No More Learning

And when, at last, he did succeed in making some
impression upon these surroundings, it was no better; it was worse. An
uneasy suspicion gradually arose; it began to dawn upon the Roman
authorities that Dr. Newman was a man of ideas. Was it possible that Dr.
Newman did not understand that ideas in Rome were, to say the least of
it, out of place? Apparently, he did not--nor was that all; not content
with having ideas, he positively seemed anxious to spread them. When
that was known, the politeness in high places was seen to be wearing
decidedly thin. His Holiness, who on Newman's arrival had graciously
expressed the wish to see him 'again and again', now, apparently, was
constantly engaged. At first Newman supposed that the growing coolness
was the result of misapprehension; his Italian was faulty, Latin was not
spoken at Rome, his writings had only appeared in garbled translations.
And even Englishmen had sometimes found his arguments difficult to
follow. He therefore determined to take the utmost care to make his
views quite clear; his opinions upon religious probability, his
distinction between demonstrative and circumstantial evidence, his
theory of the development of doctrine and the aspects of ideas--these
and many other matters, upon which he had written so much, he would now
explain in the simplest language. He would show that there was nothing
dangerous in what he held, that there was a passage in De Lugo which
supported him--that Perrone, by maintaining that the Immaculate
Conception could be defined, had implicitly admitted one of his main
positions, and that his language about Faith had been confused, quite
erroneously, with the fideism of M. Bautain.

Cardinal Barnabo, Cardinal Reisach, Cardinal Antonelli, looked at him
with their shrewd eyes and hard faces, while he poured into their ears
which, as he had already noticed with distress, were large and not too
clean--his careful disquisitions; but, it was all in vain--they had
clearly never read De Lugo or Perrone, and as for M. Bautain, they had
never heard of him. Newman, in despair, fell back upon St. Thomas
Aquinas; but, to his horror, he observed that St. Thomas himself did not
mean very much to the Cardinals. With a sinking heart, he realised at
last the painful truth: it was not the nature of his views, it was his
having views at all, that was objectionable. He had hoped to devote the
rest of his life to the teaching of Theology; but what sort of Theology
could he teach which would be acceptable to such superiors? He left
Rome, and settled down in Birmingham as the head of a small community of
Oratorians. He did not complain; it was God's will; it was better so. He
would watch and pray.

But God's will was not quite so simple as that. Was it right, after all,
that a man with Newman's intellectual gifts, his devoted ardour, his
personal celebrity, should sink away out of sight and use in the dim
recesses of the Oratory at Birmingham? If the call were to come to him
to take his talent out of the napkin, how could he refuse? And the call
did come. A Catholic University was being started in Ireland and Dr.
Cullen, the Archbishop of Armagh, begged Newman to become the Rector. At
first he hesitated, but when he learned that it was the Holy Father's
wish that he should take up the work, he could doubt no longer; the
offer was sent from Heaven. The difficulties before him were very great;
not only had a new University to be called up out of the void, but the
position was complicated by the presence of a rival institution--the
undenominational Queen's Colleges, founded by Peel a few years earlier
with the object of giving Irish Catholics facilities for University
education on the same terms as their fellow-countrymen. Yet Newman had
the highest hopes. He dreamt of something greater than a merely Irish
University--of a noble and flourishing centre of learning for the
Catholics of Ireland and England alike. And why should not his dream
come true? 'In the midst of our difficulties, he said, 'I have one
ground of hope, just one stay, but, as I think, a sufficient one, which
serves me in the stead of all other argument whatever. It is the
decision of the Holy See; St. Peter has spoken. '

