No More Learning

The Pope now, it is true, ruled over little more than the City
itself--the Patrimony of St. Peter--and he ruled there less by the Grace
of God than by the goodwill of Napoleon III; yet he was still a
sovereign Prince, and Rome was still the capital of the Papal State; she
was not yet the capital of Italy. The last hour of this strange dominion
had almost struck. As if she knew that her doom was upon her, the
Eternal City arrayed herself to meet it in all her glory.

The whole world seemed to be gathered together within her walls. Her
streets were filled with crowned heads and Princes of the Church, great
ladies and great theologians, artists and friars, diplomats and
newspaper reporters. Seven hundred bishops were there from all the
corners of Christendom, and in all the varieties of ecclesiastical
magnificence in falling lace and sweeping purple and flowing violet
veils. Zouaves stood in the colonnade of St Peter's, and Papal troops
were on the Quirinal. Cardinals passed, hatted and robed, in their
enormous carriage of state, like mysterious painted idols. Then there
was a sudden hush: the crowd grew thicker and expectation filled, the
air. Yes! it was he! He was coming! The Holy Father! But first there
appeared, mounted on a white mule and clothed in a magenta mantle, a
grave dignitary bearing aloft a silver cross. The golden coach followed,
drawn by six horses gorgeously caparisoned, and within, the smiling
white-haired Pio Nono, scattering his benedictions, while the multitude
fell upon its knees as one man. Such were the daily spectacles of
coloured pomp and of antique solemnity, which so long as the sun was
shining, at any rate--dazzled the onlooker into a happy forgetfulness of
the reverse side of the Papal dispensation--the nauseating filth of the
highways, the cattle stabled in the palaces of the great, and the fever
flitting through the ghastly tenements of the poor.

In St. Peter's, the North Transept had been screened off; rows of wooden
seats had been erected covered with Brussels carpet; and upon these
seats sat each crowned with a white mitre, the 700 Bishops in Council.
Here all day long rolled forth, in sonorous Latin, the interminable
periods of episcopal oratory; but it was not here that the issue of the
Council was determined. The assembled Fathers might talk till the
marbles of St. Peter's themselves grew weary of the reverberations; the
fate of the Church was decided in a very different manner--by little
knots of influential persons meeting quietly of a morning in the back
room of some inconspicuous lodging-house, by a sunset rendezvous in the
Borghese Gardens between a Cardinal and a Diplomatist by a whispered
conference in an alcove at a Princess's evening party, with the gay
world chattering all about. And, of course, on such momentous occasions
as these, Manning was in his element. None knew those difficult ropes
better than he; none used them with a more serviceable and yet discreet
alacrity. In every juncture he had the right word, or the right silence;
his influence ramified in all directions, from the Pope's audience
chamber to the English Cabinet. 'Il Diavolo del Concilio' his enemies
called him; and he gloried in the name.

The real crux of the position was less ecclesiastical than diplomatic.
The Papal Court, with its huge majority of Italian Bishops, could make
sure enough, when it came to the point, of carrying its wishes through
the Council; what was far more dubious was the attitude of the foreign
Governments--especially those of France and England. The French
Government dreaded a schism among its Catholic subjects; it disliked the
prospect of an extension of the influence of the Pope over the mass of
the population of France; and, since the very existence of the last
remnant of the Pope's Temporal Power depended upon the French army, it
was able to apply considerable pressure upon the Vatican. The interests
of England were less directly involved, but it happened that at this
moment Mr. Gladstone was Prime Minister, and Mr. Gladstone entertained
strong views upon the Infallibility of the Pope. His opinions upon the
subject were in part the outcome of his friendship with Lord Acton, a
historian to whom learning and judgment had not been granted in equal
proportions, and who, after years of incredible and indeed well-nigh
mythical research, had come to the conclusion that the Pope could err.
In this Mr. Gladstone entirely concurred, though he did not share the
rest of his friend's theological opinions; for Lord Acton, while
straining at the gnat of Infallibility, had swallowed the camel of the
Roman Catholic Faith. 'Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere? '
one cannot help asking, as one watched that laborious and scrupulous
scholar, that lifelong enthusiast for liberty, that almost hysterical
reviler of priesthood and persecution, trailing his learning so
discrepantly along the dusty Roman way. But, there are some who know how
to wear their Rome with a difference; and Lord Acton was one of these.

