Chapter XX: 482 (3)

A slight review of this remarkable action on the subject of ritual will show that the bishops were anxious to pass a law against the practices peculiar to the few good people who are called ritualists, but that they were outvoted by the clerical deputies, and that nothing 513 has been done which will have any weight. For who knows what the doctrine set forth in the authorized standards of the Episcopal Church is? And who will determine when ceremonies contravene the doctrine about which no one is certain? The Thirty-nine Articles speak plainly enough when they tell us that “the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper was not by Christ’s ordinance reserved, carried about, lifted up, or worshipped,” and that “the sacrifices of Masses were blasphemous fables and dangerous deceits.” Yet we are told that these words do not mean anything which could forbid the elevation and adoration of the Holy Eucharist, or the private celebration of the sacrifice of the Mass.

We are moreover informed that these articles are of no authority, although confessedly they are the only creed which the Protestant Episcopal Church possesses. So, when men can thus seriously argue, and quietly look each other in the face, we despair of finding any words which cannot be misinterpreted. So, as they say, with thanks to God for his great mercy, our ritual friends will go on, and do as they have done, interpreting the standards to suit themselves, and, above all, taking advantage of that blessed _Use of Sarum_ which has been to them a source of so great consolation.

Appropriately of all this, we give an extract from the _Church Weekly_, regulating the order of service for the third week of November.

[Column Header Key:
A = Day of Month.
B = Day of Week.
C = Concordance.
D = Observance.]
KALENDAR FOR THE WEEK.

+----+-----+--------------------------------+--------+--------------------+
| | | | | |Altar Color.|
| A | B | NOVEMBER. | C | D +------+-----+
| | | | | |Sarum.| Rom.|
+----+-----+--------------------------------+--------+-------+------+-----+
| 19 | S. | 24th after Trinity, | .. | Feast.| R. | G. |
| 20 | M. | [S. Edmund, K. M., | A[113] | .. | R. | R. |
| 22 | W. | [S. Cecilia, V. M., | C[113] | .. | R. | R. |
| 23 | Th. | [S. Clement, Bp. Rome, M., | .. | .. | R. | R. |
| 25 | S. | [S. Katharine, V. M., | C[113] | .. | R. | R. |
| 26 | S. | Sunday next before Advent,[114]| .. | Feast.| .. | G. |
+----+-----+--------------------------------+--------+-------+------+-----+

It must be observed that “Calendar” is spelt with a K, which is more ancient, and that the “authorized standards” of the Episcopal Rite have nothing about S. Edmund, S. Cecilia, S. Clement, nor S. Catharine (spelt with a K). The “altar color” is also very useful, especially as they give at the last column the Roman Rite. A friend of ours told us of a very solemn marriage which he witnessed in Trinity Church the other day. The Rev. Dr. Dix was the celebrant (as he thought), with a deacon and subdeacon, all beautifully vested, and the candidates were a young priest and a young lady, who in this most impressive manner was to become his wife. Oh! what will the Greeks say to this? We fear they will be scandalized, and that even the giving up of the “Filioque” will not prevent them from staring with eyes wide open. The 514 priest said the nuptial mass, and the other priest and his wife received the holy communion and the sacrament of matrimony. How does this compare with the services before 1789?

We cannot, however, pass over the action and language of the bishops in this matter. We suppose our Anglican friends will admit that neither priests nor laymen are by any rule of ecclesiastical antiquity allowed to judge in council on points of faith. This has generally been left to the episcopate, to which, in union with its head, Christ committed the government of his church. Now, for the advanced High Churchmen it is a sad fact that the bishops of their church have unqualifiedly condemned them. They have done this, first in the canon which they passed and sent down to the House of Deputies, and, secondly, in the language of their pastoral, which is the accurate expression of their doctrine. We know that their words can be explained away, but we respectfully submit that this time the attempt to do so will be dishonesty. If these reverend fathers in God can speak at all, then they have spoken. We give their words, and pray they may fall upon the open ears of their children who bow down before them as “apostles”: “The doctrine which chiefly attempts to express itself by ritual, in questionable and dangerous ways, is connected with the Holy Eucharist. That doctrine is emphatically _a novelty in theology_. What is known as eucharistical adoration is undoubtedly inculcated and encouraged by that ritual of posture _lately_ introduced among us, which finds no warrant in our ‘Office for the Administration of Holy Communion.’” They then go on to say that whatever presence of Christ there may be is such as does not allow him to be there worshipped, and that to adore the elements is “an awful error.” We give an extract from a writer in one of our New York journals, who seems, up to this time, to be honest in his understanding of his spiritual fathers:

“3. There are bishops and--bishops; there are doctors
and--doctors. Here is the Bishop of Arizona, for instance, who
says that ‘that doctrine (eucharistic adoration) is a _novelty in
theology_.’ But there is St. Ambrose, whilom Bishop of Milan, who
says, ‘We adore the flesh of Christ in the mysteries.’ Here is
the Bishop of Central New York, who declares that ‘the doctrine
and the practice which it implies are most certainly unauthorized
by Holy Scripture, and entirely aside from the purposes for which
the holy sacrament was instituted.’ But there is St. Gregory of
Nazianzum, not recently, indeed, but most truly Bishop of
Constantinople, who used this expression, ‘Calling upon him who
is worshipped upon the altar.’ Here is the Bishop of Delaware,
who unites with the Bishop of Connecticut in saying that ‘the
doctrine and the practice which it implies are most dangerous in
their tendencies.’ But there is the poor Bishop of Hippo,
Augustine by name, who, unfortunately for his reputation,
committed himself to the declaration that ‘no one eateth that
flesh till he have first adored.’ And how many other bishops,
great and small, there are who have acted upon that dictum of the
misguided African, God only knows!”