The years that followed showed to what extent it was safe to depend upon
St. Peter. Unforeseen obstacles cropped up on every side. Newman's
energies were untiring, but so was the inertia of the Irish authorities.
On his appointment, he wrote to Dr. Cullen asking that arrangements
might be made for his reception in Dublin. Dr. Cullen did not reply.
Newman wrote again, but still there was no answer. Weeks passed, months
passed, years passed, and not a word, not a sign, came from Dr. Cullen.
At last, after dangling for more than two years in the uncertainties and
perplexities of so strange a situation, Newman was summoned to Dublin.
There he found nothing but disorder and discouragement. The laity took
no interest in the scheme; the clergy actively disliked it; Newman's
authority was disregarded. He appealed to Cardinal Wiseman, and then at
last a ray of hope dawned. The cardinal suggested that a bishopric
should be conferred upon him, to give him a status suitable to his
position; Dr. Cullen acquiesced, and Pius IX was all compliance.
'Manderemo a Newman la crocetta,' he said to Wiseman, smilingly drawing
his hands down each side of his neck to his breast, 'lo faremo vescovo
di Porfirio, o qualche luogo. ' The news spread among Newman's friends,
and congratulations began to come in. But the official intimation seemed
to be unaccountably delayed; no crocetta came from Rome, and Cardinal
Wiseman never again referred to the matter. Newman was left to gather
that the secret representations of Dr. Cullen had brought about a change
of counsel in high quarters. His pride did not allow him to inquire
further; but one of his lady penitents, Miss Giberne, was less discreet.
'Holy Father,' she suddenly said to the Pope in an audience one day,
'why don't you make Father Newman a bishop? ' Upon which the Holy Father
looked much confused and took a great deal of snuff.

For the next five years Newman, unaided and ignored, struggled
desperately, like a man in a bog, with the overmastering difficulties of
his task. His mind, whose native haunt was among the far aerial
boundaries of fancy and philosophy, was now clamped down under the
fetters of petty detail and fed upon the mean diet of compromise and
routine. He had to force himself to scrape together money, to write
articles for the students' Gazette, to make plans for medical
laboratories, to be ingratiating with the City Council; he was obliged
to spend months travelling through the remote regions of Ireland in the
company of extraordinary ecclesiastics and barbarous squireens. He was a
thoroughbred harnessed to a four-wheeled cab--and he knew it.
Eventually, he realised something else: he saw that the whole project of
a Catholic University had been evolved as a political and ecclesiastical
weapon against the Queen's Colleges of Peel, and that was all. As an
instrument of education, it was simply laughed at; and he himself had
been called in because his name would be a valuable asset in a party
game. When he understood that, he resigned his rectorship and returned
to the Oratory.

But, his tribulations were not yet over. It seemed to be God's will that
he should take part in a whole succession of schemes, which, no less
than the project of the Irish University, were to end in disillusionment
and failure. He was persuaded by Cardinal Wiseman to undertake the
editorship of a new English version of the Scriptures, which was to be a
monument of Catholic scholarship and an everlasting glory to Mother
Church. He made elaborate preparations; he collected subscriptions,
engaged contributors, and composed a long and learned prolegomena to the
work. It was all useless; Cardinal Wiseman began to think of other
things; and the scheme faded imperceptibly into thin air. Then a new
task was suggested to him: "The Rambler", a Catholic periodical, had
fallen on evil days; would Dr Newman come to the rescue, and accept the
editorship? This time he hesitated rather longer than usual; he had
burned his fingers so often--he must be specially careful now. 'I did
all I could to ascertain God's Will,' he said, and he came to the
conclusion that it was his duty to undertake the work. He did so, and
after two numbers had appeared, Dr. Ullathorne, the Bishop of
Birmingham, called upon him, and gently hinted that he had better leave
the paper alone. Its tone was not liked at Rome; it had contained an
article criticising St. Pius V, and, most serious of all, the orthodoxy
of one of Newman's own essays had appeared to be doubtful. He resigned,
and in the anguish of his heart, determined never to write again. One of
his friends asked him why he was publishing nothing. 'Hannibal's
elephants,' he replied, 'never could learn the goose-step. '

Newman was now an old man--he was sixty-three years of age. What had he
to look forward to? A few last years of insignificance and silence. What
had he to look back upon? A long chronicle of wasted efforts,
disappointed hopes, neglected possibilities, unappreciated powers. And
now all his labours had ended by his being accused at Rome of lack of
orthodoxy. He could no longer restrain his indignation, and in a letter
to one of his lady penitents, he gave vent to the bitterness of his
soul. When his Rambler article had been complained of, he said, there
had been some talk of calling him to Rome.