He was now engaged in fluttering like a moth round the Council and in
writing long letters to Mr. Gladstone, impressing upon him the gravity
of the situation, and urging him to bring his influence to bear. If the
Dogma were carried--he declared, no man who accepted it could remain a
loyal subject and Catholics would everywhere become 'irredeemable
enemies of civil and religious liberty'. In these circumstances, was it
not plainly incumbent upon the English Government, involved as it was
with the powerful Roman Catholic forces in Ireland, to intervene? Mr.
Gladstone allowed himself to become convinced, and Lord Acton began to
hope that his efforts would be successful. But, he had forgotten one
element in the situation; he had reckoned without the Archbishop of
Westminster. The sharp nose of Manning sniffed out the whole intrigue.
Though he despised Lord Acton almost as much as he disliked him--'such
men,' he said, 'are all vanity: they have the inflation of German
professors, and the ruthless talk of undergraduates'--yet he realised
clearly enough the danger of his correspondence with the Prime Minister,
and immediately took steps to counteract it. There was a semi-official
agent of the English Government in Rome, Mr. Odo Russell, and around him
Manning set to work to spin his spider's web of delicate and clinging
diplomacy. Preliminary politenesses were followed by long walks upon the
Pincio, and the gradual interchange of more and more important and
confidential communications. Soon poor Mr. Russell was little better
than a fly buzzing in gossamer. And Manning was careful to see that he
buzzed on the right note. In his dispatches to the Foreign Secretary,
Lord Clarendon, Mr. Russell explained in detail the true nature of the
Council, that it was merely a meeting of a few Roman Catholic prelates
to discuss some internal matters of Church discipline, that it had no
political significance whatever, that the question of Infallibility,
about which there had been so much random talk, was a purely theological
question, and that, whatever decision might be come to on the subject,
the position of Roman Catholics throughout the world would remain
unchanged.

Whether the effect of these affirmations upon Lord Clarendon was as
great as Manning supposed is somewhat doubtful; but it is at any rate
certain that Mr. Gladstone failed to carry the Cabinet with him; and,
when at last a proposal was definitely made that the English Government
should invite the Powers of Europe to intervene at the Vatican, it was
rejected. Manning always believed that this was the direct result of Mr.
Russell's dispatches, which had acted as an antidote to the poison of
Lord Acton's letters, and thus carried the day. If that was so, the
discretion of biographers has not yet entirely lifted the veil from
these proceedings Manning had assuredly performed no small service for
his cause. Yet his modesty would not allow him to assume for himself a
credit which, after all, was due elsewhere; and when he told the story
of those days, he would add, with more than wonted seriousness, 'It was
by the Divine Will that the designs of His enemies were frustrated'.

Meanwhile, in the North Transept of St. Peter's a certain amount of
preliminary business had been carried through. Various miscellaneous
points in Christian doctrine had been satisfactorily determined. Among
others, the following Canons were laid down by the Fathers: 'If anyone
does not accept for sacred and canonical the whole and every part of the
Books of Holy Scripture, or deny that they are divinely inspired, let
him be anathema. ' 'If anyone says that miracles cannot be, and
therefore, the accounts of them, even those in Holy Scriptures must be
assigned a place among fables and myths, or that the divine origin of
the Christian religion cannot rightly be proved from them, let him be
anathema. ' 'If anyone says that the doctrines of the Church can ever
receive a sense in accordance with the progress of science, other than
that sense which the Church has understood and still understands, let
him be anathema. ' 'If anyone says that it is not possible, by the
natural light of human reason, to acquire a certain knowledge of the One
and True God, let him be anathema. ' In other words, it became an article
of Faith that Faith was not necessary for a true knowledge of God.
Having disposed of these minor matters, the Fathers found themselves at
last approaching the great question of Infallibility.

Two main issues, it soon appeared, were before them: the. Pope's
infallibility was admitted, ostensibly at least, by all; what remained
to be determined was: (1) whether the definition of the Pope's
Infallibility was opportune, and (2) what the definition of the Pope's
Infallibility was.

(1) It soon became clear that the sense of the Council was
overwhelmingly in favour of a definition. The Inopportunists were a
small minority; they were outvoted, and they were obliged to give way.
It only remained, therefore, to come to a decision upon the second
question--what the definition should actually be.

(2) It now became the object of the Inopportunists to limit the scope of
the definition as much as possible, while the Infallibilists were no
less eager to extend it. Now everyone, or nearly everyone, was ready to
limit the Papal Infallibility to pronouncements ex cathedra--that is to
say, to those made by the Pope in his capacity of Universal Doctor; but
this only served to raise the ulterior, the portentous, and indeed the
really crucial question--to WHICH of the Papal pronouncements ex
cathedra did Infallibility adhere?

