Mother of God, which you will find in this book, are so many celestial
keys, which will open wide to you the gates of paradise, provided you
practise them;’ and accordingly, he says at the conclusion, ‘that he is
satisfied if you practise only one of them.’”
“Pray, then, father, do teach me one of the easiest of them.”
“They are all easy,” he replied; “for example—‘Saluting the Holy Virgin
when you happen to meet her image—saying the little chaplet of the
pleasures of the Virgin—fervently pronouncing the name of
Mary—commissioning the angels to bow to her for us—wishing to build her
as many churches as all the monarchs on earth have done—bidding her good
morrow every morning, and good night in the evening—saying the _Ave
Maria_ every day, in honor of the heart of Mary’—which last devotion, he
says, possesses the additional virtue of securing us the heart of the
Virgin.”[184]
“But, father,” said I, “only provided we give her our own in return, I
presume?”
“That,” he replied, “is not absolutely necessary, when a person is too
much attached to the world. Hear Father Barry: ‘Heart for heart would,
no doubt, be highly proper; but yours is rather too much attached to the
world, too much bound up in the creature, so that I dare not advise you
to offer, at present, that _poor little slave_ which you call your
heart.’ And so he contents himself with the _Ave Maria_ which he had
prescribed.”[185]
“Why, this is extremely easy work,” said I, “and I should really think
that nobody will be damned after that.”
“Alas!” said the monk, “I see you have no idea of the hardness of some
people’s hearts. There are some, sir, who would never engage to repeat,
every day, even these simple words, _Good day_, _Good evening_, just
because such a practice would require some exertion of memory. And,
accordingly, it became necessary for Father Barry to furnish them with
expedients still easier, such as wearing a chaplet night and day on the
arm, in the form of a bracelet, or carrying about one’s person a rosary,
or an image of the Virgin.[186] ‘And, tell me now,’ as Father Barry
says, ‘if I have not provided you with easy devotions to obtain the good
graces of Mary?’”
“Extremely easy indeed, father,” I observed.
“Yes,” he said, “it is as much as could possibly be done, and I think
should be quite satisfactory. For he must be a wretched creature indeed,
who would not spare a single moment in all his lifetime to put a chaplet
on his arm, or a rosary in his pocket, and thus secure his salvation;
and that, too, with so much certainty that none who have tried the
experiment have ever found it to fail, in whatever way they may have
lived; though, let me add, we exhort people not to omit holy living. Let
me refer you to the example of this, given at p. 34; it is that of a
female who, while she practised daily the devotion of saluting the
images of the Virgin, spent all her days in mortal sin, and yet was
saved after all, by the merit of that single devotion.”
“And how so?” cried I.
“Our Saviour,” he replied, “raised her up again, for the very purpose of
showing it. So certain it is, that none can perish who practise any one
of these devotions.”
“My dear sir,” I observed, “I am fully aware that the devotions to the
Virgin are a powerful mean of salvation, and that the least of them, if
flowing from the exercise of faith and charity, as in the case of the
saints who have practised them, are of great merit; but to make persons
believe that, by practising these without reforming their wicked lives,
they will be converted by them at the hour of death, or that God will
raise them up again, does appear calculated rather to keep sinners going
on in their evil courses, by deluding them with false peace and
fool-hardy confidence, than to draw them off from sin by that genuine
conversion which grace alone can effect.”[187]
“What does it matter,” replied the monk, “by what road we enter
paradise, provided we do enter it? as our famous Father Binet, formerly
our provincial, remarks on a similar subject, in his excellent book On
the Mark of Predestination, ‘Be it by hook or by crook,’ as he says,
‘what need we care, if we reach at last the celestial city.’”
“Granted,” said I; “but the great question is, if we will get there at
all?”
“The Virgin will be answerable for that,” returned he; “so says Father
Barry in the concluding lines of his book: ‘If, at the hour of death,
the enemy should happen to put in some claim upon you, and occasion
disturbance in the little commonwealth of your thoughts, you have only
to say that Mary will answer for you, and that he must make his
application to her.’”
