There is no doubt that Protestantism, si_The Catholic World, Vol. 10, October, 1869 to March, 1870

monarchical absolutism in the seventeenth century, has agitated

for the revival of what it calls liberty, but what we call the

humanitarian or pagan republic. The people moved by it have, no

doubt, supposed they were marching toward real liberty; but they have

nowhere gained it, and have only removed the day of its acquisition.

Under its influence we have smothered the principle of liberty,

and lost most of the guarantees which Providence gave us in the

outset. We have lost not only the principle of liberty, but also

its correlative, the principle of authority; and have no basis for

either freedom or government, for the basis of neither can be found

in humanity. Great Britain, to a certain extent, has popularized

her administration; but through all her changes of dynasties and

constitutions, she has never ceased to assert the omnipotence of the

state as the state, supreme in spirituals as in temporals. On the

continent, the revolution, attempted in the name of humanity, has

nowhere founded liberty. Its momentary success in France from 1792 to

1795, inclusive, is universally recognized as the Reign of Terror,

when religion was suppressed and virtue was punished as a crime.

France, after a century of revolutions, is not as free to-day as she

was even under her old monarchical institutions. The French are just

now trying anew the experiment of parliamentary government which the

Anglo-maniacs consider only as another name for liberty; but whether

the experiment succeeds or fails, liberty will gain nothing; for the

parliamentary government is as absolute as the personal government

of Napoleon III., and most likely will have even less regard for the

rights of God. The one no more than the other will recognize the

spiritual power as a restriction on the power of the temporal.

In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the spirit of the age

was for the revival of pagan imperialism; the spirit of the age is

now, and has been since the middle of the last century, the pagan

republic; but there is just as little liberty under the one as

under the other, or, if any difference, there is less under pagan

republicanism than under pagan imperialism; for the Roman empire

was really an improvement on the Roman republic. Under the one the

monarch is the state; under the other the people or the ruling

classes are the state; and under both the state is alike supreme, and

acknowledges no limit to its power. The republican party is now, here

and in all Europe, as hostile to the church as were the sovereigns

in the sixteenth century, and for the same reason. The party knows

perfectly well that it is impossible for her to approve any form

of absolutism in the state. Having decided that the humanitarian

republic it seeks to establish, and to which the spirit of the age

tends, is liberty, it holds, and public opinion sustains it, that its

success depends on sweeping her away, and destroying all religion

that does not emanate from the people, or that claims to be a power

independent of the state, and authorized to declare the law for the

people instead of receiving it from them. Because she resists the

madmen of this party, and seeks to save herself and society, they

denounce her as opposed to liberty, as the upholder of despots and

despotism, as at war with the spirit of the age, and the bitter enemy

of modern civilization. "If," said the accusers of our Lord to the

Roman procurator, "thou lettest this man go, thou art not Cæsar's

friend." "If," said the reformers in the sixteenth century, "thou

sparest the pope or the church, thou art no friend, but a traitor

to the king;" "if," say their children in this nineteenth century,

"thou upholdest the church, thou art no friend, but a traitor to the

sovereign people, and false to liberty;" and the nineteenth century

believeth them. We disbelieve them, and believe the Lord, who hath

bought us with his own precious blood and made us free.

These madmen are animated and carried away by the spirit of the age,

and suppose all the time that they are battling for liberty against

its most dangerous enemies. They carry the people with them, and

induce them to crucify their God as a malefactor. What is to restrain

them? The strong arm of power? That were only to establish the reign

of force. Reason? What can reason do with madmen, or against the

multitude blinded by false lights and moved onward by an unreasoning

passion? The intelligence of the age? Are they not carried away by

the age, and is it not from the very madness of the age that they

need to be saved? When the very light in the age is darkness, how

great must be its darkness! It is only a power that draws its light

from a source of light above the light of the age, and acts with a

wisdom and strength that is above the people, above the world, that

can restrain them and convert them into freemen.

If there is any truth in history, or any reliance to be placed on the

inductions of reason, the author has amply proved, in opposition to

the pretensions of Protestants and revolutionists, that society under

the direction and influences of the Catholic Church marches steadily

toward a true and regular liberty--a liberty which is grounded in

the rights of God, and therefore secures the rights of man. He has

also proved conclusively, as experience itself proves, that just in

proportion as the influence of the church in society is weakened,

liberty disappears, and absolutism, either of king or people,

advances. He has shown that the Reformation, instead of founding or

aiding liberty, has interrupted it, and prevented the development

of the germs of free institutions deposited in society during the

much-maligned and little-understood middle ages. Protestantism,

even when, as in our own time, professing to labor for liberty,

only falsifies it, and interposes insurmountable obstacles to

its realization. Protestantism--and we have studied it both as a

Protestant and as a Catholic--is made up of false pretences; is, as

Carlyle would say, an unveracity, and loses not only the eternal

world, but also this present world. The Divine Thought after which

the universe is created and governed is one and catholic, and the law

by which we gain our final end is one and holy; and without obedience

to it there is no good possible, here or hereafter, either for

society or for the individual. The present can have its fulfilment

only in the future, and the temporal has its origin, medium, and end

only in the spiritual, and finds its true support as its true law

only in the one eternal law of God, the universal Lawgiver, declared

and applied by the one Holy Catholic Church, which he himself

has instituted for that purpose, and which is his body, which he

animates, and in which he dwells, teaches, and governs.

It remains for us to consider the respective relations of

Protestantism and Catholicity to religious liberty, or the freedom of

conscience.

FOOTNOTE:

[176] _De l'Avenir du Protestantisme et du Catholicisme._ Par M.

l'Abbé F. Martin. Paris: Tobra et Haton. 1869. 8vo, pp. 608.

UNTYING GORDIAN KNOTS.

VI.

George Holston was wandering thoughtfully back and forward in his

writing-room, in a listless way, unusual in a man of his active

temperament. An ardent sight-seer, a student of the politics of

all countries, a visitor of every kind of institution for the

amelioration of every kind of difficulty he gave little time to

lounging. Pausing at last before one of the windows looking out on

the garden, his attention became fixed, and an expression at once of

displeasure and of amusement came over his face.

Under the tree sat Lady Sackvil, half reclining on a garden chair;

before her stood Vane, answering her indifferent words with eager

interest, his expressive face full of enthusiasm. Whatever his

arguments were, they took effect, to judge by the change which

gradually mastered her; rousing her from the careless posture to one

of attention, drawing her eyes from the flower she had been idly

pulling to pieces, to meet his earnest gaze. Whatever the question

might be, he had conquered, and was gazing at her beautiful upturned

face with a look of enchantment.

"Confound it!" muttered George. "What would I give to banish her

to the coast of Guinea this very moment! Enough to evangelize the

natives, if money would do it." He resumed his desultory walk and

his meditations. "That idiot is going to destruction for the lack of

something to do. No more in love with her than I am; just idleness

and a love of excitement."

Going to his desk, he took out a letter written in copying-ink, and

bearing date of three weeks back.

"I've scotched the snake, at least, with this," he said aloud, and

sat down to a re-perusal of the epistle. It was as follows:

"DEAR EVANS: I see by the newspapers that three officers of the

U. S. A. have been appointed to visit the Crimea, and study

the position and progress of affairs in the French and English

armies. You will oblige me extremely by going to General Scott, on

receipt of this, and asking him, in my name, to obtain a fourth

appointment in the person of Captain Vane, of the --th Cavalry, U.

S. A., subject to Vane's approval. For several reasons, too long

to explain, I do not mention this plan to him before writing; but

I have no doubt that he will jump at the proposal when it comes.

The general and the secretary of war will need no explanations.

They know that Vane has been on the sick-list for wounds received

in frontier service, and they are much interested in him and

his family; therefore no apologies are necessary for making the

proposal.

"Vane is a constant and serious student of military matters,

and no man is more likely than he to make a good use of such an

opportunity.

"If objections are made on the grounds of extra pay, you may say

that no such increase is necessary, as Captain Vane has a large

private fortune.

"Hoping soon to have a chance to reciprocate the kindness I ask of

you, my dear Evans, I am

"Yours always truly,

"GEORGE HOLSTON."

George put away the letter and went to the window.

"If I had asked his leave before doing this, he would have been

too weak to grant it, hampered as he is by this renewal of old

associations. By the time the appointment gets here, he will be

thankful to find some way of escape from his own folly open to him. A

fool he is--a traitor he is not."

Then, casting a glance out of the window, as he passed before it to

take down a volume from a bookcase, he said softly, "Poor Mary! the

truest, noblest woman that ever married an idiot!"

George Holston might well say "poor Mary!" He had not been the

only witness of the interview in the garden. This was the day of

Mrs. Vane's first visit to the _primo piano_ since her illness.

She had come in a young mother's glory, bringing little Georgina

in her christening dress to see her godmother. While Mrs. Holston

was tending the baby, Mary stood at the window, playing with a

curtain-tassel and watching her husband and Lady Sackvil. She saw him

give Amelia the oleander she pulled to pieces, saw her grow eager

and interested as he talked to her, stood transfixed to see the

intensity with which he followed up his advantage; and then, suddenly

recollecting herself, turned away, thinking bitterly, "I will not spy

upon him."

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Holston anxiously. "You were

looking so well when you came in, and now you are as white as a

handkerchief. Are you faint? Debby, ring the bell, and I will send

for some wine."

"Oh! please not," said Mary, putting her hand to her head. "I'm well

enough, only so very tired. This is my first visit, you know," she

added, laughing faintly, "and the excitement is too much for me. I

will leave the baby with you, and nurse can bring her to me when

you are tired of her. No, don't come, Debby; I shall be better for

resting a little while."

And lying quietly on the couch in her own room, the bitter conviction

came to her, that what she had seen that day stung her so deeply only

because it confirmed doubts crushed out of sight. Doubts? Certainty

it was now, that she was no longer her husband's chosen companion.

Startled by his anger when her first groundless jealousy betrayed

itself on the day of Lady Sackvil's arrival, she had smothered every

succeeding pang. Her uneasiness had come from no lack of kindness

on her husband's part. He had been, if possible, more attentive

during her illness than she had expected. But to her, who had been

his exclusive confidant, the one chosen sympathizer in all hopes and

projects, the charm had gone. It was evident that he needed more

excitement than her companionship afforded, that he came to her from

a sense of duty, not for pleasure. She had been too loyal to question

or doubt until this afternoon, when an accident had given the proofs

she would have refused to seek. Now she was too clear-sighted to

withhold belief. Lady Sackvil stood between her and her husband.

She was too completely stunned, too grieved and wounded, to look

beyond the present shock, to question the hopelessness of her

situation. Above the couch hung an ivory crucifix yellow with age.

Nicholas had found it in some curiosity-shop near the Rialto, and

brought it to her. She took it down and looked at it, not only

reverently but curiously, wondering whose agony it had soothed; if

ever any one had pressed it to a heart so wronged and tortured as

hers; if it were yellowed by the tears shed upon it, as well as by

age. "You will be yellow as gold before my eyes have cried themselves

out," she thought, and longed for the relief of tears. Her thoughts

were so thick, so hopelessly thick and inextricable! Afraid of

revealing her sufferings if she should go to dinner, she went to bed

with a furious headache. The baby, sharing its mother's discomposure,

wept and wailed, as babies always do when quiet is most desirable.

Nicholas dined alone, spent an hour in his wife's room in the kindest

manner, putting cold water on her head, and ice to her heart at

the same moment. At last, believing her to be asleep, he went down

to spend the evening with the Holstons; leaving her to be regaled

with distant sounds of playing and singing, and to be racked by

the conviction that a trial had fallen upon her with which she was

utterly incapable of coping.

