The March 2017 issue of our Gazette is available to view or download here. May you all have a Blessed and Fruitful lenten season. God bless you, The Willson Family
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The following is taken from the book, "THE CATHOLIC'S READY ANSWER" by BY Rev. M. P. HILL, S.J. IMPRIMATUR 1914 The intention of this book was to give Catholics ready answers when they were confronted about certain subjects concerning the Faith.
THE CHURCH OF CHRIST HOW TO FIND IT Objection.—If the true Church of Christ is still in existence the claimants to that title are so numerous that the problem of finding the Church is beyond the powers of any but extraordinary minds. The average man might be excused if he gave up the search. The Answer—The problem is not so difficult in itself; it is often made difficult by the way in which it is approached. Christ established a Church that could be recognized by all men, high and low, learned and unlearned. "Go ye into the whole world and preach the Gospel to every creature." These are His words; and when He added, ''He that believeth not shall be condemned," He implied that to recognize the truth was possible, and more than possible, for otherwise the refusal to do so would not incur damnation. But the acceptance of the bare teaching of the Gospel was not enough; that teaching was to be enshrined in a Church —an organized society—to whose rulers obedience was to be due. Christ speaks of "building" a Church, that is to say, of founding a permanent organization for the guidance of men to salvation. He enjoins obedience to it in such words as, "He that will not hear the Church, let him be to thee as the heathen and the publican." The sacred writings abound in allusions to a Church, or assembly of believers, governed by the apostles or those appointed by them; a Church, too, about entering or not entering which there could be no question: to belong to it was a universal obligation. CONDITIONS FOR SOLVING THE PROBLEM The obstacles preventing one from getting at the truth about the Church vary, of course, with the individual. There are persons who feel a sort of fascination in merely skirmishing with the subject, and, generally, in merely playing with religious ideas. Religion is an interesting subject; mystery is always alluring; and in our age there is a tendency to speculate about religion much in the spirit in which Doctor Johnson says the Greeks were wont to do, that is to say, without much sense of personal religious obligation. But such is not the spirit that pervades the New Testament. In the mind of Christ religion has a practical aspect which can not be dissociated from it. A right mode of worship, a working out of one's salvation by the aid of religion, a submission to divinely appointed authority in the Church (one true Church, as is plain), all this was an essential part of the plan of salvation to which Christ came to give effect. There is no choice left us but to use the means of salvation which He has provided. As He equipped the apostles and their successors with extraordinary powers, even that of binding and loosing, and that of opening and closing the gates of heaven, and commanded all men to hear them — "He that heareth you heareth Me : and he that despiseth you despiseth Me" (Luke x. 16)—the possession of such authority would be absurd if men might at pleasure submit or refuse to submit to those who possessed it. Membership in the Church presided over by the successors of the apostles is therefore a matter of the strictest personal obligation; and for those who are not yet among its members the duty of inquiry and of prompt and generous action is one of the most pressing nature. Before or after one has begun his inquiry he may be hampered by another obstacle prejudice, especially inherited prejudice, or that instilled in early childhood— prejudice that tends to block out all inquiry in certain directions in which it is taken for granted that the truth can not possibly be found. Many a convert to the Faith has been kept out of the Fold of Christ by prejudice the greater part of his life. Whenever there is question of putting oneself in an order established by Providence, or of personal salvation, which is the same thing, the closing of any avenue by which truth may reach the mind involves a risk which no man has any warrant for taking. Another obstacle lies in the complexity of the problem; a complexity, however, which is not of its essence. The solution is difficult because it seems to be a matter of deciding between hundreds of sects all of which are denominated Christian, or of shifting from one sect to another till the right one is found. The problem must be simplified, and so simplified that a key to its solution may be put into the hands of all. The Church, we must repeat, is a Church that may easily be recognized by all, for to all the Gospel was to be preached. The Church must, therefore, possess distinguishing marks which can easily be recognized. THE MARKS OR SIGNS OF THE TRUE CHURCH The necessity of some marks or notes by which to distinguish the Church is acknowledged by Protestants as well as by Catholics; but the notes set forth by Protestants may be shown to be impracticable as guides. Protestants tell us that the true Church is to be found wherever there is a right preaching of the word of God and a right administration of the sacraments. Now this double criterion is clearly delusive; not only because it fails to distinguish the Church from schismatical bodies, but also and chiefly because these two supposed notes of the Church are, practically, no notes at all —that is to say, outward visible marks which are easily distinguished. They are facts, it is true, to any one to whom they can be proved to be facts, but they are not signs or marks which can be matter of direct observation. Sermons and rites are, of course, observable facts, but the rightness or wrongness of sermons or rites is not an observable fact. If I am told, therefore, that any given religious sect is known to be the one true Church of Christ by the fact that it preaches the Gospel aright and administers the sacraments aright, my answer at once is a challenge: Prove that such is the character of its preaching and of its sacramental system. I have asked for a sign and am given instead a proposition that needs to be proved. The Catholic Church, on the other hand, insists on the application of tests which are more ready to hand but which, nevertheless, are infallible. The notes of the Church to which she appeals are supplied by the Nicene Creed, which is accepted by the greater part of Christendom. The true Church is one, holy, catholic, and apostolic. Here we have four distinguishing traits which, comparatively speaking, are easily discerned. The church possessing them can not easily conceal them. Unity and catholicity (or universality) will be manifest to the average observer. Holiness in ends, means, results, can not long lie hidden. As to apostolicity, or the Church's descent from the apostles, if any world-wide church possesses it, the fact will be written legibly on the pages of history. Now the Roman Catholic Church is the only church to which these marks, either singly or in their totality, belong. In the first place, there is prima facie (or first sight) evidence of their belonging to the Church of Rome. The "old" Church, as every one calls it, conspicuous for its unity, spread throughout the world (it is anything but narrow or national), and exerting a special power and influence for good—does not this sound like a description of the Church of Rome? And in what other church does the presence of these traits show itself on the very surface? Here, then, we have a point of departure for the inquirer: the claims of the Roman Catholic Church merit first consideration, just as in physical science first indications all pointing one way have the first claim to the attention of the investigator. In the course of his study the inquirer will be led to see that the "old" Church is the veritable Church of the apostles by reason of the continuity of its tradition; that its unity is perfect and could only have been preserved by a special providence; that its holiness is greater than at first sight appeared, and is due mainly to the preservation of the divine element in its ministrations; and that in its character of a world-religion it is as universal as the merciful designs of its divine Founder. The inquirer will now be ready for a more particular study of the notes as possessed by the Roman Catholic Church. Apostolicity.