The Censured Saints

THE saints have always lived in peril of excommunication. Even canonized saints have been acquainted with the formal censures of ecclesiastical authority.

Saint Athanasius was condemned by several councils, and being deposed from his place as Pope of Alexandria, spent years in exile. Saint Benedict had hardly begun to work as Abbot of Vicovarro, when the monks tried to poison him. Saint Chrysostom was excommunicated, and driven out of Constantinople. Saint Damasus was so energetically opposed by his brethren that, upon the adjournment of the meeting at which he was elected Pope of Rome, a hundred and thirty-seven bodies of dead electors were found on the church floor. Saint Epiphanius, preaching in Jerusalem, was interrupted by the bishop in the middle of his sermon, and told to leave the pulpit. It is true that the saint was engaged at that moment in denouncing the bishop; but the fact remains that even saints were unable to do that with impunity. They had to suffer for it.

It would be easy to go down the long alphabet of censured saints, and find plenty of like cases. The new Dictionary of Christian Biography and Litera-

ture¹ covers only six centuries, but it suffices to show the saints in the endurance of all manner of tribulation. Of course, they were hated by their pagan neighbors; that was a part of the day’s work. And if, in addition, they were reviled and persecuted by their brethren in religion, even that was plainly promised in the last beatitude. The Dictionary begins at the end of the New Testament. If it had gone further back, it would have included the stoning of Saint Stephen. The five hundred and ninety-six Johns who appeared in the former four-volume edition are here a much more select company; but even the present list retains the John who was expelled from Alexandria by the zeal of the Patriarch of Constantinople, and the John of Antioch who was excommunicated by the Council of Ephesus, and the John of Constantinople who was rebuked by Gregory the Great for seizing a priest accused of heresy and beating him with ropes in the cathedral.

It is interesting to see how remote this is from such a book as Mrs. Lang’s Stories of Saints and Heroes.² The saints in these pages have their various troubles: Saint Francis has an unsympathetic father, and Saint Elizabeth an unsympathetic mother-in-law, and there are pagan persecutors, and dragons, and temptations of the devil; but the brethren, for the most part, are kind and true, and the Church follows the saint with benedictions. We perceive, however, that the stories which Mrs. Lang has so pleasantly retold are like the accounts of King David which are given in the Books of Chronicles. The Chroniclers make no record of the domestic unhappiness of David. They omit the chapters which centre about Bathsheba and about Absalom. They are preparing a history that will be profitable reading for the Young Men’s Hebrew Association. In their pages, the kings are rarely seen without their crowns. So, in the conventional lives of the worthies, the saints are rarely seen without their halos. Even in Professor Egan’s delightful life of Saint Francis,³ only a passing reference is made to Brother Elias, ‘the prudent man who tried to make the Franciscans worldly.’ The reader is not told how Brother Elias succeeded; how, in his own lifetime, Francis saw his ideals changed against his will, and himself set aside; and how, after his death, the group of his first disciples, whose stories are told in the Little Flowers, were persecuted by the secularizing brethren, and Brother Leo was scourged, and Brother Bernard was hunted over the hills like a wild beast, for their loyalty to the saint.

These narratives of failure and tragedy are not pleasant reading, and there is no reason why Mrs. Lang and Dr. Egan should have included them in their books. They bear witness, however, to the fact that the censure of the saints was not confined to the first six centuries. The situation is a psychological one, and is bound to recur in all lands and religions. It is the everlasting contention between the institution and the individual. The institution has its established rules of order, its prudent and practical procedure, its adaptation to the ordinary man, and its conservative convictions. And the saint is different. He has a new vision of truth or of duty. Sometimes he is a prophet, declaring like Isaiah that God hates and despises the feast-days, the services, and the sacraments of the Church. Or he is a mystic, who has no use for the rites and ceremonies; or a reformer, who proposes to change them; or, being a saint, he irritates his neighbors by the silent criticism of his example; or, being a scholar, he alarms them by his new readings of old sentences. Often his difference from his brethren sends him into dissent; and then he is doubly obnoxious, adding to the sin of heresy the sin of schism. Under these conditions, the words may be fulfilled which say, ‘Whosoever killeth you will think that he doeth God service.’

The name ‘saint’ is here extended considerably beyond its ecclesiastical significance, and is used to indicate the individualist in religion. The saint, in this sense, is the good man, devout and honest, and tremendously in earnest, who differs notably from his brethren, either in his manner of life or in his theological opinions. Looking through the religious books of the past twelve months, to find, if possible, some common note, it is interesting to see how many of them deal with the censure of such saints.

