastic life.
One of the least satisfactory features of the con
troversy that has arisen is that the disputants on both
sides are, as a rule, entirely ignorant of the true
condition of monasteries. The Catholic layman, to
whom the task of defending them is usually com
mitted, generally knows little more of the interior and
regime of English monasteries than he does of those
of Thibet. The monks preserve the most jealous
secrecy about their inner lives; their constitutions
strictly forbid them to talk of domestic matters to
outsiders, and their secular servants are enjoined a
like secrecy with regard to the little that falls under
their observation. Roman Catholics who live under the
very shadow of monasteries for many years are usually
found, in spite of a most ardent curiosity, to be com
pletely ignorant of the ways of conventual life. The
Protestant is, of course, not more enlightened. And it
must be stated that the pictures offered to the public
by impartial and liberal writers are not wholly trust
worthy. Sir Walter Besant once described to me a
visit of his to a Benedictine monastery for the purpose
of giving colour to his “ Westminster.” The life was '
very edifying ; the fathers had, of course, been “ sitting
for their portrait.” I remember an occasion when
Dr. Mivart spent twenty-four hours at our Franciscan
monastery for the purpose of describing our life in one
of the magazines. We were duly warned of his coming,
and the portrait he drew of us was admirable.
In such circumstances there is, perhaps, occasion for
an ex-monk to contribute his personal experiences.
The writer, after spending twelve years in various
�16
INTRODUCTION
monasteries of the Franciscan Order, found himself
compelled in the early part of 1896 to secede from
the Roman Catholic priesthood. During those years
he acquired a large experience of Catholic educational,
polemical, and administrative methods, and of the
monastic life, and it may not be inopportune to set
it forth in simple narrative.
The religious Order to which I belonged is a revival
of the once famous Province of Grey Friars, the
English section of the Order of St. Francis. At the
beginning of the thirteenth century, immediately after
the foundation of the Order, Agnellus of Pisa success
fully introduced it into England. Even after the
Reformation a few friars lived in the country in disguise
until the nineteenth century. Then occurred the
remarkable change in the fortunes of the Church of
Rome. The very causes which were undermining the
dominion of the Papacy in Italy, Spain, and France—
the growth of a sceptical and critical spirit, and the
broadening of the older feeling for dogma—reopened
England and Germany, and opened the United States,
to the Roman missionaries. The Belgian and French
friars quickly planted colonies in England, and the
German and Italian provinces (each national branch
of the Order is called “ a province ”) founded the
Order of St. Francis in the United States. The dis
persion of the Irish Catholics through the Englishspeaking world coincided in quite a dramatic fashion
with the new opportunity, and before the end of the
nineteenth century the Franciscans had become fairly
numerous.
Other monastic orders and religious congregations
advanced with the same rapidity. The Jesuit Society
�INTRODUCTION
17
has enjoyed its customary prosperity : the Benedictine,
Dominican, Carmelite, and Carthusian Orders are also
well represented, together with the minor congrega
tions—Passionists, Marists, Redemptorists, Oblates,
Servites, &c., and the infinite variety of orders and
congregations of women. In the following pages I
shall give such items of interest concerning them (and
the Church of Rome at large) as may have fallen under
my experience. As the narrative follows, for the sake
of convenience, the course of the writer’s own life,
it is necessary to commence with the means of recruit
ing the religious orders and the clergy in general.
�CHAPTER II
VOCATION
In an earlier age the “ vocation ” to a monastic life
was understood to have an element of miracle, and
there are psychologists of our time who affect at least
to find a fascinating problem in the religious “ con
version.” It may be said at once that the overwhelm
ing majority of calls to the monastic life have not the
least interest in either respect. The romantic con
versions of the days of faith are rare events in our
time. Monasteries and nunneries are no longer the
refuges of converted sinners, of outworn debauchees,
of maimed knights-errant, or of betrayed women.
One does not need the pen of a Huysman to describe
the soul en route to the higher life of the religious
world. The classes from which monasticism draws jts
adherents to-day are much less romantic, and much
less creditable, it must be confessed.
Nine-tenths of the religious and clerical vocations
of the present day are conceived at the early age of
fourteen or fifteen. As a general rule the boy is fired
with the desire of the priesthood or the monastery pre
cisely as he is fired with the longing for a military
career. His young imagination is impressed with the
dignity and the importance of the priest’s position,
his liturgical finery, his easy circumstances, his unJ8
�VOCATION
19
usually wide circle of friends and admirers. The
inconveniences of the office, very few of which he
really knows, are no more formidable to him than the
stern discipline and the balls and bayonets are to the
martial dreamer; the one great thorn of the priest’s
crown—celibacy—he is utterly incapable of appreciat
ing. So he declares his wish to his parents, and they
take every precaution to prevent the lapse of his
inclination. In due time, before .the breath of the
world can sully the purity of his mind—that is to say,
before he can know what he is about to sacrifice—he
is introduced into the seminary or monastery, where
every means is employed to foster and strengthen his
inclination until he shall have bound himself for life
by an irrevocable vow.
That is the ordinary growth of a vocation to the
clerical state to-day. There are exceptions, but men
of maturer age rarely seek admission into the cloister
now. Occasionally a “ convert ” to Rome in the first
rush of zeal plunges headlong into ascetical excesses.
Sometimes a man of more advanced years will enter a
monastery in order to attain the priesthood more
easily; monastic superiors are not unwilling, especially
if a generous alms is given to a monastery, to press
a timid aspirant through the episcopal examinations
(which are less formidable to monks), and then allow
him, with a dispensation from Rome, to pass into the
ranks of the secular clergy. There are cases, it is
true, when a man becomes seriously enamoured of the
monastic ideal, and seeks admission into the cloister;
rarely, however, does his zeal survive the first year
of practical experience.
Apart from such exceptional cases, monasteries and
�20
VOCATION
seminaries receive their yearly reinforcements from
boys of from fourteen to fifteen years. Nothing could
be more distant from the Roman Catholic practice
than the Anglican custom of choosing the Church at
an age of deliberation, during or after the university
career. The Catholic priesthood would be hopelessly
impoverished if that course were adopted. The earliest
boyish wish is jealously consecrated, for Catholic
parents are only too eager to contribute a member to
the ranks of the clergy, and ecclesiastical authorities
are only too deficient in agreeable applications for the
dignity. The result is that, instead of a boy being
afforded opportunities of learning what life really is
before he makes a solemn sacrifice of its fairest gifts,
he is carefully preserved from contact with it through
fear of endangering his vocation. Too often, indeed,
he is unduly influenced by the eagerness of his rela
tives, he enters a seminary or a convent for their
gratification or glorification, and, if he has not the
courage to return, to the disappointment and mortifica
tion of his friends, he bears for the rest of his life a
broken or a depraved heart under his vestments of silk
and gold. For it must be remembered that before he
reaches what is usually considered to be the age of
deliberation he is chained for life to his oar, as will
appear in the next chapter.
There was no trace of undue family influence in
my own case, but as my vocation was typical in its
banality, a few words on it will illustrate the theme.
My boyhood and early youth were spent under the
shadow of a beautiful Franciscan church at Man
chester. I have a distinct recollection that, in spite
of my eagerness to serve in the sanctuary, my mind
�VOCATION
21
was closed against the idea of joining the fraternity.
The friars frequently suggested it in playful mood,
but I always repulsed their advances. At length a
lay brother 1 with whom I spent long hours in the
sacristy exerted himself to inspire me with a desire
to enter their Order. After many conversations I
yielded to his influence. Twice circumstances inter
vened to prevent me from joining, and I acquiesced in
them as easily as I had done in my “ vocation.” At
length a third attempt was made to arrange my admis
sion, and I rather listlessly gave my name as a pupil
and aspirant to the monastic life. I had been con
scious throughout of merely yielding to circumstances,
to the advice and exhortations of my elders. There
was no definite craving for the life on my part, cer
tainly no “ voice speaking within me ” to which I felt
it a duty to submit. I do not, of course, mean to say
that my subsequent profession was in any way a matter
of constraint. Once within the walls of the monastery,
my mind was seriously and deliberately formed, in so
far as we may regard the reflections of a boy of fifteen
as serious. I am merely describing the manner in
which a religious “ vocation ” is engendered. About
the same time a Jesuit, the late F. Anderdon, S.J.,
made advances to me from another direction; and a
third proposal was made to send me to the diocesan
seminary to study for the secular clergy. There seem
1 The inmates of a monastery are divided into two sharply
distinct categories, clerics (priests and clerical students) and lay
brothers. The latter are usually men of little or no education,
who discharge the menial offices of the community. They are
called lay brothers in contradistinction to the students or cleric
brothers, who, however, familiarly go by their Latin name,
fratres.
�22
VOCATION
to have been no premonitory symptoms in my youthful
conduct of the scandal of my later years.
The
vocations ” of most of my fellow-students,
and of my students in later years, had a similar origin.
They had either lived in the vicinity of a Franciscan
convent, or their parish had been visited by Franciscan
missionaries. Already troubled with a vague desire
for a sacerdotal career, the picturesque brown robe, the
eventful life, and the commanding influence of the
missionary had completed their vision. They felt a
“ vocation ” to the Order of St. Francis ; their parents,
if they were at all unwilling, were too religious to
resist; the missionary was informed (after an unsuc
cessful struggle on the part of the parish priest to get
the boy for the diocesan seminary), and the boy of
thirteen or fourteen was admitted to the monastic
college.
Other religious orders are recruited, as a rule, in the
same way. The more important bodies—the Jesuits,
Benedictines, and Dominicans—have more reliable
sources of supply in their large public schools at Stonyhurst, Douai, and Downside. In those institutions the
thoughts of the more promising pupils can easily be
directed into the higher channels of religious aspiration
by the zealous monks, without any undue influence
whatever. But the minor congregations are sorely
pressed for recruits; many of them, indeed, were glad
to accept the very small fish that ran through even
the net of the Franciscans. Ireland furnishes most of
the recruits to the English orders and clergy.
Missionaries are the principal recruiting sergeants.
Besides holding his “ revival exercises ” for the good
of souls, the missionary has the task of procuring
�VOCATION
23
funds and novices for his monastery; and in propor
tion to his success in this will be his superior’s thought
fulness in appointing him to the more comfortable
missions. For the modern missionary is not so insens
ible to the charms of hospitality as his mediaeval
forerunner was.
The ranks of the secular clergy are recruited in the
same way. Large numbers of boys, usually of the
middle and poorer classes, are drafted annually into
the preparatory seminaries, to be preserved jealously
in their vocation if they have one, or inspired with
one if they have not. Parents and parish priests are
continually on the watch for symptoms of the divine
call, and in the case of clever, quiet boys the desire
is tactfully created.
Finally, a word must be said here of the vocation
of nuns; more will be said of them in the following
chapter. It is true that the proportion of women
who take the veil in maturer years is much larger
than that of men. Whatever may be their ultimate
attitude, it must be admitted that there is a large
amount of earnestness and religious sincerity in the
vocations of women. Still the number of young girls
who are received into nunneries is lamentably high,
and the anxiety shown by nun-teachers to inspire
their pupils with a “ vocation ” is extremely deplor
able. They frequently request priests to secure
aspirants for their congregations, and many a priest
is tempted, out of desire to find favour at the con
vent (an important social distinction), to welcome
the first word that his girl-penitents breathe in the
confessional about a religious vocation. Many priests
develop quite a mania for sending their penitents to
�24
VOCATION
convents. For myself, in my hours of deepest faith
I never found courage to send a girl to a nunnery.
One girl, a penitent of mine, often solicited me about
her vocation. I am thankful to say that I restrained
her, and that no heart is, owing to my action, wearing
itself out to-day in the dreary institutions which we
know as nunneries. It is a fiction of the Catholic
novelist that most nuns are happy in the life they have
chosen.
A conspicuous advantage of this system (from the
ecclesiastical point of view) is that it affords time for
a more extensive and systematic training. If other
Christian sects prefer the more honourable course of
not extending any ecclesiastical sanction whatever to
aspirants until they arrive at a deliberative age, they
must and do suffer in consequence in the training
of their ministry. The divinity lectures which the
Anglicans follow are but a feeble substitute for the
specialised education which their grave responsibility
as religious teachers obviously demands; and in a
large proportion of cases the theological training of
Anglican curates begins and ends with such lectures.
In later years, when contact with earnest readers
impresses them with a due sense of their position, they
are not infrequently heard to desiderate the systematic
training of their Romanist rivals. No doubt in point
of general culture they are much superior to the
average priest; one can often recognise the priest who
has entered the sanctuary in a maturer age, after seces
sion from Anglicanism, by that impalpable culture
which is the characteristic gift of the university.
How it happens that the Catholic educational system
produces such inferior results will appear subsequently ;
*
�VOCATION
25
in theory it is admirably constructed for the attain
ment of the ecclesiastical aim. Instead of merely
adding to an ordinary liberal education a few lectures
on current theological controversies, it takes the boy
of thirteen or fourteen and arranges his whole curri
culum up to the age of twenty-four with a direct
relation to his sacerdotal ministry. The course of
training thus extends over a period of ten or eleven
years under direct ecclesiastical control. The boy is
handed over by his parents and transferred to the
seminary, or to a preparatory college in connection
with it, where his education is at once undertaken
by clerics. All the larger dioceses have their own
seminaries, and each monastic body has its colleges.
The scheme of education is divided broadly, accord
ing to universal ecclesiastical usage, into three sections.
The preliminary training consists of the usual course
of classics and mathematics; the classics being more
than usually expurgated, and the whole training gener
ously provided with spiritual and ascetical exercises.
This stage extends over a period of five or six years on
the average. To the “ humanities ” succeeds a course
of scholastic philosophy, which usually occupies two
years, and which now usually includes a few carefully
expurgated and commentated lessons on physical
science. Finally the student is treated to a threeyears’ course of theology, passes a severe examination,
and is admitted to ordination. The various stages
will be described more in detail as the. writer passed
through them.
Such is the scheme of education of the Catholic
priesthood all the world over, with but few local
variations. The mendicant orders and the minor
�26
VOCATION
congregations generally corrupt and mutilate it: the
larger seminaries and the more important orders
expand it. The Jesuits have the longest and fullest
curriculum, and their educational scheme has the
highest reputation. In reality the curriculum of the
Jesuit student is protracted mainly because he has
to spend long periods in teaching, during which his
own studies are materially impeded. Although the
Jesuits have the finest Catholic schools to draw pupils
from, and the longest curriculum of clerical training,
it will hardly be contended that, as a body, they
show any marked superiority over their less-dreaded
colleagues, either in literature or pulpit oratory.
The Benedictines and Dominicans also conduct their
preliminary studies in a creditable manner in their
well-known colleges, but most of the other religious
bodies are extremely negligent in that stage of clerical
education. Each religious order is responsible for the
training of its own candidates. The religious orders
—the regular or monastic clergy as opposed to the
secular—do not fall directly under the jurisdiction
of the bishop of the diocese. Monks are irregular
auxiliaries of the ecclesiastical army, and are supposed
to emerge occasionally from their mountain fastnesses
to assist in the holy warfare. The monasteries of the
same order in each land are grouped into a province,
and the central authority, the provincial, exercises a
quasi-episcopal jurisdiction over them. All the pro
vinces are united under a common general at Rome;
and there is a special congregation of cardinals at
Rome to regulate the conflicts (not infrequent) of
bishops and the monastic clergy. Hence monks have
but few points of contact with episcopal authority,
�VOCATION
27
and indeed they are usually regarded with jealous
suspicion by the bishop and the secular clergy. Car
dinal Manning was known to cherish a profound anti
pathy to all religious orders except the Franciscan,
and to the Franciscans he said, with characteristic
candour: “I like you—where you are (in East
London).” Indeed, nearly throughout England the
monastic orders have been compelled to undertake
parochial duties like the ordinary clergy.
However, the comparative independence of the
monastic orders gives them an opportunity of modify
ing the scheme of education according to the pressure
of circumstances, and the general result is extremely
unsatisfactory. The low ideal of sacerdotal education
which they usually cherish is largely explained by the
strong foreign element pervading, if not dominating,
them. They have been founded, at no very remote
date, by foreigners (by Belgians in England, and by
Germans and Italians in the States), and are still
frequently reinforced from the Continent. And it
will be conceded at once that the continental priest
(or even the Irish priest) does not attach a very grave
importance to the necessity of culture. A priest has
definite functions assigned him by the Church, and
for their due fulfilment he needs a moderate acquaint
ance with liturgy, casuistry, and dogma; beyond these
all is a matter of taste. Relying, in Catholic countries,
upon the dogmatic idea, and the instinctive reverence
which his parishioners have for the priesthood, he does
not concern himself about any further means of con
ciliating and impressing them. The consequence is
that a low standard of education is accepted, and those
who have imported it into English-speaking countries
�28
VOCATION
have not fully appreciated their new environment—
have not realised that here a clergyman is expected to
be a gentleman of culture and refinement. The effect
is most clearly seen in a wanton neglect of classics.
The Franciscan regime, at the time I made its
acquaintance, may serve as an instance.
The preparatory college of the Grey Friars (for they
retain the name in spite of the fact that they now
wear the brown robe of their Belgian cousins) was, at
that time, part of their large monastery at Manchester.
Seraphic Colleges, as the Franciscan colleges are
called (because St. Francis is currently named the
“ Seraphic ” Saint), are a recent innovation on their
scheme of studies, on account of the falling-off of
vocations amongst more advanced students. The
college was not a grave burden on the time and
resources of the friars at that period. One of their
number, an estimable and energetic priest, whose only
defect was his weakness in classics, was appointed to
conduct the classical studies and generally supervise
and instruct the few aspirants to the order who pre
sented themselves. We numbered eight that year, and
it may be safely doubted whether there was an idler
and more mischievous set of collegiates in the United
Kingdom. Our worthy professor knew little more
of boys than he did of girls, and he had numerous
engagements to fulfil in addition to his professorial
duties. The rector of the college, a delightfully obtuse
old Belgian friar, would have discharged his function
equally well if he had lived on Mars.
In spite, however, of the discouraging circumstances
we contrived to attain our object very rapidly. We
were all anxious to begin our monastic career in robe
�VOCATION
29
and tonsure as soon as possible, and all that the order
required as a preliminary condition was a moderate
acquaintance with Latin—the language of the Liturgy.
Our professor, indeed, had a higher but imperfectly
grasped ideal. He added French and Greek to our
programme. Physics and mathematics were unthought-of luxuries, and our English was left at its
natural level, which was, in most cases, a rich and
substantial Irish brogue; but at one time our pro
fessor began to give us a course of Hebrew, learning
the day’s lesson himself on the previous evening.
Still, taking advantage of the fact that I studied at
my own home, I was enabled to present a list of
conquests at the end of the year which at once secured
my admission to the monastic garb. The list will
serve to illustrate further our educational proceedings :
it comprised, (1) French grammar and a little French
literature (such as Fenelon’s Telemaque); (2) Greek
grammar, St. John’s Gospel, one book of Xenophon,
and a few pages of the Iliad—crammed for the
purpose of disconcerting the monastic examiner; (3)
Latin grammar, several lives from Nepos, two books
of Caesar, six orations of Cicero, the Catilina of Sallust,
the Germania of Tacitus, the /lrs Poetica of Horace,
two books of Livy, two books of the ^Eneid, and
fragments of Ovid, Terence, and Curtius. As I
remained at the college only from June 1884 until
the following May, it will be seen how much private
care and exertion were required in later years to correct
the crudity of such an education.
The kindliness of my first professor and of most of
my later teachers will ever be remembered by me.
I was treated always as the favourite pupil. Yet this
�30
VOCATION
description of the only training which the Roman
Church gave me, apart from a theological equipment
which is now useless, will suffice to answer the ridicu
lous and frequent statement that I owe my knowledge
of languages, science, and history to that Church.
Such as that knowledge is, it represents thirty years
of intense personal labour. Even of Latin only an
elementary knowledge is given by the Church. Very
few monks could read Vergil at sight.
Those were not the worst days of our Seraphic
College. Our professor was an earnest and hard
working priest, though an indifferent scholar, an un
skilful teacher, and burdened with many tasks. But
the time came when even less discretion was exercised;
and not only were studies neglected, but the youthful
aspirants to the monastic life, living in a monastery,
had more licence than they would have had in any
college in England. The system is somewhat better
to-day. I was myself entrusted with the task of recon
structing it ten years later. But I pass on to my first
acquaintance with the inner working of monastic life.
�CHAPTER III
NOVITIATE
The novitiate is an episode in the training of the
monastic, not of the secular, clergy : it is a period of
probation imposed upon all aspirants to the monastic
life. Religious of every order and congregation,1 both
men and women, must spend at least one year as
“ novices ” before they are permitted to bind them
selves by the solemnity of the vows. During that
period they experience the full severity and asceticism
of the life to which they aspire, and they are minutely
observed and tested by their superiors. It is a wise
provision: the least that can be done to palliate the
gravity of taking such an irrevocable step. Since no
formal study is permitted during its course, it causes
an interruption of the “ humanities ” of the monastic
clerics.
In the original intention of the founders of the
monastic orders there was no distinction between cleric
and lay members. Francis of Assisi, who was not a
priest himself, simply drew up a rule of life, a modified
1 A congregation is a monastic institution of less importance and
antiquity than an order. The members of both are commonly
called “religious,” in the substantive sense. Monastic priests are
further known as “regular” clergy (because they live under a
“rule”), while the scattered, ordinary priests, who live “in the
world” (saeciilum), are known as the “secular” clergy.
31
�32
NOVITIATE
version of his own extraordinary life, and allowed his
followers, after due probation, to bind themselves by
vow to its fulfilment. In it he naively proscribes
study: “ Let those who know not letters not seek to
learn them.” However, although a divine inspiration
is claimed for him in his first composition of the rule,
he soon recognised the necessity of a different treat
ment of his clerical brethren; Antony of Padua was
appointed by him “ to teach theology to the brethren.”
He had not been many years in his grave—his pre
mature death was not unassisted by his grief at the
growing corruption of his order (the saintly Antony
of Padua having already been publicly flogged in the
convent of Aracaeli at Rome for his dogged resistance
to the corruptors)—when the intellectual fever of the
thirteenth century completely mastered the fraternity,
and friars were to be found in hundreds at all the great
universities, even in the professorial chairs at Oxford,
Paris, and Cologne. Gradually the lay-brothers became
the mere servants of the priests; and the studies of
the clerics were duly organised.
At that time and until the present century the
neophytes were men of a more advanced age. After
twelve months of trial, prayer, and reflection, they
were permitted to make their vows or “ profession,”
from which there was no dispensation. In recent
years, however, the practice of receiving aspirants at
an earlier age has developed so rapidly that one feels
apprehensive of a revival of the old Benedictine custom
of accepting children of tender years, whose parents
were resolved that they should be monks, for financial
or political reasons. Pius IX. made an important
change in this direction. “ Attenta raritate vocationum
�NOVITIATE
33
—seeing the fewness of vocations,” as he frankly
confessed, he decreed that there should be two sets of
vows. It would be too serious an outrage on human
nature to allow boys of sixteen to contract an utterly
irrevocable 1 obligation of so grave a character; at the
same time it w’as clearly imperative to secure boys at
that age if the religious orders were not to die of
inanition. So a compromise was effected. Boys should
be admitted to the monastic life at the age of fifteen
for their novitiate, and should make what are called
“ simple ” vows at the age of sixteen. From the
simple vows the Pope was prepared to grant a dis
pensation : and the General of the order could annul
them (on the part of the order) if the neophyte turned
out unsatisfactory. The “ solemn ” or indispensable
vows would be taken at nineteen, leaving three years
as a kind of secondary novitiate.
Thus the criticism of the enemies of monasticism
was thought to be averted, and at the same time
boys were practically secured at an early age; for
it will be readily imagined that few boys would care
to make an application to Rome for a dispensation
and return to disturb the peaceful content of their
families—having, moreover, had twelve months’ pro
bation besides two or three years in a monastic
college. In justice to the monks I must add that I
have never known a case in which difficulties have been
put in the way of one who desired a dispensation :
certainly the accusation of physical detention in
1 The Pope claims to have the power to dissolve solemn vows,
but in point of fact they are practically insoluble. There is only
one clear case on record where the power has been used ; needless
to say it was in favour of a member of a wealthy royal house,
which was threatened with extinction.
�34
NOVITIATE
monasteries or convents is without foundation in my
experience. If the student was promising, their advice
to him to reconsider his position would, no doubt, take
a very urgent and solemn character; if he persisted,
I feel sure they would conscientiously procure his
dispensation. However, in my personal experience I
have only known one instance; the youth had entered
under the influence of relatives and endured the strain
for two years, but he wisely revolted at length, sought
a dispensation, and took to the stage.
It is thus explained how the monastic career usually
commences at such an early age. A visitor to the
novitiate of any order (a privilege which is rarely
granted) cannot fail to notice the extreme youth of
most of those who are engaged in weighing the
tremendous problem of an irrevocable choice. They
have, as a rule, entered the preliminary college at the
age of thirteen, and have been called upon to come
to a decision, fraught with such momentous con
sequences, at the age of fifteen or sixteen.
The novitiate, as the convent is called in which the
novices are trained, is normally a distinct and secluded
monastery; but economy of space frequently compels
the monks merely to devote the wing of some existing
monastery to the purpose. In either case the regula
tions for its complete isolation are very severe. The
novices are not allowed to leave the monastery under
any pretext whatever, and they are permitted to
receive but few visitors, and to have little correspond
ence (which is carefully examined) with the outside
world. The comparison of monastic and secular life
is conspicuously one-sided.
For the novitiate of the Franciscan Order at that
�NOVITIATE
35
time a portion of their friary 1 at Killarney had been
set aside. The three enterprising Belgian friars who
invaded England forty or fifty years ago found them
selves presently compelled to carry their tent to the
more hospitable sister-isle. At Killarney their presence
led to scenes of enthusiasm that take one back to the
Middle Ages. The peasantry flew to their assistance,
and before long they erected the plain but substantial
building which catches the eye of the tourist on
issuing from the station. The friary enjoyed an
uninterrupted prosperity from the date of its founda
tion, with the usual consequence that its inner life
soon became much more notable for comfort than for
asceticism. However, one or two small scandals, the
advent of a hostile bishop, the impoverishment of the
country, and frequent visits from higher authorities,
brought about a curtailment of the friars’ amenities.
And when the place was chosen as convent of the
novitiate, the good friars put their house in order,
tightened their girdles, and resigned themselves to a
more or less regular discipline; for one of their
most sacred principles is that novices must not be
scandalised.
The first emotion which the place inspired in me
when I entered it at the end of May 1885 was one
of profound melancholy and discontent. It had a
large and well-cultivated garden, and before us daily
was the lovely and changeful panorama of the hills.
But the interior of the monastery, with its chill,
gloomy cloisters,, its solemn and silent inmates, gave
me a deep impression of solitude and isolation. When
1 A house of friars may with equal propriety be called a friary,
monastery, or convent.
�36
NOVITIATE
we sat down to supper at the bare wooden tables on
the evening of our arrival—my first community-meal
—widely separated from each other, eating in profound
silence, and with a most depressing gravity, I felt that
my monastic career would be a short one. A young
friend had entered their novitiate the previous year,
and had ignominiously taken flight two days after his
arrival; I found myself warmly sympathising with
him.
However, since we were not to receive the monastic
garb for a week or more, we were allowed a good deal
of liberty, and my depression gradually wore off. It
happened, too, that I was already acquainted with
three of the friars, and soon became attached to the
community. The first friar whom we had met, a
lay-brother, rather increased our trouble; he was
already far advanced in religious mania and ascetical
consumption, and did, in fact, die a year afterwards
in the local asylum. The second we met, also a laybrother, did not help to remove the unfavourable
impression. His jovial and effusive disposition only
accentuated his curious deformity of structure; his
hands and bare toes diverged conspicuously from the
central axis, one shoulder was much higher than its
fellow, his nose was a pronounced specimen of the
Socratic type, and a touch of rheumatism imparted a
shuffling gait to the entire composition. Happily we
found that the teratological department of the convent
ended with these two.
Our novice-master, or “ Instructor,” at that time
was an excellent and much esteemed friar of six-andtwenty years; we were soon convinced of his kindness,
consideration, and religious sincerity, and accepted
�NOVITIATE
37
willingly the intimate relations with him in which our
position placed us. The superior of the monastery
likewise had no difficulty in securing our esteem. He
was a kindly, generous, and upright man, but without
a touch of asceticism. Tall and very stout, with dark
twinkling eyes and full features, he was a real “ Friar
of Orders Grey ” of the good old times. He was a
Belgian, but he had attained wide popularity in Kerry
by acquiring a good Flemish parody of an Irish brogue,
and constructing a genealogical tree in which some
safely remote ancestor was shown to be Irish. His
ideal of life was not heroic, but he acted up to it con
scientiously; he was genuinely pious in church,
fulminatory in pulpit and confessional, kind and fami
liar with the poor and sick, generous and a moderate
disciplinarian in his convent.
A few lay-brothers and four other priests made up
the rest of the community. There was a cultured and
refined young friar, who, after a few years of perverse
misunderstanding and petty persecution from his
brethren, took to drink, and was happily rescued from
his position by the hand of death. A second, a tall,
eccentric friar, ultimately became a stumbling-block
to his fraternity and was expelled for drunkenness;
another, a little, stout Lancashireman, of earnest and
blameless life, and of a deeply humane and affectionate
disposition, fell a victim a year later to typhus. Lastly,
there was a little, round, rubicund Irishman of enthu
siastic, unreasoning piety; kind, ascetical, hard-work
ing, studious (he studied everything except religious
evidences), he was a greatly respected figure in Irish
missionary circles. The one rule he confided to young
missionaries was : “ Throw the fire of hell at them ”;
C
�38
NOVITIATE
and with his own stentorian voice (though he told you
he was consumptive, and that one lung had already
decayed) he threw it with prodigious effect amongst
the peasantry.
A few days afterwards we were duly clotlied with
the monastic garb. The “ clothing ” has developed
into an impressive religious ceremony, and as there
were six of us (of whom four were under the age of
sixteen) to be clothed on this occasion, and it was the
inauguration of a new novitiate, the event was cele
brated with much solemnity. The six tunics (“ habits,”
as they are called) of rough brown frieze, with their
knotted cords, were blessed and sprinkled with holy
water during the mass, and we were solemnly enrobed
with the consecrated garments amidst much prayer and
psalm-singing, and the audible groans of the peasantry.
Our heads had been shaven in advance, leaving a
bald uncomfortable patch on the vertex about the
size of a cheese plate, a symbol, it is said, of the crown
of thorns of Christ’s passion. The brown tunic is
also symbolical of the passion, for it is made in the
form of a cross, the body being of the same width
from neck to foot, and the wide sleeves branching
out at right angles. However, the symbolism is an
outgrowth of more modern piety. Francis of Assisi
made no fantastic choice of a costume. Casting aside
his rich garments at his conversion, he merely adopted
the costume of the Italian beggar of his time—a rough
tunic and hood, girded with a knotted cord, and
sandals to his feet. The habit which excites so much
comment on the modern friar is thus merely an Italian
beggar’s costume of the thirteenth century; substan
tially, at least, for it too has fallen under the law of
�NOVITIATE
39
evolution. In fact, the point of vital importance on
which the two great branches of the Franciscan Order 1
diverge is the sartorial question, What was the original
form of the habit of St. Francis? The Capuchins hold
that his hood (or “ capuce ”) was long and pointed,
and that he had a beard; their rivals—the Observantes,
Recollecti, and Reformati—dissent, and their age-long
and unfraternal strife on the subject became as fierce
and alarming as the historical controversy of the
Dominicans and Jesuits of the sixteenth century on the
nature of grace. The Roman authorities had to inter
vene and stop the flow of literature and untheological
language by declaring all further publications on the
subject to be on the Index Expurgatorius.
The costume is still uncomfortable and insanitary.
In summer the heavy robe and the rough woollen
underclothing are intolerable; in winter the looseness
and v/idth of the tunic promote ventilation to an un
desirable extent; and sandals, with all respect to Mr.
Edward Carpenter, are neither healthy nor delectable.
The rule prescribes that the costume consist of “ two
tunics, a hood, a girdle, and drawers,” but in England
and America the inner tunic is interpreted to mean
an ordinary woollen shirt; on the Continent it is a
second tight-fitting tunic of the same brown material.
A mantle of the same colour is usually worn out of
doors, and is considered part of the costume during
the winter.
The name of the novice is changed when he enters
the monastery, as a sign that he is henceforth dead
to the world. The surname is entirely dropped, and
1 Since united under a common General.
C 2
Second edition.
�40
NOVITIATE
the Christian name is changed into that of some saint
of the order, who is adopted as patron; thus my own
name was changed into Antony. We were now, there
fore, fully fledged friars—of the mature age of fifteen
—and we entered at once upon the dull routine of the
monastic life. The character of the life will be best
understood by a detailed description of an ordinary
monastic day.
At a quarter to five every morning one of the friars
was awakened by his alarm-clock, and proceeded at
once to rouse the community. We novices, having
the eye of our instructor constantly upon us, shot out
of our rooms with proper despatch, but in most cases
the procedure was not so simple. There were friars
of all stages of somnolency. Some, of nervous tem
perament, heard the alarm themselves, and perhaps
rushed upstairs for a cold bath (a luxury admitted in
the degenerate friaries of England and the States);
the majority were aroused by a vigorous tap of the
wooden hammer at their door, accompanied by the
pious salutation, “ Laudetur Jesus Christus,” to which
they sleepily responded “ Amen ” (or made some other
pious or facetious observation); some slept so pro
foundly that the knocker-up had to enter their rooms
and shake them violently every morning. On one
occasion a young friar was carried out on his mattress
in profound sleep by his fellow-students and laid in
the middle of the busy corridor. When the round
was completed (all the bedrooms opening into a wide
central corridor, in accordance with the ever-watchful
constitutions), the large bell sent a deafening clangour
through the dormitories, and we quickly prepared
for chapel.
�NOVITIATE
41
A quarter of an hour was allowed for the purpose,
but, as our toilet was extremely simple, most of the
friars who had got beyond the stage of “ primitive
innocence ” continued their slumbers for five or ten
minutes. We were ordered by the constitutions to
retain all our underclothing during the night, so there
was nothing to do but throw on the rough brown robe
and gird it with the knotted cord. Then, towel in
hand, we raced to our common lavatory, for our simple
cells of twelve feet square were not encumbered with
washstands and toilet tables. In the lavatory a long
narrow zinc trough, with a few metal basins and a
row of taps overhead, was provided for our ablutions.
I afterwards discovered that, crude as it was, this
arrangement was rather luxurious for a friary.
At the end of the quarter the bell rang out its
second warning, and all were supposed to be kneeling
in their stalls in the choir by that time. The supe
rior’s eye wandered over the room to see if all were
present, and any unfortunate sleeper was at once sum
moned, and would have to do public penance for his
fault at dinner. At five the religious exercises began,
and they continued, with half-an-hour’s interval, until
eight o’clock.
The ancient monastic custom of rising at midnight
for the purpose of chanting the “ Office ” finds little
favour with modern monks; and, even from a religious
point of view, they are wise. I was enabled to make
observations on the custom some years later on the
Continent, and I found little ground for that enthu
siasm which Roman Catholic writers (usually those
who have never tried it) frequently express. A few
devotees enter into the service with their usual fer
�42
NOVITIATE
vour; but the vast majority, to whom a religious con
centration of thought during an hour’s service is an
impossibility, even in their most lucid hours, are
fatally oppressed with sleep and weariness. In
summer they fall asleep in their stalls; in winter the
night s repose is lost, and many constitutions are
ruined, by the hour or hour and a half spent in the
icy-cold chapel at midnight. There is very slender
ground for romantic admiration.
1 he Office ” which is thus chanted in choir is a
collection of Latin psalms, hymns, and readings from
Scripture, which every priest is bound to recite every
day. The monks chant it, or “ psalmody ” it, as they
say, in a monotone in their chapel at various hours
of the day;
Matins and Lauds, ’ ’ the principal
section, form the opening ceremony in the morning.
It lasts about an hour, and is followed by a half-hour
of silent meditation—a sad pitfall for the somnolent
at that early hour. During meditation the friars turn
away from each other and kneel in their stalls, with
their faces buried in their hands and their arms rest
ing on the seat. A facetious London priest, who
had once endeavoured to pass through the novitiate of
a monastery, used to tell me that he was discharged
because he snored so loudly during meditation as to
disturb the slumbers of the elder brethren. Mass
followed, and then breakfast was taken in profound
silence. It was a simple meal, consisting only of
coffee (taken in bowls, and without sugar—except on
fast-days) and bread and butter; during the meal a
few pages of the Imitation of Christ were read
aloud. After breakfast a further section of the Office
was chanted, and we were dismissed to arrange our
�NOVITIATE
43
rooms; for every friar, even the highest superior, is
his own chambermaid.
Afterwards we were allowed a quarter of an hour
in the garden in strict silence, and then our semi
religious studies and classes commenced. During the
novitiate profane study is prohibited (the perusal of
a Greek grammar one day brought on me as severe
a reprimand as if it had been a French novel), and
the time is occupied with religious exercises, of which
we had seven or eight hours daily, and the study of
our rule and constitutions, of ritual, and of ascetica!
literature. At half-past eleven another section of the
Office was chanted, at twelve there was a second halfhour of silent contemplation (an injudicious custom—
St. Teresa rightly maintained that one cannot medi
tate fasting), and at 12.30 the welcome dinner bell
was heard. Growling, rather than reciting, a De
Profundis for departed benefactors, we walked in
silent procession to the refectory, where, standing face
to face in two long rows down the room, we chanted
a long and curiously intonated grace.
Dinner was taken in strict silence. Two friars read
aloud, in Latin and English alternately, from Scripture
or some ascetical work, and the superior gave the
necessary signals with a small bell that hung before
him. There were no table-cloths, as monks are for
bidden the use of linen, but our pine tables were as
smooth as marble and scrupulously clean. The friars
only sit on one side of the table, on benches fixed into
the wall, so that the long narrow tables run round
the sides of the room. The dinner itself was frugal
but substantial enough; it usually consisted of soup,
two courses of meat and two vegetables, and fruit,
�44
NOVITIATE
with a pint of beer to each friar. A pint is the con
stitutional potion, but we juniors were, after grave
deliberation, allowed to have a smaller mug as a con
cession to English sobriety. Many of us had hardly
reached the age of strong drink, but we were forced
to take our two mugs daily, at dinner and supper,
with the rest. In Belgian and German friaries there
is an amusing intrigue constantly going on for securing
the larger mugs, and there even the youngest novices
must drink at least three pints of beer a day.
After dinner tongues were loosened at last, and
recreation permitted until 2.30. There is a curious
custom for two of the friars (a priest and a student) to
wash the dishes after dinner. A large tank of hot
water containing the dishes is suitably mounted in
the kitchen, and the two friars, armed with cloths tied
to the end of sticks, hurry through their task, chanting
meanwhile alternate verses of the Miserere in Latin,
freely interspersed with comments on the temperature
of the water. From this custom, too, the element of
spiritual romance has departed. Every Friday evening,
when the offices of the ensuing week are distributed
at supper, and announced in Latin by the reader, it is
still prescribed that “ Pater A----- et Frater B----lavabunt scutellas,” but the ceremony has not a particle
of the spiritual force it had in the days when the papal
legates, bringing the cardinal’s hat to the great St.
Bonaventure, found him so employed, and were told to
hang the hat on the bushes until he had finished.
Recreation is, in all monasteries, an incurably dull
affair. It generally consists of a walk round the
garden, while the friars indulge in light banter or
ponderous discussions of theology. We were allowed
�NOVITIATE
45
cricket at the beginning of our monastic career, but
it was presently vetoed by a foreign authority on the
ground that it was contrary to religious modesty.
Hand-ball was played by the students, and at one
place an ineffectual attempt was made to introduce
tennis. The lay-brothers and the priests played
dominoes or skittles; but the three castes—priests,
students, and lay-brothers—are forbidden to inter
mingle, or even to speak to each other without neces
sity. Cards are strictly forbidden in the monastic con
stitutions ; bagatelle was popular, and billiards not
unknown; and I have known the priests of a London
monastery to occupy their recreation with marbles for
many months. It was strangely impressive to hear
such problems as Predestination or Neo-Malthusianism
discussed over a game of marbles.
At 2.30 the bell summoned us to choir for Vespers,
the last section of the Office, and shortly afterwards
tea was announced. Nothing was eaten, but each
friar received a large bowl of tea; many of the older
friars took a second pint of beer instead, for tea was
a comparatively recent innovation. The Belgian friars
and the early English missionaries always take beer.
Silence was not enforced during the quarter of an hour
which is allowed for tea, but at its termination the
strictest silence was supposed to be observed until
recreation on the following day. In point of fact,
however, the law of monastic silence is only observed
with any degree of fidelity by novices and students,
and by these only so long as the superior is within
earshot. “ Charity,” they would plead in justifica
tion, “ is the greatest of all commandments.”
