Twelve Years in a Monastery/Chapter IX

by Joseph McCabe

CHAPTER IX

THE LONDON CLERGY

Since it will be recognised that the peculiarities which have been described as existing in the life of the Grey Friars are not the outcome of any individual circumstances, but rather the inevitable result of forcing a mediæval ideal on less responsive modern temperaments and in utterly changed circumstances, it will be expected that all the monastic congregations, at least, will present the same curious features. The rules and constitutions of different orders differ as much as their costumes, and their special and distinctive purposes—for each order is supposed to have a special object to justify its separate foundation—also differ; but the difference is again more theoretical than practical. Through the exigencies of their missionary status in England^[1] they have been brought down to one common level of parochial activity; the same curious and half-hearted efforts are made to keep up their ritual and ascetical peculiarities in the privacy of the convent as have been attributed to the Grey Friars. Ex uno disce omnes.

It was well known by my colleagues that I was deeply concerned at the unpleasant condition of my environment for many years before my secession. I frequently spoke with one of them on the subject, for he professed to be in entire sympathy with me on that point; he used to deprecate it in even stronger terms than I. However, suspecting that I would be thereby tempted to procure a release from the Franciscan rule and pass to some other order (for which permission could be obtained), he would pass on, in all simplicity, to assure me that every other order—and the secular clergy too—was in a similarly unsatisfactory condition.

And I had every reason to be confirmed in the opinion he gave me. Catholic priests have two weaknesses in common with the gentler sex—vanity and love of scandal: one cannot move much in clerical circles without soon learning the seamy side of different orders and dioceses. The different dioceses of secular clergy are jealous of one another, and the secular clergy is generally opposed to the regular: nine secular priests out of ten hate all monks, and nine priests (of any kind) out of ten hate the Jesuits—in fact, I have met very many priests who quite accept the Protestant Alliance version of Jesuitism. Before laymen, of course, every branch of sacerdotalism is treated as little less than angelic—a priest will sing the praises of a priest he hates (I have heard them do it), but a few years’ attentive intercourse with different orders and with the clergy of several dioceses has taught me to regard all priests as—human, very human, but neither more nor less.

For instance there are, as was explained in the second chapter, three distinct branches of the Franciscan Order in England; the three sections were as jealous, hostile, and mutually depreciatory as three rival missionary societies, or the three great branches of Socialism. A few years ago the French colony of friars at Clevedon advertised for cast-off clothing for their youthful aspirants for the order; our authorities immediately wrote to Rome and got their action reproved as derogatory to the dignity of the order—the order, it will be remembered, being a mendicant one, indeed the mendicant order par excellence. The French friars in their turn disturbed the peace of their rivals by securing the patronage of the Duchess of Newcastle and pitching their tent within a few miles of Forest Gate; not even inviting us to the foundation of their church. Another day our friars were exalted at the news that their Capuchin brethren (the bearded Franciscans) had been forced to sell their Dulwich monastery to the Benedictines, and again at the rumour that the Capuchins (amongst whom it was said there had been a general scuffle and dispersion—the dutiful ‘Catholic Times’ gravely announcing that several of their best men had departed for the American missions) were likely to be starved into selling their principal house at Olton. Both these monastic bodies had the same manner of life as ourselves.

Other prominent orders, such as the Dominicans, Benedictines (who are settling in London since Manning’s death), and Carmelites, bear much the same relation to their primitive models. The unconscious tyranny of this heretical land prevents a literal observance of their true régime, and once the thin end of the wedge of corruption is in it penetrates very deeply. The modern friars have too much common sense and too much sense of humour to attempt a bodily revival of the thirteenth century with its antiquated asceticism and crude religious realism. In olden times every monastery had quite an armoury of spiked chains, bloody scourges, thigh bracelets, hair shirts, &c. In all my experience I have only seen one such instrument of self-torture; it was a thigh-bracelet, a broad wire chain, each link ending in a sharp inward point. It was dilapidated and rusty (not from the blood of victims but from the want of use), and excited as much interest and humorous comment in the party of monks who were examining it as a Spanish instrument of torture does in the Tower of London on a sober Protestant crowd. St. Aloysius, the great model of the Jesuits, was so modest in his relations with the dangerous sex, that he did not even know his own mother by sight; to shake hands with a woman is condemned by all monastic writers as a very grave action. Most Catholic young ladies are aware that the modern monk—above all, the Jesuit—is not all misogynous.

