SERMONS PREACHED AT THE CHURCH OF ST. PAUL, THE APOSTLE, NEW YORK, during the years 1865 and 1866. 12mo, pp. 440. New York: Lawrence Kehoe.
The new volume of Sermons by the Paulist Fathers, which Mr. Kehoe has just issued in a very neat and tasteful shape, derives a special interest from the fact that it contains several of the hitherto unpublished discourses of the Rev. Francis A. Baker. In the earnest, vigorous, affectionate sermons on Penance, on the miracle of Pardon, on the power of the Holy Ghost as exemplified in good Christians, and on the duty of Thankfulness, it is easy to recognize the impulses of that beautiful soul which has now gone to its reward. We have spoken before of the characteristics of Father Baker's preaching. Here is an extract, taken at random from the first of the four discourses which we have mentioned:
"Do you know, my brethren, what it is that consoles the priest in his labors in the confessional? Why does he shut himself in that dark closet for hours? Ah! I will tell you, Like Elias in the cave of Horeb, he is watching for the manifestation of God; and as the prophet found the power of God, not in{719}the tempest or the earthquake, but in the still small voice, so the priest finds the greatest work of God, the most beautiful, that which consoles him for every sacrifice; not in the works of nature, not in sensible things, however great; but in the still small voice of the trembling, self-accusing soul, that has really come to shake off the slavery of sin, and to claim once more, through the blood of Christ, the glorious liberty of the children of God. Beautiful is the earth and sky, and glorious is the jewelled city of God; but if I may say what I think, I do not believe in all God's universe there is a work so stupendous, so grand, so beautiful, as the conversion of a sinner."Well, then, does St. Augustine say, that to convert a sinner is a greater work than to create heaven and earth. Well do the saints cry out, Glory and empire for ever to Jesus Christ, who has loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood! Well do the angels in heaven rejoice over one sinner that does penance. It is a thing for heaven and earth to wonder at. But, my brethren, it does not speak well for us that we think so little of it. It shows that we have very imperfect ideas of the evil of sin, a very inadequate remembrance of what Christ has done and suffered for us, a very insufficient conception of the conversion that is required of us. It seems to me that some men imagine that God pardons sin in much the same way that a good-natured parent overlooks the slight offences of a child who owns his fault. Whereas, in fact, God is a holy God, who tries the reins and hearts, who demands of us, as the condition of preserving his favor, that we love him with all our mind and strength and heart. When I see a man who has recently been to confession, and who has had grievous sins to confess; when I see him no more thoughtful than before, no more watchful over himself, no more grateful to God; when I see him forget all about it, and take it as a matter of course, I fear that he has come away as he went; that no angel has smiled on his penance, no saint rejoiced over it; that no droop of the precious Blood has fallen on his heart. Surely if he had been pardoned he would think more of it. Let it not be so with us, my brethren. Have we been forgiven a deadly sin, then from reprobates and castaways we have become children of God. How sweet it is to receive any grace from God! To look on the sky and earth, and think that he has made it, to look on ourselves and think that we have come from his hands, fills us with delight."But to have sinned and to be pardoned, to have sinned and to be washed in the precious Blood, and then to belong to the family of God. To have tasted of the heavenly gift, and the powers of the world to come. To have the love of God, and the peace of God, once more to renew these dark and stubborn hearts. Where is our gratitude for favors such as those? Magdalene hath loved much because she was much forgiven. When is our love and our zeal proportionate to the pardon which we have received from God? Go, pardoned sinner—sin no more. Go, and ponder deeply the graces yon have received. Go, and by your life show what great things he has done for you. Once in darkness, but now light in the Lord, walk as children of light, living with St. Paul in the faith of the Son of God, who hath loved you and given himself for you."
The same fervent spirit and the same vein of practical exhortation which we see so admirably combined in the passages which we have cited, are conspicuous in many other pages from the anonymous hands which have contributed to the authorship of this volume. The Paulist Fathers have little to do in their book with controversy; and not a great deal with dogma, except in so far as it has a direct practical relation to the duties of every-day life. They seem, in this collection of sermons, to care more for exhorting than expounding; more for arousing sinners to the comprehension and performance of what the church requires of them, than for setting forth the church's sacred attributes. As discourses addressed to ordinary congregations, made up of people of the common run who are burdened with the common imperfections of average humanity, we know of few specimens of pulpit literature which we rate higher. And they have also the great and unfortunately rather rare merit of being very impressive and effective when read in the retirement of the closet.
J. R. G. H.
LYDIA, A TALE OF THE SECOND CENTURY.
Translated from the German of Hermann Geiger, of Munich. 12mo, pp. 275. Philadelphia: Eugene Cummiskey. 1867.
We are inclined to believe that the now world-renowned tales of Fabiola and Callista have prompted the composition of this beautiful story. The heroine is a young Christian of Smyrna, named Seraphica, who is cast into prison and condemned to death for her faith. A terrible earthquake, most powerfully depicted by the author, sunders the walls of her prison, and she is liberated; but learning that her{720}mother was carried off to Athens as a slave, she follows her thither. The captain of the vessel in which she embarks seizes her and makes a present of her as a slave to a wealthy Athenian lady named Metella, who names her Lydia from the place of her birth. In the service of this lady, who is a pious heathen, the Christian slave passes several years, exhibiting in her life many traits of that heroic patience, humility, love of suffering, and divine charity which were inspired by her holy faith; and which is beautifully contrasted with the pure, natural virtue of her heathen mistress.
Her Christian patience is rewarded at last by the conversion of Metella and her son. Freed from slavery, she goes to Rome to seek her mother, who she finds has in the mean time suffered martyrdom, and returns to Metella to become her bosom friend and companion.
We could scarcely wish anything added to the plot of this charming tale, but the impression made upon us during its perusal was that the different descriptions, scenes, and tableaux were wanting in a proper connecting link, being presented to us rather, as it would appear, for their own sake, than as necessarily united with, or dependent upon, the life and fortunes of the characters of the story. The translator has fallen into a common fault from a desire to be too literal; the intermingling of the historical present with the past. We have not observed it in any instance without feeling that it detracted very much from the force and beauty of the description. The volume does the enterprising publisher the highest credit, its typography and binding lacking in nothing that we could desire for elegance and taste. We predict and wish for it a wide circulation.
HISTORY OF A MOUTHFUL OF BREAD.By Jean Macé. Translated from the French by Mr. Alfred Gatty. New-York: American News Company, 121 Nassau-street.