'Call me to Rome,' he burst out--'what does that mean? It means to sever
an old man from his home, to subject him to intercourse with persons
whose languages are strange to him--to food and to fashions which are
almost starvation on the one hand, and involve restless days and nights
on the other--it means to oblige him to dance attendance on Propaganda
week after week and month after month--it means his death. (It was the
punishment on Dr. Baines, 1840-1, to keep him at the door of Propaganda
for a year. )

'This is the prospect which I cannot but feel probable, did I say
anything which one Bishop in England chose to speak against and report.
Others have been killed before me. Lucas went of his own accord
indeed--but when he got there, oh! ' How much did he, as loyal a son of
the Church and the Holy See as ever was, what did he suffer because Dr.
Cullen was against him? He wandered (as Dr. Cullen said in a letter he
published in a sort of triumph), he wandered from Church to Church
without a friend, and hardly got an audience from the Pope. 'And I too
should go from St. Philip to Our Lady, and to St. Peter and St. Paul,
and to St. Laurence and to St. Cecilia, and, if it happened to me as to
Lucas, should come back to die. '

Yet, in spite of all, in spite of these exasperations of the flesh,
these agitations of the spirit, what was there to regret? Had he not a
mysterious consolation which outweighed every grief? Surely, surely, he
had.

'Unveil, O Lord, and on us shine,
In glory and in grace,'

he exclaims in a poem written at this time, called 'The Two Worlds':

'This gaudy world grows pale before
The beauty of Thy face.

'Till Thou art seen it seems to he
A sort of fairy ground,
Where suns unsetting light the sky,
And flowers and fruit abound.

'But when Thy keener, purer beam
Is poured upon our sight,
It loses all its power to charm,
And what was day is night . . .

'And thus, when we renounce for Thee
Its restless aims and fears,
The tender memories of the past,
The hopes of coming years,

'Poor is our sacrifice, whose eyes
Are lighted from above;
We offer what we cannot keep,
What we have ceased to love. '

Such were Newman's thoughts when an unexpected event occurred which
produced a profound effect upon his life: Charles Kingsley attacked his
good faith, and the good faith of Catholics in general, in a magazine
article. Newman protested, and Kingsley rejoined in an irate pamphlet.
Newman's reply was the Apologia pro Vita Sua, which he wrote in seven
weeks, sometimes working twenty-two hours at a stretch, 'constantly in
tears, and constantly crying out with distress'. The success of the
book, with its transparent candour, its controversial brilliance, the
sweep and passion of its rhetoric, the depth of its personal feeling,
was immediate and overwhelming; it was recognised at once as a classic,
not only by Catholics, but by the whole English world. From every side
expressions of admiration, gratitude, and devotion poured in. It was
impossible for one so sensitive as Newman to the opinions of other
people to resist the happy influence of such an unlooked-for, such an
enormous triumph. The cloud of his dejection began to lift; et l'espoir
malgre lui s'est glisse dans son coeur.

It was only natural that at such a moment his thoughts should return to
Oxford. For some years past proposals had been on foot for establishing
there a Hall, under Newman's leadership, for Catholic undergraduates.
The scheme had been looked upon with disfavour in Rome, and it had been
abandoned; but now a new opportunity presented itself--some land in a
suitable position came into the market. Newman, with his reviving
spirits, felt that he could not let this chance go by, and bought the
land. It was his intention to build there not a Hall, but a Church, and
to set on foot a 'House of the Oratory'. What possible objection could
there be to such a scheme? He approached the Bishop of Birmingham, who
gave his approval; in Rome itself there was no hostile sign. The laity
were enthusiastic and subscriptions began to flow in. Was it possible
that all was well at last? Was it conceivable that the strange and weary
pilgrimage of so many years should end at length in quietude, if not in
happiness, where it had begun?

It so happened that it was at this very time that Manning was appointed
to the See of Westminster. The destinies of the two men, which had run
parallel to one another in so strange a fashion and for so many years,
were now for a moment suddenly to converge. Newly clothed with all the
attributes of ecclesiastical supremacy, Manning found himself face to
face with Newman, upon whose brows were glittering the fresh laurels of
spiritual victory--the crown of an apostolical life. It was the meeting
of the eagle and the dove. What followed showed, more clearly perhaps
than any other incident in his career, the stuff that Manning was made
of. Power had come to him at last; and he seized it with all the avidity
of a born autocrat, whose appetite for supreme dominion had been whetted
by long years of enforced abstinence and the hated simulations of
submission. He was the ruler of Roman Catholic England, and he would
rule. The nature of Newman's influence it was impossible for him to
understand, but he saw that it existed; for twenty years he had been
unable to escape the unwelcome iterations of that singular, that alien,
that rival renown; and now it stood in his path, alone and inexplicable,
like a defiant ghost. 'It is remarkably interesting,' he observed
coldly, when somebody asked him what he thought of the Apologia: 'it is
like listening to the voice of one from the dead. ' And such voices, with
their sepulchral echoes, are apt to be more dangerous than living ones;
they attract too much attention; they must be silenced at all costs. It
was the meeting of the eagle and the dove; there was a hovering, a
swoop, and then the quick beak and the relentless talons did their work.