The discussions which followed were, naturally enough, numerous,
complicated, and embittered, and in all of them Manning played a
conspicuous part. For two months the Fathers deliberated; through fifty
sessions they sought the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The wooden seats,
covered though they were with Brussels carpet, grew harder and harder;
and still the mitred Councillors sat on. The Pope himself began to grow
impatient; for one thing, he declared, he was being ruined by the mere
expense of lodging and keeping the multitude of his adherents. 'Questi
infallibilisti mi faranno fallire', said his Holiness. At length it
appeared that the Inopportunists were dragging out the proceedings in
the hope of obtaining an indefinite postponement. Then the authorities
began to act; a bishop was shouted down, and the closure was brought
into operation. At this point the French Government, after long
hesitation, finally decided to intervene, and Cardinal Antonelli was
informed that if the Definition was proceeded with, the French troops
would be withdrawn from Rome. But the astute Cardinal judged that he
could safely ignore the threat. He saw that Napoleon III was tottering
to his fall and would never risk an open rupture with the Vatican.
Accordingly, it was determined to bring the proceedings to a close by a
final vote. Already the Inopportunists, seeing that the game was up, had
shaken the dust of Rome from their feet. On July 18th, 1870, the Council
met for the last time. As the first of the Fathers stepped forward to
declare his vote, a storm of thunder and lightning suddenly burst over
St. Peter's. All through the morning the voting continued, and every
vote was accompanied by a flash and a roar from heaven. Both sides, with
equal justice, claimed the portent as a manifestation of the Divine
Opinion. When the votes were examined, it was found that 533 were in
favour of the proposed definition and two against it. Next day, war was
declared between France and Germany, and a few weeks later the French
troops were withdrawn from Rome. Almost in the same moment, the
successor of St. Peter had lost his Temporal Power, and gained
Infallibility.

What the Council had done was merely to assent to a definition of the
dogma of the Infallibility of the Roman Pontiff which Pius IX had
issued, proprio motu, a few days before. The definition itself was
perhaps somewhat less extreme than might have been expected. The Pope,
it declared, is possessed, when he speaks ex cathedra, of 'that
infallibility with which the Redeemer willed that His Church should be
endowed for defining doctrine regarding faith or morals'. Thus it became
a dogma of faith that a Papal definition regarding faith or morals is
infallible; but beyond that, both the Holy Father and the Council
maintained a judicious reserve. Over what OTHER matters besides faith
and morals the Papal infallibility might or might not extend still
remained in doubt. And there were further questions, no less serious, to
which no decisive answer was then, or ever has been since, provided.

How was it to be determined, for instance, which particular Papal
decisions did in fact come within the scope of the definition? Who was
to decide what was or was not a matter of faith or morals? Or precisely
WHEN the Roman Pontiff was speaking ex cathedra? Was the famous Syllabus
Errorum, for example, issued ex cathedra or not? Grave theologians have
never been able to make up their minds. Yet to admit doubts in such
matters as these is surely dangerous. 'In duty to our supreme pastoral
office,' proclaimed the Sovereign Pontiff, 'by the bowels of Christ we
earnestly entreat all Christ's faithful people, and we also command them
by the authority of God and our Saviour, that they study and labour to
expel and eliminate errors and display the light of the purest faith. '
Well might the faithful study and labour to such ends! For, while the
offence remained ambiguous, there was no ambiguity about the penalty.
One hair's-breadth from the unknown path of truth, one shadow of
impurity in the mysterious light of faith, and there shall be anathema!
anathema! anathema! When the framers of such edicts called upon the
bowels of Christ to justify them, might they not have done well to have
paused a little, and to have called to mind the counsel of another
sovereign ruler, though a heretic--Oliver Cromwell? 'Bethink ye, bethink
ye, in the bowels of Christ, that ye may be mistaken! '

One of the secondary results of the Council was the excommunication of
Dr. Dollinger, and a few more of the most uncompromising of the
Inopportunists. Among these, however, Lord Acton was not included.
Nobody ever discovered why. Was it because he was too important for the
Holy See to care to interfere with him? Or was it because he was not
important enough?

Another ulterior consequence was the appearance of a pamphlet by Mr.
Gladstone, entitled 'Vaticanism', in which the awful implications
involved in the declaration of Infallibility were laid before the
British Public. How was it possible, Mr. Gladstone asked, with all the
fulminating accompaniments of his most agitated rhetoric, to depend
henceforward upon the civil allegiance of Roman Catholics? To this
question the words of Cardinal Antonelli to the Austrian Ambassador
might have seemed a sufficient reply. 'There is a great difference,'
said his Eminence, between theory and practice. No one will ever prevent
the Church from proclaiming the great principles upon which its Divine
fabric is based; but, as regards the application of those sacred laws,
the Church, imitating the example of its Divine Founder, is inclined to
take into consideration the natural weaknesses of mankind. ' And, in any
case, it was hard to see how the system of Faith, which had enabled Pope
Gregory XIII to effect, by the hands of English Catholics, a whole
series of attempts to murder Queen Elizabeth, can have been rendered a
much more dangerous engine of disloyalty by the Definition of 1870. But
such considerations failed to reassure Mr. Gladstone; the British Public
was of a like mind; and 145,000 copies of the pamphlet were sold within
two months. Various replies appeared, and Manning was not behindhand.
His share in the controversy led to a curious personal encounter.