This is a very popular work on the branch of physiology which relates to the organs and processes of nutrition. It is written in a pleasing, lively style, and with the express purpose of being readable by intelligent children. Excepting the absurd notion that the globules of the blood are animalculae, and the grovelling definition of the body as a digestive tube served by organs, we see nothing worthy of censure in the book, which, otherwise, imparts valuable information respecting the merely physical facts of animal life.
Goodrich's PICTORIAL HISTORIES OF GREECE AND THE UNITED STATES, and CHILD'S PICTORIAL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES.New editions. Philadelphia: Butler & Co. 1867.
These new and improved editions of very popular and well-written histories are very suitable for elementary instruction. We have examined the history of Greece with some attention, and find it an excellent epitome. The illustrations are remarkably good.
LAWRENCE KEHOE, New-York, has in press, and will soon publish, Lady Herbert's new work, which has just appeared in London, entitled Three Phases of Christian Love—namely, Life of St. Monica, Life of Victorine de Galard, Life of Venerable Mere Devos.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
From AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, New York. The New Gospel of Peace, according to St. Benjamin. 1 vol, 12mo, pp. 343; price $2. Alderman Rooney at the Cable Banquet. Pamphlet illustrated; price 50 cts. Olive Logan's Christmas Story. Pamphlet; price 50 cts.
From LEE & Shepard, Boston, Mass. Oliver Optic's Magazine for Boys and Girls. No. 1, pp. 12; price 5 cts.
From the OFFICE OF THE AVE MARIA, Notre Dame, Indiana. The Ave Maria Almanac for 1867. Illustrated, pp. 32; price 20 cts.
From HURD & HOUGHTON New York. The Riverside Magazine for Young People. No. 1, pp. 48; price 25 cts. Lalla Rookh, by Thomas Moore. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 332. Illustrated; price $1.50.
From P. O'SHEA, New York. The Rosa Mystica; or, Mary of Nazareth, the Lily of the House of David. By Marie Josephine. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 290; price $2. Spirit of St. Francis de Sales. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 372; price $2. The Manual of the Immaculate Conception, a collection of prayers for general use. Compiled from authentic sources. Published with approbation of the Most Rev. J. McCloskey, D.D., pp. 1122.
From John Murphy & Co., Baltimore. The Southern Poems of the War. Collected and arranged by Miss Emily V. Mason. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 456; price $1.50. Good Thoughts for Priest and People; or, Short Meditations for every Day in the Year, etc., etc. By Rev. Theodore Noethen, pastor of Holy Cross, Albany, N. Y. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 383; price $2.
From KELLY & PIET, Baltimore, Md. Sermons Delivered during the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore, October, 1866. And Pastoral Letter of the Hierarchy of the United States, together with the Papal Rescript and Letters of Convocation. A complete list of dignitaries and officers of the Council; and an introductory notice, with plates. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 244; price $3.
From BENZIGER BROTHERS, New York and Cincinnati. School Recreations; or, The Catholic Teacher's Companion. Compiled for the use of Catholic Schools, with approbation of Archbishop Purcell. l vol 12mo, pp. 94.
{721}
Outside the Catholic Church there is a general opinion that we Catholics make all devotion to consist in the performance of a certain routine of ceremonies, and are entire strangers to what is called vital religion. These ceremonies to which we are supposed to attach such excessive, or rather such superstitious value, are looked on by those outside the church as an unnecessary and worse than useless display, or as an empty pageant. Our love of them is set down as one of the damning ingredients in that bug-bear which they have conjured up, and designated by the name of "Popery." We, on the contrary, look upon our ceremonial as one of the most beautiful things in the church, one of those that most clearly mark the finger of God, and operate most efficaciously in the work of true vital religion.
The point, therefore, is a most important one, and well deserving our most serious consideration. To understand it rightly, let us consider the principles on which ceremonial is based, and its practical-working.
It has been admitted by all nations, that worship is due to the deity; that worship needs an external and a public expression. Not only the people of God under the old and new dispensations have admitted this, but the Turk and the Pagan of every shade have admitted and acted on it. Many have erred egregiously, and have had recourse to disgusting and execrable· means to put it in practice; but the feeling itself is universal, and, therefore, may be enumerated among the first promptings of reason.
Its necessity is based on our relation to God; and on our own nature. God, as in himself infinitely perfect, as our creator, our ruler, and provider is entitled to our acknowledgment of his perfections and of his dominion over us, to thanks for benefits conferred, to supplication for their continuance. We owe him this duty not merely as beings having souls, but as that which we are—beings, having a body and soul—as men. The feelings of the soul, especially if earnest, cannot be pent up in it. They need expression. When strong and earnest they flow over into the body, they express themselves in bodily action. Man, as such, acts with the body and the soul. Moreover, we owe God worship not merely as individuals,{722}but as society. God made society and all that gives it charms. He is the author of the bonds that hold it together; he gave us those faculties that force us into it; the wants that in it alone are satisfied; and the powers that contribute to their satisfaction. Society, as well as the individual man, is one of those beautiful and bountiful works that call forth our admiration and demand our gratitude. Society can recognize and thank its author only by external and common public worship. The internal feeling needs something to lean on, as it were, to give itself strength and almost to give itself an existence. The internal act, is, of course, the soul of true worship, but, like the soul itself of man, it needs a body in which it may become incarnate to fill the end of its being. Without this it has neither life nor power. It needs this to give itself intensity.
The external act becomes as it were a depository in which the soul lays what is produced at one moment, while it is adding more and more. As the iron receives in deposit the powers of each of the circles of the magnetic wire that turn and turn again around it, and is ready to discharge their combined force at any moment, so the external act catches as it were the fire of the internal emotion, holds it until that of another is added, and enables the soul to seize again the power of those that have vanished and resume its work with redoubled vigor. Thus going on from faith to faith, from worship to worship, from virtue to virtue, all these rise higher and higher, strike their roots deeper and deeper, until the internal feeling becomes intensified and strong and as worthy of the great object to which it is directed as it can be in a mere creature.
The ceremonial is nothing else but this external expression of inward worship. It is an expression that gives it consistency and strength. It intensifies and preserves it. It transmits it from one to another, and to succeeding generations. In it society expresses itself. The individual man has his own organs of expression. The organ of the Christian body is the minister of the church. Through him she acts as a body; she expresses herself as a unit. On this account she very properly regulates minutely, how he shall discharge this duty. This gives his actions a meaning and a value over and above, and to some degree independent of, the value they possess, as expressions of his own individual devotion.
