History of the Jesuits: Their origin, progress, doctrines, and designs

by G. B. Nicolini

And let us here admire the hand of Divine Providence! As if with the special view of facilitating the rapid diffusion of the Reformed religion, there was given to the world but a few years before, and in that same Germany where it took its rise, the most wonderful and efficient instrument for the purpose—the Art of Printing. Without the press, Luther’s doctrines would never have spread so widely in so very few months. As at that time this beneficent invention was a powerful agent in advancing religious reformation, so has it since become an effective means of political as well as religious enfranchisement. Hence the hatred of the Popes and their brother despots towards this staunch supporter of liberty.

But while the Word of God was thus rescuing such multitudes from idolatry, the Spirit of Evil, furious at the escape of so many victims whom he had already counted his own, made a desperate effort to retrieve his past, and prevent future losses. He saw, with dismay, Divine truth, like a vast and ever-extending inundation, rapidly undermining and throwing down, one by one, his many strongholds of superstition and ignorance; and, with the despairing energy of baffled malignity, he set about rearing up a bulwark which should check the tide ere its work of destruction was completed. For this bulwark he devised the since famous order of the Jesuits, which arose almost simultaneously with the establishment of the Reformation. So we may say. The Roman Catholic writers, however, ascribe the origin of the Jesuits to a far different influence. They declare, “that, as from time to time new heresies have afflicted the Church of God, so He has raised up holy men to combat them; and as He had raised up St Dominic against the Albigenses and Vaudois, so He sent Loyola and his disciples against the Lutherans and Calvinists.”[2]

It is of this renowned and dreaded Society that I purpose to write the history. As a matter of course, the first few pages will contain a biographical sketch of its bold and sagacious founder, to whom altars have been consecrated, and who is still regarded as the type and soul of the order.

Iñigo, or, as commonly called, Ignatius Loyola, the youngest of eleven children of a noble and ancient family, was born in the year 1491, in his father’s castle of Loyola at Guipuscoa in Spain. He was of middle stature, and rather dark complexion; had deep-set piercing eyes, and a handsome and noble countenance. While yet young he had become bald, which gave him an expression of dignity, that was not impaired by a lameness arising from a severe wound. His father, a worldly man, as his biographer says, instead of sending him to some holy community to be instructed in religion and piety, placed him as a page at the court of Ferdinand V. But Ignatius, naturally of a bold and aspiring disposition, soon found that no glory was to be reaped in the antechambers of the Catholic king; and, delighting in military exercises, he became a soldier—and a brave one he proved. His historians, to make his subsequent conversion appear more wonderful and miraculous, have represented him as a perfect monster of iniquity; but, in truth, he was merely a gay soldier, fond of pleasure no doubt, yet not more debauched than the generality of his brother officers. His profligacy, whatever it was, did not prevent him from being a man of strict honour, never backward in time of danger.

At the defence of Pampeluna against the French, in 1521, Ignatius, while bravely performing his duty on the walls, was struck down by a ball, which disabled both his legs. With him fell the courage of the besieged. They yielded, and the victors entering the town, found the wounded officer, and kindly sent him to his father’s castle, which was not far distant. Here he endured all the agonies which generally attend gunshot wounds, and an inflammatory fever which supervened brought him to the verge of the grave—when, “Oh, miracle!” exclaims his biographer, “it being the eve of the feast of the glorious saints Peter and Paul, the prince of the apostles appeared to him in a vision, and touched him, whereby he was, if not immediately restored to health, at least put in a fair way of recovery.” Now the fact is, that the patient uttered not a syllable regarding his vision at the time; nevertheless we are gravely assured that the miracle was not the less a fact. Be this, however, as it may, Ignatius undoubtedly recovered, though slowly. During his long convalescence, he sought to beguile the tedious hours of irksome inactivity passed in the sick chamber by reading all the books of knight-errantry which could be procured. The chivalrous exploits of the Rolands and Amadises made a deep impression upon his imagination, which, rendered morbidly sensitive by a long illness, may well be supposed to have been by no means improved by such a course of study. When these books were exhausted, some pious friend brought him the Lives of the Saints. This work, however, not suiting his taste, Ignatius at first flung it aside in disgust, but afterwards, from sheer lack of better amusement, he began to read it. It presented to him a new phase of the romantic and marvellous, in which he so much delighted. He soon became deeply interested, and read it over and over again. The strange adventures of these saints—the praise, the adoration, the glorious renown which they acquired—so fired his mind, that he almost forgot his favourite paladins. His ardent ambition saw here a new career opened up to it. He longed to become a saint.

