In later times the famous encyclical Rerum Novarum, Monsignor Ireland and the “Knights of Labour” in America, Cardinal Manning and the London Dock strikers, are an evidence that Disraeli’s insight was sound.
The people as a Civitas Dei—the Church-State—is a superb ideal, one with which Disraeli was in heartfelt accord. But under what national forms is this to be compassed in England? A desire that Anglican orders should be confirmed by the Bishop of Rome has been during the last few years publicly advanced by dignitaries of our own Church. Is the Roman system capable of satisfying the progressive demands of the masses in England? Though their sordid homes need purifying, will they ever tolerate the intrusion of their privacy by celibate priests? Is a doctrinal absolutism, which the people themselves have dethroned from political ascendency, likely to consummate the cosmopolitan dream? State socialism divorced from ecclesiastical dominion would never for one moment enlist the Pope. And if some form even of State socialism ever became national (and Disraeli could have withstood it to the death), how could Catholic socialism control the socialism of the State? Can the supreme voice of God brook the admonitions of the voice of the people?
Lothair treats more especially of the diplomacies of Rome, and perhaps the polite struggle at “Muriel Towers,” between the Cardinal and the Bishop for the hero’s soul, is one of Disraeli’s most finished pieces of humour. “The Anglicans have only a lease of our property, a lease rapidly expiring,” ejaculates “Monsignor Berwick.” This imminent expiry of the lease is undoubtedly a cherished hope of the Vatican and Sacred College.
“Lothair,” it will be remembered, himself an earnest if somewhat ineffectual youth, falls under the influence of “Lady St. Jerome,” whose houses are rallying-centres for the great Cardinal and his associates. “Lady St. Jerome” induces “Lothair” to attend the office of the Tenebræ. He is told that nothing in this particular service can prevent a Protestant from attending it. This is followed by the master-gardener, “Father Coleman’s” comments on the adoration of the Cross in the Mass of the Pre-Sanctified, and a picnic with “Miss Arundel” and the courtly “Monsignor Catesby.” “The Jesuits are wise men; they never lose their temper. They know when to avoid scenes as well as when to make them.” “Lothair,” under the banner of his heroine, “Theodora,” fights for Garibaldi and the “Madre Natura” against the Papal troops. He is wounded at Mentana, and, by a coincidence, tended by “Clare Arundel” and her Roman circle. On his recovery, a miracle is announced concerning his rescue. The Virgin has interposed to save a defender of the Faith. He is led to a great function in the sacristy of St. George of Cappadocia. He finds himself the centre of devout attraction. The Cardinal assures him that the miracle is true. “Lothair” indignantly protests and denies. The Cardinal maintains that there are two “narratives of his relations with the battle of Mentana.” “If I were you, I would not dwell too much on this fancy of yours about the battle.” ... “I am not convinced,” said “Lothair.” “Hush!” said the Cardinal; “the freaks of your own mind about personal incidents, however lamentable, may be viewed with indulgence, at least for a time. But you cannot be permitted to doubt of the rest. You must be convinced, and, on reflection, you will be convinced. Remember, sir, where you are. You are in the centre of Christendom, where truth, and where alone truth resides.”
Nobody for one moment would believe that the illustrious Archbishop of Westminster debased strategy to stratagem; or could under any circumstances have resorted to a deliberate lie. Lothair is a satirical fairy-tale, and “Cardinal Grandison” is only an outward semblance of the late Cardinal Manning. But this passage sheds a true light on Rome’s attitude towards doubt, and her methods of proselytising; it shadows her secular policy. Can any one deny that “the truth with a mental reserve” of Jesuitry composes much of the plot in the drama of the hierarchy? Moreover, the passage agrees with a very remarkable one in a distinguished French novel that appeared three years afterwards—“L’Abbé Tigrane,” by M. Fabre. Long after these events, when “Lothair” comes of age, his guardian, the same Cardinal, converses with him on the impending Œcumenical Council. The duologue contains a forcible summary of the Church’s infallibility, however fallible may seem her individual members:—
“The basis on which God has willed that His revelation should rest in the world is the testimony of the Catholic Church, which, if considered only as a human historical witness of its own origin, constitution, and authority, affords the highest and most enduring evidence for the facts and contents of the Christian religion. If this be denied, there is no such thing as history. But the Catholic Church is not only a human and historical witness of its own origin, constitution, and authority, it is also a supernatural and Divine witness, which can neither fail nor err. When it œcumenically speaks, it is not merely the voice of the Father of the World; it declares ‘what it hath seemed good to the Holy Ghost and to us.’”
No wonder that “Lothair,” sitting down in the crisis of his life by the moonlit Coliseum, muses in a rhapsody of the magnetism for opposed causes of the genius of the spot, strangely anticipating Zola’s contrast between the new Italian “Orlando” and the old Italian “Boccanera.”
“Theodora lived for Rome and died for Rome. And the Cardinal, born and bred an English gentleman, with many hopes and honours, had renounced his religion and, it might be said, his country, for Rome; and his race for three hundred years had given, for the same cause, honour, and broad estates, and unhesitating lives. And these very people were influenced by different motives, and thought they were devoting themselves to opposite ends. But still it was Rome; Republican or Cæsarian, papal or pagan, it still was Rome.”
I have shown the sources, as I believe, of Disraeli’s convictions. He was the first to dwell on those problems of race which are now recognised. His derided “Asian mystery” has been amply justified. His view of the “Caucasian” is that of subsequent science. Writing nearly forty years after he had mooted his ideas, he observed: “familiar as we all are now with such themes ... the difficulty and hazard of touching for the first time on such topics cannot now be easily appreciated.” His beliefs were racial, and depended on the clue of race to history. Their applications, however, were national. For he knew that race is only an element among the shared associations and common language, customs and history, that make up that ideal assembly which is called a nation; and he also knew that mere communication is not communion; that the rapidity of increased methods of material intercourse will never extinguish the slow, but certain, fires of race discord, which can only “consume its own smoke” through the free fusion of nationality.
His own race he cleared from prejudice, and proudly displayed as a potent, if sometimes hidden, force throughout the world. His praise and illustration of its endowments, its strength by virtue of its purity of strain, its tenacity and power of organisation, its veiled ramifications among the mainsprings that move Governments and alter systems, no longer raise a smile; and if they did, they would certainly cease to do so when placed on the lips of Macaulay, who thus treated them—