Volume 5 — From The Dublin Review; The Church and the Roman Empire. [Footnote 112]

When we opened the two last volumes of this noble work, we fancied that, after devoting a considerable degree of attention and study to the fruitful events of the decline and fall of the Roman empire, we had little to learn about its government, its institutions, manners, customs, and modes of thought. We had felt, indeed, a strange interest in watching the slow but sure development of Christianity, as it tumbled down, one by one, every landmark of ancient heathenism; here forcing back the ugly iceberg into its olden limits, there bringing forth a new and verdant vegetation to conceal the blackening ruins of the past; now enchasing, within its virgin gold, some relic of primitive wisdom, or again planting its wooden cross among the wastes and forests of Germania, as a beacon for a future world. And yet, after all, in these last volumes of Prince de Broglie we have found much to admire and much to remember.

Are there many books of which we could say the same? Or, in other words, are there many that would so amply repay the trouble of perusing them?

Whoever undertakes to read any work of serious importance, whatever its nature and subject, will do well to ask himself, when he comes to the conclusion, How has the author fulfilled his promises? How far has he carried out his plan, how far justified his pretensions to impartiality, if we have to do with a historian? The reader will not therefore be astonished that we should apply the same rule to the work now before us. When Prince Albert de Broglie started upon his now completed undertaking, what was his main view and object he himself shall answer in the words he penned in 1852:

"The mild and intelligent influence of the church was never more striking than when she came forth for the first time on the stage of the world. ... In the days when Jesus Christ was born in an obscure town of Judaea, the empire was pacified, the Roman laws established on a sound basis, the Roman manners polished and refined unto corruption; the Roman empire had acquired its utmost development beyond the pale of Christianity, under the shadow of a false worship and of false gods. Everything bore the stamp of idolatry. The civil and political laws, founded first of all by those patricians who were alike priests and lawyers, and then by those Caesars whose supreme pontificate was deemed their prime dignity, were in every direction pervaded by polytheism. Arts, letters, private manners, all was heathen. Not a temple but acknowledged the protection of a divinity—not a poem but embalmed its memory—not a banquet but began with a libation—not a home but kindled a fire sacred to the Lares. Being thus totally independent of Christianity, this civilization was foredoomed to become its enemy—fate, indeed, to which it had not been found wanting. Roman society, giving up for once its usual habits of political toleration, had heaped upon Christianity contempt and insults and persecutions without end. For three long centuries, Christianity had grown up through ignominy and bloodshed. Wise men had scoffed at it, politicians chastised it, the mob hooted it fiercely and savagely. The blood of the martyrs had defiled the basis of the finest edifices in Rome, whilst the smoke of the burning stake had blackened their crowning frontispieces.

"So, when the progress of truth, supported by the revolutions of politics, had at last made the church triumphant with Constantine, what a favorable opportunity and how many excellent reasons had she for overthrowing all this profane and sacrilegious civilization! If, on the very morrow of her triumph, the church had declared open war to Roman society, if she had fired its monuments, broken to pieces its statues, burnt its libraries, overthrown its laws—all this would have been but a lawful deed of reprisal. ... Both means and motives were equally plentiful for this summary justice. Without any appeal to the ardor of new converts, the forests of Germany held within their wastes a reserve of wild auxiliaries, ever ready to undertake the task on their own account. The empire had already received its death-blow, through its own internal anarchy, and through the barbarian invasions. The church stood in no need of dealing the fatal blow—she had but to let it fall. ... This, however, the prudent and tender mother of the human race did by no means do. She looked upon Roman civilization not as the cursed gift of an evil spirit, but as the motley product of human labor. As is the case with every creation of a fallen being, there must needs be found hidden behind the mists of error certain rays of light which were not to be extinguished, but, on the contrary, brought back within the ever-burning focus of eternal truth. Peacefully settling down in the midst of the imperial society, taking up her abode in Rome itself, whilst Constantine flew from the city, as if afraid of the old genius of the republic, the church, far from destroying anything, adopted all, correcting and reforming all by her own insensible influence, raising the victorious sign of the cross above every monument, and breathing the healthy warmth of Christian inspiration into every law. The fourth century of the Christian era is not only remarkable for the men of genius by whom it was illustrated. What is a constant subject of admiration, and what I should not be astonished to see some future historian investigate hereafter more deeply, is that slow labor of purification and absorption to which the Christian religion subjected heathen civilization. It is this transformation of a whole society, not by any material conquest, but through the influence of a moral doctrine, which I shall attempt to bring forth in the following picture." [Footnote 113]

Most certainly the whole work is but the grand demonstration of the above outline, but nowhere does it come forth in such glowing characters as in the two last volumes. There is hardly a page in which you do not meet with this silent yet ever-rising tide of Christian ascendency, which ends in mastery over every relic of Roman civilization. In vain does the temporal power struggle to maintain its own ground; it is itself hurried on with the stream, and forced to give up the contest in sheer despair. At the distance of sixteen centuries, we are often reminded of what took place at the dawn of our own age; and, could we but change names, we might almost imagine we have before us certain modern figures familiar to every reader. Let us take, for instance, Valentinian I., who ascended the imperial throne in 364 A.C., and chose for associate his brother Valens, as the ruler of the East. Valentinian was a sturdy soldier, an austere Christian, of no original genius, but yet endowed with such qualities as were not unequal to his difficult task.

"Of a cold disposition, inclined to enforce the laws and good order—no less severe to himself than to others—he was sober, upright, and chaste. Though a good soldier and a good speaker, he had not the slightest pretension to wit, nor even to glory. He was a plain matter-of-fact ruler, governing the empire just as he would have done a legion, with a simplicity and a roughness of character exclusively military; showing a harshness that bordered upon cruelty, when he deemed it necessary to the interests of the public service, and yet by no means prompt to avenge his own personal injuries; a man, in fact, having but few wants and no taste for pomp or display, though rigorous beyond measure to replenish the coffers of the state, and to balance the receipts with the outlays of the treasury," (pp. 8, 9.)

Valentinian was in the height of manhood when he was clothed with the imperial purple; but if he felt no exultation, he evinced a keen jealousy for the maintenance of his newly acquired power, hardly allowing a mere suggestion as to its use and exercise. That jealousy and mistrust were extended even to the high influence of the church itself. The very first year of his reign offers numerous traces of that spirit of universal toleration which has become the idol of our modern reformers, yet which was so repugnant to the ideas and feelings of the old Roman world.

Succeeding to Jovian, having witnessed the vagaries of Julian, under whom he had even suffered persecution, the new emperor indeed began by relieving his fellow-believers from their sundry disabilities, but at the same time he put every other form of religious belief on a footing of rigorous equality with Christianity. Thus, if he takes from the heathens the temples which the Apostate had bestowed upon them, these temples became state property, instead of being restored to the Christians—Valentinian so establishing, observes Prince de Broglie, a sort of neutral power between the two contending doctrines. Thus, again, the public schools are opened to all, the clerical immunities and privileges are kept within narrow bounds, the heathen sacrifices are scarcely prohibited; in fact, the most assiduous precautions were taken in order to prevent the very appearance of any subordination of the temporal government to sacerdotal influence. This was, doubtless, a new feature in the sovereign, which took every one by surprise, though many considered it to show a sound policy and practical wisdom. And yet, this very attitude of Valentinian toward the church was but a proof of his real weakness, as the general incidents of his reign were destined to show in strong colors. Valentinian's immediate object was to establish the full and total independence of the secular government. In reality, he rendered still more evident in the eyes of the world its utter helplessness to guard and defend its most important privileges. Thenceforward, to stand aloof from the church on the plea of state policy was an utter impossibility. On the contrary, an alliance with the church was a matter of positive necessity, for no other power in the world could, like her, play the part of a most useful and efficient auxiliary. Valentinian was to learn this at the outset of his reign.

