But his career was now drawing to an end. These different occupations—the direction of both the spiritual and temporal matters of the order, which was already widely spread—the anxiety caused by the many conflicts in which the Society was engaged—the fear of defeat—the joy arising from success—his unrelenting activity—his uneasiness at seeing the pontifical chair occupied by Caraffa, always adverse to the order—all these things contributed to shorten his days. His constitution, which had been impaired in his youth, and in the cavern of Manreze, now gradually gave way; and although no symptom of his approaching end was yet visible, “no paleness of countenance, not a sign in all his body,”[82] nevertheless he felt the vital principle fading away within him, and that his last hour was rapidly drawing near. He tried the country air, and for this purpose went to a villa lately given by some friends for the use of the Roman college,[83] but he found no relief. His strength was fast failing him; an unconquerable lassitude crept over his whole frame, and his intellect only remained clear and unchanged. He spoke of his illness, nay, of his approaching end, to nobody. He returned to Rome, and threw himself upon a bed. A doctor was sent for by the alarmed fathers, but he bade them be of good cheer, “for there was nothing the matter with the general.” Ignatius smiled; and when the physician was gone, he gave orders to his secretary, Polancus, to proceed to the holy father straightway to recommend the Society to his care, and to obtain a blessing for himself (Ignatius), and indulgences for his sins.[84] Perhaps he made this last attempt to disarm, by his humility, the inflexible Paul IV. (Caraffa), and so render him favourable to the Society. He was mistaken. Paul sent the requested benison, but he did not change his mind toward the Society. However, Polancus, reassured by the doctor, and not seeing any danger himself, disregarded the order, postponing the fulfilment of his mission till next day. Meanwhile, after Ignatius had attended till very late to some affairs concerning the Roman college, he was left alone to rest. But what was the surprise and consternation of the fathers, on entering his room next morning, to find him breathing his last! The noise and confusion caused by such an unexpected event were great. Cordials, doctor, confessor, were immediately sent for; but, before any of them came—before Polancus, who only now ran to the Pope, returned—Loyola had expired. His demise took place at five o’clock on the morning of the 31st of July 1556, in his sixty-fifth year. So ended a man who is extolled by the one party as a saint, execrated by the other as a monster. He was neither. Most assuredly, in the Protestant point of view, and by all those who advocate the cause of freedom of conscience, and of a return to the purity of the primitive religion of Christ, Ignatius ought to be detested above any other individual. To him and to his order belongs the mournful glory of having checked the progress of the Reformation, and of having kept a great part of Europe under the yoke of superstition and tyranny.
And here we are led to mention a fact which we think has hitherto been unnoticed—the indulgence, we should say the partiality, evinced by Protestant writers for these last ten years towards the Jesuits, and especially the founders of the order. The fact must be explained. The Jesuits, from 1830 to the end of ’48, seemed to have lost all public favour, all influence and authority. Persecuted and hooted in France, Switzerland, Russia, hated in their own dominion, Italy, they were considered as a vanquished enemy, deserving rather commiseration than hatred. A reaction ensued in their favour among their most decided opponents. Generous souls rose up to defend these persecuted men, and stretched out a friendly hand to them, thus trodden upon by all. Carried away with such chivalrous sentiments, they have embellished, with the colours of their fervid imaginations and the graces of their copious style, whatever the Jesuit writers have related of their chiefs, and have represented Loyola and his companions as heroes of romance rather than real historical characters. We leave these writers to reflect whether the Jesuits are a vanquished enemy, or whether they are not still redoubtable and menacing foes. But, with deference to such distinguished writers as Macaulay, Taylor, Stephen, and others, we dare to assert that in writing about the Jesuits they were led astray by the above romantic sentiments; and we should moreover warn them that their words are quoted by the Jesuit writers, Crétineau, Pellico, &c., as irrefragable testimony of the sanctity of their members.
CHAPTER VII.
1541-1774.
MISSIONS.
Before we proceed any further, we feel obliged to say a few words regarding the missions which were undertaken by the Jesuits soon after the establishment of their order. To write a complete history would be almost interminable. To analyse Orlandini, Sacchini, Bartoli, Jouvency, the Litteræ Annuæ, and Les Lettres Edifiantes, not to speak of a hundred others, would take up a great many volumes.[85] We think we may fill our pages with more instructive matter.
We shall now confine ourselves to a short chapter on the missions of India. We shall next speak of those of America, and finally, in what condition the missions are at the present day. In speaking of the missions of India, we fear we shall incur the reproach we have addressed to others, because we frankly confess that we are partial to Francis Xavier; but our Protestant readers, to be impartial, must not judge those missions by too rigid a standard, or by too constant a reference to the doctrinal errors of those who undertook them, furthermore, by the consideration of what those missions subsequently became. All human institutions emanating from imperfect beginnings, are necessarily imperfect, and the further they recede from their origin, the more they lose of their primitive character, and the less are they calculated to answer the end for which they were established. The idle and immoral monk—this gangrene of Catholic countries—was at one time the most industrious of men; and Europe owes much to the monastic orders, not only for the preservation of the greatest part of the works of genius of our forefathers, but also for the tillage of its barren wastes. If the monks and priests now bring disorder, confusion, and often civil war into the countries where they are sent under pretence of missions, such was not the case at the discovery of the Western World, and at the conquest of India by the Portuguese. The first zealous and devoted missionaries attempted to civilise and Christianise savage and barbarous populations. And if you object that in their missions they preached the Popish creed, and destroyed one idolatry by introducing another, at least you ought to give them credit for their good intentions. Nor are you to suppose that they undertook the task of civilising these nations in order to acquire dominion over them. No. Such, indeed, has been the case in later times, but in the beginning they were actuated by worthier and more disinterested motives. In going thither they had before their eyes martyrdom rather than worldly establishments. They carried with them no theological books. Having no antagonist to dispute with, they had left behind the acrimony and hatred inherent in almost all theological controversies. They brought with them the essence of the Christian religion—the most consoling and sublime part of it—gratitude to the Creator, with charity and love to their fellow-creatures. Undoubtedly, when we speak of their missions, we must not blindly believe all that the Jesuitical historians, who are often the only chroniclers of these events, relate to us. We shall not give them credit for the prodigies and miracles said to be performed by their missionaries, even though that missionary be Xavier himself. We shall not believe that he raised from the tomb another Lazarus, or that at his bidding the salt waves of the ocean were changed into sweet and palatable water. Yet there are irrefragable proofs of the good done by their exertions, and of their success in introducing Christianity, or at least civilisation, into India and America. The man who first engaged in that glorious work was Francis Xavier—Xavier, whom, if Rome had not dishonoured the name by conferring it upon assassins and hypocrites, we would gladly call a saint.
Francis Xavier
Hinchliff.