Let the words I shall say be directed and recommended to you by the following weighty principle of St. Thomas Aquinas :—

‘Excellence of the person never diminishes sin; but on the contrary increases it. Therefore a sin is not less grievous in a believer than in an unbeliever; but much more so.

‘For the sins of an unbeliever are more deserving of forgiveness, on account of their ignorance,’ according to 1 Tim. 1, 13. I obtained the mercy of God because I did it ignorantly in my unbelief; whereas the sins of believers are more grievous on account of the sacraments of grace, according to Heb. X, 29. How much more do you think he deserveth worse punishments .... who hath esteemed the blood of the testament unclean by which he was sanctified.’

The two previous speakers in dealing with Atheism and Protestantism have been happy in finding that their contributions to our Emancipation joy have not led them into even the shadow of criticism of their fellow-Catholics. Atheism is not a weed within the true fold; nor is Protestantism a mode of Catholic ill-health. Sometimes an ardent Catholic apostle or an over-logical Catholic apologist will ask in irony if his inconsequent Catholic hearers really believe in God or really reject Luther or Elizabeth. But if a speaker at this Congress was to deal with the emancipation of Catholic Atheists or of Catholic Protestants his words would raise a laugh or a protest. Those would protest who had not the wit to avoid taking his words literally; and those would laugh who saw in the speaker’s exaggeration a sally of burlesque wit.

The second volume of the Autobiography of Johannes Jorgensen contains an intimate account of his conversion to Catholicism in 1895, his reception into the Church in February 1896, and the subsequent adventures of soul and body. The genius of this distinguished Danish author illuminates the story of his conversion, so that all who care to pursue processes of the mind and spiritual stirrings—hopes and despondencies—will read the tale to the end with avidity. ‘Internal history is the brain stuff of fiction, wrote George Meredith. It is certainly the mark of great autobiography, separating it from the reminiscences and recollections—capital reading, too, in their way, many of these—that are concerned with the busy, bustling life of persons of importance in the world of affairs.

Conversion to Catholicism is an event that through the ages holds the interest of mankind. It seems that men and women, whether they be of the household of the faith or stand without the fold, are for ever fascinated when the story of the convert is told. The very rarity of the story no doubt to some extent accounts for the attraction. For the vast majority of converts are inarticulate; to describe the wonders of God is not for them. The event must be set out in literary form to enjoy the lasting attention of mankind. The flash that blinded and revealed on the road to Damascus, the Passionist father knocking on the door that autumn night at Littlemore, the hour when Augustine saw truth clearly and the old errors fell away, these things are written, and as long as books endure will be read.

The sixtieth anniversary of the breach of Porta Pia through which the Italian army, under Victor Emmanuel, King of Piedmont, entered Rome on September 20th, 1870, sees at long last some fulfilment of the prayer with which the noble President of Ecuador, Gabriel Garcia Moreno, terminated the official protest of his government and himself at this final outrage to the Holy See. The whole Catholic world had seen with consternation and amazement the invasion of the last strip of Papal territory by the King of Piedmont and Sardinia in spite of his protestations of loyalty to the Sovereign Pontiff, in spite of his formal assurance to the French Emperor who, involved in the conflict with Prussia, had been obliged a month previously to withdraw his garrison from Rome. But even then Christendom was hardly prepared for the climax; the seizure of the Capital itself, and the virtual incarceration in the Vatican of the saintly and beloved Pontiff, Pius IX. The Chancelleries of Europe, indeed of the entire world, had nevertheless remained dumb in face of this flagrant injustice, contenting themselves with filing in their archives the formal remonstrances of the Holy See. Earlier in 1848 the voice of Pius IX in exile at Gaeta had evoked the assistance of Austria, of France, of Spain, but now Isabella Segunda was dethroned and in exile, Napoleon about to surrender to Prussia, Austria still quivering under the recent defeat of its armies and no other Power able, or at any rate willing, to defy the ‘Brigand of Savoy.’

He is the spoilt boy at home, the only child. Nearly always he has his own way, although he is often deprived of little necessities and many innocuous superfluities through his parents’ lack of thought, or laziness.

