Front matter (continued 6)

This same Jesuit author, Daurignac, is inconsistent. Seeming to forget that he had called the decree of Clement XIV a mere brief, which any of his successors could annul, when he comes afterwards to speak of that issued by Pius VII, he calls it a "bull," and frequently refers to it as such.[159] Having previously laid his foundation by insisting that Pius VII regarded the preservation of the Jesuits by the Emperor of Russia as "the interposition of Divine Providence in behalf of the society"[160]—that is, that Clement XIV had incurred the Divine displeasure when he abolished the society—he never loses sight of the idea that the decree of Pius VII bears the stamp of infallibility, and can neither be annulled nor modified. This is a subtle method of statement, but is without the force of argument. It is simply Jesuitical.

These matters derive their present importance from the fact that they show how the Jesuits have become familiar with crooked paths. They show also the wonderful adroitness with which they have pursued these paths for many years, and how they have surmounted difficulties which would have overwhelmed any other body of men. As they have never been known, at any period of their history, to abate any of their demands or pretensions, they are to-day, as they have always been, a standing menace against every form of popular self-government and whatsoever else is the fruit of the Reformation. Their rules of conduct are still derived from the teachings of Loyola, who, accepted by them as occupying the place of God, they regard as higher authority than any human law or any Government where the sovereign power is guaranteed to the people.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XV.

RE-ENTERING SPAIN.

The decree abolishing the Jesuits was accepted by all the Roman Catholic sovereigns and people of Europe as final. It was an exercise of the highest authority of the Church. But it was not accepted by the Jesuits, who, in contempt of this authority, brooded over the purpose to plot stealthily against it until they could obtain its revocation from some sympathizing and pliable pope. Their position was that of condemned criminals—compelled to recognize the authority and jurisdiction of their triers, while secretly endeavoring to find or to create some antagonistic authority from which they could obtain a grant of pardon, or a revival of their power to repeat their offenses without pardon. It counted nothing with them that Clement XIV was canonically pope—their own interest outweighed anything that concerned either pope or Church. They were willing to obey the Church provided the Church favored their society, but not otherwise. Consequently, it may be said of them then, as at all other times, that they recognized no other form of Christianity than that which centered in Jesuitism, and no other authority than that of their general at Rome.

When re-established, they came out from their hiding-places, and appeared again in all the centers of European influence. Their numbers were sufficient to show that, instead of having considered their society abolished—as they were commanded to do by the decree of Clement XIV—their organization had been secretly and defiantly preserved, without any departure from the principles of the constitution, any abatement of their pretensions, or any perceptible diminution in their numbers. Each one reappeared in the old armor of the order—reburnished for use again. The weapons which Loyola had forged for deadly warfare against Protestantism were re-issued to the "sacred militia" of the order, and its drilled and submissive battalions renewed their old and familiar battle-cry, announcing their determination never to lay down their arms until all the fruits and consequences of the Reformation were exterminated. The possibility of achieving that result stimulated their ardor afresh; and they became more earnestly united than ever in the cause of the Bourbon monarchs, when they realized that Pius VII had assured the "Holy Alliance" that all the powers of the papacy should be employed to that end, and that they were to be placed, as the special champions of retrogression, in the forefront of the conflict. The times were such that they drew fresh inspiration from them. The jealousies and rivalries among the sovereigns had thrown all Europe into tumult. The French Revolution had been productive of consequences which created a flame of intense excitement, reaching the outer circumference of the Continent. Society was thrown into an agitated and perturbed condition, and the foundations of the strongest Governments were threatened.

The appearance of Napoleon had alarmed the hereditary sovereigns. He had succeeded in striking what they feared would be a fatal blow at the doctrine of the divine right and hereditary descent of royal powers. He had shattered Governments and destroyed dynasties with reckless audacity, in order to build up new Governments and dynasties obedient to himself. The reigning monarchs were dismayed at the rapidity and success of his movements—being unable to anticipate when or where his quick and decisive blows would strike. But when his star waned, they again applied their united energies to the revival of their claim of divine right and to a closer union of Church and State. They could not fail to see that monarchism was threatened with defeat unless some agencies could be discovered whereby the unwary populations who were striving after freedom could be brought back again into the net which the papacy and secular monarchs had spent centuries in weaving. These terrified sovereigns were seemingly relieved from their embarrassing fears when Pius VII ventured to bring to their aid what he intended should be the whole power of the Church, by restoring life to the dissolved society of Jesuits. They must have rejoiced as drowning men do when seizing upon some object that saves them. The Jesuit spirit did not need to be revived, for it had never been suppressed; and therefore they reappeared fully panoplied for the renewal of the battle against civil and religious liberty, the popular right of self-government, and all the beneficent influences of the Reformation.

Sympathizing with Ferdinand IV of Naples—the most bigoted monarch in Europe, at whose instance they were restored—the Jesuits selected such points of operation as would enable them to strike their hardest blows at the freedom of speech, of the press, and of religious belief; well knowing that where these were allowed, they gave birth to the principle of popular self-government where it did not exist, and strengthened and maintained it where it did. They were encouraged by all who supported the alliance between the papacy and the allied sovereigns, upon the ground that the parties to that alliance were endeavoring to keep Church and State united, as the only certain guarantee for preserving monarchism. They were consequently accepted as co-workers in the cause of absolute imperialism and the enemies of every form of government where the people possess the right of sovereignty. The flag under which they marched had upon it all the symbols of despotism, and no room for a single star to indicate the light of modern progress and development. Having thus reached again a condition of apparent security, they were attracted to Rome by the patronage of the papacy, and the value of their alliance was recognized by the papal authorities, as may be seen in the fact that they had restored to them their property which Clement XIV had confiscated, together with the Roman and German colleges at Rome, and a number of churches. They became more powerful than ever in the States of the Church, and succeeded in bringing all Italy under the dictatorship of their general, except Sardinia and Piedmont, where, in order to avoid a direct breach with the pope, they were tolerated, but not installed. They moved about through Europe, openly where they could do so safely, and secretly where they could not—rejoicing when they witnessed the triumph of monarchism over the rights of the people. Wheresoever a battle was to be fought against these rights, they always aided and encouraged the cause of political despotism. If, in the contests of that period, a single Jesuit could have been found in the ranks of the people, except to betray them, he would have been anathematized by his society.

The reintroduction of the Jesuits into Spain teaches a lesson which should not be forgotten. The king, Ferdinand VII, proved himself to be one of the most faithful of their royal pupils. After he had succeeded in becoming freed from the grasp of Napoleon, and returned to his kingdom, he found an existing constitution by which the Spanish people, in his absence, had placed wholesome limitations upon the royal power. With a view to regain possession of authority, he made a solemn pledge that he would obey this constitution and see that it was enforced. Having succeeded, he proved by his subsequent conduct that he was thoroughly conversant with, and wholly approved, the Jesuit doctrine that a monarch is not bound by any promise made to his subjects, or by any oath to obey it, because his authority is divine, and the people possess no rights which he does not of his own accord concede to them. Consequently, when safely in possession of the throne—with Jesuit emissaries crowding about his court to dictate his policy and pardon his perjury—he traitorously proceeded to abolish the Cortes, the legislative body of the nation, and grasp the scepter of absolute government in his own hands. He restored the infamous Inquisition, and the cruelty of his despotism was exhibited in the number of victims who suffered death during his reign of terror. How such a monarch should have enjoyed the favor and protection of Pius VII—the head of the Church—almost passes intelligent comprehension; how he had the approval of the Jesuits is well understood. His enormities became so great, at last, that the Roman Catholic people of Spain, weary of his persecutions, and realizing that the nation could not live unless they were arrested, resorted to revolution to avenge wrongs they could endure no longer, and proclaimed a constitutional form of government, whereby they guaranteed such popular rights as they deemed essential to their own welfare. But the Jesuits were present to counsel the perjured king, and, accepting their casuistical teachings as his guide, he assented to this new constitution, and by the repetition of his solemn promise to observe it, turned away the popular vengeance. Thus he gained time to renew his royal strength, and when he subsequently found the nation seemingly slumbering in a sense of security, again stamped his feet upon the constitution, reassumed his arbitrary authority as king by divine right, independently of the people, forfeited his honor by repeating his perjury, and plunged Spain into the deepest misery. This perjured tyrant was cursed by the Roman Catholic people of Spain, and his enormities drove the Roman Catholic populations of Spanish America to assert their independence. When he had the royal power in his hands he brought the Inquisition and the Jesuits back to Spain; when the people were enabled to enforce the constitution, they drove the Jesuits out of the country. He knew his friends, and the people knew their enemies. But with all the infamies of his conduct resting upon him, he was favored and applauded by Pius VII and venerated by the Jesuits. The contemporaneous events are full of instruction.