He had hardly arrived at Milan, the capital of the western empire, when he had to encounter the insuperable difficulties of his finely balanced system. A contest had arisen between the Arian bishop Auxentius and the great Hilary of Poitiers. The latter used his utmost endeavors to correct the evils attendant upon the persecution lately raised by the Emperor Constans; but Hilary was by no means disposed to overlook the delinquencies of courtier prelates, who changed their belief according to the whim and will of every new sovereign. Such was Auxentius, who after showing himself a zealous Arian, now displayed no less zeal in his recantations, which did not, however, at all deceive his own flock. The Milanese were steadfast in their opposition to the ever-changing prelate, and Hilary no less staunchly encouraged them in their resistance.

According to Valentinian's system, he should and would have remained neutral between the two antagonists. But such an amount of indifference was not in the habits of the Roman administration. There was nothing so contrary to public order, said many an imperial adviser, as these conventicles of the flock against their pastor, above all when backed by the influence of a foreigner. Since Auxentius consented to sign the orthodox formula, and thus to do away with every vestige of past dissensions, why should others obstinately endeavor to perpetuate them? This was a matter of police regulations, not a question of belief. When people were all of the same opinion, why should not they meet together to pray in the same church?

We can almost imagine that we are reading a memoir sent up by a French prefect to his minister, for the purpose of playing the umpire between some priest and his bishop. At any rate, Valentinian found the advice so conformable to his own ideas, that he unwittingly issued an edict prohibiting the Christians to attend at any ceremony of their worship, except in such places as were subjected to the bishop's jurisdiction. Hilary immediately applied to the emperor himself, and soon showed him his error, which was, however, followed by another step of a still graver character. He ordered that the question should be examined by a committee of ten bishops and two secular magistrates. Auxentius, on being confronted with Hilary, made every admission that was required; yet the latter had scarcely turned his back when the equivocating prelate recanted once more his recantations, and maligned the Bishop of Poitiers to the emperor. His aspersions were but too successful, for Hilary was denied a second audience, and was commanded to leave the town immediately.

The prelate obeyed as a subject, but as a bishop he had a right to speak, and he spoke with a freedom worthy of such a man. His letter, apparently addressed to the public, in reality was a bold protest against the emperor's interference in religious affairs. We doubt whether Constantine would have submitted to such language, which, however, is a landmark showing the progress of Christian ideas as to the relations of the spiritual and the temporal power. But it was the last episcopal act of the great pontiff, who died shortly after.

It is not merely in this direction that we see Christianity gradually asserting its ascendency in the Roman world. Slowly, but surely, the patriciate was yielding to its influence. Accustomed, as we are, to consider the Roman aristocracy as totally effete during the latter period previous to the fall of the empire, we can hardly fancy to ourselves that its grandees were anything else but the degenerate posterity of the Cornelii, the Anicii, and other illustrious gentes, of ancient Rome. There were, indeed, so many links connecting them with olden forms and idolatrous ordinances, that to couple them with the new belief seems something bordering on anachronism. And yet the fact really stands thus: Partly through the effect of example, partly through ambition, and partly through an imperious conviction, whole races had embraced the doctrines and practices of Christianity, and soon found out, to their own astonishment, that they recovered at once an unexpected share of illustration and power.

"Christianity, says Prince de Broglie, renewed their influence, by throwing over it a sort of second youth. The day before their baptism, they were wont to squander away their wealth among a motley plebs to gain the bauble of a useless title; on the morrow their charities, scarcely more abundant, but distributed by the discerning hand of the priest, insured them, on the part of the less degraded Christians, a prouder yet more lasting gratitude. Their slaves being gradually emancipated, and prepared for freedom by a pious education, soon formed around them a devoted army. They were no more that vile race of freed-men, a true scourge to the empire, ever ready to pass from an abject servility to the basest treachery. They were all the children of Adam, redeemed by Jesus Christ, in whom their masters revered the remembrance of a primitive equality and the stamp of a newly restored dignity. Within a short time, the authority of the Christian patricians extended far beyond Rome. Having once become members of an association the most extensive and, indeed, the only one then organized throughout the empire, they found themselves by the very fact placed at the head of a powerful party. Since Athanasius, in the days of his exile, had found an asylum in the dwellings of the Roman senators, the Christians of every country were in the habit of applying from the depths of Egypt or of distant Asia to the illustrious families in the capital, whenever they had a church to build, a convent to establish, some ruin to prevent, or some disaster to retrieve; and the alms which usually followed the application were abundantly repaid in popularity and thankfulness. One might compare them to some old trunks falling into decay through the effect of time; should their roots, whilst shooting forth, meet with a rich vein of alluvial soil, they send up a youthful sap, which adorns with a wreath of verdure their dying branches and their blackening limbs." (pp. 23, 24.)

Such was the society in which an Ambrose and a Jerome were formed and brought up—the one learning all those arts and traditions that made him hereafter such an attractive compound (if we may be allowed the term) of sanctity and statesmanship; the other of a more ardent and restless disposition, as if he had brought from his native forests of Dalmatia something of the fierce wildness of the barbarian. Jerome, though a sincere Christian, did not then conform his conduct to his belief; he rather yielded alternately to the allurements of pleasure or to the suggestions of a repentant spirit. He himself tells us that be thirsted for knowledge, being ever on the wing, passing from the Capitol to the Catacombs; almost equally impassioned for the Gospel or for Homer; reading by turns the Scriptures with the fervor of an anchoret or the disdain of an Athenian orator. But still he clung with fondness to the best Roman society, where he was an habitual guest and companion. There is hardly any part of the empire, or any one of its institutions, in which we do not find this all-pervading influence of Christianity. But nowhere, perhaps, is it more evident than in the laws. Volumes have been written upon this subject, and the most lamentable pictures have been drawn of the wretched state of the Roman population, ground down at once by heavy taxation, by the oppression of local governors, and exposed to all the horrors of repeated invasions. Their condition was so melancholy that they fled to the barbarians, among whom they enjoyed more real freedom and greater security than under the rule of their lawful sovereign. Valentinian distinguished himself among many other princes by his extreme severity in the enforcement of the fiscal laws; he hardly admitted any plea or excuse when the treasury was to be replenished; far better than anyone he felt the difficulties of his position, when he had to encounter the numberless enemies of his empire. But he had hardly secured by the most severe measures the public resources in men and money when a reaction ensued. An immense complaint and wailing, says our author, ascended to the throne from every region, and the prince was obliged to bind the very wounds he had inflicted—nay, to countermand the measures which he had adopted under the imperious claims of the public security.

