When we remember that this is peculiarly the age of the novel, that more novels are now published in New York in one year than existed in the whole world one hundred years ago, that the demand is still greater than the supply, that we have long since broken the apron-strings that bound us to our literary mother, England, in every other department of letters, we feel convinced that, at no distant day, our novelist will come. But he must be true to his mission, and give a faithful representation of American life and manners, not a “counterfeit presentment.” He must not sacrifice virtue and honor to present popularity, he must not pander to the vicious tastes of a demoralized society, but, like Addison, he must purify the public taste by elevating it to his own high ideal. Such a writer would not violate the sanctities of domestic love or forget the obligations of social duty. He might be witty, but he would never be wanton; he might be lively, but he would never be licentious. Such a writer would be a benefactor to his country and to the world.
ANGLICAN DEVELOPMENT.
Development implies a germ. It is the growth of such qualities or characteristics as were inherent in the original principle. If the principle was bad the development will be bad—if, indeed, there be development at all. Perhaps it will be truer to say that bad principles do not develop; they rather generate fresh stages of decay. Corruption is the law of bad principles, as development is the law of good principles. The “survival of the fittest” is certainly true in the moral law, even if it be not certainly true in the material. Six thousand years of human history have proved that divine principles “survive”; and their survival has been their development, in respect to the sphere of their empire. The principles themselves do not grow, but the world grows, and with it divine government. Dr. Newman, in his work on developments, has drawn this distinction very luminously. The church grows, and its influence extends, and its machinery is in constant operation; yet its developments are not developments of its principles so much as of its qualities and capacities. They are also developments of its power. What the church was on the day of Pentecost she is to-day; it is her body which is grown, not her spirit. Divine principles are immutable; but because the world always changes the church must change too—not in her principles but in her action.
The converse of the development of Catholicism is seen in the development of Anglicanism. Whereas the church is more powerful in the proportion of antagonism, Anglicanism grows weaker and weaker. Whereas the church opposes dogma to heresy, Anglicanism suggests wider religious liberty. Whereas the church cuts off every withered branch, Anglicanism grafts the sticks on to its trunk. Thus the development of Anglicanism is in the direction of corruption; of the gravitation of new errors towards the parent one; of the union in one society of every element of dissolution, with a view to spasmodic vitality. The older Anglicanism grows the more decay it engrafts, trying hard to look vigorous with life by the process of galvanizing death. This is its general principle. But, particularly, the modes of its experiment are as instructive and as lamentable as is its principle. Let us take a late example. Nearly five thousand Anglicans have just petitioned their queen against the permitting confession in the Church of England. Their motives may be left to their own consciences, though they do allege, by way of seeming to be in earnest, that “confession is subversive of the principles of morality, social order, and of civil and religious liberty.” Among the petitioners are more than three thousand clergymen; but there are also a vast number of signatories who are set down as “Anglicans not classified.” Now, in what way are we to regard this grave petition as a development of the principles of Anglicanism? Be it remembered that confession, as practised by the Ritualists, was in itself a development of Tractarianism; that Tractarianism was a development of the reaction which followed on the decay of Evangelicalism; that Evangelicalism was a development of the reaction which followed on the decay of Dry-Churchism; and that Dry-Churchism was the development of that Erastianism which the house of Hanover firmly rooted in the state church. So that the huge gulf between confession and Georgeism has to be bridged over by successive revolutions, each perfectly natural in its reaction, yet each naturally leading to fresh change. Here we see the distinction between the development of church vitality and the development of heretical restlessness. As we have said, church principles cannot change; it is the action only of the church which becomes enlarged, Catholic principles not admitting of development save in the sense of extension of empire. But Anglican principles can be turned upside down, or can be turned inside out, a score of times. There is no more affinity between ritualism and Dry-Churchism than there was between Evangelicalism and Erastianism. There is no more concord between Dr. Pusey and Canon Ryle than there was between Bishop Butler and John Wesley. Not more opposite was Mr. Simeon to Canon Liddon than was Archbishop Whately to Lady Huntingdon. These Anglicans represent different churches. And yet they all belong to the same church. What, then, is the development of Anglican principles?