His appeal is from bishop to bishop, and from doctor to doctor, according to his own private judgment. We are pained more than we can express at the malicious quibbles which distort words so emphatically plain. We submit that, if Jesus Christ _is_ present in the Eucharist, he _must_ be adored by all but infidels; and, secondly, that, if the bread is his body, as he said it was, it cannot at the same time be bread, since two substances cannot coexist in the same space. All changes of words upon the terms “spiritual and corporal” are only the unfortunate sophistries of a deceiver or of the deceived. If our 515 ritualistic brethren have any doubt as to the meaning of the bishops, let them go and ask Dr. Smith, or Drs. Lee and Coxe, Potter and McIlvaine. They will give a clear reply, we do believe.

We approach another and most important act of the Council of Episcopal bishops which will certainly render this convention memorable for all time. They have, in the most solemn manner, given their definition of the term “regeneration” which is used in the offices of their church. The Twenty-seventh of the Thirty-nine Articles was probably framed to suit different opinions among the followers of the Reformation of Luther. There baptism is called “a sign of regeneration,” though it is not declared to be the instrument of regeneration, and may be only a mere sign without the substance. But the Office for Baptism in the _Prayer-Book_ is in no way equivocal. There it is distinctly taught that the child baptized is regenerated by the Holy Spirit. According to all the received acceptation of words and the doctrine of formularies from which this office was derived, regeneration means the new birth by which through divine mercy the child, naturally born of Adam, is supernaturally born again of water and the Holy Ghost, receives the new life of grace, and becomes really the child of God. Such are our Lord’s words to Nicodemus, wherein he instructs him concerning baptism: “That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit.”

Ever since the formation of the Episcopal Church the great majority of her members have found the words retained in the baptismal service onerous and out of place. For they do not believe in any such doctrine, since they have adopted the heretical notions of Calvin and Luther concerning the new birth. Only a few High Churchmen have ever held to baptismal regeneration, yet they have had the language of the _Prayer-Book_ to sustain them in controversy. One of the best and most learned of the Episcopalian ministers, for many years professor in the General Theological Seminary, taught that “regeneration” in the baptismal service, by a special use of terms, meant only a “_change of state_,” and that the doctrine that baptism was the new birth was utterly untenable in the Episcopal Church, and contrary to the whole spirit of its creed. The united voice of the bishops now comes to declare the same opinion, and to make of the regeneration taught in their offices only such an external change by which the child is promised unto God, and, without any interior operation, is adopted into the visible fold of Christ. We give the language of this most remarkable definition:

DECLARATION OF THE BISHOPS IN COUNCIL,
OCTOBER 11, 1871.

“We, the subscribers, Bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church
in the United States, being asked, in order to the quieting of
the consciences of sundry members, of the said church, to declare
our convictions as to the meaning of the word ‘regenerate’ in the
‘Offices for the Ministration of Baptism for Infants,’ do declare
that in our opinion the word ‘regenerate’ is not there so used as
to determine that a moral change in the subject of baptism is
wrought in the sacrament.”

To this declaration are appended the signatures of forty-eight bishops, all but two, we believe, of the whole of their hierarchy. Now we were somewhat prepared for attempts to wrest the meaning of these very plain words, but not for the flagrant dishonesty of some of the High Church journals. Let us call things by their right names, and speak the truth, if need be, in all sadness. We were not prepared to hear that “the bishops were not asked nor did they profess to say 516 what regeneration means”; that in saying what it was not, they aimed to give no explanation whatever of the word. We give two short extracts, one from the _Churchman_, and the other from the _Church Weekly_, which for candor and sincerity certainly deserve the first premium:

“The object aimed at was ‘the quieting of the consciences of
sundry members of the church.’ It was not to give an exhaustive
definition of the word. Certain persons claimed that the term
might be interpreted to signify a moral change in the subject of
baptism. They knew that many would so understand it. And so the
bishops, being asked, stated what no sound churchman ever denied,
and no well-read theologian and respectable student of the
meaning of language ever denied, namely, ‘that the word is not so
used’ in that connection. The thing asked for was granted. The
object aimed at was accomplished, and those who represented the
unquiet consciences have acknowledged their grateful
appreciation.