A night-light burned in the corner of the room, giving a faint

suggestion of surrounding objects. Through the half-open nursery-door

came the sound of Deborah lulling the baby to sleep with old songs

and moral axioms. There was something soothing in the half-light and

subdued tones which tended to restore the quivering nerves to their

balance. Mary sat up in bed and tried to collect her ideas. What

was the first thing to be done? The exact reverse of what she had

done that evening, at all events. She had made the baby fretful, and

driven Nicholas into the very temptation she most dreaded for him.

The first and immediate step to be taken was to conquer the nervous

prostration which bound her. All was now quiet in the nursery. She

rang her hand-bell softly, bringing Deborah to the nursery-door with

the inseparable roll of violet-perfumed flannel in her arms.

"Put baby down by me, nurse, and give me some valerian; there's a

good soul."

Then she lay down to contemplate the baby and let the sedative

work. Her thoughts turned to a few words of fatherly advice from

her old friend, Padre Giulio, when she had mentioned with bitter

self-upbraiding in confession, two months before, her momentary

paroxysm of jealousy. "In five cases out of ten," he had said, "an

injured wife holds her fate in her own hands. She must prove to her

husband that she is better worth loving than any other woman in the

world. She should speak of her wrongs to no one if she can possibly

bear them in silence. Each confidant of these delicate matters may

become a new obstacle to reconciliation. Loyalty is most important

between married persons. So much for jealous wives, my daughter; and

God grant that you may never have occasion to remember what I have

said!" And now the occasion had come!

"O God!" she prayed, "make me very lovely in his eyes. I don't ask it

for vanity's sake, but for his honor and mine. I thank you, from the

depths of my heart, that it is best for him and for me, and for your

divine glory, that he should love me more than any other creature.

But accomplish this, dear Lord, by making him love you best of all."

Then she fell asleep, lulled by the soft breathing of the sleeping

infant.

She was waked by hearing Nicholas come gently into the room.

"I am sorry I roused you," he said. "But I longed to know if you were

relieved."

"I am much better," she answered cordially. "Thank you for coming to

inquire. Have you had a pleasant evening?"

"Quite pleasant," he replied absently. "Did the piano disturb you?"

"Only just at first. I got through the evening very comfortably, and

expect to be bright and well by to-morrow. Kiss me, darling."

"Good night, Mary. God bless you!"

When he had left her, she took the ancient crucifix again in her

hands, and kissed the five wounds silently. There is no better

prayer. It is the prayer of conquered self; the acceptance of our

sufferings in union with those of Christ.

"I must get well and be his second guardian angel," she said.

Vane spent half the night in studying and reading. Once he said out

loud, "God help me through it!" Then came the thought, "How dare I

ask for help, when I myself have sought temptation? Oh! if Mary would

only get well and be my better self once more. What did she say once

about the inefficacy of vicarious goodness?"

VII.

"May I come in?" asked Mary at the door of Lady Sackvil's music-room.

"By all means. I am going to play something for George and Flossy

that will fascinate your maternal fancy." And with the little boy and

girl on either side, she played the _Scenes from Childhood_, with

little paraphrases of explanation full of merriment or pathos, as

the case might be. The children were bewitched. Mary looked at her

lovely face, her tasteful dress, her graceful though rather large

hands, moving on the piano as in a native element; she listened to

her exquisitely sympathetic playing, to her charming talk with the

children, and a sense of despair came over her.

"How can I win him back?" she thought. "O God! it is so hard to bear,

just because I am not handsome or clever. Surely my love, my fidelity

must be more beautiful than her beauty, if he could only see clearly.

It is useless for me to compete with this exquisite creature on any

natural grounds. And yet, how strange it all is! I don't suppose

he is the most attractive man in existence; and yet, it would no

more occur to me to measure him with other men than if he were an

archangel."

Lady Sackvil was singing now--little songs for children, by Taubert,

cradle songs, and _Volkslieder_. George and Flossy were twins, and

this was their birthday. "Aunt Milly" was as much bent on fascinating

her juvenile audience as any _prima donna_ in a royal theatre. She

had not much voice; but her singing had the same sympathetic quality

which made her playing delight every one, learned or unlearned. Those

who were incapable of appreciating her sound musical training, her

clever interpretation of the best compositions, her freedom from

mannerism, whether pedantry or sentimentality, could derive pleasure

from her delicious touch and the indefinable grace of her playing.

After a while Mrs. Holston and Captain Vane joined the audience.

Mary glanced involuntarily at Lady Sackvil, and saw a rosy flush

suffuse cheek and brow and neck. She passed on from song to song

without leaving the piano; but she was singing for grown people now,

and the children felt it. Mary made a sign to them to come to her,

and gave them the presents she had prepared for the great day so

long anticipated. Mere trifles they were--a suit of doll's furs for

Flossy, a box of colored crayons for George--but it was quite enough

to restore the birthday equanimity.

Vane had noticed the little scene, and Mary saw his eyes rest upon

her with a tenderness she had missed for many weeks. When Lady

Sackvil stopped singing, he rose rather abruptly and returned her

greeting with a certain coldness. Then turning to his wife, he said,

"I have been looking for you everywhere. Can you come up-stairs with

me now?"

Mary was nearer happiness than she had thought to be again. At least

he was trying to do right.

VIII.

LADY SACKVIL'S JOURNAL.

I wonder what sin is? Some people would say I ought to know; but

I do not. We are born with inclinations, affections, passions

which disappear or develop according to circumstances. We are not

to be praised if they disappear; we are not to be blamed if they

develop. Religionists make sins and virtues to suit themselves, and

form thereon a moral code. If they really believe in a merciful,

thoughtful Creator, a tender Redeemer, who has lived to exemplify

these virtues and died to atone for these sins, of course they

do right to bow to his will. I do not believe there is a God who

interests himself in our virtues or vices, so-called. I know that I

myself am the creature of necessity, and I mean to prove this for my

own satisfaction by a review of my career.

I was educated by my poor Aunt Louisa, who taught me to call myself a

Catholic and behave like a pagan. Was that my fault? She never, to my

knowledge, acted from a disinterested motive. She never taught me to

obey any thing but my own will--except hers, when our wills crossed.

This was very seldom; for we, both of us, wanted simply the greatest

amount of worldly enjoyment that was to be had, for asking, in my

case, and scheming, in hers. Was that my fault? I loved Nicholas

Vane, who was a tyrant. Just when his tyranny weighed too heavily

to be borne, Lord Sackvil appeared. He suited me. His position

corresponded to the dreams my aunt had nursed in me from childhood.

Circumstances conquered me. Vane accused me of flirting, and broke

off our private engagement. Aunt Louisa besought me to accept an

offer which would realize her fondest hopes for me. I yielded, and

married Sackvil, and never dreamed of regretting the step. He was

the kindest and most indulgent of husbands, and sympathized with

all my tastes. But here again any religious tendencies I might have

had remained unnourished. Educated a Catholic, he never practised

his religion. People think me obstinate; on the contrary, I am led

completely by others--_when it suits me_. What of that? How could it

be otherwise, with my training? I am the victim of circumstances.

As I had no children, Sackvil House passed to a distant relation of

my husband. I was left singularly alone in the world. My one near

relative living in Venice, I naturally came to her, after leading a

wandering life in Germany for two years. Who should be living in the

same house and on terms of closest intimacy with my sister's family

but Captain Vane? Was that my fault? I did not know the fact. Flora

knows nothing of our engagement; indeed, no one knew of it except

Aunt Louisa, and, probably, George Holston. I fully intended to

cultivate Mrs. Vane intimately. In the first place, however, she is

not inclined to intimacy. Though very young, she has a reserve and

independence of character which would make friendship a matter of

slow growth with her. In the second place, she has been ill or ailing

ever since I came here. Is that my fault? Is it my fault that at

thirty I am prettier than ever before in my life; that I have a trick

of fascinating people; that I play and sing like--like--like a fallen

angel? This is conceit, or pride, or vanity, I suppose. No, it is

not. It is a recognition of facts. If I were ugly or unattractive, I

should recognize the fact and poison myself. Is it my fault that Vane

is morally weak, as the term goes? That is to say, that his personal

wishes weigh more heavily upon him than the force of tradition? Is

it my fault that, with the energy, the ambition, and the intellectual

tastes of a man, I am bound by worldly maxims within limits which

restrict all growth except spiritual growth?

I wonder what would make a Christian of me? This one

experience--hypothetical, of course: the sight, the close, intimate

perception of a purely disinterested soul; of one who, tested in the

sorest manner, should act according to principles formed in a time

of peace and security. I am a pagan from having seen people behave

like pagans, no matter what they professed. The antidote must be

adapted to the poison. Is a cure to be desired? I imagine not. A

Christian life would entail great discomfort; for be it known that

if ever I am a Christian I will be a genuine one. My difficulties

are not metaphysical. I could just as easily believe one thing as

another; indeed, the more the better, if there is any believing to

be done. I am inclined to suppose that the Catholic Church will have

the honor to reclaim me, if ever I am reclaimed. It is the oldest,

widest, strongest, and it demands more of its adherents than any

other church. Besides, if ever I find my disinterested Christian, it

will probably be in the Catholic Church--a soul bred upon works of

supererogation and a thirst after perfection.

IX.

Mary was reading in her morning room when Lady Sackvil was announced.

"Ask her to come in here," she said with her lips; and in her heart

prayed, "Help me to do and say the right thing."

Lady Sackvil came in very softly, seeing the little basket-cradle

with drawn curtains beside the mother's chair, and said in a low

tone, "Thank you very much for admitting me to your own room."

"We need not speak low," Mary said; "poor little Georgina has had to

learn to sleep under all circumstances. I knew it was useless to try

to make Captain Vane whisper, and I wanted him to come here freely

when the child was with me; so I have made her a philosopher early in

life, superior to outward influences."

"She will be the first person that ever was superior to

circumstances, I fancy," remarked Lady Sackvil; and added after a

moment's pause, "my belief is, that our characters are completely

controlled by outward influences. They have regulated mine, I know."

Mary took up a stole she was embroidering in bullion, and arranged

the sewing materials accurately before answering. Amelia's mere

presence irritated her, and the off-hand manner in which her

ladyship settled questions aroused in her a spirit of opposition.

It was in an unruffled tone, however, that she answered, "Of course

they have a great deal to do with the formation of character;

but not every thing. I used to hear a good deal of talk on the

subject in my father's library. An intimate friend of his was a

necessitarian--that's the term, is it not?--and used to bring forward

many clever arguments in support of his theory."

"And convinced you?" asked Amelia with interest.

"Not at all. He worried me a good deal at first. I remember that

he generally chose Sunday evenings for the discussion, and Sunday

evening has ever since been uncomfortably associated in my mind with

necessity and free-will."

"I cannot fancy on what grounds his opinion could be combated," said

Lady Sackvil.

"Neither did I at first. It is easier to argue in favor of necessity

than of free-will. The theory rests upon tangible facts, evident even

to superficial observers. The truth rests largely upon supernatural

facts, too subtle to be fully appreciated except through personal

experience."

"May I ask how you satisfied yourself?" asked Amelia with the

faintest shade of contempt in her voice. She was feeling "out of

sorts," and controversy suited the mood of the moment better than

ordinary conversation.