The Dominicans have several peculiar precepts in their rule which they are much tempted to think lightly of; they are entirely forbidden flesh-meat, and they are always forbidden to talk over dinner. I have had the pleasure of dining at their large house at Haverstock Hill on several festive occasions, and I noticed that they trim the constitution a little by adjourning to the library for dessert and wine—apart from the fact that my estimable neighbour did keep up a sotto voce conversation with me throughout dinner. I heard a much bolder feat of another Dominican convent. Their precept directs, I understand, that flesh-meat must not enter the refectory or dining-room; the good friars, however, wearied of the sempiternal fish, but saved their consciences on the days they took meat by dining in another room. It reminds one of the pia fraus of the Dublin Carmelites. They secured an excellent site for a church, but had to surmount an obstacle raised by a former proprietor. He, it appears, did not wish a church to be erected on the spot, so he stipulated that the land should only be sold to a person or persons agreeing to build a house thereon. That was too feeble a net for a theologian; the Carmelites bought the land, erected a fine church on it, and a house on top of the Church.

I met also a curious illustration of that theological ingenuity a few years ago in a Dominican who was practically selling relics—a grave sin in theology. His modus operandi was simple. He was commissioned to gather the sinews of war in England to conduct the process of canonisation of a certain French priest, who had tried to live on grass instead of ordinary diet; he had a large number of patches of black cloth, which were said to be portions of the soutane of the holy Abbé. He could not sell them, but he was prepared to give one to every Catholic who gave him ten shillings for the cause. It was pointed out, too, that the relics were so large and numerous that if they were collected all over the world they would make a fair number of soutanes—no doubt the original had miraculously grown, as the true Cross did in pre-Rationalistic days, so that it has furnished enough timber to build a ship. Besides, it was stated as a mark of the saint’s piety that he always wore an old and ragged soutane, whereas the relics were pieces of excellent stuff. All this criticism was passed at the time by priests, for it must not be supposed that the clergy are as credulous as they expect the laity to be; they know that the manufacture of relics is a lucrative ecclesiastical industry.

The Jesuits are the most flourishing body of regulars in England as in every other civilised or uncivilised nation. The reason of their success is not far to seek. St. Ignatius founded his society for the special purpose of educating the young; he was wise in his generation, for it is through their splendid colleges that they draw so many neophytes. His children, however, have advanced in wisdom and adopted another main object, and a very worthy and arduous one, no doubt—the spiritual care of the rich. To a good supply of men and money they add a rigorous discipline, and the elements of success are complete. A famous Roman caricature hits off very happily the characteristic feature of the Jesuits and of three other orders by a play on the words of Peter to Christ. A Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Jesuit are seated at a table of money; the Franciscan repels it with the words 'Ecce nos reliquimus omnia,' the Dominican imitates him, 'Et secuti sumus te,' the Augustinian strikes an argumentative attitude, asking, 'Quid ergo?' and the happy Jesuit gathers in the spoils, with the rest of the text, 'Erit nobis.'

At the same time they are characterised by a remarkable esprit de corps which produces an intense isolated activity. The glory of the society is paramount, and always coupled with the glory of the Church; they never co-operate with other orders, but they freely cut across the lines of, and come into collision with, other ecclesiastical forces. Hence there is a very strong feeling against them amongst the clergy and in higher quarters; indeed, one would be surprised to find how many priests are ready to agree with Macaulay and Zola with regard to them. In considering the accusations that are so commonly made against them one must remember how far the acknowledged principles of Catholic casuistry can be extended. It is true that the maxim: ‘The end justifies the means,’ is reprobated by all sections of theologians (though it is rather closely paralleled by the acknowledged, ‘Bonum est diffusivum sui’), still it is only rejected by a quibble; an act which remains intrinsically bad cannot be done for a good purpose, they say, but every theologian admits that the ‘end’ of an action enters into its moral essence and modifies it, and the act must be a very wicked one which cannot be hallowed by being pressed into the service of the Church Catholic—or of the Society of Jesus.