Thus the Abbé Duchesne’s Early History of the Church, now in its second volume,⁴ describes the schism of the Donatists, and gives great space to the heresy of the Arians. It is a careful, learned, and entirely fair account of the days when good men were in perplexity. Pagan persecution had frightened even bishops into apostasy. It was commonly believed in Rome that Pope Marcellinus had offered incense on pagan altars, to save his life. Then, when peace came, it was maintained by the more strict that the ministry of those who had done such things was by that fact invalidated. If they were bishops, other bishops must be chosen in their places. This was the contention of the Donatists, and the result was the setting-up of bishop against bishop, and church against church, with mutual excommunications, and honest, devout, and conscientious men on each side. Under these conditions, the puzzled saints fared ill.

While these matters agitated the practical West, other and profounder problems troubled the metaphysical East. Pagan philosophy asked questions which Christian tradition found hard to answer, especially regarding the relation of Christ to the supreme God: Is the divinity of Christ absolute or relative? Then it was that Bishop Leontius of Antioch, passing his hand over his white hair, was heard to say, ‘When this snow has melted, there will be mud in Antioch.' The saints pelted one another with the mud.

The difficulties which were involved in these questions were hopelessly complicated by the purpose of the ecclesiastical authorities to preserve uniformity. It was maintained against the Donatists that there is only one true church, and against the Arians that there is only one true creed. The idea of freedom of debate, the hope of coming to conclusions gradually, the virtue of patience, had no place in these controversies. Whoever advanced an opinion contrary to the official mind was promptly put out. The possibility that the opinion might have truth at the heart of it was rarely considered. Indeed, the adverse opinions were commonly expressed in so militant a manner that they invited a dispute rather than a debate. What could be done with the defiant saints except to excommunicate them ?

A like situation appears in the history of dissent in England. Dissent is grounded in the everlasting fact of difference. It is made inevitable by human nature. There are always conservatives and progressives, always men of the old learning and men of the new, always those who believe in the authority of the institution, and those who believe in the liberty of the individual. Some are aristocrats, some are democrats, in religion as well as in society. Some would have the service of worship simple, some would have it ornate. Some are ‘high church’ by nature, by temperament; some are ‘low church.’ The problem of keeping these various persons in one communion and fellowship was frankly given up on the continent of Europe; Luther and Calvin and their companion saints were expelled from the Church, with anathemas, and founded churches of their own.

In England, an attempt was made to solve the problem,—an attempt which is not yet abandoned, in spite of tragic failures. Principal Selbie, in his history of the English Sects,⁵ tells the long story. This little book, which sustains the high merit of that exceedingly useful series, the Home University Library, begins with Wycliffe and comes down to General Booth of the Salvation Army. It is written in admirable spirit, never unfair or partisan, though sympathetic, of course, with Nonconformity; and presents the whole case, without encumbering details, in remarkable perspective. A notable collection of original documents bearing upon these matters, from 1550 to 1641, is contained in Mr. Burrage’s Early English Dissenters,⁶ together with a learned discussion of these rare and interesting papers. Also, Canon Henson has published a candid consideration of the Puritan movement, under the title, Puritanism in England,⁷ in connection with the two-hundred-andfifth anniversary of the ejection of the Nonconformists from the Church of England. ‘I trust,’ he says in his preface, ‘that nothing has been said in the course of this book which can be fairly regarded as lacking in sympathy or appreciation for the victims of what I must needs consider the meanest persecution which Christian History records.’ ‘Nevertheless,’ he continues, ‘I cannot think that the tradition of their sufferings ought to be allowed to raise the temperature of modern discussions.’

This deprecation of a heightened temperature, referring, of course, to the current discussion of disestablishment in England, suggests an error in addition which has interfered all along with the solution of the problem: to the difficulties arising from human nature have been added the difficulties arising from politics. The situation was already sufficiently embittered by a general agreement concerning the essential importance of uniformity. We must do all alike, they said, and think alike; there must be but one form of worship and of administration, one church and one creed in the realm. A willingness to tolerate difference was held to be a disclosure of indifference. Nobody who really cared could be content till the truth and right, as he understood them, had entire control. Thus all ecclesiastical discussion was a duel from which no honest man could properly retreat till he had silenced his opponent. And when first one side and then the other got possession of the sword of state, and did his best to run his adversary through with it, the temperature of the debate was considerably heightened.