—What is the origin of the present hierarchy of the Catholic Church, that is to say, of the graded ministry consisting of the Pope, the patriarchs, the bishops, the priests, etc.? It takes no profound knowledge of history to see in the present hierarchy the lineal descendants, in a spiritual sense, of the apostles and their immediate successors. In each successive age we find the hierarchy of the time safely anchored in the past. Each diocese could exhibit the unbroken line of its spiritual rulers from the beginning. In the earlier centuries heresies were triumphantly refuted by the application of the touchstone of apostolic succession. "We have it in our power," said Irenaeus in the second century, "to enumerate those who were by the apostles instituted bishops in the churches and the successors of those bishops down to ourselves." The same boast is repeated by Tertullian in the third century, and by others in successive ages down to the present. It is conceded by all that the present hierarchy of the Catholic Church is in a direct line of descent from the apostles. The acknowledgment of this fact is a matter of the first importance; for undoubtedly if the question is, which of the churches is the one true Church of Christ, a church whose succession of teachers and rulers can be traced to apostolic days must possess an immense advantage in the discussion as compared with any church not possessing such perfectly visible links connecting it with the beginnings of Christianity. And now let us apply the test of apostolicity to the other churches. How can they possibly establish any connection with the apostolic age? Lutheranism began with Luther, a self-commissioned preacher, who succeeded for a time in making his opinions acceptable to his followers. A similar origin is that of all the Evangelical religions that have sprung up since the first half of the sixteenth century. We gather from the sacred writings that a preacher must have his credentials. He can not preach unless commissioned to do so. "How shall they preach unless they be sent?" asks St. Paul, writing to the Romans (x. 15). No one can preach in Christ's name unless commissioned by Christ Himself, as the apostles were, or by those who have received their authority from Him. Hence the necessity of a succession of commissioned preachers, each receiving his authority from another, and all tracing their commission back to Christ Himself. How shall they preach unless they he sent? What answer then can be made to the crucial question, Who sent Luther, Calvin, and Zwingli to preach? And above all, who could have sent them to preach a doctrine at variance with that universally taught in the Church of Christ? Is there any meaning in being ''sent" if the one sent preaches what he pleases? The truth is that the whole doctrine regarding the necessity of the preacher's being sent was virtually repudiated by the self-constituted reformers of the sixteenth century. They took the bold stand of preaching a doctrine opposed to that of the Church, although it was only from the Church they could have received a commissi0n to preach at all. Did they fancy they were sent directly by the Holy Ghost? If so, what manner of credentials did they bring with them? St. Paul was sent by the Holy Ghost, but his credentials were well certified. His mission was revealed to the Church, he conferred with the other apostles about his teachings and taught the same doctrines as they. The Reformers' commission from the Holy Ghost had no such certification. Furthermore, the idea of apostolic continuity includes much more than the bare fact of succession in office; otherwise the occupant of an episcopal see, though he turned Mohammedan and preached Mohammedanism, might still claim to be a successor of the apostles! The faith and practice of the apostles must also be handed on to posterity by the occupants of sees. If the rulers of God's Church in the twentieth century do not stand for all that the apostles stood for in point of teaching and ministry the note of apostolicity is gone. It is conceivable that a bishop duly consecrated and given local jurisdiction should lapse from the Faith and use his office in the interest of heresy. In that case apostolic succession would be a body without a soul. Jurisdiction, no less than orthodoxy, would necessarily cease, and true internal succession would be no more than a name. And if such a bishop should consecrate another to be his successor and to propagate his heresy, the status of the latter would be like that of his predecessor. This is plain common sense, as well as the teaching of the Fathers. Now if this be the case there must be in the Church of Christ a criterion of genuine internal apostolic succession; and our contention is that the only church possessing any such criterion is the Church which acknowledges the jurisdiction of the See of Rome. It is precisely by and through this universal jurisdiction, wherever it has been acknowledged, that orthodoxy has been preserved and the faithful have been given a security that they were under the genuine successors of the apostles. It is not our purpose at present to establish the claims of the Roman primacy—that we have done elsewhere in this volume—(see ''The Pope II—Christ's Vicar"); and after all, we are dealing only with the phase of apostolicity which constitutes it a mark or sign of the true Church, easily discernible by the many. The Roman Church is the only 0ne that has any recognized criterion of apostolical succession, whilst the other churches have absolutely none. According to the Anglican view, apostolicity in the Church consists of a number of separate streams of apostolic succession, each flowing in its own channel and never, unless accidentally, brought into conjunction with the others; whereas from the apostolic age onward the mind of Christendom has conceived of the Apostolic Church as an organic whole, symbolized, according to St. Paul and the Fathers, by the living human body, whose members are made one with the head. What possible criterion can Anglicans have in the matter of teaching and jurisdiction? Even if Anglican orders were valid, do orders confer local jurisdiction? If so, where is the proof of it? When the first Anglican bishops forced themselves out of the framework of the ecclesiastical polity in which their predecessors had been for ages, what guarantee could they give their flocks that they wielded apostolic authority? The voice of all Christendom was against them as it is today; the Pope, whose supremacy their predecessors had acknowledged, repudiated them; there was no foundation in Scripture for their anomalous position; and henceforth the veriest of heretics, if he succeeded in getting some genuine bishop to place his hands upon him, might usurp the government of a diocese in the name of Christ and His apostles. If opposed by the Anglican authorities and required to answer the question, ''Where did you get your jurisdiction?" he might with justice ask them in turn, "Where did you get yours ?"' Historically, the Anglican system has borne its natural fruits in its evolution of doctrine and worship. Anglicanism embraces today every form of teaching from Roman Catholicism (or something akin to it) to the veriest Zwinglianism, and from Zwinglianism to Unitarianism, or worse; but its formularies and its Prayer Book are sufficiently elastic to be made to cover every vagary of the Anglican mind. The case of the schismatical churches of the East is scarcely better than that of Anglicanism. For more than eight centuries their standing before the rest of Christendom was assured by the one bond of union which united them with all the other churches—the primacy of the See of Rome. Today, severed from the center of unity, they seek in vain for a rallying-point of orthodoxy. What is to be thought of apostolical teaching and jurisdiction in churches which for centuries acknowledged the supremacy of the Pope, then renounced it, again on two separate occasions embraced it, once more renounced it, till finally they lapsed into a state of bondage to the secular power which has been the latest stage of their downward course? It is evident, therefore, that the Church presided over by the Pope is the only one possessing the note of apostolicity. It is apostolic because its bishops are the true successors of the apostles and because it has a principle of unity which is the only guarantee of apostolic succession. Unity.