Worship does not consist, properly speaking, in receiving instruction. This is, of course, a good thing, but it is only a means to an end. It is like the ladder to ascend, or the scaffolding used in the erection of a building. To receive it with respect and other dispositions due to the word of God, may imply faith in him, and submission to him; but, properly speaking, in as far as it is mere instruction or information, it is not worship. Worship is our submission to God, a performance of the duty we owe him. As far as instruction shows us how, and leads us to do this in a proper manner, it is good, but in itself—as a mere expansion of the mind, or the storing of it with knowledge, it is not worship. In paying worship, we must act, not merely be acted upon; we must do, not merely hear. For this, the ceremonial affords most useful aid; not, of course, as far as it is a mechanical movement, which if it stop there would be useless, but inasmuch as it is the instrument of the inmost soul. Light and instruction must precede to give it significance, but when life has thus been breathed into it, it becomes itself an action, a practice of virtue, a discharge of the highest virtues, which are those that have God himself for their immediate object.
This ceremonial consists of the words that are used, and the acts that are performed. Words, said or sung, are a part of it, but only a part. Many acts often express the feelings more effectually. These are sometimes{723}more or less natural; at other times they may be said to be conventional. But though arbitrary as words themselves, when they receive a determined meaning, they become capable of effectually and powerfully expressing the internal feelings of the individual and of society. Kneeling or standing erect, raising up or clasping the hands or striking the breast, an uplifted glance to heaven or a reverent bowing of the head, will express adoration, reverence, sorrow, or supplication as well and often better than words. When you walk in a procession with torch in hand, accompanying the blessed sacrament, or to honor some other mystery of religion, you are professing your faith in it as effectually, and impressing that faith in your soul, perhaps, more deeply than when you recite the creed, just as the citizen expresses forcibly his political principles by analogous acts. These, of course in particular cases, may be acts of hypocrisy or hollow pageant, just as words may be a lie or an empty sound, but this takes nothing from their intrinsic appropriateness. Nay, acts of this kind would seem to draw the soul into what is intended to accompany them and be expressed by them more powerfully than words.
Some of the acts of this worship have, in themselves, a power and efficacy apart from any impression they may produce on the beholder. Such is the case in all the sacraments. The sacred rite, duly performed may be compared to the spark, which, however powerless of itself, when falling on the proper material, awakens a great power of nature, that will rend mountains, and hurl into shapeless masses, the proudest works of man. The sacred rite has been chosen by omnipotence, as his agent and instrument, and its power has only the limits which omnipotence has been pleased to assign. It is the same thing in the celebration of mass. The words of Christ, pronounced by his minister, effect a great change. For he who first took bread and said, "This is my body," and by his infinite power made true what he said, addressing his apostles, added. "Do this"—yes, even this, great as it is—"in commemoration of me." And they "do" it, and by doing it, "show forth his death until he come." The effect follows by the power of God, no matter who is present, no matter who is instructed or edified, even though no heart beat more in unison than did the hearts of the Jews, who stood by while the great offering was made on Calvary. But other parts of the ceremonial, which, though not of equal importance, occupy more time, realize their end only when they express our feelings of reverence, or give them strength and light. Many are directed to aid the priest alone, in the proper performance of his high duties. Many, while they have this object also, are likewise directed to instruct, and become expressions of the devotion of the people. The ceremonial, therefore, first of all makes provision for the priest. It is important for himself and for the people that he be a worthy minister of Christ; that he discharge the duty of offering up the holy sacrifice with all the reverence, the humility, the fervor which so great an act demands. The ceremonies become a means of his doing this. In performing them properly he exercises all these virtues. The church makes him descend to the foot of the altar, and there acknowledging himself a sinner before God and the heavenly court, express by words and acts his sorrow, demand pardon before venturing to ascend the altar on which is to be laid the holy of holies. He then ascends with trembling step, and having again silently prayed for forgiveness, he intones the noble hymn,"Gloria in Excelsis Deo." Whether the voices of the choir take up its thrilling notes and make the vault resound with a call to give glory to God on high or he continue it in a subdued tone, every word he utters, every motion he is called on to make, enables him to express more and more{724}earnestly his desire for God's honor, his homage to Christ, "alone holy, alone Lord, alone most high."
Prepared by this introduction and having admonished the people to turn to God, he pours out in simple but touching words his supplications for our various wants. He then reads choice extracts from the sacred volume conveying the most important teachings of our holy religion. I will not stop to describe to you the ceremonies at the offertory, nor speak of the sublime "Preface" preparatory to the most sacred part of the sacrifice. Having prayed for all conditions of the church, having appealed to the blessed in heaven with whom the church on earth is in communion, he approaches the solemn act of consecration. Every word he utters, every glance, every motion, is directed to fill him with awe, with reverence, to express a demand, an act of homage, of gratitude or of invocation; and when the sacred words are pronounced, and he stands before the incarnate God truly present, though not visible to corporal eyes, with profound inclination he expresses his adoration, while the victim is raised up, that all present may, like him, kneel down and adore. And so all through the holy sacrifice.
While these lessons are taught and put in practice by the priest, the people, before whom they are performed, learn from them to cherish similar dispositions, and to unite their spirit in the expression of his devotion. It is the same thing with all the ceremonies, which, like those alluded to, are expressive of the feelings we should entertain for God. They frequently express them more forcibly than words could. Even ordinary feelings often become too strong for language and seek expression in some action. The fond mother would find words too tame to express the love she bears her child. She hugs it to her bosom, and impresses warm kisses on its face. We meet a long-lost friend. Words would not express all we feel. We clasp him in our arms, and press him to our heart. The model of repentance, the prodigal, when he meets his father, forgets a part of the discourse he had resolved to pronounce, and folded in his father's arms, expresses his sorrow more forcibly in silent tears and heart breaking sobs, and is forgiven. Even anger, which cannot find an adequate expression in the most impassioned language, seeks to manifest itself in the uplifted clenched fist, if it cannot gain its object by striking a blow. Do not tell me, then, that all this action in the church ceremonial is mummery. It is often a higher expression of devotion than words would afford.