“But, father, it might be possible to puzzle you, were one disposed to
push the question a little further. Who, for example, has assured us
that the Virgin will be answerable in this case?”
“Father Barry will be answerable for her,” he replied. “‘As for the
profit and happiness to be derived from these devotions,’ he says, ‘I
will be answerable for that; I will stand bail for the good Mother.’”
“But, father, who is to be answerable for Father Barry?”
“How!” cried the monk; “for Father Barry? is he not a member of our
Society? and do you need to be told that our Society is answerable for
all the books of its members? It is highly necessary and important for
you to know about this. There is an order in our Society, by which all
booksellers are prohibited from printing any work of our fathers without
the approbation of our divines and the permission of our superiors. This
regulation was passed by Henry III., 10th May 1583, and confirmed by
Henry IV., 20th December 1603, and by Louis XIII., 14th February 1612;
so that the whole of our body stands responsible for the publications of
each of the brethren. This is a feature quite peculiar to our community.
And, in consequence of this, not a single work emanates from us which
does not breathe the spirit of the Society. That, sir, is a piece of
information quite _apropos_.”[188]
“My good father,” said I, “you oblige me very much, and I only regret
that I did not know this sooner, as it will induce me to pay
considerably more attention to your authors.”
“I would have told you sooner,” he replied, “had an opportunity offered;
I hope, however, you will profit by the information in future, and, in
the mean time, let us prosecute our subject. The methods of securing
salvation which I have mentioned are, in my opinion, very easy, very
sure, and sufficiently numerous; but it was the anxious wish of our
doctors that people should not stop short at this first step, where they
only do what is absolutely necessary for salvation, and nothing more.
Aspiring, as they do without ceasing, after the greater glory of
God,[189] they sought to elevate men to a higher pitch of piety; and as
men of the world are generally deterred from devotion by the strange
ideas they have been led to form of it by some people, we have deemed it
of the highest importance to remove this obstacle which meets us at the
threshold. In this department Father Le Moine has acquired much fame, by
his work entitled DEVOTION MADE EASY, composed for this very purpose.
The picture which he draws of devotion in this work is perfectly
charming. None ever understood the subject before him. Only hear what he
says in the beginning of his work: ‘Virtue has never as yet been seen
aright; no portrait of her, hitherto produced, has borne the least
verisimilitude. It is by no means surprising that so few have attempted
to scale her rocky eminence. She has been held up as a cross-tempered
dame, whose only delight is in solitude; she has been associated with
toil and sorrow; and, in short, represented as the foe of sports and
diversions, which are, in fact, the flowers of joy and the seasoning of
life.’”
“But, father, I am sure, I have heard at least, that there have been
great saints who led extremely austere lives.”
“No doubt of that,” he replied; “but still, to use the language of the
doctor, ‘there have always been a number of genteel saints, and
well-bred devotees;’ and this difference in their manners, mark you,
arises entirely from a difference of humors. ‘I am far from denying,’
says my author, ‘that there are devout persons to be met with, pale and
melancholy in their temperament, fond of silence and retirement, with
phlegm instead of blood in their veins, and with faces of clay; but
there are many others of a happier complexion, and who possess that
sweet and warm humor, that genial and rectified blood, which is the true
stuff that joy is made of.’
“You see,” resumed the monk, “that the love of silence and retirement is
not common to all devout people; and that, as I was saying, this is the
effect rather of their complexion than their piety. Those austere
manners to which you refer, are, in fact, properly the character of a
savage and barbarian, and, accordingly, you will find them ranked by
Father Le Moine among the ridiculous and brutal manners of a moping
idiot. The following is the description he has drawn of one of these in
the seventh book of his Moral Pictures: ‘He has no eyes for the beauties
of art or nature. Were he to indulge in anything that gave him pleasure,
he would consider himself oppressed with a grievous load. On festival
days, he retires to hold fellowship with the dead. He delights in a
grotto rather than a palace, and prefers the stump of a tree to a
throne. As to injuries and affronts, he is as insensible to them as if
he had the eyes and ears of a statue. Honor and glory are idols with
whom he has no acquaintance, and to whom he has no incense to offer. To
him a beautiful woman is no better than a spectre; and those imperial
and commanding looks—those charming tyrants who hold so many slaves in
willing and chainless servitude—have no more influence over his optics
than the sun over those of owls,’ &c.”