—Unity and apostolicity, though differing in idea, are nevertheless so intimately connected that the one can not exist without the other. As true apostolicity includes the transmission of the doctrine and practice, in all essential matters, of the apostolic Church, and as that Church was one and undivided, a church which possesses the note of apostolicity must be one and undivided in its teaching, its worship and its form of government. Perfect unity was an essential element of the design which our divine Lord carried into execution when He instituted the Church. For this unity He prayed and the prayer of the Son of God could not have been made in vain. "Holy Father," He prayed, "keep in Thy name those whom Thou hast given Me, that they may he one, as We also are" (John xvii. 11). "And not for them only do I pray, but for them also who through their word shall believe in Me; that they all may be one, as Thou, Father, in Me, and I in Thee ; that they also may be one in Us; that the world may believe that Thou hast sent Me" (xvii. 20, 21). As the prayer of Christ must have been heard, there still exists a Church which exhibits such unity, a unity the model of which is that which subsists between the Eternal Father and His only-begotten Son, a unity the possession of which by the Church is a sign that it was founded by One who was sent by the Eternal Father: ''That the world may believe that Thou hast sent Me." There must be in existence at the present moment a church which is one and undivided in belief, in worship and in corporate life. The one Church possessing such unity is not far to seek: the only Church which exhibits this triple unity is the Church properly called Catholic—the Church in communion with the See of Rome. Its unity is, indeed, the despair of its enemies, many of whom, unable to copy it, have imitated the fox in the fable by decrying it as pernicious, as shackling human liberty and as an obstacle to human progress. The Roman Catholic Church possesses a unity which is the necessary consequence of its having a center of authority, from which radiate a power and an influence which unify the exceedingly varied human elements of which it is composed; a unity which is at once inimitable and indestructible: and both of these qualities proclaim its divine origin. If it were of human invention it would have been overthrown long before today; but this principle of unity is as strongly entrenched as ever and continues to win adherents to the Church from the ranks of those whose forefathers, a few centuries ago, abandoned it. If it were of human invention the human mind could produce some imitation of it; whereas the unity of the Catholic Church is simply inimitable. It has no parallel in any human society, religious or secular. The unity of the Catholic Church is, of course, incompatible with absolute freedom of thought in matters religious. When a point of doctrine is explicitly set forth by Holy Writ, or when it is clearly defined by divinely constituted authority, the only rational course to be followed by the human intellect is to bow in submission to a higher authority than itself; just as in purely mundane matters one mind will accept the judgment of another better informed. But outside the circle of truth thus revealed or defined there is a vast field opened to human speculation, one, indeed, in which the brightest intellects have ranged untrammeled for centuries. In this connection, however, there is one essential difference between the Catholic Church and all other religious bodies: controversies may arise about matters as yet undefined, but the parties in each dispute acknowledge the Church's power to settle the question at issue and accept beforehand, with full interior assent, any decision which the Church may deem it advisable to give. The recognition of such authority is the one great condition for the realization of the unity for which Our Lord prayed to His Eternal Father. It is all but needless to show how this truly Christian unity contrasts with the imperfect unity, or rather the absence of unity, that characterizes the sects. No sooner has any part of God's Church discarded the principle of unity and severed itself from the main body than, at once, discord begins to appear and sooner or later reigns supreme. Authority is superseded by opinion and opinion varies with the individual mind. We must leave it to the impartial judgment of our readers to say whether such a state of things was contemplated by the divine Founder of Christianity. And yet it is not rare to hear Protestants maintain that among themselves there is unity in essentials and disagreement in non-essentials; but if you ask them which doctrines are essential and which are not, you will find that few Protestants will give the same answer. Even doctrines once regarded as essential by all Christians—the divinity of Christ, for instance—have in recent times lost their hold upon countless minds within the Protestant pale. Religious belief has been left to the chance working out of human opinion; and gradually opinion diverges and sects multiply. The very cornerstone of Protestantism, the Bible, has lost its place of honor and the crumbling of the fabric erected over it is proceeding apace. Catholics, on the other hand, are fully entitled to use the distinction between "essential" and ''non-essential," for they have in their midst an ever-living voice of authority, which decides to-day, as it decided in the first assembly of the apostles in Jerusalem, which teachings are essential and which are not. Catholicity or Universality.—The mission of the apostles was to the entire world, and the mission of the Church is the same. Hence she can place no limit, geographical or racial, to the exercise of her ministry. ''You shall be witnesses unto Me in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and even to the uttermost part of the earth" (Acts i. 8). These words are at once mandatory and prophetic: they enjoin the universal preaching of the Gospel and predict the fulfillment of the injunction. In penetrating to every part of the earth the Church is, of course, dependent on time and on geographical discovery, but she would be unfaithful to her mission if she did not strenuously endeavor to extend her field of action; and Christ's promises would be unfulfilled if the Church were not actually found in every inhabitable and accessible place on the earth. The term "Catholic" or "Universal" was variously applied by the Fathers of the early Church, but the meaning most commonly attached to the word was that of universality of place. Such ubiquitous presence was always regarded as a test whereby the true Church of Christ was to be distinguished from its counterfeits. Heretical bodies were identified with particular localities, and against them appeal was made to the Church that was known the world over, and also, be it added to the one unvarying doctrine which it everywhere taught. For this oneness of doctrine is an essential element of Catholicity regarded as a note of the Church. If the Church, whilst extending itself geographically, changed its teaching, extension would be a virtual multiplication of churches. The greater the extension the greater the number of the sects. What we shall look for, therefore, is a world-church—a church which is actually spread throughout the world and a church which is everywhere the same. Now which of the churches answers this description? Can there be two possible answers to the question? Of the missionaries of the Catholic Church it may be said, as was said of the apostles, "Their sound hath gone forth into all the earth and their words unto the ends of the whole world." At no period of its existence has there been a known part of the earth unvisited by them. They have followed hard upon the footsteps of the explorer; nay, not unfrequently has the apostolic man been in the very van of discovery. Columbus, the greatest of discoverers, was no less an apostle than a man of the sea. The labors and the success of our missionaries have won the enthusiastic praise even of our enemies. The ''Black Robe" among the North American Indians, the Jesuit of the South American reductions, the Xaviers and the Riccis of the Orient, have become household words among ordinary readers of history. In comparatively recent times seven million Filipinos have been won to Christianity and civilization. Even in China, where the spread of the Gospel has met with almost insuperable obstacles, the success of the French missionaries is the despair of their Protestant rivals in the same field. And who has not heard of the work of Cardinal Lavigerie and his "White Fathers" in preaching Christianity and aiding in the destruction of the slave trade in the wilds of Africa? The significance of these facts is that the Catholic Church has the same universality of outlook as the divine Master when He sent His disciples to preach the Gospel to every creature, and that in every age she endeavors more and more to realize the ideal of absolute universality which every true Christian must have at heart. And if we ask the further question, which of the churches is actually established everywhere and is the same everywhere, the same answer is supplied by facts which all the world