Obviously there is not development at all. The word cannot be used in a Christian sense. There is reaction, revolution, novel apostolate; there is not true Christian development. We may say of the great French Revolution that it was a development of (some of) the principles of Voltaire; or that D’Alembert and Diderot, with the Encyclopædists generally, planted seeds which sprang up into the guillotine. Yet the very point of such development was that it sprang not from principle but from the assertion that principle was not divine. And so in Anglicanism: though the assertion was quite distinct, there was no little affinity in the results. The theory of Anglicanism was that the Catholic Church was not divine, but that Church-of-Englandism had pretensions to be so; or rather, that the divine principles of the Catholic Church were purified to perfection in Church-of-Englandism. But a corollary of this theory was that the (divine) Catholic Church had no more authority than had “Reformers”—an assumption which was fatal, in argument and in fact, to the immutability of principles. Accordingly we find that mutability has been the law of the whole system of Anglican developments; in other words, that those developments have been as utterly contradictory as they have been numerous beyond computation. Is this a Christian or a Catholic development, or a development of even a philosophic kind? It is, on the contrary, proof positive that Anglican principles are not divine, for if they were divine they could not change. It is not discipline which has changed, nor external observance, nor the relations of the church to the state; such changes would be comparatively unimportant; it is Christian doctrine, Christian sacraments, priestly powers, and all that constitutes the idea of a church. It is not that new doctrines have been added to old doctrines; it is that old doctrines have been excised. A perfectly brand-new theology has supplanted a defunct system; and this not only once but fifty times. So that we have to deny most positively that there has been “Catholic” development in that institution which Queen Elizabeth founded; and we have to affirm that reaction and revolution have proved that institution to be human. It has been argued—and it is still argued in ritualistic organs—that ritualism must be a Catholic development; for its spirit is in the direction of Catholic truth, and its labor is to restore Catholic practice. The answer is that such reaction is not Catholic; it is the aspiration of heresy towards the church. We do not touch the delicate question—which belongs rather to spiritual science—the operation of divine grace outside the church; this question does not enter into our argument; we are speaking only of the distinctions between the development of true theories, and reaction and revolution from false. Development in the Catholic Church has meant expansion of empire, of inherent capacities of adaptation, of definition in proportion of need, and of anathema in proportion of desert; it has never meant the least change of principle. Development in Anglicanism—if we must still use the word—has meant new religions shooting up out of old, with a chaos of old and new together, and with no means of arguing from precedent to sequence what Anglicanism may become this day twenty years. This is certainly not Christian development. It may imply human energy, with restlessness of will and a constant eagerness to keep moving for life’s sake; but as to calling it supernatural development, the very suggestion appears profane. Those three thousand clergymen, with “Anglicans not classified,” who have just petitioned their queen against confession, have asserted three things, each of which is absolutely fatal to the assumption of Christian development. They have said that their sole head is the state; and this is pure paganism and impiety. They have said that they abhor a divine sacrament; and this is anti-Catholic, anti-Christian. But they have said, too, that, in the Church of England, there is to be both liberty of opinion and the forbidding of a Christian practice to the laity; and in saying this they have both cut short development and cut short its root and its principle. Development can only mean one of two things: either the extension of the empire of one principle, or the extension of the rights of religious liberty. That it does not mean the first in the Church of England we think that we have sufficiently shown; and that it does not mean the second these memorialists against liberty have taken their best pains to demonstrate. What development, then, is left to the Church of England? Obviously there can be none, save the increase of wrangling and the natural effort to crush one another’s liberty.
Yet there is one new development—to use the word conventionally, and not in its scientific meaning—which has proved perhaps more shocking and more thoroughly unchristian than any which has ever gone before. That development is modern Broad-Churchism. It is distinct from its antecedent in the Georgian era, being necessitated by totally different issues. It is a compound of three things, all kindred in kind and all mutually assisting one another: repugnance to sacerdotal pretension; indifference about dogmatic truth; and a fondness for scientific infidelity. This last is the worst of the three, but it is in most men the parent of the other two. It is an element of Broad-Churchism which had positively no existence until after the full development of Tractarianism. Curiously enough, the return to the supernatural, and the rejection of whatever is not natural, have been almost twin movements in the Church of England. Ritualism having failed to hold the intellects of shrewd men, there were only two courses left open: the one was to, logically, become Catholics, the other to deny the supernatural. The birth of a new school of so-called scientists, which school has sought to question revelation, took place at the very crisis when Anglicans were hesitating whether they ought to become Catholics or not. It furnished the exact pretext desired. If there was doubt about the evidence for revelation, it was useless to adopt all its consequences. Yet it was felt that it would not do to throw overboard Christianity, as at least the most admirable of ethic systems; so the moral part of Christianity was retained, while the dogmatic part was put on one side. Hence a Broad-Churchism which, while being really quite sceptical, covered itself with the mantle of Christian morals. “I deeply regret,” said an ecclesiastic of this school, when he came to the last hours of his life, “that I ever preached anything but morals.” This was paganism, virtuous paganism, but it passed current for respectable Broad-Churchism. What it meant, and what Broad-Churchism now means in almost every one of its adherents, was scepticism in regard to the Incarnation, but a natural admiration for natural virtues. Dean Stanley is one of the doctors of this school, and preaches rationalism in Westminster Abbey. “Christian rationalism” is that last new abortion which has been born of the failure of previous systems. It had no existence in England until twenty years ago; that is, it was not formulated into a system. In these days it is openly taught. In the magazines there constantly appear brilliant articles which are directed against the Christian revelation, while yet advocating the beauty of Christian sentiments, of Christian ethics and philosophy. It is pure rationalism, under the cloak of respectability. “We would not shock your pious prejudices,” these novel theorists seem to say, “by telling you that Christianity is false; on the contrary, we believe that there was a Christ, but he was not the Son of God, he did not rise from the dead, he was only a most admirable doctor. Therefore hold fast to his philosophy, which was amiable in the extreme, and exquisitely adapted to social wants; and, if you like, remain an Anglican or a Dissenter, or even please your fancies with ritualism. You cannot do better than remain a Christian. The Christian system is full of beauty. It is not divine; it was not revealed; it has not one shred of the supernatural; but so useful a system has never before been developed; indeed, it includes the best philosophies. Therefore we advise you to stick to your Christianity, as you would stick to your domestic canons of harmony.” This kind of counsel has been given in the Fortnightly and in answer to recent Catholic publications. Its authors are obviously proud of their discovery. “Christian rationalism” will just suit a leisure age, which is too intellectual yet too indifferent to be Christian.