To accomplish the objects announced at Vienna, the "Holy Alliance" met again in Congress at Verona, where the sovereigns pledged themselves, in the most solemn form, that they would continue to prevent the establishment of popular governments, and would unite all their energies in preserving monarchical institutions where they existed, and in re-establishing them where they had been set aside by the people.[161] The adoption of a constitution by Spain was considered as in conflict with this decision at Verona, and preparations were at once made to defeat it. Louis XVIII, of France, as one of the allied sovereigns who had undertaken to preserve monarchism and defeat all popular Governments at every hazard, marched an army into Spain for the sole purpose of subduing the people and setting the constitution aside, so that the state of things that had so long existed under Ferdinand VII should continue. It was this unnatural and unjust war that carried back the Inquisition and the Jesuits to Spain. Nothing could have been more grateful to the Jesuits, because they thought they could see in it the triumph of monarchism over the people. They followed this army of invasion with as much delight as famishing people go to a feast. That they exulted when it succeeded in overthrowing the constitution, and when they saw the feet of the perfidious Ferdinand VII again upon the necks of the Spanish people, no reader of history will doubt. They "nestled themselves in the country," says Greisinger, "more firmly than ever," seemingly encouraged by the hope that the cause of popular rights was lost forever among the Roman Catholic population of Spain. But this unrighteous triumph was short-lived. Another crisis in the affairs of Spain occurred upon the death of Ferdinand VII, when, after a bloody civil war of six or seven years, the ill-fated Isabella was placed upon the throne, and another liberal constitution was proclaimed—not entirely republican, it is true, but sufficiently representative in form to arrest the usurpations of absolutism and assure the ultimate triumph of popular liberty. Once more the Roman Catholic people of Spain signalized their victory over absolutism by driving the Jesuits out of the country, and avowing their determination that they would no longer be endangered by their presence or annoyed by their intrigues. And thus the Jesuits were compelled to find congenial fields of operations elsewhere in Europe, among those who regarded a constitutional and representative form of government as an offense against the divine law, the people as fit only for servitude, and absolute monarchs as "booted and spurred to ride them."

Those familiar with the hatred the Spanish people entertained for the Jesuits—not only on account of their bad influences over Ferdinand VII, but because of the tendency of their doctrines to convert men into machines and blunt their moral sensibilities—are not surprised at the detestation in which they were held in Germany. The Spanish people had long been known for obedience to the Roman Church, but had reached a point of intelligence which enabled them to understand the difference between the Church and the papacy, and, therefore, they would not permit even Pius VII to force the Jesuits upon them—a fact of great significance in forming a true estimate of their character. In Germany, however, where the Reformation began, the remembrance of their former vicious career had not died out, the opposition to them after their re-establishment was more intense than it had been before their suppression; for as the German people increased in enlightenment they were better able to see and understand the irreconcilable hostility of the Jesuits to intellectual development and constitutional government. Their own experience had taught them that reconciliation and concord between Protestants and Roman Catholics were not only possible, but desirable; and they had learned, from that same experience, that, as the Jesuits had participated in all the measures designed to strike down constitutional governments established by Roman Catholic populations, their delight would be increased if, with the same weapons, they could destroy similar governments established by Protestants. Therefore, the German people built around themselves a wall of defense in their own intellectual enlightenment, which Jesuit craft and ingenuity has in vain endeavored to undermine.

France, Austria, and Bavaria were all Roman Catholic countries. France had not forgotten the former fierce and protracted conflict which had given the Gallican Christians their cherished liberties, by assuring to the Government the control of its temporal affairs without papal interference. The recollection of this revived also the remembrance of the fact that the Jesuits had been expelled because of their efforts to destroy these liberties. And, hence, after their re-establishment, even Louis XVIII, with his evident partiality for them as the untiring defenders of absolute monarchism, was unable, although backed by Pius VII, to allow them again openly to re-enter France. Neither in Austria nor Bavaria had there ever been any such struggle as in France; but, nevertheless, the indignation felt towards the Jesuits by the people of both these countries was so undisguised that neither Francis I in the former, nor Maximilian Joseph in the latter, dared to brave public opinion by allowing them free access to either kingdom. These impediments, however, only offered to the Jesuits the opportunity to practice the arts of dissimulation and deception with which they are made familiar by their method of educational training. They surreptitiously entered France under the name of "Pères de la Foi," or "Fathers of the True Faith," and Austria and Bavaria under that of "Redemptionists."[162] They did not venture, in either of these countries, to avow themselves openly as Jesuits, because of the almost universal indignation felt towards them by these Roman Catholic populations. But gaining admission among them by these false pretenses, they understood well, by skillful training, how to proceed. Having penetrated the skirmish-line of the enemy, they could survey the whole field of battle, and plan accordingly. Every Jesuit who stealthily crept into France or Austria or Bavaria, under these masks of hypocrisy, stood towards the people of these countries as the Italian bandit does to his unsuspecting victim,—ready to strike home his stiletto in the dark. It should excite no wonder, therefore, that, with Pius VII and the allied sovereigns upon their side—all maintaining the divine right to govern, and denying that of the people—these incendiary Jesuits were enabled, at last, to avow openly the name and existence of their order, and to become scattered in all directions, under the shelter of papal and imperial protection. Thus supported, they extended themselves over the adjacent States, even as far as Rhenish Prussia, opened their colleges and schools, and permitted but little time to elapse before they assumed their former dictatorship over Governments and peoples. Since then they have again revived their old imperial airs among all the nations, especially where they have found shelter under liberal institutions, and seem to be again inspired by the hope, if not the belief, that their ultimate triumph over Protestantism is assured, and that Roman Catholic populations will bow down before them as the only divinely appointed exponents of the true apostolic faith.

Pius VII was encouraged by the success of the Jesuits, and endeavored first to make them available in France to promote the interests of the papacy. Finding Louis XVIII submissive to his authority, he proposed to him a Concordat with provisions intended to destroy the Gallican liberties, and bring France into the condition struggled after so hard by Boniface VIII; that is, of absolute submission to the papacy in temporal as well as spiritual affairs. Louis XVIII was weak enough to agree to this Concordat, manifestly under Jesuit influence. But the Roman Catholic people of France were not so easily entrapped as the pope and the king had supposed; and the latter soon learned that even his royal authority was not sufficient to enforce this odious measure. He was compelled, therefore, by the force of public sentiment, to abandon it, although France still submitted to the presence of the Jesuits. The failure of the Condordat, however, was a sore defeat; but defeat only incensed the passions of Pius VII.

The hatred of the Jesuits in Germany was shared alike by Protestants and Roman Catholics. These two bodies of Christians agreed that they would unite in maintaining freedom of worship; that is, they would return to the old order of things, which existed before peace and harmony had been disturbed by the Jesuits at their first appearing in Germany. They signed a Concordat to that effect, and sent it to Pius VII for his approval, intending that he should realize how easy it was for Christians to live together in harmony, notwithstanding differences of religious belief prevailed among them. The importance of this movement can not be overestimated. If the pope had thrown his great influence in its favor, its beneficial results would have been universally felt. But Pius VII, seeming not to know that such a union among Christians was possible, positively and peremptorily refused his assent to this just and liberal arrangement, declaring that it would "compromise his temporal and spiritual power." All classes of German Christians—howsoever they otherwise differed—rebuked his illiberality, and adhered to their conciliatory course towards each other. Pius VII, realizing the necessity of fulfilling his obligation to the allied sovereigns, and of keeping the Jesuits in the active service of the papal and imperial cause, became intensely excited at this German persistence, and expressed his indignation in strong language. His course is thus explained by Cormenin: "He rallied around him the kings of the Holy Alliance, declared a terrible war against liberal ideas, fulminated excommunications against the Democrats of France, the Illuminati of Germany, the Radicals of England, and the Carbonari of Italy,"[163] which includes everything that tended, at that period, towards liberalism and popular government. Manifestly, however, his anger was specially aroused at the thought of religious toleration, which, looked at from the papal standpoint, meant the loss of monarchical power and, consequently, heresy.

With this tremendous combination confronting them—composed, as it was, of the papacy, the allied sovereigns, and the Jesuits—what other remedy but revolution was within reach of the people? How else could they prevent the continued union of Church and State, the complete triumph of monarchism, and the crushing defeat of constitutional and popular government? Nobody needs to be told to what extremities the allied sovereigns were ready and willing to go to accomplish these results; and when supported by a pope like Pius VII, and he by the Jesuits, whose society he had re-established for that express purpose, they possessed an organization of such a character, so formidable and vast in its proportions, that there was left to the multitude no other possibility of escape than by asserting, as the people of the United States had done, their natural right to civil and religious liberty. No question about the form of religious faith was involved, except in so far as the pope, the allied sovereigns, and the Jesuits were united in maintaining that the only true religion was that based upon the joint monarchism of Church and State—in other words, that the faculties of the human mind should remain undeveloped in order to fit the people for inferiority and passive obedience to authority.

Hence, when the Roman Catholic populations came to realize what Protestantism had done in a few centuries to enlighten and elevate multitudes of people, it required but little intelligent thought to see that the combination which threatened to deprive them of liberties essential to their welfare was violative of the true faith of the Church they revered, and from whose proper teachings they were unwilling to depart. They could readily understand that it was the papacy, and not the Church, that had led them to the very edge of a fearful precipice. They were animated by the inspiring influence of liberty—always broad, generous, conciliatory. Yielding, therefore, to the instinctive teachings of nature, they found themselves no less desirous than others to enjoy the protection of constitutional government, and no less willing than others to resort to the ultimate remedy of revolution when assured that their just rights could not otherwise be obtained. Thus only are we enabled to account intelligently for the revolutions in the Roman Catholic States—organized, as they were, to resist the tremendous conspiracy of European monarchists, in both Church and State, to defeat the formation of popular constitutional governments, and to overthrow them where they had been formed.