“We can illustrate this point by a single example. Some readers
of the Bible may think that, whenever the word ‘day’ occurs in
the first chapters of Genesis, it must mean a period of
twenty-four hours. Common people have come to understand it in
that sense. Now, suppose that the question has been raised in
some Baptist or Congregational ‘Sabbath-school.’ The teachers
think a declaration from their pastor or bishop--if they please
to call him so--to the effect that the word does not of necessity
imply a period of time limited to twice twelve hours, would quiet
the consciences of some of their pupils who have studied geology.
Suppose the thing asked for is granted: are we, therefore, to
conclude that the pastor has pretended to give a definition of
the word ‘day,’ and to state exactly ‘what it does mean’? Shall
we speak of him as having ‘grappled with’ the creation question,
and yet ‘failed to tell a waiting’ Sabbath-school what the exact
time indicated by that word ‘day’ was--whether ten thousand
years, as some believe, or, as others think, ten million?”

“Alas! the House of Bishops have put forth a definition which is
_no_ definition! They pretend to define, and yet they do _not_
define! There is not a churchman, however ignorant of theology,
who does not laugh in his sleeve at this pseudo-definition, which
will have the effect, however, of making manifest either the
ignorance or the insincerity of ‘Evangelicals,’ provided that
they remain in the church. For, if the latter remain therein
after this, it must be either because they cannot tell a
definition from an evasion of a question, or because they are in
search of some excuse for not carrying out those boisterous
threats with which they have been for some time past making both
day and night hideous to all peaceful churchmen.”

The respect here shown to these right reverend fathers in God is nearly as great as their honesty. Now, we insist that the new birth of water and the Holy Ghost implies a _moral change_ of the most important kind, and that even the forgiveness of original sin cannot take place without such a change. We will take the words of the Episcopal Catechism, and leave it to any just mind if regeneration determines a _moral change_. There we are taught that the inward grace, inseparable from baptism, else it is no sacrament, is “a death unto sin and a new birth unto righteousness; for, being by nature born in sin, and the children of wrath, we are hereby made the children of grace.” To be made the child of grace surely requires a moral change, which the bishops deny. They will, therefore, have to put out a new catechism or a new dictionary. As for the quibbles upon the sense of the word “determine,” as if the venerable prelates meant to sport with the common sense of their constituents, they are too paltry to deserve the notice of any respectable man. The plain fact is beyond dispute, that the supreme authority of the Protestant Episcopal Church has formally denied the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, which is contained in the Catechism and Office for Baptism. In this they have only spoken 517 the real feeling and belief of the great majority of their religious communion since the time of its formation. Of this wonderful declaration, they say in their pastoral that “they have, with an extraordinary unanimity, set forth a definition touching their offices for the baptism of infants.” The declaration, they inform us, “was made in the loving hope that many consciences might thus be for ever freed from false impressions concerning the teaching of the church, as respects spiritual religion and personal piety.”

We have no right to expect any accurate use of terms in the language of those who, according to the testimony of many of their children, know nothing of canon law or theology; yet here we have a plain statement which admits of but one interpretation. The bishops at the next convention may retract it or deny it, and individuals among them may gravely say that they do not receive a doctrinal definition which they signed. Stranger things have happened. The two who did not sign it are, we are told, High Churchmen of the old, dry school, while the hopeful abettors of ritualism have gone down under this cloud, from whose darkness they can never clear themselves before an honest public.

We pass on to notice the further action of the reverend prelates in council, since to us ecclesiastics they are the only part of the convention who are properly judges in doctrine or discipline. Having denied regeneration in holy baptism, and the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, they have, with like unanimity, attacked and forbidden, as far as they may, _private confession_. Sometimes, they inform us, a soul is so burdened with its sinfulness as to desire “an authoritative assurance of forgiveness.” This, however, in their view, is by no means necessary, nor is it “the duty of Christians, or essential to any high attainments in the religious life.” “Pardon,” according to them, “is granted to any child of God, on his repentance, accompanied by prayer, and reliance upon the promises of Christ, as well as on the use of the means of grace.” What means of grace are here intended does not appear. To make confession, therefore, “a thing customary, not exceptional, enforced, not free, is to rob Christ’s provision (what provision?) of its mercy, and to change it into an engine of oppression and a source of corruption. History demonstrates this, and the experience of families, and even of nations, shows that the worst practical evils are inseparable from this great abuse. To pervert the godly counsel and advice which may quiet a disturbed conscience into the _arbitrary direction_ which _supplants_ the conscience, is to do away with that sense of moral responsibility under which every man shall give account of himself to God.”