If yon wish to test this, look at a devout congregation of Catholics kneeling before the altar. The organ that had lifted up their hearts when singing the "Glory to God in the highest" is silent, or a few low notes are heard that make the silence of the congregation more sensible. No voice, scarcely a breath, is heard, when the priest, having raised his eyes to heaven, is now inclined over the sacred elements. Thousands are kneeling around in awe. A slight stroke of the bell announces that the act is done. The priest prostrates himself in silent adoration, and then elevates the consecrated host. Every head is bowed in the presence of a God. Will anyone who has witnessed that scene, who has tried to enter into the feelings of that congregation, please tell me the words, or write out the speech, that would have expressed so powerfully their reverence, their adoration, their gratitude, and their love? Yes, ceremonies are a noble expression of our highest feelings. They are even more; for they intensify them, embalm them, and preserve them from evaporating. They communicate them and spread them abroad, and transmit them from generation to generation.
All this is a consequence of human nature, and this is so true that it is made an objection to our system. It is said that we build too much on human nature. But if worship be made for man it must accord with his nature{725}—not, indeed, with that which is corrupt in it, but with his nature as it came from God. Now, this need, this power, this efficacy of the expression of feeling by outward ceremony, is no effect of the fall: it is in the very nature of man. Hence we have recourse to it in everything else. What is the shake of the hand when we meet a friend, or the salute, or the banquet to which we invite him, but a ceremony to express friendship or esteem? Look at our processions and various political demonstrations. What are they but ceremonies in which political or other feelings seek expression—an expression which we know will strengthen them, deepen them, communicate them to others by creating and giving force to what may be called a contagions influence? What are our national and party airs; our national and party festivals, but expressions of a similar character looking forward to similar results?
In these things, as I said in the beginning, the feelings of the soul seek an embodiment, that will give them consistency and duration.
No matter what the external manifestation be, even though it be merely conventional, when it expresses a feeling, it becomes an instrument for all these purposes. It becomes, as it were, a permanent part of a structure, to which another stone is added as often as the act is repeated, until the building grows up in solid beauty that defies the ravages of time. This is the case with our political or social sentiments, because it grows out of our very nature. Why then should it not be the case, or rather is it not evidently the case, with those also which are connected with religion? These external rites not only express and intensify the interior feelings, but let philosophers explain it as they may, they become as it were a depository in which they may be laid by to be recalled almost at pleasure, nay, even to be drawn out by others who wish to acquire them.
Look at that piece of bunting hanging from a flag-staff and flying before the breeze. What is it? A first glance will tell you that it is a piece of stuff purchased for a trifle a few days ago from the merchant, on whose shelves it lay unnoticed and uncared for, except as far as it was capable of producing some day a few dollars for its owner. But now it has received a new destiny. It bears the national symbols, and it is the flag of the country. And, oh! what a change has taken place! It recalls the glories of the past, the hopes of the future; it is the symbol of the majesty of the nation. The patriot heart warms in beholding it; the warrior-breast is bared to do it honor. Through a hail of fire he stands by it or bears it on, and will see unmoved a thousand of his companions strewed o'er the battle-field while this yet floats before the breeze. And, when victory has crowned his efforts, he salutes it as the genius that nerved his right arm during the contest. Though torn almost to tatters, he bedews it with his tears of joy. It is his pride in life. He looks forward to descend in honor into the grave wrapped in its folds.
Wherever that flag is raised, one glance leads us to behold the genius of our country standing up before us with all her claims to our devotion and our love. Let it receive but the slightest insult, and a thrill vibrates throughout the land, every heart is wounded, every hand is ready to be raised in its defence. Yet it is, after all, but a piece of bunting, worth so many cents per yard. But by becoming a symbol, by being the object of a rite, it has become the depositary of the enthusiasm of the nation. It is made capable of evoking this, of quickening and communicating it, whenever it is unfurled.
Look at our national airs: what are they? The scientific musician will find little in them that is soul-stirring; but the feelings of our fathers are deposited in them. They were the tunes in which we expressed our gladness in days of triumph, by which we were aroused on the national holiday, in which we sung our joy on all{726}important occasions. Our love of home, of kindred, of fatherland, has been embalmed in them; and when they fall on our ears, all these dear and stirring feelings, as if buried in their notes, are sent forth, now unlocked, and again take possession of our souls. They thus arouse the warrior and the patriot, calling out all the feelings that cluster around what is most dear.
The Swiss soldier in foreign lands was so vividly recalled to the memories of home, by the airs to which he listened in childhood, and the recollection of his native mountains, and the associations revived by them, had such power, that a special disease, called "home-sickness" was frequently the result. As this proved fatal to many, the playing or singing of such tunes was forbidden in Swiss regiments in foreign service. And who does not know the stirring effect produced on certain occasions, when Yankee Doodle or Patrick's Day has been struck up, no matter what musical professors may say of their artistic merits.
In a similar manner our feelings of devotion are consigned to some homely religious tune. They are first expressed in it. They cling around it. They become identified with it. They are recalled vividly when we hear it again. They all come back in their original freshness, with accumulated force. They are transmitted to others, and thus we inherit the treasure of the devotional feeling of preceding generations.
Thoughourbeing supplied with music by great artists, who are constantly changing, if not improving their compositions, deprives us in a great measure of the advantages that might arise from this source, we can feel it at times, in what is allowed to retain this traditional force. Who is there that does not feel the devotion so often experienced in assisting at the benediction of the blessed sacrament, or on other occasions renewed by the tones of the Tantum Ergo or other familiar tunes, when the performers do not destroy, or at least smother the old airs by their exquisiteness? Where the songs of the church are in more general use, the intonation of the Miserere or the Stabat Mater or the Pange Lingua and many other tunes is like the opening up of a flood-gate, through which feelings of devotion rush as it were in a torrent and take possession of a whole congregation.
What is said of songs may be applied to other rites. The feelings of the past are deposited in them; they express them, they arouse them, they communicate them. This occurs, though they may be chosen arbitrarily. What more arbitrary, generally speaking, than the meaning attached to words? The word "home," for example, for all that is in the sound, might as well have been adapted to signify anything else of the most different character. Yet now having received a definite meaning, it recalls uniformly a whole definite series of ideas and feelings. So it is with a rite—say that of anointing with oil, that of sprinkling with water, burning incense, the use of candles, or the making of the sign of the cross. Many rites were established primarily for this purpose, others had their origin in necessity or convenience or usage; but the church, anxious to make even these things a source of edification and an instrument of devotion, gave them a meaning, attached to them a lesson which they reproduce forever after. Even those which have a certain intrinsic fitness to signify what they are established for, derive their chief efficacy in this respect from their having been chosen for the purpose, or having gradually received a social meaning, well understood in the Christian family. These have the additional advantage of speaking out, as it were, a whole instruction at a glance. The moment you look at one of these acts, a lesson is presented which could scarcely be communicated in many words, and in performing them the heart says more, and that more simply and more effectually, than it could in a long discourse.