These revolutions followed each other so rapidly as to prove the existence of a common purpose; and the nearer they were to Rome, the more violent were the passions which incited and followed them. The masses of the people were unwilling to submit longer to their own humiliation, even in face of the fact that Pius VII had, by assuming infallibility never authorized, placed the Church in the attitude of approving the doctrines and purposes of the "Holy Alliance." They accepted, with reverential fidelity, the faith proclaimed by "the fathers" of the Apostolic Age, the Conciliar Decrees and the true traditions of the Church, but were unwilling to have it perverted by either the papacy or the Jesuits, so that it should be made the pretext for holding them and their posterity in vassalage. They courageously determined, therefore, to free themselves from bondage—being no longer willing to be bound with fetters, whether drawn from the arsenals of the papacy or newly forged in the workshops of the Jesuits. These revolutions might have been avoided, and might have been arrested after they broke out, by the authority of the Church in the hands of a pope less intent upon the possession of temporal and monarchical powers than Pius VII, and less willing than he to patronize the Jesuits and participate in the purposes of the "Holy Alliance" for political and ambitious ends. But Pius VII was constrained by the circumstances surrounding him, as the representative of the papacy, to discard all other considerations except such as promised success to the allied powers, to whose triumph over the people he contributed, as far as he could, all the authority of the Church. To him the Jesuits appeared merely as "experienced rowers," who could "break the waves" of the revolutionary sea; and having taken them on board the papal bark, freighted with the richest treasures, he defied alike the complaints of the oppressed peoples and the dangers of shipwreck.

That Pius VII was not disposed to abate in the least the claim to universal sovereignty which some of his predecessors had asserted for the papacy, and was therefore incompetent to deal compromisingly with any of the pending questions, is abundantly demonstrated by the history of his pontificate. His assumption that he occupied God's place upon earth, and was so clothed with divine authority that no human tribunal could rightly inquire into his conduct or motives, placed him in the attitude of bold defiance to the sentiment of liberalism then rapidly permeating the whole body of the people. He mistook the papal dogmas of Gregory VII, Innocent III, and Boniface VIII, and a few other popes, for the Christian doctrines of the nineteenth century. After Napoleon had extended the empire of France over Italy, it became necessary to adjust the relations between the spiritual and the temporal powers. He accordingly addressed a letter to Pius VII, wherein he said: "I will touch in nothing the independence of the Holy See;" that is, that in all spiritual matters he would leave the independence of the pope undisturbed. He made this clear by continuing: "Your holiness will have for me in temporals the same regard I bear for you in spirituals." The obvious meaning of Napoleon was that Church and State should be separated, and that each should be independent of the other in its own proper sphere. The pope was to be left "sovereign in Rome," with all the temporal powers necessary to local government, but Napoleon should remain the emperor with the general jurisdiction pertaining to that office. In effect it was, substantially, a restoration of the relations which existed between the Church and the Emperors Constantine and Charlemagne.

If Pius VII had accepted this proposition, it would have gone far towards allaying the revolutionary excitement in Europe, because the people would have seen in it a desire on his part to become reconciled to the progressive spirit of the nineteenth century. It would have been accepted as a recognition of the fact—of which European society had then become conscious—that the wonderful advancement of the United States was attributable mainly to the separation of Church and State. But this was what Pius VII intended neither to concede nor recognize; for it was plain to him that if Church and State were separated in Italy, the papacy would come to an end. Therefore, after reminding Napoleon that he considered his proposition as offensive to "the dignity of the Holy See," and an invasion of his "rights of free sovereignty," although it left all his spiritual powers not only unimpaired but fully protected, he emphatically and indignantly rejected it. After declaring that "it is not our will, it is that of God, whose place we occupy on earth," he proceeds to define the relations between the spiritual and the temporal powers in these unequivocal words:

"We can not admit the following proposition: That we should have for your majesty in temporals the same regard that you have for us in spirituals. This proposition has an extent that destroys and alters the notions of our two powers. A Catholic sovereign is such only because he professes to recognize the definitions of the visible head of the Church, and regards him as the master of truth and the sole vicar of God on earth. There is therefore no identity or equality between the spiritual relations of a Catholic sovereign and the temporal relations of one sovereign to another."[164]

The true meaning of this was well understood at the time, and can not now be disguised by any method of interpretation. According to Pius VII, therefore, a "Catholic sovereign" must accept whatsoever the pope shall define in the domain of faith and morals, whether spiritual or temporal, because he alone is "the master of truth," and stands in the place of God on earth, and is, consequently, without any superior, or even equal; that in no other way can a pope be such a supreme sovereign as he ought to be; that it is his divine right to command, and the duty of temporal sovereigns to obey; and that, no matter what temporal relations shall exist among sovereigns, there can be no equality between them and the pope, who shall rule them all, in whatsoever concerns faith and morals, as "the sole vicar of God on earth." If in this Pius VII is to be taken to have defined the only form of government which the papacy can recognize as rightful, then it is clear that none such now exists in the world—not even in Italy since the abolition of the pope's temporal power. The European people at the time understood him sufficiently well to foresee that all their efforts to limit the monarchical power by constitutions would be unavailing if the papal policy announced by him should prevail. The Roman Catholic populations, already upon the verge of revolution, were specially indignant when they realized that the papacy was thus availing itself of the authority of the Church, not only to defeat the popular will, but to require them to accept these teachings as essential parts of the faith. Hence, the revolutionary spirit was increased, so that by the time of the death of Pius VII, in 1823, it had become evident that it could not be arrested unless the papacy abated its pretensions and became reconciled to the existing condition of affairs. Pius VII fretted out his life because of the tendency of the times to liberalism; and if it be said in his behalf that he lived at a stormy period, when the waves of the political sea ran high, it may well be replied that if he had possessed a conciliatory spirit he could have done more than any other living man to bring the discontented and jarring elements into harmony. But instead of this, he turned loose upon society the odious and condemned Jesuits, whose very presence increased the popular discontent, as the storm rages more violently when the imprisoned winds are unchained.

Under the pontificate of Leo XII, the immediate successor of Pius VII, the revolutionary fervor was increased. He found the Jesuits actively engaged in disturbing the peace among all who were reached by their influence, and lost no time in assuring them of his benediction in their efforts to exterminate everything that tended to liberalism and free, popular institutions. With the view of bringing France completely under the papal scepter, he demanded that the clergy there should be made independent of the Government and irresponsible to its laws. But the public sentiment of France was so outraged by this demand that even Louis XVIII was constrained to condemn it by royal ordinance. Failing in this, he turned his attention elsewhere in Europe, adopting the Jesuit tactics of stirring up Protestant populations against their kings, and Protestant kings against their subjects. In this way he, manifestly, hoped to allay, if not suppress, the revolutionary spirit, which was threatening to destroy his temporal power and deprive him of his crown. For a time he seemed to feel assurance of success in Germany and elsewhere, and under the influence of this assurance visited his maledictions upon the modern philosophers, characterizing their opinions as "phalanxes of errors," and their toleration of different religious opinions as "indifference to all religion"—leading to infidelity. So as not to be misunderstood, he represented them as "teaching that God has given entirely freedom to every man, so that each one can, without endangering his safety, embrace and adopt the sect or opinion which suits his private judgment." He makes this statement thus clear so that there may be no misconception of his unqualified condemnation of the freedom of religious belief, not only as it is taught by these modern philosophers, but as it constitutes the foundation of Protestantism and the civil institutions it has built up, especially those of the United States. Centering his wrath in a single anathema, he said: "This doctrine"—that is, the freedom of conscience—"though seducing and sensible in appearance, is profoundly absurd; and I can not warn you too much against the impiety of these maniacs." Then, passing to "the deluge of pernicious books" which inundated Europe, he specially selected the Holy Scriptures in the vernacular languages as prominent in this class. "A society," said he, "commonly called the Bible Society, spreads itself audaciously over the whole world, and in contempt of the traditions of the holy fathers, in opposition to the celebrated decree of the Council of Trent, which prohibits the Holy Scriptures from being made common, it publishes translations of them in all the languages of the world. Several of our predecessors have made laws to turn aside this scourge; and we also, in order to acquit ourselves of our pastoral duty, urge the shepherds to remove their flocks carefully from these mortal pasturages.... Let God arise! Let him repress, confound, annihilate this unbridled license of speaking, writing, and publishing."[165]

Charles X succeeded Louis XVIII as King of France, and the Jesuits, encouraged by the policy of Leo XII, renewed their efforts in that country. They desired to get control of the young, as they have always done, and therefore demanded that all public instruction in colleges and schools should be confided to them. If assent to this demand had depended upon the king alone, it would doubtless have been obtained, because it was an essential part of the policy which brought about the alliance of the Bourbon and other sovereigns with the papacy. But the people of France knew the Jesuits too well to intrust their children to their care, and were so united in resisting this demand, that Charles X was compelled to refuse their request. And in order to rebuke the Jesuits as signally as possible, the public authorities provided by law that no one should be employed in teaching who belonged to any religious congregation—a fact which shows how far they felt justified in going in order to escape what they deemed a serious evil. This provision, however, for an exclusively secular education was made in full accordance with the Gallican Catholic and Protestant sentiment of France, and was intended, not as tending in the least degree to irreligion, but as a necessary step towards the complete separation of Church and State.[166]