This is not the place to point out the gross ignorance and prejudice of the Episcopal bishops. They speak of what they know nothing, having never confessed their own sins, nor felt the need of any “authoritative assurance of pardon.” To assert a wholesale slander of one of the most sacred institutions of Christ, hallowed by the practice of three-fourths of all who call themselves Christians, which is really the great source of the little purity left in the world, is a fearful crime before heaven. We acquit them, therefore, in charity, of the intention to slander, and hold them culpably ignorant. All this is, however, beyond the scope of our present purpose. We have only to say that they have forbidden, as far as their words go, the _ordinary_ 518 practice of confession, and that they deprecate it as “an engine of oppression and a source of corruption.” It remains now to be seen whether these counsels of the chief pastors of the Protestant Episcopal Church are to be followed by their children who think them to be successors of the apostles and fathers in God. Will the Right Rev. Dr. Potter, who once published, as we have been informed, a manual for the examination of conscience, to whom a prayer-book, with directions for confession, has been publicly dedicated, now interfere and put a stop to this great abuse? Will the handful of _ritual priests_ in this city cease to sit in their pews or their libraries to hear and absolve penitents? To speak our honest opinion, the words of the bishops will have no influence whatever, and things will go on precisely as they did before. We only venture to wish, for the sake of propriety, that confessionals might be erected in all these churches, where at least the female penitents might be heard. We assure our friends that this advice comes from a good heart. If they cannot hear confessions in public, they would do well for themselves not to hear them at all.

The most reverend prelates go on to condemn “the tendency towards saint-worship, and especially its culmination in the worship of the Blessed Virgin.” “The bare suggestion that the intercession of the Virgin Mary, or of any other saint, is in any way to be sought in our approaches to the throne of grace, is an _indignity_ to the one only Mediator and Intercessor which we, his _apostolic_ witnesses, cannot too strongly nor distinctly forbid in his holy and all-sufficient name.” Is this language plain enough for our ritualistic friends? Do they think these words equivocal? They as _apostles_ have forbidden any one to seek the prayers of the Mother of God or of any other saint. To do so is to offer indignity to Christ, according to their theology. On the same principle, Episcopalians must not ask the prayers of each other, unless they wish to insult the one Intercessor. The reason why the saints cannot intercede for us is that Jesus Christ alone may do it. We cannot, therefore, suppose that living men or women are in a different position in this respect from their departed brethren, especially from the great heroes of Christianity. We really blush at the stupidity of men who call themselves teachers and wear episcopal robes, but it is not our business to criticise their directions to their flock. We simply put before the world what they have so plainly said. All invocation of any one but Christ is to be stopped within their communion by their solemn decree, if, indeed, it was ever practised.

From this restriction of prayer, they pass on to condemn the devotional books which “have been insidiously multiplied of late years in England and America, and are alien in their character to the whole spirit of the Liturgy.” We presume they here refer to the translations of Catholic books of devotion which have become for some time past the pious nourishment of all the advanced Episcopalians. We have seen many of these works ourselves, and have even seen the _Book of Common Prayer_ bound up with parts of the Missal, and preparations for communion and confession taken from well-known Catholic authors. This, to say the least, is an acknowledgment that their own church does not feed their souls, and that they seek a life it can neither give nor support. This alone ought to be sufficient to send them where they can find a 519 religious system according with their wants. Certainly they can do as they like in the matter. They can put on all our vestments, and their bishops may wear rings and crosses, and bear mitres and crosiers, and they may cross themselves with the left hand, and bow down before an altar which is only wood or stone. They may call themselves the only Catholics in the world, and out-herod Herod himself, and quietly put us Romanists in the shade. But we think the bishops are right to tell them that all this is inconsistent with Episcopalianism, and that they ought to be either one thing or the other. A man has a right _before the law_ to play the Harlequin; but has he a _moral_ right to do so? Is it an honest or fair thing to remain in a church and use devotions and teach doctrines which it condemns? Much is said of “that liberty wherewith Christ has made us free.” But can that be a liberty to contradict ourselves, to profess to be what we are not, and to carry private judgment to absurdity? We are forced in reason to commend the advice of the bishops, and to say with them to our good friends, “Gentlemen and ladies, if you wish to use Catholic books, be kind enough to go where they belong. Please do not attempt to foist upon our people a spirituality which is foreign to our Protestant communion.” From our past knowledge, however, we do not believe that the counsel of the reverend fathers will produce much effect. We shall still as ever have Catholic books of devotion luxuriously bound (the binding goes a great ways), “and adapted to the use of the _American Church_.” For our own part, we hope that this will be the case, since the recitation of our prayers, and the reading of the masters of the spiritual life, may do much to lead souls to the one true faith.

3. A few remarks will now suffice to show the position in which the Protestant Episcopal Church has placed herself by the action of this convention. If we regard the whole body, including the laymen as well as the clerical deputies, we can see how true to its birthmarks has been the legislation of a communion which glories in the non-committal character of its creed and profession. Two or three parties, with views diametrically opposite, are thus kept together, and in the diversity of opinions is the safety of the whole. When the Episcopal Church begins to have anything like a faith, then will it fall to pieces, and new sects will arise of its component parts. How long it will go on holding together High Church and Low Church, Broad Church and no church at all, we do not know. But this we think, its Protestant character is now well established to all mankind. Not one single link which could bind it to the doctrine or practice of the past has been left. If it will not baptize itself with the names of Luther, Calvin, or Zwingle, it can boast of no father or mother. In the words of its Bishop Lee, if it is not a _Protestant_ church, it disowns its birth, and has no right to be called a church. Through the most solemn action of its supreme authority it has denied the real presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist, the regeneration of children in baptism, the intercession of the saints, and the practice of confession. As for the ritualists, they have been handled without mercy, and their whole system of faith and worship summarily condemned. It will be of little avail to them to say that the bishops only have pronounced a decision, and that the division of the clerical and _lay vote_ in four or five dioceses saved them from a prohibitory 520 canon of the whole convention. Are the presbyters and lay deputies the successors of the apostles, whom the Lord instituted to govern the church of God? Who made the sheep of the flock the judges in ecclesiastical causes?