After an hour of prayer and spiritual reading we
�46
NOVITIATE
continued our pious studies until 6.30, when a third
half-hour of silent contemplation had to be accom
plished. It was pitiful, sometimes, to see young
students endeavouring to keep their attention fixed
upon the abstract doctrines of Christianity for so long
a time—to see them nervously tightening their lips
against the assaults of the evil one. For our monastic
literature, never entertaining for a moment the idea
that such a performance was beyond the powers of
the average individual, taught us to see in spirit
myriads of ugly little demons, with pointed ears and
forked tails, sitting on our shoulders and on the arms
of our stalls, and filling our minds with irrelevant
thoughts. In fact, our worthy novice-master (and a
number of reputable authors) assured us that these
imps had been seen on more than one occasion by
particularly pious elder brethren; that on one dread
occasion, happily long ago, a full-sized demon had
entered the choir with a basket and orthodox trident,
discovered a young friar who was distracted in his
prayers, and promptly disappeared with him in his
basket. To all of which we were obliged to listen
with perfect gravity, if we set any value upon our
sojourn in the monastery.
A series of mental devices, or “ methods of medita
tion,” had been invented for the purpose of aiding
the mind to fix its gaze on the things of the spirit
without interruption. Unfortunately they were often
so complicated as to make confusion worse con
founded. The method which our instructor selected
for us was quite an elaborate treatise in itself. I
remember one of our novices confiding to me the
trouble it occasioned him. The method was, of course,
�NOVITIATE
47
merely an abstract form of thought to be filled in with
the subject one chose to meditate about. But my
comrade, a clever ex-solicitor, had by some incompre
hensible confusion actually mistaken it for the subject
of meditation, and complained that the bell usually
rang before he had got through the scheme, and that
he had no time left to consider the particular virtue
or vice he had wished to meditate upon. On the
whole, it will be readily understood that of the seven
hours of prayer which were imposed upon us at that
period six at least were a sheer waste of time.
At seven we were summoned to supper—a simple
meal of eggs or cold meat, potatoes, and beer. After
wards, on three evenings per week, we took the dis
cipline, or self-scourging. Each friar repaired to his
cell for the purpose and flogged himself (at his own
discretion) across the shoulders with a knotted cord,
whilst the superior, kneeling in the middle of the
corridor, recited the Miserere aloud. Knowing that
our instructor used to listen at our doors during the
performance, we frequently gave him an exaggerated
impression of our fervour by religiously flogging the
desk or any other resonant surface. However, our
instruments of torture were guaranteed to be perfectly
harmless, even in the hands of a fanatic. I remember
how we hated a bloodthirsty little Portuguese friar,
who told us, with a suggestion of imitation, stories
of the way they took discipline in Portugal. But
before the end of the novitiate we had learned the
true value of the edifying tales with which visitors
invariably entertained the novices.
The remainder of the evening was spent in private
devotions or spiritual reading, and at 9.30 we were
�48
NOVITIATE
obliged to retire. Straw mattresses and a few blankets
were our only bed-furniture; and one wooden chair, a
plain desk, with half-a-dozen necessary books, com
pleted the inventory of the cell. A small plaster
crucifix was the only decoration on the unwashed walls.
Our dormitory was cut off from the others by a special
partition which was locked every evening, for the
papal regulations for the isolation of novices were
very stringent. Our novice-master kept the key, and
even the superior of the monastery was not allowed
to enter our department except in the company of
one of the older friars.
That was the ordinary course of our lives through
out the year of the novitiate, and indeed it had few
variations. Feast-days were the principal events we
looked forward to; in fact, it would be safe to say
that few boys would persevere in their condition if
the feast-days were abolished. A score of festivals
were indicated in the constitutions on which the
superior was directed to allow conversation at
dinner, and to give wine to the brethren: “ half
a bottle to each ” was the generous allowance of
the constitutions. In ordinary monasteries festivals
are much more frequent, and conversation is granted
at dinner on the slightest pretext. In the novitiate,
where a stricter discipline prevailed, we had usually
two or three every month, and on the more important
feasts the midday dinner assumed enormous propor
tions. At Christmas the quantity of fowl and other
seasonable food which was sent in occupied our strenu
ous attention during a full week; in fact, all our
convents had the custom of celebrating the entire
octave of Christmas with full gastronomic honours.
�NOVITIATE
49
So many friends conceived the happy idea of sending
a gift to the “ poor friars ” that the larder was
swollen with vast quantities of Christmas fare. I had
never tasted beer or wine before I entered the
monastery, but a little calculation shows that I must
(in my sixteenth year) have consumed fifty gallons
of ale and a dozen bottles of good wine during that
first year of monastic life.
The greatest event of the year, however, was the
patronal feast of the superior of the monastery. He
was a warm favourite in Killarney, and there were
enough comestibles (and potables) sent in to store a
small ship, the two neighbouring nunneries especially,
and a host of friends, vying with each other in the
profusion and excellence of gifts to honour his festival.
Even when a feast-day fell upon a fast-day, the
restriction in solids was usually compensated by a
greater generosity in fluids; we young novices were
more than exhilarated on one or two occasions when
dinner had opened with a strong claret soup, had been
accompanied by the usual pint of beer and a glass of
sherry, and followed by two or three glasses of
excellent port—sometimes even champagne. Nor is
the restriction to fish felt very acutely in Killarney,
where the lakes yield magnificent salmon, and where,
by a most ingenious process of casuistic reasoning,
water-fowl are included under the heading of fish!
The monotony of the life was also relieved by the
occurrence of the fasts. Besides the ordinary fasts
of the Church, the friars observe several that are
peculiar to their rule of life, especially a long fast
from the first of November until Christmas. How
ever, there are now few who really fast—that is to
�50
NOVITIATE
say, content themselves with one full meal per day—
even in monasteries; abstinence from flesh meat is the
usual limit of monastic mortification. On the Con
tinent fasting, in the strict sense of the word, is
much more frequently practised in monasteries, but
it may be questioned if idleness is not too heavy a
price to pay for an observance which is discredited
by modern moralists of all schools. In England and
the States the monks, and clergy generally, more
wisely prefer industry to fasting, though it is regret
table that they do not modify their professions in
accordance. The Passionists are the only English con
gregation who cling to the practice with any fidelity,
and their statistics of premature mortality are a
sufficient commentary on the stupidity of the Italian
authorities who are responsible for it.1
Moreover, the fasting ” of modern times departs
not a little from the primitive model. I have seen
the “ one full meal ” which is allowed at midday
protracted until four o’clock; and a partial meal has
been introduced in the evening. Drink, of course,
does not break the fast, except strong soup, choco
late, and a few other thick fluids, a list of which is
duly drawn up by casuists. Any amount of beer or
wine may be taken. And since it is, or may be,
injurious to drink much without eating, a certain
quantity of bread is allowed with the morning coffee;
at night (or in the morning if preferred), eight or ten
ounces of solid food arc permitted. The Franciscans
. * Since this was written I have met an ex-member of the Passionist body, who laughingly assured me that my statement that
the Passionists were ascetic was “the only serious mistake in my
book.
Second edition.
J
�NOVITIATE
51
are much reproved by rival schools of theologians for
their laxity in this regard, and the strained interpreta
tion they put upon admitted principles. At one time a
caricature was brought out in Rome depicting a Fran
ciscan friar complacently attacking a huge flagon of
ale and a generous allowance of bread and cheese in
the middle of his fast. To the ale was attached the
sound theological aphorism, “ Potus non frangit
jejunium—drink does not break the fast ” ; the huge
chunk of bread was justified by the received principle,
“ Ne potus noceat—in order that the drink may do
no harm ” ; and the cheese was added in virtue of the
well-known saying, “ Parum pro nihilo reputatur—
a little counts as nothing.”
Since there was no parish attached to the monastery
at Killarney (which is the correct canonical status of
a monastery), a few words must be said of the life
of the priests. At that time it was a hopeless mystery
to me, and it is principally from later observation and
information that I am able to describe it. That it was
far from being an industrious life will be understood;
occasional visits to the sick poor and the rendeiing of
services to the secular clergy of the diocese con
stituted the whole of their work outside. In our own
church there was only one sermon per week, and there
were six friars to share the work. Hence the greater
portion of the day was at the personal disposal of
the priests; and, as manual labour was considered
beneath the sacerdotal dignity, and their crude educa
tion had given them, with few exceptions, little or
no taste for study, they were always eager for dis
tractions. They were frequently to be met rowing or
sailing on the lakes (always in their brown habits), or
�52
NOVITIATE
driving on side-cars through the loveliest parts of
Kerry; and in return the parish priests whom they
visited or assisted paid frequent visits to the friary
and helped the monks to fill up an idle hour with a
cigar and a glass of whisky. A few years later,
indeed, a large-minded superior of this friary con
verted a conservatory that stood in the centre of the
garden into a cosy smoking-room.
In point of fact both whisky and tobacco were
forbidden in our constitutions, but I have never yet
seen a constitution in which a theologian could not
find a loophole and pass through it with unruffled
dignity. Our professor of theology used to tell a
genial story (against the casuist) of an old lady at
Glasgow who lost her purse, and prayed that it might
not fall into the hands of a theologian. The con
viviality of the priests, in our days, was confined to
a small room at a safe distance from our wing of
the house, but we frequently met one of the younger
priests moving stealthily along the corridor with the
neck of a bottle peeping out from his mantle, and
often, as we lay awake at midnight, we caught the
faint echo from the distant room of “ Killarney ” or
“ The Dear Little Shamrock.”
The penances, too, were an interesting feature of
the life, when observed in the case of one’s com
panions. The common form of public penance is to
kneel in the centre of the refectory during dinner,
praying silently with arms outstretched, until the
superior gives permission to rise. The next in point
of severity is to kneel without the hood, or with an
inscription stating one’s crime, or with the fragments
of anything one has broken. For graver faults,
�NOVITIATE
58
especially of insubordination, a culprit is condemned
to eat his dinner on the floor in the centre, the
observed of all observers, for one or more days; and
for an exaggerated offence his diet is restricted to
bread and water. Confinement to the monastery for
a long period, suspension from sacerdotal functions,
and, ultimately, expulsion from the order, are the
more grievous forms of punishment. Though monastic
constitutions still direct that each monastery must
have its “ prison,” I do not think that formal incar
ceration is now practised in any part of the world.
Apart, however, from these penances the whole scheme
of discipline is crushing and degrading. For speaking
a word in time of silence a novice would be forced to
carry a stick in his mouth during recreation; he would
be called upon at any time, for no fault whatever
(and generally just in proportion as he was intelligent
and sensitive), to stand against the wall or in a corner
of the room and make a fool of himself in the most
idiotic fashion. Everything is done to expel the last
particle of what is commonly called self-respect, to
distort and pervert character according to a stupid
mediaeval ideal. I remember once nearly bringing my
monastic career to a very early close by a transgression
of this supreme command of blind obedience. I had
been asked a question which would implicate a col
league—in a trivial matter—and I refused out of a
sense of honour to reply. If I had not apologised
afterwards in a public and humiliating fashion I should
have been expelled at once.
Thus the twelve months passed monotonously, and
the time approached for us to take the “ simple vows.”
The votes of the community are taken every three
�54
NOVITIATE
months on the merits of candidates for the order. The
community is assembled for the purpose in the chapter
room (a room in which the superior assembles his
religious three times a week for prayer, exhortation,
and public confession of their minor faults—breaking
utensils, oversleeping, &c.) and the superior invites a
discussion on the merits or demerits of the novice.
He then produces a bag of white and black marbles,
of which he gives a pair to each voter; they are
collected with great secrecy in two bags, and if the
novice does not obtain a majority of “ white balls ”
he is invited to abandon his intention. If it is probable
that he will be “ blackballed,” he is usually warned
in advance : hence it very rarely happens.
Our votes having been satisfactorily obtained we
prepared to make our religious profession at the com
pletion of our year of probation. The profession, an
impressive religious ceremony, consists essentially of a
vow to observe the rule of St. Francis and to “ live
in poverty, chastity,1 and obedience for the whole
time of our lives.” When the morning arrived, a large
and sympathetic congregation had gathered in the
church, and the sight of the six young friars—mere
boys we all were—solemnly forswearing every earthly
desire moved them deeply. The purport of the vow
was explained to them in the exhortation given by
the superior, and they at least knew the extent of the
sacrifice we were making. We, too, were convinced
1 A vow of chastity embraces the obligation of celibacy and
much more : it doubles the guilt of any transgression of the virtue
of chastity or purity, which, in the theory of the Church of Rome,
is a very comprehensive piece of ethical legislation. Yet many
confessors encourage their girl-penitents, living in the world, to
make such a vow.
�NOVITIATE
55
that we fully realised the gravity of the step; as,
although our thoughts were taken up rather with the
glamour of the position we ultimately sought and the
advantages it offered, we were not in our way insens
ible of the price we were asked to pay. But it was
many.a long year before the act could be appreciated
—not until long after we had solemnly and irrevocably
ratified our vows.
What are the world and the flesh to a boy of
sixteen, or even to a youth of nineteen (at which age
the final, irrevocable step is taken), who has been
confined in an ecclesiastical institution from his
thirteenth year? He knows little more of the life
which he sacrifices so lightly with his vow of poverty
than he does of life on Mars; and he is, when he
utters his vow of celibacy, entirely unacquainted with
the passion that will one day throb in every fibre of
his being, and transform the world beyond conception.
He has signed a blank cheque, on which nature may
one day write a fearful sum. Yet he is permitted, nay
persuaded, to make that blind sacrifice, and place
himself in lifelong antagonism to the deepest forces
of his being, before he can have the faintest idea of
his moral strength. If it be true that monastic life
is ever sinking into corruption, we should feel more
inclined to pity than to blame the monks.
The secular clergy make no vow of poverty or
obedience, and it may be urged that even their vow
of celibacy is more defensible. The seminary student
makes his vow when he is admitted to the subdiaconate, the first of the holy orders, and the
canonical and usual age of the subdeacon is twentyone. The average youth of twenty-one may be
�56
NOVITIATE
admitted to be capable, in ordinary circumstances,
of forming an opinion on such matters, but we must
remember that the ecclesiastical student has had an
abnormal training. Every precaution has been taken
to keep him in complete ignorance of sexual matters,
and to defer the development of that faculty of which
he is asked to make a lifelong sacrifice. He has never
come in contact with the other sex, for even during
his vacation the fear of scandal hangs like a millstone
about him; he has never read a line concerning the
most elementary facts and forces of life—his classics,
his history, his very fiction, have been rigidly expur
gated; the weekly minute confession of his thoughts,
the incessant supervision of his superiors, the constant
presence of innumerable threats, have combined to
postpone the unfolding of his sex-life until he shall
have blindly abdicated it for ever. In the confessional
I have known students of a much more advanced age
yho were still sexually undeveloped. In fact, the
Church knows that they are unconscious of sex, and
expects them to be unconscious; for if she awaited the
full development of mind and body in her candidates
her clergy would never be sufficiently recruited as long
as she insists on celibacy.
The proportion of nuns who take the vow of chastity
at an early age is smaller, as I have said, but the sin
is more grievous. The life of the nun who finds in
later life that she has made a mistake is infinitely more
wretched. The priest is in the world and frequently
of it ;■ the nun is jealously imprisoned in the walls of
her convent. No doubt, her vow is usually only a
“ simple ” vow and theoretically dispensable; but who
ever knew a nun to write to Rome for a dispensation?
�NOVITIATE
57
No woman would dare to face the ignominy of such a
step. “ Woe to him (or her) who draws back his hand
from the plough ” is one of the most inculcated maxims
of the conventual life; and the prospect of returning,
a failure, to one’s family and friends is most for
bidding.
I have never been able to witness without a shudder
the ceremony of a young girl making her vows. Some
comfortable monk or light-tongued Jesuit preaches to
her from the altar of the tranquil joy of her future
life as spouse of Christ alone, and the candid virginal
eyes that are bent upon him tell only too clearly of
her profound ignorance of the sleeping fires within her,
the unknown joys of love and maternity which she
sacrifices so readily. In ten years more she will know
the meaning of the vow of chastity into which she has
been deluded. It was brought home to me vividly on
hearing one day the confession of a young nun who
was in the wild throes of passion-birth. After
enumerating the usual peccadilloes, she began to tell
me of her utter misery and isolation. Her sisters
were unkind, thoughtless, and jealous; “and yet,
father,” she urged piteously, “ I do want some one
to love me.” I muttered the commonplaces of our
literature; but as she knelt at my feet, looking sadly
up at me, in their little convent chapel, I felt how
dark a sin it was to admit an immature girl to a vow
of chastity. How their parents—their mothers—can
let them act thus, nay, can look on with smiles and
congratulations, surpasses my comprehension. We
read with shudders of the ancient Mexican sacrifices
of maidens, yet hundreds of fine-natured girls are
annually sacrificed on this perverse altar of chastity in
�58
NOVITIATE
England. They send home no word of unhappiness,
it may be said. Do their parents not know that every
letter they write must be given, open, to a superior?
I doubt if France ever did a greater service to its
women than when it (though not entirely) closed t-heir
convents.
�CHAPTER IV
STUDENTSHIP
After the novitiate had been successfully accom
plished it was necessary to resume the course of our
education. Owing to the total neglect of profane
study which is foolishly directed, most of the ground
we had already conquered was lost during the year
of the novitiate. Latin was sustained, even advanced
a step, since all our services and quasi-religious studies
had been in Latin; although ecclesiastical Latin, and
especially the Latin of the Psalms, of which we heard
so much, would make the shade of Cicero shudder.
Whatever other acquisitions had been made such as
Greek and French were entirely lost. We had, there
fore, to devote ourselves once more to “ humanities,”
and for this purpose we were transferred (without a
glimpse of the immortal lakes, for the friars had fallen
on evil days with the bishop) to what is now the
principal house of studies of the Franciscans at Forest
Gate in East London.
The large and imposing pile of buildings which the
friars have to-day at Forest Gate is often quoted as
an illustration of the growth of Catholicism. Fifteen
years ago (1882) there was no Catholic congregation
in the locality; only a dozen worshippers made their
way to the washhouse of the neighbouring nunnery,
59
�60
STUDENTSHIP
when the friars first came to celebrate mass there.
When our party arrived three years afterwards the
congregation numbered 300 souls; and when I left in
1896 the friars had erected property to the value of
about <£25,000, and ministered to a congregation of
more than 3000 souls. As a matter of fact this was
only a symptom of the decentralisation that was going
on in London. There were few converts to Rome in
the new congregation, and these were merely the
flotsam and jetsam of superficial religious controversy
—good people who would save their souls in any
Church, or none. The great bulk of the parish were
the middle-class Catholics who had migrated from all
parts of East London to the new and healthier district,
in which the sagacious friars had erected a church,
mainly on borrowed funds.1
The priest who was entrusted by the Belgian author
ities with the supervision of our studies was Father
David, since Minister-General of the entire Franciscan
Order, and erudite counsellor to the Holy Office. An
abler student than teacher—a distinction of which our
authorities never dreamed—and a man of many
interests, he contributed little more than the example
of his great industry and learning to our develop
ment; and most of us were very barren soil for that
seed. During the first six months no attempt was
made to organise our work. All our religious exer
cises were hurried through early in the morning,
making more than three consecutive hours of prayers
of divers kinds; as a rule we then had the monastery
to ourselves during the day. Once or twice a week,
1 One of their chief benefactors, Mgr. A. Wells, has since seceded
from the Church.
�STUDENTSHIP
61
at any hour of the day or night, our professor would
interrupt the course of his ministerial and parochial
duties, and his studies of Sanscrit at the British
Museum, to give us a class in Latin. Even during
that half-hour he used to write letters, and we would
purposely make the most atrocious blunders, and con
duct ourselves in the wildest manner our imagination
could suggest.
Our long Saturnalia came to an end at last with
the arrival of a second and younger professor, who
entered into the work of reform with alarming zeal.
He was fresh from the Belgian province, in which a
perfect discipline (from a mechanical point of view)
prevails in the houses of study. Young, intensely
earnest, and sincerely religious, he made an honest
effort to reform us without losing our sympathy, but,
as he knew little more of our studies than we did, and
had an uncontrollable temper and a conspicuous harsh
ness of character, lie alienated us more and more as
time went on. From Belgium, too, he had imported
the system of espionage, which is deservedly odious to
English students; he considered that the necessary
rigour of monastic discipline justified it. However,
he never cared to be caught in the act, and we gave
him many an unpleasant quarter of an hour by running
to the door of our study room when we saw his
shadow near it, and chasing him through the convent
in his anxiety not to be seen. At length we appealed
to authority, and effected his deposition and removal.
In later years I learned to esteem and respect him, and
he made rapid progress in the order and in the London
ministry; finally, however, he ended in an ignominious
flight with the contents of the fraternal cash-box.
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His successor was a monk of a very different char
acter. Far from continuing the rigour of his pre
decessor, he became alarmingly liberal and familiar,
and before many months had elapsed we found it
impossible to retain a particle of respect for him. In
point of fact he already showed symptoms of mental
aberration, and a few years afterwards his conduct
became so extraordinary that absolute dementia is the
kindest interpretation of it. He, too, was removed
at our appeal, and we began to have an evil reputation.
During our five years of study at Forest Gate we
succeeded in removing no less than six professors and
superiors; and, since I was the “dean” of the
students throughout my course, I attracted an uncom
plimentary interest. I have no doubt that my own
fall was frequently predicted many years in advance.
After twelve months at Latin we were initiated into
a course of rhetoric. The Jesuits more wisely post
pone the rhetorical studies until the last year; in any
case, it is little more than a waste of time. Lessons
in elocution and declamation are clearly expedient,
and should be insisted upon much more conscientiously
than they are in the training of priests, but the usual
“course of rhetoric ” is only learned to be forgotten.
It deals with the invention and distribution of argu
ments, the analysis and composition of orations, the
various styles of discourse, figures of speech, and the
comparative play of ideas and emotions. There are
few who retain any knowledge of its multitudinous
rules when the period of practice arrives; fewer still
who pay the slightest attention to them. The only
useful element of the training is the practice of
making ecclesiastical students prepare and deliver
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short sermons to their companions. In many
monasteries the students preach to the assembled com
munity during dinner. It affords excellent training
for public speaking, for one who is able to speak with
any degree of self-possession to a small audience will
have little fear of a large congregation. I often
preached to a congregation of a thousand people with
the utmost composure, yet trembled before a con
gregation of ten or twelve persons.
The course of rhetoric is succeeded by a course of
scholastic philosophy. In the great mediaeval schools
philosophy was taught in conjunction with theology,
but the rationalistic spirt, which had been so vigor
ously expressed by Abelard, and the growing import
ance of the Moorish thinkers, led gradually to the
separation of philosophy. By the sixteenth century,
when there was a notable revival of speculative
activity, the separation of philosophy from theology
was complete. In a rationalistic age like ours such
a separation is imperative. Before a positive revela
tion can be entertained, certain preliminary truths,
especially the existence, nature, and authority of the
Revealer, must necessarily be established by pure reason
ing ; in other words, philosophy must precede theology,
and this is now fully recognised by the Church.
The scholastic philosophy which is now taught in
Catholic seminaries usually includes treatises on logic,
metaphysics, and natural ethics. First is given a short
treatise on dialectics, which differs little from the
logic of Jevons or Whateley, and is followed by a more
careful study of the second or material part of logic.
A treatise of general metaphysics follows, in which
are discussed, analysed, and vindicated the general
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concepts and principles which will be used subse
quently in the construction of the desired theses.
Special metaphysics is divided into three parts,
cosmology, psychology and natural theology. It
opens with a proof of the existence of the material
world, against the Idealists, and discusses its origin
and its features of time and space; then the question
of life is entered upon, its origin and nature discussed,
and the two great branches of the organic world are
philosophically described and commented upon. The
second part, psychology, is concerned with the human
soul; it seeks to prove its spirituality and immortality,
against the Materialist, classifies and analyses its
various faculties, treats of the origin and nature of
thoughts, emotions, and volitions. The third part
treats of God; it opens with the usual demonstration
of his existence, against the Agnostics, endeavours to
elucidate his attributes as far as mere reasoning will
avail (and the scholastic philosopher is persuaded that
it will avail much), and considers his relations to
this nether world.
The line of reasoning throughout is taken closely
from Aristotle—or, as Renan would say, from a bad
Latin translation of an Arabic paraphrase of a Syriac
version of Aristotle. Until the time of Thomas
Aquinas, all Catholic philosophers (except Boetius) had
followed Plato, and regarded Aristotle with suspicion;
St. Thomas, however, and all the schoolmen, except
St. Bonaventure, rejected the Platonist method and
introduced Aristotle (through the Latin translations
of the Arabic school), expurgated his philosophy, and
enlarged it in certain directions in harmony with
Christian teaching. Thus the Neo-Scholastic philo-
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sophy is fundamentally the philosophy of Aristotle
enlarged by allusions to modern problems and philo
sophies, and usually enriched with a moderate acquaint
ance with modern science. The Jesuits of Stoneyhurst
have published (in English) an excellent series of
manuals of the Neo-Scholastic philosophy at its best.
To logic and metaphysics is usually added a treatise
on natural ethics, which is founded on the Nicomachean
ethics. It deals with the abstract conceptions of right
and duty, virtue and vice, law and conscience; dis
cusses the various current theories of moral obligation;
and expounds and enforces the various duties which
arise from the relations of individual, social, and inter
national life. Since no appeal to revelation is admitted
in it, and in order to distinguish it from moral
theology (which covers the same ground in the light
of revelation and authority), the treatise goes by the
name of natural ethics.
Customary as it is to decry the scholastic philo
sophy, I would willingly subscribe to the generous
appreciation of it by Mill and Hamilton as a mental
discipline. Its chief defect is its narrow and arrogant
exclusivism. That the system is strongly and skil
fully constructed is what one would expect from the
number of gifted minds that have contributed to it;
but almost every manual from which it is taught, and
nearly every professor, carefully excludes, or only gives
a most inaccurate version of, rival philosophies. The
impression made on the student is that the scholastic
system is so clearly and uniquely true that all oppo
nents are either feeble-minded or dishonest; the latter
theory is only too often urged. When I afterwards
became professor of philosophy I made it my duty to
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study more modern systems, and learned how petty
and antiquated the scholastic system is in comparison.
Even one who had taken a degree in it could hardly
read such writers as Lotze or Royce.
And, indeed, apart from the fact that all opponents
are on the Index 1 (in that they write “ expressly
against the faith ”), and that it would be a sacrilege
to entertain for a moment the possibility of their
being in the right, the time which is devoted to the
vast subject is wholly inadequate. Two years is the
usual duration of the course; one year is very fre
quently the limit of philosophical study. Then the
ages of the students must be taken into account.
They are generally youths of from eighteen to twentyone, who are quite incompetent to enter seriously into
such grave problems; only one in a hundred makes
an attempt to do so. Sufficient information to satisfy
an examiner is committed to memory; but, unless
the student is drawn to the science for a solution of
questions that have arisen in his own soul (which is
very rarely the case), he shirks philosophy as far as
possible, and looks forward eagerly to his deliverance
from it. Further, it is supposed to be taught through
the medium of a dead language, and most of the
professors in the seminaries have very little acquaint
ance with modern science. They are also injudicious
in that, neglecting the problems of actual interest and
importance, they fritter away the allotted time in the
1 The Index, or “list of prohibited books,” is really a far more
extensive thing than the published list. Every work that is
regarded as “against the faith ” (such as this) is prohibited to the
Catholic under pain of hell, although not expressly put on the list.
Hence the ease with which Catholic journals can misrepresent a
book. Their readers dare not read it.
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most trivial controversies. The liberty of the will
or the existence of God will be dismissed in a day,
and a week will be zealously devoted to the question
whether substance and personality are two distinct
entities, or whether the qualities of a thing are
physically, formally, or mentally distinct from its
substance. In many seminaries a certain amount of
physical science is taught in conjunction with the
course of philosophy, but much jealousy is shown with
regard to it. I was much attracted to the empirical
sciences from the beginning, and, though not actually
impeded, I was much discouraged in that pursuit; I
was informed that the empirical sciences made the
mind “ mechanical,” and predisposed to materialism.
F. David, though not actually my professor, guided
my studies with great kindness throughout my course.
Although I fortunately broke loose from his influence
in some directions, and found that I had subsequently
to verify with care whatever I had accepted from
him, I was certainly much indebted to him for the
formation of habits of industry and precision.
The priest who was nominally entrusted with our
philosophical training is certainly not responsible for
the fatal depth to which I ultimately penetrated. One
of the few things he had not mastered was meta
physics ; he could paint and play, and he was an
authority on architecture, archaeology, rubrics, canon
law, and history. He was a Belgian friar of pro
nounced eccentricity, and his method of teaching
philosophy was original. After each lesson he dictated
in Latin a number of questions and answers, and on
the following morning the answers had to be repeated
word for word. Some of my fellow-students passed
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a most satisfactory examination at the end of the
term without having a single idea on philosophical
questions. The worthy father was another victim of
our seditious movements, and his eccentricities enabled
us to make his life a serious burden. He, for instance,
hated meeting anybody on our broad staircases, and
we haunted the stairs. He lived mainly on hard toast,
and we at times stole some of it and scrunched it in
the most silent intervals of dinner, to the delight of
his colleagues.
The last three or four years of the student’s career
are devoted to theology. Under that title are usually
comprised ecclesiastical history, canon law, Scripture,
and moral and dogmatic theology. Ecclesiastical
history, usually a very one-sided version of the vicissi
tudes of the Church, does not, as a rule, occupy much
of the time. Canon law, a vast system of ecclesiastical
legislation, is either neglected or only given in a very
rudimentary fashion. Each order and diocese secures
one or two experts in the subject, who are appealed
to in case of complications, but the majority of the
clergy are content with the slight knowledge of canon
law which they necessarily glean from their moral
theology. The three years are, therefore, devoted to
Scripture and theology proper. In my course not a
single lesson of Canon Law was given.
With four lectures each week during a period of
two or three years it is impossible to study satisfac
torily more than a comparatively small section of the
Scriptures. Certain books are selected, after a general
introduction, for detailed commentary, and the students
are supposed to study the exegetical method in order
to cover the rest of the ground at their leisure.
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How far is the study of Scripture in the Church
of Rome affected by the Higher Criticism (and the
monuments)? Very profoundly, in point of fact,
though this modification of views can find no expres
sion since the celebrated retrograde encyclical of Leo
XIII. Newman’s contention, that there were obiter
dicta in Scripture which did not fall under the in
spiring influence, introduced a far-reaching principle;
it was not necessary to hold that all was inspired,
In face of the stern criticism of the Rationalists many
had begun to admit scientific and historical errors in
Scripture, and the famous French professor, M. Loisy,
went very far in company with the critics. Then
came the Pope’s encyclical, declaring that no errors
could be admitted in Scripture, and M. Loisy dis
appeared from his chair (with, it is true, a most suave
and courteous letter in his pocket, recognising his past
services, from the Pope). However, an encyclical only
affects the expressions, not the thoughts, of scholarly
Catholics. Leo XIII. has never once claimed to
exercise his infallible authority. His encyclicals enjoy
no more than his personal authority as a theologian,
and that is not serious. The bulk of the faithful are
impressed by his utterances, both on the ground of
their wisdom and under the erroneous impression that
they, according to Catholic theology, share to some
degree the prestige of his supernatural power. There
are no degrees in infallibility. Catholic scholars are
waiting patiently until Cardinal Vanutelli, or some
broader-minded man, assumes the tiara.
In the meantime, on this Scriptural question, they
have a refuge in the elasticity of the term “ inspira-‘
tion.” The advanced thinker may give it any interD
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pretation his views may require. A very able professor
of Scripture at Louvain University told me that his
own ideas on Scripture were absolutely chaotic on
account of this vagueness of the fundamental idea.
Another distinguished professor saw in it a line of
dignified retreat for the Papacy when the time came.
What the commission which is now sitting on the
Biblical question at the Vatican may determine can
not be conjectured. But the private opinion of the
leading spirit in that commission is not unknown to
me. “ The truth is,” I recollect Father David saying
to me, when Mr. Sayce’s “ Higher Criticism and the
Monuments ” appeared, “ the truth is that the Old
Testament was not written for us, and the sooner the
Church can quietly drop it overboard the better.” 1
Moral theology has been detached from dogmatic
in the specialisation of studies, and forms a distinct
science of a purely practical nature. It opens with a
few general treatises on moral responsibility, con1 When the first edition was written Leo XIII. had appointed a
commission of theologians, with my tutor, F. David, as secretary,
to draw up a series of guiding statements on the question of
Sciipture. It is plain that Leo XIII. had seen the error of his
encyclical, and was disposed to be more liberal. He is said to
have repeatedly muttered in his last hours : “The Biblical ques
tion, the Biblical question.” Then came the accession of Pius X.
one of the most narrow-minded and medieval of the whole college
of cardinals. The rival partisans of Vanutelli and RampoBa
could come to no agreement, and a nonentity had to be admitted
to the tiara. Unfortunately, he proved as conscientious as he is
ignorant. The Biblical Commission was swamped with reactionary
scholars, and one of the first pronouncements signed by my liberal
tutor was that the whole Pentateuch was certainly written by
Moses ! Then began the great fight against the liberals, or Modern
ists. Cultivated Catholics groan under the rule of Pius X., and
believe that he is ruining the Church. It is a singular commentary
on the dogma of papal inspiration. Third edition.
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science, law, and sin, which constitute what is called
fundamental theology. The special treatises which
follow discuss the obligations of the moral agent in
every conceivable relation and circumstance. Each
treatise usually takes a particular virtue as its object,
and enumerates every possible transgression of the
same, discussing their comparative gravity, and fre
quently giving practical rules to the confessor in deal
ing with them. There is a treatise on impurity, which
gives the student the physiological elements of the sub
ject, and enumerates (with the crudest details) the
interminable catalogue of forms of vice, the professor
usually supplementing the treatise from his own ex
perience in the confessional. There are also treatises
on charity, on justice (a voluminous treatise which
descends into the minutest details of conjugal, social,
and commercial life), on veracity, and all other virtues.
Throughout the preceding section on virtues and
vices, which usually forms a quarto volume of 500 or
600 pages, little appeal is made to positive revelation.
The judgments of the theologian are supported from
time to time by texts of Scripture and references to
ecclesiastical legislation, but the main portion of the
work is purely ethical and rational. The second
section, however, another quarto volume of 500 pages,
discusses the seven sacraments of the Church of Rome,
the vast number of obligations they entail in practical
life, the transgressions which arise from their neglect
or abuse, and their theory and practice. The principal
treatises are the two that deal with confession and
matrimony. In the one the future confessor receives
the necessary directions for his task (a much more
complicated one than is commonly supposed); in the
D2
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other the many impediments to marriage, on the
Catholic view, are discussed, as well as the dispensa
tions from them, and there is a further discussion of
conjugal relations. The path throughout is beset with
the innumerable conflicts of theologians, and every point
is profusely illustrated with real or fictitious “ cases.”
Moral theology is regarded as the most important
of sacerdotal studies, and in many monastic orders it
is the only study that is seriously cultivated. Young
priests have annual examinations in it for many years
after their ordination, and throughout life the priest
has to attend periodical conferences, which are held
in every monastery and diocese, for the discussion of
points of casuistry. Our professor was a young man
of much ability and refinement of character, who
lectured on the cruder sections with marked confusion
and apology, but, as a rule, priests soon acquire the
habit of discussing indelicate “ cases ” with the calm
ness of a medical man.
Much as we were attached to our professor for his
kindliness and charm of character, we had to procure
his removal at the end of a year. Though a man of
more than average ability, he was too weak and un
suited for the monastic condition to fill his position
with credit. The dull, oppressive environment grad
ually led him to drink, and he died an unhappy and
premature death.
For our course of dogmatic theology we had the
able guidance of Father David. He was a man of
wide erudition and considerable mental power, and
held us, with one or two exceptions, magnetically
bound to him during our studentship. It was a curious
fact that nearly all of his students withdrew them-
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selves from his influence in later years. The change
seemed to be due to the subsequent discovery of the
inaccuracy of many of the statements we had taken
from him—want of practice in writing and a shrinking
from criticism had encouraged a certain degree of care
lessness in his expressions—and partly to the fact that
his early kindness and assistance had too much of an
element of patronage and authority to survive in
maturer years. Personally I was the most indebted to
his guidance, and was the last of my course to remain
under his influence. He had a remarkable grasp of
dogmatic theology, because he had a thorough know
ledge of the scholastic philosophy, which pervades and
unites its entire structure. For dogmatic theology
takes the student in hand at the point at which philo
sophy has left him; it is, in fact, merely revelation set
in a philosophical frame. The various points of dogma
which are contained (or supposed to be contained) in
Scripture, were first selected by the Fathers, and
developed, generally by the aid of the Neo-Platonic
philosophy, into formidable structures. The schoolmen
completed the synthesis with the aid of the Peripatetic
philosophy, and elaborated the whole into a vast scheme
which they called theology. The purely philosophical
problems which arose have been extracted, and now
form the distinct science of metaphysics; the ethical
questions have been separated and formed into a moral
theology; the speculative science which remains, still
wholly philosophical in form and largely so in argu
ment, is dogmatic theology.
Much space is occupied with the conflicts of rival
schools of theologians, especially of the Thomists, or
followers of St. Thomas (chiefly the Dominicans and
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Jesuits—though Thomism is in general favour just
now, since the Pope has declared for St. Thomas), and
the Scotists (Franciscans) or followers of the Franciscan
Duns Scotus. These rival groups quarrel about every
question that the Church has left undefined. One im
portant result of these divisions is that grave questions
of living interest are only imperfectly grasped by
theologians until the world has moved on a step, and
they then ungracefully follow it. Their time is chiefly
occupied with questions that are fitly illustrated by the
problem of the number of angels that could stand on a
needle’s point.
Through this scheme of education every aspirant to
the Roman Catholic priesthood must pass. In the
larger seminaries and more prosperous congregations
the programme is carried out with great fidelity, and
the more brilliant students are sent on to the universi
ties (Washington, Louvain, Innspruck, Freiburg, and
Rome) for more advanced courses. The smaller
seminaries and minor congregations, who are ever
pressed for priests, curtail the scheme very freely;
philosophy is all but omitted, dogmatic theology is
reduced to the indispensable minimum, and moral
theology is carefully pruned of its luxurious growth
of superfluous controversies. In the case of monastic
orders, whose work consists almost entirely in mission
ary and parochial activity amongst the poor, the Church
connives at a lower standard of education.
In the Franciscan Order the constitutions, from
which its admirers usually but wrongly derive their
information of its practices, generously prescribe three
years for philosophy and four for theology. In few
branches of the order are more than five years devoted
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to the higher studies. In England we were the
pioneers of a new system, and from first to last our
studies were irregular and stunted. We spent five
years as students at Forest Gate, of which fifteen
months were devoted to classics and rhetoric, fifteen
months to philosophy, and two years and a half to
theology. During that period our life differed little
from the model described in the preceding chapter.
We rose at a quarter to five, dragged through the long
programme of religious services, and commenced study
at eight; six or seven hours per day were devoted to
study, and the remainder of the time was occupied as
I have described.
We had taken the irrevocable vows three years after
leaving the novitiate. One of our number had obtained
papal release from his “simple ” vows, but most of
us looked forward eagerly to the priesthood, the “ end
of study,” as we equivocally called it, and we found
means to enliven the dull and insanitary life that had
to be traversed first. No vacation is allowed during
the whole of the period, but once or twice a week we
had the luxury of divesting ourselves of the heavy robe
and taking long walks in ordinary clerical attire, and
once or twice a year we were granted a whole-day
holiday to some pleasant spot. This was in the later
years. At the commencement of the period we had
ample practical illustration of the meaning of a vow
of poverty—which is more than the modern mendicant
friar anticipates. Under one superior, a very mediocre
friar, who had been put into office to serve the purpose
of a diplomatic and ambitious higher superior, our diet
and clothing became painfully appropriate to our pro
fession of mendicancy. His parsimony and real lack
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of money were neatly concealed behind a cheerful pro
fession and praise of “ holy poverty ” before which all
complaint was stultified. However, our congregation,
and the income of our church increased, so that
“ holy poverty ” was laid aside in favour of more
humane sentiments. Our diet became generous and
substantial, our beer and wine more expensive, and a
heating apparatus was introduced; we almost attained
the ordinary level of modern monastic life.
Still the life was extremely insanitary, and there
was much sickness amongst us. During three years
we lost six of our young men, and almost all of us
entered upon our active career with deeply impaired
constitutions. Our medical attendant waged a constant
but fruitless war with our superiors to procure a saner
recreation for us; at his demand for exercise we were
furnished with picks and shovels and turned into our
garden. One huge mound of earth afforded us exercise
for four years; one superior desired to see it in a
central heap, his successor fancied it in the form of a
Roman camp, and a third directed us to form an en
trenchment along the side of the garden with it. But
the root of the evil was far deeper than they cared to
recognise; it lay in the isolation, the dull, soul
benumbing oppression of the monastic life.