Such quibbles as Kingsley attributes to them in ‘Westward Ho!’ are certainly defended by Catholic principles and are daily equalled by Catholic priests^[2]; and I should not be at all surprised if a Jesuit were to argue himself into accepting the commission which George Sand attributes to the Jesuit tutor in ‘Consuelo.’ Many priests would admit that M. Zola’s account of their activity, in ‘Rome,’ is probable enough. I once heard F. Bernard Vaughan, S.J., preach a sermon on the title ‘What is a Jesuit?’ With his accustomed eloquence he summed up the traditional idea—the historian’s idea of a Jesuit, and in refutation, contented himself with detailing the spiritual exercises through which the Jesuit so frequently passes. Although, aided by F. Vaughan’s great theatrical power and by the operatic performances which preceded and followed it, the sermon produced considerable effect, it was in reality merely a trick of rhetoric. No one contends that the Jesuit is violating his conscience in his plots, intrigues, and equivocations; regret is usually felt that he should have been able to bring his moral sense into such an accommodating attitude. Every ecclesiastic claims to be unworldly in ultimate ambition; yet even a pope would think a life-time well spent in diplomatic intrigue for the restoration of his temporal power. All such activity is readily covered by the accepted principles of Catholic casuistry.

Still, whatever may have been the policy of Jesuits in past ages their activity in England at the present day is patent. In London they have no parish—except attached to their little church at Westminster, from which they long to withdraw—but they are continually seeking out the wealthier Catholics in various parishes and endeavouring to attach them to their congregation at Farm Street, or send them to help their struggling missions at Stamford Hill and Wimbledon. They have thus excited much hostility amongst the rest of the clergy, but four centuries of bad treatment from clergy and laity alike have sufficiently inured them, and only made them more self-containing and independent.^[3] Apart from such petty intrigues for the advancement of the Society there does not seem to be any deep undercurrent of Jesuit activity in England at the present time; in Rome, of course, every congregation and every individual intrigues religiously in the great struggle for canonical existence—under a pope whose whole soul is immersed in his diplomatic and financial schemes what else could be expected?

Besides the great orders there are innumerable minor congregations of regular or monastic priests represented in London: Oblates of Mary, Oblates of the Sacred Heart,^[4] Oblates of St. Charles, Servites, Barnabites, Vincentians, Fathers of Charity, Marists, Passionists, Redemptorists, &c.; most of them are founded by modern priests who had some particular devotion on the brain and, by influence or money, succeeded in getting permission to found congregations embodying their idea. Most of them are too hard pressed in the mere struggle for existence to pay much attention to the particular features and objects of their respective congregations. The Servites, it is said amongst the clergy, nearly perished by spontaneous combustion, something similar to the reported fracas of the Capuchins; the Passionists were nearly starved out by the indiscretion of an ignorant foreign administration which insisted on full ascetical rigour; the Fathers of Charity have become very modest and retiring since their founder, the celebrated Rosmini, had forty propositions selected from his works and condemned by the Holy Office. The latest is a new order for the conversion of England—of respectable Anglican England, not of its increasing pagan element: it was founded by F. Jerome Vaughan, who seceded from the Benedictines after the interesting fracas which was described by a Catholic pen in the 'Pall Mall Magazine' a few years ago.