We have no heart to believe that the condemnation of the bishops will do any good with the majority of them. A few earnest souls will come, one by one, into the true fold of the Good Shepherd, where a man has to _receive_ and obey Christ, and not _make_ a religion for himself. Yet we fear, and with sadness we say it, that no power whatever could open the eyes of many. If their church should deny the Holy Trinity or the incarnation of God the Son, they would explain away the denial. Blow after blow with a rough hand has been given to these so-called Catholics within the past few years. Many are not shaken, but in spite of all the decisions of their councils and the admonition of their pastors, they go on insisting on vanity, erecting an idol which their own hands have made, and blindly falling down to worship it. Who shall reason with men who have histories and even grammars and dictionaries of their own? Who but God in his infinite mercy can roll away the darkness of hearts which walk in a vain shadow and disquiet themselves for naught, calling evil good and good evil? Here logic is wasted, and the past, with its lessons, ignored, as if the Word made flesh had never been on earth, nor quickened with divine grace our fallen humanity. Fellow-Catholics, let us to prayer, that such souls may not die eternally out of their Father’s house, strangers to the Bread of Life. In their great need, the pitying heart of Jesus crucified will hear, and scales shall fall from many eyes. Oh! how sad to travel long and far in this weary life, and then only to see from a distance the promised land, but never to rest in the tabernacles of the God of Jacob.

[113] Except in American Church.

[114] Give notice of S. Andrew’s Day.

----------

CHATEAU REGNIER.

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.

I.

A proud man was the Baron Regnier. In the old days of Charlemagne, the Chateau Regnier had risen, a modest mansion on the pleasant banks of the Garonne. That great monarch died; his empire fell to pieces; the lords became each one an independent sovereign in his own castle, making perpetual war on each other, and electing kings who could enforce neither respect nor obedience. Then the Chateau Regnier was enlarged and fortified, its retainers and vassals became numerous, and, as was the method of growing rich in those times, large parties of horsemen would sally from its gates, as suited their pleasure or necessities, to plunder neighboring lords or defenceless travellers.

The Barons Regnier were brave men; never was there a brilliant or 521 dangerous expedition wherein some scion of the house did not distinguish himself. When the first preaching of the Crusades stirred the soul of Europe, there was bustle of preparation and burnishing of weapons at the château; even in the motley company of Peter the Hermit went one of the younger sons of the family, who did his part of plundering in Hungary and Dalmatia, and perished on the shores of the Bosphorus; and in the more orderly expedition that followed, the reigning baron himself led a brave array under the banner of Raymond of Toulouse.

The return of the crusaders brought more refined tastes into France, though not more peaceable manners. The Château Regnier was enriched and beautified; troubadours gathered there; feasts were continually spread; still plunder and anarchy were the order of the day till the reign of Louis le Gros. That energetic king devoted his life to establishing law and order in France. Then the house of Regnier, having plundered all that it conveniently could, took part with the king to prevent all further plundering, so it grew strong in its possessions.

With such a line of ancestry to look back on, no wonder that the Baron Regnier was proud. He himself in his youth had shared in the disasters of a crusade. After his return home, he had married a beautiful wife, whom he tenderly loved; but his happiness had been of short duration; in three years after their union she died, leaving him an image of herself--a frail and lovely little being, the last flower on the rugged stem of that great house.

A lovely land is the south of France. Two thousand years ago the old geographer of Pontus[115] called it the Beautiful, and its soft _langue d’or_ is the very language of love. It was on the shores of the Garonne, in the twelfth century, that the troubadours sang their sweetest songs. Among them was found Pierre Rogiers, who wearied once of the cloister, and so wandered out into the world--to the court of the beautiful Ermengarde of Narbonne, to the palaces of Aragon, at last to the shores of the Garonne, and, finding everywhere only vanity of vanities, once more entered the gates of the monastery and lay down to die.

Here, too, lived Bernard de Ventadour, who loved and celebrated in his songs more than one royal princess. Here he dwelt in courtly splendor, till he too grew weary of all things earthly, and yearned for the quiet of the cloister, and, wrapping the monk’s robe around him, he too died in peace.

No wonder if Clemence Regnier, growing up a beautiful girl in the midst of these influences, should yield her soul to the soft promptings of affection. She was the favorite companion of her father; no wish of hers was ungratified; her sweetness of temper endeared her to all around her. She was sought in marriage by many rich nobles of Toulouse; she refused them all, and gave her preference to the younger son of a neighboring baron--a penniless and landless knight.