Among these laws or decrees tending to soothe the pangs of a suffering nation, we must note several that bear evident traces of a Christian inspiration. Thus, close to a law binding the tenant to the land on which he is condemned to live and die, we find another defending him against the excessive pretensions of the landowner. Elsewhere, if the authority of the judges is duly enforced, minute precautions are taken against their accidental or interested errors; they are ordered to enact their sentences in public, prohibited from holding property within the limits of their residence, and threatened with severe penalties if they should listen to the insinuations of informers. At the same time, physicians were appointed to attend the poor in large towns at the expense of the treasury, and other measures of a similar character were carried, all betraying a benevolent disposition totally unknown to the heathen world.

We must refer to the author's pages for many other instances of innovations in which we detect the increasing influence of Christianity, and draw the reader's notice to one of the most remarkable institutions of those times, out of which grew perhaps the ecclesiastical principalities of the feudal ages. As there was a constant stream of grievances and claims sent up from the provinces to the crown, Valentinian thought proper to appoint an official defender of their rights, defensor civitatis.

"Such was the title of a new office, which appears for the first time in 365, filling an intermediate station between the curia, or municipality, and the treasury. The duties of this new agent were twofold, and well adapted to the high-pressure mechanism which held the curiae responsible for the total amount of taxes due to the fiscus and allowed them at the same time to fall back on the small proprietors of the city. On the defender incumbs the duty, as a representative of the curiales, of discussing with the state the amount of the whole contingent; and then, with the curiales themselves, the aliquot part of each rate-payer. Himself a stranger to the curia, he is obliged at once to protect and keep it within bounds; to speak for it and against it; to defend it, to lighten its burden, and to prevent it from throwing that burden on other people's shoulders. In fact, the defender was something like the popular tribune, whose veto is now directed, not against aristocratical influence, but against the tyranny of the administration. In its decrepitude, the empire was returning, like many an old man, to the habits and ways of its childhood," (p. 51, seq.)

But the difficulty was to find a man of sufficient integrity, power, and influence to hold this delicate position between the crown and the nation. In the general downfall of public virtue, there was hardly a citizen or a landowner capable of fulfilling such arduous duties. His magistracy was elective; but it was soon found out that the bishop alone had both virtue and power to withstand the fitful caprices of imperial despotism, no less than the raging passions of the barbarians. Did Valentinian dream of such a result when be instituted the defensores? Doubtless not: and this very fact throws a flood of light upon the real state of things at the period we have before our eyes.

It is not merely in the West that we thus meet with the irresistible ascendency of Christianity, making its way both with and against temporal power; the same spectacle awaits us in a still more striking manner in the East. Every one is more or less familiar with the great struggle between Arianism and the illustrious Athanasius. That contest, however, bore more of a purely theological than of a political character, and we shall therefore pass on to scenes of a different nature, and perhaps less known to the general reader. The famous heresy, so like Protestantism in its main features, was fast dwindling into a court intrigue, though fostered by the weak arm of a Valens. Under that degenerate prince the orthodox bishops were once more banished from their sees; but the church had already overcome two recent persecutions, whilst the state had well nigh succumbed to four successive revolutions. Every man could now see with his own eyes where resided true influence and power, so that, even in a worldly view, it was no longer safe to trust solely to the sovereign's whim and pleasure. Valens himself was destined to experience, in his fatal downfall, that he would have to deal alike with a true bishop and a true statesman in the person of St. Basil, who ruled over the diocese of Caesarea.

The importance of Caesarea, as the ecclesiastical metropolis of Asia Minor, was very considerable, extending its jurisdiction over the independent exarchate of Pontus, and even beyond the limits of the empire, over Armenia and certain parts of Persia. Valens was desirous of placing at the head of this large see one of his Arian creatures; but at the very first rumor of such a scandal the whole population called for Basil, who had not yet been raised to the episcopal dignity. Shortly after, however, the old Bishop of Caesarea offered a share of his power to the popular candidate, who thus was brought forth to the foremost rank in the impending struggle between the church and the emperor.

Valens, after many delays, at last set out upon his progress through Asia Minor. He journeyed slowly, in order to make himself acquainted with the real feelings of the surrounding population. To secure a favorable reception, he sent before him his prefect Modestus, who took good care that no hostile figure should meet the eye of the sovereign. On entering any town, with a numerous retinue of courtiers, the prefect immediately sent for the bishop, and questioned him as to his dispositions in regard to the emperor's views. If the answer proved satisfactory, the prelate was loaded with honors and privileges; if, on the contrary, he adhered to the true faith, banishment or even death was awarded against him. The whole of Bithynia and Galatia was thus traversed by the imperial cortége, which met everywhere that silent attitude on the part of the people so often mistaken for a sincere feeling of satisfaction. At last Modestus entered Cappadocia, on his way to the city inhabited, one might almost say governed, by Basil. And here we must give way to our author's narrative, for no words of ours could supply the interest of the following scene:

"On his arrival in town, the prefect sent for the bishop. Basil obeyed the summons; when he entered the prefect's room, he maintained an attitude of calm superiority, which gave him, says Gregory Nyssa, far more the appearance of a physician visiting a patient than that of a delinquent before his judge. This firmness intimidated the prefect, who had recourse at first to mildness. 'The emperor is coming,' said he; 'pray beware, for he is highly irritated; and, for a mere scruple about a dogma, do not jeopardize wantonly the interests of your church: if, on the contrary, you show yourself submissive, you will feel the effects of his good-will' 'Pay attention yourself,' replied Basil, 'to the fact that you have no power over such men as seek for nothing else but the kingdom of God, and pray do not talk to me as you would to children.' 'Well, but won't you do anything for the emperor?' asked the prefect. 'Is it nothing in your eyes to see the emperor mingling with your flock and becoming one of your auditors? This is what you may gain by yielding a little, and by sacrificing one single word of the symbol.' 'Doubtless, it is a great thing to see an emperor at church, for it is a great thing to save a soul, not only the soul of an emperor, but the soul of any man, whatever it may be. And yet, far from adding to or taking from the symbol one single word, I would not even alter the disposition of the letters that make up the syllables.' 'What, will you forget so far the respect you owe to the emperor?' exclaimed Modestus in a loud voice, and giving way to impatience. 'But in what I do really offend him,' retorted Basil, 'is more than I can understand.' 'Why, you don't adopt his faith, when all around you submit to it.' 'But my own emperor wills it not; I can never worship a creature, having myself been created by God, and called to become one like unto him.' 'Well, but we who command in this place, what do you think of us! Are we nothing in your eyes? and would you not deem yourself happy to be our equal, and to be associated to our dignity?' 'You may lord it over us, and I by no means dispute your exalted rank. To be your equal is, doubtless, a fine thing; but I am already your equal, since you are, like myself, the creature of God, and since I am likewise the equal, which I deem an honor, of those whom you rule.' 'At least, don't you fear my power?' 'What can you do to me?' 'What?—why, inflict upon you any degree of suffering I may command.' 'Pray speak out clearly and tell me what?' 'Confiscation, banishment, tortures—death itself.' 'None of those things can reach me; a man who has nothing leaves nothing for confiscation; a man who is attached to no place, and looks upon himself everywhere as a stranger, is beyond the reach of banishment. What tortures can you inflict upon this weak body, when the very first blow will do for it at once? Indeed, indeed,' added Basil, pointing to his chest, 'you would do me a good service were you to rid me of this miserable pair of bellows. As for death, I should deem it a favor, as leading me to that God for whom I wish to live, and for whose cause I am already half dead.' 'Nobody ever dared,' interrupted Modestus, 'to speak to me in this way.' 'Because you never met a bishop.' Bewildered and angry, yet still afraid of carrying matters to the last extremities, Modestus put an end to the interview by giving the bishop one day for reflection. 'To-morrow you will find me what I am to-day,' concluded Basil, 'and I don't wish that you should yourself change in regard to me.'