Even before his accession to the Archbishopric, Manning had scented a
peculiar peril in Newman's Oxford scheme, and so soon as he came into
power, he privately determined that the author of the Apologia should
never be allowed to return to his old University. Nor was there any lack
of excellent reasons for such a decision. Oxford was by this time a nest
of liberalism; it was no fit place for Catholic youths, and they would
inevitably be attracted there by the presence of Father Newman. And
then, had not Father Newman's orthodoxy been impugned? Had he not been
heard to express opinions of most doubtful propriety upon the question
of the Temporal Power? Was it not known that he might almost be said to
have an independent mind? An influence? Yes, he had an influence no
doubt; but what a fatal kind of influence to which to subject the rising
generation of Catholic Englishmen!

Such were the reflections which Manning was careful to pour into the
receptive car of Monsignor Talbot. That useful priest, at his post of
vantage in the Vatican, was more than ever the devoted servant of the
new Archbishop. A league, offensive and defensive, had been established
between the two friends.

'I daresay I shall have many opportunities to serve you in Rome,' wrote
Monsignor Talbot modestly, 'and I do not think any support will be
useless to you, especially on account of the peculiar character of the
Pope, and the spirit which pervades Propaganda; therefore, I wish you to
understand that a compact exists between us; if you help me, I shall
help you. ' And a little later he added, 'I am glad you accept the
league. As I have already done for years, I shall support you, and I
have a hundred ways of doing so. A word dropped at the proper occasion
works wonders. '

Perhaps it was hardly necessary to remind his correspondent of that.

So far as Newman was concerned, it so fell out that Monsignor Talbot
needed no prompting. During the sensation caused by the appearance of
the Apologia, it had occurred to him that it would be an excellent plan
to secure Newman as a preacher during Lent for the fashionable
congregation which attended his church in the Piazza del Popolo; and, he
had accordingly written to invite him to Rome. His letter was
unfortunately not a tactful one. He assured Newman that he would find in
the Piazza del Popolo 'an audience of Protestants more educated than
could ever be the case in England', and 'I think myself,' he had added
by way of extra inducement, 'that you will derive great benefit from
visiting Rome, and showing yourself to the Ecclesiastical Authorities. '
Newman smiled grimly at this; he declared to a friend that the letter
was 'insolent'; and he could not resist the temptation of using his
sharp pen.

'Dear Monsignor Talbot,' he wrote in reply, 'I have received your
letter, inviting me to preach in your Church at Rome to an audience of
Protestants more educated than could ever be the case in England.

'However, Birmingham people have souls; and I have neither taste nor
talent for the sort of work which you cut out for me. And I beg to
decline your offer.

I am, yours truly,

JOHN H. NEWMAN. '

Such words were not the words of wisdom. It is easy to imagine the
feelings of Monsignor Talbot. 'Newman's work none here can understand,'
he burst out to his friend. 'Poor man, by living almost ever since he
has been a Catholic, surrounded by a set of inferior men who idolise
him, I do not think he has ever acquired the Catholic instincts. ' As for
his views on the Temporal Power--'well, people said that he had actually
sent a subscription to Garibaldi. Yes, the man was incomprehensible,
heretical, dangerous; he was "uncatholic and unchristian. "' Monsignor
Talbot even trembled for the position of Manning in England.

'I am afraid that the old school of Catholics will rally round Newman in
opposition to you and Rome. Stand firm, do not yield a bit in the line
you have taken. As I have promised, I shall stand by you. You will have
battles to fight because every Englishman is naturally anti-Roman. To be
Roman is an effort to an Englishman an effort. Dr. Newman is more English than
the English. His spirit must be crushed. '

His spirit must be crushed! Certainly there could be no doubt of that.