Besides the great number of regular clergy—who would be more aptly styled the 'Irregulars,' both for a disciplinary reason, and in view of their canonical relation to the rest of the clerical army—there are the ordinary secular or non-monastic clergy. The seculars are those who live in the world (sæculum) and the regulars those who live in convents, by rule (regula). The seculars have a similar life to the ordinary non-Catholic clergyman; it has been fully described in the preceding chapter, for it is similar to that of the monastic clergy who undertake parochial duties. On Sunday their work is long and laborious: during the week they visit their parishioners and the more attractive of their neighbours’ parishioners (which dangerous practice is called ‘poaching,’ and is watched accordingly), take tea and supper and play cards with them; visit, dine and wine with each other; picnics, parties, entertainments, meetings, special services (with luncheons), visits to the cardinal (after a polite invitation called a compareat), occasional holidays help to fill up the inside of the week. They are forbidden under pain of suspension to enter a theatre, or witness theatrical performances of any kind: under Manning, Corney Grain and even Olympia were not thought to be included, but Cardinal Vaughan has proscribed even those relaxations.

They cordially hate the monastic clergy—who have secured most of the best parishes in the diocese—but do not object to dine with them occasionally: I have heard one, at a dinner (though towards its close) in a monastery, unburden his mind about monks in general and our friars in particular in a way which would have been warmly approved by the Protestant Alliance Association. With nuns they are usually on very good terms: they find pupils and novices for the convent, and in return are invited to the innumerable special services, luncheons, entertainments, distributions of prizes, &c., which are equally gratifying to them and to the sisters.

Their circumstances, naturally, differ very widely in different parishes: as a rule they are not rich. Indeed, I have known a priest to reduce his living expenses to nine shillings per week: I should think there are few who have 150l. per annum. However, they live in hopes of better days: the State grant to their schools will mean a material increase in their personal income. They, of course, claim it as a relief to their parishioners, but in point of fact the special collections they make for their schools are insignificant: the deficit must be made up out of the ordinary income of the church, which will not change after a concession to their schools by a benevolent Government (whom they will then help to overthrow on the Irish question).

The cardinal usually assists the poorest missions, in some of which, as at Ongar, there are not a score of Catholics: at least Cardinal Manning did, though Cardinal Vaughan has retracted most of his predecessor’s allowances. Indeed, they are more afraid of having money taken from them by Cardinal Vaughan than of the contrary, and they fill up their statistical papers with much ingenuity. Cardinal Manning took little interest in the incomes and expenditures of his clergy, but as soon as Vaughan arrived they all received a detailed form to fill in and return, giving an account of their receipts and expenses. Unfortunately the cardinal made a canonical slip in sending the same paper to the secular clergy and to the monastic: the latter are not responsible to him for their conduct quâ monks, but only quâ parish priests. They therefore held an indignation meeting and protested, with the result that a new form had to be printed which distinguished between their parochial property and income and their monastic affairs, and only demanded an account of the former. Needless to say the answers were very discreet: the Dominicans, it was said, claimed all their business as private.

On the whole the relation of the secular clergy to their archbishop^[5] may be described as one of good-natured tolerance; he was not popular in Salford, and he is not popular in the South—in fact, few bishops (if any) are popular with their clergy. He is kind and familiar, and always leaves a good impression after a visit to a priest: he is always much less inflexible than his predecessor—indeed it is complained that he is too easily influenced—and nobody doubts his earnestness and sincerity. He had the misfortune, however, to step into the shoes of a great man, and he has, perhaps, acted unwisely in endeavouring to tread in his predecessor’s footsteps too closely instead of confining his attention to the administration of the archdiocese. The intense activity which has kept him continually on the move since he entered the diocese and which has so rapidly aged him has had little or no palpable result, and has certainly not deepened the attachment of his clergy. His predecessor remained day after day in his little room at Carlyle Place; the world came to him and sought his influence.

Yet with all his activity and the perpetual fluttering of aristocratic wings in his vicinity he cannot give the financial aid to his clergy which his predecessor did. One of his first cares was to change the existing financial arrangements, cutting off many allowances and commanding new contributions. He had a perfect right to do so, but when, after so many economical measures, he confessed in his Trinity Sunday pastoral that he could not reach the income of his predecessor his clergy felt little sympathy. In the same pastoral he preached a panegyric of the aristocracy which gave great offence, and he gave a comparison of the contributions of five West-end churches and five East-end churches, which was not quite accurate, was hardly fair, and certainly impolitic. However, he has made many wise changes in the distribution of the clergy and other long-desired improvements. At Barking and Canning Town, for instance, two very poor Irish localities, Cardinal Manning had left for years two priests who were quite unfitted for the work—they were both estimable, refined, and earnest men, who would have been useful in a very different sphere; Cardinal Vaughan has happily transferred them. When the time comes it will prove no light task to find a worthy successor to Cardinal Vaughan.^[6]

