_Rome, Dec. 20, 1869._—It may truly be said that theology is now rare,
very rare, in Rome. There is, of course, no lack of theologians; the Pope
himself has no less than a hundred, chiefly monks; but if they were all
pounded together in a mortar into one theologian, even this one would find
some difficulty in getting his claims recognised in Germany. If any one
here were to demand of the so-called theologians what, between the North
Sea and the Alps, is considered the first requisite for a theologian,—the
capacity of reading the New Testament and the Greek Fathers and Councils
in the original language,—he would be ridiculed as a dreamer. And as to
the theology of many Bishops, one is often reminded of the daughters of
Phorcys, who had only one eye and one tooth, which they lent each other by
turns to use. Not a few of them flutter about Infallibility like flies
about a candle, in evident fear of getting burnt. But when the critical
moment comes, they will vote obediently as the master whose power they
have sworn to increase bids them. If the Prelates were even slightly
acquainted with Church history, they would certainly recoil in terror from
the maxims and doctrines their decision will recall from the realm of
shadows they seem to have sunk into, and clothe again with flesh and
blood. They would recoil from the complications and contests they and
their successors must hereafter be involved in with all nations and
governments, as forced executors of every infallible utterance of 256
Popes.
The sudden departure of Cardinal Mathieu, Archbishop of Besançon, is
connected with the election of the Commission on Faith, which turned out
so unfortunately for the Germans; the French Bishops after the previous
consultation had divided their forces, the Infallibilists voting for
Bonnechose, their opponents for Cardinal Mathieu. The defeated party
wanted to protest against a scandalous intrigue about the election,
carried on by a man whose name I suppress; and Mathieu’s sudden departure
was in order to avoid being mixed up with the conflict, and from disgust
at the whole affair.
A singular incident not long since created some sensation and amusement in
English circles. The English Bishops, like their Archbishop, Manning, are
declared Infallibilists—a tendency first introduced among the clergy there
since Wiseman’s time, for before that Gallican views prevailed almost
universally in England, and definite assurances were given on the subject
at the time of Catholic Emancipation. And as Papal Infallibility implied
necessarily the doctrine of the Pope’s dominion over monarchs and
governments, which was formally abjured—_e.g._, in the Irish clerical
seminary of Maynooth—the Infallibilist theory was supposed to be shelved
also. It chanced that lately the _Pall Mall Gazette_, which is much read
even here, under the heading, “The Infallibility of the Pope a Protestant
Invention,” quoted the following question and answer from a widely-used
manual of instruction, approved by many Bishops, and highly praised even
in Manning’s journal, the _Tablet_, called _The Controversial
Catechism_:—“_Q._ Are not Catholics bound to believe that the Pope is in
himself infallible?—_A._ This is a Protestant invention, and is no article
of Catholic belief; no Papal decision can bind under pain of heresy,
unless received and prescribed by the teaching body, the Bishops of the
Church.”
At the moment I am writing, there is a pause, but by no means a truce. _Le
Concile ne marche pas, mais il intrigue_, I heard a Frenchman say this
morning. The acoustic qualities of the Assembly Hall, which is the whole
height of St. Peter’s, make it quite unfit for use. If anything is to be
proclaimed, it must be shouted at full pitch to the four sides. It
happened the other day that the Bishops on one side were crying _Placet_,
while those on the other side expressed their opinion by _Non placet, quia
nihil intelleximus_. Pius IX., who was long ago made aware of the state of
the case, really thought that all discussion was superfluous. And as the
hall must be abandoned as utterly useless, the 120,000 scudi lavished on
preparing it are wasted. There is no lack of funds, however; so much so,
that 20,000 scudi have been spent already on laying the foundation of the
memorial pillar of the Council. These things must make an indescribable
impression on those who have heard most touching pictures drawn in the
pulpit at home of the wants and poverty of the Head of the Church.
Antonelli, to whom the impossibility of carrying on the Council in this
place has been represented, has now taken the matter in hand, and another
chamber is to be found and got ready. A room in the Quirinal is talked of,
or the _atrium_ over St. Peter’s in the Sistine. The latter would be an
ominous place, for in the _Sala Regia_, which the Bishops must pass
through to enter the Sistine, is Vasari’s famous picture, painted by order
of Gregory XIII., for the glorification of the massacre of St.