When the old baron first discovered their mutual attachment, he was at first incredulous, then amazed, then angry. He persistently and peremptorily refused his consent. The De Regniers had for so long married, as they had done everything else, only to augment their power and wealth, that a marriage where love and happiness only were 522 considered, was an absurd idea to the baron.

“This comes of all these _jongleurs_ and their trashy songs!” he exclaimed; “they have got nothing to do but wander about the world and turn girls’ and boys’ heads with their songs. I’ll have no more of them here!”

So the baron turned all poets and musicians out of his château, but he could not turn love and romance out; the young heart of Clemence was their impregnable citadel, and there they held their ground against all the baron’s assaults.

Four years went by; Clemence was pining away with grief, for she loved her father and she loved her lover; at last, her love for the latter prevailed, and, trusting to win the old baron’s forgiveness afterwards, Clemence fled from the château with the young Count de Regnault.

Baron de Regnier was a man who, when moderately irritated, gave vent to his wrath in angry words, but when deeply wounded he was silent; and here both his pride and his affection had been wounded most deeply.

He signified to the guests at the castle that they might depart; he closed the grand halls, keeping near him a few old servants; dismissed his chaplain, whom he suspected, though falsely, of having married the runaway couple, and who had been their messenger to him, begging for his forgiveness and permission to come to him; closed his chapel doors; and shut himself up, gloomy and alone, in a suite of rooms in a wing of the château.

Many loving and penitent messages came to him from Clemence. At first he took no notice of them: at last, to one he returned an answer--“He would never see her again.”

II.

The summer came and the winter, and many a summer and winter passed, and the dreariest domain in all France was the once merry Château Regnier. Year after year the old man brooded alone. If friendship or chance brought guests to the château, they were received with stately formality, which forbade their stay; rarely did a stranger pass a night within its walls. The retainers kept their Christmas holidays as best they might; no great hall was opened and lighted, no feast was spread. They wondered how long the baron would live such a life, and what would become of the château should he die, for he had no heir to take it.

Ten years passed: the old man began to grow tired at last of his solitude; he listened to the voice of conscience--it reproached him with ten long years of neglected duties. The first thing he did was to open the doors of his chapel. He sent for artisans and ordered it to be repaired and refitted, then he sent a messenger to the Bishop of Toulouse, asking him to send a chaplain to the Château Regnier.

The church was in those days what she is now--the great republic of the world; but at that time she was the _only_ republic, the one impregnable citadel where, through all the centuries that we call the middle ages, the liberties and the equality of men held their ground against hereditary right and feudal despotism. In the monastery the prior was often of lowly birth, while among the humbler brethren whom he ruled might be found men of patrician, even of royal lineage. Virtue and talent were the only rank acknowledged; the noble knelt and confessed his sins, and received absolution from the hand of the serf. 523 Thus, beside the princely-born Bernard we see the name of Fulbert, the illustrious Bishop of Chartres, raised to the episcopal throne from poverty and obscurity--as he himself says, “_sicut de stercore pauper_”; and the life-long friend and minister of Louis the Sixth, Suger, the abbot of St. Denis, and regent of France, was the son of a bourgeois of St. Omer.

So it happened that when the baron sent to the Bishop of Toulouse for a chaplain, a young priest, who was the son of a vassal of Château Regnier, threw himself at the prelate’s feet, and begged that he might be sent. The bishop looked on him with surprise and displeasure.

“Monseigneur,” said the priest, “you reproach me in your heart for what appears to you my presumption and boldness in making this request. I have a most earnest reason, for the love of God, in asking this; for a very brief time do I ask to remain chaplain at the Château Regnier, but I do most earnestly ask it.” So he was sent.

The young Père Rudal had been in his childhood a favorite with the baron. It was the baron who had first taken notice of the bright boy, and who had sent him away to the great schools of Lyons to be educated; and now, when he saw his former favorite return to him, the old man’s heart warmed again, and opened to the young priest.

It was with strange emotions that the Père Rudal stood once more in the home of his childhood. When a careless boy there, with no very practical plans for life, he had loved, with a boy’s romantic love, the beautiful Clemence. He was something of a dreamer and poet; she had been the queen of his reveries. He was the child of a vassal, and she of noble birth. This thought saddened him, and many were the ditties wherein he bewailed, in true troubadour fashion, this mournful fact; but that he was a boy of twelve when she was a girl of seventeen did not at the time occur to him.

After he had gone to the university he heard of her departure from her father’s castle, and the old man’s unforgiving anger against her. The thought of her grief kept the remembrance of her in his heart, and now--though he could laugh at those old dreams of romance--he could love her with a nobler love. He knew the baron’s former predilection for himself, and he prayed daily to heaven that he might once more see her restored to her father’s halls.

At the château now he was the baron’s constant companion. He led the old man little by little to interest himself once more in the duties of life--in plans for ameliorating the condition of some of the poor vassals--in some improvements in the château. Before two years had passed the old man seemed to love him like a son. Yet often a cloud passing over the weary face, a deep sigh, a sudden indifference to all earthly things, betrayed the lifelong grief of the baron’s heart, and the thought still kept of her whom that heart so truly loved but would not pardon.