His conversion had come as a great shock to Mr. Gladstone. Manning had
breathed no word of its approach to his old and intimate friend, and
when the news reached him, it seemed almost an act of personal injury.
'I felt,' Mr. Gladstone said, 'as if Manning had murdered my mother by
mistake. ' For twelve years the two men did not meet, after which they
occasionally saw each other and renewed their correspondence. This was
the condition of affairs when Mr. Gladstone published his pamphlet. As
soon as it appeared, Manning wrote a letter to the New York Herald,
contradicting its conclusions and declaring that its publication was
'the first event that has overcast a friendship of forty-five years'.
Mr. Gladstone replied to this letter in a second pamphlet. At the close
of his theological arguments, he added the following passage:

'I feel it necessary, in concluding this answer, to state that
Archbishop Manning has fallen into most serious inaccuracy in his letter
of November 10th, wherein he describes 'my Expostulation as the first
event which has overcast a friendship of forty-five years. I allude to
the subject with regret; and without entering into details. '

Manning replied in a private letter:

'My dear Gladstone,' he wrote, 'you say that I am in error in stating
that your former pamphlet is the first act which has overcast our
friendship.

'If you refer to my act in 1851 in submitting to the Catholic Church, by
which we were separated for some twelve years, I can understand it.

'If you refer to any other act either on your part or mine I am not
conscious of it, and would desire to know what it may be.

'My act in 1851 may have overcast your friendship for me. It did not
overcast my friendship for you, as I think the last years have shown.

'You will not, I hope, think me over-sensitive in asking for this
explanation. Believe me, yours affectionately,

'H. E. M. '

'My dear Archbishop Manning,' Mr. Gladstone answered, 'it did, I
confess, seem to me an astonishing error to state in public that a
friendship had not been overcast for forty-five years until now, which
your letter declares has been suspended as to all action for twelve . . .

'I wonder, too, at your forgetting that during the forty-five years I
had been charged by you with doing the work of the Antichrist in regard
to the Temporal Power of the Pope.

'Our differences, my dear Archbishop, are indeed profound. We refer
them, I suppose, in humble silence to a Higher Power . . . You assured me
once of your prayers at all and at the most solemn time. I received that
assurance with gratitude, and still cherish it. As and when they move
upwards, there is a meeting-point for those whom a chasm separates
below. I remain always, affectionately yours,

'W. E. GLADSTONE. '

Speaking of this correspondence in after years, Cardinal Manning said:
'From the way in which Mr. Gladstone alluded to the overcasting of our
friendship, people might have thought that I had picked his pocket. '


VIII

IN 1875, Manning's labours received their final reward: he was made a
Cardinal. His long and strange career, with its high hopes, its bitter
disappointments, its struggles, its renunciations, had come at last to
fruition in a Princedom of the Church.

'Ask in faith and in perfect confidence,' he himself once wrote, and God
will give us what we ask. You may say, "But do you mean that He will
give us the very thing? " That, God has not said. God has said that He
will give you whatsoever you ask; but the form in which it will come,
and the time in which He will give it, He keeps in His own power.
Sometimes our prayers are answered in the very things which we put from
us; sometimes it may be a chastisement, or a loss, or a visitation
against which our hearts rise, and we seem to see that God has not only
forgotten us, but has begun to deal with us in severity. Those very
things are the answers to our prayers. He knows what we desire, and He
gives us the things for which we ask; but in the form which His own
Divine Wisdom sees to be best. '

There was one to whom Manning's elevation would no doubt have given a
peculiar satisfaction--his old friend Monsignor Talbot. But this was not
to be. That industrious worker in the cause of Rome had been removed
some years previously to a sequestered home at Passy, whose padded walls
were impervious to the rumours of the outer world. Pius IX had been much
afflicted by this unfortunate event; he had not been able to resign
himself to the loss of his secretary, and he had given orders that
Monsignor Talbot's apartment in the Vatican should be preserved
precisely as he had left it, in case of his return. But Monsignor Talbot
never returned. Manning's feelings upon the subject appear to have been
less tender than the Pope's. In all his letters, in all his papers, in
all his biographical memoranda, not a word of allusion is to be found to
the misfortune, nor to the death, of the most loyal of his adherents.
Monsignor Talbot's name disappears suddenly and for ever--like a stone
cast into the waters.

Manning was now an old man, and his outward form had assumed that
appearance of austere asceticism which is, perhaps, the one thing
immediately suggested by his name to the ordinary Englishman. The spare
and stately form, the head--massive, emaciated, terrible--with the great
nose, the glittering eyes, and the mouth drawn back and compressed into
the grim rigidities of age, self-mortification, and authority--such is
the vision that still lingers in the public mind--the vision which,
actual and palpable like some embodied memory of the Middle Ages, used
to pass and repass, less than a generation since, through the streets of
London. For the activities of this extraordinary figure were great and
varied. He ruled his diocese with the despotic zeal of a born
administrator. He threw himself into social work of every kind; he
organised charities, he lectured on temperance; he delivered innumerable
sermons; he produced an unending series of devotional books. And he
brooked no brother near the throne: Newman languished in Birmingham; and
even the Jesuits trembled and obeyed.