The sick were treated with great kindness, as a
rule, but, naturally, with little skill and effectiveness;
for no woman is, under any conceivable circumstances,
allowed to enter the monastery. In a serious illness
which befell me I had painful experience of that aspect
of celibate life. The custards and beef-tea which the
doctor had ordered were made by our cook of corn
flour and somebody’s essence of beef (the cook had the
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laudable intention of saving time for his prayers); and
even when certain lady friends outside had taken the
responsibility for my diet, I still had the equivocal
blessing of “ fraternal ” nursing. The lay-brother
who acted as my infirmarian, a good, rough, kindhearted fellow, like most of his class, had been a collier
before his conversion, and, though he made a strained
effort to be gentle and soothing, his big horny hands
lent themselves very badly to the work. However, no
expense was spared in the care of the sick, and most
superiors were extremely kind and considerate in their
treatment.
The constant changes of the inmates of the monastery
also afford some relief to the monotony of the life.
Elections are held every eighteen months, at which
changes of superiors are made and monks are trans
ferred from one monastery to another. For months in
advance the convents are thrown into a fever of excite
ment over the issues. Discontented inferiors are
afforded an opportunity of venting their grievances, as
a commissioner, or “ visitator,” is sent from Rome,
who has a strictly secret and confidential talk with
every friar in the province before the election takes
place. In some monasteries and nunneries the superior
is elected for life, and in such cases he is usually
chosen by the inmates themselves with great care. In
our fraternity, and in many other congregations, the
local superiors, or “ guardians,” of the various mon
asteries were appointed by a higher council, as I will
describe later, and had to hand in their resignations
at the end of eighteen months; if their record was
satisfactory, they might be re-elected for a time. The
frequent change is a matter of general satisfaction, for
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no superior ever succeeds in gaining the sympathy of
an entire community. One of the kindest and ablest
superiors we ever had, Father Bede, a man of excep
tionally earnest, sincere, and unworldly life, only
retained the position for a year and a half, and at the
end of that term was with great difficulty dissuaded
from leaving our province altogether. There was a
great deal of intrigue afoot always in connection with
the elections.
Feast-days also helped to break the monotony of
the life. Even in our poorest days the higher festivals
were celebrated with much gaiety and opulent meals;
for there are always plenty of thoughtful friends, and
usually a nunnery or two, in the neighbourhood of a
friary to supply the defects of the masculine cuisine on
special occasions. On such days the law of silence is
suspended at dinner, and the friars join in a general
conversation and raillery; often, too, an impromptu
concert is added, and the songs of bygone days re-echo
through the cloisters. Our refectory was prudently
located, as is usual, at the back of the house, and far
from profane ears. Wine is poured out in abundance;
in our days of poverty it was weak Rhine wine or an
inferior port, but with the return of prosperity (and
the advent of a generous benefactress), good port and
whisky, and a fair quantity of champagne, made their
appearance. We students also were liberally supplied
with wine, and, as some religiously declined it, others
drank too generously. Youths in their teens, who had
never seen wine in their homes, drank their half-bottle
once or twice a month. A lamentable proportion of
them became immoderate drinkers.
The long preparation for the priesthood is divided
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into stages marked by the reception of the preliminary
orders. In the Church of Rome there are seven orders
through which the cleric must pass, four minor and
three major or “ holy ” orders. In the early Church
each order marked a certain category of officials in
which the candidate for the priesthood was detained
for some time. The first ceremony, the giving of the
“ tonsure,” in which the bishop symbolically cuts five
locks of hair from the head of the neophyte, is a formal
initiation into the ranks of the clergy. Whilst the hair
is being cut the youth repeats after the bishop the
words, “ The Lord is the part of my inheritance,” for
the “ cleric ” is one who has chosen the part (cleros)
of the Lord. After a time he passes through the four
minor orders, and becomes successively doorkeeper,
reader, exorcist, and acolythe. To-day the tonsure
and the minor orders are usually given in one ceremony,
for the lower offices have been partly absorbed in the
higher, and partly committed to non-clerics. But the
conservatism of the Church still insists on the orders
being taken and their functions discharged at least
once; so that the newly appointed doorkeeper, for in
stance, must march ceremoniously to the church door,
which he opens and shuts, and rings the bell, before
the bishop will proceed to make him reader. The
function of exorcist can now only be discharged by a
priest, with the permission of the bishop in each case.
In the west of Ireland, where belief in diabolical inter
ference and the power of the priest is still very pro
found, exorcisms are not infrequent. But they are not
unknown in enlightened London. A case came to my
knowledge recently in which Cardinal Vaughan con
templated exorcising a man, but the spirit threatened
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to do such serious internal damage before departing
that the ceremony was abandoned.
The subdiaconate is usually received at the age of
twenty-one, and the diaconate in the following year.
In the monastic orders, where the vow of celibacy has
already been pronounced, these ceremonies are com
paratively unimportant, but to the secular student the
subdiaconate is a fateful step; the vow is made by
taking a step forward in the sanctuary at the invita
tion of the bishop, and many a student has withdrawn
at the last moment. The long ceremony of ordination
is impressive and ridiculous in turns. It contains many
beautiful prayers and symbolic rites, but it retains parts
—such as the exhortations to the candidates (who rarely
understand the muttered Latin) and the interrogation
of the people (who would almost commit a sacrilege if
they replied) about the merits of the candidates—which
have long ceased to have any force whatever.
Two years are supposed to elapse between the diacon
ate and the priesthood, but we received the three major
orders within the same six months. Ecclesiastical laws
can always be suspended by Rome in unusual circum
stances, and the extraordinary extent to which clerical
regulations are over-ruled to-day indicates on what evil
days the Church has fallen.
�CHAPTER V
PRIESTHOOD
A consideration of the scheme of study which has
been described would lead to the impression that
Roman Catholic priests must be in a highly satisfactory
condition of intellectual equipment. No other priest
hood has, or ever had, a longer and more systematic
course of training. For ten years, on the average, the
candidate is under the exclusive control of the ecclesi
astical authorities—authorities who have the advantage
of an indefinitely long and world-wide experience in
training their neophytes and a religious authority over
them. Their scheme of education, indeed, does seem
perfectly constructed for the attainment of their
particular object.
Yet it is generally recognised that the Catholic priest
hood, as a body, are not at all remarkable for their
attainments and their intellectual training. Their
system is admirable on paper, but it evidently breaks
down somewhere. That this widely-felt impression of
their inferiority is not a lingering trace of the ancient
prejudice against Rome is clear from the fact that
Englishmen notice the inferiority more particularly out
side of England, where Roman Catholic priests do not
present themselves in the light of schismatical in
truders. And it is placed beyond all doubt by the cir81
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cumstance that the feeling is largely shared, and has
been emphatically expressed, by the Roman Catholic
laity. The correspondence columns of their journals
frequently contain appeals for the better education of
the clergy. The broad fact that, with the wider diffusion
of modern thought, the theological army has struck its
flag, and retreated from point after point, implies a
grave defect even in the leading thinkers of the Church,
as the laity are quick to perceive. It is not surpris
ing, therefore, to find the ordinary clergy much behind
the age in questions of general interest.
The last sermon I preached in a Catholic church
(that of St. Antony, at Forest Gate) was an appeal
for the higher education of the clergy. I urged that
modern thought had entirely changed the position of
the religious teacher, and had made it necessary to
have a regard for intellectual as well as moral train
ing; and I freely denounced the actual ignorance of
the clergy. My mind had already passed from the
Roman Catholic faith, and I spoke strongly and
sincerely on the subject. My colleagues feebly con
gratulated me afterwards, but the laymen of the con
gregation actually sent a deputy to assure me of their
gratitude and their admiration of my bold expression
of their sentiments. On the following evening, after
a scientific lecture I gave them, I spoke on the subject
to a group of educated laymen, and found them deeply
moved on the question. Certainly the clergy of St.
Antony’s (four of whom were professors) were not
below the average. In most of the churches of that
part of London the clergy were far more ignorant, and
even among communities of priests who have wealth
and leisure, like the Jesuits or Oratorians, there are
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few who have even a superficial knowledge of modem
science, history, or philosophy. The impression was
confirmed wherever one listened to Catholic sermons
or entered into serious conversation with the priests.
The reasons of this signal failure of a fine educational
scheme may be deduced partly from what has pre
ceded. The system is unproductive, in the first in
stance, on account of the youth and immaturity of
the students. At nineteen, when they should still be
polishing their wit on Homer, or Tacitus, or Euclid,
they are gravely attacking the profoundest problems
of metaphysics. A well-educated man of thirty-two,
who had a brief course of philosophy under F. David,
told me that he felt as if he were handling blocks of
granite which he was unable to penetrate; our usual
students never even realised that they were handling
“ blocks of granite.” Out of several groups of
students who passed through my hands only one boy
had an idea of the meaning of philosophy. He con
fessed to me that it was because, like myself, he was
tormented by religious doubt from an early age. Be
fore he reaches the age of twenty-four the student has
traversed the whole vast system of scholastic philosophy
and theology, with its innumerable secondary problems
and controversies. He has his opinions formed upon
hundreds of subjects, and knows what to think of every
philosophical and religious system that has ever been
invented, if it be ancient enough. He will have very
little opportunity and less competence to reconsider his
opinions afterwards.
But the studies are not even conducted at the ages
and with the intervals prescribed by the ecclesiastical
legislation; the scarcity of priests (the raritas voca-
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tionum of which the Pope speaks), induces authorities
unduly to accelerate and curtail the course cf the
higher studies. Every diocese and nearly every religi
ous congregation in England and the States is insuffi
ciently manned. Thousands of baptized Catholics are
allowed to drift for want of clergy, and bishops not
infrequently in despair accept priests who have been
expelled from other dioceses or congregations. It is
true that scores of priests are sent to convert the
natives of Borneo, or to bargain with rival missionaries
over the fortunate Ugandians, and that strenuous efforts
are made to touch the consciences of respectable adher
ents of other Churches; but the fact remains that in
both London and New York tens of thousands of poor
Catholics have drifted for want of priests and chapels.
This leads inevitably to pressure in the seminaries and
curtailment of the studies.
And it is not merely to procure “ labourers for the
vineyard ” that the studies are deplorably mutilated;
another, and a rather curious motive of hurry is found
in certain congregations at least. Certainly in the
Franciscan Order students were prematurely advanced
to the priesthood for the sake of earning money by
their masses. A mass, of course, cannot be sold; that
would be simony. But a priest will say mass for you
or your intention if you make him a present of halfa-crown. He may say it gratuitously if he pleases, but
the English bishops have decreed that if a priest
accepts a “ stipend ” at all he must not take less than
half-a-crown. Now every friar is bound to say mass
for his superior’s intention, and the superior, having
to provide for the community, secures as many and
as “ fat ” stipends as he possibly can. As a friar is
�PRIESTHOOD
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bound to say mass every morning he is worth at least
£1 per week on that count alone; in fact, at Forest
Gate, where we were six priests, mere than £400 was
obtained annually in stipends for masses. As a priest,
however young he may be, says mass daily from the
day of his ordination, the anxiety of the superior to
see him ordained is easily understood. A student is
an onus on the community; he must be made productive
as soon as possible.
Under such conditions it is not strange that their
educational system leads to such unsatisfactory results.
Numbers of young priests are annually discharged upon
humanity with full powers to condemn and anathe
matise, and an intense itching to do so. They soon
find that the “ crude and undigested mass ” they have
learned is a burden to themselves and a source of pain
to their long-suffering audience. In their eagerness to
be subtle they teach rank heresy, trouble timid con
sciences, and hurt themselves against episcopal author
ity. Then they abandon study entirely, thinking it
useless for their purpose. Mr. Jerome has a caricature
somewhere of the newly fledged Anglican curate. The
young evangelist stands at a table on which are
cigarettes and brandy and soda; his books are on sale
or exchange, “ owner having no further use for same.”
The skit is entirely applicable to the average priest.
The canonical age for ordination is twenty-four,
and it is probably the average age; but this precau
tion is nullified by the facility with which dispensations
are granted. The bishop can dispense at twenty-three,
and the Roman authorities readily grant a dispensation
once the candidate has reached the age of twenty-two
and two months. Most of our friars began to earn
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their pound per week at the age of twenty-two or
twenty-three. Under one provincial bishop, it is said
that there was always a brood of half-fledged priests,
who went by the name of “ Sovereign Pontiffs ” ; they
used to be sent to sing mass on Sundays for priests
who were absent or unwell, and the bishop always
exacted a sovereign for their services. The usual
term of reproach for such immature priests is, “ Praesta
quaesumus ”—an allusion to the fact that they cannot
do more than say mass, for the expression is a common
beginning of mass-prayers.
The ordination is preceded by an episcopal examina
tion in theology. Before the subdiaconate the student
must present one treatise on theology for examination;
he must prepare two for the diaconate and three for
the priesthood. The examination is, however, little
more than a test of the memory and industry of the
aspirant; if he knows the defined points of Catholic
doctrine on the subjects taken, little more is expected
of him. And students are usually careful to select the
shortest treatises for presentation, and to carry the
same treatise through three examinations. Still aspir
ants are occasionally “ ploughed ”; though, judging
from the preposterous answers of certain successful
students whom I have seen at the tribunal, it is difficult
to conceive the possibility of failure.
The ceremony of ordination, which may be wit
nessed on Ember Saturdays in Catholic cathedrals, is
very long and highly symbolical. In fact, it has de
veloped to such an alarming extent that no theologian
can say in what the “ essence ” of the ordination
really consists; there are innumerable controversies as
to which rites are essential to the validity of the sacra
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ment. From the readiness of the theologian to pass
judgment on Anglican orders one would imagine that
he knew the conditions of validity without hesitation;
the truth is, that in the case of each of the three
“ sacred orders,” theologians differ emphatically as
to the essential parts of the ordination. Students are
usually in a state of terror about the numerous possi
bilities of the invalidity of their ordination, and even
bishops betray much nervous anxiety in the matter;
the ceremony is sometimes repeated for general satis
faction. A curious story in illustration of the strange
contingencies that affect the validity of orders is told
of a French bishop. He had exercised episcopal func
tions for many years, when one day his old nurse was
heard to boast that she had baptized him (in periculo),
and that she had not used common water, but rose
water for the purpose. The baptism was invalid; his
subsequent confirmation and ordination were invalid,
for baptism is an indispensable condition of receiving
the other sacraments; all the ordinations he had ever
held were invalid, and had. to be repeated; and all the
masses, absolutions, &c., performed by himself and
his priests during that period had been invalid.
A further source of confusion is found in the need
for what is called “ jurisdiction ” before certain of
the priestly functions can be validly used. At ordina
tion the priest receives the power to say mass, and not
even the Papacy can withdraw this (though it may for
bid him to exercise it). On the Catholic theory I still
possess that power in full, and if I seriously utter the
words, “ Hoc est enim corpus meum ” over the piece
of bread I am eating (for that is the essential part of
the mass) it is changed forthwith into the living body
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of Christ: it is seriously believed on the Continent
that apostate priests frequently consecrate for the socalled Satanists and Freemasons. However, the power
of absolving from sin is not of the same character; it
is only radically received in the ceremony of ordina
tion, and the validity of its exercise is entirely depend
ent upon ecclesiastical authority. M. Zola, most
patient and accurate of inquirers, has overlooked this
distinction; in “ Lourdes” the Abbe Pierre is made
to hear Marie’s confession when he has no jurisdiction
over her and could not validly absolve her.1
A second examination (in casuistry) is necessary
before “ faculties ” to hear confessions are granted,
which is usually some time after ordination. And
jurisdiction is limited to the diocese of the bishop who
gives faculties, and may be still further restricted at
his pleasure: nunneries and boarding-schools are
always excepted from it; and there are always a cer
tain number of sins the absolution of which the bishop
reserves for himself. In some dioceses the list of
“ reserved cases ” is long and interesting : it usually
comprises the sins which are most prevalent in a dis
trict. The confessor must, in such cases, write to the
bishop for power to absolve, and tell the penitent to
return to him. In London four cases are reserved :
immoral advances by a priest to women in the con
fessional, frequentation of theatres by a priest,1 murder,
2
1 A non-Catholic writer ia almost certain to stumble in liturgical
matters. M. Zola’s administration of the sacraments to the dying
—to the pilgrim in the train in 1 ‘ Lourdes, ” and to Count Dario in
“ Rome ”—is quite incorrect. It has never been pointed out, too,
that the moon’s conduct, during Pierre’s three last nights in Rome,
is out of all bounds of astronomical propriety.
2 It must not be supposed that every priest one sees in a London
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and connection with a secret society. Two cases which
are always reserved to the Pope will be treated in the
next chapter.
For a long period after his ordination the priest’s
activity is confined to saying mass every morning. He
is not indeed bound to say mass every morning; he is
compelled to hear mass every Sunday by the general
law, but there is no clear obligation for him to exercise
his power to consecrate.1 But the young priest says
it daily during the years of his primitive fervour, and
many continue the practice faithfully throughout life.
Monastic priests* are usually bound by their constitu
tions to say mass daily. It would be wiser to allow
them liberty in that respect. Priests soon contract
the habit of hurrying through their mass at a speed
which ill harmonises with its solemn character. In
fact, the Church has been forced to legislate on the
point, and forbid the saying of mass in less than twenty
minutes for an ordinary, and fifteen minutes for a
“ black ” * mass (for the dead). No doubt a priest
2
1
works up to a high rate of speed largely out of anxiety
to meet the wishes of his congregation, yet the sight
is distressing to one who knows how much is squeezed
into the twenty minutes. An ordinary worshipper
theatre has incurred this. The law is local only in action, and
does not apply to visitors—say, from the States.
1 So that Zola is wrong in imputing it as a fault that the priests
at Lourdes omitted to say mass.
2 A black mass—in which the priest wears black vestments—is
shorter than usual: hence it is that black vestments so often adorn
the shoulders of an ordinary secular priest. Green vestments are
worn on a common, saintless day ; red for a martyr or the Holy
Ghost; white for virgins, confessors, and all great feasts ; purple
for sadder festivals; and gold for any purpose.
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PRIESTHOOD
merely sees the rapid irreverent genuflections and the
desperate hand movements which are supposed to be
crosses over the sacrament, but the mutilation of the
prayers is much more deplorable: nearly all are direct
and more or less familiar petitions to the Almighty,
and one cannot but hope (for the priest’s sake) that
he is wholly unconscious of the meaning of his
orisons. It is difficult, no doubt, when a large con
gregation is shifting uneasily on the benches, and
perhaps another priest is frowning upon you from the
chancel, waiting for his turn. Certainly there are
very many priests who acquit themselves with edifying
devotion, but the majority run through their mass
(apart from pressure) in the allotted twenty minutes;
and, since it takes a priest nearly an hour to say mass
in his early practising days, one can imagine at what
price the high speed is obtained.
The mass is rendered rather ludicrous sometimes
from an opposite reason—through its undue prolonga
tion and interruption by musical accompaniment. The
High Mass only differs from the daily Low Mass in
the number of assistants and the musical rendering of
some of the parts. It is utterly incongruous from the
purely religious point of view that the celebrant should
interrupt his solemn rites, whilst he and his congrega
tion listen to the florid strains of Haydn or Gounod,
operatically rendered by soulless singers who have no
idea of the meaning of their words, and are very fre
quently non-Catholics. Pope Leo XIII. did endeavour
to bring about a reform, but he must have realised
that it is the music and display that fill the Catholic
churches.
At the same time it must be said that the Church
�PRIESTHOOD
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does not do all in its power to make the mass (and
other ceremonies) appeal to the priest. It retains a
number of vestments and rites that have ceased to
have any meaning. The “ humeral veil,” which is
worn over the shoulders by the sub-deacon at mass and
by the priest at Benediction, is a curious survival of
the once intelligible custom of drawing a veil across
the sanctuary at the most solemn moments; the
maniple, an embroidered cloth that dangles at the
priest’s left elbow, and is a similarly atrophied relic
of the primitive handkerchief, is now not only un
meaning but gravely inconvenient. The practice of
solemnly facing the people to sing the epistle and gospel
in Latin, and other such survivals of ancient custom,
are interesting from an archaeological point of view,
but they ought to have been changed centuries ago;
indeed, no serious defence can be made of the use of
Latin at all in the Church of Rome.
Ecclesiastical Latin is, of course, easy, yet it is a
fact that many priests know so little Latin of any
kind that many parts of the mass and Office are quite
meaningless to them. I remember a country priest
who was invited to bless a churn. He took the book
of (Latin) benedictions to the farm, and donned his
surplice. Not knowing the Latin for a churn (which
may be excused) he pitched upon a “ Benedictio
thalami ” as probably referring to a churn, and read
the “ Blessing of a marriage bed,” with the usual
solemnity, over the churn of cream.1 Certainly some
1 There are blessings for every conceivable purpose. In my
younger days a woman once asked me to read a prayer over her.
I could not divine the particular purpose, and she seemed uncom
municative. So I chose one from the book, rather at random ; and
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of the sequences in the mass and many of the hymns
in the Breviary are beyond the capacity of a large
number of priests.
And it must be admitted that no familiarity with
Latin will enable the priest to attach a meaning to
certain portions of the liturgy—especially to some of
the psalms. The approved Latin version of the Psalter
is a disgraceful performance; yet it has been used for
1600 years, and there is no question of changing it.
St. Jerome, an expert Hebraist, offered an excellent
translation in his classical Latin, but the monks knew
the old Psalter by heart and would not change; hence
the first translation of the psalms into bad Latin by
very imperfect Hebrew scholars endures to this day.
Some of the psalms—notably the 58th—contain un
mitigated absurdities; the verse i( Kings of armies have
fled, have fled ” is rendered, “ King of virtues, beloved,
beloved ”; verse 18 runs, “ If you sleep in the middle
of the lots, the wings of the dove are silvered,” &c.
There are many similar verses. Yet the good old
monks, who doubtless found many deep symbolical
meanings in the above, clung to the version, and their
modern successors may be excused for wool-gathering
during their chanting.
About forty psalms enter into the daily “ Office ”
which the priest has to recite. One often sees a
secular priest mumbling over his Breviary in train or
omnibus; he is bound to form the words with his lips,
she was safely delivered of twins shortly afterwards. In Belgium I
was severely censured for sending to a dentist a young woman who
came to me with a severe toothache, and an old lady, who had
diseased cows, to a veterinary surgeon. I incurred grave suspicion
of rationalism from my colleagues.
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at least. The monks, however, recite their Office in
their choir, or private chapel, which is fitted with
stalls, like a cathedral. The two sides take up the
alternate verses of the psalms, chanting the words in
a loud monotone; it is only sung on solemn occasions.
The whole of it is set to music, and in such inactive
monasteries as the Carthusians, where it is a question
what to do with one’s time, the whole is sung daily.
It takes about three hours to chant it in the ordinary
monotone, and no normal human mind could remain
in real prayer so long. Indeed, the facility with
which the two rows of chanting friars could be thrown
into fits of laughter was a clear symptom of vacuity.
Even during our novitiate we were frequently con
vulsed with laughter at the entanglements of an elderly
friar who read the prayers at breakneck speed. At
London one day our instructor, who led one side of the
choir, suddenly raised the tone about an octave in the
middle of the psalm. The head superior, who led the
other side, disagreed with him (as usual). We were
afraid to join with either, for they were equally formid
able to us, so we listened with interest as they con
tinued the psalm to the end, chanting alternate verses
at a distance of an octave and a half. Deaf elderly
friars also caused distraction by going ahead in com
plete unconsciousness of the pauses of the rest of the
community.
And if there was much to be desired in these'
religious offices which were of a private character it
will be readily imagined that their public services were
not more satisfactory. It is impossible to expect a
continuous ecstasy during the long hours which monks
and nuns devote to prayer every day; and since most
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of the psalms do not vary from day to day, the very
monotony of the services would stand in the way of
any very serious devotion. In fact, the idea of follow
ing the sense of the words recited day after day for
hours together was so forbidding that it was frankly
given up by our spiritual writers; they were content
to urge us to prepare in advance lines of religious
thought to follow while we were chanting which would
have no connection with the Office itself. We tried
to do so. But the early riser who passes some London
monastery in the small hours of a winter morning, and
catches the sound of the solemn chant breaking on the
sleepy air, must not too hastily conclude that here is a
focus of intense spiritual thought which should work_
if only telepathically (as some think to-day)—for the
betterment of life. The religious exercises of the friars
must be cut down by two-thirds before they can become
really spiritual.
But in the public ceremonies a new distracting
element is introduced—the presence of closely observ
ant spectators; it were not in human nature to be
insensible of their presence. The sanctuary becomes a
stage; and strive how he may to think of higher things,
the ordinary mortal cannot banish the thought that
some hundreds, perhaps thousands, of reverent eyes
are bent upon his every movement. The Catholic
sanctuary, with its myriads of burning tapers, its
fragrant incense, its glory of colour in flowers and
vestments, compels attention. Every line of the
church converges to the altar and the priest. Hence
it is not surprising to find that there is a great deal of
formalism and purely dramatic effect in sanctuary
work. No one, probably, will think much of the grave
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and devout expressions of the ministers. It is a part
of their discipline to cultivate such an expression, and
it soon becomes automatic. In point of fact, there
are few who are not keenly concerned about the
material success of their function—their singing, their
deportment, and appearance. At such a time as Holy
Week, for instance, the feverish anxiety for the suc
cess of the elaborate services runs so high that one may
safely say they are quite unattended with religious
feeling in the sanctuary. Ceremonies and music are
practised for weeks in advance, and, when the time
comes, celebrants are too busy and too nervous to
think of more than the merely mechanical or theatrical
part of the devotions.
And the same thought applies, naturally, to preach
ing ; it runs on the same lines in the Church of Rome
as in every other church. There are deeply religious
preachers whose only serious thought is for the good
of their hearers, as they conceive it; there are preachers
who think only of making a flattering impression on
their audience, or who are utterly indifferent what
effect or impression they produce; the vast majority
strive to benefit their hearers, and are not unassisted
in their efforts by a very natural feeling of self-interest.
I heard a typical story of one a few years ago. The
priest in question is one of the most familiar figures
in Catholic circles in the north of England, an ardent
zealot for the “ conversion ” of England, and, I be
lieve, a very earnest and worthy man. On this
occasion he was preaching in the open air to a large
special congregation who had made a pilgrimage to
some Roman Catholic resort. The preacher seemed
to be carried away by his feelings. My informant,
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however, a keen critic of elocution, noticed that one
gesture—a graceful sweep of the wide-sleeved arm—
was unduly prolonged, and, looking more closely, he
saw that the preacher was signalling to a photographer
in the opposite corner of the quadrangle. The preacher
told him afterwards that he had arranged to be photo
graphed at this specially prepared gesture. The photo
grapher had been so captivated by the sermon that
he had to be recalled to his duty by the orator himself. I also remember being grievously shocked once
in my early days at one of the London “ stars.” I
happened to be near the door when he re-entered the
cloister after a very fervent discourse, and he immediately burst out with the exclamation, “ Now, where
is that glass of port! ” Five years later I used to
feel grateful myself for a glass of port after preaching.
It is not an apostolic practice, but this is not an
apostolic age, and it only merits contempt when it
professes to be such.
If the priest has an educated congregation he usually
prepares his sermon with care. The sermons are rarely
original, for there is a vast library of sermonnaires at
the disposal of the Catholic priest, but it is often
written out in full; though it is never read from the
pulpit, as is done in Anglican congregations. Good
preaching is, however, rather the exception than the
rule; though the age of martyrs has passed away, a
Catholic can always find a sufficient test of his faith
in the shape of an indifferent preacher who insists on
thinking that he needs two three-quarters of an hour
sermons every Sunday. In poor parishes the sermons
usually degenerate into intolerable harangues. A priest
who had charge of a large poor mission told me that
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he always prepared his sermon the hour before it was
delivered : he took a cup of tea, lit a cigar, opened the
gospel of the day and thought dreamily over it, then
he ascended the pulpit and preached for half-an-hour.
Men of wide erudition and facility of utterance would
often preach most impressive sermons at a few minutes’
notice; others, of an ascetic, earnest, contemplative
type, would also preach sound and rational moral dis
courses without preparation. The practice of preach
ing the same sermon many times is, of course, widely
prevalent. I remember one old friar fondly kissing a
much worn manuscript after a sermon on St. Joseph :
“ God bless it,” he said, “ that is the sixty-third time
I have preached it.”
There are many other functions in which the priest
finds it difficult to sustain the becoming attitude. Con
fession will be treated in the next chapter; Extreme
Unction is a ceremony in which only a keener faith
than we usually meet to-day can take a religious
interest. But it is in the ceremony of baptism,
especially, that the most unreasonable rites survive and
the most diverting incidents occur. There is, for in
stance, a long series of questions to be put to the
sponsors, and the Church, unmindful apparently of the
march of time, still insists on their being put in Latin
(and answered by the priest) and repeated afterwards
in English. One lay-brother who used to assist me
in baptizing thought it more proper that he should
learn the Latin responses, instead of allowing me to
answer myself. Unfortunately he muddled the dia
logues, and to my query : i ‘ Dost thou believe in God
the Father,” &c. ? he answered,* with proud emphasis,
“ Abrenuntio—I renounce him.”
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I was, however, little occupied with sacerdotal
functions. Even before my ordination I had been
appointed to the chair of philosophy, and as soon as
I became a priest I entered upon my duties as pro
fessor. My interest in philosophy had been noticed
by the authorities, and probably attributed to a natural
taste for the subject. The truth was that I was
tormented with doubt, and I knew that philosophy
alone could furnish the cure—if cure there was. My
doubts had commenced six years previously, in the
novitiate. I can remember almost the hour, almost
the spot in the monastic garden, when, on a fine
winter’s day, as I chanted to myself the eternal refrain
of our ascetic literature, “ Ye shall receive a hundred
fold in heaven,” the fatal question fell across my mind
like a lightning-shaft, to sear and torture for many a
weary year. I had dutifully confessed my state of
mind to my superior. Kind and earnest as he was,
he had nevertheless little capacity for such emer
gencies ; he made me kneel at his feet in his cell and,
after severely pointing out the conceit of a boy daring
to have doubts—holding up the exemplary faith of
Wiseman, Newman, &c.—he discharged me with the
usual admonition to stifle immediately any further
temptation of that character. He acted upon the
received ascetical principle that there are two kinds
of temptations which must be fled from, not met and
fought, namely, temptations against purity and tempta
tions against faith: in the second case the rule is
certainly dishonest. Indeed, thoughtful priests do not
recognise it, though it is sanctioned, in theory and
practice, by the majority.
My scepticism increased; it was partly an effect of
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99
temperament, partly a natural desire to verify the
opinions which I found myself acting upon. At
London I immediately put myself under the guidance
of F. David, and for seven years he was informed,
almost weekly, of the growth of my thoughts.
Though most intimate with him I never allowed him
to make any allusion to my difficulties outside the con
fessional, but, in confession, I spent many hours pro
pounding my difficulties and listening with sincere
attention to his replies. As time went on I began to
feel that I had exhausted his apologetical resources,
that he had but the old threadbare formulae to oppose
to my ever-deepening difficulties. I became, there
fore, more dependent upon my own studies; and, as
my difficulties were wholly philosophical, I devoted
myself with untiring energy to the study of scholastic
philosophy. If, in later years, I did not appeal to
F. David when the crisis came, it was because I was
firmly convinced that I had, in private and in public
lectures, heard all that he had to say on the subject.
He was the only man who knew that my secession
was not the work of one day, but the final step in a
bitter conflict of ten long painful years. All that my
colleagues knew was that I was ever reticent and
gloomy ‘ (which was, I think, attributed to pride and
to sickness), and that I was strangely enamoured of
metaphysics; I was, accordingly, appointed professor
of that subject.
In due time I received jurisdiction and commenced
the full exercise of sacerdotal power. A monastic
superior has the power of examining his own subjects,
and thus practically dispensing with the episcopal
examinations. Knowing that I was not a zealous student
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PRIESTHOOD
of casuistry, F. David kindly undertook my examina
tion ; he asked me the formula of absolution (which I
did not know) one day when I met him in the cloister,
and then sent me up to the Vicar-General as “ ex
amined and found worthy.” I then immediately
entered the mysterious and much-dreaded confessional.
How does one feel on entering upon that unique
experience? I remember the emotion, but am incom
petent to analyse it. I only know that as I sat for
the first time in “ the box ” awaiting the first penitent
I was benumbed, not exalted, with a vague, elemental,
un-rational excitement. Behind me lay my long and
minute book-knowledge of all the conceivable trans
gressions of man, woman, or child; before me vaguely
outstretched the living world, as few see it. Then
came the quick step, the opening of the door, the rustle
of a dress—one last tremor, and the sensation was gone
for ever.
Preaching and other functions also commenced. I
was fully launched on my sacerdotal career. But the
confessional is a subject for more careful study.
�CHAPTER VI
HIE CONFESSIONAL
No point in the vast and contentious system of the
Church of Rome has excited, and still excites, a deeper
and a less flattering interest than the practice of
auricular confession. The Inquisition and the com
merce in relics and indulgences (though this com
merce is by no means extinct) are still favourite sub
jects of the historical critic. Monasticism, the Index,
the use of a dead language, political ambition and
secular intrigue, are some of its actual features which
attract no small amount of opprobrium, and even try
the patience of many of its own adherents. But the
chief butt of the innumerable anti-papal lecturers and
pamphleteers is the confessional. The air of mystery
and secrecy is a necessary evil of the confessional, and
it is a feature that provokes bitter criticism. A
Catholic layman cannot, of course, with delicacy en
large upon his own experience of the confessional, and
in any case it would be too personal to be effective.
No ex-priest has hitherto given his impressions of the
institution, and no priest would venture to express an
unfavourable opinion upon it, or any opinion of a
circumstantial character, for fear of alarming his
co-religionists.
Yet, in point of fact, there is no reason in the
E
101
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THE CONFESSIONAL
nature of things why even an actual confessor should
not write a most ample and detailed account of his
experiences. The “ seal of confession ” is not merely
a sacramental obligation; it is a natural obligation
which no ex-priest would ever dream of violating.
But the obligation has certain limits which are ex
plicitly defined in theological works, and are practically
observed by priests. The obligation is merely to main
tain such secrecy about confessional matters as shall
prevent the knowledge of the crime of a definite indi
vidual ; within those limits the obligation is absolute,
and admits of no possible excuse in the smallest matter.
The priest is not even allowed to use a probability in
his own favour in this question. He is forbidden
under an obligation of the gravest possible character
to say a single word or perform any action whatever
from which the declaration of his penitent might pos
sibly be inferred. Hence he cannot, under any con
ceivable circumstances, act upon the information he
has received. If a priest learned from the confession
of his servant that she had put poison in the wine he
was to take for dinner, Catholic theology directs that
he must not even change the bottle, but act precisely
as if he had heard nothing. I never heard of a test
case, though it is well known that there have been
martyrs to the seal of confession. In less important
matters the confessor interprets his obligation gener
ously. One of our friars, the superior of a monastery,
interrupted an inferior who was confessing to him, and
made him stand up and repeat apart from his confes
sion a certain fault for which he wished to inflict a
public penance. It was a breach of the seal, though
my colleague was too subtle a casuist to admit it. I
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remember a priest who was confessor to an acquaint
ance of mine once saying to me of her: “ Miss ----seems to be very well educated; she speaks quite
smoothly on the most delicate points.” I doubt
whether my friend would have cared for me to know
so much of her confession.
However, once the danger of identifying the indi
vidual penitent is precluded, the confessor is free to
make whatever use he pleases of his knowledge.
Theological writers admonish him that it is extremely
imprudent to discuss such matters before laymen, but
that is only part of the discretion of the priest with
regard to the laity, and carries no moral obligation.
Amongst themselves priests discuss their interesting
experiences very freely; and the professor of casuistry
is usually a man of wide experience, who gives his
students the full benefit thereof. In their conferences
(discussion-meetings) the clergy talk freely of their
experiences. It is a common practice of missionaries
to discuss the relative wickedness of town and country,
and of large cities or localities in a city. Such com
mentaries, however, are carefully restricted to sacer
dotal circles, there is no doubt that any departure
from the policy of unqualified secrecy would deeply
impair the fidelity of the laity, and tend to withdraw
them from that greatest engine of sacerdotal influence,
the confessional.
And there is another reason why confessors have
not thought it necessary to enter into the controversy
to any important extent. The attacks upon the con
fessional have usually defeated their own object by
emphasising too strongly the accidental rather than
the inherent and essential evil of the institution.
E2
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THE CONFESSIONAL
Dark stories—which may quite possibly be true in
some cases—are circulated in connection with it, and
the impression is at once urged that such practices are
a normal, or at least a large part, of what is hidden
under the veil of secrecy. The generalisation is fatal,
for the Catholic apologist has little difficulty in pointing
out the impossibility of such a state of things; besides,
the days are happily gone by when the Catholic priest
hood as a body could be accused of systematic and con
scious immorality. The main contention of the critic
having been thus met and answered, attention ii
diverted from the real evil of the confessional, which
is not sufficiently realised by those who are unfamiliar
with it.
The structures which are found in every Catholic
church for the purpose of hearing confessions quite
exclude the cruder anti-papal view on the subject.
The penitent usually remains in sight of the congre
gation, but in any case priest and penitent are separ
ated by a complete partition; a wire gauze-work, about
eighteen inches square, which is set into the partition,
enables them to talk in whispers, but contact is im
possible. These “ boxes,” or confessionals, may be
inspected in any church. In hearing the confessions
of nuns the precautions are usually still more stringent;
the confessor is locked in a kind of bureau, the nun
remaining entirely outside. But it is a fact that the
priest is not bound to hear every confession in the
“box,” and that he frequently hears them in less
guarded places. I have heard the confessions of a
whole community of nuns where no such precautions
existed; they entered singly and entirely unobserved
into the room where I sat to hear them. Their usual
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confessor was a venerable and sedate old priest, and it
was either forgotten, or thought unnecessary, to alter
the arrangement for me. During certain hours on
Saturday the priest sits in his box for all comers. Out
side those hours he will hear confessions in the sacristy
(where I have known a liaison to be systematically
pursued under that pretence) or anywhere, and the
anti-papal lecturer may find serious ground for reflection
in that section of his practice.
Confessions are also frequently heard at the resi
dences of penitents. The Church does not sanction
the practice with regard to people who are capable of
attending church, but it is frequently necessary to
hear the confessions of persons who are confined to
bed. The priest is urged in such cases to leave doors
open and take various precautions to avoid scandal,
but those directions are seldom acted upon and would
not be appreciated, as a rule, by the penitent herself.
Cases are known to me in which women have feigned
or exaggerated illness for the purpose of bringing the
priest to their room—with his connivance or at his
suggestion—and a liaison of priest and penitent has
long been maintained in that way. But such appoint
ments are attended with danger, and cannot be
widespread.
I do not believe that there is any large amount of
immorality in connection with the confessional; the
legislation of the Church on that point is stringent and
effective, and the priest is well aware that the con
fessional is the worst place in the world for him to
indulge improper tendencies. He is involved in a net
work of regulations, and sooner or later his misconduct
is bound to come to the knowledge of his authorities,
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THE CONFESSIONAL
with very disastrous consequences to himself. In the
first place, as I explained in the last chapter, improper
suggestion on the part of the confessor is a sin reserved
to the bishop. He cannot say mass until he has
received absolution (I am assuming that he has not
lost all sense of obligation T), and no brother priest
can absolve him from his fault. He must have recourse
to the bishop; and it is safe to presume that he will
not relapse for a considerable period. In the second
place, he is deprived of the power of absolving his
accomplice. An attempt to do so is a sin reserved
to the Pope; and, as every Catholic woman knows
that such absolution is invalid, the misconduct is once
more liable to come to the cognisance of the author
ities. The second sin which is reserved to the Pope
is a false denunciation of a confessor by a woman, so
that one has a guarantee of the genuineness of such
denunciations as are actually made.
Thus it is obviously ill-advised for the unfaithful
priest to make an evil use of the confessional, for the
danger of exposure is sternly prohibitive. A devout
Roman Catholic is horrified at the very speculation;
an impartial thinker, whose estimate of human nature
is neither unduly raised by thoughts of special graces
nor depressed by prejudice, will think of priests as
men more than usually exposed to temptation and
burdened with an enforced celibacy, but will give them
credit, on the whole, for an honest effort to realise
that higher integrity which they profess. He will
1 In that case his infidelity might not be revealed until death,
when any priest can absolve. A curious case was mentioned (by a
priest) in the Daily Telegraph a few years ago. At the death of a
Catholic military chaplain a woman presented herself to the army
authorities as his wife, and actually produced a marriage certificate.
�THE CONFESSIONAL
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not think them superhuman with the Catholic, nor
infrahuman with certain Protestants. He will not
believe that any of their habitual practices are in
herently immoral, but he will expect the occasional
lapses from which no large body of men can be
free.
