“I am compelled to raise the drawbridge and drop the portcullis upon
the hope, Mrs. Travers. My working-drawing is here, and—”
“Then if Mohammed will not come to the mountain, the mountain must come
to Mohammed. I’ll drive my sister over to service next Sunday, and see
how the priest, the painter, and the picture are getting on.”
It was a great wrench to the artist to tear himself away, and the _sans
adieux_ that fluttered after him on the evening breeze seemed sad and
mournful. Was the barrier between Mr. Jyvecote and himself utterly
impassable? Could it not be bridged over? He could not assume the
initiative. _He_ would see Jyvecote and his whole race in—Yokohama
first; and yet what would he not do to gain the love of the youngest
daughter of the house! Anything, everything. Pshaw! any chance of
wooing and winning such a girl should be through the medium of his
title, his position, and by passing beneath the yoke of society. What
sheer folly to think of her from the stand-point upon which he had been
admitted to her father’s house! As the artist he was patronized, as the
baronet he could be placed; and yet to win her as the artist would just
be one of those triumphs which lay within the chances occasionally
vouchsafed by the rosy archer. She had been silent, reserved, and had
seemed shy of him. She spoke much of a man in the Guards, a chum of her
brother Jasper; possibly this Guardsman was _the_ man.
In musings such as these did Mr. Brown pursue his work, and the picture
came to life beneath his glowing hands. The canvas, with all the
necessary _et cæteras_, had arrived from Dublin, the good priest
marvelling considerably at the pecuniary resources of his guest. “His
little all,” he thought, “and he’s going to make it a present to my
sweet parishioner.”
But a great surprise was in store for Father Maurice.
Mr. Brown had issued instructions to his London friend to forward the
Stations of the Cross, free of all carriage, to the Rev. Maurice
O’Donnell, P.P., Monamullin, Ballynaveogin, County Mayo.
This order was promptly complied with, and a lovely autumnal evening
beheld the whole village, curs and all, turn out to speculate upon the
nature of the contents of four gigantic wooden cases which were
deposited in the little garden attached to the priest’s cottage. It
were utterly useless to endeavor to describe the _furore_ occasioned by
the opening the boxes; the excitement rose to a pitch never realized in
Monamullin since the occasion of the visit of the Archbishop of
Tuam—the Lion of the Fold of Juda. Father Maurice fairly wept for joy;
Mrs. Clancy insisted upon doing the Stations there and then; and as
each picture was brought to light, from the folds of wrappers as
numerous as those surrounding the body of an Egyptian mummy, a hum of
admiration was raised by the assembled and reverential multitude. The
good priest, never guessing the source from whence the splendid gift
had emanated, endeavored to trace it to Miss Jyvecote—a belief which
Mr. Brown sedulously sustained—and Father Morris, full of the idea,
chanted whole litanies in her praises, scarcely ever ceasing mention of
her.
“I’ll drive over to-morrow and tender her my most devoted gratitude.
I’ll offer up Masses for her. I’ll—”
“She will be here to-morrow, father. Mrs. Travers is to drive her over.
Don’t you think we ought to see about hanging the Stations? It will
please her immensely to see them in their places in the church.”
A hanging committee was appointed and the work of suspending the
pictures carried into instant execution. The mouldy little edifice was
soon ablaze with gilding and glorious coloring, which, alas! but seemed
to display its general dinginess more glaringly.
“My poor little altar may hide its diminished head,” said Father
Maurice mournfully, brightening up, however, as he added: “But, sure,
I’ll soon have Miss Jyvecote’s beautiful altar-cloth.”
The “castle people” arrived upon the following morning and were
escorted by the artist to the church.
“You have come over upon an interesting occasion, Miss Jyvecote,” he
said; “Father Maurice has received an anonymous gift of a set of
Stations of the Cross, and he thinks that you can tell him something
about them.”
Great was the astonishment of the simple priest when Miss Jyvecote
disclaimed all knowledge of the presentation.
“Why, father, you must think me as rich as Miss Burdett-Coutts,” she
cried. “These beautiful works of art have cost hundreds of pounds. Mr.
Brown here will tell you how much they cost,” turning to that
gentleman. How often a stray shot hits home! Mr. Brown had the
receipted bill in his pocket at that particular moment.
“They are French,” he said, evading the question.