“Reverend sir,” said I, “had you not told me that Father Le Moine was
the author of that description, I declare I would have guessed it to be
the production of some profane fellow, who had drawn it expressly with
the view of turning the saints into ridicule. For if that is not the
picture of a man entirely denied to those feelings which the Gospel
obliges us to renounce, I confess that I know nothing of the
matter.”[190]
“You may now perceive, then, the extent of your ignorance,” he replied;
“for these are the features of a feeble, uncultivated mind, ‘destitute
of those virtuous and natural affections which it ought to possess,’ as
Father Le Moine says at the close of that description. Such is his way
of teaching ‘Christian virtue and philosophy,’ as he announces in his
advertisement; and, in truth, it cannot be denied that this method of
treating devotion is much more agreeable to the taste of the world than
the old way in which they went to work before our times.”
“There can be no comparison between them,” was my reply, “and I now
begin to hope that you will be as good as your word.”
“You will see that better by-and-by,” returned the monk. “Hitherto I
have only spoken of piety in general, but, just to show you more in
detail how our fathers have disencumbered it of its toils and troubles,
would it not be most consoling to the ambitious to learn that they may
maintain genuine devotion along with an inordinate love of greatness?”
“What, father! even though they should run to the utmost excess of
ambition?”
“Yes,” he replied; “for this would be only a venial sin, unless they
sought after greatness in order to offend God and injure the State more
effectually. Now venial sins do not preclude a man from being devout, as
the greatest saints are not exempt from them.[191] ‘Ambition,’ says
Escobar, ‘which consists in an inordinate appetite for place and power,
is of itself a venial sin; but when such dignities are coveted for the
purpose of hurting the commonwealth, or having more opportunity to
offend God, these adventitious circumstances render it mortal.’”
“Very savory doctrine, indeed, father.”
“And is it not still more savory,” continued the monk, “for misers to be
told, by the same authority, ‘that the rich are not guilty of mortal sin
by refusing to give alms out of their superfluity to the poor in the
hour of their greatest need?—_scio in gravi pauperum necessitate divites
non dando superflua, non peccare mortaliter_.’”
“Why truly,” said I, “if that be the case, I give up all pretension to
skill in the science of sins.”
“To make you still more sensible of this,” returned he, “you have been
accustomed to think, I suppose, that a good opinion of one’s self, and a
complacency in one’s own works, is a most dangerous sin? Now, will you
not be surprised if I can show you that such a good opinion, even though
there should be no foundation for it, is so far from being a sin, that
it is, on the contrary, _the gift of God_?”
“Is it possible, father?”
“That it is,” said the monk; “and our good Father Garasse[192] shows it
in his French work, entitled Summary of the Capital Truths of Religion:
‘It is a result of commutative justice that all honest labor should find
its recompense either in praise or in self-satisfaction. When men of
good talents publish some excellent work, they are justly remunerated by
public applause. But when a man of weak parts has wrought hard at some
worthless production, and fails to obtain the praise of the public, in
order that his labor may not go without its reward, God imparts to him a
personal satisfaction, which it would be worse than barbarous injustice
to envy him. It is thus that God, who is infinitely just, has given even
to frogs a certain complacency in their own croaking.’”
“Very fine decisions in favor of vanity, ambition, and avarice!” cried
I; “and envy, father, will it be more difficult to find an excuse for
it?”
“That is a delicate point,” he replied. “We require to make use here of
Father Bauny’s distinction, which he lays down in his Summary of Sins:
‘Envy of the spiritual good of our neighbor is mortal, but envy of his
temporal good is only venial.’”
“And why so, father?”
“You shall hear,” said he. “‘For the good that consists in temporal
things is so slender, and so insignificant in relation to heaven, that
it is of no consideration in the eyes of God and his saints.’”
“But, father, if temporal good is so _slender_, and of so little
consideration, how do you come to permit men’s lives to be taken away in
order to preserve it?”[193]
“You mistake the matter entirely,” returned the monk; “you were told
that temporal good was of no consideration in the eyes of God, but not
in the eyes of men.”