How the political factor complicated the psychological factor appears in many illuminating pages of those three books. For example, the ejection of the Nonconformists, which seems to Canon Henson the meanest of all persecutions, and whose meanness is abundantly shown in the Five-Mile Act, which forbade the ejected ministers to continue to live in the towns where they had preached, and in the Conventicle Acts, which forbade the ejected people to meet together more than five in number, on penalty of fine or transportation, is shown by Principal Selbie to have been caused by political fear, as well as by ecclesiastical hostility. The churchmen were honestly afraid that the dissenters would again overturn not only Church but State. They did not dare to do other than eject the saints.

Richard Hooker said, indeed, ‘There will cornea time when three words uttered with charity and meekness shall receive a far more blessed reward than three thousand volumes written with disdainful sharpness of wit.’ But that was the counsel of a singularly serene mind. Hugh Peters, at Rotterdam, in the covenant which he proposed to the congregation there, proposed for his ninth article, ‘To Labor to gett A great meassuer of humillitie and meekness and to banish pride and highnes of spirit’; and for his twelfth, ‘To Deal with all kynd of wisdome and genttellnes towards those that are without.’ But Peters declared that anybody who would not sign this covenant should immediately be excommunicated; and some refused to sign because he was so peremptory about it.

That has been the trouble all along. The endeavor has been to change opinions by abuse or compulsion. Thus John Penry, having printed a paper, ‘In behalf of the country of Wales, that some order may be taken for the preaching of the Gospel among those people,’ was answered by Archbishop Whitgift with a month’s imprisonment. This had so little persuasive effect upon Penry that he said of the Prayerbook, ‘That it is an imperfect book culled and picked out of that Popish dunghill the masse book, full of abhomynations.’ This was so far from convincing that prelate that, when Penry was sentenced to be hanged, the archbishop was the first to sign the warrant.

Henry Jacob published a work entitled, Reasons taken out of God’s Word and the best human Testimonies proving a necessity of reforming our churches in England. Mr. Burrage says that ‘the Bishop of London, on hearing of the publication of this book, sent a messenger requesting Jacob to come to speak with him.’ This is precisely what a bishop of London ought to do under such circumstances. Here was opportunity for profitable discussion. But this is what followed: ‘A servant reported the message to Jacob, and he, not knowing, but possibly suspecting, the object of this invitation, called upon the Bishop, and was immediately made a prisoner, and committed to the Clink,’ to the great and increasing distress of Jacob’s wife and four small children.

These readings in church history may put us in a proper frame of mind to appreciate the three most notable religious biographies of the past year: The Life of John Henry, Cardinal Newman, the Autobiography and Life of George Tyrrell, and the Life of William Robertson Smith.

Before proceeding to a consideration of these books, it may be noticed, by the way, that each of them contains a little touch of local interest for New England readers. Newman was brought under suspicion at the very moment of his entrance into the Church of Rome by the cordial acceptance given to his Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine by the Unitarians of Boston. They took it up at once and ‘quoted it as evidence that the Trinitarian doctrine was not primitive, but was a development of the third century.’ The report came to Rome that Newman’s book had given the Unitarians ‘ big and effective guns.’ Meanwhile, no theologian in Rome was able to read English with any facility, and there was at that moment no French or Italian translation, so misunderstanding and prejudice had time to grow. An immediate result was to destroy Newman’s hope of founding a theological college. This was a work for which both his genius and his experience eminently fitted him. He might have widened and deepened indefinitely the channel of passage from England to Rome. A continuing result was to give an impression, which never wholly disappeared from the Roman mind, that Newman, while a very distinguished convert, was a person of whom to be afraid. Nobody knew what dangerous doctrine he might suggest next.

The local note in the life of Father Tyrrell is the fact that almost the last paper he wrote was for the Harvard Theological Review. As for Robertson Smith, in the midst of his trials for heresy, he received a letter from Mr. James Bryce, inclosing a proposal from the President of Harvard University that he should accept the chair of Hebrew and other Oriental Languages. This invitation, after much consideration, Smith declined, and Mr. Eliot wrote him that the University had thereupon appointed ‘an American heretic, whose views on Isaiah had offended the Baptist communion to which he had belonged.’ (Mr. Smith’s most obnoxious views at that time concerned the authorship of Deuteronomy.) The ‘American heretic’ thus appointed was Professor Toy. A few months later, Mr. Eliot wrote to Mr. Bryce to ask if Mr. Smith would accept a chair of Ecclesiastical History, but again he was kept in England.