The priest’s danger is not in the confessional. It
is the same as that of any voluntary celibate, though,
in the light of what has been said about the age of
taking the vow, perhaps we ought to call him an
involuntary celibate. The fact that from time im
memorial ecclesiastical legislation has returned again
and again to the question of priests’ servants is in
structive enough. From the thirteenth century onward
the Church has recognised a vast deal of this kind of
immorality, and I am aware that there is much of it
in England to-day, even where the housekeeper is a
relative of the priest. Further, the house-to-house
visits of the priest, and the visits he receives, are
made to ladies ; the priest is idle in the hours when
the husband is employed. From the nature of the
case, however, it is impossible to make positive state
ments in this matter.
Whatever may be said of the general integrity of
the priest’s life,1 it may be safely admitted that the
occasional transgressions of his vow in connection with
the confessional have been grossly exaggerated. And
one unfortunate consequence of the excess is that it
1 I have elsewhere ventured to say, as a result of long reflection,
that probably one priest in ten is a man of exceptionally high
character, and one in ten a man of degraded or hypocritical life ;
the remaining eight-tenths are neither very spiritual nor the re
verse, and may lapse occasionally. But in Catholic countries such
as Spain clerical immorality is general. Second edition.
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THE CONFESSIONAL
has diverted attention from the real evil of the con
fessional. It is bad enough for adult men and women
(apart from the few who really desire it) to have to
kneel weekly or monthly at the feet of a priest (usually
a man they know intimately), and tell every unworthy
thought and act into which they have been betrayed;
for girls and young women to discuss their inmost
thoughts and feelings with such a man is vicious and
lamentable. If they are of a refined temper the
practice causes them much pain, and often leads to
duplicity or to actual debasement; to those of a coarser
complexion the temptation to abuse the occasion is
very severe.
When I first began to hear confessions I was much
impressed with the number of girls who unburdened
their minds to me (I was almost a stranger to them)
of some long-concealed transgression of an indelicate
character. A Catholic girl usually chooses a particular
confessor (we were six in number at Forest Gate), and
presents herself at his box every week, fortnight, or
month. The priest learns to recognise her voice, if
he does not know her already, and counts her amongst
his regular penitents, of whom every confessor is
proud to have a certain number. Week after week
she comes with her slender list of the usual feminine
frailities—fibs, temper, and backbiting. At last she
is betrayed into some graver fault, or something which
she imagines (usually after it has taken place) to be
serious. She is unable to reveal it to her ordinary
confessor after her long immunity from serious sin has
won her a certain esteem from him. If she goes to
another confessor, her habitual director will learn it,
for she is bound to say how long it is since her last
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confession. He will draw an obvious conclusion; some
confessors go so far as to exact a repetition of the
confession to themselves. She therefore conceals the
sin, and continues her confessions and communions for
months, even years, without confessing it. Now each
such confession and communion, she has been taught,
is as vile a sin as murder or adultery. She goes
through life with her soul in her hands and the awful
picture of a Catholic hell burning deeper into her;
until at last, in an agony of fear, she crouches one day
in the corner of the box and falters out the dread
secret of her breaking heart. And it must be remem
bered that the subject of so much pain is often no real
sin at all. The most unavoidable feelings and acts are
confused with the most vicious practices, and some
times regarded as “ mortal sins.”
But a yet sadder category is the large number of
girls who are actually corrupted by the practice of
confession. Girls who would never dream of talking
to their companions, even to their sisters or mothers
on certain points, will talk without the least restraint
to the priest. They are taught when young that such
is the intention of Christ; that in the confessional
every irregular movement (and to their vaguely dis
ciplined moral sense the category embraces the whole
of sexual physiology) must be revealed. They are
reminded that nothing superfluous must be added, yet
that the sense of shame in the confessional must be
regarded as a grave temptation of the evil one. So
they learn to control it, then to lay it aside temporarily,
and finally, to lose it. They begin to confer with each
other on the subject, to compare the impressibility,
the inquisitiveness, or the knowledge, of various con
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THE CONFESSIONAL
fessors, and they make plots (they have admitted as
much to me) to put embarrassing questions to priests.
I am not suggesting for a moment that Catholic
women and girls are less sensitive or less moral than
those under the influence of other religions. That
would be an untruth. But quite certainly it is one
of the evil influences in their lives that, although they
at first manifest a quick sense of shame and delicacy,
they are compelled by the confessor to be more minute
and circumstantial in their narratives.1 A girl will
often try to slip her less delicate transgressions
hurriedly between two common peccadilloes, and only
accuse herself in a general way of having been “ rude ”
or immodest. No confessor can allow such a general
accusation to pass; he is bound to call her and question
her minutely on the subject; for by some curious pro
cess of reasoning the Church of Rome has deduced
from certain of Christ’s words that the confessor,
being judge, must have a detailed knowledge of every
serious transgression before he can give absolution.
The conversation which ensues can very well be
imagined.
Finally, there is a still more curious and pitiable
category of victims of the sacrament of penance. I
speak again of women, because men may be roughly
distributed into two simple classes; the small minority
who are spiritually aided by the weekly discussion of
their fallings and temptations, and the great majority
1 Here the traditional purity of the west of Ireland maiden may
be quoted to me. But, apart from the fact that there is no such
remarkable virtue in Catholic Dublin, or still more Catholic Spain,
it is now proved that the ratio of illegitimate births in the west of
Ireland is kept down by sending the sinners to Glasgow, Liverpool,
or America.
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to whom confession is a bore and a burden. The
missionary priest who travels from parish to parish is
often warned that certain women will come to confess
who must be carefully handled. These are, in various
degrees, monomaniacs of the system, and are found in
every diocese. Sometimes they have a morbid love of
denouncing priests to the bishop on a charge of solicita
tion; and in the hope of getting evidence they will
entangle him in the crudest conversation. Sometimes
they are women “ with a history,” which, in their
morbid love of the secret conversation, they urge,
freshly embroidered, upon every confessor they meet,
and make him think that he has secured a Magdalen.
Frequently they are mere novelists who deliberately
invent the most shameless stories in order to gratify
their craving for that peculiar conversation to which
they have grown accustomed in the confessional.
In this I am, of course, relying to some extent on
the larger experience of my older colleagues, but some
pitiable cases linger in my own memory. Almost one
of the first confessions which I received from a woman
was a sordid and lengthy story of a liaison with one
of my colleagues. She assured me that she had never
told it before. When, however, after an hour of this
conversation, I returned to the house, another priest,
who had seen her leave my “ box,” asked me with a
laugh: “How did you get on with Clara?” (I
change the name, of course.) It appeared that, though
her story was probably true, she had hawked it over
London. Others confessed that they came to con
fession precisely on account of the sexual excitement
it gave them; the effect was at times very perceptible.
These are exceptional, but numerous, cases; so are the
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THE CONFESSIONAL
cases in which the confession is a real and valued
spiritual aid. For the vast majority of Catholics it is
a burden which they would gladly avoid if the Church
did not force it on them.
This, then, is the essential, inalienable evil of the
confessional as an obligatory and universal institution.
It may not be so directly productive of gross acts as
is frequently supposed, but it has a corruptive influence
that is clear to all save those who have been familiar
with it from childhood. And yet this system, of so
grave a responsibility, has the most slender basis of all
the institutions of the Church of Rome. The reason
ing by which it is deduced from Scripture is a master
piece of subtlety. “ Whose sins ye shall forgive they
are forgiven, and whose sins ye shall retain they are
retained,” is the sole text bearing on the subject.
The Catholic method of inferring the obligation of
confession from the latter part of the text is interest
ing, and yet very simple. The Apostles, the Church
says, have the power of retaining sin; but if it were
possible to obtain forgiveness in any other way than
by absolution from the Apostles or their successors the
power of retaining sin would be nugatory; therefore
there is only one way of obtaining forgiveness—by
absolution, after full confession. This argument is
strengthened by one from tradition, from the fact that,
in the fourth century, the Church claimed, against the
Novatians, the power of absolving from all sins; but
what was meant in the fourth century by confession
and absolution is not quite clear even to Catholic
theologians, and an outsider may be excused for not
seeing the force of the argument. Certainly confession
was not then obligatory.
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The fact is that, when the Church first began (in
the thirteenth century) to talk about the obligation
of confession, it had not the same critical spirit to
face which it has to-day. It found that a practice
had somehow developed amongst the faithful which
could be turned into a most powerful instrument, and
it proceeded to make the practice obligatory. The
newly founded religious orders were then administer
ing their spiritual narcotics to humanity, and the law
was accepted with docility. Hence, in our own day,
when the Church must provide a more rational basis
for its tenets and institutions, the search for proof of
the divine sanction of the practice is found to be more
than usually difficult to the expert interpreters of the
Church of Rome.
Apart, however, from its feeble dogmatic defence,
it is usual for preachers and writers to expatiate upon
the moral advantages of the practice. Sermons on
the subject are very frequent, for it is well known
that many people are deterred by it from passing over
to Rome. It is urged that confession gives a certain
relief to the soul that is burdened with the conscious
ness of sin, and that it is a great preventive of dis
order. That a large number of the Catholics of the
higher spiritual type are helped by the weekly con
sultation with the confessor is unquestionable. All the
saintly men and women of the Church who are uni
versally esteemed to-day regarded the confessional as
an important aid. In fact, one often meets non
Catholics of high moral sensitiveness who look with
eager longing to the institution. That is certainly an
argument for the admission of quite voluntary con
fession under circumstances of especial security, but it
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THE CONFESSIONAL
lends no support to the Roman law of compulsory
confession.
On the other hand, the academic conclusion of the
preacher, that the confessional is a preventive of sin,
vanishes completely before facts which are patent to
all. Catholics are neither more nor less moral than
their non-Catholic fellows in any country where they
mingle. To compare Catholic countries with Protest
ant would be useless. London and Berlin, if we may
strike an average of conflicting opinions, are neither
better nor worse than Madrid or Rome. Paris has not
deteriorated, but rather improved, since it threw off
the yoke of the Church. Milan, largely non-Catholic,
is far more moral than Naples. Liverpool and Glasgow
are much more Catholic than Manchester or London;
yet missionaries admit that they are more vicious.1
The truth is, that whilst the confessor can exercise a
restraining influence over his habitual penitent (as a
rule), the majority soon become so inured to the con
fession that it fails to deter them, and a certain number
are actually encouraged to sin by the thought of the
facility of absolution. The latter point has been
strained by critics; it is by no means a general feature.
But I have been informed by penitents on more than
one occasion that they sinned more readily under the
influence of this thought. In monastic or quasi
monastic institutions the weekly confession to the
chaplain does exercise a degree of influence, but even
1 To meet the generally unfavourable contrast of Catholic lands
and Protestant, the Catholic apologist pretends that vice is more
easily avoided in cooler latitudes. This is ludicrous. Germany
and Italy were equal in vice before the Reformation ; Christiania
and St. Petersburg are as vicious as London : Canada is not more
virtuous than Australia.
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here nature has its revenge. The temptation to con
ceal and the practice of concealing are so great that
the Church prescribes that an “ extraordinary con
fessor ” shall be provided every three months, and
that each monk or nun or cleric shall present himself.
In discharging that function I have not only met cases
of long concealment, as might be expected, but I have
known the inmates deliberately to indulge in the pros
pect of my coming. All these facts must be set
against the advantages of the confession for the
spiritual elect1; or, rather, they show that, whatever
may be thought of confession in the abstract, the law
of obligatory confession is a grave moral blunder. I
have heard confessions in very many parts of England
and abroad; I have read much casuistic literature that
is permeated with confessional experience; I have con
ferred on the subject with missionaries who have heard
hundreds of thousands of confessions, and I am con
vinced that the majority of Catholics are unaffected
by the confessional. They are bound to confess once
every year; if they wish to pass as men of ordinary
piety they confess every month or oftener; but in the
whirligig of life the confessional is forgotten, and has
no influence whatever on their morality.
That the institution is a source of great power to
the Church at large is easily understood : it creates a
vast gulf between clergy and laity, and considerably
accentuates the superiority of the former. But to a
large number of individual priests the function is very
distasteful. Apart from the obvious unpleasantness of
1 I have dwelt more fully on these advantages, and said all that
can be urged in favour of confession, in my “ Church Discipline:
an Ethical Study of the Church of Rome,” ch. iv.
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THE CONFESSIONAL
the task, it is much more fatiguing than would be
supposed. Three or four hours’ continuous hearing I
have found very exhausting, and a missionary has fre
quently to spend seven or eight hours a day in the
box. Still there are many priests who show a great
liking for the work, and they will sit for hours in their
boxes waiting—one could not help comparing them to
patient spiders—for the arrival of penitents.
The obligation of confessing commences at the age
of seven years, and is incumbent upon every member
of the Church, clergy and laity alike, even on the
Pope, who has a simple, harmless Franciscan friar
serving him in that capacity. The theory is that the
obligation of confessing commences when the possi
bility of contracting grave sin is first developed, and
in the eyes of the Church of Rome the average child
of seven is capable of meriting eternal damnation by
its acts. Needless to say, the confession of the average
child of seven or eight is a farce. The children used
to be conducted to us from the schools every three
months, after a careful drilling from their teachers,
but scarcely one child in ten had the faintest glimmer
ing of an idea of the nature of absolution. Few of
them could even be sufficiently instructed to fulfil the
material part of the ceremony; they mixed the various
parts of the formulae in the most unintelligible fashion,
and generally wished to retreat before they had
received the essential object of their coming—
absolution.
The method of the ceremony is described in any
Roman Catholic prayer-book. The penitent first
kneels for ten or fifteen minutes in the church and,
with the aid of the minute catalogue of sins in his
�THE CONFESSIONAL
117
book, recalls his transgressions since his last confession.
Entering the box, and usually asking the priest’s bless
ing, he states the occasion of his last confession, so
that the confessor may form a correct estimate of his
sinfulness. He then states his faults, the number of
times he has committed each, and any aggravating
circumstances; if the confessor is not satisfied, he
questions him and elicits further details. Then pre
mising, as a rule, a few words of exhortation or re
proof, he imposes a penance and dismisses him with
absolution, after an act of sorrow and a promise to
amend. According to Catholic doctrine the act of
sorrow and the “ purpose of amendment ” are the vital
and essential elements of the ceremony. The utter
ing of the formula by the priest—every Catholic is
told repeatedly—is entirely useless unless the contri
tion and good resolve are present. This shows that
the Church itself has not a mechanical conception of
the confession; but it must be added that, in practice,
the ordinary Catholic does constantly tend to rely on
just such a conception of the mechanical efficacy of
the rite. No money is ever exacted or received for
absolution. The stories circulated by travellers of lists
of prices of absolution seen in Continental churches
are entirely devoid of foundation.1 Further, an “ in1 I leave this in the text, but must add that I have since been
credibly informed of lists hanging in Canadian churches which set
a price on sin. But I gather that this was not the price of absolu
tion, but of an indulgence (remission of purgatorial punishment)
roughly adapted to various sins. The Catholic believes that,
although absolution relieves him of the fear of hell, he has still the
fires of Purgatory to face. Alms and good works may reduce his
liability to this, and the lists in question, sordid as they are, may
be merely suggestions of what amount of alms may trust to clear
the penalty of sins. Third edition.
�118
THE CONFESSIONAL
diligence ” has no reference whatever to future sin,
but is a remission of the purgatorial punishment due
for sin committed, and already substantially forgiven
by absolution, which the Church of Rome claims the
power to give. That indulgences are still practically
sold cannot be denied : not that a written indulgence
is now ever handed over for so much hard cash 1—such
bargains have proved too disastrous to the Church—but
papal blessings, richly-indulgenced crosses and rosaries,
&c., are well-known rewards of the generous alms-giver.
In Tyndall’s “ Sound ” a curious instance is men
tioned of a church in which certain acoustic peculi
arities enabled the listener at a distant point to hear
the whispers in the confessional; it is said that a
husband in this way heard his own wife’s confession.
Such contingencies are foreseen and provided for in
theological works. The seal of confession applies not
only to the priest, but to every person who comes to
a knowledge of confessional matter. It happens some
times that the penitents waiting outside overhear the
words of priest or penitent, especially when one or
other is a little deaf. At a church in Manchester,
Once more I don the white sheet—so little does even the priest
know of Catholicism in Catholic lands. I have before me four
indulgences which were bought in Spain for fifty, seventy-five, and
105 centimos each in the year 1902, and they bear that date. The
Archbishop of Toledo issues millions of these every year, and
money alone secures them. The Church calls the money an alms
(to itself), and the indulgence a reward of the alms. One of these
infamous papers is known in Spain as “ the thieves’ bula.” It is
the most expensive of the four (about Is.). It assures the thief
that, if he does not know the name of the owner of the ill-gotten
property he has, the Church allows him to keep it in consideration
of this alms. For valuable property large sums have to be paid.
Third edition.
�THE CONFESSIONAL
119
one busy Saturday evening, the priest interrupted his
labours to inquire the object of a scuffle outside his
box. There was a quarrel—not uncommon—about
precedence amongst the mixed crowd that waited their
turn at the door. A boy was complaining of being
deprived of his legitimate place, and when the priest’s
head appeared he exclaimed, “ Please, father, I was
next to the woman who stole the silk umbrella! ”
And in my young days I remember that, on one occa
sion, when we had been conducted to church for the
purpose of confessing, we who were waiting our turn
were startled to hear our stolid elderly confessor cry
out, repeating with horrified emphasis some statement
of his youthful penitent, 44 Eighty-three times! ” We
knew little about the seal in those days, and the boy
did not grudge us the joke we had against him for
many a day.
The 44 penance ” which is inflicted usually consists
of a few prayers. Corporal penances are now unknown
outside of country districts in Spain or Italy (where
one may still see a girl kneeling in chapel with a
pointed reference to the seventh commandment pinned
to her back), and even long and frequently repeated
prayer is not now imposed in England or the States;
the Irish peasant may be ordered to say daily for
months the seven penitential psalms. I soon found,
from the number of people who accused themselves of
neglecting their penance, how useless it was to impose
burdens; those who did not curtail it hurried through
it with precipitate haste. For it is customary to kneel
and say the penance immediately after the confession,
and as there are some scores of idle witnesses, calculat
ing the severity of the penance from the time expended
�120
THE CONFESSIONAL
on it, and thence inferring the gravity of the sin,
brevity is a feature of some importance. Hence I
never imposed more than five or six Pater Nosters.
On one occasion I imposed the usual “ Four Hail
Marys ” on a quiet, unoffending old priest. He was
slightly deaf, and, changing his posture of deep
humility, he looked up at me indignantly, exclaiming
“ Forty Hail Marys! ”
Short penances were not the only deviation from
our theological rules which I allowed myself; I soon
abandoned the hateful practice of interrogating on
malodorous subjects. At first when I heard a general
accusation I merely asked whether the morbidity in
question was serious or not (for if it were not serious
there was no obligation to interrogate). I was, how
ever, so indignantly repulsed when the lady did
happen to have a lighter debt that I was compelled
to resort to the usual dialogue. It was not long
before I entirely abandoned the practice, and simply
allowed my penitents to say what they thought neces
sary. The Church imposes on the priest the obliga
tion of cross-examining under pain of mortal sin, so
that I do not doubt that some of my perplexed
colleagues will see in that “ sin ” the reason of the
withdrawal of the light of faith from me. However,
the institution had become repulsive to me, and I
eagerly embraced an opportunity of escaping from it
and other ministerial work by a course of study at
Louvain University. There came a year when our
studies were disorganised, and I had no students for
philosophy. I gladly accepted an invitation to go and
study oriental languages at Louvain.
�CHAPTER VII
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
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Louvain University is the principal Roman Catholic
university in the north of Europe. Nominally it is
a centre of higher Catholic instruction for all the
northern countries, including, until a recent date, the
United States. However it is, in point of fact, little
more than a national institution. The patriotic
Germans naturally prefer their own vigorous, though
less venerable, University of Innspruck. Britons and
Americans have always been represented in its colleges
very sparsely, for they had been usually attracted to
the fountain-head, to Rome, in their thirst for higher
doctrine. Now America has its great Washington
University, and English Catholicism has brought to
an end its self-imposed banishment from Oxford and
Cambridge. English ecclesiastics will, no doubt, con
tinue to be sent into a more Catholic atmosphere
abroad, and will continue to prefer Spain or Italy to
Belgium. Still, Louvain could boast many nation
alities amongst its 1600 students.
The long struggle between Catholicism and Liberal
ism in Belgium has had the effect of isolating Louvain
as a distinctively Catholic university. The clerical
party naturally concentrated upon it, with its long
tradition of orthodoxy and its roll of illustrious names,
121
�122
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
and determined to exclude the liberalising tendencies
which had either mastered, or threatened to master,
the universities of Brussels, Ghent, &c. The control
is exclusively clerical, both rector and vice-rector being
high ecclesiastical dignitaries, and every orthodox
family with a care for the correct training of its sons
is expected to send them to Louvain.
But Louvain is by no means merely a centre for
clerical training. Belgian Catholicism has fallen much
too low to realise so ambitious a dream. During the
year I spent there—1893-94—there were not more
than fifty clerical students out of the 1600. Ecclesi
astical studies were, therefore, working at a dead loss,
for the theological staff was numerous and distin
guished. The greater part of the students were in
law or medicine, though there were also sections for
engineering, brewery, and other technical branches.
Moreover, the university suffered from the presence of
a rival clerical establishment in the same town—con
ducted, of course, by the Jesuits. The Jesuits, the
“ thundering legion ” of the ecclesiastical army, have
one weakness from a disciplinary point of view; they
never co-operate. “ Aut Caesar aut nullus ” is their
motto whenever they take the field. And so at Lou
vain, after, it is said, a long and fruitless effort to
secure the monopoly of the university itself, they have
erected a splendid and efficient college, in which the
lectures are thrown open to outsiders, and from which
a brilliant student is occasionally sent to throw down
his glove to the university, to defend thirty or forty
theses against the united phalanx of veteran professors.
The Dominicans have also a large international college
in the town, and the American bishops a fourth, in
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
123
which European volunteers for the American missions
are trained. The rivalry which results, although it
does occasionally overflow the channel of fraternal
charity, helps to sustain the vitality of the Belgian
Church, and turns its attention from the rapid growth
of Rationalism and Socialism.
One difference between the Belgian and the English
system is that few of the students live in the colleges,
scattered at intervals over the town, which form the
university. These are usually only lecture halls, with
their attendant rooms and museums; the students live
in the houses of the townspeople, for the town exists
merely for the accommodation of the university. The
vice-president keeps a record of all houses and the
addresses of the students, but the supervision is slight,
and the liberty of the students great. A second and most
important difference from English or American uni
versity life lies in the complete absence of athleticism.
The Belgians are entirely averse to muscular exertion
of any kind. I saw very little cycling, no cricket, no
football, no rowing—nothing more active than skittles
during the whole period; for “ beer and skittles ” is
much more than a figurative ideal to the Belgians.
Their free time, and they are not at all a studious
race, is mainly spent in the estaminets, or beer houses;
and, like German students, they consume enormous
quantities of their national beverage and smoke
unceasingly.
The ethical result of such a mode of life may be
deduced from general physiological laws. The “ rector
magnificus ” was a very able and estimable man, but
of a retiring and studious character; the vice-rector,
Mgr. Cartuyvels, was, however, an active and zealous
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
disciplinarian, and, by means of a wide system of
espionnage, he was tolerably acquainted with the con
dition of affairs. Still he was powerless to stem an
inevitable tide, and indeed it was said that he was
afraid to enforce his authority too sternly, lest he
should drive more Catholics to the Liberal universities.
The religion of the students did not seem to be of a
much higher quality than their conduct. I was in
formed by a Louvain priest that at least 500 out of
the 1500 did not attend mass on Sundays; and such
attendance is obligatory and a test of communion in
the Church of Rome. Like that of so many of our
Irish neighbours in England, their faith needs the
stimulus of a row or a riot over religious questions to
bring it to consciousness. Once the Liberals or the
Socialists fill the street with their anti-clerical, “ A
bas la calotte,” the students are found to be Catholic
to a man. Apart from these uncanonical, though not
infrequent, ebullitions their piety is little exhibited.
The clerical students, who usually live in the
colleges, are priests who have distinguished them
selves in their ordinary theological course, and who
have been sent by their respective bishops to graduate
in theology, philosophy, or canon law. Few of them
see the full term of a university career, as their bishops
are compelled by financial and other pressure, if not
by reports of the examiners, to withdraw them pre
maturely to the active work of the diocese. The suc
cessful student secures his licentiate at the end of the
third year, and his bachelorship at the end of the
fourth. He then ceases to follow the public lectures
at the halls, and spends two years at the study of his
subject, under the guidance of his late professor.
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
125
During that time he must write a Latin treatise on
any theme he chooses. Finally, in the great hall,
before a numerous audience, he wins his cap by
defending a score of theses against the professors and
any ecclesiastic who cares to oppose him. As every
religious order, and consequently every school of
philosophy and theology, is formidably represented in
the town, very lively scenes are sometimes witnessed
during the discussion of the theses. Certain contro
versies have had to be practically excluded from the list
of debatable questions in order to avoid an undignified
delay of the proceedings by the Dominicans and Jesuits
in the gallery. The success of the student is, however,
practically guaranteed by the mere fact of his presenta
tion by a professor. The whole system differs little
from what it was in medieval Louvain, and the divorce
between modern Belgian culture and the Belgian
Church is thus foolishly maintained by the clergy
themselves.
The programme of clerical study at the university
is identical in form with that of the seminaries, but
the questions are treated more profoundly and ex
haustively. Only one treatise is taken each year.
Each question is thoroughly discussed, and subsidiary
questions are treated which are crushed out of the
briefer elementary course. It is like passing from
Huxley’s “ Elements of Physiology ” to the more
exhaustive work of Kirk or Carpenter on the same
subject. Then the philosopher has the advantage of
attending, with the medical students, scientific courses
under men who are eminent in their respective sciences
(which, however, he rarely does), and a few of the
students of theology and Scripture attend lectures in
�126
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
the Oriental languages under equally distinguished pro
fessors. In addition to these there are courses of
Persian, Sanscrit, Chinese, &c., and courses of the
higher literature of most European languages, and of
Latin and Greek classics. There is, however, no
degree corresponding to the English M.A., and literary
studies are greatly neglected. All the clerical students
are intended by their bishops to become professors in
their seminaries, and, in addition to their degree in
theology, they are directed to follow the particular
course which will benefit them. Still a spirit of
narrow utilitarianism pervades all ranks. The laystudents have a definite profession in view and have
no superfluous industry to devote to other studies; the
priests think of little else besides their theology or
philosophy. There are a few disinterested worshippers
at the shrine of philosophy and letters, but their num
ber is comparatively small. The course of Sanscrit and
Chinese ascribed to the distinguished student of those
(and many other) languages, Mgr. de Harlez, seems to
have a mythical existence. Persian is never demanded,
and even Arabic (though the professor is an Arabic
scholar of the first rank) is rarely taken. Hebrew
must be studied by aspirants for theological degrees,
but Syriac has few scholars. There were three of us
who took the Syriac course in 1893, and of the three two
were mendicant friars who paid no fee. It will appear
presently that we received little more than we gave.
I was requested by my superior to follow the course
of Hebrew under M. Van Hoonacker, and, taking
advantage of the temporary interruption of my lectures
on philosophy, I made my way to the monastery of
our order at Louvain. I added a course of Syriac (in
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
127
virtue of which I hoped to disturb my Anglican
brethren over the Peschito version of the New Testa
ment), an elementary course of biblical criticism, and
an advanced course of scholastic philosophy.
The lectures on Hebrew and on biblical criticism
were given by M. Van Hoonacker, an effective teacher
and erudite scholar, who crossed swords (with more
courage than success) with the great Kuenen. An
abler professor of Hebrew we could not have had, and
even in handling the delicate questions raised by the
Higher Criticism he displayed much wealth of know
ledge, a generous acquaintance with the writings of
his opponents (Wellhausen, Kuenen, &c.), and much
argumentative power. The subject marked on the
programme was an introduction to the canon of Scrip
ture; it was based upon the work of M. Loisy, and
ran upon the traditional lines. But he quickly ex
hausted that subject and hastened to his favourite
topic, the discussion, against Wellhausen, of the origin
of the Jewish festivals. Of erudition he gave abund
ant proof, and he showed not a little ingenuity in
research and in the grouping of arguments; but it was
obvious that few of the students had any large view
of the general issues at stake. All scribbled rapidly
as the professor spoke (for we had no manual), and
endeavoured to gather as much detailed information as
would suffice for examination purposes.
In private intercourse I found him extremely kind
and courteous, and he frequently spoke to me of the
difficulty of his position as professor of biblical criti
cism, when the Church left us without any clearly
defined doctrine about the nature and extent of in
spiration in face of modern rationalism : he did not
�128
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
appreciate the liberty of thought which the Church
wisely grants until secular science has reached its highwater mark and it knows what it can decide with
security. The Pope’s encyclical had not yet appeared,
but I know that, as a theologian and an expert, he
would have little internal respect for it.
The professor of Syriac (and of some parts of
Scripture) was a man of a very different type. He
was a very old man, Mgr. Lamy, a distinguished
Syriac scholar, but a poor teacher, and one whose
opinions on biblical questions were of the older days.
Like M. Van Hoonacker, he took the first chapter of
Genesis as a subject for translation, and devoted more
time to his commentaries on the text than to its
Syriac construction. The contrast was instructive.
On the Monday morning we had the Hebrew pro
fessor’s advanced and semi-rationalistic commentary,
resolving the famous chapter into myths and allegories;
the following morning, from the same pulpit, Mgr.
Lamy religiously anathematised all that we had heard,
and gave the literal interpretation so dear to the
earlier generation. He was kind and earnest, but his
method of teaching was so unfortunate that, after
receiving one lecture a week for nine months, we knew
little more than the Syriac alphabet. Toward the end
of the term he startled us by commanding us to pre
pare for the next lecture a translation of a dozen lines
of Syriac without vowel points! The sequel unhap
pily illustrates the average Flemish character as I met
it among the clergy. We were three in number in the
course, and it was my turn to read at the next lecture.
But my companions, fearful of their own turn, endeav
oured to persuade me not to attempt such a preposter
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
129
ous task. By dint of great exertion I copied out the
translation of the passage and brought it to lecture on
the following Tuesday, when my companion, a Flemish
priest, snatched the paper from my hand and tore it
in pieces.
The third professor whose lectures I followed, Mgr.
Mercier, was a gentleman of refined and sympathetic
character, and one of the ablest living exponents of
Catholic philosophy. To a perfect knowledge of the
scholastic philosophy he added a wide acquaintance
with physical science (which can rarely be affirmed of
the scholastic metaphysician) and a very fair estimate
of modern rival schools of philosophy. Instead of
wasting time on the absurd controversies of the
medieval schools he made a continuous effort to face
the deep metaphysical criticism of the German and
English systems; with what success may be judged
from his numerous writings on philosophical questions.
During the year I attended, he took “ Criteriology ”
as his subject; he considered it the most important
section of philosophy in these days when, after 2000
years of faith, the Neo-Academic cry, “ What is
truth? ” has revived in such earnest.
Unfortunately the modern sophist finds little earn
est and disinterested attention, even in universities;
modern students of the great science are widely re
moved from the restless zeal of Athens or Alexandria
or medieval Paris. Mgr. Mercier is, moreover, bur
dened with an obligation to adhere to the teaching of
St. Thomas, almost the least critical of the medieval
theologians, but the present favourite at Rome. How
ever, the Vatican keeps a jealous eye on Louvain since
the outbreak of heterodoxy under the famous Ubaghs
�130
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
some thirty years ago. It is still under the suspicion
of Cartesianism in a mild form, but that is only a
matter of concern to Jesuits and other philosophical
rivals.
I experienced much kindness from Mgr. Mercier.
Like most of the Walloons, he is more refined and
sensitive than the Fleming usually is. Belgium is
made up of two radically distinct and hostile races.
The southern half is occupied by a French-speaking
people (with a curious native Walloon language) whose
characteristics are wholly French; while the northern
race, the Flemings, are decidedly Teutonic, very
hospitable, painfully candid and communicative, but
usually coarse, material, and unsympathetic. The two
races are nearly as hostile as the French and Germans
whom they respectively resemble (though, I think,
neither French nor Germans admit the affinity—the
Germans have a great contempt for the Flemings).
Louvain or Leuven is in Flemish territory, and Mgr.
Mercier, justly suspecting that I was not at ease with
my Teutonic brethren, offered to establish me in his
own house, but my monastic regulations forbade it.
Both through him and the other professors I have the
kindest recollection of the university, from which,
however, I was soon recalled.
A secondary object of my visit to Belgium was the
opportunity it afforded of studying monastic life in
all the tranquillity and fulness of development which
it enjoys in a Catholic country. In England it was
impossible to fulfil many of our obligations to the
letter. It is a firm decree of a monastic order that the
religious costume must never be laid aside. But it is
still decreed in English law that any person wearing
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
131
a monastic habit in the public streets shall be im
prisoned; and, although the law has become a dead
letter, experiment has shown the practice to be at
tended with grave inconveniences. Again, the Fran
ciscan constitutions strictly forbid collective or indi
vidual ownership, and even the mere physical contact
of money; but English law does not recognise the
peculiar effects of a vow of poverty, and English rail
way companies and others are unwilling to accept a
note from a religious superior instead of the coin of
the realm, as the Belgian railways do. In a Roman
Catholic country, at least in Belgium, the friars have
full liberty to translate their evangelical ideas into
active life. I had heard that the Belgian province
was a perfect model of monastic life, and, as I had
vague dreams of helping F. David in his slowly
maturing plan to reform our English houses, I desired
to study it attentively.
I soon learned that perfection consisted, in their
view, very largely of a mechanical and lifeless disci
pline. Much stress was laid on the exact observance
of the letter of the constitutions, which we English
friars greatly neglected. In most of the monasteries
the friars arose at midnight for Office, rigorously
observed all the fasts, would not touch a sou with a
shovel, never laid aside their religious habit, and never
interfered in secular business. They felt themselves,
therefore, at a sufficient altitude to look down com
passionately on our English province, and they were
sincerely astonished when a general of the order, the
shrewd and gifted F. Bernardine, quite failed to
appreciate their excellent condition on the occasion of
a visit from Rome. In point of fact, the province is
�132
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
infected with the idle, intriguing, and materialistic
spirit which is too notoriously associated with monasti
cism when it is not under the constant pressure and
supervision of heretics and unbelievers.
Their literal fulfilment of the vow of poverty in
these unsympathetic times leads to curious complica
tions. In the primitive innocence of the order (its
first ten years) the vow of poverty implied that all
the houses, clothing, &c., that were given to the friars
remained the property of the donors; that money was
on no account to be received for their labours; and
that all food was to be begged in kind. In the course
of time the paternal solicitude of the Pope helped
them out of difficulties by declaring that whatever was
given to the friars became his—the Pope’s—property.
He also instructed them to appoint a layman as syndic
to each of the monasteries, who should undertake (in
the Pope’s name, not that of the friars) the financial
and legal matters which the letter of the rule forbade
the friars to undertake; gradually, too, brothers of
the third order, who make no vow of poverty, were
introduced into the friaries as servants, and a superior
could thus always have a treasurer at hand.
In England the friars never troubled either syndic
or lay-brother. Once a quarter the syndic, or “papa,”
was invited to the friary to sign the books, but the
friars were careful to choose some religious-minded
man whose trust was larger than his curiosity. I
remember the consternation that once fell on the Man
chester friary, which was far from ascetic, when the
syndic they had indiscreetly chosen asked that the
books might be sent to him to study before he signed.
The bill for spirits would have surprised him, if he
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
133
had insisted on seeing the accounts. The superior of
each of our English monasteries had his safe and his
bank account, no priest ever went out with an empty
pocket, and the authorities made contracts (from which
the Pope’s name is wisely excluded) and went to law
like every other modern Christian. In Belgium the
scheme of holy poverty as modified by the Popes
(which would have pained Francis of Assisi) is followed
out faithfully. All food is sent in in kind by the
surrounding peasantry except, usually, meat and beer,
which are bought through the syndic. A lay-brother
is constantly wandering about the country begging
provisions for the friars, and the response is generous
both in quantity and quality. The brown habit is
sure to elicit sympathy, especially in the form of liquid,
and even the railway officials accept a note from the
friary when a ticket is necessary. I have travelled all
over Belgium, visiting Brussels, Waterloo, &c., as com
fortably as a tourist, without touching a centime from
one end of the year to the other.
Their monasteries, too, bear the visible stamp of
their voluntary poverty. Linen is never seen in them,
on tables (except on high festivals), on beds, or on the
persons of the friars; and another point on which they
imitate the apostle St. James is that they rigorously
deny themselves the luxury of a bath—for the reason,
apparently, that was given by the French nun to the
English girl who asked why she was not allowed to
take a bath at the pensionnat: “ Le bon Dieu vous
verrait! ” Gas is not admitted; and, worst of all,
they think it incumbent on them to reproduce in their
friaries the primitive sanitary arrangements of the
neighbouring cottages. Our lavatory, too, was fitted
�134
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
up with archaic severity. A dirty battered zinc
trough ran along under a row of carefully assorted
taps, and into these the water had to be pumped every
three minutes. There were no hand-basins, there was
no hot water, and neither comb nor brush; and only
a tub of black soft soap was provided for our ablutions.
Some of the friars made use, in the absence of basins,
of vessels which must be left to the reader’s imagina
tion. I have seen this done, from force of habit, even
in England. .
The fasts were rigorously observed; though, as it
is a widespread custom both in France and Belgium
not to breakfast before midday, the friars suffered
little inconvenience by this. At the same time the
feasts were celebrated with a proportionate zeal. On
an ordinary feast-day, which occurs once or twice
every month, the friars would sit for three hours or
more, sipping their wine, talking, chaffing, quarrelling,
long after the dinner had disappeared. Extraordinary
feasts would be celebrated with the enthusiasm of
schoolboys. There would be banquets of a most
sumptuous character, with linen tablecloths, flowers,
and myriads of glasses; wine in abundance and of
excellent quality; music, instrumental and vocal;
dramatic, humorous, and character sketches. In the
larger convents, where there are about thirty priests
and forty or fifty students, there was plenty of musical
talent, and concerts would sometimes be prepared for
weeksu in advance in honour of a jubilee or similar
festival; and every priest had his circle of “ quasels ”
•—pious admirers and penitents of the gentler sex—
who undertook the culinary honours of his festival.
The quantity of beer and claret which they consume
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
135
is enormous, yet I saw no excesses in that direction;
their capacity, however, is astonishing, and there are
few of them who do not kindle at the prospect of an
extra pint of beer or of a bottle of red wine. The
youngest novices take three pints of beer per day, for
they take no tea in the afternoon, and they soon learn
to look out for every opportunity of an extra pint.
Spirits are forbidden, though a few of the elders who
have been on the English mission have developed a
taste for Whisky. They tell a curious story in con
nection with it in one of their monasteries. An Eng
lish visitor had smuggled over a bottle for a lay-brother
whom he had known in former years. Later in the
afternoon the lay-brother and one of his comrades
were missing from Vespers. After a long search they
were at length discovered in one of the workshops in
a profound slumber, with the half-empty bottle and
all the materials of punch on a table beside them. At
Louvain the friars had been forced to build a special
entrance to the monastery for the introduction of their
beer, as a censorious Liberal lived opposite the great
gate, and kept a malicious account of the barrels im
ported. One of the most anxious concerns of a superior
is his wine-cellar, for he knows well that his chance
of re-election is closely connected with it. On one
occasion, when I had asked why a certain young friar
seemed, to be a popular candidate for the highest posi
tion before an election, I was told with a smile that
“ his brother was a wine merchant.” Wherever I
went in Belgium, to monasteries, nunneries, or private
houses, I found that teetotalism was regarded as a
disease whose characteristic microbe was indigenous to
the British Isles.
F2
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The first unfavourable impression I made upon my
hosts was by my unintelligible refusal to drink. We
arrived at Ghent for dinner, and after dinner (with
the usual pint of strong ale) four of us sat down to
five or six bottles of good claret. I drew the line at
the sixth glass, and at once attracted as much sus
picion as a “ water-bibber” of ancient Greece or Rome.
At three o’clock a second pint of strong ale had to be
faced, and at seven a third; when wine re-appeared
after that I violently protested, and I neveT recovered
their good opinion. Thirst seems to be a national
affliction, for even the peasant women sometimes have
drinking matches (of coffee) at their village fairs, and
the first or second prize has more than once fallen a
victim to her cafeine intemperance. It is interesting
to note that few of the friars preserve any mental
vigour up to their sixtieth year, and that great
numbers fall victims to apoplexy.