“That idea never occurred to me,” I replied; “and now, it is to be hoped
that, in virtue of these same distinctions, the world will get rid of
mortal sins altogether.”
“Do not flatter yourself with that,” said the father; “there are still
such things as mortal sins—there is sloth, for example.”
“Nay, then, father dear!” I exclaimed, “after that, farewell to all ‘the
joys of life!’”
“Stay,” said the monk, “when you have heard Escobar’s definition of that
vice, you will perhaps change your tone: ‘Sloth,’ he observes, ‘lies in
grieving that spiritual things are spiritual, as if one should lament
that the sacraments are the sources of grace; which would be a mortal
sin.’”
“O my dear sir!” cried I, “I don’t think that anybody ever took it into
his head to be slothful in that way.”
“And accordingly,” he replied, “Escobar afterwards remarks: ‘I must
confess that it is very rarely that a person falls into the sin of
sloth.’ You see now how important it is to _define_ things properly?”
“Yes, father, and this brings to my mind your other definitions about
assassinations, ambuscades, and superfluities. But why have you not
extended your method to all cases, and given definitions of all vices in
your way; so that people may no longer sin in gratifying themselves?”
“It is not always essential,” he replied, “to accomplish that purpose by
changing the definitions of things. I may illustrate this by referring
to the subject of good cheer, which is accounted one of the greatest
pleasures of life, and which Escobar thus sanctions in his ‘Practice
according to our Society:’ ‘Is it allowable for a person to eat and
drink to repletion, unnecessarily, and solely for pleasure? Certainly he
may, according to Sanchez, provided he does not thereby injure his
health; because the natural appetite may be permitted to enjoy its
proper functions.’”[194]
“Well, father, that is certainly the most complete passage, and the most
finished maxim in the whole of your moral system! What comfortable
inferences may be drawn from it! Why, and is gluttony, then, not even a
venial sin?”
“Not in the shape I have just referred to,” he replied; “but, according
to the same author, it would be a venial sin ‘were a person to gorge
himself, unnecessarily, with eating and drinking, to such a degree as to
produce vomiting.’[195] So much for that point. I would now say a little
about the facilities we have invented for avoiding sin in worldly
conversations and intrigues. One of the most embarrassing of these cases
is how to avoid telling lies, particularly when one is anxious to induce
a belief in what is false. In such cases, our doctrine of equivocations
has been found of admirable service, according to which, as Sanchez has
it, ‘it is permitted to use ambiguous terms, leading people to
understand them in another sense from that in which we understand them
ourselves.’”[196]
“I know that already, father,” said I.
“We have published it so often,” continued he, “that at length, it
seems, everybody knows of it. But do you know what is to be done when no
equivocal words can be got?”
“No, father.”
“I thought as much,” said the Jesuit; “this is something new, sir: I
mean the doctrine of mental reservations. ‘A man may swear,’ as Sanchez
says in the same place, ‘that he never did such a thing (though he
actually did it), meaning within himself that he did not do so on a
certain day, or before he was born, or understanding any other such
circumstance, while the words which he employs have no such sense as
would discover his meaning. And this is very convenient in many cases,
and quite innocent, when necessary or conducive to one’s health, honor,
or advantage.’”
“Indeed, father! is that not a lie, and perjury to boot?”
“No,” said the father; “Sanchez and Filiutius prove that it is not; for,
says the latter, ‘it is the intention that determines the quality of the
action.’[197] And he suggests a still surer method for avoiding
falsehood, which is this: After saying aloud, _I swear that I have not
done that_, to add, in a low voice, _to-day_; or after saying aloud, _I
swear_, to interpose in a whisper, _that I say_, and then continue
aloud, _that I have done that_. This, you perceive, is telling the
truth.”[198]
“I grant it,” said I; “it might possibly, however, be found to be
telling the truth in a low key, and falsehood in a loud one; besides, I
should be afraid that many people might not have sufficient presence of
mind to avail themselves of these methods.”