Leo XII died pending these agitations. When his successor was elected—as near our own time as 1829—and took the name of Pius VIII, the revolutionary embers needed only a little more stirring to break out into a flame. The success of constitutional government was becoming more and more apparent, and it was evident to the allied sovereigns that unless the current beating against them could be set back, they were in danger of being overwhelmed. As the idea of Church and State united was involved in the entire papal and royal policy, those, therefore, who were struggling after constitutional guarantees of the freedom of the press, of speech, and of religious belief, had no difficulty in understanding that these great natural rights were specially anathematized by the late Pope Leo XII, for the reason that they constituted the fundamental principles upon which that form of government must rest. Consequently, the masses of the people—Roman Catholics and Protestants alike—became more and more united and clamorous for these rights; not only because they were in themselves of inestimable value, but because they had come to realize that the nations which maintained them were advancing in prosperity, happiness, and enlightenment, far more rapidly than those which suppressed and denied them. Pius VIII could not avoid realizing all this, as well as the obligation resting upon the papacy, as the spiritual patron and guardian of monarchism, to arrest the popular tendency towards constitutional government. Accordingly, he had scarcely entered upon his pontificate when, wedded to the policy of retrogression, like his immediate predecessors, Pius VII and Leo XII, he endeavored to ingraft the teachings of the Jesuits more firmly than ever upon the doctrines of the Church. He addressed a circular letter to "the bishops of Christendom"—which, being to the whole Church and concerning the faith, was, necessarily, ex cathedra—wherein he pointed out some of the existing errors they were commanded to extirpate. This, according to the Jesuit teaching, was an act of infallibility, and required implicit obedience from all who were faithful to the papacy. It would have been well suited to the Middle Ages. After condemning "secret societies"—overlooking, of course, the Jesuits—and the "fierce republicans," or supporters of popular government, as the "enemies of God and kings," he arraigned them for "breaking the bridle of the true faith and passive obedience to princes," and thus opening "the way to all crimes." He insisted that they were endeavoring "to hurl religion and empires into an abyss." And when he reached the culminating point he expressed himself in these words: "We must, venerable brethren, pursue these dangerous sophists; we must denounce their works to the tribunals; we must hand over their persons to the Inquisitors, and recall them by tortures to the sentiments of the true faith of the spouse of Christ."[167]

These denunciations and threatenings were intended for those Roman Catholic populations who had always venerated the Church of Rome, in order to turn them away from their revolutionary course. But their increasing enlightenment enabled them to understand that they were papal interpolations upon the primitive faith. Not being disposed to make open war upon the pope, whose sacred office they revered, they attributed them to the undue influence of the Jesuits over him. This was especially the case in France, where, during the pontificate of Pius VIII, as we have seen, the efforts to bring the Government in subjection to the papacy were attributed to Jesuit intrigue. This gave the general sentiment throughout France a tendency towards liberalism, as was indicated, not only by frequent popular demonstrations during the reign of Charles X, but specially at the period here referred to by an election of the Chamber of Deputies. In July, 1830, an overwhelming majority of liberal members were elected to the Chamber, which alarmed the monarchical and royal party, and increased the activity of the Jesuits. To counteract the influence of this election, an effort was made to turn the popular attention away from it by exciting the national pride in favor of royalty, in consequence of the successful termination of the war with Algiers. The royalists made this the cause of great rejoicing, and when they supposed that the people, impelled by their ideas of national glory, had become sufficiently enthusiastic, resolved upon a step designed to crush out the popular spirit of liberalism. The king's minister, Polignac, the Archbishop of Paris, and the Jesuits, succeeded in inducing the king to defy public opinion by issuing a royal edict to prevent the assembling of the liberal Chamber of Deputies. This edict was composed of three ordinances: 1. Suspension of the liberty of the press; 2. Dissolution of the Chamber of Deputies before it met; 3. Changing the plan of elections by placing the returns in the hands of prefects in the pay of the Government.[168] By this high-handed and arbitrary act all Paris was thrown into commotion. Within the course of three days the spirit of revolution, which had been slumbering, but was not suppressed, became thoroughly aroused. The public indignation was exhibited among all classes of the population, except those enlisted in the cause of retrogression. The people demanded the rights which had been secured to them by public charter. The deputies of the Chamber assembled. Barricades were thrown up in the streets. The popular revolt soon ripened into active revolution, which terrified the king, who, unable to pacify the people, attempted, as a last resort, to do so by offering to rescind the tyrannical and obnoxious ordinances. But he was too late. The offense against popular rights was too flagrant to be so easily forgiven. The result was that Charles X—the last of the Bourbons—was ignominiously driven from the throne and from the country, and Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, made King of France. And thus did a Roman Catholic population fix the stamp of their reprobation upon the policy which the king, the papacy, and the Jesuits had designed for their enslavement.

It was impossible any longer to disguise or to mistake the true character of the issue between progress and retrogression—between constitutionalism and monarchism. It did not, therefore, take long for these events in France to impart their influence to Roman Catholic populations elsewhere. Throughout the central parts of Europe the people were stirred up to inquiry, to protest, to revolution. Having by this time fully realized that the chief calamities which afflicted them proceeded from the union of Church and State, and that a constitutional guarantee of protection was impossible so long as that union continued, their first efforts were directed to a separation of these powers, and the assignment to each its proper and independent sphere of duties. Many centuries of struggles had demonstrated that in no other way could political equality be obtained, or provision be made for assuring to them their natural and inalienable rights. The task was most difficult, because the papacy had been permitted to enlarge its powers by means of false decretals and constitutions, which the ambitious popes had employed without scruple, after they sundered their allegiance to the Eastern Empire and divided the Church. Nevertheless, they resolved upon the effort, hazardous as it was, rather than remain longer in their humiliating condition of vassalage while the Protestant nations were moving forward in their careers of progress and improvement. A brief glance at the condition of Europe will show that they were favored by the times, as if Providence were then specially shaping the destiny of the world, so as to put a stop forever to the usurpations by which the union of Church and State had been so long maintained, to the prejudice of the Church and the cause of Christianity, no less than to the natural rights of mankind.

The Netherlands contained a population united only under a Government maintained by the combinations which had arisen out of the "Holy Alliance." In the north, Protestantism had the ascendency; in the south, Roman Catholicism prevailed. This latter part of the population, imitating their Christian brethren in France, desired separate independence, so that their civil institutions should be placed under their own control. They desired a constitution by which proper restraints could be placed upon the royal power, while, at the same time, they did not desire to destroy entirely the principle of monarchism; but rather that it should continue to exist under proper limitations, so as to escape from the absolutism which had hitherto borne so heavily upon them. Being unable to accomplish their object in any other way, they inaugurated an insurrection in Brussels, which soon became a revolution, and resulted in a declaration of independence. The revolution soon acquired strength enough to establish the Government of Belgium, which then became separated from Holland. A king was chosen by an elected Congress, but the constitution tied his hands, and instead of being an absolute, he became a dependent monarch. In this there was no attempt to escape from the just and rightful influence of the Church, for which the population retained the attachment they had long felt. But it severed the bond of union between Church and State by placing in the hands of the people such portion of the powers of Government as they deemed it proper to assert, so that instead of submitting to the absolute domination of the papacy, they protected their own rights and interests by constitutional guarantees. It practically condemned the doctrines of the Jesuits, which denounce revolution against absolute monarchism as sin, and laws proceeding from a tribunal of the people as heresy, and rightfully subject to resistance.

France and Belgium having, therefore, both accepted revolution as a remedy for grievances which could no longer be endured, it excited no surprise when the same sentiment was imparted to other Roman Catholic populations of Europe. The masses were moved, almost everywhere, by the impulse to escape the influences of the old régime, and place themselves under institutions of their own creation, responsible only to themselves. The people of the different nations were beginning to understand and to sympathize with each other more than ever before. They were coming nearer together by means of the facilities of intercommunication, for which they were indebted to the spirit of Protestant progress. They were learning, from the marvelous successes of the advancing nations, that the real sources of national greatness were in their own hands, and depended for proper development upon themselves alone. In whatsoever direction they looked, they found evidences to assure them that these same successes could not be obtained without the constitutional guarantee of the right of self-government. And having been brought to the conviction—no matter whether from choice or necessity—that they could more safely confide their temporal welfare to governments of their own construction than to either ecclesiastical or secular monarchs who traced the prerogatives of absolute imperialism to the divine law, they accepted revolution as a just and rightful remedy for their wrongs.

When France and Belgium had each broken the scepter of absolutism, their influence was soon imparted to the Roman Catholic populations in the south of Europe; and they, too, brooding also over their wrongs, began to gather up the weapons of revolution and prepare to use them. They moved slowly at first, because the chains which bound them were tightly riveted. But they kept their eyes steadily fixed upon the constitutional governments, and advanced cautiously towards a like fortune for themselves. They could not expect to go at once to the whole extent of establishing popular institutions, in the American sense. Their education and the forms of government to which they had been accustomed, had left them in a condition which made extreme caution indispensable, for fear that by rash and precipitate action the principles of the "Holy Alliance" might become so permanently established that Church and State could not be separated, and they would be compelled to acquiesce in the doctrine of the divine right of kings as an essential part of Christian faith, or make war upon the Church, which they had been taught to revere, and did, in fact, revere. The pope was the recognized spiritual head of the Church, and with that they were content. But he was also a temporal king in the States of the Church, and claimed that the authority pertaining to that position was divinely conferred, and included such spiritual sovereignty over the world as God himself possesses; and that he was thereby made the infallible "master of truth," and was entitled to uninquiring and absolute obedience, not merely in spirituals, but in such temporal matters as he alone should declare to be essential to the preservation and exercise of his imperial prerogatives. They had endured the evils of that form of government long enough, and having contrasted their condition with that of peoples who had entered upon the experiment of governing themselves—such as those of the United States—they became convinced that they owed to themselves and their posterity the duty of undertaking the same experiment, even at the cost of revolution. All they could hope to do, under the conditions surrounding them, was to separate Church and State, disavow and discard the doctrine of the divine right of kings as temporal rulers, whether ecclesiastical or secular, and substitute constitutional governments for absolute monarchism; in other words, to try political institutions of their own creation in place of the "paternal government" by which the papacy had kept them from advancing along with the progressive peoples who had asserted and maintained the right of self-government.