knows. If any one wishes to realize the ubiquity of the Catholic religion let him place himself in imagination in the Vatican, and endeavor for a moment to look abroad upon the world with the eyes of the present sovereign pontiff, Benedict XV. His children are found in all the countries of the globe. There is not a corner of the earth to which his jurisdiction does not extend. There is not an island in the remotest seas from which some ecclesiastic may not be wending his way ad limina Apostolorum, to lay the burden of his cares at the feet of the common father. St. Paul's ''solicitude for all the churches" {i.e., for the various parts of one and the same Church) was necessarily great, considering the number of foundations that claimed his care; but what would be his solicitude if he were at the head of the entire Church today ? And what glowing descriptions of the kingdom of God on earth would he give in his letters if he could look beyond the Pillars of Hercules and see the countries of a new world whose teeming populations looked to him for guidance and assistance! If the extent of the Pope's dominion be expressed in numbers of souls subject to him it is no less impressive. (In 1914) Nearly three hundred million human beings, belonging to every clime and speaking every human tongue, and yet a unit in loyalty and obedience to a common father! The more varied the membership of the Church Catholic the greater is the wonder excited by its perfect unity in belief and practice. Such perfect unanimity can not have a human origin. Any attempt to explain it by any purely human or other natural cause must prove utterly futile. The only valid explanation is to be found in the promise, "Behold, I am with you all days even to the consummation of the world." And now let us apply the test of Catholicity to those bodies of Christians which have separated themselves from the See of Rome. The sterility of the Eastern churches is almost proverbial. Schism and heresy have produced their effect in paralyzing apostolic zeal. The churches of the East will always be the churches of the East: the local brand will always distinguish them, until one day, as we may hope, they will range themselves among the loyal subjects of Christ's Vicar on earth. And what shall we say of the Reformed churches? After four hundred years' existence the barrenness of Protestantism in the field of missionary labor is only too evident. With unlimited resources, what has it accomplished in the newer countries of the world? What are its conquests? What nation has it brought within the pale of Christianity ? The geographical extension of Protestantism has been due almost entirely to the migration of Protestants from their ancestral homes in Europe. In an age in which anything that may be transported on wheels or by water may be given some sort of universality it is not surprising that Methodism or Presbyterianism is in some manner represented in the four quarters of the globe; but in many places the sects are little more than represented. Protestant missionary enterprises as compared with Catholic have been egregious failures. Even where Protestantism has extended itself by reason of the accidents of time its unity, such as it is, has been proportionately impaired. When Anglicanism or Methodism or Presbyterianism transplants itself to a new country its new habitat will sooner or later give it a new name and a new creed. In the beginning of its history, Protestantism, securing the patronage of certain potentates in Northern Europe, succeeded in forcing its creed upon whole countries, but its native feebleness was demonstrated wherever it was brought fairly into competition, on anything like equal terms, with Catholic zeal. In the first years of the Reformation Protestantism was in a fair way to possessing the whole of Europe; but soon an army of saintly and energetic Catholic missionaries entered the field, and 'The work of conversion," says Ranke, "advanced with resistless force," and vast provinces were recovered to the Faith. ''Fifty years after the Lutheran separation," says Macaulay, ''Catholicism could scarcely maintain itself on the shores of the Mediterranean; a hundred years after the separation Protestantism could scarcely maintain itself on the shores of the Baltic." Even today, in every country in which Protestantism once dominated, the tide of Catholicism is steadily advancing and the forces of Protestantism are steadily retiring. We have said more than enough to show that the Church in communion with Rome is the world-religion which the religion of Christ was intended to be; that everywhere in the world it is found to be the same and always true to itself; and that it exhibits an unequaled vitality of apostolic zeal which constantly tends toward the realization of that perfect and absolute universality which was in the mind of Christ when He sent the apostles to preach the Faith throughout the world. It is the only Church, therefore, entitled to the name of Catholic. Holiness.—As the Church is the creation of the Son of God it should partake of the holiness of its Founder. It possesses a guarantee of holiness in the promise of Christ, ''Behold, I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world" (Matt, xxviii. 20), and in the assurance that the ''gates of hell shall not prevail against it" (Matt, xvi. 18), for if it were not holy it could not withstand the attacks of the evil one. The Church must be holy in its teaching, in the means it employs to sanctify its members, and in its actual sanctification of them. As regards personal holiness in the members of Christ's Church, it is evident from the Gospels that Christ foresaw that many would not respond to His generous designs in their regard. Men's wills would be free, and many would abuse their freedom of will and refuse to avail themselves of the means of salvation so bountifully provided for them. "It must needs be that scandals come," He said to His disciples. He foretold that iniquity would abound and that the charity of many would grow cold (Matt. xxiv. 12). Nay, before the close of His own life two of His twelve apostles, one-sixth of the whole numher!—sinned grievously, the one through weakness, the other through overruling passion. And afterward, even during the lifetime of the apostles, the beauty and the glory of Christ's Church were marred by schism and the grossest of vices. The inquirer must not, then, be misled by a false criterion. He must not be surprised if he finds tares among the wheat and vice in the near neighborhood of holiness. He must distinguish between the Church as a divine institution and the Church as an aggregate of individual men. Once we have mastered this distinction we can turn to the Church as a divine institution, and as entrenched in the divine promises, with the expectation of finding in it a reflection of the holiness of Him who founded it. We shall expect in particular to find in the Church: 1. A loyalty to moral standards and principles; 2. An effectiveness in teaching and enforcing the divine law; 3. A preservation of the channels of divine grace ; 4. A sanctification of souls on a large scale. Now what church can stand a comparison with the Roman Catholic touching the first two of these points? There is no need of going far afield to discover what lies at our doors. Our own country furnishes an object-lesson on the moral influence of Catholic teaching. Here in the United States, in the present perilous condition of morals, what power or influence, or if you will, what public institution can be thought able to cope with the moral corruption that is advancing upon us like a deluge? Will some faltering voice suggest "Methodism, " or ''Presbyterianism," or ''Anglicanism"? The weak influence these institutions have upon individual consciences in the present augurs ill for their influence in the future. What we need is not sermons or Bible lectures only, but an institution that shall retain a firm hold on the traditional principles of Christian morality, and at the same time use effectual means of promoting morality. What Church can bear comparison with the Catholic in the guardianship of principles making for the moral welfare of society? The peace of families, the sacredness of the marriage bond, the religious education of the young, religion as the foundation of morality—where will any of these vital interests find in future generations an uncompromising defender except in the Church of Rome ? After three centuries or more of competition between the two rival systems of religion, the American public may now judge of the practical worth and the true intrinsic character of the system based upon private judgment, and compare it with the religion which speaks and acts with a consciousness