"On the morrow, and on the following days, Valens was expected every hour. The bishop was besieged with parleys and entreaties of every description. There was not one noble personage who did not undertake to argue with the prelate. The head cook, Demosthenes—an influential man, by the by—returned constantly to the attack. Modestus, on the other hand, feeling vexed at having no better result to bring before the emperor, and anxious to avoid any charge of weakness, made public preparations for an execution. Heralds, lictors, executioners—every judicial agent was summoned, ready at a signal to seize upon the factious priest. Having thus taken every precaution, the prefect, somewhat abashed, yet confident at least in his preventive measures, repaired to the prince. 'Emperor,' said he, 'I have failed in my attempt; this man is unmanageable; threats, entreaties, kindness, are all unavailing with him. This is a matter of stern severity; do but give the order, and it shall be fulfilled.' But this was exactly what Valens was not inclined to do. Though no less incensed than bewildered, still be did not dare to shed such illustrious blood on the path he was about to enter. He reprieved the execution, and penetrated into the city in a sort of wavering state of mind, just like a piece of iron, says Gregory Nyssa, already melting in the fire; but nevertheless still remaining a bit of iron.

"He continued in this mood, irresolute as to his line of conduct, and without holding any communication with the bishop's dwelling. A meeting, however, became unavoidable, for the festival of the Epiphany was approaching; and, unless he chose to put himself outside of the church, Valens could not do otherwise than attend at divine service. On the morning of the feast, he therefore came to a determination, and went to the temple with an escort of soldiers, himself doubting whether he would be received peacefully, or would have to force an entry through violence. He entered: the crowd was most numerous, and had just begun the choral psalms; the chant was both harmonious and powerful, the whole service offering that appearance of majesty and order which Basil excelled in maintaining in his church. At the bottom of the nave stood Basil himself, facing the people, but motionless like a pillar of the sanctuary, and with his eyes fixed upon the altar. There he remained standing, just as the acts of the saints represent him, his tall or rather towering stature showing off his spare and slender figure, while his aquiline features were strongly brought forth by his thin, emaciated cheeks; a latent fire flashed from under his prominent forehead and his arched eyebrows, whilst now and then a somewhat disdainful smile parted on each side of his mouth his long white beard. All around him stood his clergy in an attitude of fear and respect. At this imposing sight Valens stopped, as if suddenly seized with a sort of bewilderment. The service continued as though his presence had passed unperceived. At the offertory, he stepped forward to present the gift which he had prepared; but no hand was held out to receive it; nobody came forward to meet him. A cloud passed before his eyes; he staggered on his legs; and, had not one of the attendants supported him, he would have fallen to the ground. Basil had pity on his anguish, and waved with his hand that the offering should be accepted.

"The next day, the emperor having recovered his composure, returned to the church, and, feeling bolder, resolved to speak to his terrible antagonist. The service being over, he passed behind the velum where the officiating priest was wont to retire. Basil received him with kindness, in the presence of his faithful friend Gregory, who had hastened to his side. The interview was a long and peaceful one. Basil fully explained to the monarch his reasons for not conforming to his wishes, and even entered into many theological developments. By thus flattering his vanity, and by appearing to set some value on his opinion, he kept him for several hours spellbound by his lucid and powerful eloquence. This, by no means, satisfied many of the by-standers, who had already gone over to Arianism, and some of them endeavored to interfere. Among these was the unfortunate Demosthenes, who made an attempt at a theological argument, but in the midst of his demonstration he unwittingly coined a most ridiculous barbarism. 'Strange,' exclaimed Basil, smiling, 'here we have caught Demosthenes blundering in Greek!' The emperor departed, somewhat pacified, and bestowed upon Basil a piece of land for a hospital which he had founded," (pp. 94-103.)

What a picture! what a lesson for every one! How it brings home to every mind the fact that a new power had arisen, which was more than a match for worldly rulers, though clothed with even imperial purple. In the present instance, the lesson became still more apparent, when Valens left Caesarea without having dared to sign a decree of banishment against Basil, and fully convinced that a supernatural agency interfered to protect him. In the West, observes Prince de Broglie, Valentinian endeavored to maintain a neutral position between the church and heathenism; but he found it impossible to keep his ground, and his own measures turned against him. In the East, Valens aimed at governing against the church, but was overcome by the sole ascendency of sanctity combined with genius. The time, in fact, was come when the temporal power proved to be utterly helpless to save a crumbling state of society from its utter downfall, and when the fundamental principles on which all society must ever rest were to be recast and remodelled by more skilful hands, though even through a dark, chaotic period, to serve again in future days as the substratum of modern Christendom. Geologists plunging into the bowels of the earth tell us of primitive periods, and primitive creations, that appear to our wondering eyes as the forerunners or foreshadows of our own world. We read something of the same kind in the facts and incidents of the fourth century: the priestly power makes itself already felt in a Basil, or in Augustin, much as it was hereafter displayed in a Gregory I., or a Lanfranc, or an Anselm, or even a Hildebrand. Doubtless, Basil and Ambrose were no Hildebrands, but they are of the same race and genus—there is a family likeness between them all, because, perhaps, the same spirit burns within them, whatever may be their outward figure or robe. To convey our meaning through another simile. You enter a gallery, containing the portraits of some eminent family, whose deeds have left their imprint for ages on the country to which they belong. You take your stand at the founder of the illustrious stock, and probably his large, open, noble figure sinks at once into your memory, as if you had before you some huge relic of the fossil world. And then you go on, following, one by one, each successive representative of the time-honored generations. The ancestral likeness becomes almost extinct, and you vainly endeavor to retrace in the effeminate lineaments of a courtier the eagle-eye and haughty traits of his forefathers. But all of a sudden you are riveted to the spot by the portrait of a youth, who seems to embody within himself every distinctive mark of the whole race. You would almost mistake him for a son of the original founder, and yet he bears so completely about him the peculiarities of his own time that to place him anywhere else would be committing an utter anachronism. Your mind is, as it were, thrown off its balance, and you hardly know how to account for the delusion. Something of the same kind occurs when you compare certain prelates of the middle age, or even of later times, with the last bishops of the Roman empire; and nowhere does this highly interesting fact come forth in stronger relief than in the work before us. It would be easy to demonstrate the assertion by other incidents belonging to the life of St. Basil; we prefer giving a still better proof in St. Ambrose, the celebrated bishop of Milan.