{727}
I have referred to the flag of the country; of its being raised, and how a look at it, or a salute, powerfully expresses at once the most important emotions and lively enthusiasm. Well, we do the same through the Christian's glorious standard, which is the sacred symbol of the cross. Be it of wood or of the most precious metal—be it the production of the most unskilful or the most cunning workman—it is for us the symbol of man's redemption, and around it cluster our most tender feelings of veneration and love. It is placed over our altars, over our churches; it hangs in our rooms; where Catholic feelings can save it from insult, it is raised up in the highways, and is made to meet our eyes wherever we turn. We impress its form on our persons whenever we call on God in prayer, whenever we find ourselves exposed to temptation or danger. In that one act the faith, the hope, the love of the church for Christ and Christ crucified, are all expressed. All these feelings are imbedded in it. All are called out again whenever that sign is made. What we have heard of him from the pulpit, what we have read in our private study, what has occurred, to our own minds in meditation, is all brought before us with the accompanying sentiments and feelings as soon as that sacred symbol presents itself to our eyes. All are a wakened, are revived, and seized again at its glance. No wonder, then, that the Catholic loves the cross; that he loves to prostrate himself in adoration before it; that he looks to it when he seeks consolation in suffering, support in affliction, light in his difficulties, purity of spirit in his joys. Do not tell me that it is of lifeless wood or of metal, that it is but the work of the craftsman, Oh! this is like stopping the soldier in battle, to direct his attention to the price per yard of his flag, or to the name and address of the store where it was bought, while he is advancing enthusiastically under its inspiration against his country's foes. Yes; who does not know that it is of wood or metal? but to me it is the symbol of my Saviour's love. As such, I love it; as such all my most sacred feelings cling around it: I impress kisses on it; I bathe it with my tears. And when, on Good Friday, the priest after bringing before us the whole scene of Calvary, having led us, in the service, to look on the death of Christ' as the great turning-point in the world's history, having shown us the woes of the past that were there to find a remedy, and the blessings for the future that were thence to spring forth, holds up the crucifix before the prostrate multitude, and sings out, in a solemn tone, "Ecce lignum Crucis," "Behold the wood of the cross on which did hang the salvation of the world," will we not all send up our whole souls in the deacon's answer, crying out, with him, "Venite adoremus," "Come, let us adore"? And when the priest looses his shoes, and on bare feet approaches the sacred symbol of redemption, that he may kneel down and kiss it with fondness, on the anniversary of the day on which the tragic scene was enacted; who is there that will not vie with him in kneeling and pressing the sacred symbol to his lips?
The same thing can be applied in different degrees to the various rites throughout the year, when succeeding festivals bring before us the other great mysteries of religion, or when we are called on to express the ordinary feelings of Christian devotion. He who has studied the simple devotions of the rosary, or the way of the cross, will be astonished at the mine of devotion, of enlightened piety contained in them, and at the treasures that are drawn from them by faithful souls, simple and unpretending as they are, and puerile as they appear to the self-sufficient.
But these acts and exercises intended to express and nourish our Christian feelings, can only be appreciated where there is faith. It is only into{728}hearts animated by faith that they can enter. It is only in such they can be aroused. A certain amount of instruction is even necessary to understand the conventional meaning of many. This instruction and training is received by the Catholic almost with his mother's milk. As he learns the meaning of words, which is still more arbitrary, and acquires a practical skill in the use of language, notwithstanding its complicated laws, so he learns the meaning of the ceremonial, and is initiated into its use. With clasped hands the child kneels before the crucifix, and imprints kisses on it. Little by little he learns the history of him whose figure is nailed to that cross, and knowledge grows in him with reverence and love. He goes to the church, and is struck with what he beholds. He catches reverence from those around, and infuses it into his own imitation of their mode of acting. As he learns more and more of what is there done, this reverence becomes more and more enlightened, and he grows up a devout and enlightened Christian, performing the acts expressive of worship with the same ease and intelligence with which he uses the ordinary expressions of social life. The looker-on who is without faith or instruction, who has no sympathy, and wishes to have no sympathy, with him, thinks his acts a mummery, if he do not give them a harsher name. Such a person may be compared to one who has no ear for music, to whom the enthusiasm of those who are aroused by a beautiful composition is incomprehensible; or to one who listens to an eloquent discourse in a tongue which he does not, and cares not to understand; or he is like Michol, who laughs at David dancing before the ark, because she has no sympathy with his jubilant gratitude. The Catholic ceremonial is made for Catholics. If it enable them to express and strengthen their reverence, it answers its purpose. Those who have no such feelings to be awakened cannot be surprised if it strike them without producing emotion. The ceremonial is useful, not only as an expression of feeling, it is eminently instructive and educational, if I may use the expression, by instilling and developing both the knowledge and the devotion it is intended to express. While it teaches, it leads to act in accordance with the teaching; properly performed it is itself such action. It thus instils truth into the mind, and shapes the heart in accordance with it, which is the highest aim of the best education.