Bartholomew. The contemplation of this picture, which now, since the
publication of the nuncio Salviati’s despatches, the Pope is proved to
have ordered with full knowledge of the real nature of that horrible
occurrence, and full intention of sanctioning it, might perhaps somewhat
indispose the Prelates to vote for the articles of the Syllabus on
religious coercion and the power of the Church to inflict bodily
punishment. Antonelli means now to take up the Council in earnest. For
him, indeed, who was formerly an advocate, the theological side of
Infallibility has little interest; but he is too skilful and experienced a
statesman and financier not to appreciate keenly the gain to be derived
from the new dogma in all countries, in the shape of power, influence, and
revenue. He understands well enough, and better than many statesmen this
side the Alps, the incalculable consequences of having it henceforth
taught and insisted on as a first principle in every catechism, public
school, and country pulpit, that Papal decrees and decisions, not only in
the domain of faith but of morals, the relations of Church and State, and
the whole life of society, are absolutely infallible,—of its being made
the first and crucial question for Catholics in all cases, What has the
infallible Pope, either the reigning pontiff or one of his predecessors,
decided on this point, or what will he decide if asked?
A Bull appeared yesterday, which, if read and understood, would create
great excitement. It professes to abolish a part of the numerous
excommunications _latæ sententiæ_,(21) which the Popes have gradually
accumulated; but virtually it is intended as a renewal or confirmation of
the Bull _In Cœnâ Domini_, which Clement XIV. (Ganganelli) first dropped
the custom of publishing annually, and which, from his time, had been
regarded, everywhere out of Rome, as abrogated, though the _Curia_ always
maintained that it was binding in principle, as Crétineau-Joli shows in
his Memoirs of Consalvi. I am only giving here the judgment of a friend
who has read the Bull. If he is rightly informed, it is but the first link
in a chain of decrees embodying the retrospective force of the anticipated
dogma, for the saying will hold good then, “Quod fuimus erimus, quod
fecimus faciemus.” Every claim once advanced must be maintained, every
doctrinal proposition renewed, and so the living body will be chained to a
corpse.
Desertions from the ranks of the Opposition to the majority of 500, must,
no doubt, be reckoned on, and the renegades will say, like Talleyrand,
that they are not deserting, but only coming in earlier than others.
Whether these desertions will be numerous enough to reduce the minority to
40 or 50, as the authorities hope, will be determined when the question of
opportuneness gets disentangled from the question of principle. For it
requires more than common courage to make open profession of disbelief in
the Infallibilist dogma at Rome, since the Pope, in his letters to Manning
and Deschamps, has indulged in severe censures of those who question his
infallibility; and every Cardinal and Monsignore is accustomed to express
himself in the same sense.
Can this Council, then, which can move neither hand nor foot, be called
free? Is an assembly free, when no speech can be made, no single decision
come to, without the express permission of an external master? If this is
freedom, there has never been an unfree Council. So I hear many saying, as
well clergy as laity, and even Bishops. The Pope, of course, has not
forgotten that, on the day of his election, sitting on the High Altar of
that very church where the Council is now being held, he was adored by the
Cardinals, and four days afterwards crowned with the triple tiara, with
the words, “Scias te esse rectorem orbis.” It has been summoned to arrange
and negotiate the transition from the previous condition of the Church to
a new one. Till now, at least in theory, Councils were, or were supposed
to be, assemblies deliberating and deciding freely. But, in the new
condition of the Church, under the rule of Papal Infallibility, assemblies
of Bishops are purely superfluous, or only useful as machines for
acclamation. The present assembly stands midway between the old Church and
the new, and participates in both. The vital breath of freedom and
independence it is deprived of, but it is not yet a mere
acclamation-machine: it can still dissent and say, _Non placet_. On the
day when the new dogma is proclaimed, and the eternal city again, as in
1517,(22) declares its joy by illuminations, the Synod will have killed
itself with its own hand, and marched into the grave as the last of its
generation. And just as when a knight died the last of his race, his
shield was broken and his arms obliterated, so will the usual chapter _De
Conciliis_ be obliterated from the dogmatic manuals.