He was the last Roman statesman, just as Theodosius might be termed the first Christian emperor. He had been brought up in the familiarity of Probus, one of the most eminent patricians of the great city. As he himself belonged to a noble family, he had learned at an early age all the traditions and arts of the Roman government, whilst the austerity of his religious principles guarded him against the allurements of pleasure. Of an open, commanding exterior, a good speaker, well versed in literature, no less proficient in the laws of his country, it seemed natural that with such eminent qualifications, backed with excellent connections, he should attract the sovereign's notice. This actually took place, and he was appointed to the consular government of Milan. But the times were dangerous, for the unbending disposition of Valentinian had now become tyrannical. Probus was by no means blind to the peril incurred by his youthful protégé; and on taking leave of him the veteran politician simply said, "Child, I have but one piece of advice to give you. Behave, not like a governor, but like a bishop." The advice was characteristic and pithy: Ambrose remembered it well. In the midst of the universal confusion and terror caused by the emperor's cruelty, Milan enjoyed the greatest order and tranquillity. No riots, no insurrections, no complaints; the thing was in itself a wonder, more particularly, if we recollect the dissensions existing between the Arian bishop Auxentius, and the better part of his flock. In fact, a young governor setting an example of chastity, integrity, and humanity—showing himself affable, just, or merciful according to the occasion—never sacrificing to his own ambition or private interests the time and property of others; such a man, says Prince de Broglie, was, in the eyes of the population, fit to grace the episcopal seat far better than the praetorium of the civil magistrate.

The popular election of Ambrose to the episcopacy is too well known for us to relate once more a story that has been so often and so ably told. What we wish particularly to bring forward is the secular character which is constantly enforced upon a bishop of those times, whether he wills it or not, from the very simple reason that he could do what no other could accomplish.

Ambrose had scarcely been consecrated—he had scarcely bestowed the whole of his large fortune upon the poor, he had scarcely given himself up to the absorbing duties of his new position, when be was called upon to guide the first steps of his own sovereign, young Gratian, who had just succeeded to his father Valentinian, and raised Theodosius to the throne of the East. Both these princes were sincere Christians, but Theodosius had been brought up in the camp, had tasted the bitter cup of adversity, and added to the qualities of a good soldier those of a cool judgment and a sound heart. Gratian, on the contrary, was a mere stripling, whose intentions were upright, but who had hardly any experience in public affairs. He thus was naturally disposed to lean on Ambrose, whose advice, both as a pastor and a statesman, might be so eminently useful. That advice was not wanting, and for some time the policy of the Western Empire was in reality the policy of Ambrose. We use the word advisedly, for no other could better answer to our meaning and to the real state of things. At the same time we beg the reader to remember that not for one minute does the bishop separate his strong, manly adherence to the gospel from his views as to the secular government; both are, indeed, so blended, so utterly identified, that it becomes as impossible to distinguish them one from another, as it is to mark where the influence of our bodily organs terminates, and where that of our soul begins. The evils of the times were too frequent, and too poignant, not to require the interference of Ambrose—not to make him bold, even as a bishop, a sort of civil magistracy, of which his flock would have been the very last to complain. Though he had not the slightest idea of using his sober but penetrating eloquence for anything like popular demonstrations, yet he was not the man to refuse the part or an intercessor, if a population, suffering from oppression, claimed his support; or if the sovereign asked of him to strengthen his wavering counsels, he would readily hold out a helping hand.

And here we may find, with our author, manifest indications of that great Christian doctrine, the "de jure" alliance of church and state. Ambrose had been formed from childhood upward to a certain course of ideas, which led him naturally to assume a large share in the direction of public affairs.

"He could not apprehend the notion that the empire should have no official form of worship, or rather that it should have two religions together at one and the same time. He was shocked at the sight of an incoherent confusion of Christianity and heathenism to be met with at every step throughout the West, and nowhere more than at Rome itself. The churches and their rival temples, both opened on the same day, by order of the senate or emperor, for the same official ceremonies; Jupiter and Mars, two glorified demons, associated with the one jealous God, as the protectors of the commonwealth; invoked in the same language, thanked for the same favors; and then the monuments covered with profane inscriptions, the statues of idols towering over the basilicas, or defying on the public squares and at the corner of every street the cross triumphant; all this adulterous mixture of truth and error, which the Christian emperors had never dared to proscribe completely, scandalized the jealous purity of his faith quite as much as his taste for administrative regularity. As a prefect, he would have gladly put an end to such confusion, as being a public nuisance; as a a bishop, he felt indignant against so poisonous a profanation. The empire acknowledging but one master, and there being but one God in heaven, why should not these two unities be linked together by an indissoluble union? Why should the state tolerate within its limits anything beyond those two grand unities? On this central point Gratian and the bishop agreed even before they had seen each other. The alliance of the church and state, which the timorous conscience of a Gratian had looked for, Ambrose was ready not only to recommend, but enforce as a duty," (vol. ii. p. 18.)

It would hardly be possible to point out in more positive terms the doctrine which became the groundwork of Christendom in after times, a doctrine which a St. Gregory VII. and an Innocent III. were to carry to its extreme consequences. This was the germ, destined to unfold itself slowly underground, until it should rise and develop its branches in the feudal times, serving as a stay and prop for an anarchical state of society. But let us not wander beyond our subject. Gratian and Ambrose were soon closely knit together in the greatest intimacy, and ere long the influence of the master mind became apparent. Between 378 and 381 Gratian dwelt almost constantly at Milan, issuing new laws, which all bear the stamp of a priestly impulse, which all are inspired by a man who could not forget that he likewise had held civil power. In everyone of these enactments, justly observes our author, we perceive certain dispositions tempering rigor by clemency. Thus it is, for instance, with those privileged corporations of the Roman empire, which were at once a resource and a source of ruin for its very existence by their extortionary tendencies; thus, again, with a more equitable distribution of the annona, which is modified according to the dictates of charity. Elsewhere measures are adopted against burglary or brigandage, but at the same time qualified by certain humane clauses, as to the mode of repression. In fact, the civil ruler shows himself less authoritative, less imperious, less harsh and arbitrary in the display of his power; and yet we meet with a greater firmness, never baulked by alternatives of weakness and helplessness.

In other directions these laws assume the form of what we might call public manifestations of the imperial conscience. Let us supply a few instructive instances.

Milan, August 3, 379.—General law against heretics, expressly modifying the edict enacted at Sirmium in the preceding year, and extending to such sects as shall debase by their sophistry the notion of God, the prohibition of propagandism, which had already been laid upon those who annulled baptism by renewing it, (Donatist.)

Milan, April 24, 380.—Women of low extraction, and condemned by that very fact to appear on the stage are freed from any such obligation as soon as they embrace Christianity; "because," says the law, "the better mode of living they have adopted liberated them from the bond of their natural condition: Melior vivendi usus vinculo naturalis conditionis evaluit."

May, 381.—The above law is restricted; "for such women as abandon the purity of a Christian life shall not enjoy the above exemption."

July 21st.—Liberation of certain criminals, in honor of Easter.