Mr. Ward’s Life of Newman⁸ begins where the Apologia ends. Two chapters have to do with his ministry in the Church of England; the rest of the biography, which is in two large volumes, is a record of his ministry in the Church of Rome. Newman passed from one church to the other, and the door was shut behind him. His popularity in Oxford had been ‘soextraordinary that the tradition of it is now no longer realized and only half believed.’ Then he retired to Littlemore and after a decent interval of consideration, went to Rome. In the England of that day, such a step involved a separation from almost all his friends. The break was almost as sharp as if he had entered into another religion. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘can you point out any one who has lost more in the way of friendship than I have?’ And again, ‘Of my friends of a dozen years ago, whom have I now?’

As the years passed there came to him ‘some of the special bitterness which falls to the lot of a discrowned king or a forsaken prophet. He thought himself an old man. His health was bad, and he made ready for death. His books had already ceased to sell, and now he ceased to write. His very name was hardly known to the rising generation.’ Then Kingsley’s attack provoked the Apologia, and the old splendid memories were revived. Even so, it was the Anglican Newman rather than the Roman Newman who was thus restored to the affection of the English people. At last, at the very end of his long life, when he was seventy-eight years old, the church of his adoption gave him a tardy recognition and he was made a cardinal. Beyond these two events, — the Apologia and the cardinalate, — little was known about him. He lived in the Oratory at Birmingham, writing his letters and saying his prayers. So far as most people are concerned, Newman practically died in 1845, when he left the Church of England. He is thought of as the author of ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ who wrote his autobiography in exquisite English, and went into the Church of Rome. What did he do in the Church of Rome?

This question his biographer answers. In brief, he did nothing, because the ecclesiastical authorities would not allow him to do anything. His life was a series of bitter disappointments. Believing, with all confidence, that his mission was to commend the Catholic Church to the English people, he found himself deprived of every opportunity. His first purpose, to establish a theological college, was prevented by the suspicions which were aroused by his Essay on Development. Then he was asked to form a Catholic university in Ireland. This, he felt, would be the ’renewal of his work at Oxford, but with the world-wide church to back him, and the Rock of Peter to support him.’ But the Irish Primate hindered him, and the Irish people were indifferent, and the plan failed. He was asked to edit a translation of the Bible into English; but that was stopped by Cardinal Wiseman. He became editor of the Rambler, a review which was to give a voice to the intellectual Catholics; but ‘he was asked to resign after his first number, and delated to Rome for heresy after his second.’ He planned an Oratory for Oxford, where he hoped to exert an influence on the Catholic undergraduates; that was defeated by Manning. In 1863, he wrote in his journal, ‘Till my going to Littlemore, I had my mouth half open, and commonly a smile on my face, — and from that time onwards my mouth has been closed and contracted, and the muscles are so set now, that I cannot but look grave and forbidding.’ And he recalled a visit to the Vatican with a friend who stopped before ‘a statue of Fate which was very striking and stern and melancholy,’ and said, ‘Who can it be like? I know the face so well.’ Then he turned to Newman and added, ‘Why, it is you!'

In all this, there was no disloyalty to the Roman Church, no regretful retrospect, no doubt but that he was in the true Church of Christ at last; the difficulty was that the Church seemed to have no use for him, thwarted all his endeavors to serve the Catholic cause, put him to silence, and subjected him, as he said, to ‘unintermittent mortification.’ At the heart of it all was the persistent refusal of the Church to allow of any freedom of debate. Intent as he was on so explaining the Catholic faith as to bring it to the acceptance of the educated classes, he saw the necessity of a certain ‘provisional freedom in the discussion of new problems.’ He desired that liberty of discussion which was current in the mediæval schools, and which brought the genius of philosophy to the assistance of the faith. ‘Truth is wrought out,’he said, ‘by many minds working freely together. As far as I can make out,’ he added, ‘this has ever been the rule of the Church till now.’ But the Holy See was in contention with Continental liberalism. It was in no mind to encourage ‘the provisional toleration of freedom of opinion and of free debate among experts.’ Not at all. Newman found himself shut up behind stone walls of dogmas and decrees.