• There are no congregations attached to the friaries,
so that their work differs materially from that of
English priests. In fact, their life is the typical
monastic life, for, as has been explained, canon law
prescribes that monastic houses should only be con
sidered as auxiliaries of the regular clergy. The first
result, however, is usually a conflict with the priest
in whose parish the monks establish themselves, as
they attract his parishioners to their services; and
they rarely find much favour with the bishop of the
diocese. They hear great numbers of confessions,
principally of the surrounding peasantry, and have
frequent ceremonies in their churches, but, as there
are usually so many friars, the work occupies little
time. The only work of importance which they do
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137
is to preach special sermons and give missions in dis
tant parishes, but even that is little in proportion to
their vast numbers. One meets amongst them many
earnest and devout men who are never idle for a
moment, but the majority lead the most dull and
inactive and useless lives.
At Louvain there were nine priests and hardly
sufficient work to occupy the time of four. There
was one earnest exemplary friar, who was constantly
and usefully occupied; another, equally earnest, would
exhaust himself one fortnight and recuperate the next;
the remainder led a life of most unenviable inaction.
Some, under one pretext or another, did absolutely
nothing from one end of the week to the other. They
were no students; in fact, most of them were grossly
ignorant, and their large library was practically unused.
In summer they would lounge in the garden or bask
at the windows of their cells until the bell rang out
the next signal for some vapid religious exercise; in
winter they would crowd round their stove, and discuss
the daily paper or some point of ritual or casuistry,
eager as children for the most trivial distraction.
In fact, between idleness and eccentricity, many of
them had developed most extraordinary manias. One
of our priests, a venerable old friar whose only
sacerdotal duties consisted in blessing babies and
giving the peasants recipes (prayers) for diseased
cattle, had succeeded in getting himself appointed as
assistant cook. His gluttony was the standard joke of
the community; his meals were prodigious. Another
friar devoted his time to the solution of the problem
of perpetual motion; another had designed a cycle
Which was to outrun any in the market, if he could
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
devise a brake capable of stopping it when in motion;
another explained to me a system of the universe which
he had constructed (from certain texts of Genesis) to
the utter and final overthrow of materialism. He had
explained it to several professors of science, who had
admitted its force in silence, and I found myself in
the same predicament. Some took to mending clocks,
of which they had a number in their cells, others to
painting, others to gardening, others to making col
lections of little pictures of the Virgin or St. Joseph,
or of miraculous statues. Few of them spent any
large proportion of their time in what even a Catholic
would consider the service of humanity.
The little knowledge they possessed was usually con
fined to liturgy and casuistry. Not being parish
priests they had not the advantage of daily visits
amongst the laity, which is the only refining influence
and almost the only stimulus to education of a celibate
clergy; and the little preaching and ministerial work
they were entrusted with, lying almost exclusively
amongst the poor, did not demand any serious thought
or study. There are always a few ripe scholars amongst
them—very few at the present time—but the majority
profess to base their undisguised aversion for study on
the letter and spirit of their constitutions; and not
without reason, though they forget that the age to
which that rule was adapted has passed for ever.
There is no pressure upon them, yet their ordinary
studies make little impression on them, and, though
the Catholic university opens its halls gratis to them,
they only reluctantly allow one or two of their students
to enter it each year. To graduate they regard as an
unpardonable conceit for a monk, and I was therefore
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
139
not permitted to take the degree of Ph.D. to which my
studies entitled me.
Their complete ignorance of philosophy led them ta
take a superfluous interest in my welfare, and gave
me a small idea of the way in which Roger Bacons
are victimised. Mgr. Mercier had sent me Paul Janet’s
“ Causes Finales ” to read, and whilst I was doing
so one of the elder friars came to glance at the title
of my book. He considered it for some moments in
perplexity, and at length exclaimed : “ Tiens! la cause
finale, c’est la mort! ” I offered no correction, and
he went to acquaint the others, as usual. Then one
of the younger friars, the scholar of the community,
recollected that he had read somewhere that Janet
was “ chef de l’ecole spiritualiste ” in France, and,
nobody knowing the difference betwen spiritism and
spiritualism, it was agreed that I was exploring the
questionable region of spooks. When Mgr. Mercier
went on to lend me the works of Schopenhauer (and
they had looked up the name in the encyclopaedia) there
was serious question of breaking off my intercourse
with him and writing to England of my suspected
tendencies. Happily, I was in a position to treat them
with indifference, for I was neither their subject nor
their guest. They were paid (by my mass fees) for
my maintenance—which cost them nothing—and even
my books, clothing, bedding, &c., had to be paid for
from England. Englishmen, in their eyes, are
proverbially proud; I was credited with an inordinate
share of that British virtue.
At present they are making strenuous efforts to re
organise and improve their scheme of study. One or
two earnest men are striving to lift the burden which.
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
is oppressing them, and possibly time will bring an
improvement; though it can only be by a sacrifice in
point of numbers which all are unwilling to make.
The two points in which the glory of the fraternity is
thought to consist are the maintenance of a perfect
formal discipline and the increase of members. The
Belgian friars are wrongly endeavouring to secure both
points at once. They have built recently a large pre
paratory college, which is always crowded with aspir
ants. But when I asked one of the Belgian friars, in
an unguarded moment, whence the aspirants came, he
answered with a shrug of his shoulders: “ They have
swept up the rubbish of the streets ”; and another
explained that their training was deeply vitiated by
espionnage and by an injudicious system of rewards
and punishments. Whatever may be their future—
and so long as Socialism is kept in check they have
every favourable condition—it is quite clear that any
serious attempt to purify, to vitalise and spiritualise
their fraternity, will meet bitter opposition, and will,
if successful, considerably reduce their numbers. No
large body of men will ever again sincerely adopt an
ascetical spirit in their common life. And the Belgian
fraternity will be healthier and happier for the re
mainder of its days if it can rid itself of all its malades
imaginaires, lazy pietists, crass sensualists, and
ambitious office-seekers.
Belgium is claimed as a Roman Catholic country,
and it may be interesting to discuss the extent and
nature of its fidelity to Rome in the light of my
inquiries and observations. I had many and intimate
opportunities for studying it, and I availed myself of
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
141
them carefully; not only because I took a speculative
interest in the question, but on account of the dis
paraging references that the friars made repeatedly to
my own heretical country—“ your unhappy country ”
was their usual description of England. When I
noticed in the list of Peter’s-pence offerings that
Belgium had collected for his Holiness only 200,000
lire, and England 1,200,000, I felt there was occasion
for careful inquiry.
Politics and religion are so confused in Belgium
that the religious status of the country has been
roughly indicated at every election. For many years
there has been a fierce struggle between Liberalism
and Catholicism, in which the orthodox party has been
frequently overpowered; and Liberalism, as is well
known, is the anti-clerical, free-thought party. It is,
roughly speaking, the bourgeoisie of Belgium (with a
sprinkling of the higher and of the industrial class),
permeated with Voltaireanism and modern rationalism :
its motto was Gambetta’s “ Le clericalisme, voila
l’ennemi,” or as the Belgian mob puts it more forcibly
“ A bas la calotte! ” Not that it was at all a philo
sophical sect; it was purely active, but accepted the
conclusions of the philosophers and the critics as
honestly as the orthodox clung to the conclusions of
the theologian. In any case it was bitterly opposed
to the established religion and the dominion of the
clergy on every issue. The aristocracy, for obvious
reasons, indolently sided with the Church; the
peasantry, on the whole, remained faithful out of brute
stolidity and imperviousness to argument.
But during the last few years there has been a pro
found change in the field as Socialism gained power
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
and character. Not very many years ago a young
advocate at the Brussels Catholic conference declared
himself a Christian socialist, and was emphatically
suppressed by the clerical and aristocratic members;
now, if it were not for Christian Socialism, Rome
would soon lose its hold of the peasantry. Socialism,
avowedly anti-Christian as it is on the Continent, has
secured the industrial classes and is undoubtedly mak
ing progress amongst the peasantry. However, it can
not join forces with waning Liberalism, for it hates
and is hated by the bourgeoisie; and it has had the
effect of arousing the monarchy and aristocracy to some
sense of their danger. Thus the power of the Church
remains as yet slightly in the ascendant: it can com
mand a little more than half the votes of the country
as long as the present partial suffrage holds. The
results, however, show that Catholics are really in the
minority, and if ever the Socialists and Liberals unite
they will be swept out of power.
So much is clear from election results; but in a
country that is fermenting with new ideas mere
statistics teach very little of themselves. A new party,
which is hardly a generation old, and which has had
a marvellously rapid growth, is presumed to have
acquired a serious momentum. It consists almost
entirely of converts, and the convert is usually con
scious of his opinions and zealous for them. The
adherents of the old party may still be, to a great
extent, in their traditional apathy, and only need
their minds to be quickened to make them change their
position. Such would seem to be the state of affairs
in Belgium, if we take no more than clerical
witnesses.
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143
It is much easier to test the real fidelity of nominal
adherents of the Church of Rome than of those of any
other sect or party in existence; it is the only sect that
binds its members under pain of grievous sin to certain
positive religious observances. Hence it is possible
to gauge the depth and vitality of its influence over
its statistical members without entering into their
consciences. And so the fact that one-third of the
students at the only Catholic university habitually
neglect mass has a great significance. I once heard
a dispute between a Walloon Premonstratensian monk
and a Flemish Franciscan about the religious merits
of their respective races. To a stranger it seemed
difficult to choose between them. Confession was
taken as a safe test, for annual confession is essential,
and its integrity is equally demanded under pain of
mortal sin. However, the Walloon boasted that you
could believe a Walloon in the confessional, but cer
tainly not a Fleming. The Fleming admitted that it
was true, but he added, “ You can believe a Walloon
when you get him, but he only comes to confess twice
in his life, at his first communion and at death.”
They were both old missionaries, and their points were
quite confirmed by the others present.
Moreover, I had a more intimate experience of the
country, which confirmed my low estimate of its
Catholicism. During the Easter vacation I went to a
small convent in the country, about ten miles south of
Brussels. The superior of the convent obtained juris
diction for me, and I did much service in the chapel
of the Comtesse de Meeus, in our own great solid iron
church at Argenteuil (well known to Waterloo visitors),
and in the parish church at Ohain. We monks were
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
forbidden under pain of suspension to assist the dying
or to hear Easter confessions; but I soon found that if
we did not do so a great many people would refuse to
take the sacraments. I assisted three dying persons:
one was already unconscious and could only be
anointed, and her friends were utterly indifferent about
even that; another, a young man, had to be coaxed
into making his confession, but refused point blank
to receive communion and extreme unction from his
parish priest, and died without them; the third visibly
condescended to confess, saying that it was immaterial
to him—he would if I wished. Many others came to
confess, saying that they would either confess to me
or not at all. Everywhere, even amongst professing
Catholics, there was a strong anti-clerical feeling,
though the peasantry made a curious exception in
favour of monks. They had not the least idea of the
real life inside the friaries and the quantity of liquor
consumed.
And when I went down to assist at Ohain for the
last day of the Easter confessions I found the little
parish in a curious condition, even to my heretical
experience. The cure smiled when I asked how many
he expected for confession, and said that he had not
the faintest idea. Theoretically, he should have known
how many had already made their Paques (or Easter
confession), and how many parishioners he had; it was
a simple sum of subtraction. He was amused at my
simplicity. It appeared that there were some hundreds
who might or might not make their Paques: in point
of fact, we had about a hundred more than the per
ceding year. He did not seem much concerned about
the matter; said it was not an abnormal condition, and
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145
that it seemed irremediable. It was curious to note
that a Protestant mission which had been founded in
the neighbourhood for some time had only succeeded
after heroic efforts in securing two dilapidated “ con
verts.” The Belgians, like the French, are Catholic
or nothing.
What I observed was fully confirmed by the informa
tion I sought on the subject. The people were indif
ferent, and even a large proportion of the clergy were
apathetic. Great Catholic demonstrations there were
in abundance, but little importance can be attached to
such manifestations. In the great procession of the
Fete-Dieu at Louvain I saw hundreds taking part who
were merely nominal Catholics; and other extraordin
ary religious displays, such as the procession of the
miraculous statue at Hasselt, where I spent some time,
were largely supported by the Liberal municipality and
hotel-keepers from commercial reasons. Little can be
gathered, therefore, from statistics or from external
pageantry. The fidelity of the people must be tested,
as in France, by their obedience to the grave obligations
the Church imposes. Under such a test the Catholi
cism of Belgium fails lamentably. Although the
wisdom of uniting religious and political issues may
be questioned, one may confidently anticipate a steady
growth of the anti-clerical party.
�CHAPTER VIII
MINISTRY IN LONDON
From Louvain I was recalled at the close of the first
academical year by a revival of my educational func
tions at London. A new generation of philosophers
had arrived, and I had to resume the task of im
printing the conclusions of the scholastic philosophy
on their youthful and unsympathetic minds. The
theological studies also were conducted at Forest
Gate, and all the students had to remain under an
“ instructor ” until they were promoted to the priest
hood. As I held that position during most of the
time I remained at Forest Gate, I had ample oppor
tunity to study the formation of priests, as the in
structor is responsible for the material and spiritual
welfare of those under his charge. Of the innumer
able complications with superiors, and with a certain
type of inferiors, which my zeal (not always, perhaps,
nicely tempered with prudence) provoked I forbear
to speak. Enough has been said in the preceding
chapters about the life of the students, so I pass on
to a fuller treatment of the sacerdotal ministry, in
which I was now thoroughly immersed.
In a monastic house, evert in England, there are
always more priests than in a secular presbytery;
more, indeed, than are necessary for the administra146
�MINISTRY IN LONDON
147
tion of the parish which is committed to their care.
Many of these priests, however, are travelling mis
sionaries whose work lies almost entirely outside their
convent. It is customary in Catholic churches to hold
a mission, or series of services somewhat akin to the
revival services of the Methodists, every few years;
it consists principally of a course of the most violent
and imaginative sermons on hell, heaven, eternity, &c.,
and really has the effect of converting numbers to a
sense of their religious duties. Although Cardinal
Manning, who, in writing and in action, shows a
studied disregard of the monastic orders, endeavoured
to form a band of secular or non-monastic missionaries,
it is usually conceded that the desired effect can only
be satisfactorily attained by monks. Hence every order
has a number of religious specially trained for that
purpose, of whom two or three are found in every
monastery. *
Their life differs entirely from that of the ordinary
monk; even when they are at home they are exempt
from community services, from which the constitu
tions release them for three days after returning from
and three days before starting for a mission. They
frequently travel long distances, especially to Ireland,
and are sometimes absent from their monastery for
months at a time. They are, as has been said, the
chief bread-winners of the community. They receive
from five to ten pounds per week for their services,
and bring home also large sums in the shape of alms
or mass-stipends; if a smaller fee is offered they never
return to that parish. I have known a Franciscan
superior (whose rule forbids him to claim any fee
whatever, or to receive any money) to maintain a
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MINISTRY IN LONDON
warm correspondence with a parish priest on the in
sufficiency of his fee. “ Tempora mutantur, nos et
mutamur in illis ” would not be an inappropriate
motto for the friars to substitute for their highsounding “ In sanctitate et doctrina.” However, the
missionaries have very severe labours, as a rule, and
many of them work with untiring industry and devo
tion. They hold a service every evening, including
one heavy sermon, an instruction, and a number of
fatiguing ceremonies. I have known many priests
to collapse under the strain. The enormous number
of confessions they hear adds much to their exertions.
At the same time, many of them prefer the change
and comparative comfort of the life to confinement in
the monastery. They lighten their task by preaching
the same sermons everywhere they go, and they usually
find the presbytery much more comfortable than home;
if they do not, the parish priest will ask in vain for
a second mission.
Another form of outside work which is less understood is the practice of giving “ retreats ” to monas
teries, nunneries, and other religious establishments.
A retreat is a period of recollection in which the
inmates of a convent suspend all study and secular
occupation, and occupy themselves exclusively with
religious exercises; it usually lasts from ten to fourteen
days, and is held annually. The day is spent in
profound silence and meditation, but there are a
number of common ceremonies, and two or three
“ meditations ”—a kind of familiar sermon or causerie
—are preached daily. The amiable Jesuits are much
in demand for retreats, especially by the equally
amiable congregations of teaching nuns, but our friars
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149
were entrusted with a large number every year
amongst the Jess aristocratic congregations of nuns.
To give a retreat is, after a slight experience, not at
all a disagreeable task, and many even of our pro
fessors used to spend their vacation in preaching them.
The usual method is to write out a set of meditations
(the usual graphic descriptions of the “ last day,”
heaven, hell, &c.), though abler men, or men of
sincere fervour, make no preparation. The same set
of meditations is, of course, used in different places,
and five or six sets suffice for a lifetime; for a priest
is often invited several years in succession to the
same convent, and, if the nuns have been particularly
amiable and hospitable, he accepts. In such cases he
must have a new set of conferences, for nuns have
long memories, and will look up maliciously if he
drops into a passage of one of his former sermons.
Besides receiving the usual five or ten pounds, the
priest can always count upon a warm welcome and
tender and graceful hospitality from the good sisters
during his residence in their convent; and, as the
convent is very frequently at a pleasant wateringplace or other desirable locality, it is not surprising
that the work is much appreciated.
Then there are minor functions which bring grist
to the conventual mill, and afford the friars some
diversion from the dreary monotony of home life.
The secular clergy take annual holidays, and engage
a friar at one pound per Sunday to conduct their
services; one of our friaries (at Manchester), where
the missionaries were not in great demand for higher
work, took up the work of “ supply ” with such zeal
that it earned the title of the “ Seraphic Cab-stand.”
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MINISTRY IN LONDON
Special sermons, also, are frequently asked, and
chaplaincies are sometimes offered to the friars. A
neighbouring nunnery will always demand their
services, and even country families may prefer to
bring a friar down every Sunday for a couple of
guineas than to have a chaplain haunting the premises
all the week.
With so many outward attractions of a lucrative and
congenial nature the friars are sometimes tempted to
neglect their own parish, which is, or should be, their
principal care. The superior of the monastery is
always rector or parish priest,1 and several of his
inferiors act as curates; as a rule there is about one
priest to every thousand people, less in older and
larger parishes—at Glasgow we had six priests to
attend to 16,000 people—and more in growing con
gregations. The work, however, is usually confined
to the week end. On Saturday confessions are heard,
for it is necessary to confess before approaching the
sacrament, which is usually received on Sunday morning. On Sunday the priest has a long and very
fatiguing day’s work; he must, as a rule, say two
masses, an early one for communicants and a late
sung mass, at which also he preaches. On account
of the obligation to remain fasting, so stern that not
even a drop of water must pass his lips until the end
of the last mass, the work is very exacting, especially
to a priest Who is single-handed. The section of
In reality all priests in England are merely missionaries, from
the. point of view of canon law ; the bishops are the only real
Parish priests. Beyond the fact that they are thus transferable at
diff^enc0^ S PleaSUrG’the irreSuIarity does not make much practical
�MINISTRY IN LONDON
151
theology which treats of this peculiar fast is interest
ing ; the careful calculation what fraction of a tea
spoonful of water, or what substances (whether flies,
cork, glass, silk, cotton, &c.) break the fast, affords
serious pre-occupation to the casuist. In the afternoon
there are numerous minor ceremonies, baptisms,
catechetical instructions, &c.; and in the evening
another long sermon with Vespers and Benediction.
Speaking from experience I may say that for one
man it is as severe a day’s work as can be found in
any profession.
Here, however, the monastic clergy have the
advantage of numbers. Even the ordinary priest has
the consolation that the other six days of the week
will be practically days of rest; but to monks the
Sunday itself is not very formidable. Of the six
friars in our community there were never less than
three at home on Sunday, so that the work was fairly
distributed.
However, the Sunday work of the priest is obvious
enough. Curiosity looks rather to the manner in
which he spends the other six days of the week. It
may be said in a word that the daily life of a clergy
man is much the same in every religious sect. Apart
from the fact that he has no family relations, the
Catholic priest occupies himself in a manner very
similar to that of his Anglican brother. The friar,
of course, is supposed to follow a very different and
much more serious “ order of the day,” but here
again theory and practice lie wide apart. The rule
of the friar, who, in a missionary country like England
or the States, is unfortunately compelled to take
charge of a parish, is simple and reasonable; he must
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MINISTRY IN LONDON
assist at the community devotions which have been
previously described, and the remainder of his time
must be divided between study and the discharge of
his parochial duties. In the morning from eight to
twelve he is supposed to study, from three to seven
he must visit his parishioners, from eight to ten he
must occupy himself once more with study or prayer.
That is the edifying theory, but the fact is that
the more agreeable task of attending to their
parishioners absorbs most of the priests’ time. There
are few friars who, after they have once entered upon
parochial duties, give more than a sporadic and careless
attention to study. They say that they do not find
any advantage for the better performance of their
duties in study, and, since most of their “ duty ”
resolves itself into visits to the sick and chattering
with ladies over afternoon tea, their contention is
plausible enough; although there are many cases in
which their unfamiliarity with modern literature and
its great problems brings them into contempt. I have
been asked by wives or sisters in the confessional to
visit men who were understood to be wavering in
faith. When I referred them to their parish priests,
I was answered that they had so low an estimate of
their parish priests that they refused to discuss with
them. And where they do meet a Catholic who shows
an interest in and acquaintance with modern literature,
the clergy are suspiciously prompt to urge the restric
tions imposed by the Index. If they are not prepared
to acquaint themselves with current literature—and a
not unintelligent colleague of mine once frankly
admitted that he could not read even the pellucid
essays of Mr. Huxley—they take care that their flock
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153
does not outstrip them. I once heard a professor of
dogmatic theology contend that the Nineteenth Century
is on the Index, and should be forbidden to Catholics;
yet so curious is the procedure of the Church, that
it was reserved for a Catholic writer (Mivart) to
procure for it, by his contributions, a place in the
distinguished gallery of the condemned. At any rate,
a priest who is not inclined to study finds in the
elasticity of the Church’s policy ample justification for
literary tyranny.
The manner in which the clergy exercise their
literary responsibility tries the patience of the educated
layman. The priest, and especially the friar, has very
little acquaintance with fiction (which is expressly
proscribed by the monastic constitutions), still less
with science or philosophy, and has very wrong ideas
of history; and, since the majority of condemned
books are not named in the Index, but are simply
involved in the general censure of “ against faith or
morals,” he has to exercise his judgment on a point
of some delicacy. The result is sad confusion. One
priest is delighted with “ The Three Musketeers,”
and permits Dumas—unconscious that Dumas is
expressly on the Index. Ouida is much disputed,
even amongst the Jesuits. The high-principled works
of George Eliot are condemned unread; she was an
agnostic, and lived with Lewes. Mrs. Lynn Linton,
Mrs. Humphry Ward, Sarah Grand, Marie Corelli,
George Meredith, Thomas Hardy, Hall Caine, Eden
Phillpotts, Jerome K. Jerome, Anthony Hope, H. G.
Wells, and most of our leading novelists are either
deists or agnostics. Even Mrs. Craigie and Dr. Barry
give anxiety at times. The poor Catholic is perplexed
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before the list of modern novelists, and so reads them
all. So it is with science and philosophy. The best
English and German exponents are heterodox, and
when the priest pays his visit and sees their works
lying about, he not infrequently demands that they
be destroyed. Hence it is that Jesuit and other
“ Catholic Truth Society ” writers find it possible to
foist on the Catholic body the lamentable garbling
of history and science which one finds in their publica
tions. Their readers are forbidden to read the other
side, and Catholic reviews of antagonistic literature
are quite unscrupulous, at least in such journals as
the Catholic Times.
The priest’s conversation is rendered insipid and
uninviting by the same dearth of knowledge and
narrowness of judgment. On biblical criticism,
sociology, and a host of prominent questions, the
priest is either painfully dogmatic on points that the
educated world has long ceased to dogmatise about,
or else he is just as painfully confused. But even on
a number of questions on which the world has formed
a decided opinion years ago, he is strangely timid and
conservative. Rome itself showed much caution in
responding to an inquiry about hypnotic phenomena,
and such eminent modern theologians as Lehmkuhl
and Ballerini seem convinced that in its more abstruse
phenomena hypnotism embodies a diabolical influence.
Even table-turning, of which Carpenter gave a lucid
explanation ages ago, is gravely called in question by
the Roman decrees and the casuists, and, naturally,
by the majority. In fact, the author whom I was
directed to use in teaching philosophy, Mgr. E. Grand claude, a widely popular modern author, gravely
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attributes the more curious manifestations of som
nambulism to the same untiring and ubiquitous agent.
On almost every question the priest is found to be
ignorant, antiquated, tyrannical.
Naturally, then, the conversations with their
parishioners, which occupy most of their time, are
not of an intellectual type. In the morning the friar
rarely visits, except in cases of sickness, but he is
much visited. In every monastery there is a section
marked off near the door—usually the hall and a few
small parlours—to which ladies are allowed access.
Into the monastery proper women (except the queen,
who cannot be excluded) are never admitted under
any circumstances, even to visit a dying son or brother,
under pain of excommunication. I have known a
mother to sit in tears in the waiting-room while her
son, a young priest, was dying in the infirmary almost
above her head. In these parlours, however (which, I
hasten to add, are fitted with glass doors), the friars
spend a good part of the morning. The rest of the
forenoon is supposed to be spent in reading or prepar
ing sermons in the cells; but it goes very largely in
chatting in each other’s cells, or in the library, or
over the daily paper—all of which is entirely illicit.
After dinner, recreation, and early tea, the friars
exchange their brown habits for ordinary clerical attire
and proceed to visit their parishioners. They are
directed to return to the convent at seven, but they
usually arrive much later.
Apart from the care of the sick and the dying, and
the occasional necessity of reproving wandering sheep,
the duty of “ visiting,” which is almost their only
function on the six appointed days of labour, is far
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from laborious. The parish is divided into districts,
of which one is committed to the care of each priest,
and he is directed to visit each family once in three
months. The object is, of course, to strengthen the
bond between clergy and laity and to secure individual
fidelity to the Church. Naturally, however, what
really happens is that a few agreeable families are
selected for frequent visits, which differ in no respect
from the visits of ordinary unconsecrated people (in
fact, the priest would hardly be welcome who paraded
his profession too much); sometimes they are unusu
ally generous benefactors, sometimes merely families
of ordinary social attractiveness, very frequently
merely young and amiable ladies whose husbands or
fathers are at business. In any case, the poor and
uninteresting are forgotten; the favourites are visited
weekly or oftener, and the visits are sometimes pro
tracted to two or three hours. Much jealousy ensues
amongst the favourites (who watch each other’s
houses), and counter visits, teas, dinners, parties, &c.,
have to be accepted. Thus the week is easily and not
uncongenially absorbed, and a priest often finds that
he is scarcely able to prepare a sermon for the Sunday.
Since most of the visits are made in the afternoon
and on week days, it follows that they are almost
exclusively made to ladies; one result of which is that
our English friars are found to be much less
misogynous than their continental or their medieval
brethren, who have or had no parishes to superintend.
Many Protestant husbands forbid the admission of a
priest into the house in their absence. On the whole,
the priests are discreet, and an excellent control is
exercised over all concerned by a comprehensive system
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157
of jealousy. The priests are jealous of each other, and
strongly resent any intrusion in each other’s district
or parish; the ladies honoured with the visits are
jealous of each other; and a numerous non-Catholic
population is jealously surveying the whole. In the
Franciscan rule there is, besides the vow of chastity,
a special grave precept enjoining the friars to avoid
“ suspicious intercourse ” with women, and it is not
uncommon for a superior publicly to denounce an
inferior for that fault. Two or three cases happened
at Forest Gate in my time, but the accusation clearly
sprang from jealousy on the part of the superior. In
private, mutual accusation, especially of frequenting
by preference the society of young women, was very
common, and was not without foundation. Another
rule that tended to prevent disorder was that all
letters were |o be given open to the superior to be
forwarded, and he was supposed to read all the letters
he received for his inferiors. But the superior who
followed out this rule in dealing with the correspond
ence of any but the juniors would have an unenviable
position; and, of course, the priests were out every
day themselves and could easily post their letters.
There was also a regulation—the only one in our
constitutions (which, unlike “ the rule ” written by
St. Francis, the friar does not solemnly vow to observe,
and which are only disciplinary) that was enforced
under a grave moral obligation—forbidding us to take
any intoxicating drink within the limits of our own
parish. The rule, which merely aimed at preventing
scandal, led to curious incidents and many transgres
sions. One old Belgian friar, who was afflicted with
chronic thirst and did not find the monastic allowance
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sufficient, used to take the tram regularly to some hotel
just outside the limits of the parish (at Stratford in
East London). A dispensation could only be obtained
by calling together the elders of the community and
asking their collective permission. They were, of
course, always willing to oblige each other and, to do
them justice, even the juniors. In my later monastic
days, when faith waned, I appreciated the arrange
ment. There were friars, however, who drank where
they willed and ignored the rule. Like all other
rules, it was susceptible of many ingenious interpreta
tions, and, finally, the opinion was started that the
whole of the constitutions were invalid.
The mutual intercourse of the friars was limited,
in theory, to the hour’s recreation after dinner. Wine
was only granted by the constitutions about once per
month, and whisky was entirely prohibited. In point
of fact, there were friaries (Manchester, for instance)
in which whisky was given almost every day, and
sometimes three times per day. In most friaries it
was given every Saturday and Sunday evening. At
Forest Gate, partly from greater sobriety, partly (and
very much) from greater poverty, and partly on account
of the presence of students, we only drank wine or
spirits three or four times per week; whisky was
discountenanced, but one friar found port to injure his
tonsils, another complained of liver, another of heart,
&c., so that it was the favourite drink. Smoking also
was prohibited in the monastery; but it was not
difficult to obtain a medical recommendation to smoke,
and the local superior could always distribute cigars
when he willed.
The nature of the recreation has been mentioned
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159
in a previous chapter. We sat and talked over our
coffee for half-an-hour, then discoursed in the garden
for half-an-hour. In some monasteries dominoes,
bagatelle, skittles, &c., were introduced to escape the
necessity for conversation. Cards were forbidden, and
chess was discountenanced (with complete success) on
the ambiguous ground that the friars had no cerebral
tissue to waste on intellectual games.1
The conversation only deserves a word on account
of the curiosity which seems to prevail with regard to
it. Two types of monastic conversation are known
to the general public: the spiritual talk recommended
by monastic writers and the jolly intercourse so dear
to the artist. Both types, and especially the former,
are infrequent in the real life of the friary. Mr.
Dendy Sadler’s pictures of jolly friars may serve to
illustrate their high festivals, but the ordinary con
versation was dull and depressing. Politics had the
largest share in it. All the friars were keen politicians,
though they dare not openly manifest any political
sympathy. They were all Liberals, but for the sake
of argument one or other would attack or defend some
point in an uninteresting way for an hour or so. One
daily paper is allowed in the friary, but no weeklies
or monthlies. Then casuistry gave much matter for
discussion, and points of ritual and canon law were
often debated. Here and there some friar of a higher
intellectual type might broach questions of living
interest, but in those cases the conversation was apt
1 It is a remarkable and mysterious fact that cards were, as far
as my experience went, never seen in a monastery. Speaking quite
literally, I may say that this was the only one of our rules which
we seriously observed.
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to degenerate into a pedantic and not very accurate
monologue. But a vast amount of time was spent,
as has frequently been suggested of them, in the most
painful puerilities. Their sense of humour seems to
undergo an extraordinary degeneration, and the more
rational of them frequently express their disgust at
the character of their “ recreation.” There are one
or two strong personalities who habitually tyrannise
over the friaries in which they are found, and even
contrive at the elections to keep near them one or
two less gifted brethren whom they may bully and
banter at will. As they are men of high authority
and influence, their victims find it expedient to submit
patiently to this constant flight of rudely fashioned
shafts for a year or two; in the end they usually
find themselves elevated to some position to which
their intrinsic merit could hardly have raised them.
For throughout the length and breadth of the
Franciscan Order (and every other order) ambition
and intrigue of office are the most effectual hindrances
to fraternal charity. All officials are elected and fre
quently changed, so that the little province is as
saturated with jealousy and intrigue as a South
American Republic. Every three years a general
election is held, at which the General from Rome is
supposed to preside. The usual course is for the
General (whose real name is “ general servant ” of
the fraternity, but it is usually preferred in the
abbreviated form) to send a deputy to the province
which is about to hold its elections. The deputy,
or “ visitator,” visits all the monasteries in succession
and affords each friar an opportunity, in private con
versation, to submit his personal grievances or his
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161
knowledge of general abuses. Of the former, how
ever, the visitator takes little notice, referring them
to more immediate superiors, and he is usually quite
powerless to correct any general abuse. One of our
English friars was deputed to visit the Irish province
on the occasion of its election some years before my
secession. He did not disguise his intention of making
a special effort to check the flow of whisky in that
province, as he considered it the source of all evil in
modern monastic life; his own particular vanity was
port. We were not a little surprised to find on the
return of our zealous crusader that he had himself
been converted to the seductive spirit, and only the
too openly manifested delight of his numerous enemies
—whom he had persistently denounced at Rome for
ten years as “ whisky-drinkers ”—prevailed upon him
to return to port.
When the visitator has completed the circuit of the
province he summons the members of the higher
council, or “ definitors,” to the monastery where the
election is held. The superiors or “ guardians ” of the
various monasteries then send in their resignations,
together with a declaration on oath by their priests
(if they can get all the signatures), that they have
fulfilled their duty to their community and a full
account of their financial transactions. The guardians
themselves arrive on the following day, and proceed
by a secret ballot to the election of a new provincial,
and his council of five definitors. The guardians then
disperse, and the newly elected council proceeds to
appoint new guardians with their subordinate officers.
Everything is conducted with the utmost secrecy, the
voting papers being burned and pulverised in the
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presence of the voters, and every friar present being
put under oath not to reveal the proceedings. Public
prayers are also commanded for weeks in advance, and
the election opens with a solemn High Mass to the
Holy Spirit; an oath is also taken by the electors that
they will choose those whom they consider the most
worthy.
That is the admirable theory of the election; its
actual course is somewhat different. Before the
solemn imploration of the light of the Holy Spirit
on the election morning the whole scheme has been
practically settled. The province is really an oligarchy,
not an elective democracy. A few abler or older men
form the Definitorium, and there is a sufficiently clear
understanding 1 between them and the guardians to
insure that the guardians will re-elect them and they,
in their turn, will reappoint the guardians. There is
a slight struggle from one or two young Radicals, and
perhaps a new aspirant to a place on the council, but
changes rarely occur. The old definitors are prac
1 The following extracts from a letter written by one monastic
superior to another may be instructive :—
“ . . . they are trying to force me to do what I don’t think fair or
just to my successor . . . but I will not do anything that I deem in
principle mean or unjust to my successor. I say mean, for I deem
it such when guardians to please their superiors send them gifts
which the papal Bulls call bribes, and which several Popes strictly
forbid. But I absolutely refused until compelled by obedience to do
such. Of course I was threatened by the ‘ powers that be ’ that I
would pay for it, etc. ; but I told them over and over again, ‘ I
fear only God and my conscience.’”
Unfortunately there were many who had not the firmness, honesty,
and deep religious spirit of the writer of that letter. [As the writer
is now dead, I will add that the letter was written by the Very Rev.
Father Jarlath, 0. S.F., to myself a few weeks before I left. Second
edition.']
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163
tically sure of re-election, and so on the night before
the electors arrive they have arranged all appointments
under no other spiritual influence than that of a cigar
and a glass of whisky.
For the higher position of provincial—a quasi
episcopate—the intrigue runs much deeper. Votes
are practically bought, by means of minor appoint
ments and other bon-bons, years in advance, and the
province is really severed into factions headed by the
different candidates. There are many friars to whom
these proceedings are very repugnant, but others use
them more or less unscrupulously. I once took a
prominent friar to task for his indulgent treatment of
a notoriously unworthy official. He answered frankly
that the man “ had a vote ”—going on to explain how
necessary it was for the good of the fraternity that
he himself should take the helm at the next election,
however reluctant he felt to do so.
When these facts are considered, in addition to the
jealousy which naturally arises in connection with
preaching, penitents, and the esteem of the laity
generally, it will be understood that life in a friary
is not one of paradisaical monotony. Open conflicts
are rare, but the strained relations between rivals and
their followers frequently find expression in conversa
tion and conference. In fact, the constant suspicion
and caution sometimes lead to very unexpected
phenomena. Thus, a colleague of mine seemed to me
in uncomfortable relations with a large number of friars,
and of one of them he told me a strange story. He
had entered his cell during the friar’s absence and
found a revolver, which he abstracted and destroyed;
he even added that he kept a secret lock on his own
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bedroom door at night, for the ordinary lock is open
to a superior’s master-key, and the friar in question
was a superior and a priest of high reputation.1
Besides the triennial election, called a chapter,
there is a half-chapter every eighteen months in which
many changes take place. The friars do not, how
ever, as a rule, appreciate the variety which is thus
afforded them, for they soon find attachments in a
mission which they are loth to break off. But quite
apart from elections a friar is liable to be ordered off
to a different monastery at any moment. It is related
of the celebrated Duns Scotus that when he received
the order to go from Paris to Cologne, he happened
to be away from the Paris monastery. He at once
set off on foot for Cologne without returning even
to bid good-bye to his brethren. The modern friar
is not so precipitate. His “ obedience,” as the formal
order to remove is called, allows three days to reach
his destination; so that the friar has ample time to
collect his luggage (for in spite of his vow of poverty
every friar has a certain amount of personal property),
and perhaps elicit a testimonial from his pious admirers.
Needless to say, the friar no longer makes his jour
neys on foot, as the founder of the order intended.
There is a precept in the rule that forbids “ riding ”
under pain of mortal sin, and commentators are much
at variance in their efforts to apply it to modern
1 This incident somewhat startled me on re-reading it, but I now
recollect it quite clearly. The two men were two of the most dis
tinguished preachers at our Forest Gate friary, and each tried to
turn me against the other. I leave it to the reader to settle whether
the one who spoke to me of revolvers and secret locks was merely
lying. Third edition.
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165
means of locomotion. Most of them say that the
horse is still gravely prohibited—to ride, that is to
say, for in Belgium we more than once had the
pleasure of eating it; the ass and the camel are not
to be mounted without necessity; and a ship may be
used when the friar has not to pay for his sail. The
railway is a subject of grave theoretical controversy,
but the majority of the pundits are agreed that it may
be used when necessary ; which is a convenient solution.
i In point of fact, the English or American friar takes
1 his cab or ’bus or train without giving a thought to
his rule. He has, at least once in three years, a
holiday of two or three weeks’ duration, and he has
I odd days in the country or at the seaside. He cannot,
I however, leave his own country without special per
mission from Rome.
| The “ obedience,” or formal order to travel, is at
I the same time a mark of identity for the friar when
he arrives at a strange convent. He is always bound
to seek the hospitality of his brethren if they have a
I convent in the town, and the superior’s first care is
to demand his “ obedience,” on which his destination
is marked. This is enjoined as a precaution against
| apostates, and especially against frauds. For even
monastic hospitality has been taken advantage of by
impostors. In Belgium some years ago the imposition
I was attempted on a large scale at one of our friaries.
| A bishop and his secretary presented themselves for
a few days’ hospitality, and were received and treated
I by the friars with the courtesy and attention which
I befitted their rank. There was nothing unusual in the
I occurrence, and the friars were always glad to receive
iso flattering a guest. His lordship said mass daily
G
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with correct episcopal ceremony, and had all the
requisite paraphernalia. After a time, however, a
suspicion was aroused, and when his lordship had
casually mentioned the name of the cardinal who had
consecrated him, a telegraphic communication was
made with Rome, with the result that the impostors
were handed over to the civil authority. At London
we had visitors from all parts of the world, and it
would be difficult to detect an impostor. I remember
one whom we turned out of the monastery after a
few weeks’ hospitality, and no one knows to this
day whether he was a genuine friar or not. He was
a Spaniard, an old man with our brown costume in
his possession, who represented himself as a laybrother from our province of Mexico. He hinted
that a secret Government mission had brought him
to London. He spoke French fluently, and was a
most interesting conversationalist, representing that he
had at one time been a private secretary of Don Carlos
and an active figure in Spanish politics. However,
Fra Carpoforo’s business in London seemed unduly
protracted, and our suspicious superiors politely
recommended him an hotel in the city.
Impostors find great difficulty in penetrating into the
order as novices in modern times, for there are
numerous formalities to comply with. Not only are
his baptismal certificate and a letter from his bishop
necessary, but inquiries are made as to whether there
is any hereditary disease, or insanity, or heresy in his
family, whether he is single and legitimate, and so
with a host of other qualifications. In olden times
anybody who presented himself was admitted to “ the
habit of probation ” without inquiry, and it is a well-
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167
known fact that women have thus obtained entrance
into the monastery and remained in it until their
neath. Several such women are recorded in the
official Martyrology of the Order : a book in which the
memory is preserved of holy friars who have not
attained the supreme rank of canonisation. Their
names were read to us annually.