Nor was it only among his own community that his energy and his
experience found scope. He gradually came to play an important part in
public affairs, upon questions of labour, poverty, and education.
He sat
on Royal Commissions and corresponded with Cabinet Ministers. At last,
no philanthropic meeting at the Guildhall was considered complete
without the presence of Cardinal Manning. A special degree of precedence
was accorded to him. Though the rank of a Cardinal-Archbishop is
officially unknown in England, his name appeared in public documents--as
a token, it must be supposed, of personal consideration--above the names
of peers and bishops, and immediately below that of the Prince of Wales.

In his private life he was secluded. The ambiguities of his social
position, and his desire to maintain intact the peculiar eminence of his
office, combined to hold him aloof from the ordinary gatherings of
society, though on the rare occasions of his appearance among
fashionable and exalted persons, he carried all before him. His
favourite haunt was the Athenaeum Club, where he sat scanning the
newspapers, or conversing with the old friends of former days. He was a
member, too, of that distinguished body, the Metaphysical Society, which
met once a month during the palmy years of the seventies to discuss, in
strict privacy, the fundamental problems of the destiny of man.

After a comfortable dinner at the Grosvenor Hotel, the Society, which
included Professor Huxley and Professor Tyndall, Mr. John Morley and Sir
James Stephen, the Duke of Argyll, Lord Tennyson, and Dean Church, would
gather around to hear and discuss a paper read by one of the members
upon such questions as: 'What is death? ' 'Is God unknowable? ' or 'The
nature of the Moral Principle'. Sometimes, however, the speculations of
the Society ranged in other directions.

'I think the paper that interested me most of all that were ever read at
our meetings,' says Sir Mountstuart Elphinstone Grant-Duff, 'was one on
"Wherein consists the special beauty of imperfection and decay? " in
which were propounded the questions "Are not ruins recognised and felt
to be more beautiful than perfect structures? Why are they so? Ought
they to be so? '

'Unfortunately, however, the answers given to these questions by the
Metaphysical Society have not been recorded for the instruction of
mankind.

Manning read several papers, and Professor Huxley and Mr. John Morley
listened with attention while he expressed his views upon 'The Soul
before and after Death', or explained why it is 'That legitimate
Authority is an Evidence of Truth'. Yet, somehow or other, his Eminence
never felt quite at ease in these assemblies; he was more at home with
audiences of a different kind; and we must look in other directions for
the free and full manifestation of his speculative gifts.

In a series of lectures, for instance, delivered in 1861--it was the
first year of the unification of Italy--upon 'The Present Crisis of the
Holy See, tested by prophecy', we catch some glimpses of the kind of
problems which were truly congenial to his mind.

'In the following pages,' he said, 'I have endeavoured, but for so great
a subject most insufficiently, to show that what is passing in our times
is the prelude of the antichristian period of the final dethronement of
Christendom, and of the restoration of society without God in the
world. ' 'My intention is,' he continued, 'to examine the present
relation of the Church to the civil powers of the world by the light of
a prophecy recorded by St Paul. '

This prophecy (2 Thess. ii 3 to 11) is concerned with the coming of the
Antichrist, and the greater part of the lectures is devoted to a minute
examination of this subject. There is no passage in Scripture, Manning
pointed out, relating to the coming of Christ more explicit and express
than those foretelling Antichrist; it therefore behoved the faithful to
consider the matter more fully than they are wont to do. In the first
place, Antichrist is a person. 'To deny the personality of Antichrist is
to deny the plain testimony of Holy Scripture. ' And we must remember
that 'it is a law of Holy Scripture that when persons are prophesied of,
persons appear'.

Again, there was every reason to believe that Antichrist, when he did
appear, would turn out to be a Jew.

'Such was the opinion of St. Irenaeus, St. Jerome, and of the author of
the work De Consummatione Mundi, ascribed to St. Hippolytus, and of a
writer of a Commentary on the Epistle to the Thessalonians, ascribed to
St. Ambrose, of many others, who said that he will be of the tribe of
Dan: as, for instance, St. Gregory the Great, Theodoret, Aretas of
Caesarea, and many more. Such also is the opinion of Bellarmine, who
calls it certain. Lessius affirms that the Fathers, with unanimous
consent, teach as undoubted that Antichrist will be a Jew. Ribera
repeats the same opinion, and adds that Aretas, St. Bede, Haymo, St.
Anselm, and Rupert affirm that for this reason the tribe of Dan is not
numbered among those who are sealed in the Apocalypse . . . Now, I think
no one can consider the dispersion and providential preservation of the
Jews among all the nations of the world and the indestructible vitality
of their race without believing that they are reserved for some future
action of His judgment and Grace. And this is foretold again and again
in the New Testament. '

'Our Lord,' continued Manning, widening the sweep of his speculations,
'has said of these latter times: "There shall arise false Christs and
false prophets, insomuch as to deceive even the elect"; that is, they
shall not be deceived; but those who have lost faith in the Incarnation,
such as humanitarians, rationalists, and pantheists, may well be
deceived by any person of great political power and success, who should
restore the Jews to their own land, and people Jerusalem once more with
the sons of the Patriarchs. And, there is nothing in the political
aspect of the world which renders such a combination impossible; indeed,
the state of Syria, and the tide of European diplomacy, which 'is
continually moving eastward, render such an event within a reasonable
probability. '