Mary renewed the gold thread in her needle and the patience in

her soul, and then answered, "By reading the lives of the saints,

and especially of holy penitents. I became satisfied that even if

ordinary souls are controlled by circumstances, (though even that

point I did not concede,) the development of the saints has often

been not only independent of circumstances, but inconsistent with

them. Women, enslaved by vanity or passion, breaking through every

bond and trampling on temptation to embrace a life of penance at

which flesh trembles! Men, enthralled by false philosophy, becoming

little children in faith and simplicity! I knew that this could not

be the result of circumstances. Then carrying the investigation into

my own moral experience, I found that even I could be noble under the

same circumstances where I had been petty. I do not attempt to speak

philosophically. I argue from practical facts."

"If I placed much faith in the lives of saints, perhaps we might

think alike," answered Amelia; "but most of them are quite mythical,

no doubt."

"The lives of St. Augustine, St. Jerome, and many more are as

well authenticated as the Norman conquest," Mary said; "and those

whose careers are most mysterious experienced nothing which is

incomprehensible to any one who studies interior life, and knows the

capacities of his own soul for receiving supernatural graces."

"The capacities of _my_ soul are extremely limited, I think," replied

Lady Sackvil. "Like you, I found my impressions on practical facts,

not on metaphysics; so that our argument is at an end, I suppose."

"Apparently," said Mary good-humoredly. "I've not heard the piano

lately. Why is that?"

"I am tired to death of playing," said Lady Sackvil; "at times it is

an unutterable bore. For a composer it is, of course, different. The

exercise of the creative faculty must be simply rapture; but mere

interpretation palls frightfully at times."

"Is there no new music to interest you?"

"Very seldom. I am familiar with the whole range of musical

literature. Don't look at me as if I were a wonder. It's no great

thing for a well-trained musician to say. Musical literature, as

compared with the world of books, is very limited. The present age is

idle and unproductive; and so there come times when I shut the piano

and feel that my 'occupation's gone.'"

She rose, and going gently to the cradle, knelt down beside it to

watch the sleeping child. A tenderness came over her face, before so

full of weariness and pain.

"I would have been a different woman if I had been a mother," she

said, looking up at Mary with tears in her eyes. "Love of children

and vanity are the only traits I have," she added, smiling sadly.

Mary made no answer, but looked at the tossed, selfish, whimsical

being before her with an interest she had not felt hitherto.

"Isn't it heavenly sweet to have a child?" asked Amelia; "to hold

that creature close to you, and feel that it is your own as your

heart is your own?"

"Yes, it is heavenly sweet," answered Mary, bending over the baby,

who just then opened her violet eyes. The mother took the little

creature into her arms and kissed her softly. "It _is_ heavenly

sweet," she repeated.

Lady Sackvil drew down her veil and rose to go. "Good-by," she said

huskily. "Don't think that I usually make such eccentric morning

calls." And was gone before Mary could ring for a servant to open the

door.

TO BE CONTINUED.

CHURCH MUSIC.

III.

We have one question to ask of such of our readers who have taken

the trouble to read our former articles on the subject of church

music. Is it not a false tradition that the music in our churches

exhibits the character of a musical concert performed during Mass,

or replacing the office of Vespers? One thing is certain--it is

a Protestant tradition, an Anglo-Saxon Protestant tradition.

Although we owe the "classical masses" chiefly to German and Italian

composers, the style of the performance, the _matériel_ of the choir,

and the _choir-gallery_ are the offspring of the "chapel" and the

"conventicle." It has doubtless been observed that we have been

arguing for a twofold reform in this matter: firstly, in the music,

and secondly, in its performance. We use the word reform in its

proper sense, and desire by our remarks to call our brethren back to

the old paths of the Holy Church, not to introduce some new fashion

in doctrine or devotion. We would renovate, not innovate. We have

been too long deprived of that spiritual food which is so abundantly

supplied by the sacred offices of the Church. Protestantism has given

us nothing but husks to eat, and we confess to being hungry. By the

defection of England and the greater part of Germany, we were robbed

of our holy sanctuaries, and in our poverty have been forced to

content ourselves with buildings to which, indeed, we give the name

of churches, but which are nothing better than convenient shelters

for an altar crowded to its very steps by the people. The new-fangled

doctrine drove out our monks, and perverted the devout clerics who

once filled the stalls of real _choirs_, and whose duty and glory it

was to sing the divine office. When the novel worship that replaced

the Holy Sacrifice built new tabernacles for its meagre and unmeaning

rites, it invented the _singing-gallery_ and the modern _choir_,

all-sufficing, we acknowledge, for the Anglican "common prayer," and

"worship" after the Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, and other such

modes, but wholly out of place in a Catholic church, and totally

inadequate for the holy offices of our religion.

Surely there is no one who will not heartily agree with us that we

need a thorough reform, in this respect, in our church architecture.

We build chapels, but not churches. The place for the altar is in

the Choir, an inclosure specially set apart for the sacred ministers

and the singers, who at the public functions form one officiating

body. We have followed the example of Protestants, and made use of

the pencil of the Protestant architect; and the result is, that if

the gates of hell ever incited another "glorious reformation," like

that of the sixteenth century, the new reformers would have the

advantage over the first in finding churches not only ready made, but

admirably adapted to their requirements, the change of altar into

pulpit, should the new doctrine need such an appurtenance in its

meeting-houses, being a matter of small expense. They would not be

put to their wits to know what to do with our choirs "of mysterious

depth," as of yore, but would find an appropriate gallery for their

hired singers, already fitted up, with its abominable rood-screen of

green curtains over the doorways. We have heard our holy rites and

ceremonies nicknamed as the "rags of popery." What has Protestantism

done but to rend the "rags" into tatters?

Nor are we ready to admit the poverty of our resources as a full

justification of our imitation of Protestant service in the style of

our sacred music and its performance. Throughout the continent of

Europe, where Protestant influences have not been at work, there are

countless country churches of small size, but not one is without its

sanctuary choir; and the people would as soon think of putting their

robed priests into dress-coat and pantaloons as of banishing their

surpliced chanters from the sanctuary, and erecting a choir-gallery

behind their backs. We bring no railing accusation. We deprecate that

style of argument which is successful only in provoking opposition;

but are endeavoring, with no end in view save the glory of God and

the honor of religion, to put in a plain light the causes of our

departure from the common authorized usages of the church; usages to

which the want of conformity will always be the measure of the loss

of faith and devotion.

Our controversialists have been arguing against the false doctrines

of Protestantism, and have done their work in a masterly and

effective manner. If ever there was a dead doctrine awaiting burial,

it is Protestantism. Now let us turn our attention to its false

traditions, possessing more vitality because they have obtained a

sort of parasitical subsistence through our partial admission of

their encroachments. We mean that the "choir-gallery" is, both in its

entity and object, a parasite of Protestant tradition clinging to our

holy temples, disfiguring their fair proportions and spiritually

cramping the growth of liturgical devotion, destroying its charm, and

stifling its inspirations.

We propose to get rid of this piece of uncatholic tradition; to

locate the singers in the place prescribed by the ritual, and abolish

the musical concert. We desire to see the distinct decrees of the

Church carried out to the letter, which require the divine office to

be sung, as well as the Mass to be said, in the sanctuary, before the

people, and not behind them. We have already alluded to the efforts

made in England to bring this matter into perfect conformity with the

ritual. His Grace the Archbishop of Westminster has forbidden any new

church to be opened unless there is provision made for a _sanctuary

choir_; and the cardinal vicar, in his instruction of November

18th, 1856, after administering a severe reprimand for the want of

observance of regulations made in former instructions, prescribes,

among other things, that galleries for singers shall not be placed

over the doors of churches. Evidently the good cardinal has not only

studied rubrics, but the science of acoustics as well. An elevated

gallery near the ceiling is a wretched place for singers, and not

much better for an organ. Ask any organ-builder whether he would

not much prefer placing his instrument on the floor of the church,

to hiding it away in some loft or second-story alcove in a tower.

The impropriety is so glaring, and the arrangement is at once so

incongruous and unartistic, that we deem further discussion on this

point useless. The able writer in _The Dublin Review_, whom we have

already quoted, very pertinently remarks:

"In this respect we have been equally out of harmony with

ecclesiastical tradition and practice; and if we are to save

ourselves from disappointment with our choristers, we must

make up our minds to give them the advantage of all the sacred

associations which that system provides. In other words, we must

substitute a proper choral arrangement in connection with the

sanctuary for that now prevailing, and with which so many abuses

are unhappily connected. There need, we think, be no practical

difficulty about this, and we would suggest it as a matter worthy

of serious consideration by our clergy and Catholic architects

who are about to build or restore churches. The time is surely

gone by for the stereotyped plan of an east end with an altar

under a large window, flanked by a smaller altar on either side,

involving, besides other inconveniences, the impossibility of

making any provision for the proper choral arrangements. Several

instances might be adduced of churches recently erected in

which the beautiful and convenient feature of side altars has

been introduced, thus allowing the choir to occupy their proper

place--the organ, of course, being placed at the side, and ample

space being still left for the sanctuary proper. We should say

that, even in cases where boys cannot be at once procured for the

choir, it is very unadvisable to plan a building in such a way as

to preclude a proper arrangement afterward."

Have we any objections to urge against coming into harmony with

ecclesiastical tradition and practice in this matter? A friend at our

side urges one, doubtless in the mind of many of our readers: Then

you would banish all female voices from our choirs?

We will allow a much better authority than ourselves to answer for

us. The following extract is from a decree of the Provincial Synod of

Holland, held at Utrecht, and highly commended by the Holy Father:

"In the same way as the object of church music is quite frustrated

when it is of such a character as only to gratify the ears with

vain pleasures, so, too, the dignity of divine worship is not

preserved unless the singers also are such as to beseem the

church. Women's voices are not admitted by ecclesiastical usage

into the choir of singers, since the rules of divine worship

and the dignity of ecclesiastical music evidently require their

exclusion. For in the same way as they are withheld from all

share in the ministry of the holy liturgy, so also every thing

effeminate ought to be quite excluded from church singing; and

hence the presence of women in an ecclesiastical choir is opposed

to the very sense of the faithful. Therefore, we decree and order

that women be altogether excluded from the choir of singers,

unless in the churches or chapels of nuns. And if hereafter, in

violation of this injunction of this Provincial Synod, women be

employed in any church as singers or organists, let the rectors

of those churches be aware that they will have to render a most

strict account to the ordinary for such an infraction of the law."

(Syn. Prov. Ultrajectan., tit. 5, cap. 6.)

And again:

"The tradition of the church in excluding women from choirs is so

universal and inflexible that it is not easy to understand how it

should have been so widely forgotten in this country. I can only

conceive that the confusion of all things under the penal laws,

the shattered and informal state of the church in England after

its emancipation, our poverty, not only of money, but of culture

to do better; and, finally, the force of custom in rendering

us insensible to many anomalies, have been the real causes of

our ever admitting, and of our so long passively tolerating, so

visible a deviation from the tradition and mind of the Church. It

is strange that you should have to argue a case which the Church

has decided." (Letter of Archbishop Manning to Canon Oakeley.)

The argument of the very reverend canon, to which his grace alludes,

contains much that would interest our readers, but our space does not

permit us to give it entire. We cannot refrain, however, from making

a short quotation:

"That a choir of male voices is actually that provision for

the solemn celebration of divine worship which the Church

contemplates, to the exclusion of every other, is, I think, a

fact which cannot reasonably be disputed. The Church no more

recognizes female choristers than female sacristans, though she

may tolerate either in case of necessity. The single exception

to the rule is in convents, for obvious reasons. According to

the ancient arrangement of churches, the choir is immediately

connected with the sanctuary; and those who take part in it are

most appropriately habited as clerics. The circumstances of modern

times have led to some deviation from this practice, so far as it

depends upon the architectural arrangements of our churches; but

even where the choir is detached from the sanctuary, the ancient

and universal rule of the Church which excludes females (probably

in accordance with apostolical tradition) from taking, any active

and ministerial part in divine worship, is still rigidly observed.