May 2, 382.—Penal measures are denounced against those apostates who shall preach apostasy. Whoever abandons the Christian law to embrace idolatry, Judaism, or Manichaeism, is declared incapable of making a will, one of the greatest penalties to which a Roman could be subjected. And all these measures were crowned by another, which made a deep impression throughout the whole empire: the statue of Victory was definitively removed from the hall where the senate assembled at Rome for its deliberations. This was perhaps the greatest proof of the influence which Ambrose had over the imperial mind, and not one heathen, of high or low degree, mistook the hand that had dealt the blow.

At any rate, Ambrose was not the man to deny it. Symmachus, one of the most illustrious patricians, who belonged to the heathen party, having sent up to the throne a petition, whose object was to obtain the restoration of the statue, Ambrose himself entered the lists in a counter petition, or rather manifesto, in which we see at once the bishop and the statesman.

"Every man [says he] who acknowledges the Roman rule bears arms for the emperors and princes; you are verily the militia of an all-powerful God, and of the most holy faith. For there is no security for man himself if he does not worship the true God—the God of the Christians, who governs all things; he alone is the true God, and demands that we should adore him from the bottom of our souls. The gods of nations, say the Scriptures, are nothing else but devils.

"Now whosoever serves that God ought to bear within him no dissimulation, no reserve, but devote his whole being to him. If he does not entertain such feelings, he ought at least to offer no external consent to idolatrous worship, or to a profane worship; for no one can deceive God, to whom the secret of our hearts lies open. ... I am really astonished that any man should hope to see you restore the altars of the Gentiles, and give money from your coffers for profane sacrifices. .... O emperor! do not allow any man to deceive your youth. ... And I likewise, I am for following the experience of the wise, but God's counsels must rule supreme over all others. If we had to do here with some military concern, you should consult and follow the opinion of the best approved generals. But in religious matters you are bound to listen to God. Is the man who gives you this piece of advice a heathen? Well, don't force him to believe what he won't believe; but then let him allow you, O emperor! the same freedom: let him not attempt to force upon the sovereign an act of violence that he would not himself endure at his hands. The very heathen does not like a man to belie his own creed; every one ought to maintain the free and sincere convictions of his own mind. Should those who hurry you on to such a decision be but nominal Christians, pray, do not allow yourself to be deluded by a name. Whoever advises you in this way sacrifices to the gods, whether he admits it or not. ..."

Ambrose wound up by requesting to obtain communication of the petition, with a view of answering it. "In a worldly suit," said he, "you would listen to both parties. This is a matter of religion. I, the bishop, I come forth to defend her. ... If you refuse me, no bishop will submit peacefully to such an iniquity; you may still apply to the church, but you will not meet any more with priests, or at least with any who will not be ready to resist you."

Thoroughly to appreciate the weight of this strong language, it must be remembered that many a lukewarm Christian within the imperial council inclined to the restoration of the famous statue. To refuse the request of Ambrose would, however, have been imprudent, and besides, Valentinian the Younger revered and loved the venerable bishop, who had shown him great kindness in trying circumstances. Once in possession of the pagan manifesto, the great prelate of the West dealt with it in a manner which scattered to the four winds both its arguments and rhetorical flourishes. The whole composition is a masterpiece of sound reason and gentlemanly satire, forming a thorough defence of Christianity against idolatry. When it was read before the council, every wavering mind was struck dumb with astonishment, whilst the youthful sovereign broke forth in the following impassioned words: "It's the voice of Daniel; I will not undo what my brother did." Of course the cause of the goddess Victory was lost for ever.

But something was not and could not be lost—we mean the contest between the church and idolatry, that survived even the final crash of the empire. Yet that crash, though imminent, could not yet be foreseen by either party, still less perhaps by Ambrose himself, who was a true type of the old Roman. His constant object seems to have been to revive the pristine policy of his forefathers, by instilling new life into them, thanks to the sublime doctrines of the new faith. So things went on just in the same way, Christianity impregnating more and more the habits, institutions, and laws of ancient society, but for purposes that were still the secret of Providence. In the mean time Gratian was murdered by the usurper Maximus, and Ambrose was once more called to negotiate with the murderer, and to defend the last relics of the Valentinian family. A short time yet runs on, and Theodosius remains sole ruler of the whole civilized world—a ruler according to the heart of the holy bishop of Milan. With an Ambrose and a Theodosius to prop the tottering edifice, what might not be expected? And yet it was not to be. These two bright figures are but a transient gleam between two storms. Alaric was born—nay, more, he had been a silent spectator in the glittering crowd of courtiers who attended at the coronation of Theodosius. How many wild dreams of invasion, and burning cities, and bloody battles were teeming at that very moment in the brain of that young barbarian!

Singular enough, the first occasion on which Ambrose and Theodosius met, as it were, in public, gave rise to a contest. The emperor, irritated at the summary destruction of a Jewish synagogue by one of the Eastern prelates, had ordered it to be rebuilt at the expense of the prelate. The bishop was absent from Milan when the order was given and sent; on his return, he felt indignant that a Christian prelate should be bound to rebuild a temple dedicated to the execration of Jesus Christ. It was in his eyes a sort of prevarication far more guilty than the violation of any civil law. He immediately wrote to the emperor in the strongest language; and here again he sets forth that great Christian doctrine which was afterward so fully developed and exemplified in the middle age. The whole incident is so striking that we shall give it in the words of Prince de Broglie:

"Ambrose begins by a short insinuative exordium: 'Listen to me, O emperor! as you wish that God may listen to me when I am praying for you. If I am not worthy of being heard by you, how should I be worthy of transmitting your wishes and prayers? If it be not proper for an emperor to fear plain speaking, it is not likewise proper for a priest to disassemble his thoughts.'

"He then enters fully and unreservedly into his own doctrine: he maintains the unlawfulness of any help given by Christians for the construction of an edifice destined to error; and the faithful, but, above all, the bishops, have no more the right to do it than the emperor to impose it upon them. If the bishop yields to the imperial order, he becomes guilty, and the emperor responsible before God for the bishop's weakness. 'So you must see,' pursues Ambrose, 'whither you are going. You ought to fear quite as much the bishop's obedience as his resistance. If he is steadfast, fear to make a martyr of him; if he shows weakness, fear that you may bear the weight of his fall. And, indeed, how will your order be fulfilled? Should the Christians refuse to accomplish it, will you force them to it through violence? So you will be obliged to confide to the Count of the East your victorious standards, your labarum; nay, the very standard of Christ himself, with the mission of restoring a temple, wherein Christ will be denied. Well, pray order that the labarum shall be carried into the synagogue, and then see whether anyone will obey you. ... History tells us that idolatrous temples were erected in Rome with the spoils of the Cimbrians. In our days, the Jews may engrave on the frontispiece of their synagogue: Temple built with the spoils of the Christians. Public order requires it, will you say? So the appearance of outward order must lord it over the interests of faith! No; authority must yield to piety.'