The question concerning the spiritual relationships between Newman and Tyrrell is discussed several times in Tyrrell’s Life,⁹ and it is made plain that the younger man was quite independent of the older. He certainly made his way out of the Church of England into the Church of Rome without Newman’s guidance; in fact, without anybody’s guidance. In his frank, amusing, and pathetic autobiography, he traces the steps by which, as a lad without religion, he found his way first to a ‘high’ church, and then on to Rome. ‘My fundamental assumption,’ he says, ‘was that the religion I was brought up in was the only authorized and tenable form of Christianity; that popery was utterly indefensible except as a paradox, and for the sake of shocking Protestant propriety. But here was something piquant: popery in a Protestant Church and using the Book of Common Prayer. I cannot doubt that it was the wrongness, the soupçon of wickedness or at least of paradox, that faintly fascinated me; the birettas and cassock made the fibres of one’s Protestantism quiver. I had almost discovered a new sin, and found the sensation novel and agreeable.’ Tyrrell himself remarks upon the entire difference between his course and Newman’s: Newman, beginning with the presence of God in the voice of conscience in a sold naturally religious, and coming on through study into the Roman obedience; Tyrrell, beginning with the outside of religion, with its mere ritual fringes, believing first in the Church, and gradually coming to believe in God.

The two men differed intellectually and temperamentally. Newman, in spite of a perpetually recurring skepticism, was instinctively submissive to authority, and devoutly desired to think as the Church bade him think. Taking a divinely communicated body of theology and divinely developed rites and customs as the premises of his arguments, he directed the energies of his singularly subtle mind toward the justification of these things. Accepting creed and custom without inquiry, he endeavored to commend them to his doubting neighbors. Tyrrell, on the other hand, was intent on absolute reality, and questioned all assertions. His mind was of the kind called ‘scientific,’ and demanded sufficient proof. And this was accentuated by a certain natural audacity, and by a keen perception of the ridiculous.

Thus Newman writes characteristically from Rome: ‘We saw the blood of St. Patrizia half liquid, i.e., liquefying, on her feast day. St. John Baptist’s blood sometimes liquefies on the 29th of August, and did when we were at Naples, but we had not time to go to the church. We saw the liquid blood of an Oratorian Father, a good man, but not a saint, who died two centuries ago, I think; and we saw the liquid blood of Da Ponte, the great and holy Jesuit, who, I suppose, was almost a saint. But the most strange phenomenon is what happens at Ravello, a village or town above Amalfi. There is the blood of St. Pantaleon. It is in a vessel amid the stone work of the altar, — it is not touched, — but on his feast in June it liquefies. And more, there is an excommunication against those who bring portions of the True Cross into the church. Why? because the blood liquefies, whenever it is brought. I tell you what was told me by a grave and religious man.’

Tyrrell was in a way as conservative about these matters as Newman, but his conservatism was based on the possibility that at the heart of much that was foolish there might be some spark of truth. ‘The Church’s mythology and magic,’ he said, ‘stand for tracts of experience wholly discounted ’ by scientific minds. ’I will not throw away the husks till I am cocksure that they are empty.’ But concerning the teachings of ‘grave and religious’ men, Tyrrell’s account of his Jesuit novitiate shows how unawed he was in the presence of these reverend persons. At the English College of the Jesuits at. Malta, the Rector ‘thought it would be good for me to attend the “points” which he gave the lay-brothers over-night for their morning meditation. It was an irresistibly funny performance. In we four trooped every evening, and no sooner had the brothers reached their chairs than they closed their eyes, then nodded, and finally snored aloud. And who could blame them? The Rector would read through the pointless points of Father Lancicius, and then, in a few stumbling words of his own, rob them of whatever little gleam of interest or intelligence they possessed. How I used to stare and wonder!'

Nevertheless, Newman and Tyrrell had the same sense of mission, and encountered the same hindrances. Each of them desired ’to pour Catholic truth out of the scholastic into the modern world.’ Each of them perceived that there were new problems which must be studied and solved, and that the answers to them could not be found in the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas. And each of them was held back by the hand of authority. At the moment when it was plain to Tyrrell that truth must be presented to educated men, not on a basis of decrees, but on a basis of reason, the Church was wholly occupied in setting forth the impossible claims of authority, and making up for lack of argument by loudness of voice. He says, ‘The best policy, I half think, would be not to oppose but to fan the flame of this “Authority-fever,” and to get them to declare the infallibility of every congregation, of the General of the Jesuits, of every Monsignore in Rome, to define the earth to be a plate supported on pillars, and the sky a dish-cover; in short, to let them run their heads against a stone wall, in hopes it may wake them up to sober realities.’ Meanwhile, all his writing had to run the gauntlet of two censorships, Jesuit and diocesan. ‘I could get nothing through two iron walls,’he said, ‘not even the Pater Noster if it were in my own handwriting.’