Not only in Rome, but in countries which retain certain national

peculiarities in the sacred administration of the Church, such

as France and Belgium, the practice of employing females in the

musical department of divine worship is, I believe, unknown. It

is almost entirely confined to those countries, such as Great

Britain, parts of Germany, and the United States of America, in

which Protestantism prevails and produces a certain impression on

the outward aspect even of the Church herself. In our own country

the type of the ancient worship, which has been innovated on among

ourselves, is preserved in the national cathedrals, in which the

large endowments derived from Catholic munificence enable the

present usurpers to represent the true ecclesiastical form of

the choral service with a facility which is denied to those to

whom it belongs by undisputed inheritance. Meanwhile, this type

had till recently suffered considerable decay among ourselves.

Dethroned from our rightful position, we had in this, as in other

far more important respects, fallen in with the ways of the sects

around us. But the revival of the ecclesiastical spirit which

has come in with the events of the last few years, has brought

home to us some of the anomalies which had grown up in the day of

our depression, while increased communication with the continent

has tended to bring our external worship into more and more of

union with general practice. It is hardly necessary to observe

that the admission of females into the church choir is absolutely

fatal to the retention of the proper cathedral type of worship,

while in parish churches it is sometimes productive of obvious

evils, and even in the best regulated administrations is adverse

to the spirit which should animate every part of divine worship,

and especially one so intimately connected with its dignified

celebration as that of the choir."

It will be observed that our judgment about the influences of

Protestant tradition upon our church music has not been made

unadvisedly.

In Germany, female singers were introduced into the churches for no

better reason, that we can discover, than to exhibit the musical

talent of its great masters. These compositions were not written

to supply any want for such music felt in the churches, but at the

instance and under the patronage of nobles and princes, who vied

with each other in giving grand sacred musical feasts in their

private chapels, as _gourmands_ pride themselves on giving costly

and _recherché_ dinners to show off the science of their _chef de

cuisine_. If we imagine that these musical masses were gotten up to

excite greater devotion in the gay and worldly courtiers, we are much

mistaken. It was, in fact, a nice little bit of cheap luxury, it

being less expensive to keep a private chapel and entertain a private

chaplain, than to support an opera-house with its company of artists,

scene-shifters, and hangers-on.

Composers themselves have sought to obtain at least a general

permission for the singing of their masses from the ecclesiastical

authorities, but have invariably been met with a polite expression of

regret that such application had been presented, as it was entirely

out of the power, etc., etc. Rossini petitioned the present pope for

permission to include females in church choirs, but of course without

success. The report of his own funeral obsequies shows that more

thought was given to enjoy a rare musical entertainment than to pray

for his soul:

"The church bore the appearance of a concert-room or theatre.

People came in with their hats on, talking and laughing. After

each piece of music was sung, their _bravos_ were barely

restrained, and more than once applauding cries seemed about to

break forth. The majority of the congregation, forgetting both

the altar and the corpse of the deceased, turned their faces

toward the tribune of the singers, talking in a loud voice, and

using their opera-glasses; and this at the very moment of the

_elevation_, when the soldiers who served as a guard of honor, at

the command of their officer, were falling on their knees. This

scandal was deplored not only by religious persons, but even by

the true friends of art, because it served once more to prove that

such musical solemnities, in this age and in this country, are

incompatible with the respect due to the sanctity of churches."

If we might venture to offer a word in justification of the wisdom of

the Church in thus wholly excluding women from the ritual offices of

religion, we would say that she "knows what is in man;" she perfectly

well understands all the effects of exterior influences upon the

human mind and heart; that the female voice, when highly cultivated

or sweet-toned, is alluring and sensual, (we do not mean in a bad

sense,) and when naturally poor or _passé_, is equally repelling and

disagreeable. The first cannot be said of the voices of men; nor

the second, unless it be in attempts to execute music beyond their

compass, or when they distort its sense or expression by vanity or

affectation.

Canon Oakeley shall sum up for us what we have to say on this head:

"Together with the name of 'chapels,' which it may be hoped we

are in the way to renounce once for all, let us divest ourselves

of all that smacks of the chapel and dissenting system--the pews,

the pew-openers, the female sacristans, and the female choristers.

One of the principal lessons taught us by our great cardinal was

the duty of asserting in all judicious ways the dignity of our

true position; and this we can do only by ridding ourselves of

sectarian habits, down even to the very fringes of our garment,

and associating ourselves in spirit, and in that which forms

so especial a test of the ecclesiastical spirit, the external

worship of the Church, with the most approved practice of Catholic

countries."

Having made up our minds to tear down our Protestant singing-gallery,

and to make use only of male voices in the singing of Mass and

Vespers, we shall not fear for the decision of the question, What

kind of music is to be selected? The Gregorian chant, that "grave,

sweet, majestic, intellectual music of the Church," will defy all

competition. When half the labor and expense has been bestowed upon

the true music of the sanctuary as is now lavished on our florid

concert music, then will be said to-day what Pope Benedict XIV. said

so long ago, "The titillation of figured music is held very cheaply

by men of religious mind, in comparison with the sweetness of the

church chant."

But the other question, and a very practical one, yet remains:

How shall we procure and hold proper singers for such music as is

proposed, and for such a place as the sacred inclosure about the

altar? We answer, in the first place, we have already some men

singers with voices of good compass and power, who at present sing

up-stairs beside the organ.

"What!" exclaims the friend at our elbow; "bring our present choir

down into the sanctuary? How many priests, do you think, would do

that?"

We reply to him, that, if the present choir-singers are fit and

proper persons to be associated with the sacred ministers in the

celebration of the divine mysteries, they are just as worthy at one

end of the church as at the other; and if they are unworthy for any

reason, they ought not to be allowed to take that part, or exercise

that office of dignity in any nook or corner of our sacred temples.

This capital point, the personal worthiness as well as the vocal

capabilities of our choir-singers, has, it must be confessed, not

been so rigidly insisted on in general as it might have been. Nothing

appears to our minds more shockingly incongruous than a mixed chorus

of Catholics, Protestants, and Jews singing the Credo. We remember

hearing a fine Tantum Ergo sung as a solo at benediction by a Jewess.

Think of it, a Jewess singing,

"Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedat ritui"!

and, in the presence of what she believed to be only a piece of

bread, adding,

"Præstet fides supplementum

Sensuum defectui"!

We like the language of the Bishop of Langres. In a late pastoral on

this subject, he says,

"The function of which we speak (singer) is one that deserves

respect for its sanctity. For many centuries it was reserved to

clerics; and when, afterward, laymen were admitted to assist, it

was required that they should, from their good conduct, be worthy

to represent the congregation of God's people, and take the lead

in this part of their worship; and, above all, it was required

that they should understand the dignity of the trust committed

to them, and should neglect no preparation necessary to acquit

themselves respectably. These laymen hold in the Lord's house the

first place after its consecrated ministers; and they should not

be allowed to continue in it unless they showed themselves the

zealous auxiliaries of the priest who takes the lead in the name

of the Church."

If we adhered to the character of the music desired by the Church, we

should never be obliged to look elsewhere than to Catholics--to those

who will sing from the heart as well as with the lips--for worthy

auxiliaries of the priest in this devout and sacred office.

This leads us to consider the selection and the training of

competent and worthy singers. We are aware that the destruction of

the Protestant singing-gallery, the restoration of the choir, and

adoption of the Gregorian music is not so simple a matter of choice

with the pastors of churches that it can be effected at once by an

order issued to the organist, and the provision of cassocks and

surplices for as many men as can be paid to wear them and sing the

music which befits such clerically-habited chanters. Such singers as

we ought to have for our holy offices are not to be had to-morrow,

even for money. Nor, even supposing such worthy persons, possessing

proper vocal acquirements, were to be had by paying for them, would

they be able to sing our sacred music in a style that would be even

tolerable. Gregorian chant is not easy of execution, as some imagine.

It needs not only good vocal culture to render its musical phrases

with precision, but also no small amount of intellectual and moral

training to give its true expression.

We say, good vocal culture. By which we must not be understood to

mean that finished vocalization which distinguishes the professional

opera-singer, or those few amateurs whose voices of natural sweetness

and power have received first-class cultivation. All Gregorian music

is included within an octave and a half, with rare exceptions. Great

compass is therefore not required. The first requisite is the ability

to modulate the different phrases with distinctness and facility.

There are few men or boys who could not be taught in a short time

to acquire this primary qualification of the choir-singer. On this

head there is little or no difficulty. But as every one who can

read English is not able to give a proper _reading_ of Shakespeare,

so not every one who can sing the gamut or its intervals is able

to sing the phrases of Gregorian chant. The reader of Shakespeare

needs practice in tone, in inflection, in the art of speaking

with sublimity, with pathos, with joy, etc. Then he must study

the works of the great poet, must master his style, and with much

painstaking and oft-repeated rehearsals learn to imitate the various

characters, their mode of behavior, and peculiarity of utterance.

The holy melodies of the Church possess an admirable variety of

religious expression, and share with all her rites and ceremonies in

that sacred dramatic form which clothes them with such remarkable

spiritual power and beauty. It is plain, therefore, that the singer

must not only understand what he is singing, but must make a study of

the different phrases, in order to discover their true expression.

But besides all this intellectual attention to and appreciation of

the chant, the slightest reflection will show one that a certain

degree of moral training is equally requisite. The capital point

always to be kept in mind is that the music of the Church is her

divine prayer. The devout soul, though endowed with a voice of only

medium capacity, will render these prayerful melodies with far

greater effect than a first-class artist who sings only from the

lips, while his heart remains unmoved by the words and the song. We

are all conscious of the different effect produced upon us by the

chanting of the _Preface_ and the _Pater_ by different priests. As

a few simple words preached to us by a priest of an interior and

devout life will go deeper into our souls, and bring forth greater

spiritual fruit, than the most brilliant oratory from one of less

religious mind, so a devout singer will give to his song a nameless

charm, and edify those who listen to him far more than one who is his

superior in musical attainments, but inferior to him in piety. It is

Father Lallemant, we think, who said, "An interior man will make more

impression on hearts by a single word animated by the Spirit of God,

than another by a whole discourse which has cost him much labor, and

in which he has exhausted all his powers of reasoning."

Our argument, therefore, for the restoration of the church music,

and the banishment of concert music, implies the restoration, as

well, of the church singer, and the close of our engagement with the

concert artists, or the more wretched substitute of concert amateurs.