With regard to the education of secular priests the same may be said as of regulars; in fact the remarks in the preceding chapter apply to the clergy generally. The classical and mathematical training of the seculars is better than that of the friars; beyond, they are entirely in the same condition. Their philosophical and theological studies have been equally disorderly and precipitate: they have had no serious introduction either to the thought of past ages (beyond the thirteenth century) or to the living thoughts of the Zeitgeist in our own days. They read little and know little beyond the interminable Anglican controversy. There is a reaction between them and their people; the laity are coerced into literary apathy, and consequently the stimulus to study is absent.

About two years ago the cardinal realised that his priests were not au courant, and that they were really unable to bring themselves adequately in touch with modern thought, so he instituted a kind of intellectual committee to sit upon modern questions, and report to the majority. A dozen of the better-informed London priests constituted it, and they met occasionally to discuss, especially social questions and the Biblical question. I remember procuring a large amount of socialistic literature for certain members who wished to study both sides. When the members of this new Areopagus had come to a few decisions, they were to enlighten their less studious or less leisured brethren by a series of small books: the books have not yet appeared. The fact that the proposed writers (to my knowledge) dare not print their true ideas on the above problems at present may not be unconnected with the delay. A Jesuit writer, about the same time, began a series of explanatory and very pedagogical articles on the critical question in the 'Tablet,' but he was soon cut to pieces by other Catholic writers. The Jesuits have also published a series of volumes of scholastic philosophy in English. The student will find in them an acquaintance with science and modern philosophy which is rarely found in the scholastic metaphysician. Unfortunately they are little better than a translation of the discarded Latin manuals, plus a certain amount of modern psycho-physics; they follow disused shafts of thought much too frequently to be of any real value. The more important volumes seem to have been entrusted to the less important men; whilst there is much acute criticism on minor topics, the treatment of the more profound problems is very unsatisfactory, such theses as the spirituality of the soul and the existence and infinity of God are merely supported by the old worn-out arguments.

What has been said of the perpetual intrigues of the monastic clergy does not apply so forcibly to the secular priests. Each monastery in London is a small world in itself, containing nearly as many officers as privates; to the secular clergy the number of possible appointments is very slight in proportion to their numbers, and thus the fever of ambition is less universal. There is, of course, a certain amount of intrigue for the wealthier parishes, but few of them have any ambition beyond the desire to settle down as rector of some comfortable respectable congregation; in a witty French book a benevolent parent gives as a supreme counsel to his son who has become priest: 'Arrondissez-vous.' A few may then aspire to the dignity of dean of their district, or to the title of 'missionary rector,' but the genuine Roman fever only begins within the narrow circle of those who presume to aspire to the title of monsignore, or even of canon of the diocese. The dignity of monsignore is not a very significant one; it may or may not be a reward of merit. Any wealthy priest of good family may receive it as a mere compliment. I know one monsignore who received his purple through a monastic order to whom he had given a few thousand pounds, and another (a very worthy man, but painfully commonplace) who got it for his attentions to a distinguished visitor from Rome.

Even canons, as a rule, are very feeble and harmless conspirators; they are generally old men, who are more conspicuous for quantity than quality of service, but have usually sufficient discretion left to know that they are not expected to aspire any higher. In matters of ordinary administration their long experience is often useful to the bishop, with whom they form the chapter of the diocese, but otherwise they have not a very grave responsibility. The same may be said of the titular bishops or those whose titles are in partibus infidelium, what are called ‘suffragans’^[7] in the Anglican hierarchy. The cardinal (and any important bishop) has a number of advisers quite outside his chapter, experts in canon law, professors of theology, &c., who are generally mutually hostile and contradictory, and from their opinions he finally deduces a course of action.