'What you write about Dr Newman,' Manning replied, 'is true. Whether he
knows it or not, he has become the centre of those who hold low views
about the Holy See, are anti-Roman, cold and silent, to say no more,
about the Temporal Power; national, English, critical of Catholic
devotions, and always on the lower side. . . . You will take care,' he
concluded, 'that things are correctly known and understood where you
are. '

The confederates matured their plans. While Newman was making his
arrangements for the Oxford Oratory, Cardinal Reisach visited London.
'Cardinal Reisach has just left,' wrote Manning to Monsignor Talbot: 'he
has seen and understands all that is going on in England. ' But Newman
had no suspicions. It was true that persistent rumours of his
unorthodoxy and his anti-Roman leanings had begun to float about, and
these rumours had been traced to Rome.
But what were rumours? Then, too,
Newman found out that Cardinal Reisach had been to Oxford without his
knowledge, and had inspected the land for the Oratory. That seemed odd;
but all doubts were set at rest by the arrival from Propaganda of an
official ratification of his scheme. There would be nothing but plain
sailing now. Newman was almost happy; radiant visions came into his mind
of a wonderful future in Oxford, the gradual growth of Catholic
principles, the decay of liberalism, the inauguration of a second Oxford
Movement, the conversion--who knows? --of Mark Pattison, the triumph of
the Church. . . . 'Earlier failures do not matter now,' he exclaimed to a
friend. 'I see that I have been reserved by God for this. '

Just then a long blue envelope was brought into the room. Newman opened
it. 'All is over,' he said, 'I am not allowed to go. ' The envelope
contained a letter from the Bishop announcing that, together with the
formal permission for an Oratory at Oxford, Propaganda had issued a
secret instruction to the effect that Newman himself was by no means to
reside there. If he showed signs of doing so, he was blandly and suavely
('blande suaviterque' were the words of the Latin instrument) to be
prevented. And now the secret instruction had come into
operation--blande suaviterque: Dr. Newman's spirit had been crushed.

His friends made some gallant efforts to retrieve the situation; but, it
was in vain. Father St. John hurried to Rome and the indignant laity of
England, headed by Lord Edward Howard, the guardian of the young Duke of
Norfolk, seized the opportunity of a particularly virulent anonymous
attack upon Newman, to send him an address in which they expressed their
feeling that 'every blow that touches you inflicts a wound upon the
Catholic Church in this country'. The only result was an outburst of
redoubled fury upon the part of Monsignor Talbot. The address, he
declared, was an insult to the Holy See. 'What is the province of the
laity? ' he interjected. 'To hunt, to shoot, to entertain. These matters
they understand, but to meddle with ecclesiastical matters they have no
right at all. ' Once more he warned Manning to be careful.

'Dr. Newman is the most dangerous man in England, and you will see that
he will make use of the laity against your Grace. You must not be afraid
of him. It will require much prudence, but you must be firm. The Holy
Father still places his confidence in you; but if you yield and do not
fight the battle of the Holy See against the detestable spirit growing
up in England, he will begin to regret Cardinal Wiseman, who knew how to
keep the laity in order. ' Manning had no thought of 'yielding'; but, he
pointed out to his agitated friend that an open conflict between himself
and Newman would be 'as great a scandal to the Church in England, and as
great a victory to the Anglicans, as could be'. He would act quietly,
and there would be no more difficulty. The Bishops were united, and the
Church was sound.

On this, Monsignor Talbot hurried to Father St. John's lodgings in Rome
to express his regret at the misunderstanding that had arisen, to wonder
how it could possibly have occurred, and to hope that Dr. Newman might
consent to be made a Protonotary Apostolic. That was all the
satisfaction that Father St. John was to obtain from his visit to Rome.
A few weeks later, the scheme of the Oxford Oratory was finally quashed.

When all was over, Manning thought that the time had come for a
reconciliation. He made advances through a common friend; what had he
done, he asked, to offend Dr. Newman? Letters passed, and, naturally
enough, they only widened the breach. Newman was not the man to be
polite.

'I can only repeat,' he wrote at last, 'what I said when you last heard
from me. I do not know whether I am on my head or my heels when I have
active relations with you. In spite of my friendly feelings, this is the
judgment of my intellect. ' 'Meanwhile,' he concluded, 'I propose to say
seven masses for your intention amid the difficulties and anxieties of
your ecclesiastical duties. '

And Manning could only return the compliment.