An amusing case of imposture occurred at Forest
Gate a few years before my secession. A young man
of very smart appearance presented himself at the
monastery and intimated a desire to enter the order
as a lay-brother. He had no credentials, but mentioned
casually one or two friars in other monasteries “ whose
masses he had served.” He represented himself as a
cook, saying that he had been at Charing Cross Hotel
and other places. Without a single inquiry he was
received into the monastery, where he remained for
three weeks, cooking for the brethren and maintaining
a very modest and satisfactory demeanour. On the
third Sunday, however, he vanished with the whole
of the money that had been collected in the church on
that day, and a quantity of clothing, &c., which he
had borrowed. As the Sunday was one of the great
festivals, on which a special collection had been taken
for the friars, the anger of the superior may be
imagined. The police smiled when we gave them a
description of our “ novice.”
G2
�CHAPTER IX
OTHER ORDERS AND THE LONDON CLERGY
It will be readily perceived that the less attractive
features of the life of the Grey Friars, which I have
described, are not due to circumstances which are
peculiar to that order. They are the inevitable result
of forcing a mediaeval ideal on temperaments and in
circumstances that are entirely modern. It will be
expected, therefore, that other monastic congregations,
at least, will present much the same features. The
rules and constitutions of different orders differ as
much as their costumes, and their specific aims—for
each order is supposed to have a distinctive aim to
justify its separate foundation—also differ. But again,
the difference is rather theoretical than practical.
Through the exigencies of their missionary status in
England and the United States,1 they have been
1 As I have mentioned, the hierarchy and the parochial system
are not in their normal condition in ‘ ‘ heretical ” countries. Hence
Dr. Temple was, from the canonical point of view, more correct
than he knew when he-styled the Church of Borne in England
“ the Italian Mission.” The conditions are so exactly parallel in
England and the States, and in the greater part of Canada, that
my experiences may be freely used in estimating monastic life in
America. The American friars I have met were, if anything,
further removed from the ideal of St. Francis than my immediate
colleagues.
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169
brought down to one common level of parochial
activity. Their work differs little from that of the
secular clergy, or the non-Catholic clergy; and the
same curious and half-hearted efforts are made to
maintain their ritual and ascetical peculiarities in the
privacy of the convent as have been described in the
case of the Grey Friars.
It was well known by my colleagues that I was
deeply concerned at the unpleasant condition of my
surroundings for many years before my secession. I
frequently spoke with one distinguished friar on the
subject, and he professed to be in entire accord with
me on the point, and used to deprecate it in even
stronger terms than I. However, suspecting that I
would on that account be tempted to procure a release
from the Franciscan rule and pass to some other order
(for which permission could be obtained), he would
go on to assure me—and he was a man of knowledge
—that every other order, and the secular clergy too,
was in a similarly unsatisfactory condition. As time
went on I found many reasons to acquiesce in the
opinion he gave me. Catholic priests have two weak
nesses in common with the gentler sex—vanity and
love of scandal. One cannot move much in clerical
circles without soon learning the seamy side of different
orders and dioceses. The different dioceses of the
secular clergy are more or less jealous of each other,
and the secular clergy are, as a rule, strongly opposed
to the regulars. Nine secular priests out of ten hate
all monks, and nine priests (of either kind) out of ten
hate the Jesuits. One meets many priests who are
willing to accept the extreme Protestant version of
Jesuitism. Only a few years ago a drama was
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OTHER ORDERS
presented in a theatre at Barcelona, in which were
embodied the bitterest and gravest charges against the
Jesuits; and when the delighted Spaniards called for
the author, a priest in his clerical dress walked to the
footlights. In the presence of laymen, of course, every
branch of sacerdotalism is treated as little less than
angelic; a priest will then, as I have heard them do,
praise a priest he hates. But a few years’ attentive
intercourse with different orders and with the clergy
of several dioceses has taught me to regard all priests
as very human, neither more nor less.
For instance, there were in my time, as was ex
plained in the second chapter, three distinct branches
of the Franciscan Order in England; and the three
sections were as jealous, hostile, and mutually depre
ciatory as three rival missionary societies. A few
years before I left the French colony of friars at
Clevedon advertised for cast-off clothing for their
youthful aspirants for the order; our authorities imme
diately wrote to Rome and got their action reproved
as derogatory to the dignity of the order—the order,
it will be remembered, being a mendicant order, indeed
the most humble of all mendicant orders. The French
friars in their turn disturbed the peace of my colleagues
by securing the patronage of the Duchess of Newcastle
and pitching their tent within a few miles of Forest
Gate; not even inviting us to the foundation of their
church. Another day our friars were exalted at the
news that their Capuchin brethren (the bearded Fran
ciscans) had been forced to sell their Dulwich monas
tery to the Benedictines, and again at the rumour that
the Capuchins (amongst whom, it was said, there had
been a general scuffle and dispersion and that several
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171
of their best men had departed for the American
missions) were likely to be starved into selling their
house at Olton. Both these monastic bodies had the
same manner of life as ourselves, and are, indeed, now
amalgamated with my late colleagues.
Other historic bodies, such as the Dominicans,
Benedictines, and Carmelites, bear much the same
relation to their primitive models, though their mem
bers are more cultured and refined, on the whole, than
my colleagues were. The Protestant surroundings
are held to prevent them from being entirely faithful
to their rules, and once the thin end of the wedge
is in it penetrates very deeply. The modern friars
have too much sense to attempt a full revival of the
thirteenth century. There is a poetry and romance
about the retention of the costume, but its asceticism
and crude religious realism are as antiquated as
feudalism. In olden times every monastery had
quite an armoury of spiked chains, bloody scourges,
thigh-bracelets, hair shirts, &c. In all my experience
I have only seen one such instrument of self-torture.
It was a thigh-bracelet, a broad wire chain, each link
ending in a sharp point that ran into the flesh. It
was rusty enough, though not from the blood of
victims, and it excited as much interest and humorous
comment in the party of monks who were examin
ing it as does a Spanish instrument of torture in the
Tower of London in the crowd of Protestant visitors.
St. Aloysius, the great model of the Jesuits, was so
modest in his relations with the dangerous sex, that he
did not even know his own mother by sight. To shake
hands with a woman is condemned by all monastic
writers as a very grave action. Most Catholic young
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ladies are aware that the modern monk—above all,
the Jesuit—is not at all misogynous.
The Dominicans have several peculiar precepts in
their rule which they are much tempted to think
lightly of; they are entirely forbidden flesh-meat, and
they are always forbidden to talk over dinner. I
have had the pleasure of dining at their large house
at Haverstock Hill on several festive occasions, and
I noticed that they trim the constitution a little by
adjourning to the library for dessert and wine; in
fact, my estimable neighbour did keep up a sotto voce
conversation with me throughout dinner. I heard
a much bolder feat of another Dominican convent.
Their precept directs, I understand, that flesh-meat
must not enter the refectory or dining-room; the good
friars, however, wearied of the daily fish, but saved
their consciences on the days they took meat by
dining in another room. It reminds one of the pious
fraud of the Dublin Carmelites. They secured an
excellent site for a church, but had to surmount an
obstacle raised by a former proprietor. He, it appears,
did not wish a church to be erected on the spot, so
he stipulated that the land should only be sold to a
person or persons agreeing to build a house thereon.
That was too wide a net for a theologian; the Car
melites bought the land, erected a fine church on it,
and a house on top of the church!
I met another curious illustration of this theological
ingenuity at one time in London. A Dominican friar
had been commissioned to raise funds in England for
the conduct of the process of canonisation of a French
priest. He had with him a number of small patches
of black cloth, which were said to be portions of the
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cassock of the holy man. He could not sell these—
the sale of relics is a grave sin in theology—but he
was, like the Spanish Church with its indulgences,
prepared to give one to every Catholic who gave him
ten shillings for the cause. My colleagues made a
friendly calculation that the relics which were being
thus distributed all over the Catholic world were so
large and numerous that they would make a consider
able number of cassocks. Possibly the cloth had
grown, as the Holy Cross did in pre-critical days;
but we further noted that the relics were pieces of
excellent stuff, whereas it was recorded as a particular
proof of the saint’s piety that he always wore an old
and ragged cassock. All this criticism was passed
at the time by priests, for it must not be supposed
that the clergy are as credulous as they like the laity
to be. They know that the manufacture of relics is
a lucrative ecclesiastical industry. The Dominican, in
fact, admitted to us that his relics had merely touched
the original cassock of the saint, and we forced him,
under threat of exposure, to return a half sovereign
a lady had given him.
The Jesuits are the most flourishing body of regular
clergy in England and America, and in every other
civilised or uncivilised nation. The reason of their
success is not far to seek. St. Ignatius bade them*
from the start cultivate the powerful and wealthy and
found colleges for the young. They have been more
than faithful to this part of his teaching, and they
draw numbers of youths from their fine colleges. To
a good supply of men and money they add a rigorous
discipline, and the elements of success are complete.
A famous Roman caricature hits off very happily the
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characteristic feature of the Jesuits and of three other
orders by a play on the words of Peter to Christ.
A Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Jesuit are
seated at a table of money; the Franciscan repels it
with the words “ Behold we have left all things,”
the Dominican imitates him, “ And we have followed
thee,” the Augustinian strikes an argumentative atti
tude, asking, “ What then? ” and the Jesuit gathers
in the spoils, with the rest of the text, “ remains
for us.”
At the same time they are characterised by a
remarkable esprit de corps which leads to an intense
isolated activity. The glory of the society is para
mount, and always coupled with the glory of the
Church; they never co-operate with other orders, but
they freely cut across the lines of, and come into col
lision with, other ecclesiastical forces. Hence there is
a very strong feeling against them amongst the clergy
and in higher quarters; indeed, one would be sur
prised to find how many priests are ready to agree
with Kingsley and Zola with regard to them. In
considering the accusations that are so commonly
brought against them one must remember how far
the acknowledged principles of Catholic casuistry can
be extended. It is true that the maxim, “ The end
justifies the means,” is denounced by all the theo
logical schools, including the Jesuits, but the rejection
is at times little more than a quibble. An act which
remains intrinsically bad cannot be done for a good
purpose, they say, but every theologian admits that
the “ end ” of an action enters into and modifies its
moral essence; and the act must be a very wicked
one which cannot be hallowed by being pressed into
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the service of the Church Catholic—or of the Society
of Jesus.
Such quibbles as Kingsley attributes to them in
“ Westward Ho! ” are certainly defensible on Catholic
principles and are constantly perpetrated by priests; 1
and I should not be at all surprised if a Jesuit were
to argue himself into accepting the commission which
George Sand attributes to the Jesuit tutor in “ Con
suelo.” Many priests would admit that M. Zola’s
account of their activity, in “ Rome,” is probably cor
rect. I once heard F. Bernard Vaughan, S.J., preach
a sermon on the title “ What is a Jesuit? ” With his
accustomed eloquence he summed up the traditional
idea—the historian’s idea—of a Jesuit, and, in refuta
tion, contented himself with detailing the spiritual
exercises through which the Jesuit so frequently
passes. Although, aided by F. Vaughan’s great thea
trical power and by the operatic performances which
preceded and followed it, the sermon produced con
siderable effect, it was in reality merely a trick of
rhetoric. No one contends that the Jesuit is violating
his conscience in his plots, intrigues, and equivoca
tions; regret is usually felt that he should have been
able to bring his moral sense into such an accom
modating attitude. Every ecclesiastic claims to be
unworldly in ultimate ambition; yet even a pope
would think a lifetime well spent in diplomatic intrigue
for the restoration of his temporal power. All such
activity is easily covered by the accepted principles
of Catholic casuistry.
Still, whatever may have been the policy of Jesuits
1 See afterwards, p. 209.
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in past ages their activity in England at the present
day is patent. In London they have no parish, but
they are continually seeking out the wealthier Catholics
in various parishes and endeavouring to attach them
to their congregation at Farm Street, or send them to
help their struggling missions at Stamford Hill and
Wimbledon. They even penetrated to Forest Gate
in this “ poaching ” spirit, and my colleagues were
greatly agitated when a Jesuit was known to be
about. We usually lost a well-to-do parishioner.
They have thus excited much hostility amongst the
rest of the clergy, but four centuries of bad treatment
from clergy and laity alike have sufficiently inured
them, and only made them more self-contained and
independent. Apart from such petty intrigues for
the advancement of the society there does not seem
to be any deep undercurrent of Jesuit activity in
England at the present time; at Rome, of course,
every congregation and every individual must partici
pate in the great struggle for canonical existence.1
Besides the great orders there are innumerable
minor congregations of regular or monastic priests
represented in London—Oblates of Mary, Oblates of
the Sacred Heart, Oblates of St. Charles, Servites,
Barnabites, Vincentians, Fathers of Charity, Marists,
Passionists, Redemptorists, &c. Most of them have
been founded in recent times by priests who were
eager to promote some particular devotion, and, by
influence or money, succeeded in getting permission
to found congregations embodying their idea. As a
1 See Count Hoensbroech’s “ Fourteen Years a Jesuit ” for some
scathing observations on the English Jesuits.
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rule their ideal is not very ascetic, so that there is
less hypocrisy in their lives; but they also are gener
ally too hard pressed in the inere struggle for existence
to pay much attention to the particular features and
objects of their respective congregations. I knew
little of them, but used to hear my older colleagues
tell with pleasure how Cardinal Manning scornfully
spoke of the Brompton Oratory as “ the hen-coop,”
and how the Benedictines were rent with factions (as
one of them afterwards described in the Pall Mall
Magazine).
Besides the great number of regular clergy—who
would be more aptly styled the “ Irregulars,” both for
a disciplinary reason and in view of their canonical
relation to the rest of the clerical army—there are
the ordinary secular or non-monastic clergy. The
seculars are those who live in the world (sseculum)
and the regulars those who live in convents, under a
rule (regula). The seculars have a similar life to
that of the ordinary non-Catholic clergyman; it has
been fully described in the preceding chapter, for it
is similar to that of the monastic clergy who under
take parochial duties. On Sunday their work is long
and laborious. During the week they visit their
parishioners, and the more attractive amongst their
neighbour’s parishioners (which dangerous practice is
called “ poaching,” and is watched accordingly); take
tea and supper and play cards with them; visit, dine,
and wine with each other; and picnics, parties, enter
tainments, meetings, special services (with luncheons),
visits to the cardinal (after a polite and chilling
invitation called a compareat), and occasional holidays,
help to fill up the inside of the week. They are
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forbidden under pain of suspension to enter a theatre,
or witness theatrical performances of any kind.
They cordially detest the monastic clergy—who
have secured most of the best parishes of the diocese
—but do not object to dining with them on their
festivals. I remember hearing one at a dinner (or
near the close of a dinner) in a friary belonging to
our Franciscan rivals, unburden his mind about monks
in general and our friars in particular, in a way which
would have been w’armly approved by the most loyally
Protestant body. With nuns they are usually on very
good terms; they find pupils and novices for the
convent, and in return are invited to the innumerable
special services, luncheons, entertainments, distribu
tions of prizes, &c., which are equally gratifying to
them and the sisters.
Their circumstances, naturally, differ very widely
in different parishes; as a rule they are not rich. I
have known a priest to reduce his living expenses to
nine shillings per week, and I should think there
are few who have £150 per annum. However, they
live in hopes of better days. The State grant to their
schools has meant a material increase in their personal
income. They, of course, claim it as a relief to their
parishioners, but in point of fact the special collections
they make for their schools are and always were
insignificant.
The cardinal usually assists the poorest missions,
in some of which, as at Ongar in my time, there are
not a score of Catholics; at least Cardinal Manning
did, though Cardinal Vaughan withdrew most of his
predecessor’s allowances. They were more afraid of
having money taken from them by Cardinal Vaughan
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\ than of the contrary, and they filled up their statistical
papers with much ingenuity. Cardinal Manning took
little interest in the incomes and expenditures of his
clergy, but as soon as Vaughan arrived they all re
ceived a detailed form to fill in and return, giving
an account of their receipts and expenses. Unfor
tunately the cardinal made a canonical slip in sending
the same paper to the secular and to the monastic
clergy; the latter are not responsible to him for
their conduct qua monks, but only qua parish priests.
They therefore held an indignation meeting and pro
tested, with the result that a new form had to be
printed which distinguished between their parochial
property and income and their monastic affairs, and
only demanded an account of the former. Needless
to say, the replies were very discreet; it is said that
the Dominicans returned a blank sheet.
On the whole the relation of the secular clergy to
their archbishop 1 may be described as one of goodnatured tolerance. He was not popular in the north,
and he is not popular in the south. He is kind and
affable, and always leaves a good impression after a
visit to a priest. Not so inflexible as his predecessor
—in fact, it is complained that he is too easily influ
enced—he is a prelate of unquestionable earnestness
and sincerity. But he had the misfortune to step
into the shoes of a great man, and he has acted
unwisely in endeavouring to tread in his predecessor’s
footsteps instead of confining his attention to the
1 It is, perhaps, of interest to leave in the text this lengthy
reference to Cardinal Vaughan. It must be understood, however,
that it does not refer to the present Archbishop, of whom I know
nothing. Third edition.
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administration of the archdiocese. The intense activity
which has kept him continually on the move since
he entered the diocese, and which has so rapidly aged
him, has had little or no palpable result, and has
certainly not deepened the attachment of his clergy.
His predecessor remained day after day in his little
room at Carlyle Place; the world came to him and
sought his influence.
Yet with all his activity and the perpetual flutter
ing of aristocratic wings in his vicinity he cannot give
the financial aid to his clergy which his predecessor
did. One of his first cares was to change the existing
financial arrangements, cutting off many allowances
and commanding new contributions. He had a perfect
right to do so; but when, after so many economical
measures, he confessed in his Trinity Sunday pastoral
that he could not reach the income of his predecessor
his clergy felt little sympathy. In the same pastoral
he preached a panegyric of the aristocracy which gave
great offence, and he gave a comparison of the con
tributions of five West End churches and five East
End churches, which was not quite accurate, was
hardly fair, and was certainly impolitic. However,
he has made many wise changes in the distribution
of his clergy and other improvements that Cardinal
Manning had strangely neglected. When the time
comes it will not be a light task to find a worthy
successor to Cardinal Vaughan/
1 The Vaughan family is a remarkable one ; of the seven brothers
six became prominent ecclesiastics. Roger died Archbishop of
Sydney ; Herbert is cardinal; Bernard, the Jesuit, is the first
Catholic preacher in England; Jerome is the founder of a new
order ; Kenelm is a world-wide missionary : John is a monsignore.
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The same may be said of the education of secular
priests as of that of regulars; in fact, the observations
in the preceding chapter apply to the clergy generally.
The classical and mathematical training of the seculars
is slightly better than that of the friars; otherwise
the curriculum is much the same. Their philosophical
and theological studies in the seminary have been
equally disorderly and precipitate. They have had
no serious introduction either to the thought of past
ages (beyond the thirteenth century) or to the living
thoughts of our own day. They read little and know
little beyond the interminable Anglican controversy.
The laity are coerced into literary apathy, and con
sequently the stimulus to study is absent.
About five years ago the cardinal realised that his
priests were not up to date, and that they were really
unable to bring themselves adequately in touch with
modern thought, so he instituted a kind of intellectual
committee to sit upon modern questions, and report
to the majority. A dozen of the better-informed
London priests constituted it, and they met occasion
ally to discuss, especially social questions and the
biblical question. I remember procuring a large
amount of socialistic literature for certain members
who wished to study both sides. When the members
of this new Areopagus had come to a few decisions,
they were to enlighten their less studious or less
leisured brethren by a series of small books. Those
It is said that John attempted a smart aphorism on the family ; he
himself represented thought, Bernard word, and Herbert deed.
When Bernard heard it he caustically added, “ and Jerome
omission." The allusion is to the Catholic classification of sins—
sins of thought, word, deed, and omission.
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books have not yet appeared. The fact that the pro
posed writers (to my knowledge) dare not print their
true ideas on the above problems at present may not
be unconnected with the delay. A Jesuit writer,
about the same time, began a series of explanatory
and very dogmatic articles on the critical question
in the Tablet, but he was immediately cut to pieces
by other Catholic writers. The Jesuits have also
published a series of volumes of scholastic philo
sophy in English. The student will find in them an
acquaintance with modern science and philosophy
which is rarely found in the scholastic metaphysician.
Unfortunately they are little better on the main
lines of argument than a translation of the discarded
Latin manuals. They follow disused shafts of thought
much too frequently to be of value. The more im
portant volumes seem to have been entrusted to the
less important men; and whilst there is much acute
criticism of minor topics, the treatment of the more
profound problems is very unsatisfactory—such theses
as the spirituality of the soul and the existence and
infinity of God being merely supported by the old
worn-out arguments.
What has been said of the perpetual intrigues of
the monastic clergy does not apply so forcibly to the
secular priests. Each monastery is a small world in
itself, and contains nearly as many officers as privates;
to the secular clergy the number of possible appoint
ments is very slight in proportion to their numbers,
and thus the fever of ambition is less widespread.
There is naturally a certain amount of intrigue for
the wealthier parishes, but few of the priests have
any ambition beyond the desire to settle down as
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rector of some comfortable and respectable congrega
tion. In a witty French book a benevolent parent
gives as a supreme counsel to his son who has become
a priest, “ Arrondissez-vous.” A few may then aspire
to the dignity of dean of their district, or to the title
of “ missionary rector.” But so far there is no differ
ence from the clergy of any other denomination; the
genuine Roman fever only begins with the narrow
circle of those who presume to aspire to the title of
monsignore, or even of canon of the diocese. The
dignity of monsignore is not a very significant one;
it may or may not be a reward of merit. Any wealthy
priest of good family may receive it as a mere com
pliment. I know one monsignore who received his,
purple because he had given a few thousand pounds
to my colleagues, and another (a very worthy man, but
painfully commonplace) who got it for his attentions
to a distinguished visitor from Rome.
Even canons, as a rule, are very feeble and harm
less conspirators; they are generally old men, who
are more conspicuous for quantity than quality of
service, but have usually sufficient discretion left to
know that they are not expected to aspire any higher.
In matters of ordinary administration their long ex
perience is often useful to the bishop, with whom
they form the chapter of the diocese, but otherwise
they have not a very grave responsibility. The same
may be said of the titular bishops, or those whose
titles are in partibus infidelium—the “ suffragans ” 1
of the Anglican hierarchy. The cardinal (or any
1 The word has a different meaning amongst Catholics ; a suffragan
is any bishop under an archbishop. All the bishops of England
are suffragcmi to the cardinal-archbishop.
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important bishop) has a number of advisers quite
outside his chapter, experts in canon law, professors
of theology, &c., who are generally mutually hostile
and contradictory, and from their opinions he finally
deduces a course of action.
There is little excitement or intrigue over the
election to an unimportant bishopric. A private
income is as good a qualification as any where the
diocese is small and poor, and no great energy is
required for its administration. When the bishopric
of Clifton fell vacant a few years ago, it was laugh
ingly whispered in clerical circles that the first con
dition required in the candidate was the possession
of the modest private income of <£250 a year. When
an important see is vacant there is more wire-pulling,
both in the locality and at Rome; for the diocese has
not a decisive vote in the election of its bishop. The
canons meet and decide upon three names to send
to Rome as dignissimus, dignior, and dignus. But
the Pope frequently changes the order, and sometimes
(as in Manning’s election) entirely disregards the
ternum.
Thus it is that every prominent ecclesiastic, whether
he be bishop, priest, or monk (for a monk may be
raised to the episcopate without intermediate stages),
is a continuous object of jealous observation and
intrigue, in view of the possible cardinals’ hats or
bishoprics. The state of things described in Purcell’s
“ Life of Manning ” is only exceptional in that the
Church in England is not likely again to have such a
number of able men simultaneously. The jealousy,
hostility, meanness, and persecution therein described
are familiar incidents in the life of every “ great
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185
'ecclesiastical statesman,” as Manning is most aptly
called. And it must not be imagined that the picture
is at all complete—it is not by any means as darkly
shaded as the reality. No Catholic could in conI science tell all that is handed down in clerical circles
with regard to the relations of Manning, Newman,
Ward, the Jesuits, &c. And although the author
has made a generous concession in the cause of hisI torical truth, the public have not had the full benefit
I of his sincerity. If the book could have been pubI lished in its original form, it would have been much
more interesting, but after spending two years in
purgatorial flames as it did, we must take it with
’ discretion. Some of my colleagues were intimate with
the author’s brother, and gave us continual reports
of the painful progress of the work. About two
I years before its appearance we were told that it was
j finished, and some very spicy letters and anecdotes
' were promised. Then there were rumours of war;
Ithe defenders of Manning, the supporters of Ward,
the Jesuits, and others threatened legal action, and
I the work was much “ bowdlerised.” On the whole,
1 the impression of those who seemed to be in the secret
i was that Newman had been treated by all parties in
J a manner that dare not be made public, and that
■ there were documents kept back which would throw
much discredit upon all other prominent Catholics of
| the period. We must not suppose, however, that
’ Newman was the meek victim of all this intrigue.
| Bishop Paterson, who knew him well, once described
if | him in my presence as “ a tiger by nature, an angel
& B by grace.”
However undesirable such a state of things may
±
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be, it is no other than any disinterested person would
expect. The Church cannot change its character in
a day, and its past history, like the history of every
priesthood under the sun, is throughout marred by
such weaknesses. The life of Cardinal Pie in France,
though written by a Catholic for Catholics, gives one
the same impression; the relations of the Irish pre
lates (one of whom is “ primate of Ireland,” and
another “ primate of all Ireland,”) and of the American
prelates are quite analogous; and Rome itself is a
school of diplomacy and intrigue of no gentle charac
ter. Such things are inevitable, and it is a clumsy
device to attempt to conceal them and support the
idea that ecclesiastical dignitaries are only guided by
preternatural influences.
The condition of Catholicism in London is a matter
of anxious discussion, even in clerical circles. As will
be explained subsequently, grave doubts are expressed
as to whether the Church is making any progress at
all in England, and especially in London. Catholic
journals are not unlike Egyptian monuments; they
write large (and in good round numbers) the con
quests of their Church, but they do not see the need
for chronicling its losses. Of converted Anglican
ministers they speak with warmth and eloquence; of
seceding priests they are silent—until some incident
brings them into public notice, when they publish a
series of reckless attacks on them and refuse to insert
their explanations. Once or twice, however, notices
of meetings have crept in at which the opinion has
been maintained by priests that the Church is really
losing, instead of making that miraculous progress
which the average layman believes. Great numbers
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187
of Catholics imagine that as soon as the Church of
England is disestablished 1 and thus thrown directly
upon the support of the people it will vanish almost
immediately. I once heard Bishop Paterson explain
that it was undesirable to work for disestablishment
just yet, because we Catholics really had not nearly
sufficient accommodation for the vast flood of converts
that would ensue; we should be quite disorganised.
In point of fact there should be now about a quarter
of a million Catholics in London, whereas the Daily
Nezes census shows that only 90,000 attend church,
and the total number cannot therefore be more than
120,000. Throughout England the ratio of the
Catholic population is about 1 in 20, but it is much
higher in Lancashire, much lower in London and other
places. In Cardinal Manning’s time the figures were
vague and disputable. When Cardinal Vaughan came
down in a hurricane of zeal a census was made of the
archdiocese; but the exact figures only established the
truth of the pessimistic theory. It wras thought that
Catholicism did not really know its strength, and that
it would be well to proclaim its formidable statistics
to the world; but when the result of the census was
known, it was whispered indeed from priest to priest,
but with a caution that the cardinal did not wish to
see it in print.
I have not seen the exact figures—I do not suppose
they ever passed the archbishop’s study in writing—■
but I was informed by reliable priests that out of the
small Catholic population of London between 70,000
1 A Catholic is bound in conscience to desire—to work for, if
possible—the disestablishment of the Anglican Church: then he is
equally bound to work for the establishment of his own.
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and 80,000 never went near a church—had practic
ally abandoned the Church. I have explained that
the positive ceremonial obligations (to hear mass) of
a Catholic are so grave that a continued neglect of
them puts a man outside the pale of the Church.
Most priests can ascertain with some confidence how
many nominal Catholics there are in their district—
that is to say, how many ought to be Catholics by
parentage, baptism, education, &c. By subtracting
from this the average number of attendances at mass
on Sunday (an obligatory service) they should have
the number of renegades. So, also, the priest can
make a minimum calculation from his school-children
—multiply the number of children by five, and you
have the population (though in some places many
Catholic children attend Board Schools); and the
number of marriages affords a maximum indication.
Disagreeable as the general statement is, a few
details will show that it must be rather under than
over the truth. The priest, as a rule, likes to give as
roseate an account as possible of his flock, so that in
the aggregate there is probably a great loss in point
of accuracy. In the parish of Canning Town in East
London there are about 6000 nominal Catholics; 5000
of these never come near the church. I was dining
with F. Hazel the day the form to be filled arrived,
and saw him write it. We measured the church and
found that, filling the doorsteps and arch ledges, it
would not contain more than 400; certainly not a
thousand, mostly children, came to mass on Sundays,
and Easter confessions were proportionate. A question
was asked, How many of your youths (15-21) attend
their duties? About five per cent, was the answer.
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The income of the parish was deplorable; the vast
territory it embraces is full of poor Irish families
who live less religiously and not more virtuously than
pagans.
At Barking there are more than 200 children in
the schools, and the number is not at all complete,
and there are not more than fifty adults who attend
church; at Grays there is the same condition. A
few years ago a zealous priest, F. Gordon Thompson,
determined to start a mission in a neglected part of
East London—Bow Common ; his aim was necessarily
small, he could only hope to take care of the children
of nominal Catholics. In the first three streets he
visited he found 120 such children, and could go no
further; their parents he could not attempt to gather.
He told me that there were several other localities in
East London in precisely the same condition. In fact,
every parish in East London counts at least hundreds
of drifted Catholics. The circumstance is by no means
confined to poor districts, but it is more noticeable
in them; ecclesiastics are naturally slow to undertake
and prosecute such unremunerative toil.
In the light of these details it will not be wondered
that there is so great a leakage from the Church that
the “ converts ” do not nearly fill the vacant space.1
I have thought for many years, and have been confirmed in the opinion by many colleagues, that for
1 I have since made careful research into the matter, and more
than established the truth of this. My conclusions are given in an
article in the National Review for August 1901, and especially in
my “ Decay of the Church of Rome ” (1909), where I have shown
that the Church of Rome has lost at least two million and a
quarter followers in England alone during the nineteenth century.
Third edition.
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the last twenty years at least the Church of Rome
has made no progress in England, but has probably
lost in numbers, taking into account, of course, the
increase of a generation, The Church has made a
considerable number of converts, and it would be
foolish to question the earnestness of a large propor
tion of them. At the same time the majority of them
are of such a class that the change has no deep
religious significance. There are thousands of ordinary
people whose only convictions, such as they are, regard
certain fundamental points of Christianity, and who
are drawn into one or other sect by the merest accident
•—by contact with a zealous or particularly affable
proselytiser, by the influence of relatives, by kindness,
taste, and a host of non-religious considerations. In
fact it is only too clear (and not unnatural) that many
associate with the Church of Rome out of purely
aesthetic considerations. It is well known that many
of the much vaunted converts of Farm Street and of
Brompton are simply aesthetes, who are attracted by
the sensuous character of the services.
Matrimonial considerations are also very powerful
agents in the cause of the Church. Many Catholic
priests and families insist upon “ conversion ” before
admitting a non-Catholic to matrimonial relation.
The only “ convert ” I am responsible for was a young
lady who was engaged to be married to a Catholic;
she drank in my instructions like water, never find
ing the slightest intellectual difficulty; and a few
years afterwards, being jilted by him, she happily
returned to Anglicanism with the same facility. One
of my colleagues was summoned to attend a Catholic
who was seriously ill. The wife met him at the door,
�OTHER ORDERS
191
tai and asked him to “ be careful, because her husband
J was only a marriage-convert.” When inter-marriage
Jis allowed, the Church exacts several promises in her
i!favour; all children of the marriage must be brought
l III up Catholics, the non-Catholic partner must promise
i at not to interfere in any way with the religion of the
! Catholic parent and children—and then the Catholic
is separately bound to do all in his or her power to
convert the other.
Schools, too, are proselytising agencies. In board
ing-schools kept by nuns, to which Protestant girls
J are frequently sent, it is regarded as a sacred duty to
»q influence the children as much as possible, no matter
tljwhat promises are made to the parents. Elementary
,d public schools are not only the most effective guardians
J of their own children, but also help to extend Catholic
.^influence. Like the consideration which has been pre>i|viously mentioned, it is not one to which the clergy
iggive political prominence, but it is certainly an
jbimportant item in their secret programme.
�CHAPTER X
COUNTRY
MINISTRY
After four years’ experience of the life which has
been described in the preceding pages, I was not un
willing to find some means of escape. Besides the
uncongenial environment in which I found myself, my
religious troubles had increased every year, until at
length I found myself consciously speculating on the
possibility of being ultimately forced to secede. The
prospect was naturally very painful and alarming, and
I resolved to use every honourable means to avert it.
However, in the increasing cares of the ministry I
could not secure the necessary time for sustained
study. I was relieved from monastic duties, and also
from parochial work, on account of my professorship :
I never visited or received visitors until the last six
months of my monastic career. Still, as preacher,
confessor, instructor, and professor, I was continually
distracted and failing in health, and I eagerly grasped
an opportunity of retiring from London.
The authorities of our province had at length
decided to take action for the improvement of our
studies, and F. David was directed to found a new
college for the preparatory studies. He had a large
but vague idea that the college was ultimately to be
192
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193
connected with Oxford University, and sent down a X
friar of high reputation for economy to make inquiries
in that region. However, no land could be obtained
at their price nearer than Buckingham, and there the
friar established himself.
The friar lived in the vicinity during the progress
of the building, which was erected principally on
borrowed funds, as is usual with Roman Catholic in
stitutions. Knowing that the financial prospects of
the college were precarious, the good friar set himself
to live with great economy and store up a little against
the opening of the establishment. He had an excel
lent reputation for economy already : he knew all the
halfpenny ’buses in London, and patronised shops
where a cup of tea could be had for a halfpenny.
However, he surpassed himself at Buckingham. He
read by the light of a street lamp which shone in at
his window (thus saving the cost of oil), had no
servant, and achieved the fabulous feat of living on
sixpence per day 1 during a long period. Being forced
at length to keep a lay-brother he chose a poor little
ascetic who, he knew, was only too eager to find a
superior who would allow him to starve himself on
orthodox principles.
When at length it was deemed expedient to remove
the zealous friar to another part of England, he had
saved the sum of <£100. This he left to his successor,
who, accordingly, in recording his disappearance in the
“ Annals ” of the new college, added that he deserved
great praise for the efficient state in which he left the
mission. But the newcomer had quite a different
1 The diet was bread, beer and coffee, and tinned meat. Foi
feast-days he used a special meat which cost a penny per tin more.
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COUNTRY MINISTRY
theory of life. He agreed with Francis of Assisi that
it was irreverent to make provision for the morrow;
and so he made himself comfortable in the little
cottage they had rented, and religiously trusted to
Providence for the future of the college. The income
was also doubled through a kind of chaplaincy to the
Comte de Paris which he undertook, yet when I suc
ceeded him my legacy consisted mainly of wine and
spirit bills (paid) and empty bottles.
In the meantime the councillors were again at
loggerheads over the choice of a rector. F. David
had asked me to volunteer for the post, and, for the
reasons already given, and from a sincere desire to
help in reforming our studies, I did so. Subsequent
proceedings, however, disgusted me to such an extent
that for a time I refused to take it, and several
authorities, knowing that I would now have to work
in the face of much intrigue and secret opposition,
wished to save me from it. I was finally appointed,
and entered upon my duty willingly and with earnest
and honest purpose. I had incurred the bitter but
secret hostility of those who were ostensibly respons
ible for my financial success; I knew that the province
was almost universally hostile to the new foundation;
my parish, of some twelve miles in extent, contained
only three poor Catholics; and I had eight pupils who
paid between them the collective sum of <£80 per
annum. I had now entered the troubled waters of
ecclesiastical intrigue, and I give a few details in
illustration of that interesting experience.
Immediately after my arrival the cabinet ministers
of the fraternity—who had prudently sent me a ten
pound note in advance—came to the college to hold a
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
195
two days’ conference. During those two d«iys the
little college resounded with loud but, unhappily, in
articulate discourse. When it was over I demanded
instructions from the provincial, a worthy but obtuse
old friar, who, by some curious freak of diplomacy,
had been pushed into the highest position. He blandly
replied that he had no instructions for me. I (aged
twenty-seven) was to be chief professor and rector,
superior of the house, instructor of the lay-brothers,
parish priest—everything, in short; with carte blanche
to make any regulations, programme of study, or
domestic discipline that I desired. I was even free
to adopt or not the “ closure ” (excluding ladies). I
then turned to the delicate financial question, and was
promptly assured that the whole of this responsibility
had been undertaken by one of the definitors. I
afterwards ascertained that neither the provincial nor
the other councillors had any idea of the financial con
dition of the institution. I warned him that the
definitor in question was known to be anxious for my
ruin and humiliation (for my spiritual good), and that
the others could not shift their responsibility. He
smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and departed. I never
saw him again.
Under these auspicious circumstances I opened the
college of St. Bernardine, a large and handsome build
ing, in spacious grounds just outside Buckingham, in
October 1895. During the five months I remained
there I received no help from the friar of whom they
had spoken; at the end of the time he stood in my
debt. I knew that he had another and more docile
candidate waiting for the rectorship, and that he had
openly expressed his intention of letting me “ sink.”
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COUNTRY MINISTRY
However, other friars came to my assistance, and I
left the college comparatively prosperous when I
abandoned it.
I had one associate in teaching, a young and kindly
but ignorant priest, so that a curious assortment of
classes fell to my lot. I taught Latin grammar,
French, Euclid, algebra, physics, and a little Greek.
And the difficulty of educating the boys was increased
by my complete ignorance of the term they were to
remain under me. I remonstrated with the authorities
in vain; they were in utter discord themselves, and
left everything to chance. Some of them hoped that
the institution would fail. To enliven still further
the monotony of our country life there was a revolt of
the two servants or lay-brothers, occasioned by my
checking their beer accounts. They were both older
than myself, selfish, unsympathetic, and impatient
of discipline. The authorities refused to remove
them.
At the same time the bishop of the diocese was
piteously calling my attention to the condition of the
district, and putting a new charge on my shoulders.
There was evidently more duplicity on this point. I
was informed that there was no parish attached to
the college; the bishop understood that there was,
and had promised me a map of it. It mattered little,
for the “ parish *’ would consist of an enormous extent
of territory containing three Catholics known and three
or four suspected. The town of Buckingham (con
taining 3000 inhabitants) boasts of one Roman Catholic,
who, with rustic diplomacy, attended early service at
the parish church and mass afterwards at the college.
He was my gardener. The whole diocese of North
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
197
ampton is a spiritual desert to the Catholic mind. It
is the most extensive in England, yet contains only
a few thousand Catholics.
At Buckingham I was expected to re-kindle the
light of the ancient faith in a very short time. My
predecessors had left glowing accounts of the ripeness
of the harvest. But I soon found that the easy
tolerance, if not cordiality, of the townsfolk had quite
a different meaning. The presence of the French
soi-disant royal family had done much to remove the
unreasonable prejudice against Catholics which is
found in many agricultural districts. Stowe House
had been the chief support of the little town; and
when the Orleanist family departed, after the death
of the Count, the town was prepared to receive with
open arms any institution that would help to fill the
void in its commerce. The college was built just at
that moment, and as my colleagues predicted for it
a rapid and unlimited growth, it was warmly wel
comed by the inhabitants, who, no doubt, religiously
steeled their hearts at the same time against its assumed
proselytising purpose. In fact, I found that one or
two men who had been noted by my predecessors as
likely to prove the first and easiest converts were con
firmed agnostics who had keenly enjoyed the simplicity
of my predecessors. It was soon felt that I was not
of a proselytising disposition—apart from the insecurity
of my own position, I am afraid that I never sufficiently
realised the gravity of the condition of our Anglican
neighbours—and the college worked in complete
harmony with the Protestant clergy and laity of the
vicinity.
Of my own diocesan colleagues I hardly made the
H
•
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acquaintance. The nearest priest of my own diocese
was at a distance of twelve miles to the south; the
next, fourteen miles to the north; and there, as else
where, the secular clergy do not fraternise with monks.
I was now, however, bound to put in an appearance
at the casuistry conferences which are held periodic
ally, as has been explained. A diocese is divided into
deaneries, and the rectors are summoned every month
to a conference at the dean’s residence. A programme
is printed for each year in which a casus—an incident
for moral diagnosis and prescription—is appointed for
each conference; a few questions are added which
serve to elicit the principles of casuistry on which the
“ case ” must be solved. A priest is appointed to
read the case, solve it, and answer the questions at
each meeting; all are then invited by the dean or
president to express their opinions in turn, and, as the
casus is usually very complicated, a long discussion
generally follows.1 Nearly every point in casuistry is
disputed, and arguments are abundant in the modern
Latin manuals—Lehmkuhl, Ballerini, Palmieri, &c.
The final decision rests with the president.
A conference in a populous diocese is a very exciting
ceremony; rival schools of theology are represented,
1 The casus are always in Latin : the following may serve as
a specimen :—Titius steals a watch from the person of a cleric in
church. This he sells to Caius, and nothing further is heard of
him. The priest at length identifies his watch in the possession of
Caius and claims it, satisfactorily proving it to be his property.