Had not these populations the right to do this? The American Declaration of Independence asserts that this right is derived from the law of nature, and is inalienable. The "Holy Alliance" of European sovereigns was organized to suppress it. The papacy and the Jesuits combined their energies to resist it as heresy. There was, therefore, no middle ground between constitutional government and submission—between the continuance of the old order of things and the infusion of new life into decrepit and decaying institutions. Consequently, the people of Southern Europe had to make choice between these alternatives, at the risk of being denounced and punished as unfaithful and heretical revolutionists. They patriotically chose the latter.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XVI.

REVOLUTIONS IN SOUTHERN EUROPE.

The successor of Pius VIII was Gregory XVI, who became pope in 1831. His election was not calculated to pacify the people or lessen the general excitement. On the contrary, he fully committed his pontificate to the policy of retrogression, and this was so well understood that he had to prepare at once to grapple with the revolution, so near the Vatican that he could witness the surgings of the enraged populations. The Italian people assumed the attitude of defiance; and if they had been hitherto disposed to submit passively to the oppressions of the papacy, it then became evident that they, too, after centuries of obedience to the pope as an absolute temporal monarch, were resolved to try the experiment of self-government under a written constitution. They had endured absolutism until they could do so no longer.

The revolution broke out almost simultaneously at Bologna, Parma, and Modena, and very soon after at Rome. The pope was able to hold the insurgents in check in the latter city only by military force; but in the provinces the popular tumult increased. It is said, in behalf of Gregory XVI, that the insurrection was occasioned without any personal enmity to him; that "it arose against the rule, not against the ruler; against the throne, not against its actual possessor.... It aimed at the final overthrow of the reigning power, ... the substitution of a republic for the existing and recognized rule."[169] Accepting this as true—and there is no reason for doubting it—it establishes the proposition clearly that the Roman Catholic populations of the papal States entered upon the revolution for the purpose only of stripping the pope of his temporal power, leaving his spiritual power undisturbed. What followed is best interpreted in the light of this acknowledged fact.

A modern author thus depicts the condition of affairs from which the people of Italy revolted: "Absolutism, administered by priests, was the system which prevailed in the States of the Church during the pontificate of Gregory XVI, and in no part of the Peninsula, not even at Naples, were the people so oppressed or so ill governed."[170]

The same author further says: "In Sardinia, even more than in almost any other portion of the Peninsula, the Church enjoyed the exceptional privileges which she had acquired during the Middle Ages. The civil power had, in fact, no legal jurisdiction over the clergy. All offenses committed by ecclesiastics were tried by clerical tribunals, acting upon the Canon law, and irresponsible to the State. Moreover, these courts claimed, and to some extent exercised, jurisdiction over laymen accused of heresy, blasphemy, sacrilege, and other offenses against the Church."[171]

As soon as the revolution was fairly inaugurated in all the cities of the legation, an insurrectionary army was marched towards Rome, avowing the purpose not to concede anything to the papacy, but to have the Government reformed. The pope soon saw that he was powerless to resist so formidable a force, and that his crown would be lost to him unless he could obtain assistance from some of the allied sovereigns; that is, unless he could subdue his own Roman Catholic subjects by the help of a foreign army! Notwithstanding he boastingly considered himself as armed with divine authority, he did not feel it safe, in the face of the stubborn facts before him, to rely alone upon assistance from that source. He had more confidence in military than in spiritual power, in dealing with a population he knew to be incensed with the outrages committed by the Government he was defending. He accordingly called upon Louis Philippe of France to send an army to Italy to punish his own Roman Catholic subjects, because they desired only to take the crown of temporal sovereignty from his head, leaving all his spiritual rights unassailed. He relied upon the pledge which the "Holy Alliance" had exacted from the sovereigns that they would intervene forcibly, when necessary, to protect monarchism wheresoever popular and constitutional government was set up against it, and, of course, in making this appeal to the King of France, must have supposed that he occupied firm ground. But France, by this time, had learned to look upon the doctrines of the "Holy Alliance" with disfavor, and when she expelled Charles X, the last of her Bourbon kings, established the principle of non-intervention in the affairs of other Governments, and tied the hands of Louis Philippe so tightly that he was compelled to decline the request of the pope, and leave the revolution in Italy to take its course. De Montor says, what is true, that the revolution in France had "encouraged the rebellion" in Italy[172]—which only proves that the Roman Catholics of Italy were apt imitators of their French brethren, dreading revolution as little, and as resolutely determined to avenge their own wrongs. Manifestly, they saw nothing in the faith of the primitive Church in support of the temporal power.

Gregory XVI was undoubtedly discomfited by the refusal of Louis Philippe, which he had not probably anticipated; and it left him but a single method of escaping the wrath of his own people—but one way of dispelling the clouds thickening about him and threatening a tempest. That was to cling to the doctrines of the "Holy Alliance," and solicit the military intervention of some power so wedded to absolute monarchy as to be willing to march its armies against any people who were patriotic enough to assail the doctrine of the divine right of kings in order to build up a government of their own.

There was then but one sovereign in Europe who held himself in readiness to respond willingly to such a call as this—who kept a large standing army in preparation to overrun and desolate any country whose people were trying to establish their own national freedom. This single sovereign was the Emperor of Austria, at whose imperial court the Jesuits were always welcome and favored guests, and every pulsation of whose heart beat in unison with their doctrines. He readily accepted the invitation of the pope, and sent a large army to protect him and to desolate all Italy if his crown could not be saved in any other way. What a spectacle! A great nation not assailed, not even offended, sending an immense army of conscripts—made mere machines by the relentless system of European military discipline—to hold in perpetual bondage populations whose only offense was the desire to establish their own constitutional government! The conflict was between the papacy and the Roman Catholic people of Italy—not between them and the Church. They had no fault to find with the Church, but desired only to separate the Church from the State by transferring the crown of temporal sovereignty to a king who would wear it under the restraints of a written constitution, and not leave it on the head of the pope, who claimed that it conferred absolute authority upon him by virtue of the divine law. They accepted in good faith all the teachings of the Church; but rejected the doctrine of the papacy and the Jesuits that it was a necessary part of the faith that the pope should be an absolute king over them and their children forever. And it was for this—nothing more—that Gregory XVI, near the middle of the nineteenth century, invoked the aid of a Roman Catholic army to make war upon Roman Catholic populations and punish them as heretics, by desolating their country, for desiring to be free!

Gregory XVI found none of that joy which a sense of security brings until the Austrians occupied Central Italy with their formidable army. Then he realized that he could keep his feet planted firmly upon the necks of the Italian people without fear and trembling, because he was backed by a power they were unable to resist. It was the first ray of light and hope that had shone upon his pontificate; and as the revolutionary insurgents seemed to melt away before this vast military host, he was encouraged to believe they were entirely suppressed. Then he doubtless indulged in the exhilarating belief that his temporal crown would remain safe upon his head. It may well be imagined that the arches of the Vatican echoed and re-echoed with the strains of sacred music invoked to attest the pontifical rejoicing. But besides these scenes of joy, there were others existing in many of the provincial homes of Italy, where silence was broken by the sighs of multitudes of sincere Roman Catholic Christians, whose hearts were depressed with sadness at the thought that the pope, whose sacred office they venerated, had employed the spiritual power intrusted to him by the Church to perpetuate their civil bondage by means of an alien and merciless military force too powerful for successful resistance.

Under these flattering circumstances Gregory XVI felt himself justified in announcing the principles of his pontifical policy. This he did in an encyclical letter addressed to all the hierarchy throughout the world, who, when they read it, were required to believe that St. Peter was speaking through him. This celebrated document, issued at a date so recent that many now living may remember it, sets forth in plain and expressive terms the dogmas of faith upon which Gregory XVI rested his claim to temporal dominion. It was issued ex cathedra, and, being addressed to the whole Church, was intended as an infallible announcement of the true faith. It deserves, on that account, to be carefully scrutinized, whereby it may be plainly seen how far the papacy departs from the doctrines of the primitive Church in order to enable the pope to wear a temporal crown. It requires assent to a system of religious faith which no man, living under the protection of free popular institutions, can entertain consistently with his obligation to maintain those institutions.