of divinely given authority and refuses to surrender its principles to the "spirit of the age." More than half of the effectiveness of the Church 's ministrations lies in what is called the sacramental system, which the Church teaches is of divine origin. In the sacraments there is a special embodiment of the truth uttered by Our Lord, "Without Me you can do nothing" (John XV. 5). God's grace is absolutely necessary as a means of salvation. Without grace it is impossible to overcome any grievous temptation, or even to persevere for any considerable time in the practice of the purely natural virtues. Hence Our Lord, through the Church and by means of the seven sacraments, meets every human need in the moral order and is ready with His assistance at every important turn in the journey of life. Through the sacraments a divine power is infused into the soul, and with it the germ of stability and perseverance. It was a bold step that was taken by the Reformers when, by their simple fiat, they destroyed what from time immemorial had been regarded as divinely appointed channels of grace. The destruction of the system was followed by its natural consequence—a lack of religious vitality in the great mass of Reformed Christians. The divine nutriment once supplied the soul was now withheld and spiritual depletion was the result. Some of our Protestant readers whose surroundings may be exceptionally edifying will doubtless be offended at our implying that in point of vital religion Protestants are inferior to Catholics; but with all due regard for Protestant feeling the belief is not an unfounded one. We are not to judge by the few, but by the multitude. It was to the multitude that Christ preached, and a church's influence on the multitude must be one of the tests of its Christlike character. Will it be maintained that the sects have a hold upon the multitude here in America? Are they aware that we are confronted with a nation of indifferentists and agnostics? Are they ignorant of the influence of godless schools on practical morality? And all this, and much besides, in a country that was once the paradise of Protestantism! In contrast with this state of things, of the fifteen or sixteen millions that make up the solid Catholic phalanx the great majority are effectually and practically influenced by their vital connection with the Church, and especially by their reception of the sacraments. There is absolutely no comparison between the religious devotion of Catholics and that of non-Catholics. Their churches are filled, not only when attendance at religious services is of strict obligation, but frequently when it is not; and in nearly every church hundreds are seen at dawn assisting at the sacrifice of the Mass, and again, on week-day evenings, attending the services of their sodalities or other such associations. Thousands are active promoters of the Apostleship of Prayer, a really great instrument for the sanctification of souls. As regards the ordinary duties of life, the influence of the sacraments can not, of course, be brought home to the mind of any one outside the pale of the Church. Catholics know it and feel it; non-Catholics often see its effects but are unable to trace them to their cause. In the case of the sacrament of Penance, however, of the effects produced, one at least is fairly well known. A condition for the reception of the sacrament of Penance is the renouncement of every species of dishonesty and the restitution of ill-gotten gains. Indeed the renouncing of every vicious habit of a serious nature is a condition for receiving absolution from one's sins and admission to the reception of the Holy Eucharist. As regards the interior effects of the sacraments, which are best known to those who experience them, the most effective appeal we can make is to the testimony of those innumerable converts who have felt a new light and strength entering their souls with the grace of the sacraments. One of the ripest fruits of sacramental grace is the desire to embrace what is known as the way of the divine counsels, or the way of complete renunciation. Readers of the New Testament must remember how on one occasion a young man came to Our Lord and asked Him what he must do that he might have life everlasting. Our Lord, naturally enough, bade him observe the commandments; but when the young man said he had observed the commandments from his boyhood and asked what was still wanting to him, the Lord answered: "If thou wilt be perfect, go sell what thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come follow Me." Such is the way of the counsels—the giving up of all, to follow Christ the more perfectly. Are all our readers aware that this life of special renunciation has flourished in the Church in every period of its history ? Are they aware that today those who follow this manner of life may be numbered by the hundred thousand? They have heard of the Religious Orders of the Catholic Church; they have heard of their work of charity; perhaps they have heard of their apostolic zeal; the great bulk of the work of converting the heathen has been accomplished by the Religious Orders; but not all who are acquainted with this particular phase of the religious life are aware that the success of Religious in external labors is rooted in the most absolute self-renunciation, consisting, not only in the sacrifice of material treasure, but also in the immolation of the flesh and the will by the vows of chastity and obedience. It is needless to descant on the contrast between the Catholic Church and the other churches in the matter of the counsels. Attempts have indeed been made to naturalize the conventual life among non-Catholics, but they have only emphasized the need of its being planted in more congenial soil; and of this the latest proof has been given in the accession of whole communities of Anglican Religious to the Roman Catholic communion. It is plain that one important feature of Christian holiness is lacking in non-Roman religions. And this brings us to another, though not essentially different, aspect of the holiness of the Church. In the Church of Christ, which, appearing as it did after the twilight of type and prophecy, might be supposed to exhibit the noonday brightness of the reign of grace, one would expect to find some souls, nay, even very many in the course of ages, whose lives would show forth the transforming power of divine grace in an extraordinary degree. And who are these but the actual saints of the Catholic Church?—not only the canonized saints, but many besides whose memory will never be thus publicly honored. No age of the Church has been without them. Even in the sixteenth century, when the general decline in morals gave some color to the revolt against the Church of God, the number of canonized saints alone would be a surprise to our separated brethren. What, has Protestantism, or what have the sects of the Orient, to show in comparison with this galaxy of saintly men and women? Far be it from us to belittle the virtues—in many cases the superior virtues—of those who do not share our faith; for the realm of grace is, after all, not strictly commensurate with the limits of the Catholic Church. Even pagans and infidels are not totally deprived of the divine assistance. But were we to ask for a list of men and women of world-renowned sanctity, it is difficult to see from which of the Reformed religions it would be forthcoming. Let them endeavor from the worthies of the sixteenth century —or from those of any century, or from all the centuries and from all the sects—to match a list which comprises such names as those of a Xavier, a Philip Neri, an Ignatius of Loyola, a Pius V, a Charles Borromeo, a Francis Borgia, an Alphonsus Rodriguez, an Alphonsus Liguori, a John Berchmans, a Peter Claver, a Stanislaus Kostka, an Aloysius Gonzaga, a Cajetan, a Theresa, a John of the Cross or, to come closer to the present generation, a Perboyre, a Vianney (Cure of Ars), a Dom Bosco, a Clement Hofbauer. But the attempt will, of course, never be made by any one who knows what is meant by a Catholic saint. But there is yet another feature of the Church's holiness, which is the most distinctive of all, though it shows itself more rarely than the others. The special presence of the Holy Ghost in the Church is attested by the miraculous power conferred on at least a few in each age, and in the wonders wrought in places hallowed by the devotion of the faithful. When Our Lord commanded His apostles to preach the Gospel in the whole world, He made the following predictions: "And these signs shall follow them that believe: in My name they shall cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they shall drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them; they