At about this time, the Curate of Littlemore had a singular experience.
As he was passing by the Church he noticed an old man, very poorly
dressed in an old grey coat with the collar turned up, leaning over the
lych gate, in floods of tears. He was apparently in great trouble, and
his hat was pulled down over his eyes as if he wished to hide his
features. For a moment, however, he turned towards the Curate, who was
suddenly struck by something familiar in the face. Could it be--? A
photograph hung over the Curate's mantelpiece of the man who had made
Littlemore famous by his sojourn there more than twenty years ago--he
had never seen the original; but now, was it possible--? He looked
again, and he could doubt no longer. It was Dr. Newman. He sprang
forward, with proffers of assistance. Could he be of any use? 'Oh no,
no! ' was the reply. 'Oh no, no! ' But the Curate felt that he could not
run away and leave so eminent a character in such distress. 'Was it not
Dr. Newman he had the honour of addressing? ' he asked, with all the
respect and sympathy at his command. 'Was there nothing that could be
done? ' But the old man hardly seemed to understand what was being said
to him. 'Oh no, no! ' he repeated, with the tears streaming down his
face, 'Oh no, no! '


VII

MEANWHILE, a remarkable problem was absorbing the attention of the
Catholic Church. Once more, for a moment, the eyes of all Christendom
were fixed upon Rome. The temporal Power of the Pope had now almost
vanished; but, as his worldly dominions steadily diminished, the
spiritual pretensions of the Holy Father no less steadily increased. For
seven centuries the immaculate conception of the Virgin had been highly
problematical; Pio Nono spoke, and the doctrine became an article of
faith. A few years later, the Court of Rome took another step: a
Syllabus Errorum was issued, in which all the favourite beliefs of the
modern world--the rights of democracies, the claims of science, the
sanctity of free speech, the principles of toleration--were
categorically denounced, and their supporters abandoned to the Divine
wrath.

Yet it was observed that the modern world proceeded as before. Something
more drastic appeared to be necessary--some bold and striking measure
which should concentrate the forces of the faithful, and confound their
enemies. The tremendous doctrine of Papal Infallibility, beloved of all
good Catholics, seemed to offer just the opening that was required. Let
that doctrine be proclaimed, with the assent of the whole Church, an
article of faith, and, in the face of such an affirmation, let the
modern world do its worst! Accordingly, a General Council--the first to
be held since the Council of Trent more than 300 years before--was
summoned to the Vatican, for the purpose, so it was announced, of
providing 'an adequate remedy to the disorders, intellectual and moral,
of Christendom'. The programme might seem a large one, even for a
General Council; but everyone knew what it meant.

Everyone, however, was not quite of one mind. There were those to whom
even the mysteries of infallibility caused some searchings of heart. It
was true, no doubt, that Our Lord, by saying to Peter, 'Thou art Cephas,
which is by interpretation a stone', thereby endowed that Apostle with
the supreme and full primacy and principality over the Universal
Catholic Church; it was equally certain that Peter afterwards became the
Bishop of Rome; nor could it be doubted that the Roman Pontiff was his
successor. Thus it followed directly that the Roman Pontiff was the
head, heart, mind, and tongue of the Catholic Church; and moreover, it
was plain that when Our Lord prayed for Peter that his faith should not
fail, that prayer implied the doctrine of Papal Infallibility. All these
things were obvious, and yet--and yet--might not the formal declaration
of such truths in the year of his grace 1870 be, to say the least of it,
inopportune? Might it not come as an offence, as a scandal even, to
those unacquainted with the niceties of Catholic dogma? Such were the
uneasy reflections of grave and learned ecclesiastics and theologians in
England, France, and Germany. Newman was more than usually upset;
Monseigneur Dupanloup was disgusted; and Dr. Dollinger prepared himself
for resistance. It was clear that there would be a disaffected minority
at the Council.

Catholic apologists have often argued that the Pope's claim to
infallibility implies no more than the necessary claim of every ruler,
of every government, to the right of supreme command. In England, for
instance, the Estates of the Realm exercise an absolute authority in
secular matters; no one questions this authority, no one suggests that
it is absurd or exorbitant; in other words, by general consent the
Estates of the Realm are, within their sphere, infallible. Why,
therefore, should the Pope, within his sphere--the sphere of the
Catholic Church--be denied a similar infallibility? If there is nothing
monstrous in an Act of Parliament laying down what all men shall do, why
should there be anything monstrous in a Papal Encyclical laying down
what all men shall believe? The argument is simple; in fact, it is too
simple; for it takes for granted the very question which is in dispute.
Is there indeed no radical and essential distinction between supremacy
and infallibility? Between the right of a Borough Council to regulate
the traffic and the right of the Vicar of Christ to decide upon the
qualifications for Everlasting Bliss?