It was drawing near to the Christmas season, when one day Père Rudal said to the Baron:

“My lord, more than a year have I been with you, and although you have heaped many favors upon me, I have never yet solicited one; now I am going to ask one.”

“My dear friend and companion,” replied the baron, “whatever is in my power, you know you have only to ask.”

“In the old days,” continued the priest, “this château of yours saw many a gay feast, especially at the Christmas-tide; then there were 524 nobles and ladies here; now it has grown gloomy and silent. What I ask is, that this Christmas you will give an entertainment, but one of a novel kind; let the halls be opened and a banquet spread, and invite all your poor neighbors, your vassals, your retainers, their wives and children; let none be omitted: do this for the love of that little Child who was so poor and outcast for love of us. I myself will superintend the whole, and pledge myself for the good conduct and happiness of all; and moreover, you yourself will accompany and remain among your guests, at least for a little while. I know I am making a bold request in asking this, but I am sure you will not refuse it, and I promise you will not repent of it.”

The baron acceded to the request. Had he been asked to entertain grand company at his castle, in his present mood he would have refused at once and haughtily; but he was too generous to refuse anything asked in the name of the poor; besides, he felt in his heart the truth of what the young priest had said to him: “There is no solace for grief like that of solacing the sorrows of others; and no happiness like that of adding to their happiness.”

III.

Christmas Day came; and, after the Grand Mass was over, the great hall of the château was opened, and tables were spread with abundance of good cheer; there were presents for the little children too; and there were _jongleurs_ who, instead of the customary love ditties, sang old Christmas carols in the soft Provençal dialect. Amidst the hilarity there was, what by no means was common in those days, order and decorum. This was due in part to the restraint and awe inspired by the old château--opened for the first time in so many years; but more to the presence in their midst of the baron and the priest, who passed from one group to another with a kind word to each.

After a while the priest laid his hand on the baron’s arm:

“Let us retire to yonder oriel window--there we may sit in quiet and contemplate this merry scene.”

The baron gladly escaped from the crowd, but, as he seated himself, a sigh of weariness escaped him, and a cloud gathered on his brow.

“How happy you have made all these good people,” said the priest. “The merriment of children has something contagious in it, has it not?”

“What have I to do with the merriment of other people’s children--I, a poor childless old man?”

The baron spoke bitterly; for the first time in his life had he made an allusion to his griefs.

“But see these three pretty little children coming towards us,” the priest continued; “we did not see them as we passed through the hall.” And he beckoned them nearer--a little girl about eight years old, a little boy some two or three years younger, and the smallest just able to walk: beautiful children they were, but dressed in the ordinary dress of peasant children.

“Do not refuse to kiss these pretty little ones for the love of the little Child who was born to-day,” pleaded the priest, as he raised one on his own knee. “Now, my lord, if it were the poorest vassal in your domains, would he not be a happy man whom these pretty ones should call grandpapa?”

The baron’s face assumed a look of displeasure. “I want no more of this; entertain your guests as you please, but spare me my presence 525 here any further. I am glad if I can do anything towards making others happy, but happiness for myself is gone in this world.”

“O my lord!” said the Père Rudal, “why is your happiness gone? Because you have cast it away. When your daughter, your Clemence, threw herself and her little ones at your feet, and prayed you, for the love of the little Child born in Bethlehem, to take _her_ little ones to your heart, why did you coldly turn away and refuse her?”

The baron turned to him with unfeigned surprise. “What do you mean?” said he. “I have never seen her since, and her children never.”

“But you see them now.”

“O father!” said a well-known voice, and his own daughter Clemence was kneeling in the midst of her little ones at his feet.

The old man sank back in his seat--his daughter’s arm was thrown around his neck--her head was resting on his heart--and after an instant’s struggle between love, the divine instinct, and pride, the human fault, his arm was clasped closely about her. Père Rudal lifted up the youngest child, and placed it on the baron’s knee, and then quietly stole away.

A merry place was the Château Regnier after that night; the rooms and halls were opened to the daylight--there was romping and laughing of children from one end of it to the other. The Count de Regnault was sent for on the very next day after that happy Christmas, and was embraced by the baron as a son--and evermore thereafter, with great splendor and merriment, was that feast held at the château; so that the Christmas festivals of Château Regnier became famous throughout France.

As for the young priest--that night, after he had seen Clemence once more in her father’s arms, he left the château and never returned to it. He went away to Toulouse, and wrote from thence to the baron, telling him that his love for him and his was unalterable, but his mission at the château was accomplished; the voice of duty called him elsewhere; and he begged the baron’s consent to depart. The baron gave his acquiescence reluctantly. Père Rudal soon after entered the order of the Trinitarians, for the redemption of captives, which had been recently established, and perished on a voyage to Tunis.

[115] Καλὴ δὲ καὶ ἡ τῶν Αὐσκίων--_Strabo._

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THE “BROAD SCHOOL.”