“Consequently more expensive, _n’est ce pas_?”
“They are not badly done.”
“They are on the borderland of high art, Mr. Brown. Why do you
pooh-pooh them?”
Poor Father Maurice was fairly nonplussed. All his guesses anent the
donor fell short, while his surmises died from sheer inanition. It
could not be the cardinal. Might it be little Micky O’Brien, that ran
away to sea and was now coming home a rich man? or Paudheen Rafferty,
who was a thriving grocer in Dublin? For the first time in his life the
parish priest of Monamullin felt uneasy, if not unhappy. What did it
portend? Who could possibly take so serious an interest in the affairs
of his little parish? Mr. Malachi Bodkin might have done so in the
olden time, but the famine of ‘48 left him barely able to keep up
Corriebawn. Sir Marmaduke Blake was a scamp who racked his tenants and
spent his money in debauchery.
“I suppose I shall learn some day,” sighed the priest. “I must be
patient, but I wish it was to-day.”
After luncheon—Father Maurice’s breakfast—the artist and Miss Jyvecote
strolled along the shore. The sun seemed to shine with a certain
sadness, the gray ocean to moan as if in pain, and the shadow of the
“we shall not meet again” to hang over Julia and her companion as they
seated themselves in a secluded nook surrounded by huge rocks—a spot in
which the world seemed to cease suddenly.
“And so you think of leaving?” she said after a long silence, during
which she drew eccentric circles in the sand with the tip of her
parasol.
“My _kismet_ says ‘yes,’ Miss Jyvecote.”
“Does your _kismet_ say whither?”
“It points to that little village on the Thames called London.”
“We go to London next month, _en route_ to Egypt. My sister Gussie—you
never met her—who has been in Italy with my uncle, is recommended Egypt
for her chest. Papa received letters yesterday.”
“How long do you think you will remain in London?”
“Only a day or two.”
“Might I hope to see you?”
“Why not? Our address is 91 Bruton Street, Mayfair.”
“Is—is Mr. Delmege, of the Guards, going to Egypt?”
She looked gravely at him, full into his eyes, as she replied, somewhat
coldly:
“Not that I am aware of.”
His heart gave one great bound, as though a dull, dead weight had been
suddenly removed.
“I hope to see your handicraft on the walls of the Academy when we
return.”
“_Sabe Dios_!” he said, clasping his knees with his hands, and gazing
out across the moaning sea.
“If you try you will succeed.”
“I have a very poor opinion of my own power of success in anything. I
am colorless, purposeless.”
“Neither one nor the other. You have a noble profession, a glorious
talent, and Father Maurice says you have a good heart. With three such
friends as companions life is a garden of flowers.”
“And yet till within the last few days I have found it but a desert.”
Then silence fell upon both.
“Father Maurice will miss you dreadfully,” she murmured. She was very
pale, and her dark eyes turned upon him with mournful earnestness. “He
has become so much attached to you; and the poor little altar will miss
your artistic grouping of the flowers. Do you know,” she added, “I
shall say an _Ave Maria_ when I visit the little church, and for your
conversion?”
“Is that a promise, Miss Jyvecote?”
“It is.”
“Will you also”—he stopped suddenly short, and dug his heel into the
sand.
“The shay is waitin’ for ye, Miss Jewel, and Missis Thravers is roarin’
murdher,” cried Murty Mulligan, thrusting his shock head between a
cleft in the rocks.
Brown sprang to his feet and offered Miss Jyvecote his arm. Neither
spoke during the walk to the cottage. “If you should hear of me through
your brother, do not think ill of me,” he whispered, as he handed her
into the phaeton.
“What do you mean?” she asked in as low a tone.
“Promise me that you will not forget Brown, the poor artist.”
“It is scarcely necessary,” she murmured, as she gave him her hand.
There was a blank at the priest’s home when the artist left. Father
Maurice missed him sadly—missed his hit at backgammon, his gay gossip,
and his cheery company.
“He was a rale gintleman,” said Mrs. Clancy; “he wanted for to give me
a goolden soverin—mebbe th’ only wan he had—but I tuk a crukked
ha’penny for luck, an’ it’s luck I wish him wherever he goes.”
“He was the nicest man, an’ the nicest-mannered man, I ever seen,”
chimed in Murty; “an’ I’m in dhread that I spoke too rough whin he
offered me menumeration.”