A recent writer has called modern Broad-Churchism “a fortuitous concourse of indifferentisms.” So it is in its acceptance by the majority. But there is a very large section which goes far beyond indifference, and which aggressively attacks Christianity. Whately has the credit of having started the principle that intellectual inquiry is above faith. The first duty of man is to be intellectual; and he must never stand still in his inquiries. When convinced that he has found out the truth, he must proceed to inquire still more earnestly; always despising the very issues of those inquiries which he places below inquiries themselves. Euclid, when it says Q. E. D., ought to have made Q. E. D. an hypothesis. Reasoning is not intended to conduct to truth, but should be pursued as in itself the chief good. Argument is above demonstration, and search is far superior to discovery. This is the theory of many modernists. But it has only lately raised its votaries into a school. Mr. Kingsley, when he said, “I am nothing if not a priest,” had no notion of eliminating Christianity. Even the Oxford essayists and reviewers shrank from this. Dr. Arnold, who wished to remove the Athanasian Creed, did not wish to remove Christianity. Bishop Butler, whom some call the founder of Broad-Churchism, certainly never dreamed of rank scepticism. The theory of Frederic Dennison Maurice, that revelation may be given differently to different centuries, did not exclude revelation. There was always, until quite lately, a clinging fast to the fond truth that Christianity was a divine dispensation. The last generation were quite sure of this. But their grandchildren, if they happen to live in England, may be brought up to adopt the new religion. They may proclaim frankly that Christianity is a myth, or that pagan virtue is the best Christianity. To such a depth has Anglican “development” now sunk. Fathers fear not to talk cold-blooded scepticism before their little ones gathered round their knees, and to poison their young natures with that most dreadful of inclinations—the doubting the pure instincts of their own souls. Sons of clergymen teach their sons that Christianity may be true, just as a particular political theory may be so; but that to ally Christian faith with the honor of God is a sign of feeble intellect or enthusiasm. Many thousands of English children, sons of educated “Anglicans,” now prattle their scepticism over their toys.
One hideous consequence of this growth of English rationalism—and Broad-Churchism is practically rationalism—is that it has lowered the standard of personal aspiration by removing the certainties of objects. Protestantism had much of the sentiment of Catholicity, though it had little of its dogma or discipline; but Broad-Churchism is absolutely without sentiment, save such as is common to pagans. What the children of Cicero may have been the children of Broad-Churchmen may be. The divine instinct of faith is reasoned down. Indeed, Cicero or Terence, Plato or Sophocles, had a much higher object than the Broad-Churchman; for they professed that to know would be the chief good, whereas Broad-Churchmen pronounce knowing the chief evil. It matters not by what name we call these men, whether free-thinkers, rationalists, sceptics, their aspiration is to be content with not knowing, instead of regarding knowing as the chief good. “I think,” said an English gentleman a few weeks ago, who had graduated at Oxford, and who has six children, and whose father was a distinguished ecclesiastic, “that the best way is to try to live honorably, and not occupy one’s mind with inquiry.” Thus he and his six children have gone back two thousand years in intellectual—that is, eternal—aspiration, minus this advantage which the ancients had over them: that the ancients wished to know what was true. Now, it is manifest that the death of aspiration is the death of the finest qualities of the human mind; and this is specially seen in the rising generation of English young men and young women. Where doubt takes the place of conviction, and cold content of an animating faith; where natural longings are the sole governing principles, and all that is beyond the grave is dark cloud; where the illumination of the intellect by the full knowledge of God—which is alone possible within the Catholic Church—is deferred to the petty quibblings of speculation, it must follow that a lower type of men and women must succeed to our profound Catholic ancestors. There is no need to refer here to Christian morals; they are the exercise of obedience to particular laws. Nor is there any need to speak of mere worldliness, which is often incidental, circumstantial. Nor, again, need we allude to the immense varieties of natural temperament which bias people’s lives, people’s loves. Let all questions of perfection or imperfection be set aside; they are not the immediate points we are considering. Human nature is human nature in every one, be he a Catholic or a free-thinker; and the extent to which human nature may be brought under control is a distinct question from “Anglican development.” The sole point which we are now arguing is the intellectual consequences of the theory and practice of pure