We are sure that in every congregation in this country it would be

possible to find a sufficient number of men and boys, possessing all

the necessary qualifications, intellectual, moral, and vocal, for

the decent and edifying singing of the church offices, who might

be prepared after a few weeks' instruction for the duties of the

chorister. We may be permitted to add, that our opinion is not mere

theory, but based upon the observation and experience of many years

in the practical duties of the ministry, during which the direction

of the music has generally fallen to our care. If we are not able to

refer our readers to a practical illustration of what we assert, it

is simply because we also, as we said before, have been straitened

and hampered by this incubus of Protestant tradition. Until we can

get rid of this, we can do nothing. Until the people, at present

profoundly ignorant on this head, learn what constitutes a Catholic

choir and where it ought to be located in the church, we shall never

be able to get any thing but concert music. They must learn that the

present order of things prevalent among us is abnormal, unrecognized

by the ritual, and quite as foreign to the Catholic standard as would

be the preaching of a priest from the pulpit in a citizen's dress. We

may be obedient to the strict law of the Church which forbids female

singers in choir, and find a sufficient number of men and boys to

take their places, who will scramble into the organ-gallery, and,

under cover of the curtains, talk, laugh, chew tobacco, eat candy,

draw caricatures on the walls and on the covers of the singing-books,

and sit with crossed legs and chairs tilted backward even during the

elevation and benediction--all this we will get as of old; but, until

the _gallery_ comes down, until the singers are properly vested, and

marched with proper ecclesiastical decorum into the sanctuary, or to

such a place as near to it as the present inconvenient arrangement of

our modern churches will permit, we shall never get a _church choir_.

This is our first point: let us have male singers who will understand

from the dress and deportment they assume, for the time being, as

well as from the position they occupy in the church, that their

office as a church singer is a sacred one, of high character, and

worthy of special respect as being associated officially with the

priestly celebrations at the altar. No sooner shall we have succeeded

in teaching the people this true Catholic tradition, than our youth

will at once look upon the function of choir-singer as an enviable

position, and the effort to make themselves worthy to be thus

associated with the clergy in the divine offices will necessarily

do much toward elevating their moral tone, and inspiring a devout

Catholic spirit. We shall, very probably, not obtain all we desire

at a first trial. Many of those whom we may select will likely

disappoint us. This is in the nature of things. It is not every one

who is selected as a student for the priesthood that proves to have

a vocation. For ourselves, we apprehend little difficulty if our

own purpose be well determined, and we give to the whole subject of

church music a little serious study and reflection.

As to the source from which our churches are to obtain a regular

supply of choristers, we frankly speak our mind, and say that

the Catholic choir system would appear to involve necessarily

the formation of what is known in France as the _maitrise_, or

choir-school, in which are admitted boys of good moral character

possessing sufficient vocal capability, and of a grade of

intelligence to render it worth while to bestow upon them a more

refined education than they might obtain in the ordinary school.

This special education given in the choir-school tends not only to

improve and elevate the character of the boys, but fits them as well

to attain a better position in life than they could have hoped for

without it. But this is a subject we can afford to defer to future

consideration.

Supposing that we have come to the determination to conform our

church music at once to the true standard, how shall we procure the

necessary choristers? Let us see what we need. For large churches,

or what are large churches to us, there should be at least four

trained voices of men--two tenors and two baritones; and not less

than twelve boys. These, equally divided on either side of the

sanctuary, would make a better double chorus than might at first be

supposed. The boys can be had for the asking; but the four men will

not easily be obtained without a reasonable salary. The advertisement

for them should, of course, conclude with the warning, "None but

practical Catholics need apply." We do not propose to put the cassock

and surplice upon persons whose very appearance in that garb would

disedify the people.

For this choir we need a competent teacher. Advertise for him, and

it is not unlikely we shall find such a one, or one who will quickly

fit himself for that office, in one of the four hired singers. We do

not hesitate to say that, even in this great city of New York, there

are at present very few music teachers who are fully competent to

teach the proper method of chanting the Vesper psalms alone, not to

speak of those other important portions of the divine offices whose

expression is more difficult to render. But there is no want that

is not quickly met with the supply. If we want such a teacher, and

are willing to pay him, then the subject of the church chant will

at once engage the attention and study of professors of music whose

business it is to teach. At this moment it is generally understood

(and not without reason) by all organists and directors of choirs

that our Catholic churches need performers and teachers who can come

recommended as well versed in "the masses," as they are called.

As a consequence, these gentlemen devote all their energies to the

study and practice of such compositions, and to the science of

directing a mixed chorus. We do the musical profession the justice

of believing its taste to be quite at variance with the taste of

the public it serves; and, although we are prepared to see our

choir-director shrug his shoulders and return us a wondering look

when we propose our reformation to him, still, when we shall have

given him to understand that we ourselves know what we want, and are

prepared to count the cost, we feel assured that he will readily come

into our views, and enter upon this new field of musical culture

with more zest than he has hitherto shown in the conduct of music,

for the most part, despicable even in his own eyes. We will engage

him to produce church music in first-class church style. We will aid

him by causing an organ of sufficient size to be erected near the

choristers in the vicinity of the sanctuary. Should he crave for a

larger chorus, we will seek out a number of young men, from eighteen

to twenty-five years of age, whom we have in our eye, whose interest

will not fail of being excited in this subject to which we give our

pastoral solicitude, and whose social and moral character we feel

assured will be benefited by being associated with our regular choir

as volunteers. If we might be permitted the use of an expressive

vulgarism, we would say that our young men, as a class, are

"spoiling" for some church work. How many would not feel both honored

and gratified by an invitation to labor with us in renovating and

restoring the grand offices of the Church to their pristine order and

sublime harmony! We manage to associate together a few of our young

men in various confraternities and associations, and drive a few more

into the ranks of the society of St. Vincent de Paul; but the greater

number, upon whom depend the future _esprit_ of our church in this

country, and upon whose attachment to all that concerns the dignity

and devout character of our religious services hang the fortunes

of our faith, are left unnoticed and unemployed. We propose this

subject of the reformation of church music to them as a labor of love

and true Catholic devotion, worthy of their hearty coöperation, and

tending to their own intellectual refinement and moral elevation.

We are not wholly unacquainted with the souls of this class of our

brethren in the faith, and will answer for the response that will be

made to our sentiments by any Catholic young man whose eye may chance

to fall on these lines.

Now as to the matter of proper church music-books. Speaking as one

who has been made wise through suffering, we rejoice at the prospect

of seeing all our "Catholic choir-books," "Morning and Evening

services," and such trash, bundled up and sent to the paper-makers.

We are at liberty to state that, while the present Oecumenical

Council may allude only incidentally to the subject of church

music, by confirming the ancient canons made in regard to it, the

Congregation of Rites is already preparing an authorized version of

the Roman Gradual and Vesperal, and that his Holiness will issue a

brief in which he will strongly exhort all the bishops to adopt it.

As soon as this desire of the head of the Church shall have been

brought home to us in the proper way, those whose hands are waiting

direction will lose no time in preparing an edition of this work

in musical notation, and harmonized for the use of organists, an

imperative need for the great majority of our players and singers, to

whom the learning of the plain chant scale and clefs would be a labor

equal to that of acquiring the knowledge of a foreign language. Our

choir-boys, and the generation of choristers who shall succeed them,

can be taught the plain chant notation from the first, and will find

it much simpler, and more expressive in typography, than the modern

musical scale, with its varied keys in flats and sharps.

A word as to the comparative cost of the authorized church music and

the concert music which now replaces it. It will be seen that we have

advised the engagement of four professional singers, and the services

of a special teacher both for them and the chorus of boys. This

teacher, in most cases, would be one of the four salaried choristers

or the organist. It will be seen at once, by those interested, that

even in the beginning we shall not be put to any greater expense than

we are already at for our music. In the matter of music-books there

will be an immense saving for those churches which possess a large

chorus. We ourselves own a musical library which has cost us several

thousands of dollars; and to tell the honest truth, not one half of

it is of the least practical use even with the present liberty we

enjoy (?) of singing what we please. A set of Graduals and Vesperals,

with a suitably harmonized version for the use of the organist, will

suffice under our new and better _régime_.

We cannot close this portion of our remarks without calling attention

to the great boon which this wholesome musical reform will prove to

country churches. In our large cities, we have been able to perform

in our churches music which is a tolerable imitation of the same

style of harmony as given at the opera and on the boards of the

concert-hall to paying audiences. As a rule, we have not charged

any price of admission to our ecclesiastical concert offices, and

our second-rate performances have therefore been justly treated

with great leniency by the critics. But as you leave the city and

enter churches in our small towns and country villages, you hear an

imitation of the city fashion which is no longer tolerable. One must

have advanced far into the spiritual ways of devout contemplation

to endure the horrible cacophony without suffering indescribable

tortures of soul. Then again, there are numberless village churches

where never a sound of music, profane or religious, is heard. Yet, if

these muse-abandoned people were disabused of their ignorant belief

that our popular florid music is the only music possible or fit for

the Catholic Church, and learned that, even if too poor to purchase

an organ, they could have with a little study and practice all the

music for the divine offices executed in a devout and decent style,

it would not be long until the invariable low Mass on all Sundays and

festivals, and the recitation of the Rosary in lieu of Vespers, would

be a rare exception, instead of being, as it is now, not far from the

rule. As an example, we confess extraordinary, of the gross ignorance

of our country people concerning church music, we remember being

told by a Catholic woman who had never been out of her own little

village, that one reason why she was certain of the falsehood of the

Protestant religion was because _they had music and singing in their

churches_!

We do not expect to see our suggestions or opinions accepted without

question or criticism. We are fully aware that we have been arguing

in the face of inexperience and deep-seated prejudice. We console

ourselves, however, with the thought that what we have decried as

abnormal, irregular, and inadequate for the music of the Church, is

in itself so inconsistent, incomplete, and disordered, that it does

not deserve even the name of a system. Based upon a false principle,

the amusement of an audience, it will ever fail of recognition or

encouragement at the hands of the holy Church, whose sole object

proposed in all her divine functions is _prayer_. The faithful come

to church to pray. A church ought by its very form and interior

dispositions surround the worshippers with an atmosphere of prayer.

It ought to feel like a holy place; and nothing about it should smack

of the theatre, or the halls of assembly for secular purposes. All

that is presented to the gaze of the faithful in these sanctuaries of

God, whether it be the ceremonies associated with the Holy Sacrifice

and other offices, or the statues, pictures, and decorations which

meet the eye, ought to be of such a character as to excite the

spirit of prayer. All this we understand full well. Why, then, are

we so dull of hearing that we cannot also distinguish the accents of

prayer from the sounds which speak of war, of love, of the dance, of

jocularity, and, for those who have ears to hear, of the grossest

sensuality? Let us disabuse ourselves of the notion that our people

wish to hear what is popularly styled "fine music" in church. It is

a very great mistake. They not only frequent the church services in

the special intention to pass the time there in prayer, but also

heartily desire to have their weary, world-tossed souls helped by

decorously performed ceremonies, by good, earnest preaching, and by

devout, prayerful music, in awakening in their hearts true religious

emotion and thoughts of heavenly things.

This is our sole plea for reform in our music, it being, without

doubt, also the "mind" of the Church. She is in no sense opposed to

secular music, any more than she is to secular painting, sculpture,

and architecture, unless they be debased and made to minister to

base passions. She who sanctifies all that is true and noble in

human nature is far from discouraging or condemning the legitimate

expression of those arts which can exert so much power in the

instruction, elevation, and refinement of the intellect and heart.

But none so wise as she to detect their weakness, and warn society

against the moral evils which result from their prostitution to the

service of the devil. One of the destructive faults justly charged

against modern art, and notably of music, is its misapplication. A

want of harmony in the relation of an art to the nature and object

of the thing to be expressed or illustrated by it, is the signal for

its own enervation and the corruption of what it should purify and

strengthen; which is the teaching alike of philosophy and experience.

"A tale out of time," says the wise man, "is like music in mourning;"

and the converse of the proverb, is equally true--

"The sweetest strains of music

Do but jar upon the soul, and set

The very teeth on edge, if but the heart

Hath not a mind to hear it."