“He promised to come here next summer, and he will keep his promise,”
said the priest.
* * * * *
Mr. Jocelyn Jyvecote was seated in the study at 91 Bruton Street,
engaged in perusing the columns of the _Times_. He had slept well,
breakfasted well, and was thoroughly refreshed after his journey, as he
had arrived in town from the East upon the previous day.
A servant entered with a card upon a silver salver.
Mr. Jyvecote adjusted his eyeglass and leisurely lifted the tiny bit of
pasteboard. “What does this mean?” he cried, letting it fall again. “Is
the gentleman waiting?”
“In the ‘all, sir.”
“Show him in.”
A tall, high-bred-looking young man entered. His face was pale and he
somewhat nervously stroked a _Henri Quatre_ beard.
“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit from Sir Everard Noel?”
demanded Mr. Jyvecote haughtily.
“I shall explain the purport of my visit in a few words.”
“Pray be seated.”
“Thanks! Mr. Jyvecote, there was bad blood and bitter feud between you
and my poor father about the Ottley Farm.”
“You need scarcely remind me of that, Sir Everard.”
“There is bad blood between us, Mr. Jyvecote. You claimed it in right
of an old lease that could not be discovered when the case came before
the court, and I retain possession of it by law. The last time that we
met we met in hot anger, and—and I used expressions for which I am very
seriously sorry. So long as that farm is in possession of either of us
it will lead to bad feeling, and I came here to-day to tell you what I
mean to do about it.”
A somewhat less stern frown appeared upon Mr. Jyvecote’s features as he
listened.
“Last autumn accident threw me into the wildest portion of the west of
Ireland, a place not unknown to you—Monamullin.”
“It is within seven miles of Moynalty Castle.”
“I am aware of that. I was the guest of one of the purest men that God
Almighty ever made—Father Maurice O’Donnell.”
“Your estimate is just, Sir Everard.”
“His soul is in his work, and his simple heart is fragmentarily divided
amongst his little flock. I found his church dingy, dilapidated,
falling. He is worthy of a better building; he is worthy of anything,”
cried the young man enthusiastically.
Mr. Jyvecote bowed assent.
“Well, sir, I purpose selling Ottley Farm, and devoting the proceeds
towards building a new church for Father Maurice O’Donnell. I have an
offer of three thousand pounds for the farm, and here are the plans,
prepared by Mr. Pugin—pure Gothic,” extracting a roll of papers from
his pocket and eagerly thrusting them into the hands of the other.
Mr. Jyvecote leisurely surveyed them, while the young man regarded him
with the most eager scrutiny. Suddenly flinging them upon the table,
Mr. Jyvecote rose, and, taking Sir Everard Noel’s hand, shook it
warmly.
“Noel, you are a fine-hearted fellow, and a chivalrous one. There are
not ten—pshaw! there are not two men in London who would patch up a
feud as you are doing to-day. I am better pleased to see you in this
fine form than the acquisition of ten farms. Give the dear old priest
his church, and for my daughter’s sake—I am as stanch a Protestant as
yourself—I’ll put up an altar. Come up-stairs now, and I’ll present you
to her.”
At this particular moment Miss Jyvecote entered the study. Upon
perceiving our hero she grew deadly pale and then flushed up to the
roots of her hair.
“Mr. Brown,” she said holding out her hand.
“You are mistaken, Juey; this is an old enemy and a new friend—Sir
Everard Noel.”
* * * * *
The church was erected at Monamullin and is a perfect gem in its way,
the talent of “all the Pugins” being thrown into the design. At its
altar Everard Noel received his First Communion, and at its altar he
was united to Julia Jyvecote by the proud, happy, and affectionate
Father Maurice O’Donnell.
“An’ only for to think o’ me axin’ a rale live baronet for to paint the
back doore,” is the constant exclamation of the worthy Mrs. Clancy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
RECENT POLEMICS AND IRENICS IN SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY.