Caius refuses to return the watch until his money is returned and
the thief cannot be traced.
Q. 1. How many kinds of sacrilege are there ?
Q. 2. How many sins did Titius commit ?
Q. 3. How is the case to be solved ?
Such a case would provoke hours of controversy.
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
199
young priests are pitted against old ones, and the
more ambitious are eager to make an impression. But
at Northampton our conference was very tame. Only
t ten priests could be assembled out of a very wide
territory, and they were far from being brilliant theo
logians. A desultory and not very instructive con
versation ensued after the case had been read, and in
the middle of it the bell rang for lunch, which seemed,
of the two, to be the more important function for
which we were convened.
The life of a priest in a country parish is usually
very dull and monotonous; in our diocese it was not
unlike the life of a foreign missionary, so few Catholics
there were in the vast territory. I had one parishioner
in the town, a poor ignorant creature whose faith was
very closely connected with his works; another at a
distance of four miles, who was a doubtful acquisition
to the Church; a third, five miles away, who patiently
submitted to being called a Catholic; and a fourth, or
rather an excellent family, about eight miles away,
who had been effectually scared from us by my prede
cessors. The three or four mythical Catholic harvest
I men and washerwomen, whom a diocesan tradition
& located somewhere within the limits of my twelve-mile
district, I never met in the flesh. Most of the other
priests in the diocese had rather more souls to care
af for, but rarely sufficient to provide a maintenance.
SThey were poor, and could not travel much; they had
few parishioners with whom they could have congenial
intercourse; they were widely separated from each
other, and had neither books nor inclination to study.
The life of an Anglican clergyman in a small country
parish is not one to be envied: a priest has the
1
H 2
�200
COUNTRY MINISTRY
additional disadvantage of no family, and usually
hostile neighbours.
When I had at length introduced a certain amount
of method into the college and of discipline into my
small community, my thoughts reverted to the per
sonal object I had in view in leaving London. Surprise
is often expressed that the number of seceders from
the Roman Catholic priesthood is not higher. Apart
from the fact that few people know the number of
seceders, as will appear presently, a little reflection
on two points, which I have already adduced, will
help to explain the matter. In the first place, the
philosophical and theological studies of the priest have
been stunted, one-sided, and superficial. Very few
of the clergy have continued the work at a university,
and even there the studies would again be narrow and
superficial. They plunge into active parochial work
immediately after their ordination; they have no
stimulus to, and little continuous time for, study—
except a little casuistry—while, on the other hand,
there is ample opportunity and pressing invitation to
dissipate their time and wits in agreeable trivialities.
Under such circumstances they feel disposed to regard
Wellhausen and Kuenen (or even Sayce and Cheyne),
Huxley and Spencer, White and Draper, and even
Protestant divines, as so many literary hedgehogs.
Their scholastic system was plausible enough when the
professor urged it upon them, and they give no
further thought to the subject. Add to this the fact
that most of them are Irish, and the buoyant Celtic
temperament does not take religious doubt very
seriously; no one knows into what depths of study
or seas of trouble it may lead. In the educated lay-
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
201
x | man that temperament is sceptical enough, though it
i i is a careless, lighthearted scepticism, not obtrusive and
not very consistent; in the priest the same disposition
11 leads to a natural reluctance to take any steps that
may involve a violent dislocation, and carries with it a
habit of deprecating a Quixotic effort to attain mathenj matical precision and consistency of thought.
And if it happens that doubts do enter into the
minds of the clergy (and in familiar intercourse with
them one soon finds that they are not uncommon—1 I have sometimes heard priests openly express the
CT most cynical scepticism), what time has the ordinary
$ priest to make a sincere and protracted study of his
<) opinions? With all my privileges and opportunities
il for study, it cost me the better part of ten years of
ct constant reading and thought to come to a final and
ct reliable decision. The fact that the actual seceders
dj from the Church are usually men who have had
special opportunity and a marked disposition for study
si is significant enough; the fact that few emerge from
I| the ordinary ranks of the clergy with convictions firm
!1 enough to face the painful struggle of secession should
)fl not be surprising. Active external occupation banishes
» doubt from consciousness. To deliberately resort to it
oj for that purpose would be dishonest; few men would
uj subscribe to the Catholic rule, that doubt must be
suppressed at once, yet it is the ordinary fate of the
I clergyman. I experienced a relief myself during the
initial labours for my college, but once my work
dropped into some kind of routine, the old questions
reappeared, and I determined to answer them, cost
what it might.
My doubts were of a philosophical and fundamental
I
1
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character. I had felt that, until the basic truths of
religion were firmly assented to, the Anglican con
troversy had little interest for me, and even the biblical
question was of secondary importance. Accordingly
most of my time from my first introduction to philo
sophy was spent, directly or indirectly, in investigating
the fundamental problems. I had read all the litera
ture which could possibly be of use to me in forming
my judgment, and I had been guided (as far as he
could do so) by a man who is thought most competent
for that purpose. All that remained was to survey
the evidence as it had accumulated in my memory, and
form a severe and well-weighed decision upon it. I
drew up on paper the points round which my doubts
centred, and added from memory all the arguments I
had met in my protracted search. I was not at all
influenced by hostile writers, of whom I had read very
little, and I had never discussed the questions with
any non-Catholic. The sole question was, Is the evi
dence I have collected satisfactory or not? During
the Christmas vacation I settled resolutely to my task,
and uninterruptedly, all day and half the night, I
went solemnly back over the ground of my studies.
Point by point the structure of argument yielded
under the pressure. Before many days a heavy and
benumbing consciousness weighed upon me that I was
drifting out into the mist and the unknown sea. And
it was on Christmas morning, 1895, after I had cele
brated three masses, while the bells of the parish
church were ringing out the Christ-message of peace,
that, with a great pain, I found myself far out from
the familiar land—homelessly, aimlessly drifting. But
the bells were right, after all; from that hour I have
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
203
been wholly free from the nightmare of doubt that
had lain on me for ten years.
The literature that I had studied during the preced
ing years was principally Latin and French. I had,,
naturally, looked for evidence in the vast arsenal of
Catholic apologetics, and though my study has been
greatly extended since, I am not sure that any dia
lectically firmer evidence is available. The Kantist and;
Hegelian philosophies, and all that is grounded on;
either or both, Green, Fiske, Lotze, Royce, Caird, have?
left me untouched. The philosophy of the Scotch
school, from Reid to Hamilton, is only plausible in so*
far as it is Aristotelic, and therefore a repetition of
the scholastic system. Martineau also is unwittingly
scholastic in his better passages, and he is too much
disposed to that “ extra-rational ” proof which ap
pealed to Mr. Romanes in his later years : for my part,
I would not take a single serious step in this life on
extra-rational proof, and I fail to see why it is a surer
guide to the next. Thus I came to attach most im
portance to the schoolmen and the writers who adapt
their principles to modern thought. I studied with
extreme care St. Thomas, St. Bonaventure, Scotus,
Suarez, Vasquez, Pontius, Herinx, and a host of other
veterans; also an infinity of smaller modern writers*
Tongiorgi, Sanseverino, Lepidi, Pesch, Moigno,
Zigliara, Rosmini, Lacordaire, Monsabre, Zahn, Het
tinger, &c.
Amongst English Catholic literature there was littleto be read. In my younger days I had been taught
to shelter myself under the authority of the great
Newman: it was a very few years before I found that
that was rather a compromising position for a philo
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sopher. There is an old adage in the schools that “ in
philosophy an authority is worth just as much as his
arguments, and no more.” Newman is the last guide
in the world to choose in philosophical matters. The
key to his line of thought is found in the inscription
(epitaph, one feels tempted to say) of his one philo
sophical work, “ The Grammar of Assent ”—a text
from St. Ambrose, “ Not by logic hath it pleased God
to save His people.” Newman was penetrated with
that edifying sentiment, hence it is not surprising to
find how faithfully he acts upon it in constructing the
existence of God and the divinity of Christ. His one
witness to God’s existence is conscience (he says in
one of his sermons that without it he would be an
atheist), and under his ceaseless attentions conscience
becomes a faculty which few ordinary human beings
will recognise. His treatment of it is anything but
scientific; it is highly imaginative and grossly anthropo
morphic. The text from St. Ambrose is principally
intended as a gauntlet for his rival, Dr. Ward; still,
it is true that Newman had a profound contempt for
metaphysics, and, like most people who much despise
it, had no knowledge whatever of that science. It is
usually assumed that Newman was a traditionalist,1
but his poetical and unscientific method seems rather
attributable to a wholesome dread of Kant; not that
he shows evidence of intimate acquaintance with
Kant’s Critique, but he seems to have been vaguely
convinced that Kant had undermined all metaphysical
1 Traditionalism was an important heresy within the bounds
of the Church, which was effectually extinguished. It reprobated
entirely the use of reason in supra-sensible matters and advocated
authority as the sole guide.
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
205
research, and his own splendid literary power enabled
him to make a plausible defence of his opinions with
out the aid of philosophy. He is obviously no guide
for a serious scientific mind.
His rival, Dr. Ward, also a prominent figure in the
Oxford Movement, was the very antithesis of New
man. Newman used to speak contemptuously of the
“ dry bones ” of Ward’s logic, and evidently con
sidered that his own works clothed them and made
them attractive. Ward was an able dialectician, a
subtle metaphysician, and a vigorous writer. His
“ Philosophy of Theism ” is the best English defence
of the scholastic philosophy, but is incomplete. J. S.
Mill was leading him to the critical points of the
system in a famous controversy, but it ended pre
maturely with Mill’s death.
Dr. Mivart was certainly the most influential writer
on the Catholic side of his day, and the most competent
to discuss the eternal problems in the light in which
they presented themselves to the nineteenth century.
Issuing, as he did, from the Darwinian school, it is
natural to find in him a breadth of view and serious
ness of treatment that distinguish his works from those
of clerical apologists. But Mivart was no meta
physician ; hence his psychological criticism of Dar
winism—his chief original contribution—rests on the
enumeration of striking points of difference between
animal and human faculties which are losing their
force with every advance of science, and may yet be
fully harmonised. On other points, such as the free
dom of the will, the evolution of ethics, and the origin
of the universe, he is extremely feeble; and he has a
disposition to waste his strength upon the criticism
�306
COUNTRY MINISTRY
•of accidental phases and features of monism and
•agnosticism rather than upon their essential destruc
tiveness. He himself unconsciously gave me the key
to his position some time after I left the Church. In
a genial talk at the Oriental Club he admitted that he
•had little or no belief in even the most distinctive
•dogmas of the Church. He literally laughed at the
■doctrine of the miraculous birth of Christ. “ Do they
really teach that in the seminaries? ” he asked. What
the limits of his scepticism were he seemed hardly to
.know himself. Nor was this a mere failure of his
later years; it was a mature and resolute attitude.
Mivart was then (two years before his death) in full
•vigour of mind and will. Yet I hasten to add that his
position was perfectly honest, and I appreciated it, as
he appreciated mine. He thought the Church of
Rome the greatest spiritual force in existence, and so
he would remain in it and help to remove the stress
it lays on belief. There are still many like him in
the Church, even amongst the clergy; there are many
in every Church to-day. But such a position accounts
for the weakness of his arguments on specific doctrines.
Of the Jesuit writers and their series of volumes on
‘scholastic philosophy I have already spoken. Father
■Clarke and Father Maher are able and informed
writers. They have passed some sound criticism on
certain aspects of opposing systems, but they condemn
themselves to futility by their Quixotic defence of the
•arguments of St. Thomas and the medieval philosophy.
'Of the Jesuit popular writers it is difficult to speak
with politeness. Mr. Lilly belongs to the Platonic or
•sentimental group of apologists. Of Father Zahm
•and other lingering representatives of the school for
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
207
harmonising religion and science little need be said
beyond recalling the fate of their predecessors. Car
dinal Manning’s essay in apologetics hardly calls for
mention. He was a man of action, not of speculation
—certainly not a philosopher. His cast of mind is
well illustrated by his words to one who was urging
certain scientific statements in conflict with Genesis;
without listening to them he blandly replied, like the
Anglican bishop whom Mr. Stead consulted about the
statements of the higher critics: “I don’t believe
them.”
I had now exhausted every possible means of con
firming myself in my position, and failed to do so.
Apart from the fact that at that time it seemed to
me that the loss of a belief in immortality made life
irremediably insipid, I had fearful practical difficulties
to expect if I seceded. I had every prospect of suc
cess in my position, or, if I preferred, I could have
passed to the ranks of the secular clergy without diffi
culty. I consulted many friends and strangers, and I
was confirmed in my resolution to terminate my sacer
dotal career, allowing a few weeks for possible change
of thought. As the manner of my secession curiously
illustrates certain features of Roman Catholic methods
and the general question of secession, I describe it at
some length in the following chapter.
�CHAPTER XI
SECESSION
The Catholic layman has usually a fixed belief in
the absolute integrity of his priesthood. He may
entertain a suspicion of avarice, or indolence, or
worldliness with regard to certain individuals, but in
point of faith and morality he is quite convinced of
the invulnerability of his pastors. At wide intervals
a few may be found who are acquainted with the fact
of a secession, but the report is usually confined with
great care to the locality, and the Catholic press—
proof against all the ordinary temptations of the
journalist, when the honour of the Church is at stake
carefully abstains from disseminating the unwelcome
news. Thus there are few laymen who know of more
than one secession, and who are prepared to admit
the possibility of a serious and conscientious withdrawal
from their communion. Indeed, there are few priests
who know that there have been more than a very
few secessions from their ranks, so carefully are such
events concealed wherever it is possible.
The secrecy is, of course, not the effect of accident,
for such incidents are not devoid of public interest,
and are matters of very deep concern to the Catholic
body. The Roman Church claims such a monopoly
of demonstrative evidence that it receives a check when
208
�SECESSION
209
its credentials are rejected by one who is so familiar
with them; it is—or would be, if it were frankly
admitted—a flat contradiction of their persistent teach
ing that their claims only need to be studied to be
admitted. Hence the ecclesiastical policy is to conceal
a secession, if possible, and, when it is made public,
to represent it as dishonest and immoral. My own
position would not for a moment be admitted to be
bona fide. The gentler of my colleagues seem to
think that a “ light ” has been taken from me for
some inscrutable reason, whilst others have circulated
various hypotheses in explanation, such as pride of
judgment, the inebriation of premature honours, &c.
But of some of my fellow-seceders I had heard, before
I left the Church, the grossest and most calumnious
stories circulated; pure and malicious fabrications they
were, simply intended to throw dust in the eyes of
the laity and to make secession still more painful. The
majority of priests, when questioned by Catholics about
a secession, will simply shake their heads and mutter
the usual phrase: “ Wine and women.”
But in the first instance every effort is made to
keep secession secret, even from clerics. I have
mentioned a case in the note on page 60 which is, I
think, known only to a small number of ecclesiastics;
the dignitary in question had not discharged any public
function for some years, hence his disappearance was
unnoticed. I elicited the fact with some difficulty,
and was earnestly begged not to divulge it further.
On another occasion at Forest Gate, I was asked to
accompany a canon, who was giving a mission there
at the time, to a certain address in the district.
Noticing an air of secrecy about the visit, and a desire
�210
SECESSION
on the part of the good canon that I should remain
outside, I entered the house with him, and found that
it was occupied by an “ apostate ” priest. So much I
learned by accident, but neither the canon nor my own
colleagues would give me the slightest information
about him. I never heard of him before or since,
and know nothing of his character: I merely mention
the incident as an illustration of the concealment of
secessions.
And not only is silence enjoined, but deliberate
falsehoods are told with regard to seceders. One of
our superiors at Forest Gate seceded or “ apostatised.”
My colleagues deliberately told our parishioners that
he had gone on the foreign missions—some of them,
under pressure, giving details as to his destination;
though they knew that he had only retired to Southendon-Sea with the contents of the fraternal purse. I
OA1J.
efPIajned that ^ese are not looked upon
as falsehoods by Catholic theologians. The case given in the text
is a more direct deception than usual; generally they are quibbles
and equivocations which are covered by their remarkably elastic
principles of mental reserve and of the necessity of avoiding scandal.
Here is another illustration
.
I was informed one day at Forest Gate that one of my students
had lodged a complaint against me with certain higher superiors,
lhe accusation was entirely erroneous ; the student had been de
ceived by another, and I desired to undeceive him by explaining
1 accosted him immediately, and asked him if he had been com
plaining about me. He not only emphatically denied it, but
endeavoured, by his manner, to give me the impression that it was
the last thing in the world he would dream of. When I told him
of the superior’s words, he coolly replied that I had no right to
question him, so he was at liberty to deny it. He was a welleducated ma.n of thirty, the son of an Anglican minister, and,
before he joined us, a man of honour and courage. He had been
instructed to act as he did by the priests (hostile to me) with
whom he had lodged the accusation.
�SECESSION
211
was myself informed for a week that he had gone
on the foreign missions, so that I could be relied
upon not to spoil the story. I believe that even the
cardinal was ignorant of the event, as a year afterwards
his brother made inquiries of me as to the fate of the
friar in question, of which he evidently knew nothing.
In these ways is the fiction of the preternatural
integrity of the Catholic clergy maintained. How
many priests have seceded from the Church in England
it is impossible to say, but they are certainly more
numerous than is usually supposed. They mingle
quietly with the crowd, and rarely even come to know
each other.1 Many of them, such as Dr. Washington
Sullivan, Dr. Klein, Dr. Wells, Mr. Addis, Mr.
Hutton, Mr. Law, Mr. Galton, Mr. Sydney, or
Mr. Hargrave, are men of scholarly attainments, and
of high repute in the various bodies with which they
have associated.
If it is thought that the number is not large in
proportion to the number of priests in England, it must
be remembered that their education, literary acquire
ments, and subsequent occupation are not of a nature
to unsettle their minds very seriously. But a still
more serious circumstance is the peculiarly painful
nature of the breach with the Church of Rome. A
1 In the first edition I said that I was “ acquainted with a
dozen, but there may be a greater number.” By this time (1903)
I have heard of from forty to fifty secessions of priests in this
generation in England. I published some research into the point
in the National Review for April 1902. A few weeks afterwards a
further score of names, hitherto unknown to me, appeared in an
ecclesiastical column, and I have heard others since. I will only
say here that my own fraternity—and I know no reason for holding
it to be exceptional—lost twelve per cent, of its priests by secession
within my recollection. Second edition.
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SECESSION
breach with any lifelong communion is attended with
much pain, and this is greater in the case of the
minister of religion who finds himself impelled to that
violent wrench of the affections which conscience
occasionally dictates. He has formed definite habits
of thought and life and innumerable attachments, and
the severing of these is accompanied with a pain akin
to the physical pain of dislocation and the wrenching
asunder of nerves and fibres. In the Church of Rome,
at least, secession means farewell to the past—farewell
to whatever honour, whatever esteem and affection,
may have been gained by a life of industry and merit.
The decree, of the Church goes forth against the
‘ apostate.” He is excommunicated—cursed in this
life and the next and socially ostracised, if not
slandered. The many, the great crowd of admirers,
listen to every idle tale that is hatched against him;
the few, whose moral and humane instincts are too
deep to be thus perverted, can but offer a distant and
stealthy sympathy. He is cast out to recommence
life, socially and financially, in middle age; perhaps
he is homeless, friendless, and resourceless. A descrip
tion of my own experience of the ordeal may be
instructive.
When I was forced at length to acknowledge that I
had lost all faith in my religious profession, I thought
to avail myself of my position as superior to enter
into secular life with more facility. I revealed my
state of mind to several non-Catholic acquaintances—it
would have been fatal to my plans and quite useless
to reveal it to a Catholic—and they agreed that I must
withdraw, after a short time for reflection; only one
man, a prominent public man in London, thought that
�SECESSION
218
I should be justified in remaining at my post.1 I
began, therefore, to make inquiries and preparations
for a new departure. In the meantime I continued to
fulfil my duty to the college conscientiously—as a
matter of common honesty, and in order to give no
ground for subsequent calumny.
For the same reason I resolved to take no money
from the institution, though I felt that I should have
been justified in doing so to some extent. When the
superior of a monastery with which I was connected
left its walls, he took <£50 with him “as a temporary
loan ”; that circumstance did not excite any par
ticular discussion, and certainly there was no question
of prosecution for theft. Another friar ran away
with about £200. My own case, however, was of
quite a different character, and would be treated with
a very different policy. The two friars were not
genuine seceders from the Church. The second was
clearly a case of wanton revolt against discipline; the
first was rather doubtful—he returned to penance after
a fruitless effort to find secular employment. In both
cases it was evidently the policy of the fraternity to
conceal the misdemeanour from the laity. These
two remained priests, and for the credit of the Church
and the prestige of its clergy their faults must be
concealed at all costs. But when a priest really secedes
from the Church the opposite policy is naturally
followed; for the credit of the Church and the con
fusion of its enemies the seceder must be placed in as
unfavourable a light as possible. I was too well
acquainted with esoteric ecclesiastical teaching to be
unprepared, so I determined to give them no handle.
1 That was the opinion of the late Mr. Stead.
Third edition.
�214
SECESSION
Studies were conducted with perfect regularity; dis
cipline was so severe that my inferiors chafed under
it; my accounts were balanced almost from day to
day.
At length, I was urgently entreated by a lady at
Forest Gate to take her into my confidence, for it
was seen that I was in great trouble. She was a clever,
well-educated person with whom I was particularly
friendly, and I told her of my intention, exacting
strict secrecy, and intimating that a revelation would
do me much injury, and that nothing could now detain
me. I got an hysterical reply imploring me to remain
in the Church, and saying that, in case of refusal, I
should hear no more from her. She had been my
kindest and closest friend in the Church of Rome;
but she kept her word, handed my letter to my
colleagues, and, so far as I know, she has never cared
to learn a word further about the fortunes and bitter
struggles of “ the apostate.”
A council of the fraternal cabinet was summoned
immediately at Manchester, and Father David
obtained discretionary power to act. It was certainly
the intention of my friend, and possibly of the
authorities, that Father David should induce me to
communicate my difficulties and endeavour to remove
them. He himself can hardly have expected that, as
his guidance had been exhausted years before. On
the night of his arrival he chatted amiably enough
with me over the usual glass of wine, but as soon as
he had closed the bank account in the morning, he
curtly informed me that I was deposed from my
position, and ordered to retire to the friary at
Chilworth, in Surrey.
�SECESSION
215
This friary is in a very secluded locality, and
banishment to it was a recognised penal procedure.
It is the novitiate of the fraternity, and in it I should
be compelled to occupy all my time in formal religious
exercises, and should be entirely cut off from the
outside world, besides being expected to put my con
fidence in a superior who knew nothing of philosophy,
and who would much rather burn an agnostic at the
stake than argue with him. It would have been utterly
useless for me to go there, now that my mind was
firmly convinced. I preferred to remain and com
mence my new career with sympathetic friends. To
avoid unpleasantness, however, I said nothing of my
intention, and prepared to leave the college about the
time of the departure of the train; but when formally
asked if I intended to take the train, I refused to
say. Meantime I had packed up my books, &c., and
sent them to a friend’s house. I balanced my books,
and handed the surplus money to Father David, who
was good enough to offer me the fraternal kiss at my
departure; I declined it. I thus turned my back
for ever, as I imagined, on monasticism, and hastened
down to meet one or two kind and sympathetic
friends.
The following morning I strolled down to my
friend’s office, and was surprised to find him closeted
with a friar. It was one of my rebellious lay-brothers
(though he had obtained an interview under a priest’s
name) who had brought a letter from the college. The
letter was to acquaint my friend with the fact that
a certain Mr. McCabe, who had been left in “ tem
porary ” charge of the college, had absconded with a
quantity of valuable property belonging thereto; that
�216
SECESSION
the said stolen property was understood to be on his
premises; and that he was informed, in a friendly
way, that the matter was in the hands of the police.
The writer signed himself M.A., though he had no
degree in arts. He might contend that he was a
“ missionary apostolic.” As a commentary on the
letter, the friar gave my friend a long and interesting
critique of my public character and mental capacity,
and was turned out of the office. As it was impossible
to get immediate legal advice we decided to await
developments.
In point of fact, I knew there were a few books
amongst my own, overlooked in the hurry of departure,
which did belong to the college. I had fortunately
already told my friend of this, and we intended to
return them. But the complaint of my colleagues was
not on this ground at all. Although they did not
communicate with me on the subject—if they had done
so the same arrangement would have been made
without police-intervention—it appears that they
claimed everything I had removed, and even the
clothes I wore, which they expected me to ask of
them as an alms. The claim was ostensibly based
on my vow of poverty or abdication of the right of
property. The fact that the college was just as
incapable of ownership as I (on their peculiar theory)
was ignored, and the new rector, Father David,
claimed them in the name of the college. They were
books and instruments (especially a telescope) which
friends had given me on various occasions (every friar
accumulates a quantity of such presents, which remain
his, for all practical purposes). Legally (for canon
law is happily not authoritative in England) they were
�SECESSION
217
my property, and I had no hesitation in thinking
myself morally justified in retaining them after my
conscientious labours, and especially since most of
the donors were hardly aware of the college’s existence,
and certainly meant the gifts to be personal.
In the afternoon the police-sergeant appeared and
claimed the property which had been “ stolen from
St. Bernardine’s College.” I believe that his proceed
ings were entirely illegal, though I was unfortunately
not sure of it at the time. However, we disputed the
ownership of the property, and he at once retreated.
Then, in order to avoid litigation, I promised to
surrender a large number of books if Father David
would come to claim them. Father David came, again
bringing, to the increasing astonishment of the little
town, the representative of law and order. We effected
a rough division of the books, and the telescope was
referred to the donor, who awarded it to me. The
next day, wearied to death and not a little alarmed,
I returned even the small sum of money I had taken
for travelling expenses, and faced the world without
a penny or the immediate prospect of earning one. It
was a sensation with which I was to become more or
less familiar. But I had narrowly escaped an igno
minious position, which would have increased a thou
sand-fold the difficulty of entering upon a new career.
That was the aim of my colleagues.
Then came the painful desertion of all my late
co-religionists. Even some to whom I was deeply
attached wrote harsh and bitter letters to me; they
were taught as a matter of religious duty to regard
a secession in a moral light, and not as a change of
convictions. Of the effect on the wider circle of
�218
SECESSION
acquaintances made in the course of ministry I have
given one painful illustration, and will give another,
as the truth is all but incredible. I knew what to
expect, yet was loth to admit it myself without a
struggle. So I singled out one layman of exceptional
education and mature age, with whom I had been
familiar for some time, and who, only two weeks
previously, had spoken to me in terms of high esteem
and affection. I wrote merely to ask him to suspend
his judgment until I could send a full explanation of
my action. He replied at once:—
Dear Father Antony,—I am deeply pained to
find you have fled from the harvest field and become
a scatterer—of what type remains to be seen. It is
not for me to reproach you, Father Antony—the
worm of conscience will do that efficiently, God knows
—but it is necessary I should answer your last letter
at once in order to prove my position and give no
countenance to yours. * You ask me to suspend judg
ment on you, which means that I should pass judgment
on Father David forthwith and dub him slanderer, at
the bidding of one who has obviously betrayed a sacred
trust.
“ With reference to your Upton sermon it is true
I suggested its publication for the benefit of your
mission. Unsuspicious of heterodoxy I failed at first
to catch its true import, but quiet reflection after
wards revealed it to me as a subtle attack on Chris
tianity itself, through the doctrine of evolution as
applied to morals and religion.1 How in the face of
He refers to the sermon mentioned on p. 82 ; there were just
two lines in it on the “evolution of morals and religion,” and they
�SECESSION
219
this you can still talk of your ‘ religious opinions ’ is
inexplicable, surely? I can just conceive you as an
agnostic with a shred of honesty remaining—but as
any other odd fish—No! However it may be, God
save you from the lowest depths of unbelief! We
know too well the evolution of the apostate.
“Yet I desire to speak without bitterness [?] and
shall think of you in sorrow only. If at any future
time you think I can give you one helpful word, write
to me, and believe me now to remain in simple truth,
yours sincerely.”
The writer of this letter is considered to be unusu
ally well informed in philosophical matters. I had,
therefore, thought it possible that he would be able
to regard my secession in an intellectual light. After
such perverse misunderstanding and harsh and insulting
language from him I was constrained to abandon all
hope of sympathy from Catholics. Of the 3000 people
of the congregation to which I was attached, as priest
or student, for ten years, and from whom I experienced
nothing but deep respect as long as I was with them,
not a soul has ever written to relieve my distress with
a single word of interest or concern. One only of them
has spoken to me since my secession—one who stopped
me in the street to ask “ if I was not afraid that the
ground would open under my feet.” One only of
were orthodox. The writer it was who came to thank me for the
sermon—a most unusual proceeding—and ask for its publication.
He repeated his praise and his request twenty-four hours afterwards.
It was a plea for the better education of the clergy, and, although it
hit my own colleagues in a tender spot (and on that very account
so much gratified the laity) they congratulated me on it without a
word against its orthodoxy.
�220
SECESSION
my late colleagues has ever written or said a sym
pathetic word to me. At the time of my secession
he wrote me a letter in which the effect of the system
is again visible, pitifully obscuring the kind and
humane temper of the writer. It concluded
“ And now having made my protest, let me say,
my dear Father, that you were quite right in thinking
that I am your sincere friend and brother. . . . You
will never find any friends so true as the old ones [?],
and it is to be regretted that you did not, in. the dark
hours of doubt and temptation, seek help from those
whose prudence and experience might have saved you
from wrecking your life by this false step. Vae soli.
You did not have recourse to those whom you were
bound to consult, but relied upon yourself; or, if you
took counsel, it was rather with unbelievers than with
those of the Faith and of the Order.1
You know well that other and greater intellects
than yours have examined the same questions more
deeply than you can possibly have done, and have
come to an opposite conclusion ” [the writer, as is
usual, disregards the fact that, in this century, the
number of authorities against him is equally high and
brilliant, at least J ; and this ought to have made you
distrust your own judgment, doubt the infallibility of
your own lights, and feel there was much you have
1 The reader is already aware that both these statements are
absolutely inaccurate. I never took counsel with an unbeliever,
whereas for eight years I took counsel with the most competent
friar we had, until his counsel was threadbare. But my corre
spondent, F. Bede, was disappointed that I had not consulted him.
The reason was that, although I had and have the highest possible
regard for his character, he had no knowledge whatever of science
or philosophy.
�SECESSION
221
not been able to see, which, if you could see, would
lead you the opposite way. I fear that this pride
may have contributed to bring about the withdrawal
of the light. What may also have helped is that
bitterness of spirit you have sometimes manifested
towards others, which is not according to the dictates
of charity. Add to that a want of respect for those
in authority, and you have the factors which may
have helped to bring this chastisement from God. I
do not judge you; you must know your own con
science, but I feel I ought to tell you what appears
to me as likely to have been the cause of your mis
fortune. ... As it is, I can only pray earnestly to
God to give you light and grace to see the truth and
submit to it, and to beg our Holy Father not to cast
you off. . . . That shall be my constant prayer, and
one that I confidently hope will sooner or later be
heard.—Believe me, my dear Father, very sorrowfully,
but very sincerely, yours in Christ.”
Here, at last, a kindly and humane feeling reveals
itself, but how hardly it struggles through the narrow
bonds of the dogmatic sense 1 Like the preceding
letter, but much less harshly, it persists in considering
my action in a purely moral light. The writer cannot
entertain the possibility of my being honestly com
pelled by my studies to secede; though he has since,
I am glad to say, expressed an entirely just conception
of my position. One curious effect of his dogmatic
view is seen in his effort to sum up my faults—and he
knew me well. My “ pride ” of judgment is, I trust,
excusable; I was bound to form an opinion. The
charge of disrespect to authority and sarcasm in inter
�222
SECESSION
course with my fellows, which I must fully admit,
will be understood in the light of preceding chapters.
I confess that I have taken some complacency in my
moral character after that summary of it by my
advocatus diaboli. But it is pitiful to see that a clever,
experienced, and humane priest can entertain the
thought that a man will be damned eternally for such
trivialities. His whole attitude is, as in the preceding
case, a significant effect of the system; and it is only
as effects and illustrations of that system that I offer
these details about my secession.
It would be useless to describe all the incidents that
arose at the separation; they were wearisome and
painful repetitions of the same unfortunate spirit.
During my clerical days I had attracted some suspicion
by defending the possibility of honest secession from
the Church, and especially of bona fide scepticism; it
was now my turn to be sacrificed to the system which
I had resented. It has been explained that the Church
is prepared to go to any length to prevent scandal, and
the recognition by the laity of an honourable secession
of one of the clergy would be a serious scandal; hence
little scruple is shown by priests in discussing the
character of a former colleague. In my own case I
believe that nothing very offensive has been invented.1
I must add, with reluctance, and only because it is a material
fact in regard to the Roman system, that, as the years passed and
1 began to write critical works, the same vile calumnies were circulated about me by the clergy as about all other seceding priests.
These things are carefully kept out of print, so that one has no
reJPe(~y j but I have had inquiries about them from all parts
of the English-speaking world. The chief and most flagrant aim
is to connect my secession with my marriage. The Catholic lavman will not trouble to glance at “ Who’s Who ? ” from which lie
would at once learn that I did not marry until three years and a
�SECESSION
223
The favourite hypothesis seems to be that indiscreet
flattery and premature honours have unfortunately
deranged my intelligence—discipline, of course, re
quiring the usual excommunication and social ostracism.
Those of my acquaintances who cannot convince them
selves of my mental derangement are offered the grim
alternative of regarding me as having “ obviously
betrayed a sacred trust ” (to quote my former friend).
Only my own immediate family circle and one other
family, out of a wide circle of friends, seem to regard
me still as a rational and honest human being. As
far as I can gather, the majority of my earlier friends
would have preferred me—whatever my frame of mind
—to remain at their altars. There are many priests
who do so.
Some such violent disruption from the past is the lot
of every seceder from Rome. Add to it the practical
difficulty of recommencing life in mature age, and some
idea will be formed of one great force that helps to
preserve the integrity of the Catholic priesthood.
_ _________ *
___________
_
half after my secession. I was unaware, until two years after I
had left the Church, even of the existence of the lady whom I
eventually married. The whole of these legends are remarkable
for their absolutely reckless mendacity. Third edition.
�CHAPTER XII
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
Before I proceed to summarise the information regard
ing monastic life which is dispersed through the pre
ceding chapters, and to make it the ground of an
opinion, it will be well to enlarge and supplement it
as far as possible. However interesting these details
may be in themselves, they would throw little light
on the general condition of monasticism if it could
be thought that they only illustrated the life of one
particular order, and still less if they were due to the
abnormal circumstances in which one small branch of
that order chances to find itself. On so narrow a base
only a very restricted opinion could be reared. No
fault, indeed, is more frequently committed by English
and American writers on the Church of Rome than
this of undue generalisation. It is often forgotten that
the Roman Church in England is, after all, merely
a large and active mission in a foreign land. Hence
many writers fail to correct the insularity of their
experience, and thus have not a due sense of the real
proportions of sects and their institutions on the great
world-stage. They likewise fail to make allowance for
the peculiar effect of a missionary status. To escape
this fallacy the preceding description of monasticism
224
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
225
in England, illustrated copiously from the life of the
Grey Friars, needs collateral support from other
countries or national “ provinces ” of that order.
One other province has been described already
at some length. The Belgian province, it must be
remembered, is in an entirely different condition from
the English province. It labours under no financial
difficulties (the seven monasteries of the English friars
bear a collective debt of about £50,000), it has no
scarcity of vocations, it suffers not the slightest civic
or legislative interference with its manner of life. It
may be taken as a typical branch of modern monas
ticism, and is claimed to be such by its adherents.
Yet although it differs considerably in literal fulfilment
of the Franciscan rule, in formal discipline and ritual,
it will be recognised from the contents of Chapter VII.
that it agrees entirely with the English province in
the features which are important to the philosophical
observer. On the whole, its life is sordid and
hypocritical.
A slight allusion has also been made to the condition
of the Franciscan Order in Ireland. So unsatisfactory
fs it, from a monastic point of view, that the Roman
authorities for many years were bent on extinguishing
it. Ireland, one of the most Catholic countries in the
civilised world, is the richest possible soil for monas
ticism ; men who lead the lives of the medieval monks
will receive from its peasantry the deep reverence and
hospitality of the medieval world. Yet the Irish
province was, at the time I left the Franciscan Order,
one of its most enfeebled branches. During the years
of persecution the scattered friars naturally discarded
every monastic feature from their lives, and no amount
�226
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
of pressure from Rome had been able to reform them.
I hey individually possessed money (thus ignoring the
first principle of the Franciscan rule), wore boots and
stockings, rarely donned their habits, had secular
servants, and were guilty of many other condemned
practices. But in the last few years the province has
been restored to a moderate regularity, and is now a
little better disciplined than the English province.
Another flourishing branch of the order is found
in Holland. Although it is in an “ heretical ” country
it has full civic liberty and is generously patronised;
hence it has grown into a powerful body. During
my sojourn in Belgium I gathered that it fell far
short of the high standard of the Flemish province,
and the fact seemed to be generally confirmed. But
shortly after my return to England I received a
curious confiimation of the opinion. We received
a small pamphlet, written in Latin (for it was not
intended to reach the eyes of the laity), having for its
theme the condition of the Dutch Franciscan pro
vince. It was signed by a Dutch friar, who declared
that he was (and had been for some years) incar
cerated by his colleagues because he would not keep
silence; he had written the pamphlet in his room of
detention, and managed to have it conveyed to friends
in the outer world. He declared that the province
was deeply corrupted; that asceticism was almost un
known, and a gross sensualism pervaded their ranks—
even mentioning isolated cases of friars being brought
home to the monastery “ theologically drunk,” with
the aid of police-stretchers. He further declared that
the superiors of the monasteries bribed their provincial
to overlook the state of things, and that the province
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
227
secured tranquillity by sending large sums of money
to the Roman authorities for their new international
college. The pamphlet was clearly not the composi
tion of an insane person, and none of our friars called
its accuracy into question. It must be remembered
that this pamphlet was written by a Franciscan priest
solely for the perusal of other Franciscan priests.
Again, therefore, we meet the same unfavourable moral
and intellectual features, much more accentuated than
even in the Irish province.
The other branches of the order are only known
to me by conversation with isolated members. The
circumstances of the friars in the United States are
entirely similar to those of the English friars, and
their condition is closely analogous, if not a little less
ascetic. The South American friars, I gathered from
one of them whom I knew, urgently needed reform.
The friars of Spain are fairly well known since the
opening up of the Spanish colonies to civilisation.
The German provinces seem to be slightly better—
a little more industrious and studious, as would be
expected—but, on the whole, do not differ materially
from their Belgian neighbours. The French friars
were very little higher in the spiritual scale, as a rule,
than the Belgians, taking into account the enormous
difference of temperament. France will not be much
the poorer for their loss. The Italian friars, as a
rule, maintain a more rigorous discipline, and are less
material than their northern brethren; but they are
very generally idle, quarrelsome, ignorant, and am
bitious of office. There are, it need hardly be said,
fervent individual monks everywhere, and many fer
vent communities in Italy and Spain. For my purpose
�228
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
I must give the broad features. I must say that,
where the profession of asceticism is not a sham,
it can point only to a mechanical and unspiritual
discipline.
I have, in the ninth chapter, said enough about
other religious orders to show that they are in an
analogous condition. Where the rule of life is not
very ascetical, it is observed; where, as in all the
older orders, there is a profession of austerity, the
practice is not in accord with the profession. It is
hardly likely that Rome would tolerate an unusual
corruption on the part of one particular order. In
spite of the great diversity in their aims and charac
ters, the same forces are at work in each. In fact,
the various monastic congregations have so far lost
sight of the special purposes for which they were
founded that, especially in England and the United
States, they differ from the ordinary clergy in little
more than dress and community life and ceremonies.
The orders which, like the Franciscan, were founded
for the purpose of caring for the poor, and embodying
voluntary poverty in their own lives, are found to be
continually seeking a higher social level; vying with
each other for the patronage of the rich, and always
choosing a middle class in preference to a poor con
gregation. The Dominican order was intended to be
an “ Order of Friars Preachers,” but it now has no
more claim to that title than the other semi-monastic
and semi-secular congregations. Carmelites, Servites,
Marists, and Oblates were founded in order to increase
the cult of the mother of Christ; Jesuits for the fight
against heresy and the instruction of the young; Pas
sionists to spread devotion to the Passion. In all of
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
229
them the original object has dropped very much out
of sight, and there is a very close resemblance of life
and activity. It is said that there has been serious
question at Rome of suppressing the majority of them,
and reducing the number to about four, of different
types, which would suffice for vocations of all
complexions.