"It would be impossible to assert in language of more rigorous cogency the supremacy of the religious law over every civil law. The church, in her maternal prudence, is far from having ratified on these delicate points the tenets of Ambrose: as she never imposed upon the faithful the obligation of building temples to error, so has she not forbidden them to contribute to their material preservation whenever equity, previous engagements, or the necessity of repairing wrongs requires it of them. It is, therefore, by no means astonishing that Theodosius, arguing like a civil lawgiver, should have deemed these demands excessive, or even that he should have given way to an unusual fit of ill humor. He allowed the letter to remain unanswered. And yet it contained toward the end two lines which offered matter for consideration. 'Such is my request,' said the prelate; 'I have done all in my power to present it with that respect which is due to you: pray, do not force me to speak out in the church.'

"Indeed, as soon as he returned to Milan, Ambrose availed himself of the very first opportunity to speak out at church, and before Theodosius. He chose for his text the words of Jeremiah: 'Take up thy walnut staff, and walk forth.' He boldly asserted that the staff mentioned by the prophet was the sacerdotal rod, intended far less to be agreeable than useful to those whom it scourges. He then recalled several examples of the old law, such as Nathan and David, thus showing that in all times the ministers of God had never spared the truth to kings. The comparison was in itself clear enough, and Theodosius must have felt somewhat uncomfortable at the very first words; but still he could hardly expect that the orator should address him personally. And yet such was the case, when Ambrose said by way of conclusion: 'And now, O emperor! after speaking of you, I must speak to you; reflect that the more God has raised you up in glory, the more you ought to show deference to him who has given you all. .... It is the mercy of Christ which has made you what you are. So you must love Christ's body, or the church, you must wash her feet, kiss them, perfume them, so that the whole dwelling of Christ shall be filled with your good odor; in other words, you must honor the meanest of his disciples, and forgive them their faults, since the repentance of one single sinner gives joy in heaven to all the prophets and apostles. The eye cannot say to the hand, I do not want thee, thou art unnecessary. Every member of the body of Jesus Christ is necessary, and to every one of them you owe protection.'

"The bishop came down from the altar after uttering these words in a tone of severity, and in the midst of the general amazement, for all were aware that the emperor was accused, but no one knew the motive of the reprimand. Theodosius, of course, could not for one instant remain doubtful. Stopping the prelate as he passed by, 'So you have made me the subject of your speech,' said he in an angry tone. 'I said what I deemed of use to yourself,' replied Ambrose. 'I see very well,' resumed the emperor, more moved than ever, 'that you have been speaking of the synagogue. I admit that my orders were somewhat harsh, but I have already mitigated them; and then those monks yonder are so wrong-headed.' [Footnote 114] Here a courtier thought fit to inveigh against the monks, but he was soon stopped by Ambrose, who, once more addressing the emperor, 'I am going to offer the sacrifice!' exclaimed he; 'allow me to offer it for you fearlessly: free me from the burden which weighs down my soul.' 'Well, well,' replied Theodosius, as he sat down again, 'the orders shall be modified, I promise you.' But such a vague promise, and made as it was in a sullen mood, was not deemed sufficient. 'Cancel the whole affair,' insisted Ambrose; 'for, if you allow one tittle of it to remain, your magistrates will take advantage of it to grind down the poor Christians.' The dialogue proceeded in the midst of the whole assembly, and the situation became at last downright intolerable. The emperor gave way, and promised whatever was exacted. 'You swear to it,' said Ambrose; 'I am about to offer the sacrifice on your word. Mind, on your word,' he repeated a second time. 'Yes, on my word,' replied Theodosius, who wanted, at any cost, to put an end to such a scene. The holy sacrifice began; 'and never,' said Ambrose the next day to his sister, 'never did I feel so sensibly the real presence of God in prayer.'" (Vol. ii. pp. 247-254.)

What a scene indeed! And how it brings out at once the rapid progress which Christian feeling had made of late throughout the empire. Better than the famous penance of Theodosius in the cathedral of Milan, it shows us how strongly the slightest deviation from the general range of Christian opinion worked upon the people. For, in fact, we do not detect here the slightest mark of disapprobation, far less of indignation, among the audience. Any other feeling but astonishment is not once perceptible, and even that is caused by ignorance of the case, not by any want of sympathy for Ambrose. His conduct seems to be taken for granted on the part of his flock, however extreme and out of place it may appear to modern readers. We are justified in considering such cases as signs of the times; fifty years before they could not have taken place, and we doubt whether Constantine would have allowed himself to be thus browbeaten in an open church; sixty years after—the world had fallen a prey to the barbarians, and it was all over with the Roman empire.

Another observation of no less importance is the fact that conduct like this on the part of Ambrose did not in the slightest degree deprive him of any influence with the emperor. Quite the contrary; as long as Theodosius remained in Italy, there prevailed the greatest intimacy between these two illustrious personages. Ambrose naturally resumed the station of a confidential advisor, to whom every political affair is freely communicated. No doubt that his opinions might be followed in a less servile manner than under Gratian, but the sovereign himself was a man of mature years, accustomed to all the arts of government, and thus a better appreciator of the bishop's lucid views and truly Christian politics. On both sides there sprang up a sort of mutual understanding, closely bordering on a footing of equality, as one might expect between two master minds. It is indeed probable that to Ambrose we owe the permanent establishment of an Eastern and Western Empire, a division founded upon necessity, and well calculated to avert its imminent ruin.

Nor was this all, for other measures reveal the same influence. Contrary to what took place on such occasions, the revolution which placed Theodosius at the head of the whole empire cost no other blood but that spilt on the field of battle against the usurper Maximus. There were no executions, no confiscations, no acts of vengeance; for the first time, Christian mildness and charity had the day to themselves. Such policy, good in all times, was excellent at a time when hardly any monarch could reckon upon transmitting his imperial crown to his immediate descendants.

The reader may now, we trust, form a definite notion of what he may expect to find in the church and the Roman empire during the fourth century. It is a general review of what the church maintained, preserved, and appropriated to herself among the confused elements of which was made up ancient civilization. Among that huge mass of elements we have purposely selected the most striking, as offering the best instances of that constant though silent transformation which society itself was undergoing previous to the creation of feudal Christendom. That, in the six octavo volumes before us, there are numberless instances of the same kind, must be evident to every intelligent mind. As another inducement to study the book, we may add that the holy father has bestowed upon it the highest praise in a brief addressed to the author—the best reward, assuredly, which his truly Catholic mind could have wished.

And now, lastly, for one most important application of those historical facts which the Prince de Broglie has placed before the world. To those who are familiar with the annals of the two centuries which preceded the utter downfall of the Roman empire, there is a striking resemblance, in a moral view, with what is going on in our own times. Wherever we cast our eyes, we find a motley assemblage of high-flown philosophical doctrines blended with the most degrading superstitions of polytheism; or at Alexandria, the Neo-Platonic schools borrowing a few partial tenets of Christianity, which it mixes up with a sort of juggler's theurgy. After listening to the apostles of this celebrated school, we had but to cross the street to attend at one of those instructions or lectures—how shall we call them?—in which the Christian teachers, priests, and bishops developed the sublime tenets of the redemption. And again, a little further on, we might have stepped into the Serapeum, and there witnessed the immoral mysteries of the Egyptian worship. And so was it, more or less, over all the Roman world.