It is not always easy to draw the line, either in theology or
philosophy, that divides the part which has been dogmatically or
scientifically defined from that which remains open ground of
discussion in the Catholic schools. Occasionally we are aided and
favored by a new definition, made with supreme and final authority by
the Holy See, which adds something, not to the immutability of truth
itself, which is eternally incapable of the slightest alteration, but
to the quantity of science as fixed and immutable in the conceptions of
the understanding intellect. The authority of reason may also suffice
to add to the quantity of certain science by inductions from facts made
evident by experience, which have the force of demonstration. But the
dogmatic definitions are not so numerous and frequent as some minds,
impatient of discussion and difference of opinion, may desire. Rational
demonstration, though fully sufficient to define scientific truth and
terminate doubt in the understanding of those who clearly and
distinctly apprehend it, is not always understood sufficiently for this
purpose even by all intelligent, educated minds, at least for a
considerable period. Discussion on important points is not, therefore,
terminated between different Catholic schools, and agreement in
doctrine established, as completely and speedily as might be desired by
those who have a strong sense of the importance of unity in theological
and philosophical doctrine. Some, who are animated by a polemical
spirit, are disposed to claim for the doctrines of their own particular
school a greater amount of dogmatic or scientific authority than that
which is generally conceded to them. They are disposed to amplify the
import of decisions or declarations made by the authority of the
church, to magnify the authority of great doctors and masters in
Catholic science, and to extend as far as possible the claim of
metaphysical or moral certitude for the doctrines which they advocate.
Others are animated by a more irenical spirit. They desire to moderate
polemical ardor; to control the zeal for the triumph of particular
systems, and the exaltation of individual masters in wisdom, within
reasonable bounds; to harmonize all branches of science with each
other; to observe the just limitations of dogmatic or scientific
certainty; to extend the range of rational science by calm discussion
which has only the attainment of truth in view; and, without
compromising orthodox doctrine, to leave open and free to argument all
that domain which has not been closed in by any final definition of
competent authority. The polemical and irenical tendencies are not in
real opposition. They are elements capable of combination with each
other. We do not believe that differences of opinion among Catholic
schools will ever be entirely terminated or controversy cease. Yet
there is always an increasing approximation toward unity, and the
irenical spirit aids this movement by diminishing misunderstandings and
moderating controversial ardor. The Holy See not only at times decides
and terminates controversies by a judgment, but also, at other times,
refuses to pronounce judgment, and admonishes those who seek to stretch
too far the import of her decisions to respect the liberty of opinion
and discussion which she allows.
We have an instance of this in the subjoined documents respecting the
philosophy of the venerable and holy Father Rosmini—a system which has
at present a considerable following and is in very decided opposition
to the ideological doctrine of the Thomist school, as well as to other
parts of the common, scholastic teaching.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ROSMINI’S WORKS, AND THE JUDGMENT OF ROME UPON THEM.
(The following is a translation of the official communication which
appeared in the _Osservatore Romano_ of June 20, 1876.)
MOST ILLUSTRIOUS MARQUIS:
In No. 136 of your esteemed journal, June 14, 1876, I have read
with pain an article on a little work entitled “_Antonio
Rosmini and the Civiltà Cattolica before the Sacred
Congregation of the Index_, by Giuseppe Buroni, Priest of the
Mission.”
You are well aware that the works of the distinguished
philosopher Antonio Rosmini were made the subject of a most
rigorous examination by the Sacred Congregation of the Index
from 1851 to 1854, and that at the close of this examination
our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., still happily reigning, in the
assembly of the most reverend consultors and the most eminent
cardinals, whose votes he had heard, and over whom he deigned,
with a condescension seldom shown, to preside in person, after
invoking with fervent prayers the light and help of Heaven,
pronounced the following decree: “All the works of Antonio
Rosmini-Serbati, concerning which investigation has been made
of late, must be dismissed; nor has this same investigation
resulted in anything whatever derogatory to the name of the
author, or to the praiseworthiness of life and the singular
merits towards the church of the religious society founded by
him.”
The author of the article referred to undertakes to discuss the
meaning of the words _Dimittantur opera_, but, while professing
to admit their force, he reduces it well-nigh to nothing. For
he says: “We do not deny that _Dimittantur_ is in a _certain
respect_ equivalent to _Permittatur_; but to permit that a work
may be published and read without incurring ecclesiastical
penalty has nothing whatever to do with declaring the work
itself uncensurable.” Now, by these words one is led to suppose
that the Sacred Congregation, or rather the Holy Father, by
pronouncing that judgment, did nothing more than permit that
the works of Rosmini may be published and read without
incurring a penalty.