At first, he published under other names, then, in defiance of authority, under his own name. He was officially silenced, then excommunicated. In the midst of this contention between the institution and the individual, Tyrrell, who was never very well, died, after a brief illness. The biographer, who tells the dramatic story with great fairness and restraint, permits herself a single bitter sentence. Speaking of Cardinal Mercier, she says, ‘The one whom he had first befriended and then condemned was carried to his grave in a Protestant cemetery; while no Prince of the Church was there to speak over him such words of Christian hope and joy and exaltation in the death of the just as the Cardinal Archbishop himself had the happiness of uttering later, in his panegyric of King Leopold of Belgium.’

What the Roman authorities really feared was that Father Tyrrell, if they left him to himself, might presently write such a history as Professor Johnston’s Holy Christian Church;¹⁰ or such interpretation as Dr. Gilbert’s Jesus,¹¹which divests the life of Christ of all supernatural elements; or such theology as Professor Leuba’s Psychological Study of Religion,¹² which maintains that God has only a subjective existence. They felt themselves unfitted by their training to meet such books with satisfactory answers. They did not perhaps sufficiently consider that most people, like themselves, are providentially endowed with a certain imperviousness of mind. They were really alarmed lest the advocates of prose should overcome the advocates of poetry, and prove that flowers and colored clouds do not exist, and that there is no life in the trees, no soul in man. They did not perceive that ‘common, flat, and impoverishing’ theories of religion, to use Tyrrell’s adjectives, have something obviously the matter with them by virtue of their very reasonableness. The elemental fact of mystery is too pervasive to be long left out of account. Everybody remembers how Romanes, after invincibly proving from his premises that God does not exist, found that he had left out one or two very important premises, and going over the problem again, got quite a different answer. Thus John Fiske, after some years of reflection, became an expounder of the Christian creed, like Professor Royce. Sometimes the destructive critic falls into the errors of ignorance: like Professor Johnston, whose church history is such an essay as a very busy geologist might write on the career of Napoleon Bonaparte. It is the opinion of the best historians, says the geologist, that Napoleon was born in North Carolina. It is the opinion of the best critics, says Mr. Johnston, that the earliest gospel was written by Luke. And so on. More commonly, however, the destructive critic lacks what Professor Royce¹³ calls ‘religious insight,’ which is related to religion as appreciation is related to art or music.

It was never seriously doubted that Robertson Smith¹⁴ possessed religious insight, although it was complained of him that he had an irreverent voice; as for his knowledge, he had to account for it himself on the ground that he was one of the few persons who had read the entire ninth edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica, of which he was chief editor. When, however, his article on the Bible appeared in the course of that work, it was felt in Scotland that something must be done. And when, soon after, the alphabet brought into view his article on Deuteronomy, the minds of the orthodox were made up. The fact that Smith, as the chief scholar of his nation, might properly be expected to know more than many of his brethren, was not considered; nor the further fact that his opinions were those which had for a long time been held in Germany.

In Scotland, as in Rome, the institution withstood the individual. The Holy Scriptures were felt to be in danger. Smith said that Deuteronomy was written long after the days of Moses. ‘The book of inspired Scripture called Deuteronomy, which is properly an historical record, does not possess that character, but was made to assume it by a writer of a much later age.’ So he was ejected from his professorship. This took place after several trials, and as the conclusion of many free debates, whose extended publicacation in the newspapers contributed to the education of the people. In all this there is no note of sadness, no such depression as weighed upon the souls of Newman and Tyrrell. The heretic had hosts of friends, — eminent scholars, and uncommonly interesting persons; between the terms of his trials, he traveled in the East; he wrote books which were advertised by his opponents, and he enjoyed the fray. Newman would not have listed him among the saints; he delighted in the world too much for that. But he had the true saint’s combination of faith with reason, and the true saint’s devotion to the truth as the supreme good; and he had, as a friend said, ‘the heart of a little child,’ without which nobody can be a saint at all.