Doubtless between our own times and those there are many differences, but how many no less striking points of resemblance? We meet with no immoral mysteries in the public worship, but how many cesspools of the same kind in the lower ranks of society—cesspools emitting such loathsome exhalations as would have shocked more than one heathen philosopher? There are no barbarians at our doors, ready to rush in through every gap and weak point of the body politic; but kings put forth their armies, in order to establish the supremacy of might over right; and their attempts are successful, and on the footsteps of their victorious legions an intoxicated multitude of admirers hurry on, shouting, "Hurrah, hurrah!"

And well may they shout "Hurrah!" for they, in their wild ovations, do but foreshadow the advent of a still wilder democracy, animated by all the insensate passions of self-worship. Such, indeed, is the form of idolatry which modern nations have assumed, in defiance of the living God, in defiance of a blessed Redeemer, in defiance of every dogma held sacred to mankind. Such are the barbarians, henceforward to be subdued, converted, baptized once more by Christianity, unless the world itself be condemned to rock and totter to and fro between anarchy and despotism. Take it as you will—consider it as you please—run over England, or France, or Germany, or Italy, or the eastern wastes of Russia,—everywhere you will descry and bear the ground-swell of the huge human tides as if awaiting but the breath of the blast to foam, and surge, and lash itself into fury. Again, the forthcoming invasion is of a far more alarming character than that of the German savages; for, born and nurtured in the bosom of Christianity itself, it has profited by all its lights, benefited by all the forces of modern science. Nay, more, our rising democracy is backed by a host of learned infidels, whose only aim and end is to annihilate revelation, so as to raise in its stead the adoration of man as God. Who will dare to deny that such a situation is fraught with imminent peril or refuse to repeat with an ancient, "Corruptio optimi pessima"?

And now as to our helps. An eminent French writer lately remarked in the Revue des Deux Mondes that, after all, in the present state of society there is nothing more alarming than in what has ever taken place since the very birthday of the new dispensation. Has it not ever been its fate to struggle against evil doctrines, evil practices, and evil doers? But, then, in all times it successively modified and tempered anew its weapons, according to the wants and exigencies of every age. This indeed is the very secret, in a human view of the subject; this is the secret of its ascendency over heathen corruption, feudal violence, monarchical despotism, or even revolutionary anarchy. Now, one of the most extraordinary features of the present age is that of thirsting after civil and political liberties, which seem destined to become the ground-work of every future state or government. Let us observe that this very feeling—however vitiated and disturbed it may be—is an offspring of the gospel, and, as such, worthy of our respect. So why should it be so difficult for Catholicism to bring about a conciliation between its sublime doctrines and the new cravings of civilized Europe?

"Is the notion of liberty (asks M. Vitet) alien and unknown to Christianity? Was it never enforced within its bosom? Did the church never practise it? On the contrary, did not liberty surround her cradle? Was it not in the church that arose a whole system of elections, debates, and control, which has become both the glory and rightful goal of our modern institutions? To make peace with liberty, to live cheerfully in its company, to understand and bless its favors, is that the same thing as to absolve its errors? Is that to concede one jot to misrule and anarchy? 'No,' will reply some good people; 'for God's sake, don't mix up religion with party questions. Don't drag her into such quarrels. The more she keeps aloof from the affairs of this world the more steadfast will be her empire.' Granted; and above we have insisted upon this truth; but still, however disengaged from politics, from worldly interests however absorbed in prayer and good works we may suppose religious people and the clergy, still how could they live here below in an utter state of ignorance as to what was going on? Were it but to attack the vices, the baseness, the disorders of our age, must they not know them, witness them, with their own eyes? We put the question to those pious souls who are scared at the very association of the two words—liberty and religion. Are we not delighted that eloquent voices should condemn and brand in the holy pulpit the vagaries of our modern spirit, the revolutionary frenzy, and all those impious doctrines which are a scourge to society? Well, if religion is right in waging war against false liberty, why should not she be entitled to speak of sound liberty? Why not encourage her to speak of it with kindness and sympathy, duly appreciating its generous tendencies, making it both beloved and fully understood? Otherwise, what sort of Christianity is yours, and what do you believe to be its fate? Are you not making of it a narrow, contracted doctrine—a privilege of the few—the tardy and solitary consolation of old age or grief? If of Christianity you ask nothing more, if you are satisfied with allowing it to live on just enough to show that it is not dying, like one of those ruins protected by antiquarians, and never used, though objects of general reverence—why then you must separate it from the rising generations, from an overflowing democracy; you must allow it to become isolated and to grow old—to bury itself complacently in the past, in contempt for the present, just like a scolding, querulous, morose, unpopular old gentleman. But if better apprehending its true destiny, you wish Christianity to obtain a salutary influence not only over yourself and your friends, but over all mankind, let it penetrate into the hearts of all your brethren, young and old, low and high; let it fire them with the spirit of justice and truth; let it transform them, straighten their paths, purify them, regenerate them, by speaking their own language, by taking interest in their ideas, by yielding to their wishes, without either weakness or flattery, just as a kind father draws around him all his children by making himself once more young among them, by consenting to their requests while he corrects their faults, guards them against the dangers of life, and teaches them the narrow, severe paths of wisdom and truth." [Footnote 115]

A leaning, then, toward the cause of civil and political freedom might probably become a powerful help to Catholics in the present and future crisis by which the world is now threatened. As M. Vitet very properly remarks, they would not have to sacrifice one single principle; and such an attitude on their part might pave the way for many a conversion. Yet such a help is evidently but a poor one after all—a mere matter of expediency. It is from above and in herself that the church must look for her real helps. And here we are brought round at once to a strong resemblance between the actual state of society and that of the fourth century after Christ. The result of a most extraordinary progress in physical science has bent the minds of men toward sensual enjoyment and money making. "Put money in your purse" seems now the motto of almost every living man, and in England more than in any country. But we may already see what are the effects of this ruling passion, and how it gnaws at the very vitals of our social body. The only means of counteracting this fatal craving are the same through which Christianity conquered the heathen world. Evidently Catholicism alone commands those means, for it is hardly worth while to take into account that bastard, inconsistent system, yeleped Protestantism, which has arrived at its lowest period as a spiritual doctrine, and rather promotes than checks the materialistic tendencies of the day. So to set, as in olden times, bright example of asceticism, humility, charity, self-renouncement, strong faith, and a no less strong love of the poor—such are the chief weapons of the church in her warfare against her antagonists. Most fortunately, she appears at present to put forth her best approved armory in this respect; for never, whether among the clergy or laity, did there exist a more exalted ideal of Christian perfection, nor a stronger will to carry that ideal into execution. Half the work is done, and we have but to maintain our ground manfully in front of our common enemy to win the day.

And yet the day may not be ours. Another world, another form of society may reap the harvest that we have sown. When St. Ambrose and Theodosius, like two brave swimmers, breasted the wave of corruption, quickly followed by the wave of invasion, they fondly imagined, perhaps, that they were securing once more the props of Roman society, or founding a thoroughly Christian empire. Ambrose above all, a true Roman of the old stock, could apprehend no other institutions, no other government but those which had borne the test of a thousand years. Though a saint and a statesman, he could not read the signs of the times; and if he could not, who could? The future was in the hands of God; Ambrose labored and toiled for nations yet unborn, but which were already bursting the womb of their mother Europe. Yea! and so may it be with the men of our own generation.