Whence our conclusion. In the house of God, whose "house shall be

called the house of prayer," no other song must be heard but the

song of prayer, that melody consecrated to all that we have that

is highest and holiest, which lifts the soul above the frivolities

and sensualities of this world and of time, and transports it in

spirit into the regions of the heavenly, and before the throne of the

majesty of the Eternal.

THE IRON MASK.

This subject, so inexhaustible, so interesting on account of the

unfathomable mystery that surrounds it, has again been brought to

our notice by some recent discoveries. Whether they amount to any

thing or not, remains to be seen; but they are at least singular, and

may stimulate the curiosity of the erudite, and even that of simple

amateurs.

A young writer, M. Maurice Topin, so says a contemporary French

paper, who has obtained a prize of six hundred dollars from the

French Academy for his beautiful book, entitled, _L'Europe et les

Bourbons sous Louis XIV._, has been diving into old papers among the

public archives, and says he has at last found out the true name of

the unfortunate prisoner of the Iron Mask.

Following the advice of his uncle, M. Mignet, he has addressed

a letter to the President of the Academy of Moral and Political

Science, in which he incloses his secret--sealed, however--and says

it must not be unsealed without his order.

So some day soon, perhaps, we shall solve the enigma that has

perplexed the world for over two centuries.

A monk has lately died, too, somewhere in a French monastery, leaving

papers testifying that he was the true Iron Mask. Some say he was

deranged. Perhaps so; and perhaps we would rather such might have

been the case. A real _bona fide_, two-hundred-year-old mystery must

not succumb to this practical age of would-be common sense. We could

never find such another, so we must content ourselves with reviving

old facts and eliciting further researches.

* * * * *

He who was called, under the reign of Louis XIV., _The Man with

the Iron Mask_, was not permitted to wear so pretty a covering as

that which preserved the complexion of the Empress Poppée; and the

painters who have represented him with a sort of lowered visor, a

rampart of iron on his face, have made a great mistake.

The unknown prisoner, to whom nobody approached, and nobody spoke,

wore a mask of velvet.

The question is not decided upon what he wore on his way from the

Isle Ste. Marguerite to the Bastille. Some say his chin was inclosed

in a network of steel, to permit him to eat, while the upper part of

his face was concealed in the mask of iron.

But this is a mystery, and his early training no less so.

He had been incarcerated a long time at Pignerol, the château of

which had served for a prison of state, and since 1632 had belonged

to France. The inhabitants still show a large dismantled tower that

overlooks the town, and give the tradition concerning the Iron Mask

and Fouquet, who were here confined.

They showed the chamber in 1818 that these poor victims inhabited.

* * * * *

After the taking of the Bastille, indications of the Iron Mask were

sought for among the registers of this place of detention; but the

largest book of records was sadly torn, and the folio numbered one

hundred and twenty, coinciding with the year 1698, the epoch of the

incarceration of the prisoner, had been taken away.

Later, a leaf was discovered among the papers of a former governor,

and here it is, as historians have given it to us:

+---------------------------------------------------------------------+

|---------------------+---------------+-------------+-----------------|

| to wear a velvet | 1698, at | | |

+---------------------------------------------------------------------+

The date of the entrance of the Iron Mask into the Bastille is

preserved at present in the library of the arsenal; and we read:

"Thursday, the 18th of September, 1698, at three o'clock in

the afternoon, Monsieur de St. Mars, governor of the Bastille,

arrived for the first time from the Isles of Ste. Marguerite and

Honorat, bringing with him, in his own litter, an old prisoner

he had guarded at Pignerol. His name was not given; he wore a

velvet mask; and was first placed in the tower of the Bayimère

to await the night, when I was to conduct him myself, at nine

P.M., into the tower of the Bertandière, to the third-story room

which, by order of M. St. Mars, I had completely furnished for his

reception. In conducting him to the said room, I was accompanied

by M. Rosarges, who was to serve and guard the prisoner at the

government expense."

Here let me state that Du Junca was not a surname given to the

prisoner, but the name of the lieutenant of the king at the Bastille.

The prisoner was called Marchiali.

* * * * *

The young historian who pretends to have discovered the true name of

the Iron Mask has, without doubt, studied all the evidences up to the

time of Voltaire, who also knew more than he was willing to impart.

He knew the story of the silver plate connected with the Isle Ste.

Marguerite, whose governor was charged by Louis XIV. in person not

to permit the prisoner to communicate with any one.

St. Mars waited on him himself, and took the dishes from the cooks at

the door of the apartment, so that no one ever saw the face of the

captive.

One day the Iron Mask threw a silver plate out of the window into the

water-course beneath. A fisherman picked it up and brought it back to

the governor.

"Have you read what is written on the bottom of this silver plate?"

asked the governor.

"No, sir," replied the fisherman; "I cannot read."

This reply saved the poor man, who doubtless would have paid with

his liberty, and even his life, for the possession of the terrible

secret, if he had been sufficiently educated to have discovered it.

* * * * *

Another historian, the Abbé Papon, does not believe that the governor

said to the fisherman, "Go; you are happy in not being able to read!"

He states that, instead of a silver plate, the mysterious prisoner

used a white shirt, covered from one end to the other with the

written history of his life.

"I had," said he, "the curiosity to enter the chamber of the

unfortunate man. It was lighted only by a window to the north,

inclosed in a thick wall and cased by three gratings of iron

placed at equal distances. This window overlooked the sea. I found

in the citadel an officer of the French company, about sixty-nine

years old. He told me that his father had often told him in secret

that a watchman one day perceived under the window of the prisoner

something white floating on the water.... It was a very fine

shirt, plaited with negligence, and upon which the prisoner had

written from one end to the other.

"The watchman took means to recover it, and carried it to M. de

St. Mars, the governor of the Isle Ste. Marguerite.

"He protested that he had read nothing; but two days afterward he

was found dead in his bed."

It is said that the Regent of Orleans left the secret of the name of

the Iron Mask with his daughter. We give what he related to her, this

authority being a pretended governor of the interesting captive. His

account may be found in the archives of the English government:

"The unfortunate prince that I raised and guarded," said he,

"until the end of my days, was born the 6th of September, 1638, at

eight o'clock in the evening, during the supper of the king, Louis

XIII. His brother, now reigning, Louis XIV., had been born in the

morning at twelve o'clock, during the dinner hour of his father;

but as the birth of the first child was splendid and brilliant,

that of his brother was most sad and carefully concealed; for the

king, advised by the midwife that the queen would bring forth

a second child, caused to remain in her chamber the chancellor

of France, the midwife, the first almoner, the confessor of the

queen, and myself, to be witnesses of what might happen, and of

what he would do, if this child should be born alive."

* * * * *

Actors have for many years studied carefully the costume of _The Man

with the Iron Mask_ and he who played in the drama by this name, M.

Lockroy, is still alive. He personated the prisoner, and was clothed

in black velvet, with black stockings and buckled shoes. He wore the

double mask of velvet with steel springs over his lips.

In this piece, that all Paris went to see, Chilly represented Louis

XIII.; Delaistre, M. de St. Mars; and Ligier, who was afterward the

Duke of Gloucester and the Louis XI. of Casimir Delavigne, took the

part of the protector of the unfortunate recluse.

Again, under another name--_The Prisoner of the Bastille_--the same

story has been dramatized, and fresh interest added by an imaginary

conversation between the captive and Louis XIV.

* * * * *

It is easily seen that the most general opinion of the Iron Mask

considered him the twin-brother of Louis XIV., kept out of the way

for fear of future trouble and collision in the government of France.

Some authors affirm, too, that he must have been deformed, his face

distorted, or with some physical infirmity that it was necessary to

conceal.

Others have thought that the brother of Louis XIV., being born the

last, was the elder by right, if the opinion of physicians and

legislators is to be consulted; and that the tenderness inspired by

the first born of the two brothers occasioned the act of ostracism,

which history has sought in vain for a hundred years to elucidate.

* * * * *

In 1837, there appeared a remarkable dissertation on the Iron Mask,

by M. Paul Lacroix. He says that he who bore the name of Marchiali

during his lifetime was not the twin-brother of Louis XIV., and not

even a son born clandestinely of the queen, but the superintendent,

Fouquet himself.

But the Iron Mask has in turn been believed to be Fouquet, Marchiali,

Arwediks, and other people who disappeared about that time.

He, however, who was called Marchiali, and who entered the Bastille

the 18th of September, 1698, died there suddenly the 19th of

November, 1703.

Very singular precautions were taken after his decease.

The body and face were mutilated, and every thing composing his

furniture was burned; even the doors and windows of his bedroom. The

silver he used was melted. The walls of his apartment were scraped

and re-whitened.

He was buried the 20th of November, 1703, in the Church of St. Paul,

under the name of Marchiali.

Time has not given the answer to this lugubrious enigma, and we fear

M. Maurice Topin has failed to solve it.

But let us give him his meed of praise for having consecrated his

nights to seeking for documents, comparing dates, and confronting the

evidence of the most celebrated writers on the subject.

Honor to the brave historian whom the night of time does not

intimidate, and who is willing to grope among the shades of the past

for what is hidden, and above all a secret of the state!

Among all the victims of the old _régimes_, _The Man with the Iron

Mask_ was the most interesting.

This popular story was in every mouth the day of the taking of the

Bastille.

If he had lived until 1789, would it have been a pretender to the

crown, or simply a suspected prisoner, that the people would have

delivered?

We wait for M. Topin to answer.

ON A PICTURE OF NAZARETH.

In dreams no longer, but revealed to sight,

Comes o'er us, like a vision after death,

That shrine of tenderest worship--that delight

Of loftiest contemplation--Nazareth.

Fair-throned as when creation's King and Queen

Abode within its walls, it looks around

As scorning time and change; though these have been

The ruthless masters of its hallowed ground.

Still smiling as of old, it catches still

As fresh a morning; basks in such a noon;

Hears evening's voice as sweetly softly thrill;

In glory sleeps beneath a gushing moon.

Still looms the Mountain of Precipitation

In sadness o'er a vale serene and bright,

As when the Saviour foiled his frenzied nation,

Who fain had cast him headlong from the height.

And see upon the slope the very gate

Where--spot to kiss!--a lowly footstep fell,

As daily passed the Maid Immaculate

To fill her pitcher yonder at the well.

That well! where mirrored shone the loveliest face

That ever woman wore! 'Tis there--the same!

Though hating Christ and Juda's banished race,

The Moslems honor there the Virgin's name.

Give thanks, my soul! give thanks that thou hast seen.

Make Nazareth all a well of grace; and pray

To keep its taste within thee--which has been

The strength of saints. Drink deep, and go thy way.

B. D. H.

THE GREEK SCHISM

The Eastern Church has for the Catholic an attraction which centuries

of separation have not been able to overcome. We look on its glories

as our own, and we deplore its misfortunes as of our own household.

We have a common faith, the same sacraments, the same sacrifice,

essentially the same devotional practices. Between us stands the

barrier of a schism which has lasted for centuries. It is of this

schism, its origin, its history, that we propose to treat in this

article.

To understand clearly the causes that precipitated so large and

flourishing a portion of the church into a deadly schism, it is

necessary to consider the relations of the bishops of Constantinople

to Rome and the other great patriarchal sees, from the time when

Constantine the Great placed the capital of his empire on the shores

of the Bosphorus. The Bishop of Byzantium was then a suffragan

of the Metropolitan of Heraclea. But when, with the presence of

the emperor, the splendor and the reality of the capital had been

transferred to the new Rome, the bishops of Byzantium became very

important personages. They were, in fact, the ordinary medium of

communication between the emperor and the other prelates of the

Eastern Church. Not content with the great influence naturally

arising from their vicinity to the court, they desired a style and

title suitable, as they thought, to the dignity of the city of their

residence. The second general council (A.D. 381) gratified their

wishes by a canon which decreed that the bishops of Constantinople,

_because it was the new Rome_, should have precedence over all other

prelates, after the Bishop of Rome. But this council has been

held to be general only in its dogmatic definitions, since, as St.