Yet the military life had not lost its attractions for him. It did not require the painful preparation necessary to earn a saintly reputation, and was, moreover, more in accordance with his education and tastes. He long hesitated which course to adopt—whether he should win the laurels of a hero, or earn the crown of a saint. Had he perfectly recovered from the effects of his wound, there is little doubt but that he would have chosen the laurels. But this was not to be. Although he was restored to health, his leg remained hopelessly deformed—he was a cripple for life. It appeared that his restorer, St Peter, although upon the whole a tolerably good physician, was by no means an expert surgeon. The broken bone of his leg had not been properly set; part of it protruded through the skin below the knee, and the limb was short. Sorely, but vainly, did Ignatius strive to remove these impediments to a military career, which his unskilful though saintly surgeon had permitted to remain. He had the projecting piece of bone sawn off, and his shortened leg painfully extended by mechanical appliances, in the hope of restoring it to its original fine proportions. The attempt failed; so he found himself, at the age of thirty-two, with a shrunken limb, with little or no renown, and, by his incurable lameness, rendered but slightly capable of acquiring military glory. Nothing then remained for him but to become a saint.

Saintship being thus, as it were, forced upon him, he at once set about the task of achieving it, with all that ardour which he brought to bear upon every pursuit. He became daily absorbed in the most profound meditations, and made a full confession of all his past sins, which was so often interrupted by his passionate outbursts of penitent weeping, that it lasted three days.[3] To stimulate his devotion, he lacerated his flesh with the scourge, and abjuring his past life, he hung up his sword beside the altar in the church of the convent of Monserrat. Meeting a beggar on the public road, he exchanged clothes with him, and, habited in the loathsome rags of the mendicant, retired to a cave near Manreze, where he nearly starved himself. When he next re-appeared in public, he found his hopes almost realised. His fame had spread far and wide; the people flocked from all quarters to see him—visited his cave with feelings of reverent curiosity—and, in short, nothing was talked of but the holy man and his severe penances. But now the Evil Spirit began to assail him. The tender conscience of Ignatius began to torment him with the fear that all this public notice had made him proud; that, while he had almost begun to consider himself a saint, he was, in reality, by reason of that very belief itself, the most heinous of sinners. So embittered did his life become in consequence of these thoughts, that he went wellnigh distracted. “But God supported him; and the Tempter, baffled in his attempts, fled. Ignatius fasted for seven days, neither eating nor drinking; went again to the confessional; and, receiving absolution, was not only delivered from the stings of his own conscience, but obtained the gift of healing the troubled consciences of others.”[4] This miraculous gift Ignatius is believed to have transmitted to his successors, and it is in a great measure to this belief that the enormous influence of the Company of Jesus is to be attributed, as we shall see hereafter.

Now that Ignatius could endure his saintship without being overwhelmed by a feeling of sinfulness, he pursued his course with renewed alacrity. Yet it was in itself by no means an attractive one. In order to be a perfect Catholic saint, a man must become a sort of misanthrope—cast aside wholesome and cleanly apparel, go about clothed in filthy rags, wearing haircloth next his skin—and, renouncing the world and its inhabitants, must retire to some noisome den, there to live in solitary meditation, with wild roots and water for food, daily applying the scourge to expiate his sins—of which, according to one of the disheartening doctrines of the Catholic Church, even the just commit at least seven a day. The saint must enter into open rebellion against the laws and instincts of human nature, and consequently against the will of the Creator. And although it cannot be denied that some of the founders of monastic orders conscientiously believed that their rules were conducive to holiness and eternal beatitude, nevertheless, we may with justice charge them with overlooking the fact, that as the transgression of the laws of nature invariably brings along with it its own punishment—a certain evidence of the Divine displeasure—true holiness cannot consist in disregarding and opposing them.

Ignatius, however, continued his life of penance, made to the Virgin Mary a solemn vow of perpetual chastity, begged for his bread, often scourged himself, and spent many hours a day in prayer and meditation. What he meditated upon, God only knows. After a few months of this ascetic life, he published a little book which much increased his fame for sanctity. It is a small octavo volume, and bears the title of Spiritual Exercises.[5] As this work, the only one he has left, is the acknowledged standard of the Jesuits’ religious practice, and is by them extolled to the skies, we must say some few words about it.

First of all, we shall relate the supernatural origin assigned to it by the disciples and panegyrists of its author.