shall lay their hands upon the sick, and they shall recover" (Mark xvi. 17, 18). That these signs did follow we are told in the Acts of the Apostles. That miracles have been wrought since the days of the apostles is the testimony of reputable historians. But we are not wholly dependent on the witness of past ages for our belief in the continuance of this mark of divine favor in the Church of God. Miracles are worked probably on as grand a scale as ever before in the history of the Church. Miraculous healing of the most astounding kind has been wrought at the famous Grotto of Lourdes, in France. Diseases pronounced incurable, diseases of an organic nature, fractures, lesions, tumors, cancers, have been cured, often instantaneously and under the eyes of numerous witnesses. Official records of these events have been kept and have been submitted to the scrutiny of medical experts. There is nothing in nature to account for these wonders, and they are all connected with devotion to the Blessed Virgin under the title of Our Lady of Lourdes. There is an extensive literature bearing on these wonderful occurrences and information on the subject is within the reach of all inquirers. (Cf. ''Lourdes: A History of its Apparitions and Cures," by Georges Bertrin,—also "Miracles" in the present work.) But our aim just at present is not precisely to prove that miracles are actually performed. Our contention is that, as Our Lord promised this mark of His favor to the preaching of the word, as He did not, apparently, place any limit to the period of its continuance, and as it is probable that signs of His presence and power which He bestowed even upon the Jews of old would be continued in the Church which He came on earth to found, the Church which can present at least so much prima facie evidence of miracles and still believes in miracles, is more likely to be the true Church of God than any church which shows no signs of miraculous intervention and even discards a belief in miracles. The question here is: Which of the churches bears the greatest resemblance to the Church of Christ and His apostles, in this as in every other indication of holiness? And now we have almost brought to a close this exceptionally long article on a very important subject. We have endeavored to describe the marks by which the Church of Christ is to be recognized. These marks, we have contended, should be of the most conspicuous kind in the case of a religion that was to be preached to the entire world, and these marks are found only in the Church which acknowledges the supremacy of the See of Rome; in the Catholic Church, rightly and distinctively so called. Any church which fails to present the same credentials is not the Church of Christ, and consequently not the Ark of salvation, even though it preserve, as many churches do, some elements of ancient faith and piety. It is possible that one or other point in the above argumentation may not at once produce conviction in the mind of the inquirer. We would ask him, in that case, to look at the argument as a whole, and then ask himself in all sincerity whether any such case can be made out in favor of any church but that of Rome. If none can, there is no doubting the conclusion that a Church that exhibits so many signs of divine favor and of divine preservation must be the Church of Christ, and the one only Church of Christ, and that consequently, as Our Lord made the acceptance of the true Gospel, or, in other words, membership in His one and undivided Church, a condition of salvation, the practical step to be taken will easily suggest itself to any logical mind. The following is taken from the book, "THE CATHOLIC'S READY ANSWER" by Rev. M. P. HILL, S.J. IMPRIMATUR 1914 The intention of this book was to give Catholics ready answers when they were confronted about certain subjects concerning the Faith.
CREEDS AND DEEDS Erroneous View— Right conduct does not seem to depend much upon formulas of belief. There are good and bad men in all religions. The great thing, after all, is to do what is right. The Truth—The great thing, you say, is to do what is right, whether you believe what is right or not. But suppose for a moment that one of those things you are obliged to do is to accept certain articles of belief, or, in other words, to accept a creed—what then? Can you be indifferent to all creeds ? There is no Christian creed that does not profess to embody a divine revelation—an expression of God's own mind. The mind of God revealed to those whom He has created can not he a matter of indifference. What if one of those creeds should be a correct exponent of God's revelation: could you then be indifferent to all creeds, including the right one? True it is that creeds differ and are mutually contradictory, and that consequently they can not all be right. Indeed there is only one true creed, as there is only one true revelation; but, though creeds are so different, we are not left without a clue to the right one. But it is not our purpose just here to point to the path leading to the one true creed—that we have done elsewhere. (See "The Church of Christ—How to find it" and ''Indifferentism." I will post these two subjects in the next couple of days) We are anxious to come to close quarters with our indifferentist friend as regards his criterion of right and wrong actions. You say that our one great concern should be to do the right thing, whether we believe the right thing or not. Evidently, then, you regard some acts as good, others as bad; and in this we agree with you. But why do you so regard them? You answer that every one has an instinctive feeling that some things are morally right, others morally wrong. But I reply that we are rational beings, and if we can plead no more than instinct we do not act according to reason. You will rejoin that it is rational to judge of things by their results, and that the results of the practice of the virtues of honesty, sobriety, and chastity are happiness for the individual and general order and prosperity for society. In other words, the moral virtues work well. But that is not morality—it is only expediency. At any rate, you will say, there is a certain charm about right actions—which proves them to be right, and perhaps constitutes them such. Again, this is not the morally right, but the esthetically pleasing. Neither the expedient nor the esthetically pleasant answers to that conception of the morally good with which every child of Adam is gifted, and which it is the object of scientific ethics to bring into the foreground of consciousness. Morality implies a law, in the strictest sense of the term—a law which impresses itself on the conscience and tells me the right that must be done and the wrong that must be avoided. If there is no strict law back of the dictates of conscience there should be no sense of guilt when one does wrong; but it is precisely because before acting I feel the force of a just command, which is the expression and application of a law of morality, that after acting I feel guilty for having gone counter to it. On the other hand, I know of no command to do what is merely expedient or merely pleasing. It may be desirable to do the one or the other, but I don't feel bound to do either. But where it is a question of the morally right or the morally wrong, I feel that I am bound by the moral law to do the one and avoid the other. This is the only rational interpretation of that universal impression which men have of a right and a wrong in their actions. There is a law, and a law that binds, beneath the dictates of conscience. But if we once admit a law of morality we must also admit that it has its ultimate origin in that which is the source of all law— the will of God. All obligation in the moral order must be traced to the ultimate source of all authority, for authority is implied in the very notion of law. If I can not trace a reputed obligation back to the ultimate source of authority, I may feel it pleasant or profitable to do the thing in question, but I can not feel bound to do it. What we have said applies to moral action in general; but it is plain, of course, that when God's will is manifested by means of positive divine laws, as in the case of the Ten Commandments and the divine ordinances promulgated by Christianity, the connection between human obligation and the divine will is more directly evident than in the case of the natural law impressed by the divine will upon the human reason. But the connection thus established between morality and the will of God has important consequences. My notions of morality, or my application of the principles of morality, will vary according to what I know or believe about God and His law. They will vary, in a word, according