Gregory the Great[177] says, "The Roman Church neither has received

nor accepted of its decrees or acts, with the exception of its

definitions against Macedonius." In point of fact, it was a local

synod, neither convoked nor presided over by the holy see, and has

been called oecumenical only on account of the subsequent approbation

of its dogmatic decrees by the same supreme authority. Its canon

about the dignity of the Bishop of Constantinople thus fell to the

ground. Pope Boniface I. (A.D. 418-422) insisted on the observance

of the order of dignity between the great sees established by the

Council of Nice, according to which Alexandria held the second, and

Antioch the third place. The same rule was adopted by Xystus III.

and other pontiffs. However, the powerful prelates of the imperial

city did not relinquish their ambitious views. The general council

of Chalcedon (A.D. 451) passed two canons, by which it permitted

any cleric who felt himself aggrieved to appeal to the see of "the

imperial city, Constantinople;" and besides, enacted the celebrated

twenty-eighth canon in which the unfortunate principle that afterward

led to schism was more openly avowed. Having cited the canon of the

first council of Constantinople, it reaffirms it. "Since the fathers

have justly granted privileges to the see of ancient Rome, because

it was the imperial city, for the same reason the fathers of the

second general council granted equal privileges to the episcopal

throne of new Rome, rightly judging that the city which is honored

by the imperial presence and the senate, and enjoys equal privileges

with old Rome, should in ecclesiastical matters also be equally

distinguished, retaining, however, the second place;" and then

confers ecclesiastical jurisdiction on the Bishop of Constantinople

over the dioceses in Pontus, Asia Minor, and Thrace, and those that

might afterward be "erected among the barbarians." The fathers,

however, petitioned St. Leo the Great for the approval of this

regulation, alleging the good of religion as their motive. But that

great pontiff promptly "annulled their action by the authority of

St. Peter," as contrary to the canon of Nice, remarking at the same

time that ecclesiastical questions were not regulated on the same

plan as secular affairs, and that the Bishop of Constantinople ought

to be satisfied with the imperial privileges of his city, without

disturbing church discipline, and invading the long-acknowledged

rights of others. The obnoxious canon is not to be found in the

most ancient and best collections, though, in practice, the bishops

of Constantinople always availed themselves of the privileges it

attempted to grant them.

This uncanonical usurpation gave rise to a serious controversy toward

the end of the century. Acacius, Bishop of Constantinople, relying on

the twenty-eighth canon of Chalcedon, interfered in the election and

consecration of the patriarchs of Alexandria and Antioch. He was also

accused and convicted of favoring the Eutychian heretics. For these

causes he was condemned and deposed by Pope Felix III. (A.D. 484.)

The oriental bishops continued, however, to retain his name in the

commemoration at mass, (_sacris diptychis_,) and the popes, on this

account, refused to communicate with them, until the pontificate of

Hormisdas, when they submitted to the holy see, erased the obnoxious

name from the sacred records, and subscribed a formula of faith, in

which they professed their agreement with the synods of Ephesus and

Chalcedon, condemned Acacius and others by name, acknowledged all

the dogmatic epistles of St. Leo, and declared that in the apostolic

see is to be found "the true and entire fulness of the Christian

religion," and that those "who did not agree with the apostolic see

were separated from the communion of the Catholic Church."

After this happy termination, with one exception, no serious

difficulty on disciplinary questions occurred between the two sees

until the time of Photius. Heresies, indeed, arose in the Eastern

Church; but both parties appealed to Rome, and the Catholic prelates

and people always accepted her judgment as final. The exception

to which we allude occurred under the pontificate of Pelagius II.

and St. Gregory the Great, and affords a striking instance of the

different spirit that animated old and new Rome. In the year of

our Lord 583, John, surnamed _The Faster_, was called to the see

of Constantinople. Gregory, patriarch of Antioch, being accused of

grave crimes, the Bishop of Constantinople convoked a synod of the

whole east, and in his letters of convocation assumed the title of

_oecumenical_, or universal, _patriarch_. Pope Pelagius II. promptly

condemned both the usurpation of jurisdiction over the see of

Antioch and the newly-assumed title, especially as John pretended

to convoke a general council, thus trenching upon the rights of

the apostolic see. The controversy continued under St. Gregory the

Great, who exhorted the bishops of Alexandria and Antioch to resist

this invasion of the rightful dignity of their sees. He refused for

himself the high-sounding title, though it had been given to his

predecessors by the great council of Chalcedon, choosing the humbler

designation of _servant of the servants of God_, which has ever

since been used by the Roman pontiffs in their official documents.

Cyriacus, the immediate successor of The Faster, continued to claim

the obnoxious title, until he was prohibited to do so by the Emperor

Phocas. But, as all Phocas's decrees were annulled by Heraclius, the

bishops of Constantinople resumed the offensive usage. It is to be

remarked, however, that they always gave an explanation of the title,

which showed that they did not intend to infringe on the primatial

rights of the Roman see. They disclaimed any really universal

jurisdiction, claiming, at most, authority over the whole east.

Insufficient as such an explanation was justly held to be by the

popes, it shows that even the ambitious prelates of Constantinople,

greedy as they were of high titles and extended jurisdiction, never,

in the early ages, dared to place themselves on an equality with the

bishops of old Rome, the successors of St. Peter in the government of

the universal church.

From these facts, it is also evident that the real cause of

dissensions between Rome and Constantinople was not, as alleged by

Protestant historians, following the lead of Mosheim, the ambition of

the pontiffs of Rome, who were striving for mastery over the whole

church, while the bishops of Constantinople were contending for the

rightful independence of the eastern portion thereof. The supremacy

of the Roman see was recognized by every general council before the

election of Photius, and all of them were held in the east, composed

of eastern bishops, and guided by eastern ideas and influence. The

very canons which attempted to give high dignity to Constantinople,

acknowledged the primacy of Rome, and asked only the second place

for the capital of the eastern empire while that of Chalcedon was

formally submitted to St. Leo, and his approbation asked for it.

When the most illustrious prelate that ever governed New Rome, St.

John Chrysostom, was unjustly treated, he appealed as a matter of

right to Pope Innocent I., and his appeal was sustained. When heresy

arose in the east, the orthodox bishops of Constantinople always

submitted to the judgment of the holy see, and sat in councils over

which its legates presided. The history of the Nestorian, Eutychian,

Monothelite, and Iconoclast heresies affords the most indubitable

proofs that the Eastern Church, including that of Constantinople,

always admitted the supreme teaching and governing authority of the

see of St. Peter.

At the same time, it is plain that a spirit was growing up which

a bold, ambitious man might easily use to divide the unity of the

church. The second general council affirmed a fatal principle when

it wished to give Constantinople the second place among the great

sees, _because it was the new Rome_. This principle was more fully

and offensively developed in the twenty-eighth canon of Chalcedon.

It appeared to imply that the secular dignity of Rome was the cause

of its ecclesiastical primacy, which should, consequently, follow

the imperial court. Not, indeed, that the fathers of either council

would have admitted such a consequence. They recognized the divinely

established primacy of the Roman see; but they wished to gratify

the emperor of the day, and to second the desires of the powerful

prelates of the imperial city, to whom many of them were doubtless

indebted for substantial favors. But, unwittingly, they planted the

germ of schism, which at the appointed time produced its terrible

fruit. This is the reason why the pontiffs always opposed the

uncanonical pretensions of the prelates of Constantinople; they

defended not their own, for they were not attacked, but the rights

of the sees of Alexandria and Antioch, and jealously guarded against

encroachments, which they saw too well were only the forerunners of

greater and more fatal usurpations. The result, deplorable as it has

been, only confirms the accuracy of their foresight, and justifies

their honest, fearless, incorruptible resistance.

The responsibility of the fatal step to formal schism rests upon the

celebrated Photius. In the year 857, St. Ignatius had been Patriarch

of Constantinople for a little more than a decade. Of austere virtue

and firm character, he detested vice, and feared not to denounce it

even in high places. The then reigning emperor, Michael III., is

compared by Gibbon to Nero and Heliogabalus. "Like Nero, he delighted

in the amusements of the theatre, and sighed to be surpassed in the

accomplishments in which he should have blushed to excel.... The most

skilful charioteers obtained the first place in his confidence and

esteem; their merit was profusely rewarded; the emperor feasted in

their houses, and presented their children at the baptismal font;

and, while he applauded his own popularity, he affected to blame the

cold and stately reserve of his predecessors." After saying that he

was intemperate, licentious, and sanguinary, the historian adds:

"But the most extraordinary feature in the character of Michael is

the profane mockery of the religion of his country.... A buffoon of

the court was invested in the robes of the patriarch; his twelve

metropolitans, among whom the emperor was ranked, assumed their

ecclesiastical garments; they used or abused the sacred vessels of

the altar; and, in their bacchanalian feasts, the holy communion was

administered in a nauseous compound of vinegar and mustard. Nor were

these impious spectacles concealed from the city. On the day of a

solemn festival, the emperor, with his bishops or buffoons, rode on

asses through the streets, encountered the true patriarch at the head

of his clergy, and, by their licentious shouts and obscene gestures,

disordered the gravity of the Christian procession." While this

promising youth was thus enjoying himself with sumptuous banquets,

fast horses, and degrading shows, his uncle, the Cæsar Bardas, was

the real emperor. He, too, though a man of talents and application to

business, was of depraved morals, and was at length excommunicated

by St. Ignatius, because he had dismissed his wife, and attempted to

marry his own daughter-in-law. From that moment the licentious Cæsar

determined on the ruin of the patriarch. Toward the end of the year

857, the holy man was sent into exile and imprisoned in a monastery,

where he positively refused to resign his episcopal dignity. A synod

of bishops was held, who, through either fear or favor, deposed

Ignatius, and elected Photius in his stead.[178]

If unhallowed ambition had not induced Photius to usurp high

ecclesiastical dignity, his abilities, industry, learning, and

hitherto blameless life might have obtained for him one of the

most honorable places in the history of the Byzantine empire. But

from the day when, disregarding all idea of right and of canonical

restrictions, he forced himself into the sanctuary, his whole career

was one of chicanery, fraud, injustice, and finally open schism. Even

had the see of Constantinople been vacant, his election was null,

because he was a layman, and it was strictly prohibited by the canons

to elect laymen to the episcopal dignity. He himself reënacted these

very canons, thereby practically condemning his own election. He held

a high position in the imperial court, was captain of the guards, and

principal secretary of the emperor, and his energy and acknowledged

abilities might have obtained for him still higher honors. But he was

dazzled by the splendor of the patriarchal throne, and ascended it by

an irregular ordination. Within six days he received all the orders

of the church, being consecrated bishop on Christmas day, A.D. 857.

This hasty conferring of sacred orders was also against the canons.

His consecrator was Gregory, Bishop of Syracuse, who had been tried

by St. Ignatius, found guilty of various grave crimes, and regularly

deposed in a legitimate synod. It would be difficult to find an

episcopal election and ordination marred by greater or more numerous

irregularities.