Then Manning threw out a bold suggestion. 'A successful medium,' he
said, 'might well pass himself off by his preternatural endowments as
the promised Messiahs. '

Manning went on to discuss the course of events which would lead to the
final catastrophe. But this subject, he confessed,

'deals with agencies so transcendent and mysterious, that all I shall
venture to do will be to sketch in outline what the broad and luminous
prophecies, especially of the Book of Daniel and the Apocalypse, set
forth without attempting to enter into minute details, which can only be
interpreted by the event'.

While applauding his modesty, we need follow Manning no further in his
commentary upon those broad and luminous works; except to observe that
'the apostasy of the City of Rome from the Vicar of Christ and its
destruction by the Antichrist' was, in his opinion, certain. Nor was he
without authority for this belief. For it was held by 'Malvenda, who
writes expressly on the subject', and who, besides, 'states as the
opinion of Ribera, Gaspar Melus, Viegas, Suarez, Bellarmine, and Bosius
that Rome shall apostatise from the faith'.


IX

THE death of Pius IX brought to Manning a last flattering testimony of
the confidence with which he was regarded at the Court of Rome. In one
of the private consultations preceding the Conclave, a Cardinal
suggested that Manning should succeed to the Papacy. He replied that he
was unfit for the position, because it was essential for the interests
of the Holy See that the next Pope should be an Italian. The suggestion
was pressed, but Manning held firm. Thus it happened that the Triple
Tiara seemed to come, for a moment, within the grasp of the late
Archdeacon of Chichester; and the cautious hand refrained.

Leo XIII was elected, and there was a great change in the policy of the
Vatican. Liberalism became the order of the day. And now at last the
opportunity seemed ripe for an act which, in the opinion of the majority
of English Catholics, had long been due--the bestowal of some mark of
recognition from the Holy See upon the labours and the sanctity of
Father Newman. It was felt that a Cardinal's hat was the one fitting
reward for such a life, and accordingly the Duke of Norfolk,
representing the Catholic laity of England, visited Manning, and
suggested that he should forward the proposal to the Vatican. Manning
agreed, and then there followed a curious series of incidents--the last
encounter in the jarring lives of those two men. A letter was drawn up
by Manning for the eye of the Pope, embodying the Duke of Norfolk's
proposal; but there was an unaccountable delay in the transmission of
this letter; months passed, and it had not reached the Holy Father. The
whole matter would, perhaps, have dropped out of sight and been
forgotten, in a way which had become customary when honours for Newman
were concerned, had not the Duke of Norfolk himself, when he was next in
Rome, ventured to recommend to Leo XIII that Dr. Newman should be made a
Cardinal. His Holiness welcomed the proposal; but, he said, he could do
nothing until he knew the views of Cardinal Manning. Thereupon, the Duke
of Norfolk wrote to Manning, explaining what had occurred; shortly
afterwards, Manning's letter of recommendation, after a delay of six
months, reached the Pope, and the offer of a Cardinalate was immediately
dispatched to Newman.

But the affair was not yet over. The offer had been made; would it be
accepted? There was one difficulty in the way. Newman was now an infirm
old man of seventy-eight; and it is a rule that all Cardinals who are
not also diocesan Bishops or Archbishops reside, as a matter of course,
at Rome. The change would have been impossible for one of his years--for
one, too, whose whole life was now bound up with the Oratory at
Birmingham. But, of course, there was nothing to prevent His Holiness
from making an exception in Newman's case, and allowing him to end his
days in England. Yet how was Newman himself to suggest this? The offer
of the Hat had come to him as an almost miraculous token of renewed
confidence, of ultimate reconciliation. The old, long, bitter
estrangement was ended at last. 'The cloud is lifted from me for ever! '
he exclaimed when the news reached him. It would be melancholy indeed if
the cup were now to be once more dashed from his lips and he was obliged
to refuse the signal honour. In his perplexity he went to the Bishop of
Birmingham and explained the whole situation. The Bishop assured him
that all would be well; that he himself would communicate with the
authorities, and put the facts of the case before them. Accordingly,
while Newman wrote formally refusing the Hat, on the ground of his
unwillingness to leave the Oratory, the Bishop wrote two letters to
Manning, one official and one private, in which the following passages
occurred:

'Dr. Newman has far too humble and delicate a mind to dream of thinking
or saying anything which would look like hinting at any kind of terms
with the Sovereign Pontiff. . . . I think, however, that I ought to express
my own sense of what Dr. Newman's dispositions are, and that it will be
expected of me . . . I am thoroughly confident that nothing stands in the
way of his most grateful acceptance, except what he tells me greatly
distresses him--namely, the having to leave the Oratory at a critical
period of its existence, and the impossibility of his beginning a new
life at his advanced age. '