Anglicanism, and the conclusion we arrive at is that, intellectually speaking, Anglicanism degrades the human mind. The development of Anglicanism is deterioration. This is its intellectual development. But when we speak of the intellect we are not speaking of talent, of any natural gift, or of industry. We are speaking of intellectual aspiration; for the true dignity of intellect is its object. To separate the intellect from its object, the dignity of the end from the means, is impossible for any really earnest mind, as, indeed, it is rationally impossible. If, then, the object of an intellect be to not believe, to eliminate the supernatural out of the world, or to narrow the compass of aspirations, it follows that the greater is the ignorance, the greater is the dignity, of the human mind. This theory has been advocated by Mr. Spencer. “Our highest wisdom and our highest duty,” says this scientist, “is to regard that through which all things exist as the unknowable.” So that not only to know nothing, but to wish to know nothing, of the will of our Creator in regard to us is the highest aspiration of the trained intellect, whether professedly Christian or pagan. Now, (popular) Broad-Churchism does not go so far as this, for it would not be “Christian” to do so. Broad-Churchism affects to be Christian, though it includes within its pale many sceptics. Yet practically the assertion that opposite truths are the same truths, or that no truth is a truth save to its votary, is the assertion that there has not been a revelation, or that if there has been it cannot be understood. Regard it as we will, there is no escaping from the conclusion that Broad-Churchism is inimical to Christianity. It is inimical to divine faith, to divine love; to the interior exercise of Christian virtues; to the perfecting those graces of character which are formed on the pattern of a divine Lord. In short, it is fatal to sanctity. Instability of Christian faith and stability of Christian life are mutually opposed to one another. The Broad-Churchman may be an excellent man, but he cannot be supernaturally a Christian. Christianity is the divine life of man, and it presupposes many postulates and axioms. And since divine faith in the whole range of divine truth is the first requisite of the intellectual Christian, it follows that a Christian who is intellectually not Christian cannot spiritually advance to perfection. Thus intellectually and spiritually the Broad-Churchman is at fault in regard to the Christian life. And this deterioration is the prevalent “development” of the later stages of Anglican change. Broad-Churchism is the profession of most Anglicans. And in one degree or another it is the ruin of aspiration, and therefore of the intellectual Anglican. But young people, whose intellects are undeveloped, are of necessity chiefly nourished by their affections; and unhappily the enfeebling of their faith is the enfeebling the objects of those affections. Thus parents ruin children by enfeebling the objects, and with them the affections which need objects. Intellectually and spiritually, sensitively and instinctively, Broad-Churchism is the ruin of children. And that huge waste of object, of affection, of sentiment, which the disease of Broad-Churchism necessitates, stints the growth, both religious and natural, of the majority of the rising generation. This is the last Anglican development. And it threatens to breed a race of pagans. There is the profession, of course, of some sort of Christian life—for ethically every Englishman must be Christian—but the Christianity is a natural sentiment, it is not a supernatural life. And must we not call this the intellectual degradation of the heirs of two thousand years of truth? The spasmodic attempts of the Ritualist sect to revive certain fragments of Catholic truth, or the earnest aspirations of warm-hearted puritans to love all that they know how to believe, are both admirable efforts, though not true successes; and they are the efforts of a comparatively small number. Nationally England is Broad-Church, and the majority of Broad-Churchmen are sceptical. What stage of development can come next? If in Westminster Abbey “Christian rationalism” is triumphant, what will become triumphant in country parishes? And if the feeble reasonings of Dean Stanley, his serene platitudes or pretty sentiments, are pabulum sufficient for the well educated, what descent into weakness, into indifference or impiety, may we not look for among the poorer classes? Scepticism among the poor means simple grossness, unrelieved by the scholarliness of the rich, and uncomforted by even the ease of this life. Yet there is an immense spread of scepticism among the poor. There is even blatant hostility to all religion. Broad-Churchism is the parent of this evil. The final harvest has not yet been reaped. Yet it seems certain that in the next quarter of a century we must either see the English multitude become Catholics, or we shall see them go down into a state of irreligion which will be simply paganism minus its gods.
SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI.
A SKETCH FROM THE PARADISO OF DANTE.
Between Tupino’s wave and that which sends