He is adored, and never rebuked for interesting himself in affairs that do not concern him; indeed, all subjects, private and public, are discussed before him without reticence, and he is permitted, often encouraged, to take a disproportionate share in conversations that once would have been reserved until the younger generation were absent. His parents desire to keep him with them in and out of season, so that when friends pay visits he seems parasitic and entirely unattractive. Being so much in company with grown-ups, his early outlook on life is perverted, for a precocious child must of necessity be unbalanced, since he has neither the experience, the judgement, nor the reason required for a studied point of view; but he early discovers the way to inspire his parents with admiration; he has little else to do; and presently he is elevated to a pedestal which, he becomes aware, is sometimes pleasantly secure, but occasionally very precarious, and he is so hard put to it to retain his place that he welcomes the aid of lying when he is in difficulties and the aid of ‘showing off’ when he is quite at ease; for he is quick to sense the disappointment of his parents when he falls below the standard they have arbitrarily set him, and he is fearful to lose grown-ups’ privileges.

While St. Vitus’s Dance stands in this twentieth century as a term perfectly well recognised, a query as to St. Hubert’s Disease would probably puzzle even most doctors in a sort of ‘How much do you know’ medical examination. But time was when it was quite a common synonym for Hydrophobia. The Saint, of course, was converted while in the hunting field, and so became the Patron of Hunters and incidentally of their Hounds. ‘His’ disease, then, was the ailment that occasionally attacks the pack. And this is only one out of plenty of similar instances.

In the Middle Ages ‘radegoundes’ was a recognised and very prevalent disease. It comes over and over again in the literature of the day, a notable instance being a reference in Piers Plowman. A kind of running sore, it owes its popular name to the patron saint of Poitiers, in France, Ste. Radegonde, wife of Clotaire the First. So many cures were effected at her tomb—later sacked by the Huguenots in 1562— that the ailment itself began to be called by the name of the saint. In precisely the same way St. Avertin’s Disease was an ancient name for epilepsy, so many miraculous cures having been wrought at the tomb of this saint, a friend, by the way, of our own St. Thomas of Canterbury, that in old French the word ‘aver-tineux’ figures as meaning epileptics. While on the subject, one might remember that the same malady had two other popular names, ‘St. John’s Evil’ often standing for epilepsy, and ‘St. Mathuron’s Disease’ being one more title sometimes found in the old medical books.

During the last year or so, English Catholics have been subjected to a good deal of criticism. Their taste, their devotions, their religious education, their papers, have all been weighed and found wanting. Criticism is no bad thing, and Catholic criticism of Catholics is no new thing; for a certain measure of criticism is a sign of life, and, as Père Brou has well said of the Church, ‘Sa grande tradition, si l’on peut le dire, c’est de vivre.’ But the criticism to which I am now referring has this to distinguish it, that it is anonymous. No doubt, that is no new thing, either; but whether it is desirable is worth considering. We are told that an anonymous article is judged on its merits, as things should be judged; and we are led to presume that the signed article is judged with too much reference to the name, distinguished or not, that is appended to it.

The argument has had the support of some respectable names, and it might, at first sight, seem to have the authority of The Imitation of Christ, where it is written : ‘Non quaeras quishaec dixerit, sed quid dicatur, attende.’ But the quotation occurs in the chapter on the reading of Holy Scripture, and the attitude is recommended just because the scriptures are to be taken, not at their face value, but on the authority of God. And whatever the authority behind the opinion, it can hardly blame us for considering it on its merits, as, in fact, it bids us do.

‘Where are you going, Judas,

With that rope in your hand?’

To scatter what God will not forgive

To the dark wind and the sand.’

‘Why is your purse empty, Judas,

Dangling light and loose?’

‘Silver I had; but all earth’s gold

Could not ransom Him from the Jews.’

‘Could you not cry for mercy, Judas?

His kindness has no scope.’

‘The kindest things that I shall find Are a tall tree and a rope.’

‘Oh fool! fool! Even this sin, Judas,

He will pardon from His cross.’

‘The death that saves all other men Is my eternal loss.’

‘Wait, and you shall see Him risen, Judas.’

‘His eyes would be to me a rod—

For I have betrayed an innocent man.’

‘Nay, Judas, only a God.’

Theodore Maynard.