And in his private letter the Bishop said:

'Dr. Newman is very much aged, and softened with age and the trials he
has had, especially the loss of his two brethren, St. John and Caswall;
he can never refer to these losses without weeping and becoming
speechless for a time. He is very much affected by the Pope's kindness
and would, I know, like to receive the great honour offered him, but
feels the whole difficulty at his age of changing his life or having to
leave the Oratory--which I am sure he could not do. If the Holy Father
thinks well to confer on him the dignity, leaving him where he is, I
know how immensely he would be gratified, and you will know how
generally the conferring on him the Cardinalate will be applauded. '

These two letters, together with Newman's refusal, reached Manning as he
was on the point of starting for Rome. After he had left England, the
following statement appeared in "The Times":

'Pope Leo XIII has intimated his desire to raise Dr. Newman to the rank
of Cardinal, but with expressions of deep respect for the Holy See, Dr.
Newman has excused himself from accepting the Purple. '

When Newman's eyes fell upon the announcement, he realised at once that
a secret and powerful force was working against him. He trembled, as he
had so often trembled before; and certainly the danger was not
imaginary. In the ordinary course of things, how could such a paragraph
have been inserted without his authority? And consequently, did it not
convey to the world, not only an absolute refusal which he had never
intended, but a wish on his part to emphasise publicly his rejection of
the proffered honour? Did it not imply that he had lightly declined a
proposal for which in reality he was deeply thankful? And when the fatal
paragraph was read in Rome, might it not actually lead to the offer of
the Cardinalate being finally withheld?

In great agitation, Newman appealed to the Duke of Norfolk.

'As to the statement,' he wrote, 'of my refusing a Cardinal's Hat, which
is in the papers, you must not believe it, for this reason:

'Of course, it implies that an offer has been made me, and I have sent
an answer to it. Now I have ever understood that it is a point of
propriety and honour to consider such communications sacred. This
statement, therefore, cannot come from me. Nor could it come from Rome,
for it was made public before my answer got to Rome.

'It could only come, then, from someone who not only read my letter,
but, instead of leaving to the Pope to interpret it, took upon himself
to put an interpretation upon it, and published that interpretation to
the world.

'A private letter, addressed to Roman Authorities, is interpreted on its
way and published in the English papers. How is it possible that anyone
can have done this? '

The crushing indictment pointed straight at Manning. And it was true.
Manning had done the impossible deed. Knowing what he did, with the
Bishop of Birmingham's two letters in his pocket, he had put it about
that Newman had refused the Hat. But a change had come over the spirit
of the Holy See. Things were not as they had once been: Monsignor Talbot
was at Passy, and Pio Nono was--where? The Duke of Norfolk intervened
once again; Manning was profuse in his apologies for having
misunderstood Newman's intentions, and hurried to the Pope to rectify
the error. Without hesitation, the Sovereign Pontiff relaxed the rule of
Roman residence, and Newman became a Cardinal.

He lived to enjoy his glory for more than ten years. Since he rarely
left the Oratory, and since Manning never visited Birmingham, the two
Cardinals met only once or twice. After one of these occasions, on
returning to the Oratory, Cardinal Newman said, 'What do you think
Cardinal Manning did to me? He kissed me! '

On Newman's death, Manning delivered a funeral oration, which opened
thus:

'We have lost our greatest witness for the Faith, and we are all poorer
and lower by the loss.

'When these tidings came to me, my first thought was this, in what way
can I, once more, show my love and veneration for my brother and friend
of more than sixty years? '

In private, however, the surviving Cardinal's tone was apt to be more
. . . direct. 'Poor Newman! ' he once exclaimed in a moment of genial
expansion. 'Poor Newman! He was a great hater! '


X

IN that gaunt and gloomy building--more like a barracks than an
Episcopal palace--Archbishop's House, Westminster, Manning's existence
stretched itself out into an extreme old age. As his years increased,
his activities, if that were possible, increased too. Meetings,
missions, lectures, sermons, articles, interviews, letters--such things
came upon him in redoubled multitudes, and were dispatched with an
unrelenting zeal. But this was not all; with age, he seemed to acquire
what was almost a new fervour, an unaccustomed, unexpected, freeing of
the spirit, filling him with preoccupations which he had hardly felt
before. 'They say I am ambitious,' he noted in his Diary, 'but do I rest
in my ambition? '