And there is little excitement or intrigue over the election to an unimportant bishopric—such as Northampton or Shrewsbury. In fact, a private income is as effectual a qualification as could be desired where the diocese is poor and small, and needs no special energy to administrate it. When the bishopric of Clifton was vacant a few years ago, it was laughingly whispered in clerical circles that the first condition of the candidate must be the possession of the modest private income of 250l. per annum. When an important see falls vacant there is naturally much wire-pulling, both in England and at Rome; for the diocese has not a decisive vote in the election of its bishop. The canons meet and decide upon three names to send to Rome, as dignissimus, dignior, and dignus; however, the Pope frequently reverses the order of the names, and sometimes (as in Manning’s election) entirely disregards their ternum.

Thus it is that every conspicuous ecclesiastic, whether he be bishop, priest, or monk (for a monk may be raised to the episcopate without intermediary stages), is a continuous object of jealous observation and intrigue, in view of possible cardinal’s hats or bishoprics. The state of things which has excited so much interest in Purcell’s ‘Life of Manning’ is only exceptional in that the Church in England is not likely to have such a number of able men simultaneously again for some time; the jealousy, hostility, meanness, and persecution therein described are familiar to every ‘great ecclesiastical statesman,’ as Manning is most aptly called. And it must not be imagined that the picture is at all complete—it is not by any means as darkly shaded as the reality. No Catholic could in conscience tell all that is handed down in clerical circles with regard to the relations of Manning, Newman, Ward, the Jesuits, &c. And although the author has made a generous concession in the cause of historical truth, the public have not had the full benefit of his sincerity. If the book could have been published in its original form, it would have been much more interesting, but after spending two years in purgatorial flames as it did, we must take it cum grano salis. Some of my colleagues were intimate with the author’s brother, and gave us continual reports of the painful progress of the work. About two years before its appearance we were told it was finished, and some very spicy letters and anecdotes were promised; then there were rumours of war, the defenders of Manning, the supporters of Ward, the Jesuits, and others threatening legal action, and the work is said to have been much 'doctored.' On the whole the impression of those who seemed to be in the secrets was, that Newman had been treated by all parties in a manner that dare not be made public, and that there were documents kept back which would throw much discredit upon all other prominent Catholics of the period.

However undesirable such a state of things may be, it is no more than any disinterested person would expect. The Church cannot change its character in a day; and its past history, like the history of any priesthood under the sun, is uniformly marred by such weaknesses. The life of Cardinal Pie in France, though written by a Catholic for Catholics, gives the same impression; the relations of the Irish prelates and of the American prelates are quite analogous; Rome, of course, is quite a school of diplomacy and intrigue of no gentle character. Such things are inevitable, and it is a clumsy policy to attempt to conceal them and to support the idea that ecclesiastical dignitaries are only guided by preternatural influences. To paint idealised pictures of its own champions and grotesque caricatures of its adversaries (and then sternly suppress all alien descriptions) is rather an antiquated custom; though it is still found amongst many aboriginal tribes.

The actual condition of Catholicism in London is a matter of anxious discussion, even in clerical circles. As will be explained subsequently, grave doubts are expressed as to whether the Church is making any progress at all in England; and this is especially true of London. Catholic journals are not unlike Egyptian monuments: they write large (and in good round numbers) the conquests of the Church, but they do not see the utility of chronicling its losses. Of converted Anglican ministers they speak in warm terms; of seceding priests they are silent—until some other cause brings them into public notice, when they publish a series of reckless attacks upon them and refuse to insert their explanations. Once or twice, however, notices of meetings have crept in at which the opinion has been maintained by priests that the Church is really losing, instead of making that miraculous progress which the average layman believes. Great numbers of Catholics imagine that as soon as the Church of England is disestablished^[8] and thus thrown directly upon the support of the people it will vanish almost immediately. I once heard Bishop Paterson explaining that it was undesirable to work for disestablishment just yet, because we Catholics really had not nearly sufficient accommodation for the vast flood of converts that would ensue; we should be quite disorganised.