Some are pleased to look upon the mass of our people as very ignorant in matters of religion. If by this it be meant to say, that all are not experts in quoting texts of scripture; that they know nothing of many controversies that appear of great importance to our separated brethren; that they do not understand the meaning of many phrases that have become households words amongst them, though, sometimes, I fear, passing round without any very, definite meaning, I am willing to acknowledge the charge. But if it be meant to say that they are ignorant of those great facts and truths of religion which it is necessary or important for men to know, I repudiate it most solemnly. Nay, I contend that there is a better knowledge of these amongst many or most Catholics who can neither read nor write, if they have only followed in the paths where the church led them, than amongst many of our opponents who are considered learned theologians; and this they owe chiefly to this very ceremonial of which I am treating. They may know nothing of Greek particles, or of many other things good enough and useful in their place, but which God has not required anyone to learn; but they know that the incarnate God died for the salvation of man. They know the mystery of the Trinity, which is implied in that of the incarnation. They know the sinful character of man, their need of such a Redeemer. They are led to thank him, to love him, to{729}obey him. They know his sufferings, one by one; they are familiar with his thorns and his nails; they have pondered over his wounds and mangled flesh; they penetrate into the side pierced for their love. He who knows even this much is not ignorant. Yet all this, and, much more, is familiar to every one accustomed to look with faith on the crucifix. He sees in the face of the crucified One patience, resignation, compassion for sinners, love even for his enemies. He sees the consequences of sin, and he beholds their remedy. Looking on this, the Catholic finds support in his trials or afflictions and moderation in his joy. Show me the volume he could ponder over and learn as much. All that he heard at his mother's knee and from the preacher's lips is brought before him in a single glance at his crucifix. All is brought up again when he makes the sign of the cross. Yet the cross, so fraught with instruction and moving appeals, is that which is presented to him a thousand times in the rites of the church, inasmuch as it is the great pervading principle that must animate all his devotion and all his actions. It is brought before him, not in a cold way, merely teaching him a lesson. He is taught to know and to believe; he is led to adore and to confide; he is brought to invoke through it all the graces of which he stands in need. All this is done every time that he makes the sign of the cross, pronouncing the blessed words, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
While many of your learned expounders of scripture are comparing text with text on these subjects, trying to remove, but scarcely removing the doubts which they know to exist among their hearers, which they feel, perhaps, rising up in their own breasts, or what is worse while they are proposing theories in a Christian pulpit which make nought the cross of Christ and the mystery of redemption as ever taught in the Christian family, the poor Catholic, on whom they look with contempt, is making his starting point what others are but trying to prove, and while signing himself with the cross, believing, adoring, penetrating into the depths of the love of the incarnate God, and endeavoring to shape his own soul into conformity with its teachings. And you call him ignorant. Indeed, a pure though simple faith, among these people enables them to see the great truths of religion with a clearness that supplies frequently an apt reply to difficulties that seem very embarrassing to their opponents.
Yet, this is the first lesson that the Catholic child learns at his mother's knee, As he goes on, he learns more and more of God's works of mercy toward man, of his institutions for our salvation and our sanctification, and all he learns he sees reproduced in a glance in the ceremonial of the church, which speaks to him in accents more and more eloquent, as his knowledge expands and his heart is brought more fully into conformity with God's holy teachings. In the liturgy and the various other rites of the church, she has enshrined all the great dogmas of religion. There she teaches them, there she keeps them beyond the reach of the innovator. The priest himself, the bishop, and the pope, there see them inculcated, and from thence, as from a rich treasury, draw them out to present them to the faithful. This teaching by rites in use from the beginning of the church, addresses itself to all with power, for in it they find the teaching of the saints and the sages of by-gone ages, and feel themselves breathing the same atmosphere with them. The martyrs, who bore testimony to their faith with their blood, the apostolic men, who by their preaching, their labors, and their prayers, brought nations to the knowledge of Christ, the holy confessors and virgins, who, in frail vessels, showed forth his power in every age, practised these same rites, and were therefore animated by the same faith. The church, throughout the whole world, uses them, and therefore believes as we do. What{730}more powerful for bringing home to each one the faith of the universal, everlasting church!
There is great security for the faith of a Catholic in his receiving it through the teaching of a pastor in communion with the church of the whole world, and sanctioned by its highest authority; but I would venture to say that there is something even more solemn in this voice of the ceremonial, which is a voice of the living and the dead—of the church of the Catacombs, and of the church of this day—throughout the world. With all the force which this gives, leaning as the church does upon Christ, who died to sanctify her in truth, we are taught the great dogmas of the Trinity and the Incarnation; of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ; the plan and means of the redemption, the need in which we stand of divine grace, and the means of obtaining it. We are taught the character of the great Christian oblation, the nature and effects of the sacraments, as well as the dispositions they require, and the duties they impose.
Far be it from me to undervalue the oral teaching of the ministry. That found in the ceremonial presupposes it, and is based on it. Both are, as they should be, combined in the ministrations of the church; but the ceremonial fixes the oral teaching. It gives the Christian system a body, as it were, in which it enables it to prolong its life beyond the moments of the passing voice. When once embodied in a rite, the impressions of oral instruction, which otherwise so easily pass away, live for ever. They are seized in their whole entirety at a glance; they are brought down to the comprehension of the lowest; they are put forth with a majesty that the highest may admire. Men are taught there, and, what is most important they are led to act on the teaching, and thus conform their hearts as well as their minds, to the holy dogmas of faith, which is the best and most useful way of imparting Christian instruction. But I will be told that this teaching, however useful for those who understand it, is lost for the great mass of the people, as the language used is a dead one, which few understand. But, in the first place, it is not lost, even though the clergy alone should understand it. Is it not an important thing that the clergy themselves should have something to keep alive powerfully, amongst them the one, universal and everlasting faith? Will not all the faithful find strength in their strength, and light in their light? If they are kept right, the truth spread abroad by them will easily he preserved pure among the masses of the people. Almost all heresies—be it said to our shame—either had their source in the sanctuary, or could not have succeeded if they had not found support there. And is it not a great thing that he who would become a prevaricator, must first brand himself as unfaithful, must cease to minister today, all he did yesterday, and thus give public notice, as it were, that he seeks to devour the flock which he had undertaken to feed; that instead of keeping the deposit which was the first duty of his office, as dispenser of the mysteries of God, he is substituting some new-fangled theory of his own, palming it off as an institution of heaven? Luther can establish a new system only by ceasing to say mass. The church of Cranmer is not at ease until it has formed for itself a new liturgy. The Greeks and other orientals by preserving their ancient rites and ceremonies, have preserved almost all their ancient dogmas, and to re-enter the church have little else to do but to submit to the authority of its supreme pastor. But apart from this, the ceremonial itself speaks to all the people in a language which all understand. The rites are themselves a language easily learned, and speaking with silent eloquence to men of every tongue. They are to some extent what the learned have been so long looking for, a universal language. In fact, when the priest raises up the host, the Irishman and the German, the Greek and the Armenian, see the presence of Christ{731}preached to them, and they kneel down and adore. When the water is poured on the head of the child that is baptized, men of every clime know that the regenerating rite is being performed. The rite once properly explained ever after expresses to them better than any combination of words, the internal change that is effected in the soul. Then, it must be remembered that the main thing in the public service is what isdone, not what issaid. Every moderately instructed Catholic is fully aware of what there takes place, and with this knowledge he can assist, not only devoutly but intelligently, though he may not understand or even hear one word.