No, assuredly he did not rest; but he worked now with no arriere pensee
for the greater glory of God. A kind of frenzy fell upon him. Poverty,
drunkenness, vice, all the horrors and terrors of our civilisation
seized upon his mind, and urged him forward to new fields of action and
new fields of thought. The temper of his soul assumed almost a
revolutionary cast. 'I am a Mosaic Radical,' he exclaimed; and, indeed,
in the exaltation of his energies, the incoherence of his conceptions,
the democratic urgency of his desires, combined with his awe-inspiring
aspect and his venerable age, it was easy enough to trace the mingled
qualities of the patriarch, the prophet, and the demagogue. As, in his
soiled and shabby garments, the old man harangued the crowds of
Bermondsey or Peckham upon the virtues of Temperance, assuring them,
with all the passion of conviction, as a final argument, that the
majority of the Apostles were total abstainers, this Prince of the
Church might have passed as a leader of the Salvation Army. His
popularity was immense, reaching its height during the great Dock
Strikes of 1889, when, after the victory of the men was assured, Manning
was able, by his persuasive eloquence and the weight of his character,
to prevent its being carried to excess. After other conciliators--among
whom was the Bishop of London--had given up the task in disgust, the
octogenarian Cardinal worked on with indefatigable resolution. At last,
late at night, in the schools in Kirby Street, Bermondsey, he rose to
address the strikers. An enthusiastic eye-witness has described the
scene:

'Unaccustomed tears glistened in the eyes of his rough and work-stained
hearers as the Cardinal raised his hand and solemnly urged them not to
prolong one moment more than they could help the perilous uncertainty
and the sufferings of their wives and children. Just above his uplifted
hand was a figure of the Madonna and Child; and some among the men tell
how a sudden light seemed to swim around it as the speaker pleaded for
the women and children. When he sat down all in the room knew that he
had won the day, and that, so far as the Strike Committee was concerned,
the matter was at an end. '

In those days, there were strange visitors at the Archbishop's House.
Careful priests and conscientious secretaries wondered what the world
was coming to when they saw labour leaders like Mr. John Burns and Mr.
Ben Tillett, and land-reformers like Mr. Henry George, being ushered
into the presence of his Eminence. Even the notorious Mr. Stead
appeared, and his scandalous paper with its unspeakable revelations lay
upon the Cardinal's table. This proved too much for one of the faithful
tonsured dependents of the place, and he ventured to expostulate with
his master. But he never did so again.

When the guests were gone, and the great room was empty, the old man
would draw himself nearer to the enormous fire, and review once more,
for the thousandth time, the long adventure of his life. He would bring
out his diaries and his memoranda, he would rearrange his notes, he
would turn over again the yellow leaves of faded correspondences;
seizing his pen, he would pour out his comments and reflections, and
fill, with an extraordinary solicitude, page after page with
elucidations, explanations, justifications, of the vanished incidents of
a remote past. He would snip with scissors the pages of ancient
journals, and with delicate ecclesiastical fingers, drop unknown
mysteries into the flames.

Sometimes he would turn to the four red folio scrapbooks with their
collection of newspaper cuttings, concerning himself, over a period of
thirty years. Then the pale cheeks would flush and the close-drawn lips
would grow even more menacing than before. 'Stupid, mulish malice,' he
would note. 'Pure lying--conscious, deliberate and designed. '
'Suggestive lying. Personal animosity is at the bottom of this. '

And then he would suddenly begin to doubt. After all, where was he? What
had he accomplished? Had any of it been worthwhile? Had he not been out
of the world all his life! Out of the world!

'Croker's "Life and Letters", and Hayward's "Letters",' he notes, 'are
so full of politics, literature, action, events, collision of mind with
mind, and that with such a multitude of men in every state of life, that
when I look back, it seems as if I had been simply useless. '

And again, 'The complete isolation and exclusion from the official life
of England in which I have lived, makes me feel as if I had done
nothing'. He struggled to console himself with the reflexion that all
this was only 'the natural order'. 'If the natural order is moved by the
supernatural order, then I may not have done nothing. Fifty years of
witness for God and His Truth, I hope, has not been in vain. ' But the
same thoughts recurred. 'In reading Macaulay's life I had a haunting
feeling that his had been a life of public utility and mine a vita
umbratilis, a life in the shade. ' Ah! it was God's will. 'Mine has been
a life of fifty years out of the world as Gladstone's has been in it.
The work of his life in this world is manifest. I hope mine may be in
the next. I suppose our Lord called me out of the world because He saw
that I should lose my soul in it. ' Clearly, that was the explanation.

And yet he remained sufficiently in the world to discharge with absolute
efficiency the complex government of his diocese almost up to the last
moment of his existence. Though his bodily strength gradually ebbed, the
vigour of his mind was undismayed. At last, supported by cushions, he
continued, by means of a dictated correspondence, to exert his
accustomed rule. Only occasionally would he lay aside his work to plunge
into the yet more necessary duties of devotion. Never again would he
preach; never again would he put into practice those three salutary
rules of his in choosing a subject for a sermon: '(1) asking God to
guide the choice; (2) applying the matter to myself; (3) making the sign
of the cross on my head and heart and lips in honour of the Sacred
Mouth;' but he could still pray; he could turn especially to the Holy
Ghost.

'A very simple but devout person,' he wrote in one of his latest
memoranda, 'asked me why in my first volume of sermons I said so little
about the Holy Ghost. I was not aware of it; but I found it to be true.