In point of fact there should be now about a quarter of a million of Catholics in London. Throughout England the ratio of the Catholic population is about 1 in 20, but it is much higher in Lancashire, much lower in London and other places. In Cardinal Manning’s time the figures were vague and disputable. When Cardinal Vaughan came down in a hurricane of zeal a census was made of the archdiocese; but the exact figures only established the truth of the pessimistic theory. It was thought that Catholicism did not really know its strength, and that it would be well to proclaim its formidable statistics to the world; but when the result of the census was known, it was whispered, indeed, from mouth to mouth, but with a caution that the cardinal did not wish to see it in print. He need not have feared: the Catholic press has too keen a sense of its duty (and of its financial dependence on the clergy) to insert such compromising matter.

I have not seen the exact figures—I do not suppose they ever passed the archbishop’s study in writing—but I was informed by several reliable priests that out of the small Catholic population of London between 70,000 and 80,000 never went near a church—had practically abandoned the Church. It has been explained that the positive ceremonial obligations of a Catholic are so grave that their continued neglect puts a man outside the pale of the Church. Most priests can fairly ascertain how many nominal Catholics there are in their district—how many should be Catholics by parentage, baptism, education, &c., subtracting from this number the average number of attendance at Mass on Sunday (an obligatory service) he finds the number of renegades. So, also, he can make a minimum calculation from his school children; multiply the number of children by five and you have the population, though in some places many Catholic children attend Board schools.

Uncomfortable as the general statement is, a few facts will show that it is rather under than over the truth. The priest, as a rule, likes to give as roseate an account as possible of his flock, so that in the aggregate there is probably a great loss in point of accuracy. The London Catholics are devoting a quarter of a million to the erection of a cathedral; here are some collateral facts. In the parish of Canning Town in East London there are about 6,000 nominal Catholics; 5,000 of these never come near the church. I was dining with F. Hazel the day the form to be filled arrived, and saw him write it. We measured the church and found that, filling the doorsteps and arch ledges, it would not contain more than 400: certainly not a thousand, mostly children, came to Mass on Sundays, and Easter confessions were proportionate. A question was asked, How many of your youths (15-21) attend their duties? About 5 percent, was the answer. The income of the parish was deplorable; the vast territory it embraces is full of poor Irish families who live less religiously and not more virtuously than pagans.

At Barking there are more than 200 children in the schools, and the number is not at all complete, and there are not more than fifty adults who attend church; at Grays there is the same condition. A few years ago a zealous priest, F. Gordon Thompson, determined to start a mission in a neglected part of East London—Bow Common; his aim was necessarily small, he could only hope to take care of the children of nominal Catholics. In the first three streets he visited he found 120 such children, and could go no further; their parents he could not attempt to influence. F. Thompson told me that there were several other localities in East London in precisely the same condition. In fact every parish in East London counts at least hundreds of drifted Catholics. Whilst thousands and thousands of Catholics are thus separating from the Church, principally for want of churches and priests, great numbers of missionaries are being sent from Mill Hill, amidst much flourish of trumpets, to India, Borneo, Uganda, &c., and an enormous sum is being collected for an unnecessary cathedral; and the Church of Rome makes a special profession of caring for the poor. Though the phenomenon is not by any means confined to poor districts, it is more conspicuous in them because ecclesiastics are naturally slow to undertake and prosecute such unremunerative toil.

Hence there is such a considerable leakage, as it is called, in the Church that it is questionable whether their 'converts' quite fill up the vacant place. I have thought for many years, and I have been confirmed in the opinion by many colleagues, that for the last twenty years, at least, the Church of Rome in England has made no progress, but has probably lost in numbers; taking into account, of course, the increase of a generation. That the Church has made a large number of converts it is impossible to deny, and it would be foolish to question the sincerity of large numbers of its converts. At the same time the majority of them are of such a class that the change has no deep religious significance. There are thousands of ordinary people whose only convictions, such as they are, regard certain fundamental points of Christianity, and who are drawn into one or other sect by the merest accident—by contact with a zealous or particularly affable proselytiser, by the influence of relatives, by kindness, taste, and a host of non-religious considerations. In fact it is only too clear (and not unnatural) that many associate with the Church of Rome for purely æsthetic considerations. It is well known that many of the much vaunted converts of Farm Street and of Brompton are simply décadents who are attracted by the sensuous character of the services, and who would transfer their devotion to a temple of Aphrodite if one were opened in West London with similar ceremonies.