to my creed. I can not, therefore, be indifferent to creeds. If my creed is a deistic one I reject many truths revealed by God. which I am not at liberty to do. If I have a creed which is Christian, but faultily Christian,—if, for instance, it takes a lax view of the marriage tie and permits divorce,—it opens the door to countless moral evils. If it is a creed that does not recognize a principle of authority to which one may look for an absolute decision in matters of faith and morals, it throws its followers back upon their untutored private judgment in matters of the first moment. If it is a creed (or a church) whose general spirit breeds an indifference to the religious education of the young, it is destined to reap a harvest of misdeeds beyond the reckoning of men and angels. Illustrations might be multiplied indefinitely, but they will easily occur to yourself if you once get seriously thinking on the matter. But even though you observed the whole of God's law externally, the interior motive, which is the very soul of the moral act, would be a matter of the first importance. God as our Creator and sovereign Lord has a right to control our thoughts and feelings, which are the springs of outward action, for our whole being belongs to Him. But the effect of indifference to beliefs is to shut God out of our thoughts in reference to the morality of our actions and to fall back upon motives of pleasure or utility, —which is nothing short of denying the interior allegiance we owe to our Maker. A parody of Cardinal Manning's on a couplet of Alexander Pope's may serve as a rallying-point for future thoughts on the subject of deeds and creeds. The poet had written: "For forms and creeds let graceless zealots fight: He can't be wrong whose life is in the right." Manning retorts as follows: "For charts and compasses let graceless zealots fight: He can't go wrong who steers the ship aright." (See ''Indifferentism.") The following is taken from the book, "THE CATHOLIC'S READY ANSWER" by BY Rev. M. P. HILL, S.J. IMPRIMATUR 1914 The intention of this book was to give Catholics ready answers when they were confronted about certain subjects concerning the Faith.
TOLERANCE An Accusation.—Tolerance is the first duty of the citizen as regards religious matters; but "the Roman Catholic Church, if it would be consistent, must be intolerant."—Tschackert. The Answer.—According to Christ's teaching, the first duty of a man living in a community is not tolerance, but love of his neighbor. A pharisaical doctor of the law once asked Him, tempting Him: Master, which is the great commandment in the law? Jesus said to him: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. And the second is like to this: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments dependeth the whole law and the prophets" (Matt. xxii. 35-40). Justice and love are the two first duties of a man to his fellow-men. Tolerance is nowhere mentioned in the law. Mere tolerance does not go far enough. The Catholic Church does not merely tolerate her erring brethren. She loves them with a divine charity—and that is more than tolerance. "Tolerance" is the catchword of genuine liberalism, which manages to put up with an obnoxious fellow-citizen, but knows nothing of charity. But a distinction must be made in the matter of tolerance. Catholics are not intolerant of the erring, but toward their error there can be no such thing as tolerance. "We can not compromise with error. What is false we can not call true, any more than we can call black white. When, therefore, the Catholic Church combats error and champions truth, she only follows the example of Christ and does what every right-thinking man will acknowledge to be just. Dogmatic tolerance is self-contradiction. How can a Church that professes to be a teacher of truth say to the thinking world: "If you believe in the Trinity, in the divinity of Christ, and in the sacrament of Penance, well and good. If you don't believe in them—again well and good—for I can't be intolerant"? A Church which is the custodian of revealed truth can not compound with error; and any church—no matter what elements of truth it may retain, or what good it may do to men—any church which is seen to throw the mantle of a false charity over all vagaries of opinion within its pale is proved thereby not to have the hall-mark of Christian orthodoxy. In this connection the Catholic Church stands quite alone—and is thereby proved to be the one faithful custodian of the doctrine revealed by Christ.  TOM'S CRUCIFIX IT was a bitterly cold winter night; the snow which had been falling all day had ceased now, but the wind was keen, and little Tom Rogers shivered in his ragged clothing as he sank down upon a doorstep and tried in vain to warm his hands by blowing upon them. He had been out since early morning with his broom; standing by the crossing, he had swept over the bustling London street with little success, for nearly every one had passed him by or bidden him "earn his living respectably," and so at last Tom had given it up for that day as a bad job, and was sitting down to rest before he turned homewards. It was a wretched place to call home — the dirty court, where he lived in a miserable kitchen, with a woman who was sometimes kind and sometimes cross, depending very much upon his earnings. She wasn't his mother. There were two or three more children in the dirty room, who were hers, but she treated them much as she did Tom, turning them into the streets to get on as best they could. Just opposite to where Tom sat on the doorstep there was a cook's shop, and the very sight of the meat and pudding and sausages made him hungrier than ever, and the worst was he dared not spend one of the few pennies he had earned that day — he would be beaten enough as it was. It was not exactly fear which made Tom so unwilling to go home; he was so used to rough words and blows that he had ceased to care very much about them; he only lingered because there was nothing much to go in for, and it wouldn't be a great deal warmer in the damp fireless kitchen than in the street. So Tom sat still and buried his face in his hands, and began wishing ever so many things. First he wished he was the lamplighter; he had often watched him going his rounds, thinking it must be capital fun, because he always went along so cheerfully and quickly. Next he thought it would be rather good to drive an omnibus, and race all the other omnibuses and cabs that went along the street. And then he began just to wish he had money enough to buy slices of padding and sausage-rolls at the cook's shop as often as he felt hungry. So his thoughts came back to his own misery, and as he glanced across once more to the tempting shop, his eyes filled with tears, and letting his head fall on his knees he cried bitterly because he was so very cold and hungry, and he knew there was no chance of supper for him that night. Presently he felt a cold nose rubbing against his hands, and looking up, saw a shabby brown dog, which wagged its tail and whined piteously, almost as if it was sorry for him, and which would not be driven away by kicks or threats, such as Tom was used to give stray dogs who followed him. "Here's Bouncer, mother," said a child's voice. "Bouncer! come, sir;" but the dog would not stir, only wagged its tail again and looked at Tom. "What's the matter, my lad ?" said the child's mother, who came up just then; but Tom said not a word. "Come, you might tell me what you're crying for," she repeated. "You'd cry yourself, maybe, if you was as hungry as me," the boy muttered sullenly, for he was rather ashamed of his tears, and had not reckoned on any one seeing them there on the doorstep. "Well, why don't you go home and get your supper, then?" " I shan't get no supper, I'll only get thrashed; but I don't care, I'll run away one of these times, that I will." "Run away from your mother and father? Oh no, you won't do that," said the kind voice. "Ain't got no mother and father; I only lives along with Nancy." "Is she good to you?" asked the child, who had been listening in silence till then. "No, she isn't, but I don't care; I shan't go home at all tonight;" and Tom settled himself again on the doorstep, and put his head down upon his hands as if he wasn't going to say another word. The woman hardly liked to pass on and leave him, yet she could not help it, so calling the dog off they went away, and after a while Tom fell fast asleep, and didn't wake until he felt some one shaking him and heard the policeman's voice bidding him "move on." Then he slunk off another way and lay down under an archway, where he slept in peace until the noises in the streets began, and he knew that day had come again. He ventured to spend a penny from his