Almost the first act of Photius was to recognize the primacy of the

holy see. He sent legates to Pope Nicholas I., who were charged

to inform the pontiff that Ignatius, worn out by age and disease,

had voluntarily renounced the episcopal dignity, and retired to a

monastery; and that Photius had been elected by all the metropolitans

and the entire clergy, and forced by the emperor to accept the

dignity; he also sent an orthodox profession of faith, hoping thus

to deceive the pontiff. The emperor, too, sent his representative

with a letter requesting the pope to send legates to Constantinople

to restore discipline, and finally root out the Iconoclasts. But

St. Nicholas was too clear-sighted to be caught by the wiles of the

crafty Greek. He did, indeed, send legates; but charged them merely

to examine into the case of Ignatius, report fully thereon to the

apostolic see, and meanwhile to admit Photius to only lay communion.

His objections to the proceedings at Constantinople were, first, that

the deposition of St. Ignatius was one of the greater causes, which

could not be determined unless by the supreme judgment of the holy

see; and, secondly, that, at all events, the election of Photius,

he having been at the time a mere layman, was uncanonical, and his

consecration irregular. On both points he was fully sustained by

ancient canons admitted in the eastern as well as in the western

church. But he did not give a final judgment; he merely ordered his

legates to make thorough inquiry into the facts, and report thereon

to himself.

They, however, proved unfaithful to their high trust. As soon as

they arrived at their destination, they were kept in honorable

imprisonment for the space of one hundred days, during which they

were allowed to see no one but the friends of Photius. Influenced

partly by threats, partly by gifts, they at last consented to favor

the cause of the usurper. He then called together a synod, (A.D.

861,) at which the legates presided. Photius read what he called

the letters of the pope, but which were really documents mutilated

and interpolated by his crafty hand. St. Ignatius was then brought

before the synod, clad in the garb of a monk. He refused to be judged

by men all in the interest of Photius, declared that he appealed to

the pope, and quoted in his favor the fourth canon of the Council

of Sardica, which especially recognizes the right of such appeal,

and the precedent of St. John Chrysostom. But appeals to justice

and law are lost on a packed synod as well as on a packed jury.

False witnesses were introduced, who swore that he had not been

legitimately elected, but owed his elevation to intrusion by the

secular power; and on this charge, true enough as against Photius, he

was deposed. One prelate spoke in his behalf, Theodulus of Ancyra,

who was immediately wounded by a ruffian, and thus enabled with his

blood to give testimony to the right. The ceremony of degradation

then ensued; the venerable patriarch was clothed with the insignia

of his order and dignity, and one by one these were taken off him by

a deposed subdeacon who, at each act, exclaimed aloud, _Indignus_,

(unworthy,) a word reëchoed by all present, even the legates of

the apostolic see. He was then thrown into the sepulchral vault of

Constantine Copronymus, tormented there in a most terrible manner,

nearly starved to death, till, after two weeks, when he was more

dead than alive, a minion of Photius, seizing his hand, forced him

to scratch a cross on a sheet of paper. Over this cross the usurper

wrote a formal acknowledgment of the justice of the sentence of the

synod, and sent it to the emperor as the voluntary act of his victim.

One result of this fraud was the liberation of the holy man, leave

having been accorded to him to retire to his mother's property; but

as he had reason to fear more violence, he left Constantinople in

disguise, and took refuge in the islands of the Propontis, where he

succeeded in baffling the pursuit of his heartless and unscrupulous

enemies.

Meanwhile, he sent a trustworthy messenger to Rome to inform the

supreme pontiff of the terrible injustice and indignities to which

he had been subjected in the presence and with the approval of the

legates of the holy see. These worthies returned, and informed

the pope that Ignatius had been canonically deposed and Photius

canonically installed. Photius also wrote a letter remarkable both

for craftiness and elegance. It contained neither an offence against

good style nor a word of truth. He regretted his elevation, deplored

the burden imposed on his weak shoulders, expressed his desire to

conform to the Roman discipline, and to govern with ecclesiastical

firmness, and blended not unskilfully the arts of flattery and

sophistry. But Nicholas was not to be deceived. He examined the acts

of the false synod, found the fraud that had been committed, and,

calling a council at Rome, restored Ignatius, deposed Photius, and

one of the traitor legates, who publicly acknowledged his crime. As

the other was absent, his case was put off until he could be heard

in his defence. The pontiff wrote also to the emperor and Photius,

announcing his action in the premises, addressing the latter merely

as a layman. In a later synod, (A.D. 863,) having heard from the

representative of St. Ignatius a full and well-authenticated account

of all the iniquity of Photius, the pope deposed him from every grade

of the sacred ministry, and interdicted him, under anathema, from

which he was not to be absolved unless at the moment of death, from

ever exercising any act of the same, or from in any way disturbing

the legitimate patriarch, Ignatius. He also deposed all those who

had been promoted by the usurper, as well as the second legate, who,

by not appearing when cited, had added to his other crimes that of

contumacy.

On hearing this news, Photius proceeded to the dire act of formal

schism. He called a council, and formally excommunicated Pope

Nicholas. Only one-and-twenty bishops followed him in his impious

course. The rest cried out, "It is not just to pronounce sentence

against the supreme and first pontiff, especially when it is an

inferior who pronounces it." To support his action, he published a

circular letter to the patriarchs and bishops of the East, in which

he accused the Roman see and the Western Church of the following

crimes: 1. that they abstained from flesh on Saturday; 2. that,

during the first week of Lent, they used milk and cheese; 3. that the

clergy in sacred orders observed celibacy; 4. that they reserved the

right of conferring confirmation to bishops; 5. that, by a change in

the symbol, they pretended that the Holy Ghost proceeded from the Son

as well as from the Father. No sensible reader but will smile at the

first four charges; in relation to the fifth, we shall only observe

here that, as first made by Photius, it did not allege a mere breach

of discipline, it involved the crime of heresy. As thus proffered it

cannot be, as it is not, now sustained by any orthodox Christian.

But the vices of the Emperor Michael brought upon him that punishment

which has so often visited licentious sovereigns. A conspiracy was

formed against him, and he was assassinated in his own palace, (A.D.

867.) The chief of the conspirators, Basil the Macedonian, ascended

the vacant throne. No one can defend the crime of assassination;

but the character of the new emperor has been painted in bright

colors by the historian. Of course, Photius fell with his patron,

and St. Ignatius was restored to his see. Both the emperor and

patriarch hastened to notify St. Nicholas of this happy event. But

that great and courageous pontiff had already been called to his

reward. The messengers from Constantinople found Adrian II. in

the chair of Peter. He congratulated them on the turn events had

taken, and, in order fully to heal the schism of Photius, thought

well to have a general council held at Constantinople. The emperor

consented and made the necessary dispositions. The council was

opened in the church of St. Sophia, on Oct. 5th, 869, held ten

sessions, and ended on the last day of February following. The

legates of the pope, Donatus, Bishop of Ostia, Stephen, Bishop of

Nepè, and Marinus, deacon of the Roman Church, presided. Their names

and legatine authority are always mentioned first in the acts. A

high place of honor was given to the emperor, as protector of the

church. The action of the council was in entire conformity with

the instruction of the pope to his legates. Ignatius was declared

legitimate patriarch, and Photius for ever deposed from any clerical

order. He was, however, offered lay communion, on condition that he

should retract and condemn, in writing, all the iniquitous acts of

his usurpation. Proper measures were taken to remedy the confusion

created by his long intrusion, and a profession of faith was

published, as well as twenty-seven disciplinary canons. Photius was

invited to appear in person; but he refused, denying the competency

of the synod to try him. To say the least, it was as competent to try

him as the one he had called to try Ignatius. The acts of the synod

were subsequently confirmed by Pope Adrian, and it has always been

admitted as universal by the church.

Thus, for the seventh time in the history of the church had a general

council been held in the East, composed of eastern bishops, presided

over by the legates of the apostolic see. At the first audience given

by the emperor to the legates of Adrian II., the former said, "In the

name of God, we beg that the work be strenuously carried on, that

the scandals caused by the wickedness of Photius be dispelled, so

that the long-wished-for unity and tranquillity be restored according

to the decree of the most holy Pope Nicholas." To which they made

answer, "For this have we come hither; for this purpose have we been

sent hither; but we cannot receive any one of your eastern bishops

into our council unless we shall have received from them a writing,

according to a formula which we have taken from the archives of the

apostolic see." And in the first session their demands were complied

with. So that at the very time when we are told by Protestant writers

that Photius was fighting for the rightful independence of the see

of Constantinople, the supremacy of the see of Rome was admitted in

a general synod by every eastern bishop that was not a creature of

Photius.

The attempted schism had thus been vigorously repressed, and Photius

lived ten years in exile. But he succeeded in gaining the esteem

and the favor of the monarch by an expedient which has often before

and since met with the same reward. Basil was of ignoble descent;

Photius made out a genealogy by which he showed the family of the

emperor to be an offshoot of the Arsacides, "the rivals of Rome, who

had possessed the sceptre of the east for four hundred years." The

acknowledged erudition of the author lent probability to the forgery;

the pride of the monarch was flattered, and his gratitude awakened.

On the death of St. Ignatius, (A.D. 877,) Photius was recalled to the

see of Constantinople, and the emperor immediately sent ambassadors

to Rome, begging the pontiff to acquiesce in the election. He

declared that Photius had seen the error of his ways, that his

present elevation would restore peace to the church, and that all the

bishops, even those who had adhered to Ignatius, petitioned for his

confirmation. John VIII., who then occupied the Roman see, judged it

expedient to gratify this universal desire. He required, however,

that Photius should in a public synod acknowledge the decrees of

Popes Nicholas and Adrian, and the general council, beg pardon

for the faults he had committed and the scandals he had given, be

absolved from censure, and then, and not till then, be acknowledged

as Bishop of Constantinople. He sent legates to execute this decree

of mercy. But the pride of Photius would not brook submission, and he

resorted to his old arts. Again the apostolic legates were corrupted

or intimidated; again Photius mutilated the pope's letters; received

in a numerous synod, from the legates themselves, the insignia of the

patriarchal dignity; and without any opposition from them, if not

with their consent, the eighth council was abrogated, and the acts of

Popes Nicholas and Adrian condemned.

On their return to Rome, the legates, of course, reported that the

injunctions of the pontiff had been strictly observed; but the pride

of Photius betrayed them. In his letter he said he had fulfilled

all the conditions save that of begging pardon, because he had done

nothing to require pardon. This led John to an investigation which

revealed to him how shamefully he had been disobeyed. He accordingly

sent to Constantinople the same Marinus, who had been one of the

legates to the general council, ordering him to rescind every thing

that had been done against his mandate. This brave and intelligent

man fully and faithfully performed his duty, and was imprisoned

for thirty days; but as his constancy could not be overcome, he

was allowed to return to Rome. Whereupon Pope John, "ascending the

pulpit, taking the Gospel in his hands, in the hearing of the whole

congregation, thus spake, 'Whoever doth not hold Photius condemned

by the sentence of God, as the holy Popes Nicholas and Adrian, my

predecessors, left him, let him be anathema.'" Photius, however,

remained in possession as long as Basil lived. His son and successor,

Leo the Philosopher, albeit educated by Photius, caused the sentence

of the pontiffs to be executed. As the newly-elected prelate,

Stephan, had been ordained deacon by Photius, a circumstance which

rendered him irregular, a dispensation was prayed for from Rome. This

was granted by Pope Formosus, with a saving clause that it should not

be interpreted against the condemnation of Photius. Thus the schism

was healed for a time. Photius died in a monastery, A.D. 891.

There is no doubt that Protestantism, since the culmination of