Matrimonial considerations are also very powerful agents in the cause of the Church. Many Catholic priests and families insist upon 'conversion' before admitting a non-Catholic to matrimonial relation. The only 'convert' I am responsible for was a young lady who was engaged to be married to a Catholic; she drank in my instructions like water, never finding the slightest intellectual difficulty; and a few years afterwards, being jilted by him, she happily returned to Anglicanism with the same facility. One of my colleagues was summoned to attend a Catholic who was seriously ill. The wife met him at the door, and asked him to 'be careful, because her husband was only a marriage-convert.' And even when intermarriage is allowed, the Church exacts several promises from the parties in her favour; the non-Catholic is forced to promise that his partner shall have the free exercise of her religion, and that all children shall be Catholics, and the Catholic is quietly compelled to promise to work for the conversion of the other party.

Their schools, also, are a powerful proselytising agency. In boarding-schools kept by nuns, whatever promises may be given to parents, it is regarded as a sacred duty to influence the children as much as possible. And, in spite of the notorious fact that girls educated by nuns are less prepared for the difficulties of life and much more liable to come to grief than other girls, numbers of Protestant girls are annually sent to Catholic schools, largely on the ground of economy. Elementary schools, also, are not only the most effective guardians of their own children, but help to extend Catholic influence. Like the consideration which has been urged previously, it is not one to which they give political prominence, but it is certainly an important item in their esoteric programme.

1. The Archbishop of Canterbury was more correct than he imagined, from a strictly canonical point of view, when he so happily styled the Church of Rome in England 'The Italian Mission.' See note p. 168.
2. See afterwards, p. 235.
3. From several characteristics a parallel is not infrequently and not unhappily drawn between the Jesuits and the Jews.
4. As much ingenuity is now shown in devising names for new congregations, especially of nuns, as is shown by our lady novelists in finding names for their heroines. I went some time ago to a small convent which the Duchess of Newcastle has taken under her maternal wing; noticing something new I asked the young nun who opened the door who they were. She drew a long breath and answered that they were the 'Faithful Companions of the Sacred Heart of the Mother of God Incarnate.' A young friend of mine on taking the veil adopted the name of 'Sister Mary Francis of the Eucharistic Heart of Jesus.' Devotion to the 'Sacred Heart of Jesus' is a recent innovation, founded on a private revelation of this century. It was, of course, based on the erroneous belief that the heart is the organ of love.
5. It may be well to explain that the dignity of cardinal is not necessarily connected with episcopal authority: Cardinal Newman, for instance, was not a bishop. The college of cardinals simply represents the clergy of the Bishop of Rome: thus there are cardinal-priests, cardinal-deacons, and cardinal sub-deacons, Cardinals, as such, have no function or jurisdiction; neither have monsignori.
6. The Vaughan family is a remarkable one; of the seven brothers six became prominent ecclesiastics. Roger died Archbishop of Sydney; Herbert is cardinal; Bernard, the Jesuit, is the first Catholic preacher in England; Jerome is the founder of a new order; Kenelm is a world-wide missionary; John is a monsignore. It is said that John attempted a smart aphorism on the family; he himself represented thought, Bernard word, and Herbert deed. When Bernard heard it he caustically added, 'and Jerome omission.' The allusion is to the Catholic classification of sins—sins of thought, word, deed and omission.
7. The word has a different meaning amongst Catholics; a suffragan is any bishop under an archbishop. All the bishops of England are suffragani to the Cardinal-Archbishop.
8. A Catholic is bound in conscience to desire—to work for, if possible—the disestablishment of the Anglican Church: then he is equally bound to work for the establishment of his own.