We are now in a position to answer with some
degree of justice the often repeated question : What
is the ethical significance and the ethical value of
modern monasticism? The slightest reflection on the
origin of the monastic bodies will make it clear that
a high degree of spirituality and a keen faith in the
supernatural are necessary in the earnest votary of
monasticism. The orders have been founded by men
of an abnormally neurotic and spiritual temperament,
men who were capable of almost any ascetical excesses.
Extraordinary actions were their ordinary stimulant,
and they devoted themselves with ardour to that
ascetical rigour of life which the Christian Church
has, from the earliest stages, derived from the teaching
of its founder. It is clear that Christ did lay great
stress on the merit of self-denial; but it seems equally
clear that he did not contemplate the system of
eremitical and cenobitic life which commenced in the
Thebaid a few centuries after his death, and which is
Still rigorously presented in the life of the Carthusians,
and less rigorously in that of the Trappists. However
that may be, St. Bernard, St. Bruno, St. Francis,
St. Dominic, and the other founders, translated literally
into their own lives, under the influence of an excep
tionally fervid religious emotion, the principles of
I
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
Christian ethics, as they were universally expounded
up to the fifteenth century.
In an age when it was thought that one man
could expiate the sins and purchase the pleasures of
another, these saints became centres of great public
interest and attracted many disciples. Then, in an
evil hour, they drew up certain rules of life, which
were only slightly modified versions of their own
extraordinary lives, and bade their followers bind
themselves by the most solemn and indissoluble
obligation to their observance. Such rules could only
be observed by men who shared the same exalted
spiritual temper and imagination; and one needs little
knowledge of life to understand how very scarce such
men are, and how great an error it is to suppose that
any large body of men would observe such rules with
fidelity. In the Middle Ages faith was not overcast
by scientific, historical, and philosophical controversies,
and tradition was a paramount authority. Men were
not only chronologically nearer to the great drama of
the foundation of Christianity, but they accepted the
traditional version with unquestioning confidence.
However, even in the Middle Ages, monasticism
was no purer an institution than it is now. Soon
after the foundation of the several orders there begins
the long history of corruptions, reforms, and schisms
inside the order, and of papal and episcopal fulminations and historical impeachments from without.
Long before the death of Francis of Assisi his order
was deeply corrupted; indeed, his own primitive com
panions had made him tear up, or had torn up for him,
the first version of his rule, and it was only by the
intrigue of certain patrons at Rome that he secured
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
231
~ "I
8
W
fl' F i
T
the papal assent to his second rule. And scarcely
had the supreme command passed, during Francis’s
lifetime, into the hands of Fr. Elias, than a powerful
party of moderates arose, and dissension, intrigue,
and schism threw the entire body into a fever of
agitation. Elias was a clever and ambitious friar, who
had a much wider acquaintance with human nature
and much less ascetical fervour than Francis. The
manner of life which he advocated was, like that of
modern monks, much more sensible; his error was,
also like that of the moderns, to cling to the original
profession. And that struggle of human nature
against the unnatural standard of life it had some
how adopted has never ceased. The many branches
<1 of the Franciscan Order, Capuchins, Recollects, ReVi formed, Conventuals, and Observants, mark so many
f| different schisms over the perpetual quarrel; yet, at
if the present day, they are all once more on a common
level. And, apart from this internal evidence, secular
history gives abundant proof of the periods of deep
fl degradation into which the orders of monks have
periodically fallen.; if secular historians are not trusted,
a a judicious selection of papal decrees and episcopal
'al letters would place the fact beyond controversy.
Hence it is only natural to expect that, in these
uHdays of less luminous and tranquil faith and less
fervid imagination, the spirit of monasticism will be
sal less potent than ever; the more so as a large section
i^of Christianity has now repudiated the ascetical ideal
a entirely, and emphatically dissociated it from the
£ teaching of Christ. Protestantism first fell upon
u monasticism, flail in hand, for its corruption, and
a pearly extinguished it; then it sought theological
I 2
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
justification, and convinced itself that monasticism
was unscriptural. Although there have been many
vain attempts in modern days to reanimate it, the
vast majority of non-Catholics persist in regarding
monasticism as founded on an exegetical error and
humanly unjustifiable; and that conviction, together
with the causes that produced it or occasioned its
formation, has re-acted on the old Church. The
mental attitude which in former ages passed at once
and instinctively from deep fervour to great ascetical
rigour is rarely found to-day amongst educated
people. Not only is faith less confident, but the
growth of the moral sense has affected the tradition.
It is now thought an unworthy conception of God
that he should be held to look down with com
placency on a race of “ self-tormentors ” and should
promise rewards for the sacrifice of the gifts he has
put before us. And the growing sense of the unity
of human nature has made it no longer possible to
suppose that we may enfeeble “ the flesh ” yet
strengthen the spirit. Capacity for work is placed
higher than bloodless debility. To face life manfully
is held to be nobler than to shun it.
The description I have given of modern monastic
life shows that all these changes of the spirit of the
world have penetrated into the cloister. The idyllic
life of the monk, a life of prayer and toil and un
worldliness or other-worldliness, does not exist to any I
great extent outside the pages of Catholic apologists
and a few non-Catholic poets and novelists. The
forms of monasticism remain, but the spirit is almost
gone from them. One is forcibly reminded of that
passage of Carlyle where he speaks of institutions as
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
233
fair masks under which, instead of fair faces, one
catches a glimpse of shuddering corruption. Not
that monasticism, apart from its high profession, is an
object of special moral reprobation; its fault, its title
to contempt, lies rather in its continued profession of
an ideal from which it has hopelessly fallen, and in
its constant effort to hide that discrepancy.
There are, of course, isolated members who are
deeply corrupted in monasteries and nunneries, as in
all other spheres; there are also many individuals of
unusually exalted character. But the great majority
of the inmates of monastic institutions may be
divided, as is clear from the preceding, into two
categories. One is the category of those who are
religiously inclined, but whose whole merit consists
in the equivocal virtue of having bound themselves
to a certain system of religious services, through which
they pass mechanically and with much resignation,
and which they alleviate by as much harmless
pleasure and distraction as they can procure. The
other category, and, perhaps, the larger one, consists
of those who seem to have exhausted their moral
heroism in the taking of the vows; for the rest of
their lives (and one of the most remarkable features
of monks of all classes is the anxiety they show to
prolong their “ earthly exile ”) they chafe under the
discipline they have undertaken, modify and withdraw
from it as much as possible, and add to it as much
“ worldly ” pleasure as circumstances permit. Both
categories lead lives of ordinary morality—but only
ordinary, so that the garments of the saints sit very
incongruously on their shoulders. They seem to
appreciate the good things of this life as keenly as
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
ordinary mortals do, and shrink from death as naively
as if death meant annihilation instead of entrance into
Paradise.
Thus, on the one hand, certain anti-papal lecturers
err in representing monasticism, as a body, as an
institution of a particularly dark character; on the
other hand, the belief of the average Catholic layman
that it is an institution of unusual merit—that con
vents are “ the lightning conductors of divine wrath
from the cities,” &c.—is pitifully incorrect. Monas
ticism has suffered a luxurious overgrowth of sensuous
ness. This is partly due to the idleness, and partly
to the vow of celibacy, of the monks. I have said
enough of their idleness, which is one of the most
constant features of their life in Catholic countries.
Their religious ceremonies do not afford serious occupa
tion of mind. They never undertake manual labour,
and they study little. The amount of work they
are entrusted with does not give occupation to half
the community. Hence results much idleness; and
idleness is, as St. Francis told them, “ the devil’s
pillow.”
Then there is the absence of contact (entire absence
in Catholic countries) with the sex which is, by instinct
and education, more refined, and exercises a refining
influence. In the absence of that influence a natural
masculine tendency to coarseness develops freely,
unless it receives a check in deep spirituality, which
cannot be said to be frequently the case. In point
of fact, most of the founders of orders seem to have
appreciated that influence very sensibly. St. Augus
tine, of course, in his saintly days, does not, for
obvious reasons; but St. Benedict had his Scholastica,
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
235
St. Francis his Clare, St. Francis de Sales his Jeanne
Franfoise, and even the grim St. Peter of Alcantara
had his Teresa. Their modern disciples have also
many “ spiritual ” friendships, but the fact is unable
to counterbalance the effect of their celibate home
life. Their intercourse with women, in the face of
their ascetical teaching, is necessarily either very
limited or hypocritical.
Thus it is that, wherever there is not deep piety,
we find a selfish individualism, which is the root of
all the undignified intrigue, meanness, and dissension
that have been described. Thus it is also that there
is a morbid craving for indulgence in food and drink,
making a mockery of their long fasts and abstinences.
In the midst of a long fast they will celebrate an
accidental feast-day most luxuriously, and at the close
of the fast have quite a gastronomic saturnalia. Still
it must be said that, whilst there is more drinking
than is supposed, there is little drunkenness. There
is usually a constant and liberal supply of drink, if
the convent is in good circumstances, but excess is
rare; it is, however, not treated seriously unless it
has become public.
A third effect of this pious exclusion of women is
seen in the tone of their conversation; it is too
frequently of an unpleasant character—not immoral,
rarely suggestive, but often coarse and malodorous.
Tales which the better class of Catholic laymen would
not suffer to be told in their presence, and which
are more fitting for such books as La Terre and
L’Assommoir, are frequently told in clerical, and
especially monastic, circles.
On the point of immorality in the specific sense I
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
must endeavour to formulate an opinion. My ex
perience has been wide, though not of long duration,
so that I could not rebut an opposite and more
damaging statement of experience. Yet I am con
vinced there has been much exaggeration in this
respect. The evidence of the majority of “ escaped ”
monks and nuns seems to me unreliable. But even
if all their tales were true, it would only prove that,
as everybody expects, there are many isolated cases
of immorality. It is improper to extend the charge
to the whole body. It can only be said that these
cases are numerous. There can be nothing very
startling in that statement. I have no doubt it would
be less true of the clergy than of an ordinary body
of men if their lives were healthier. But as long
as they are indiscriminately and prematurely bound
to celibacy, and to a life which is so productive of
egoism, sensuousness, and indolence, it is the only
possible condition for them.
The same must be said of the vow of celibacy of
the secular clergy. In theory it is admirable for the
ecclesiastical purpose, and it is very graceful to con
template from the standpoint of Christian asceticism.
In practice it is a deplorable blunder, and leads to
much subterfuge and hypocrisy. Like monasticism,
it would probably not be accepted by one-half their
number if they were not involved in an irrevocable
engagement to it before they properly understand it.
Like monasticism, it will probably disappear, as a
universal law, when the Church of Rome is awakened
at length from her conservative lethargy with the din
and roar of a great battle in her ears.
Finally, an answer is also ready to that other
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
237
question which is not infrequently heard in these
days: What is the relation of the monastic orders
to Socialism ? Socialising Christians, or Christian
Socialists, frequently hold up the monastic orders as
embodiments of a true social spirit. The argument
rests, of course, on a very superficial analogy; there is
really no parallel between monasticism and Socialism.
On the contrary, they are at the very opposite poles
of economics. Monasticism, in the first place (except
the modified monasticism of the Jesuits), does not
counsel a community of goods; neither in individual
nor in common does it permit ownership. But it
parts company with Socialism very emphatically when
it goes on to impose extraordinary limits on pro
duction. Socialism urges a common use of the con
veniences produced, and urges the production of as
many as possible. And lest it should seem that
monasticism at least sympathises with the Socialists
of simpler life, such as Mr. E. Carpenter, it must be
remembered that it limits production on an exactly
opposite principle. Mr. Carpenter thinks simplicity
conducive to comfort and happiness; monasticism
trusts that it is productive of discomfort and mortifica
tion. In fine, it wishes its votaries to be uncomfort
able in this world, which is the very antithesis of the
Socialistic aim.
In a minor degree its celibacy is anti-socialistic;
whatever relation of the sexes the Socialist may advo
cate, he certainly advocates some form of intimate
relation. And the Socialist would not for a moment
sanction the withdrawal of a large number of citizens
from every civic duty on the plea that they were more
interested in another world. He would not exempt a
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
large number of able-bodied men from labour on the
plea that they were “ waterspouts of divine grace ” or
“ lightning conductors of divine wrath ” for their sin
ful brethren. He would be impatient of all indolence,
and mendicancy, and parasitism of any complexion.
However, the parallel has never been very seriously
entertained, and does not merit further criticism.
Monasticism has neither interest nor advantage for
the modern world; it is an enfeebled and corrupted
survival of an institution whose congenial environ
ment seems to have disappeared, and it is only main
tained by the scandalous practice of enticing or
permitting boys to undertake life-long obligations of
a most serious character. Even in the stern monas
teries of the Carthusians, where it still retains its full
rigour of ascetism and solitude, it loses the sympathy
of the modern world; merit is now thought to consist
in the fulfilment of the whole duty of man, in works
that produce visible fruit, and that tend to remove
the actual evils of life. But, for the majority of the
monastic bodies, with their indolent withdrawal from
life’s difficulties and duties, without any real compen
sating virtue, or with their pitiful compromise between
external occupation and their antiquated theories of
detachment, one cannot but feel a certain contempt.
At the best, a monk would merely have the merit of
making himself a part of a great penitential machine.
As it is, his profession of extraordinary virtue and
unworldliness is an insincere formality.
�CHAPTER XIII
THE CHURCH OF ROME
There is at the present time a profound struggle in
progress over fundamental religious questions. Dur
ing three centuries Europe has resounded with the
din, and even been watered with the blood, of con
flicting sects. At length the sections of Christianity
have been distracted from their civil war by the
advent of a common enemy—anti-sacerdotalism, if not
a yet more revolutionary force that has been called
naturalism—and they are eager to unite under a com
mon banner against it. No one who is at all familiar
with modern literature can ignore that struggle. Dur
ing the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the number
of powerful writers and thinkers who have withstood
the traditional religious authority in England, France,
and Germany, is deeply significant. There is in our
day a comparative lull in the storm of controversy—
a comparative dearth of eminent thinkers on both sides
—but one still finds unmistakable traces of the conflict
in every page of every branch of literature. A great
number of influential writers advocate one or other
form of naturalism; it is hardly too much to say that
the greater number of the eminent exponents of
literature, science, and art depart in some measure
from the orthodox path. It is usually said that women
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
are the more reliable support of clericalism. We have
at the present day in England a number of brilliant
women writers, but though few of them (for reasons
which may be left to the psychologist) profess extreme
naturalism, very few of them adhere strictly to the
orthodox sacerdotal institutions. The issue of the
struggle is, therefore, the object of much anxious
speculation.
The place which the Church of Rome is destined
to occupy in this struggle is a matter of much inter
est, and it is usually expected that it will be a very
prominent position. The Church itself, of course, with
that buoyant confidence which is one of the most
patent symptoms of its “ perennial youth,” predicts
the ultimate absorption of all other forms of Chris
tianity into itself, and proclaims that the final conflict
will be between Rome and Rationalism. And Roman
Catholics boast, with much truth, that their prediction
is confirmed by many independent observers; Macau
lay’s vision of the undying glory of the Papacy rising
through the mists of future ages over the ruins of
England (and, presumably, Anglicanism) finds many
sympathisers. Mr. H. G. Wells has lent the force of
his expert prophetic faculty recently to the “ anticipa
tion ” that Catholicism will outlive Protestantism.
But it is not usually noticed that there is a great
difference in the ground of the prediction in the two
cases. Rome prides herself on the intellectual value
of her credentials, and thinks that time is sure to
bring about their universal acceptance. On the other
hand, those non-Catholic writers who talk of an ulti
mate struggle between Rome and Rationalism are under
the impression that Rome does not appeal to reason
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
241
at all. They divide men into two categories—rational
and extra-rational—and think that the final trial of
strength will be between reason and authority, which
they identify with Rome. There is a curious mis
understanding on both sides. Roman theologians per
versely represent Rationalists as men who reject
mysteries, miracles, &c., on the mere ground that they
are supra-rational, and without reference to their
credentials; and most Rationalists are under the impres
sion that Rome professes an irrational method, rebukes
and demands the blind submission of reason, instead of
offering it satisfactory evidence, and preaches authority
from first to last. Under that impression it is not
surprising that the Church of Rome is selected as the
fittest to survive of the Christian sects. But the
impression is wrong.
Just as the Rationalist does not reject supra-rational
theorems if they are not contra-rational, and if there
is satisfactory evidence in their favour, so neither
does the theologian reject the demands of reason for
logical satisfaction. The Catholic scheme claims to
be pre-eminently logical, and does precisely appeal
to the intellect of the inquirer; indeed, it is taught
that the “ convert ” from Rationalism must have a
natural rational certitude before he can receive the
“ light of faith.” The system has been described in
an earlier chapter, but the process would be of this
character. The inquirer (if beginning from scepticism)
would be offered rational evidence of the existence
and personality of God, and (usually, though not neces
sarily) of the immortality of the soul; if that evidence
did not satisfy him there would be no further pro
gress. If convinced on those points he would be
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
offered evidence, still of a purely rational character,
of the divinity of Christ and Christianity, and of the
authenticity of the Scriptures. Then he would be led,
on historical grounds, to accept the divine institution
of the Church of Rome, its infallible magisterium
and its indispensable ministerium, and the prerogatives
of its supreme pastor. He is now prepared to accept
statements, logically, on authority, and the rest of
the dogmas are, consequently, proved from Scripture,
tradition, and the authority of the Church.
But even here reason is not abandoned; not only is
it continually sought to confirm statements by rational
and historical analogies, but it is admitted as a prin
ciple that every dogma must meet the negative test
of reason. If any dogma contains a single proposition
which offends against reason the whole system must be
rejected. That is the teaching of the Church. Hence
much ingenuity is shown in averting the rationalistic
criticism of such thorny dogmas as the Trinity and the
Eucharist, it is claimed that the accusation of absurdity
is disproved, and therefore reason may confidently
take them on authority. And again, when it is said
that there is a living infallible magisterium in the
Church, this must be accepted in a very narrow sense.
The overwhelming majority of the bulls, decrees,
encyclicals, &c., which the Popes have issued, have
only a disciplinary effect. It is piously believed by
many that Providence takes a minor interest in them;
but most priests take little notice of them, and the
doctrine of infallibility has been carefully drawn up
not to include them. The great dogma simply
amounts to this, that the Pope (or the Church) can
teach no new doctrine, but he has special guidance
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
243
in his solemn declarations (which are few and far
between) that certain doctrines are contained in the
deposit of revelation. There have only been two such
definitions in the nineteenth century. Neither Leo
XIII. nor Pius X. has given any. Hence it will be
understood how great an error those Protestants make
who go over to Rome for the sake of its infallible
voice (as if they were to have an infallible Times at
breakfast every morning), and also how untrue it is
that Rome is the antithesis, the professed opponent,
of reason, and only preaches submission.
No, the Church of Rome does not profess to be the
refuge of the timid and the sentimental in a subver
sive age. Its strength must be sought in its distinctive
methods and institutions, not in a position that would
make it the centre of all forces opposed to Rationalism.
These advantages have been described in the course
of my narrative. In the first place, it has a very
superior organisation to that of any other Christian
sect, or any other religion whatever. Its constitution
embodies all the several advantages of an elective
monarchy and an oligarchy (indeed canonists dispute
whether it is to be called monarchic or oligarchic);
and at the same time it escapes the instability incident
on democratic forms by dogmatically dissociating its
power from the civil power and claiming a supernatural
source for it. Its hierarchy, of which the centre is
a figure about whom a vague supernatural halo is set,
and who is now always a commanding and venerable
personage, lends a rigid unity to its 200,000,000 adher
ents. Rome, the heir of the tact, ambition, and
vigour of the Caesars, the richest treasury of art, and
a veritable hive of lawyers and diplomatists, controls
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
and utilises the talent, the ambition, and the jealousy
or its great sacerdotal army, and with easy confidence
commands the attention of the civilised world.
k.,Thenrthe comPleteness, the unity, and the plausi
bility of its theological system must be considered,
rrom the days of St. John Damascene until the sixteenth century almost all the talent of the civilised
world has contributed to the formation of that system •
it is a truism to say that it is plausible. Enduring
almost unchanged through ten centuries, and eliciting
the veneration of almost the entire intellectual world,
it presents an imposing contrast to the theologies of
more recent growth. Moreover, even in recent times
it las been accepted by many great writers who have
left the impress of their genius upon it, and accom
modated it to minds of every cast.
And side by side with the elaboration of its own
system must be classed an instrument which it uses
very adroitly for the same purpose, the Index Expurgatonus, or list of condemned books. In England and
America there is little explicit mention of the Index
for economical reasons, but every Catholic is given
very clearly to understand the depravity of reading
books against faith or morals.” The restriction is
cleverly represented to be a moral, not a disciplinary
prescription, and thus the end of the Index is practic
ally achieved without mentioning the odious word.
Non-Catholics are gravely reminded that it is ethically
imperative to study both sides of every religious
question. Catholics are told in the same breath that
it is sinful for them to read the works of opponents,
because they are already in possession of the truth
and must not run the risk of losing it.
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
245
At the same time Catholics are indulged to some
extent in their wayward anxiety to know what oppon
ents are saying by having their objections formulated
for them in their own apologetical literature—with
satisfactory solutions appended. Here again the
peculiarity of the Catholic controversial method tells
in its immediate favour. As one would expect, most
of the objections have been carefully prepared for the
express purpose of refutation. No Catholic writer
ever gives an accurate version of hostile criticism.
Newman is usually said to be the most satisfactory in
this respect. In fact it is claimed that he formulates
the opinion of an adversary more lucidly than the
original writer. But take, for instance, the exposition
of Gibbon’s five causes of the spread of Christianity in
the appendix to the “ Grammar of Assent ” and com
pare it with the classical chapter of Gibbon. It is
utterly inaccurate and unworthy. And not only are
the opinions of critics garbled and mutilated, but their
personal characters are too lightly aspersed. Anglicans
are allowed some precarious hope of ultimate salvation.
But when we come to deeper sceptics the credit of
bona fides is stopped. All the theological manuals
grossly affirm that there is no such thing as honest
agnosticism, and it is firm Catholic doctrine that none
but a believer in personal theism can ever enter heaven.
Thus the most puerile stories—as that Julian died cry
ing out, “ Vicisti, Galilaee,” and that Voltaire died
raving for a priest, and so on—are generally accepted;
and the most dishonourable motives are imputed to the
bnemies of the Church. If a modern Inferno were
written it would describe a brilliant literary circle.
So also the results of philosophical, historical, and
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
scientific research are accommodated to pious purposes.
For several years geology and palaeontology suffered
great torture at the hands of Genesiac interpreters;
history and archaeology and philology then yielded
marvellously convenient results; ethnology was racked
to support a biblical chronology which is now aban
doned ; even chemistry, embryology, psychophysics,
and a host of innocent sciences were pressed into
service and pressed out of shape in the process.
Of another institution which the Church formerly
used for the same high purpose of guarding its flock
against intellectual wolves—the Inquisition—little need
be said. If it were truly a dead and discarded pro
ceeding, like persecution on the Protestant side, it
would not merit notice; it seems unprofitable to
reproach the Church of Rome continually with the
many and dark sins of the past of which it has really
repented. However, it is not at all clear that the
Church has repented of this particular outrage upon
morals and humanity. The principles on which the
Inquisition was founded are still part of the Church’s
teaching; and if it were possible to conceive a return
of the ecclesiastical supremacy of former days, there
is little doubt that the same policy would be urged.
Happily for many of us, civil governments are be
coming more and more reluctant to be guided by
ecclesiastical principles and wishes in the discharge of
their function to the community. Logical and candid
writers like Dr. Ward admit this. It is said that
he found Huxley once examining his premises, and
was asked by him “ where he kept his stake for*
heretics! ”
A second great source of strength in the Roman
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
247
Church is its impressive use of aesthetic agencies. . The
subject has been treated already, and hardly needs to
be enlarged on. In Protestant countries, where the
reaction against Roman corruption has reduced the
worship to a state of spiritual nudity, this attraction
of the Catholic services is very powerful. A com
parison of the percentage of converts in various
parishes with the sensuous attractiveness of their
services would yield interesting results.
Other forces which are peculiarly at work in the
Church of Rome can only be briefly mentioned. Its
vast and imposing diplomatic body of legates, &c.,
and its incessant political intrigue, have no parallel
in any other religion; nor has the great wealth it
gathers every year by means of an organised collec
tion throughout the world. Owing to its profound
antiquity and its comprehensive range it can enumer
ate a long series of humanitarian works which have
been done by men who happened to be ecclesiastics;
these become an imposing record of the Church’s
wondrous benefits to humanity in art, science,
sociology, and philanthropy. So even in ethics the
Church of Rome professes a more effective promotion
of the welfare of humanity than other Churches,
though in this department its claim of special power
does not seem difficult to impugn on the test of fruits.
Such would seem to be the peculiar strength of the
Church of Rome in the religious struggle, as distin
guished from all other Christian sects. The influences
at work for its extension and consolidation are un
doubtedly effective, but side by side with them it has
many characteristic weaknesses which seem to give
less assurance of its fabled immortality. In the first
�248
THE CHURCH OF ROME
place, seeing that it does not shrink from and repudiate
the rational criterion which the new-born age is
applying to every existing institution, its very vast
ness is a source of danger; it presents a broader front
to the keen rationalistic attack. If the mysterious
dogmas which are common to all Christian sects invite
criticism, nothing is gained in point of security by
adding to them that microcosm of miracles—Transubstantiation—or the seven sacraments, or the vaguely
floating tradition of an Immaculate Conception. Then,
too, the Church of Rome is so dogmatic in its teaching,
and has so frequently to abandon very positive posi
tions. In other sects the privilege of private judgment
and the absence of an authoritative magisterium give
greater elasticity under hostile pressure.
Again the ideal of a higher life which the Church
of Rome puts forward brings it into conflict with
modern moralists. Self-torment will never again be
recognised by the world at large as the supreme virtue,
yet the saints of the Roman calendar are honoured
principally for that practice. One of the most recent
models that the Church has raised up for the venera
tion of humanity, Benedict Joseph Labre, shows the
exemplary record of having avoided labour and lived
by mendicancy, and having deliberately cultivated the
most filthy habits. Usefulness to humanity is now
held to be the highest virtue, and the Church pays
little heed to that in canonisation. In fact, the very
essence of its ethical teaching is entirely at variance
with modern views. It teaches conformity with an
external standard (about which there are innumerable
controversies) and this for the sake of conciliating a
Supreme Being and escaping his presumed vindictive
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
249
ness. There is a growing tendency to regard actions
that spring from such motives as non-ethical.
In fine, the very methods from which its strength
is now derived will one day prove grievous sources
of offence, for the simple reason that they are incon
sistent with its real function as a purely religious
organism. Diplomatic intrigue and the exercise of a
purely temporal power may serve for the moment to
extend and strengthen its influence; but they are
agencies of a very questionable character in the hands
of a spiritual body, and have more than once inspired
an effective protest against Rome. And it need hardly
be said that its literary exclusiveness, its Index, its
tyranny, its wilful calumniation of great opponents
and distortion of their criticisms, are very vulnerable
parts of its system. As yet they are effective methods
of preserving the integrity of the Church. But in the
better educated nations they are already being dis
carded. Laymen are now taking the polemical work
on their own shouldersj and interpreting the strictures
of theologians at their own discretion. The result will
be an impatient rejection of the literary restrictions
which have so long insulted their intelligence and
moral courage.
Such, then, are the strength and the weakness re
spectively of the Church of Rome in the present stage
of its conflict. During its protracted existence it has
! encountered and triumphed over many kinds of opposi| tion. It emerged victorious from its secular struggle
| with polytheistic Rome and with the destructive neoI Hellenism of Alexandria; it met confidently and rose
upon the flood of barbarism that poured out over
I Southern Europe; it guided its fortunes safely through
g
a
I
�250
THE CHURCH OF ROME
the age of iron that followed, and then controlled the
fierce intellectual activity of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries; it subdued and repressed the Renaissance
and almost compensated its losses in the great Re
formation. But the Church has never had so varied
and so powerful a host of adversaries to encounter as
it has at the present day. Apart altogether from the
rival Christian sects—and in point of fact these seem
more disposed to friendly alliance with it than to a
continued conflict—the number of opposing forces of
every character, intellectual, ethical, political, and
aesthetical, is a matter of grave consideration.
In the first place, there is Rationalism—taking the
term in its broad sense so as to include not only
“ naturalism,” but also that attenuated theism which
rejects orthodox Christianity in virtue of the results
of the Higher Criticism. In that sense the term does
not designate a single and homogeneous system, but a
huge collection of distinct and militant bodies—
Materialism, Agnosticism, Positivism, Pantheism,
Secularism, Theism, and Unitarianism. They may
all be safely grouped under the banner of anti-sacer
dotalism, and described as a formidable intellectual
movement directed against orthodox Christianity in
general and the Church of Rome in particular, the
most dogmatic, conservative, and unyielding section
of Christianity, led by the most powerful and most
skilfully organised priesthood the world has ever seen.
Non-Catholic sects have no stereotyped profession;
they yield and adapt themselves to pressure, as is so
well illustrated in Mr. Mallock’s “ New Republic.”
The revolutionary movement finds its chief antagonist
in the Church of Rome, which wages with it appar
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
251
ently a guerre a outrance. How extensive that move
ment is—embracing, as it does, all who accept the
results of philosophical, scientific, historical, and bibli
cal criticism—and how powerfully represented in every
branch of literature, is too well known and too fre
quently pointed out by clerical writers themselves to
need enlarging upon.
Then there is a distinctively modern force of an
ethical character which militates against the authority
of the Church. In the United States, England, and
Germany especially, a number of Ethical Societies
have been founded and propagated with much zeal.
They do not profess hostility to ecclesiastical institu
tions, but the mere fact that they advocate the trans
ference of ethical life to a non-theological basis marks
them out as enemies. The Church of Rome, in par
ticular, regards herself as the only effective guardian
of morality, and the ethical function of its priests is
their most prominent service. It will never submit
to the transfer of ethical interests to a secular institu
tion ; otherwise it would be reduced to the condition
of the Greek or Roman priesthood—a condition which
would not last long in modern times. Yet the Ethical
Societies rapidly grow in importance.
In the political world the Church has met with
harsh treatment from time immemorial, and its own
diplomatic power has grown keen in the long contest.
But the political anti-clerical movement of modern
times is in a very different position from the violent
movements of that character which are dispersed
throughout history. Until the last century the anti
clerical politician or diplomatist had no great antitheological system to fall back upon. Now, the large
�252
THE CHURCH OF ROME
body who are ever ready to spring up in reaction
against the Church’s political encroachments have a
powerful philosophy to appeal to. Formerly the
Church’s troubles generally came from a few sceptical
individuals; now they spring from large political
bodies, such as the Liberals of Spain and Belgium,
the Libres-Penseurs of France, and the Freemasons
of Italy. To the same great force must be added
(from the present point of view) a new and anxiously
regarded power—Socialism. The Church is very
sensible of approaching danger from this quarter; and
therefore, instead of its traditional practice of fiercely
opposing every new movement, we find it attempting
a compromise by patronising “ Christian Socialism.”
This sociological force does not spend much time in
discussing the Church’s credentials. The thinkers of
the modern world, it says, are fairly divided about the
religious problem, and that problem has, under their
attentions, assumed portentous dimensions; hence we
busy people must be content with a mild scepticism,
and if the Church crosses our path in reforming this
world so much the worse for it.
A fourth influence of a less tangible and definable
character may be set down under the head of Erotism.
It may be thought that this is no new danger, but the
world-old revolt of human nature against Christian
ethics. But there are two considerations which make
that influence present rather a new aspect. The first
is the enfeeblement of the popular faith in the super
natural. The fourteenth, fifteenth, and eighteenth
centuries were marked by great outbreaks of that
influence, or by the spread of public immorality; but
a keen faith still lurked in the popular mind, and the
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
253
Church could successfully appeal to it. A Savonarola
could meet and stem a veritable tide of Hellenism.
In the present division of the world of thought, and
seeing the imposing opposition to ecclesiastical teach
ing, that simple faith must be, and is, deeply affected;
and erotism gains proportionately in power and
stability. The second consideration is that this erot
ism, or revolt against traditional ethics, has become
speculative and ratiocinative, and seeks to organise its
votaries and systematise its protest. What is called
literary decadence is, perhaps, midway between
practical and organised immorality ; it is a great literary
power, very widespread in France, and on the increase
in England and Germany. The free-love movement
has also assumed important proportions, and counts
some eminent literary exponents. There is, further,
an aesthetic and Hellenistic school which will prove a
serious adversary of traditional ethics. In practice it
adheres to a severe Puritanism; in theory it is revolu
tionary. It cherishes the higher Greek ideal of love
(as found in Plato); venerates the writings of Whit
man, Nietzsche, and Carpenter; has all the fervour of
youth and the fanaticism of ascetics.
Such are the forces which the Church of Rome finds
opposed to it at the beginning of the twentieth century.
I hesitate to enter on the path of prophecy, but a few
observations may be offered as to the direction in which
we may seek development. In the first place, I wholly
dissent from Mr. H. G. Wells when he anticipates “ a
great revival of Catholicism,” and thinks it will out
live Protestantism. The Protestant or Puritan religious
temperament is as natural and enduring as the Catholic
or Ritualist. I do not believe either will survive the
�254
THE CHURCH OF ROME
other, though the Protestant sects are likely to relax
the sternness of their exclusion of the ministry of art
from the temple. And from what I have already said
in this chapter it will be clear that I do not accept
the current rationalistic feeling that Rome will survive
because of its doctrine of authority.
But so shrewd and informed an observer as Mr.
Wells has probably built on existing movements rather
than on theories, and here, it seems to me, he has
really even less support. There is every indication
that the Church of Rome has reached, and is already
falling away from, its high-water mark. Germany is
perhaps the only country where the Church has made
genuine progress in the last few decades 1; and against
this must be put the “ away from Rome ” movement
in Austria, the secession of many hundreds of priests
and a corresponding number of the laity to the
evangelical movement in France, and heavy losses in
the industrial northern provinces of Italy and Spain
and all over Belgium. But observers are misled chiefly
by the apparent advance of Roman Catholicism in the
English-speaking world. One might almost dismiss
that phenomenon with one word—the Irish dispersion.
The population of Ireland should be to-day, if it had
had a normal growth, about 17,000,000. It is actually
less than four millions and a half. The missing twelve
millions, mostly Roman Catholics, are in England,
Australia, and the United States. If the Roman
1 Again I must make a correction; and it is singular to note
that, wherever I erred in the first edition, I erred in favour of the
Church. I have shown in my ‘ ‘ Decay of the Church ofRome ” that it
is, on the confession of its own clergy, losing ground all over the
world. It has lost a hundred million followers in a hundred years.
Third edition.
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
255
Church in England had retained the population it had
at the beginning of the nineteenth century, as well
as the million of Irish immigrants, it should have to
day, apart from any conversions, about 2,500,000 souls.
I have proved (National Review, August 1901) that it
has not more than 1,250,000. In other words, its
losses are enormously larger than its gains. What I
have said of Catholicism in London and the provinces
will confirm this. I will add one other illustration.
There is a long strip of the Lancashire coast called
the Fylde which curiously retained the faith down to
the nineteenth century. But I was told a few years ago
by a priest who has worked for years in that district
that the old Catholic families are falling away to-day
in a remarkable manner. The last census taken in
Australia pointed to a distinct decrease of Catholicism
in that country. Recent inquiries in New York have
put that city on a level with London; against the great
parade of wealthy converts must be put immense losses
amongst the poor Irish and their descendants. The
overwhelming majority of the 12,000,000 Irish who
are missing from their country to-day are in the
United States; and they have made mixed marriages,
under the usual stringent conditions, on every side.
To these must be added a great immigration of Italian
and German Catholics. With these elements the ap
parent growth of Catholicism in the States is easily
explained. I will add one further observation on
Catholicism in France. It is acknowledged that French
men do not favour the Church. But when we remem
ber that the Church forbids the use of contraceptives
iunder pain of mortal sin, and then find the French
[population so long nearly stationary, and learn that
Kb
RE8»'
d
�256
THE CHURCH OF ROME
there are in France only some 200,000 women with
more than six children, we are forced to question
the authority of the Church even over the women.
Thus on patient consideration of the condition
of each country the proud Catholic claim of having
250,000,000 followers collapses like an inflated bladder.
The area of the Church’s influence is shrinking
yearly.
In former ages it compensated home losses by mis
sionary conquests; its actual paltry missionary profits
are little more than financial transactions. I have
spoken with missionaries from every one of the great
fields, and they all confirm the opinion. On public
platforms, of course, they deliver optimistic speeches,
at the end of which a collection is made; but in the
genial atmosphere of the sitting-room afterwards they
unbend, and unequivocally represent “ conversions ”
of natives as money matters.
And when we turn to consider the movements of
thought within the Church we seem to have another
indication of the coming development. If we cannot
admit either that Catholicism will in time absorb its
rivals, or will itself be superseded by them, there is
only one alternative. Its distinctive features will
gradually disappear, its rigid walls will cyumble away,
until at length it pours its historic stream of spiritual
effort into the broad unsectarian spirit of a later day.
By its distinctive features I do not understand the
famous “ four notes of the true Church—unity, holi
ness, universality, and apostolicity ”—which are in no
sense distinctive of the Church of Rome to-day. Its
characteristics are rather—asceticism, excessive dog
matism, elaborate ritual, and the Papacy. It seems
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
257
to me that these features are visibly altering, and that
we may confidently look forward to their complete
disappearance or transformation.
If one thing may be claimed to be established in
the preceding chapters it is that the ascetic spirit is
rapidly decaying in the Church of Rome. Here and
there a group of Carthusian monks 1 cling more or less
to the medieval idea, but throughout the monastic
world generally voluntary austerities are no longer
' practised, and the austerities enjoined by rule are
evaded, or compensated, as much as possible. When
this is true of the monks it is superfluous to discuss
the laity. The law of abstinence from flesh-meat on
certain days, the only ascetic practice now imposed
on them, is relaxing year by year. Before the century
is out Rome, too, will have quietly abandoned the
ascetic ideal. The decay of the dogmatic feeling
amongst Roman Catholics is less patent, but hardly less
real. Beneath the outward uniformity, which the
Vatican is still able to exact or to persuade, there is
the same difference of thought and feeling as in every
other sect. A considerable number of cases have
lately come to my knowledge of priests who are quite
as liberal as Dr. Mivart; in some cases as sceptical
as myself. They intend to remain in the Church,
and work for the removal of the emphasis from belief
to conduct. The twentieth century will witness most
considerable modifications in this respect. As the
1 I have repeatedly spoken of the asceticism of the Carthusian
monks. It is only fair to the reader to say that this is not beyond
. question. A friend of mine told me of certain personal experi
ences at the Grande Chartreuse in France, which made it clear that
at least a good part of the monks were far from ascetic. Third
edition.
�258
THE CHURCH OF ROME
Catholic ritual is only the artistic presentment of its
doctrines some changes in this are bound to ensue,
but—as we see so well in the decay of the old Roman
religion—forms and ceremonies may long survive the
beliefs that originally inspired them. There will also
be a ritual advance in the other Christian Churches,
so that here, too, the distinguishing feature tends to
disappear. Before many decades Latin will cease to
be the universal liturgical language; though in such
forms as the mass—a symbolic sacrifice which the
people only witness—it may remain indefinitely. And
the Papacy will be proportionately modified. In the
coming age of increasing centralisation and organisa
tion it is not at all likely that the Roman Catholics
will part with their magnificent polity. But the
Vatican will see strange changes. For a time the
aesthetic sense will persuade the new Catholicism to
tolerate the glitter and the stage-lightning of the
papal court. But it will gradually approximate to
the model of the actual Free Church organisation.
The president of the Church Catholic in the year 2000
will have as little resemblance to Leo XIII. in his
Sedia gestatoria as the president of the German
Republic of that date will have to William II.
To conclude by borrowing a fine metaphor from
Mr. Wells; it would be hazardous to say when the
Catholics may be expected finally to extinguish the
sectarian lantern by which they have so long guided
the steps of men. The day is fast breaking, and one
by one the old lights will disappear. But if our social
evolution is to be unequal—if we are content to leave
vast areas such as the workers, or women, in mental
obscurity—Catholicism may last indefinitely. If the
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
259
new light is to penetrate to every part of our social
structure, it cannot be many centuries before the last
faint flicker of the historic lamp will die out, nay,
will even be voluntarily extinguished in the blaze of
the coming day.
THE END
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Twelve years in a monastery
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Edition: Third and revised ed.
Place of publication: London
Collation: ix, 11-259 p. : ill. (port.) ; 16 cm.
Series title: R.P.A. Cheap Reprints (New series)
Series number: No. 51
Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. First published, London: Smith, Elder, 1897. Publisher's advertisements inside front cover, and inside and on back cover. List of works by, or translated by, McCabe on preliminary pages.
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McCabe, Joseph [1867-1955]
Publisher
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Watts and Co.
Date
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1912
Identifier
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N458
Subject
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Catholic Church
Rights
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Twelve years in a monastery), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Joseph McCabe
Monasticism and Religious Orders
NSS
Roman Catholic Church