What is your “Broad School” now, Professor, say,
But the booking-office of the old “Broad Way”?
AUBREY DE VERE.

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THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS. 526

NO. V.

The direct and positive arguments which we have presented in our last article, bearing on the miraculous character of the liquefaction, cover the ground so entirely that we might, indeed, rest our case on their presentation. We need, however, make no apology for going further, and examining also, and somewhat in detail, the difficulties and counter-statements which have been made, from time to time, by those who deny its miraculous character. Truth shrinks from no examination or proper test.

We are confident that, the more closely those objections are examined, the weaker they will be found to be; and their weakness is an additional argument for the truth of our conclusion.

The general charge is that this liquefaction is effected by some trick or other on the part of the priests. A vague charge by itself means nothing, and is of no value. To be worth anything, there must follow a “specification,” some indication or explanation of the precise mode or trick by which the liquefaction is effected. HOW IS IT DONE? This is the first question to which a reply must be given, before the objectors can come into court.

The replies to it have been numerous, very numerous--in fact, so numerous as to lose all real value: they are so wonderfully discordant and so contradictory.

The liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius has occurred, during the last two hundred and fifty years--to go no further back just now--at least four thousand times; in public, without any attempt at concealment, under the eyes of believers and unbelievers alike, standing on every side and within a few feet, it may be, in immediate contact with the officiating clergyman, and, therefore, possessing ample opportunity for the closest and most critical inspection of everything concerning it. Under such circumstances, it is inconceivable that the precise trick, or fraud, or secret, if there were any, should remain undiscovered. Yet, that no such discovery has been made is perfectly clear from this striking disagreement among those who charge that there is fraud, as soon as they undertake to state distinctly in what the fraud or trick consists. What one proposes is scouted by another as so weak and so contrary to the facts of the case, that it is virtually a surrender of the cause. One declares it to be “one of the most bungling tricks he ever saw”; but he is entirely silent as to the nature of the trick so obvious to him. Another states it to be a trick “of great ingenuity,” as well as of “long standing”; but, with equal prudence, he also is mute as to its character. A third will explain the manner in which A. thought it was done; and the very different manner in which B. held that it was performed; while C. with equal shrewdness proposed a third mode. The reader is considerately left free to select which he pleases. Which 527 of them or whether any one of them be actually true is apparently a question of minor importance. The grand purpose aimed at--and for that, any one of them, even if a mistake, will, it is thought, be sufficient--is to find some passable or colorable pretext to relieve the reader from the exceedingly disagreeable necessity of admitting a popish miracle.

When two and a half centuries of keen and critical examinations, covering so many thousand instances of the liquefaction, have resulted only in such utter confusion and disagreement among those who profess to have discovered the fraud, we may legitimately conclude that in reality there has been no discovery of any trickery or fraud whatsoever.

Not to tax the reader’s patience too much, we will endeavor to classify the various modes in which we are assured by these discordant voices that the fraud is perpetrated.

The first class attributes the liquefaction, or seeming liquefaction, to some kind of jugglery or _legerdemain_ practised by the officiating clergymen during the exposition of the relics.

But _when_, or _how_, it would puzzle Houdin himself, or the Fakir of Ava, to say.

Is it, as some have suggested, the adroit substitution of a second reliquary which contains a liquid, and which, at a suitable moment, is presented to the bystanders, instead of the original reliquary containing a hard substance?

Most certainly not. The officiating priest stands in front of an altar built of marble and bronze, without drawers or hiding-places. The reliquary in his hands is of considerable bulk--twelve inches high, five inches broad, and two and a half or three inches thick--entirely too large to elude the keen eyesight of the hundreds close around, who intently watch it and scan every motion of the clergyman. Where could the second reliquary lie hidden until needed? Could he lay down the first one and hide it away, and draw forth the second one and exhibit it to the people, without some such movement of his hands and arms as must inevitably be seen? Can it be that never once in these four thousand times did any eye detect the act of substitution? Many of the chaplains and canons who officiate are aged men. Can their feeble or half-paralyzed arms do frequently, regularly, and always with perfect success, what the most expert and practised prestigitator would shrink from attempting? The thing is utterly impossible.

If it were possible and actually done, it would not answer the requirements of the case. In such a substitution, the liquefaction would _always_ appear to be instantaneous--as instantaneous as the adroit substitution. But the real process of liquefaction is seldom so instantaneous. It is often gradual, occupying an appreciable, sometimes a long time. It may often be followed by the eye in the various stages from solidity to perfect fluidity.

Moreover, no substitution can account for the subsequent hardenings, or the alternations of hardenings and liquefactions, especially when these occur, as they sometimes do, while the reliquary remains untouched, mounted on its stand on the altar, in the sight of all, or during a procession in the streets when it is borne aloft, equally untouched, in its open frame, and is equally visible to all.

The idea of a substitution of reliquaries can only be entertained by one who is utterly ignorant of the circumstances of the liquefaction. We set it aside. If nothing else can be said, the miracle must stand. 528