He erects his system of faith upon this premise: That neither the pope nor the Church can be made "subject to the civil authority" of any country; that is, that he may disobey all human laws which place any restraint upon his authority as he shall define it, at his own pleasure. Affirming that all who do not assent to the faith as announced by the pope "will perish eternally without any doubt," he condemned all other professions of religious faith as the "most fruitful cause" of evil. The diversity of religious professions he considered the "poisoned source" of "that false and absurd, or rather extravagant maxim, that liberty of conscience should be established and guaranteed to each man." He characterized this liberty of conscience as "a most contagious error, to which leads that absolute and unbridled liberty of opinion, which, for the ruin of Church and State, spreads over the world, and which some men, by unbridled impudence, fear not to represent as advantageous to the Church." Having thus denounced liberty of conscience as sinful, and its advocates as guilty of "unbridled impudence," he, as a necessary consequence, blended with it "the liberty of the press," which he called "the most fatal liberty, an execrable liberty, for which there never can be sufficient horror." These two great liberties, universally understood to constitute the basis of popular government, caused him, as he declared, "to shudder," because he considered them "monstrous doctrines, or rather prodigies of error." He charged the people of Italy, who were demanding a constitution, "with the blackest machinations of revolt and sedition" in their "endeavor to destroy the fidelity due to princes, and to hurl them from their thrones." In the further inculcation of the duty "of constant submission to princes," he declared that this submission has its "source in the holiest precepts of the Christian religion;" wherefore he insisted that "the Vaudois, Beguards, Wickliffites, and other like children of Belial, the shame and opprobrium of the human race," were "justly anathematized by the Apostolic See." And he condemned the separation of Church and State by characterizing it as "the rupture of concord between the priesthood and the empire," which he desired to preserve, because, said he, "it is an established fact that all the votaries of the most unbridled liberty fear more than all else this concord, which has always been so salutary and so happy for Church and State."[173]

Gregory XVI claimed infallibility; that is, that he spoke by the inspiration and the authority of God, and therefore could not err, and, by virtue thereof, commanded absolute obedience to all these doctrines as necessary parts of the Christian faith, under the severest penalties for disobedience. Consequently, when the Roman Catholic populations of the Italian States, who had inaugurated the revolution, were informed of the doctrines thus announced by the pope, it was manifest to them that his purpose was to condemn as sinful and heretical everything they sought after. If they had doubted before, they were then forced to realize that if the revolution should be suppressed, and the absolute temporal authority of the pope be continued, the Church and the State would remain united; the liberty of conscience, of speech, and of the press would be perpetually denied to them; the laws would be made at the pope's dictation, and not by themselves; the sovereigns of the "Holy Alliance" and the Jesuits would win a complete and, probably, a final triumph over liberalism; and that the Italian people would be required, by compulsion if necessary, to assent to and maintain a form of religious faith which inculcated the doctrine that "constant submission to princes" was commanded by "the holiest precepts" of the Gospels. The pope had spoken plainly, and it was impossible not to understand how clearly and sharply he had made the issue between submission and revolution. What were they, under these circumstances, to do? They had already chosen revolution,—should they abandon it from fear of Austrian bayonets? The import and seriousness of this question are easily comprehended. It involved, if they should bring the revolution to a successful end, a constitutional form of government, or, by its abandonment, their own consent to the perpetuity of their civil bondage. Independently of the fact that they considered a constitution worth struggling for, they had gone so far they could not retreat without abandoning a cause which might never be revived, if they should permit the pope, in return for Austria's help, to tighten the cords already binding them too tightly for longer endurance. Several provisional governments had been formed in the revolting States, and, although their functions were suspended, they were not abandoned. In view, therefore, of the importance of the issue, and of all the consequences involved, both present and future, they courageously and patriotically determined that the conflict should be continued to the end. The revolutionary spirit had been too thoroughly aroused to be suppressed by the pope, with the Austrian armies at his back. He held it in check—nothing more.

Events now moved slowly from necessity, requiring circumspect and cautious management. The Provisional Governments were kept in abeyance at Bologna, Parma, Modena, and elsewhere, to await developments. A period of difficulty and doubt ensued, during which new combinations were formed—all, however, pointing to a constitution as the grand object to be achieved. The circle of revolutionary influences gradually enlarged, almost reaching the muzzles of the Austrian guns. The pope was forced to realize, evidently to his surprise, that the populations would not accept the doctrines of his encyclical as part of their religious faith, and that, if maintained at all, it could be done only by military force. He, therefore, induced the Austrian army to invade the States where provisional Governments had been formed. This was an actual military invasion of Italy by an alien army, in obedience to the requirements of the pope—an offense for which no apology has been or can be discovered. It was successful, of course, and a military garrison was established in Ferrara, whereupon Gregory XVI re-established his own arbitrary pontifical authority under Austrian protection.

Papal edicts were accordingly issued, denouncing the revolution as irreligious and condemning the insurgents as heretics. The crisis grew more serious every day. Pacification seemed out of the question. Nothing but absolute and passive submission would satisfy the pope. The public mind was in a state of extreme agitation. Terror seized upon some, but the multitude remained courageously resolved not to stop short of a constitution. Old men found themselves infused with new life, and vigorous and enthusiastic young men were stimulated by the idea of a new Italy—free, independent, and united. Under the watchword of "Young Italy" the revolutionists soon obtained footing in Lombardy, Genoa, Tuscany, and even in the States of the Church. Resolute and immediate action was demanded by those who were burning with fervid patriotism, but prudential considerations dictated extreme caution. The questions when and where to strike involved too much to be decided hastily. The presence of the Austrians alone prevented a popular uprising. They stood guard over the dispersed bands of Italian patriots, whilst Gregory XVI was allowed to gather materials for their annihilation. Such a scene has not often been witnessed, and men of all nations turned their eyes toward it with anxiety. Thoughtful and intelligent people everywhere—especially in the United States, among Roman Catholics as well as Protestants—sent words of encouragement and cheer to these patriotic and struggling masses, congratulating them upon having manfully resolved not to receive either their form of government or their religion from the points of Austrian bayonets. They were inspirited, not alone by general sympathy, but by the examples of their religious brethren in other parts of Europe. Besides the revolution in France and Belgium, which they had imitated from the beginning, the events transpiring in Portugal and Spain proved to them that their cause would become hopeless only by ignominious surrender.

In Portugal, revolution had ended in civil war and the complete subjugation of the retrogressive papal party, the suppression of the Jesuits, and the confiscation of their property. Gregory XVI, in the supposed plenitude of his spiritual power, had attempted to interfere, and threatened the authors of this revolution with excommunication and other forms of pontifical malediction. But his curses only intensified the determination to put an end to retrogression, so that Portugal could take her place among the progressive nations. In Spain events of the same character were also transpiring. The Jesuits were again suppressed, because they were the reputed authors of all public calamities, and even the nuncio of the pope was expelled from the country. Such examples as these, occurring among kindred populations of the same religion, could not fail to incite fresh hopes in the minds of those Italians who were not becoming timid and in renewing the courage of those who were. Nevertheless, the presence of the Austrians compelled them still longer to await the coming of future events, some of which were then beginning "to cast their shadows before."

We now reach a period when the scenes began to shift, and new actors appeared—of whom thousands yet living have formed favorable or unfavorable opinions, according to the standpoint from which they have considered them. Gregory XVI died in 1846, leaving the revolution unsuppressed—the storm still raging. He had been enabled, by the presence of the Austrian army, to prevent any formidable outbreak in the disaffected provinces, but could accomplish nothing more than to leave to his successor, Pius IX, the inheritance of temporal power, not merely threatened, but seriously imperiled. The condition of things existing at the time of the latter's election can not be more aptly described than in the language of a distinguished author who has written the life of Pius IX. He says:

"Gregory the Sixteenth was maintained on his throne, during his reign of fifteen years and a quarter, solely by the force of Austrian bayonets. The reports sent by the cardinals and prelates intrusted with the government of the various provinces to headquarters at Rome abundantly prove the truth of this assertion. To cite these here would occupy more space than could be allowed to the subject, and would but be a manifold reiteration of the statement, that the entire population was irreconcilably hostile to the Apostolic Government. The revolt had indeed been crushed by the enormously superior force of the Austrian troops. But disaffection was in no degree extinguished. Conspiracy was chronic in all the cities of the pontifical dominions. Discovery, repression, and punishment were the principal occupations of the papal Government and its agents during the whole of Gregory's reign, which may be said to have been one long struggle with conspiracy and revolution. The number of condemnations ... are alone sufficient to show that the countries subjected to the government of the Apostolic Court were in a condition which could not have endured but for the overpowering pressure of an external force."[174]

Pius IX had a generous heart, was kindly disposed, and possessed many excellent personal qualities. After his election a general disposition was exhibited among all classes, except the extreme revolutionists, to await his course of action before pronouncing judgment upon his pontificate. It was understood that among the conclave of cardinals, assembled to elect a successor to Gregory XVI, he had united with several others in a petition which favored reforms and improvement in the papal Government. There were no strictly religious questions to settle, as all were agreed with reference to these; and hence, as all the matters involved concerned temporal affairs alone, growing out of the revolution, a strong desire existed to give him the fullest opportunity to decide upon the means and measures of redress demanded by existing grievances. Even the extreme revolutionists were drawn to this policy by the general disposition to accept Pius IX as in some sense a reformer, and to give him full time to mature such measures of reform as he deemed expedient. Considering the condition of things then existing, he came into power under circumstances which might easily have led to pacification, but for the adverse influences which he found himself, in the end, without the power, if he had the desire, to counteract. He should not be judged too harshly; for there are very few who have not, some time or other, been confronted by conditions which, instead of their being able to control, controlled them. The questions pending were not such as the European sovereigns would allow to be considered Italian questions alone; if they had been, he might have found it in his power to gratify his natural desire for peace and quiet throughout all the Italian provinces. But from the date of the "Holy Alliance" the supporters of monarchism had assumed that all such questions possessed an international character, which entitled the sovereigns to interfere in the temporal and domestic affairs of any European State, so as to suppress by military force any popular effort to establish constitutional governments. Gregory XVI, besides his general acquiescence, had given his express pontifical sanction to this principle; first, by invoking the aid of the King of France, and then by inviting the Austrian army to Italy; and whatsoever may have been the inclination of Pius IX, he had to encounter, at the beginning of his pontificate, difficulties of no ordinary magnitude.