The great source of mistake, in this connection, with our separated brethren, arises from the fact that they go to church merely to hear instruction, or to have words put into their mouths, in which to address Almighty God. The Catholic also often goes for instruction, and this he receives in the language which he understands. But he goes for what is even more important—he goes to take a part in the great act that is performed in God's holy temple. He knows the nature and ends of this, and the dispositions required of him, and as I said before, he can perform his part though he may not even hear, much less understand one word that is pronounced. I will suppose a case of the surrender of a large army. The vanquished soldiers march to the place appointed. They lay down their arms, they lower their flag. The victorious general, with his warriors, stands, by and receives them. A speech perhaps is made. But all who are present take an intelligent part in the Proceedings, though many may not hear one word that is uttered. So it is with the great action at mass. I will not have recourse to the common reply, that all that the priest says at the altar is translated and published; that any one who desires may read and know for himself; for though the fact be true, it is not the true solution of the difficulty. I have no hesitation in saying that in assisting at the most solemn part of the celebration of the divine mysteries, it is best not to attend to the particular prayers recited by the priest, whether one hear them or not whether he be or be not capable of understanding them. It is better to assist with an enlightened faith in the action that is performed, and then give full play to such sentiments as this faith will awaken in each individual soul. This is evidently the view of the church. For this reason, after the offertory, that is, when the most important portion begins, the priest is made to recite almost all his part of the liturgy in a low tone, so that those present cannot hear him even if they be capable of understanding what he says. Among the Greeks a curtain is drawn across the sanctuary, so that they cannot even see him, but merely know by some signals, if I may so call them, given from time to time, in what part of the sacred act he is engaged.
The church, by, this evidently tells us, that by an assistance in faith, each one yielding to the promptings of his own devotion will derive more profit than by following the priest's words. Indeed, the parts of the priest and people in this sacred act are so essentially different, that it is scarcely to be expected that the same prayers should be best for both. While the church has minutely arranged the rites and prayers used by him who offers the sacrifice, she is satisfied with awakening the faith and enlightening the devotion of others who assist: and then leaving it to their enlightened faith what each shall say to God on such occasions. She acts like the master of the house, who prepares the banquet, where each guest finds abundance of everything agreeable to the palate, and nourishing to the body. With great care he has prescribed the parts of those who are occupied in preparing or serving it up, so that all present may receive substantial proofs of his interest; but when, this is done, he{732}leaves the invited to partake of what is prepared, as their own tastes will prompt. It is thus that the Catholic system, which is accused of tying men down to a performance of mere routine, is that which really gives more scope to individual liberty in public worship, while public decorum and dignity are effectually secured by an established ritual. With your extempore prayers, he who utters them has indeed full scope for his feeling and his fancy, but he is liable also to their vagaries, and his hearers are at his mercy. As he weeps or rejoices, all must weep or rejoice, or he becomes to them a hindrance. Their hearts move or try to move, not as the spirit, but as the leader willeth, and not unfrequently may he lend them into paths from which their instincts will recoil. They, whose whole time is engaged in following a prescribed liturgy, must ever go on in the same groove. Whatever be the feelings or the wants or the temper of mind of each individual habitually or at the moment, the same unchanging road is chalked out for all. What they hear may be beautiful, but it may be far from being the best suited for many at that moment. Hence disgust or cold indifference is sure to follow, of which beautiful forms may be only a pompous covering. Amongst Catholics on the other hand, while the church to secure order and truth and public decorum, has carefully regulated every word and act of the priest, and presents in the celebration of the divine mysteries the most powerful incentive to faith and devotion in all its bearings, she leaves each one else who is present to assist as his own wants and dispositions may prompt.
The ingenious zeal of pious men has provided helps for all in manuals of various kinds, and each one will select what he finds best suited for himself. He will use it or interrupt its use, or drop it altogether as experience will show him to be most useful in his own case. When it is not done through apathy or listlessness, he may find it better to dispense with them all, being satisfied with a look, with vivid faith, and such other interior acts as a faithful soul will soon learn to perform with alacrity. Knowing what he himself is, and who is before him, he will not be at a loss what to say. At one time he will weep over his sins; at another he will give thanks to God; at another he will lay open his wants, or ask pardon for his transgressions. Where can he do any of these things more effectually than in the presence of him who died for our sins, and to procure for us every blessing.
And many, in fact, thus assist in silent prayer, but with more intelligent and true devotion, though they neither use a book nor hear a word, than others who are pondering over most beautiful manuals.
The danger of cold formality from the steady use of prescribed forms, and nothing else, is so thoroughly realized by the church, and this fear is so fully justified by her experience that the priest himself is warned over and over against it. The remedy that is given him, is the practice of what might be called private individual prayer. All spiritual writers tell him that if he be not fond of this, if especially he be not careful to renew his spirit by it, in immediate preparation for the exercise of his sacred functions, they will degenerate into mere formalism. With this private preparation he will prepare and carry into them a proper spirit and will then find them a heavenly manna, having every sweet taste; without this, he will be but as the conduit pipe, carrying to others the refreshing waters, but retaining himself' none of the effects of their invigorating powers.
These remarks apply to the most sacred and most important part of' the mass. If the church do not wish us even to hear them, much less require us to understand them, if she be right in believing that we may thus assist most advantageously, it is a matter of no consequence what language the priest uses in addressing the Almighty{733}God, for he understands him, and that is enough. The rites he performs give all the instruction of admonition that is useful at that moment, and this instruction does not disturb our individual devotion. On the contrary, whatever turn it may take, it enlivens, supports, and directs it.
As to the first parts of the mass, to which these remarks are not so applicable, the "Gospels," which vary at every festival, are required to be read at least on festivals in their own language, and explained by each pastor to his people. The "Collects," are known to be all substantially supplications for grace, to which, therefore, we may heartily answer,Amen, though we do not understand each word. Little else remains but the "Kyrie," the "Gloria," and the "Credo," and these like the "Pater Noster," and a few other things sung by the priest, might be easily learned, so as to be understood by any diligent person. Indeed, I may say it is the wish of the church that all should learn them. She would be glad that all would take a part in singing them, as the people do in many countries. The study of Latin required for this is not much; for all that I have referred to might be contained in two or three pages, and is not beyond the reach of anyone, not even of those who cannot read. Many such learn it by heart, and understand what they have learned. Doing so would be but a light task in view of the many advantages gained. All might then join in the public chants of the church and be gainers in spiritual life, even if they did not discourse equally elegant music; or, if our apathy compels the church to let our parts be discharged, as it were, by deputies in the choir, we would assist and join in the beautiful sentiments which are expressed, and not merely sit inactive to receive the sweet impressions of their melodies.
But though this would better accord with the spirit of the church, if these parts also through our own apathy are unintelligible, the intrinsic character of the act for which we are preparing will suggest pious sentiments that will enable us to pass the time with substantial profit to our souls.