But I ask: What penalty did the editors and readers of
Rosmini’s works incur before those works were subjected to so
lengthened and accurate a scrutiny? None whatever. What, then,
would the Sacred Congregation of the Index have done by such
grave study and labors so protracted? Nothing whatever. And to
what purpose would the judgment of the Holy Father have been
given? To no purpose whatever. If, then, we do not wish to fall
into these absurdities, we must say that the accusations
brought against the works of Rosmini were false; that in these
works nothing was found contrary to faith and morals; that
their publication and perusal are not dangerous to the
faithful. Who can ever suppose that the Holy Father has set
free for publication works containing erroneous doctrines, and
liberated the readers of them from penalty? To liberate from
penalty the readers of books infected with error would be an
act productive of greater injury than if a penalty were imposed
or (assuming its previous existence) were maintained in full
vigor.
I might touch on other points of the article in question, and
show that its author has presumed to dive further than he ought
into a matter which does not belong to him. But what I have
said suffices to make it imperative on me to address this
letter to you. As it may not be known to every one that the
Master of the Sacred Palace does not, under existing
circumstances, revise the journals, and as the character and
fame of the _Osservatore Romano_ might lead to a belief that he
(the Master of the Sacred Palace) has approved of the article
in question, I think it necessary to declare to you that I
should never have given my consent to the publication of the
same. Nay, I have to request that you will not, in future,
receive any articles either on the sense of the judgment
_Dimittatur_, or against the learned and pious Rosmini, or
against his works, examined and dismissed.
I take this opportunity to remind all concerned that the Holy
Father, from the time of the issuing of the _Dimittantur
opera_, enjoined silence, and this in order that no new
accusations should be put forward, nor, under any pretext, a
way made for discord among Catholics: “That no new accusations
and discords should arise and be disseminated in future,
silence is now for the third time enjoined, on either party, by
command of His Holiness.”
Who does not see that the seeds of discord are sown by
traducing the works of Rosmini either as not being yet
sufficiently examined, or as suspected of errors which were not
seen either before or after so extraordinary an examination, or
as dangerous; or by using expressions which take away all the
value or diminish excessively the force and authority of a
judgment pronounced with so much maturity and so much solemnity
by the supreme Pastor of the church?
By this it is not meant to affirm that it would be unlawful to
dissent from the philosophical system of Rosmini, or from the
manner in which he tries to explain some truths, and even to
offer a confutation of them in the schools; but if one does not
agree with Rosmini in the manner of explaining certain truths,
it is not on that account lawful to conclude that Rosmini has
denied these truths; nor is it lawful to inflict any
theological censure on the doctrines maintained by him in the
works which the Sacred Congregation has examined and dismissed,
and which the Holy Father has intended to protect from further
accusations in the future.
Believe me, etc., etc.,
Your most obedient servant,
FR. FRANCIS VINCENZO MARIA GATTI,
Of the Order of Preachers,
Master of the Sacred Apostolical Palace.
JUNE 16, 1876.
The following appeared in the _Osservatore Cattolico_ of Milan, July 1,
1876:
The Sacred Roman Congregation of the Index, by a letter
addressed to His Grace the Archbishop of Milan under date of
June 20, 1876, and signed by His Eminence Cardinal Antonio de
Luca, Prefect of the Congregation, and the Very Reverend Father
Girolamo Pio Saccheri, of the Friars Preachers, Secretary, and
delivered by his grace in person to one of the responsible
editors of this journal in the afternoon of Wednesday, July 28,
has enjoined us:
“1. To maintain in future the most rigorous silence on the
question of the works of Antonio Rosmini; because, in
consequence of the authoritative decree of the Holy Father
(_That no new accusations and discords should arise and be
disseminated in future, silence is for the third time enjoined
on either party by command of His Holiness_), it is not
lawful—in matters pertaining to religion and relating to faith
and sound morals—to inflict any censure on the works of Rosmini
or on his person; _the only thing upon which freedom is allowed
being to discuss in the schools and in books_, and within
proper limits, his philosophical opinions and the merits of his
manner of explaining certain truths, even theological. 2. To
declare in an early issue of this journal that we have not
rightly interpreted the sentence _Dimittantur_, which the
Sacred Congregation of the Index thinks fit sometimes, after
mature and diligent examination, to pronounce upon works
submitted to its authoritative judgment.”