Even the Conclave of Cardinals which elected him contained two parties—the Absolutists and the Liberals. The lines separating them were distinctly marked, and each party had its candidate. The Absolutists, wedded to the retrogressive policy of Gregory XVI, favored Cardinal Lambruschini, because as Secretary of State under Gregory, he was strongly in favor of, and had given direction to, that policy. The diplomatic representatives of all the Governments, except France, took the same side, because it promised pontifical aid to monarchism and opposition to liberalism and progress. Pius IX, as Cardinal Mastai, has never been charged with having endeavored to promote his own election, but having been supported by the Liberal cardinals and the French ambassador, he acquired the reputation of favoring reform in the existing order of affairs, and doubtless deserved it. His election, consequently, was considered a triumph of Liberalism over Absolutism.

By that time the policy of Gregory XVI had "studded the country with gibbets, crowded the galleys with prisoners, and filled Europe with exiles, and almost every other home in the papal States with mourning."[175] Among the "middle classes" there were few families not grieving at the absence of some of their members, either imprisoned or sent into exile, only for desiring reform in the civil government. It is fair to suppose that Pius IX, influenced by a kindly nature, sympathized with all these. Whether he did or not, however, he entered upon the second month of his pontificate by issuing a decree of amnesty which opened the prison doors, and brought back the exiles upon whom the heavy hand of his immediate predecessor had fallen. This was an amnesty for political offenses, and, viewed in that light, is entitled to be regarded as an act creditable to its author. In order to decide, however, what was its precise character and effect, and how subsequent events were molded by it, its terms and conditions must be observed. Its general purport was sufficiently comprehensive to embrace all classes of political prisoners and offenders, except ecclesiastics; but it required that, in consideration of the clemency granted them, they should "make in writing a solemn declaration, on their honor, that they will not in any manner or at any time abuse this grace, and will for the future fulfill the duties of good and faithful subjects." A written declaration was required, which was intended to be explanatory, but was somewhat broader in its terms. It required that Pius IX should be recognized as the "lawful sovereign," and that the disturbances made by the revolution should be condemned for having "attacked the lawfully-constituted authority in his temporal dominions."[176]

This meant, of course, the recognition of the old order of things, except in so far as Pius IX, whose temporal authority as king was preserved, should think proper of his own accord to introduce reforms. It was not understood to mean a continuance of the entire retrogressive policy of Gregory XVI, because, underlying the fact of amnesty, the personality of Pius IX and his supposed tendency to liberalism had to be considered in interpreting it. That being the view taken of it, and this latter consideration having furnished the ground of hope in the future, the amnesty was generally accepted, and shoutings, rejoicings, and Te Deums were heard in all directions, in the provinces as well as at Rome. The only visible exception among the Italians were the extreme revolutionists, who would be reconciled to nothing but the absolute destruction of the temporal power of the pope, by the separation of Church and State and the formation of a constitutional government. They were not sufficiently numerous, however, to give direction to the general sentiment, and matters progressed with a seeming quietude which had not existed for a long time. They bore the appearance of there having been a reconciliation between the pope and the great body of the Italian people. This, however, soon proved to be merely in appearance. It only lulled the storm, and put the winds at rest for a time. The amnesty left the temporal power of the pope existing; and, although apparently acquiesced in by many who desired a constitution, it is manifest that they were persuaded to this by the belief, founded upon the liberal tendency of the pope's mind, that he would introduce such reforms as would remove the existing abuses in the civil Government. With these abuses removed, they possibly hoped to become reconciled to the temporal power, at least during the life of Pius IX. The acceptance of the amnesty, therefore, should be considered as the result of personal trust in him—of the hope, if not the conviction, that he would introduce such reforms as were required by the public welfare. The popularity of Pius IX was somewhat phenomenal, owing probably to the fact that he had been elected and was accepted as a Liberal, and because, moreover, he contrasted most favorably with the harsh, cruel, and despotic Gregory XVI. The people evidently considered a good king—as they expected Pius IX to be—preferable to war, bloodshed, and desolation. It was a choice of evils.

Pius IX, although thus recognized as absolute sovereign in Italy, was not the arbiter of his own fortunes. It was an omen of evil for both Christianity and the Church when the ambition of the popes led them to unite with political sovereigns and make common cause with them in support of absolute monarchism. The combination necessary to their success became unavoidably such as to require of the pope, not merely the recognition of the avowed policy of the sovereigns—which was purely temporal—but that this policy should be ingrafted upon the faith of the Church, and obedience to it be exacted by compulsion when not yielded willingly. This was the avowed object of the "Holy Alliance," as understood and explained by Metternich, its great leader and dictator; and when Gregory XVI found it impossible to maintain his temporal power without the military aid of Austria, he committed his pontificate, and endeavored to commit the Church, by making the temporal policy of the sovereigns part of its faith. Pius IX was compelled to accept the pontificate in the face of these existing facts, and had consequently to contend with two opposing forces; that is, the revolutionary element at home, and the sovereigns throughout Europe who demanded that he should continue the retrogressive policy of Gregory XVI. It is, therefore, but simple justice to his memory to say that while his liberalism made him popular with the masses, he was so hampered, restrained, and tied down by the relations between Gregory XVI and Austria—representing the "Holy Alliance"—that much of what he afterwards did might possibly have been avoided if he had been permitted to have his own way.

Those who see nothing to disapprove in all the conduct of Pius IX, speak of his course at the beginning of his pontificate as "noble." He was, in some sense, entitled to this praise in so far as he professed a desire for reform, although his reformatory measures were not such as reached the root of the existing evils. But the fact that he was accepted as a reformer in any sense by the people, was in itself the cause of serious embarrassment to him—proving how difficult it was to escape the scorching fires which surrounded him. His tendency to reform excited the "alarm" of Austria, whose emperor saw in it a possible departure from the retrogressive policy of Gregory XVI and the "Holy Alliance." Maguire—an earnest defender of the pope—says that this alarm of Austria was occasioned by the knowledge that "the spirit emanating from the Vatican was kindling a new and dangerous fire in the breast of a downtrodden people;"[177] that is, was kindling afresh the fires of revolution. The plain and obvious meaning of this friendly explanation is that the people of Italy had been, and still were, oppressed by the policy of the papacy, enforced, as it then was, by the arms of Austria, and that Austria considered that of Pius IX threatening to the cause of monarchism, because it tended to remove this oppression and excite in the minds of the people an increased desire for constitutional government. He gives as the reason for this the fact that Austria was "the most formidable enemy of reforms, which she had every reason to dread." Why? Manifestly because reform indicated the possible loss of the temporal power by the pope, which would inevitably prove a serious blow to monarchical power, and the possible establishment of popular institutions in Italy. He also says that Naples "viewed with jealousy" the conduct of the pope; and that some smaller monarchical powers also regarded it "with dismay;" and, in addition, that "many of the cardinals" participated in this alarm of the sovereigns.[178] Lambruschini, whose election was defeated by the choice of Pius IX, was undoubtedly at the head of this faction of cardinals, all of whom, says Trollope, were the "bitter, rancorous, and irreconcilable enemies of everything that changed, or showed a tendency to change, anything that had existed under the late pope."[179]

Pius IX was severely tried, and it is not to his discredit that he was perplexed. He stood between two imminent and threatening dangers—with Austria supported by other sovereign powers, a faction of retrogressive cardinals, and the Jesuits, upon one side, and the revolutionists upon the other. The circumstances would have put to a severe test the courage and firmness of a more experienced statesman. In the face of these surroundings he entered upon a series of reforms, the necessity for which proves how extensive and oppressive had been the misgovernment of his predecessor, and how little liberty the people were permitted to enjoy under him. These had reference to measures of administration, and were designed to improve the public service in the hospitals, prisons, and religious institutions. Provision was made for the punishment of fraud and extortion. Useful works were encouraged and industry stimulated. Some oppressive taxes were remitted. Companies were authorized to build railroads and to introduce gas. Laymen were allowed to hold some inferior offices. Partial freedom of the press was provided for; but it was only partial, inasmuch as papal censorship was preserved. Infant, Sunday, and evening schools were established. And in a public circular he announced that he proposed to assemble a Board of Councilors to advise with in reference to the administration of public affairs. The names of these were to be proposed by the governors of the provinces, and he was to select the Board from the number proposed.[180]