But, be it that there is some little disadvantage in having the mass in a dead language, what I have said, I think, abundantly proves at least that it is not very great. Look, on the other hand, at the immense advantages gained by keeping it uniform and without change, which implies keeping it in the language in which it was first established. By this, uniformity and steadiness is secured in the faith. The faith of every nation embalmed, as I said before, in the liturgy, is before the eyes of the universal church; it is transmitted untarnished from generation to generation. This uniform and steady liturgy becomes as an anchor to which every church is moored. As long as it clings to this, it is safe. And can anyone who knows the value of faith, of that faith for which legions of martyrs shed their blood, deem the little loss that is sustained, if any, by our Latin liturgy, not well compensated by the stability of faith which it secures. For this reason, though the world in the apostolic days was even more divided in language than it is now, yet in those times, as we know from all antiquity, the liturgy was celebrated only in three languages—the three languages of the cross. These are, the Hebrew, in its cognate dialects, which are but branches of the one Semitic tongue, as a homage to the ancient dispensation; the Greek, which was the language of the civilization of that age, and that adopted in the New Testament; and the Latin, which was the language of the people whose capital was to be the seat of the government of the Church of the New Dispensation. In these three languages was written the inscription over the bloody sacrifice on Calvary; in these, and in no others from the beginning, was the unbloody one offered to God by the church. No others having been adopted was a clear proof that in the apostolic{734}view it was not deemed necessary that all should understand the language used in the sacred mysteries; and, when even these ceased to be popular languages anywhere, what had always been the condition of the great number became the condition of all.
In after ages a few exceptions, and only a few, were permitted or rather tolerated. The liturgy was allowed to be celebrated in one other language in Asia, the Armenian; in two in Africa, the Coptic and the Ethiopic; and in one in Europe, the Slavonic. No others were used. But these were exceptional cases—they occurred at a later period, and under peculiar circumstances, showing rather the sufferance than the genuine spirit of the church, while she cordially adopted from the beginning, and ever clung to the three languages of the cross.
It is both beautiful and useful to the Catholic to assist at the divine offices in the same language, and in the main, with the same rites, in which they have been performed for eighteen hundred years. They seem like the voice of the martyrs, the confessors, the saints who have lived through these eighteen centuries. They echo their faith and their devotion. We feel that in them we are breathing the life of a church now and ever spread throughout the whole world, everywhere offering to God one sacrifice of praise.
A dignitary of the Protestant Episcopal Church in this country has lately written an angry letter against those of his brethren who are called "Ritualists," because they are anxious to introduce into their church many Catholic, or, as he calls them, "Romish" ceremonies. His ground of complaint is that behind these ceremonies stand the doctrines of the Catholic Church. "Their course," he says, "means return to what the reformation cast out with indignation." "It means Romanism in all its strength and substance," and he enumerates the various doctrines which it implies, which he considers abominations. I do not wish to pronounce an opinion on the extent to which his remarks are justifiable in their application to the parties against whom he writes; but he is certainly right in believing that behind the Catholic ritual stands Catholic doctrine, which is nothing else but Christian doctrine; and as the reformation "cast out" many of the rites in use in the Christian family from the beginning, with them it "cast out" a great portion of the Christian dogma. The good man's charge will only make those who preserve the dogma see more clearly the value of the rites in which it is enshrined, and cling more tenaciously to dogmas thus shown to be coeval with Christianity.
Every rite has thus a lesson, and becomes an act of devotion. The cross above our churches and our altars, continually reappearing in all our ceremonies, impresses on us the incarnation, death, and atonement of Christ crucified, as the great central point of all religion. To this we are constantly brought back in every prayer which concludes by asking what we demand, through Jesus Christ, the familiar closing of which, the "per omnia saecula saeculorum," known to every child, calls forth from all, the heartfeltAmen! To this, and to what should accompany it, the Catholic is constantly directed by the ceremonial. The church bell, signed with the cross, and anointed with oil, which is a symbol of Christ, swings in the tower, and as his messenger, calls us in his name to his house—now, ringing out with joy, when some great mystery is to be commemorated—now, in deep solemn notes, to pray for one of his departed members. Three times every day it summons us to the recital of the Angelus, in which we commemorate the great mystery of the incarnation, and invoke the merits of the Saviour's death, and ask the benefit of his resurrection. If we enter the{735}church, the font at the door, from which we take a drop of blessed water to sprinkle our foreheads, is itself a sermon on the purity with which we should approach, and bids us cleanse our souls before we come near to him in prayer. The burning lamp speaks to us of him who is the light of the world, now dwelling on the altar, as well as of the constant fire of devotion, and pure adoration, due to the present God. The priest whom you see at the altar, clad in those quaint old vestments, tells you at a glance that you are in the presence of a worship that has come down from the remotest ages. The burning lights on the altar, which have now become an emblem of gladness, speak to you of the catacombs, in which our fathers took refuge, and preserved for us the sacred deposit, at the cost of property, of liberty, and of life.
Like old heirlooms, with their quaint old forms and their several indentations, these vestments and rites tell at the same time of their real antiquity and of the many vicissitudes through which they have passed. They are not like those imitations of the antique in use amongst some of our friends got up by studying ancient drawings and descriptions, having all the inconvenience without anything of the venerable character of what is truly ancient. With us they are inherited through uninterrupted use from the beginning. Whatever changes have occurred in minor details, only render them more venerable, for if on the one hand we are brought back to ancient days, these are marks of the many ages through which they have passed. Everything in the rites of the church is fraught with instruction, with devotion. It enables you to know, and what is better, to practice—for while it teaches, it leads you to love and adore. Do you wish to know the efficacy of that ceremonial? Look at those who have been nursed under its training. See the all-pervading influence of religion, that exists among them. Long and powerful discourses may make men skilful talkers and ardent partisans. Those who have been reared under a divinely inspired ritual have religion deeply engraven on their hearts. It takes possession and enters into the whole nature of the man; and even when he gives way to the allurements of iniquity, it retains its hold on him. This may indeed make him appear, and be, an inconsistent object of pity or of scorn. But, happy inconsistency! For if he will not be consistent in good, far better that he be inconsistent or not consistent in evil. He would otherwise become a monster. The links by which he is yet bound to what is good, may one day draw him within the pale of that mercy to which no sinner appealed in vain, before which no sinner is too great to be pardoned.
To the Catholic, in every position, the ceremonial is light and nourishment—a plentiful source of vigor and life.