There is one distinction, at any rate, which is palpable: the decisions
of a supreme authority can be altered; those of an infallible authority
cannot. A Borough Council may change its traffic regulations at the next
meeting; but the Vicar of Christ, when in certain circumstances and with
certain precautions, he has once spoken, has expressed, for all the
ages, a part of the immutable, absolute, and eternal Truth. It is this
that makes the papal pretensions so extraordinary and so enormous. It is
also this that gives them their charm. Catholic apologists, when they
try to tone down those pretensions and to explain them away, forget that
it is in their very exorbitance that their fascination lies. If the Pope
were indeed nothing more than a magnified Borough Councillor, we should
hardly have heard so much of him. It is not because he satisfies the
reason, but because he astounds it, that men abase themselves before the
Vicar of Christ.

And certainly the doctrine of Papal Infallibility presents to the reason
a sufficiency of stumbling-blocks. In the fourteenth century, for
instance, the following case arose. John XXII asserted in his bull 'Cum
inter nonnullos' that the doctrine of the poverty of Christ was
heretical. Now, according to the light of reason, one of two things must
follow from this--either John XXII was himself a heretic, or he was no
Pope. For his predecessor, Nicholas III, had asserted in his bull 'Exiit
qui seminat' that the doctrine of the poverty of Christ was the true
doctrine, the denial of which was heresy. Thus if John XXII was right,
Nicholas III was a heretic, and in that case Nicholas's nominations of
Cardinals were void, and the conclave which elected John was illegal--so
that John was no Pope, his nominations of Cardinals were void, and the
whole Papal succession vitiated. On the other hand, if John was
wrong--well, he was a heretic; and the same inconvenient results
followed. And, in either case, what becomes of Papal Infallibility?

But such crude and fundamental questions as these were not likely to
trouble the Council. The discordant minority took another line.
Infallibility they admitted readily enough, the infallibility, that is
to say, of the Church; what they shrank from was the pronouncement that
this infallibility was concentrated in the Bishop of Rome. They would
not actually deny that, as a matter of fact, it was so concentrated; but
to declare that it was, to make the belief that it was an article of
faith--what could be more--it was their favourite expression--more
inopportune? In truth, the Gallican spirit still lingered among them. At
heart, they hated the autocracy of Rome--the domination of the
centralised Italian organisation over the whole vast body of the Church.
They secretly hankered, even at this late hour, after some form of
constitutional government, and they knew that the last faint vestige of
such a dream would vanish utterly with the declaration of the
infallibility of the Pope. It did not occur to them, apparently, that a
constitutional Catholicism might be a contradiction in terms, and that
the Catholic Church, without the absolute dominion of the Pope, might
resemble the play of Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark.

Pius IX himself was troubled by doubts. 'Before I was Pope,' he
observed, 'I believed in Papal Infallibility, now I feel it. ' As for
Manning, his certainty was no less complete than his master's. Apart
from the Holy Ghost, his appointment to the See of Westminster had been
due to Pio Nono's shrewd appreciation of the fact that he was the one
man in England upon whose fidelity the Roman Government could absolutely
rely. The voice which kept repeating 'Mettetelo li, mettetelo li' in his
Holiness's ear, whether or not it was inspired by God, was certainly
inspired by political sagacity. For now Manning was to show that he was
not unworthy of the trust which had been reposed in him. He flew to Rome
in a whirlwind of Papal enthusiasm. On the way, in Paris, he stopped for
a moment to interview those two great props of French respectability, M.
Guizot and M. Thiers. Both were careful not to commit themselves, but
both were exceedingly polite. 'I am awaiting your Council,' said M.
Guizot, 'with great anxiety. It is the last great moral power and may
restore the peace of Europe. ' M. Thiers delivered a brief harangue in
favour of the principles of the Revolution, which, he declared, were the
very marrow of all Frenchmen; yet, he added, he had always supported the
Temporal Power of the Pope. 'Mais, M. Thiers,' said Manning, 'vous etes
effectivement croyant. ' 'En Dieu,' replied M. Thiers.

The Rome which Manning reached towards the close of 1869 was still the
Rome which, for so many centuries, had been the proud and visible apex,
the palpitating heart, the sacred sanctuary, of the most extraordinary
mingling of spiritual and earthly powers that the world has ever known.
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.