“Our doctors,” replied the Jesuit, “have taught, in the same passage,
for the benefit of such as might not be expert in the use of these
reservations, that no more is required of them, to avoid lying, than
simply to say that _they have not done_ what they have done, provided
‘they have, in general, the intention of giving to their language the
sense which an _able man_ would give to it.’ Be candid, now, and confess
if you have not often felt yourself embarrassed, in consequence of not
knowing this?”
“Sometimes,” said I.
“And will you not also acknowledge,” continued he, “that it would often
prove very convenient to be absolved in conscience from keeping certain
engagements one may have made?”
“The most convenient thing in the world!” I replied.
“Listen, then, to the general rule laid down by Escobar: ‘Promises are
not binding, when the person in making them had no intention to bind
himself. Now, it seldom happens that any have such an intention, unless
when they confirm their promises by an oath or contract; so that when
one simply says, _I will do it_, he means that he will do it if he does
not change his mind; for he does not wish, by saying that, to deprive
himself of his liberty.’ He gives other rules in the same strain, which
you may consult for yourself, and tells us, in conclusion, ‘that all
this is taken from Molina and our other authors, and is therefore
settled beyond all doubt.’”
“My dear father,” I observed, “I had no idea that the direction of the
intention possessed the power of rendering promises null and void.”
“You must perceive,” returned he, “what facility this affords for
prosecuting the business of life. But what has given us the most trouble
has been to regulate the commerce between the sexes; our fathers being
more chary in the matter of chastity. Not but that they have discussed
questions of a very curious and very indulgent character, particularly
in reference to married and betrothed persons.”
At this stage of the conversation I was made acquainted with the most
extraordinary questions you can well imagine. He gave me enough of them
to fill many letters; but as you show my communications to all sorts of
persons, and as I do not choose to be the vehicle of such reading to
those who would make it the subject of diversion, I must decline even
giving the quotations.
The only thing to which I can venture to allude, out of all the books
which he showed me, and these in French, too, is a passage which you
will find in Father Bauny’s Summary, p. 165, relating to certain little
familiarities, which, provided the intention is well directed, he
explains “_as passing for gallant_;” and you will be surprised to find,
at p. 148, a principle of morals, as to the power which daughters have
to dispose of their persons without the leave of their relatives,
couched in these terms: “When that is done with the consent of the
daughter, although the father may have reason to complain, it does not
follow that she, or the person to whom she has sacrificed her honor, has
done him any wrong, or violated the rules of justice in regard to him;
for the daughter has possession of her honor, as well as of her body,
and can do what she pleases with them, bating death or mutilation of her
members.” Judge, from that specimen, of the rest. It brings to my
recollection a passage from a Heathen poet, a much better casuist, it
would appear, than these reverend doctors; for he says, “that the person
of a daughter does not belong wholly to herself, but partly to her
father and partly to her mother, without whom she cannot dispose of it,
even in marriage.” And I am much mistaken if there is a single judge in
the land who would not lay down as law the very reverse of this maxim of
Father Bauny.
This is all I dare tell you of this part of our conversation, which
lasted so long that I was obliged to beseech the monk to change the
subject. He did so, and proceeded to entertain me with their regulations
about female attire.
“We shall not speak,” he said, “of those who are actuated by impure
intentions; but as to others, Escobar remarks, that ‘if the woman adorn
herself without any evil intention, but merely to gratify a natural
inclination to vanity—_ob naturalem fastus inclinationem_—this is only a
venial sin, or rather no sin at all.’ And Father Bauny maintains, that
‘even though the woman knows the bad effect which her care in adorning
her person may have upon the virtue of those who may behold her, all
decked out in rich and precious attire, she would not sin in so
dressing.’[199] And among others, he cites our Father Sanchez as being
of the same mind.”
“But, father, what do your authors say to those passages of Scripture
which so strongly denounce everything of that sort?”
“Lessius has well met that objection,” said the monk, “by observing,
‘that these passages of Scripture have the force of precepts only in
regard to the women of that period, who were expected to exhibit, by
their modest demeanor, an example of edification to the Pagans.’”
“And where did he find that, father?”