If all these reforms were necessary—and that they must have been is indicated by the fact that they were granted—public affairs were undoubtedly in a most deplorable condition during the pontificate of Gregory XVI. But whether they were or not, a glance at them will show that none of them reached the questions which brought on the revolution. They were, in an essential degree, necessary measures of domestic policy, and whatsoever valuable results may have been produced by them, they still left the entire temporal power in the hands of the pope, so that the people would in the future have nothing to do with making the laws, but would be bound to obey such as the pope alone should dictate. And in order to make any advance towards constitutional government impossible, the proposed Board of Councilors were to be practically selected by the pope. This Board was considered by the papal party as a great concession to the people, but it was only relatively so; that is, it was one step in advance of the old system previously existing. The public were disposed to accept it from the pope, if not the belief that it would produce beneficial results; and consequently its first meeting was hailed with anxiety. Its probable action was discussed with more freedom than Rome had been accustomed to, as even the limited freedom of the press had caused a considerable increase in the number of newspapers, and a corresponding desire to discuss public questions. The inevitable effect of such a discussion was to invite public attention to the fact, which soon became apparent, that, instead of the Board of Councilors being such a reform as the people had hoped for and expected, its actual meaning was to perpetuate the temporal power of the pope, and to prevent, so long as that existed, the possibility of constitutional government. Whilst matters were in this unsettled condition, Pius IX—unfortunately for himself—was prompted, either at his own or the suggestion of others, to remove all doubt from the subject by informing the Board of Councilors, in a speech, that he had "not the slightest intention of lessening the power of the pontifical sovereignty," and that the Councilors had nothing to do "beyond giving an opinion when asked to do so." At a subsequent time, in a proclamation issued by his cardinal secretary of state, he announced that the only progress he proposed to authorize was "within those limits determined by the conditions essential to the sovereignty and the temporal government of the head of the Church."[181]

The old issue was thus revived by the pope himself, in such form and with so much directness that everybody understood it. Discussions of it immediately became common in the public assemblages of Rome. If the extreme revolutionists were able to excite the people by their eloquent and stirring appeals, it was unquestionably owing to the unwise and injudicious avowal of his purposes by the pope. If he had permitted his administrative reforms to work out their legitimate results, they might have strengthened his cause and that of the papacy. But he failed to do this, and thereby increased, rather than diminished, his own embarrassment. He soon realized the necessity of adopting precautionary measures to suppress a popular tumult in the event that the people could be held in check in no other way. For this purpose he created a "civic guard," which was understood to mean, and in fact was, a military force, to be moved against the people whensoever he deemed it expedient. It was in reality a papal army, "to consist of every male inhabitant throughout the States of the Church, between twenty-one and sixty, who possessed property, or kept a shop, or was at the head of an industrial establishment."[182] This measure could not be viewed in any other light than as immediate preparation for an aggressive military movement against all who did not submit to the papal policy—in other words, as a contemplated act of war. Looking at it as such, the pope's cardinal secretary of state, who did not favor it, resigned his office, withdrew from the papal service, and left the pope to the counsel of others. This conspicuous secession from his cause necessarily produced the most serious results, and was mainly influential in exciting all the discontented. Those who had been induced to acquiesce in the measures of the pope, with the hope that they would lead to pacification, were then brought to realize that there was no longer any real ground for this hope. On the other hand, they could see nothing in them but what indicated the purpose of the pope to maintain his temporal power by means of civil war, if he should find that necessary. The issue, consequently, became too distinct and direct to be longer evaded or misunderstood; and from that time the unification of Italy and the abolition of the temporal power became the watchwords of all who desired a constitution, as they soon after became also their battle-cry. At a public assemblage to celebrate the birthday of Pius IX, processions of people, marching through the streets of Rome, prepared tablets with these mottoes, among others, upon them: "Liberty of the press!" "Banishment of the Jesuits!" "Abolition of arbitrary action on the part of the police!" "Codes of useful and impartial laws!" "Publication of the acts of the Consulta!" "Faith in the people!" As a shower of rain prevented the public exhibition of these tablets, they were sent to the cardinal secretary of state, so that the pope should be enabled to interpret the mottoes upon them and understand their meaning and significance. In every direction the signs of popular discontent increased.

It has been said of Pius IX that he was "vainglorious," which is unquestionably true. This quality is not inconsistent with integrity of purpose, but often unfits its possessor for efficacious action in a great crisis. It causes one to rely too much upon personal influence and popularity, as was the case with him. When he met assemblages of the people, he addressed and bestowed benedictions upon them with apparent self-satisfaction, supposing that their shouts were intended to express unbounded veneration for him, whereas they were the result of respect for his sacred office, which restrained many who desired to see the temporal power abolished from openly and publicly avowing it. Those who appealed to and played upon his vanity misled him. Who these were it is not difficult to tell. They were the allied sovereigns, who, in obedience to the policy of the "Holy Alliance," had dictated the measures of Gregory XVI, and maintained them by the arms of Austria, the retrogressive cardinals, and the Jesuits—the latter, as always, thrusting themselves forward, ready to strike, whensoever a blow was needed, at the cause of constitutional government. This powerful combination was enabled to dictate to the kind-hearted pope, by appeals so artfully made that he became as pliable as wax in their hands. Under their controlling influence he composed his Council of Ministers to aid in administering public affairs, exclusively of ecclesiastics; thereby teaching the people that they could have no part whatsoever in those matters which immediately concerned their temporal welfare. To such an extent was this method of procedure carried that it soon became evident that Italy was, in fact, governed by foreign and alien influences, to which the pope had allowed himself to become entirely subjected. As Austria stood at the head of these influences, the Italian people regarded her with both suspicion and dread. And when the Austrian army was moved into Modena, thereby inducing the belief that the military occupation of the States of the Church was intended, the popular indignation became so great that the people demanded of Pius IX that he should declare war against Austria, notwithstanding her immense military strength. The circle of influences surrounding him was now growing more and more complicated, evidently adding to his embarrassment. He knew that he was under the suspicion of Austria because of his former tendency towards liberalism at the beginning of his pontificate, but could not venture to break his alliance with her, being assured, if he did, that it would lead to movements elsewhere in the Italian States that would shake the papacy to its center, and inevitably cost him the loss of his temporal power, which he dreaded more than all else.

These complications created others, which added to the uncertainties of the future. Under the existing emergencies a skillful statesman would have found a broad field for the display of ability in escaping the pitfalls before him. But Pius IX was not a statesman in any sense, and knew but little of public affairs as they existed in the Italian provinces, except what centered in the papacy, and nothing of international relations, except that as pope he was tied to the car of the reigning sovereigns, and was compelled, nolens volens, to share their fortunes. If he had possessed broad and comprehensive views—sufficient to have enabled him to see beyond the narrow circle in which he was moving—he might have realized that, whilst the people of Italy were willing and anxious to award him full credit for such reforms as he had introduced, they fell far short of the popular desire, because they did not reach the evils complained of, which had existed so long as to have become festering sores. He might also have seen that it was not a mere fitful fever of excitement which led to the demand for the expulsion of the Austrians, but the fixed and resolute purpose of an incensed population that they would no longer submit to the degradation of being held in subjugation by foreign bayonets. A skillful pilot would have pointed out to him the method of avoiding shipwreck; but he could find no such pilot among the ecclesiastics who were trained in the same school as himself, and he would have no other. To them he submitted everything, as his only advisers; and yet, at the same time, he seemed to suppose that, in his own personality, he possessed the power to suppress the most violent popular tumult. He frequently addressed assembled multitudes in Rome, and never failed to elicit "evvivas" and other tokens of personal respect, but neglected to observe the significant fact that, underlying all these, the sentiment most deeply imbedded in the popular mind was expressed by such cries as these: "Viva Pio Nono, solo!" "Hurrah for Pio Nono, without his advisers!" "Hurrah for Italian independence!" and others of like meaning. At one time he quieted the people by assuring them that he was on good terms with the King of Sardinia and the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and that he would soon replace his ecclesiastical advisers by laymen. At another time he endeavored to impress their minds with the idea that the security of the papacy was not seriously threatened, because there were "two hundred millions of brothers of all languages and all nations" upon whose assistance he could safely rely! What degree of sincerity accompanied this avowal, it is not necessary to inquire. It would seem, however, to have been suggested by a heated imagination as the best means of rounding off an eloquent period, for which Pius IX acquired deserved celebrity. One would scarcely think that a statesman with a practical mind could have expected to satisfy the supporters of his policy that all the Roman Catholics in the world would come to their defense against the patriotic Italians who were demanding to be relieved from foreign aggression, and the abolition of the temporal power, with a view to their own national independence. Nor is it probable that any other man but Pius IX would have risked such an avowal in the face of the facts that the Roman Catholic populations of the three great nations, France, Spain, and Portugal, and other smaller States, had secured their own independence by the very methods he was condemning. Preposterous as the suggestion was, it may have quieted the apprehensions of some whose unenlightened minds and passive indifference to results were the fruits of the retrogressive policy of the papacy. But there were numerous others whose intelligence enabled them to see through the thin disguise and gauzy eloquence of the pope, and to comprehend the leading thought which burdened his mind. And especially may it be supposed that this result was produced when Pius IX immediately followed his boastful promise of assistance from the whole "two hundred millions" of Roman Catholics throughout the world, by saying that Rome was safe "as long as this Apostolic See shall remain in the midst of her!"[183] Thoughtful people, understanding when he spoke of the Apostolic See in this connection that he meant only the temporal power and kingship of the pope, rightfully interpreted this declaration as opposed to Italian independence and as a denial of their right to a constitutional form of government. And such, in fact, it was, as became more apparent every day. Even the most illiterate soon came to comprehend it, and to understand the actual condition of affairs. At an immense assemblage in the Quirinal a few days after, the people again shouted "evviva" for Pius IX, and immediately after cried out, "Italy, freed from the Austrians!" "A Constitution!" "Down with the priests!" Being stirred by these popular shouts, and being doubtless led to believe that his personal popularity was unbounded, he exclaimed, with the utmost energy and emphasis: "Be faithful to the pontiff. Do not ask what is contrary to the Church and to religion! Certain voices, and certain cries reach my ears, proceeding not from the many, but from the few, which I neither will nor can admit!"[184]