pocket in a roll at the first baker's shop he saw open, and he stole a can of milk he found outside the area of a house he passed, and then he made off as fast as he could to his crossing to begin once more his old cry, "Please remember the sweeper." He got on a little better that day, though, so towards afternoon he ventured to turn homewards and see what was going on there; but as he reached the court he was greeted by a tribe of dirty urchins of his own kind, who told him "Nancy had gone clean away, and the room was shut up." Truly enough it was so; and though Tom had never cared for the rough woman who had taken charge of him as long as he could remember anything, his heart sank very low as he understood for the first time what it was to be homeless and quite alone in the world. It was useless standing looking at the closed room though; besides, the children were all laughing at his unhappy face, thinking it capital fun; so he turned away again, and went back to look into the window of his favourite shop, and then, taking some coppers from his pocket, he went in and bought several slices of the pudding which had looked so tempting the night before. He crossed over to the same doorstep where he had cried from cold and hunger, and sitting down, ate his dinner, and began to wonder what he should do next. Soon after, the very same dog and child and woman passed along whom he had seen the previous night, and they stopped to speak to him. "Well, did you get some supper, after all?" asked the woman. "I didn't go home; I slept out o' doors; I often does." "But you'll go home tonight, I hope ?" Tom grinned. "I ain't got no home to go to; Nancy's hooked it! " "Hooked it ?" exclaimed the woman with a puzzled face, not quite taking in the boy's meaning. "Yes; when I went home today, she'd cut; the whole lot of 'em's gone and the place is shut. I don't care; I ain't a bit sorry; I'll get on somehow." "But that is terrible," said the woman; "whatever can you do?" "Must do as best I can," said the boy with another grin, as if he rather enjoyed the joke. "Surely you don't like to live such a life, running about the streets, looking so wild and dirty. Wouldn't you like to get your living respectably?" "That's what all the folks tells me," said Tom, scornfully; "them as is too mean to give me a copper. What's the use of telling me to earn my living respectably"? Why don't somebody show me how?" The woman was silent for a minute. She felt it was so true what the boy had said, and yet it was so difficult to know how to help him. "Would you like to come home with me tonight?" she said, slowly. "I'm only a poor woman myself, and I have to work hard for my living; still, I can't bear to leave you like this. I've just lost a boy myself, no bigger than you; you could sleep where he did for a night or two." Tom made no difficulty in accepting the offer, but rose from the doorstep at once, saying he'd "like it uncommonly." "Has he run away, or what's come of him?" he asked as they walked along — a strange-looking party; Mrs. Kelly and Mary, cleanly though poorly dressed; Tom, with his broom under his arm, in all his rags and dirt; and Bouncer, who lumped up against first one and then the other, not quite knowing what to make of it. "He? who do you mean ?" said Mrs. Kelly. "Your boy, as you said you'd lost." "Oh, he's dead: not three months ago, and I miss him sadly. Ah, he was a good lad to me;" and Mrs. Kelly sighed. Tom said no more, but trudged along in silence until Bouncer stopped at a house where they all went in. It was only a kitchen much such an one as Tom had always lived in; only this was as clean as hands could make it, while Nancy's had been as dirty as was well possible. Tom stared all round, and then sat down on the edge of one of the three ricketty chairs that were there, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Meanwhile Mrs. Kelly and her little girl put three cups and saucers on the table, and lit a fire, and set on a small kettle; and then a loaf and a basin of dripping were brought out from a cupboard by the fireplace, and Tom was told to draw up his chair and have some tea. "I ain't so hungry tonight," he said; "I've had my dinner, and I had some breakfast too." "Why, how did you manage that?" asked Mrs. Kelly. "Oh, I bought my dinner at the cook's shop; I allers do when I've got any coppers; and I prigged some milk this morning, and that was capital." "You stole it, did you?" said Mrs. Kelly gravely. Tom nodded his head: "Yes, I takes anything I finds. Finding's keeping, you know." "I know it's very wicked, and that God must be angry with you. Don't you know the Commandments? " Tom stared at her in utter surprise, but said nothing. "Don't you know anything about God, then?" "Dunno," said the boy, looking puzzled. "Did you never hear that it was wicked to take other people's things, — that God has said,"Thou shalt not steal" ? But the boy seemed highly amused. "I knows people gets sent to jail sometimes, if they're caught, but I'm too sharp for that." "Then you don't know it makes God angry with you?" "I never heerd tell of Him" said Tom. "I don't know no one who's angry 'cept the police; Nancy wasn't: she'd give me a real good supper if I'd took her home something worth having." "Poor boy, you make me very sorry for you," said Mrs. Kelly; but she looked across at little Mary, who sat listening in great astonishment, feeling that perhaps she had done an unwise thing in bringing such a boy as this to her home, even for a night or so. "My little girl never heard any one talk so," she said, after a bit. "You won't do anything wrong and teach her, will you ? or I must send you away." Tom felt he shouldn't like that. "What! don't she take nothing what isn't hers?" he asked, in a tone of unbelief. "No, indeed; I hope she's been too well taught to do that: Mary's trying to please God, and do what He tells her." "All right," said Tom, "I won't say nothing more about it; I don't want to learn the little girl no harm." "There's a good boy," answered Mrs. Kelly; and then she began to talk of something else. In spite of Tom's assurance that he wasn't hungry he made vary short work of the bread and dripping, and looked round the room with a very contented face. Suddenly his eyes fixed 'to a crucifix which hung against the wall. "Lor!" he exclaimed, "whatever's he a-doing of that for?" Both Mary and her mother turned round in the direction of Tom's gaze without exactly knowing what he was looking at. "Him as is a-hanging up on that bit of wood," explained the boy. Mrs. Kelly looked very grave. "I'll tell you all about it some day, Tom. That's what God did, who came down and lived in the world, and was very poor, and then died on a cross just like that; we keep it there to remind us. Didn't you ever see one before ? " "No, that I never did!" cried Tom. "It's the first time I set eyes on such a thing." "Well, I'm very glad you've seen it now," said Mrs. Kelly. "It's called a crucifix; shall you remember the name?" Tom jerked his head by way of saying yes, and looked as if he would like to hear some more about it. But Mrs. Kelly got up and began to wash the cups and clear the table, and then she and Mary went into a very small back kitchen and made up a bed there, which once was Joseph's, and when they came back Tom was still staring at the crucifix as if he could think of nothing else. "There's some clothes that belonged to my poor boy," said Mrs. Kelly. " They're nothing very much, but they're better than yours. You're as near his size as can be, and you'd better put them on in the morning." Tom nodded his head again, but even the prospect of new clothes could not take his thoughts from the crucifix. "I can't think why he come to do it," he said. " Why, it must have hurt him worse than anything." "Yes it did; but He liked to bear the pain because He did it for us — for you and me and Mary." "No, he didn't do it for me," said Tom; "I didn't know him; I don't know nobody but them as lives up our court and round about." "But He knew you, Tom, and He was thinking about you while He hung on a cross just like that." Tom looked inclined to deny it, but he said nothing more. "Well, now Mary and me are going to kneel down before that crucifix and say some prayers; suppose you kneel down too, and listen to what we say, and keep your eyes on the crucifix, and try and think how good it was of Jesus to hang there for you." "Was that the name of Him?" Tom asked. "Yes," said Mrs. Kelly, kneeling down with Mary by her side, and making the sign of the cross she began their usual night prayers. Tom thought this all very strange, but he kept his eyes fixed on the crucifix and tried to listen. It seemed to him as if they were speaking to some one who had been very good to them, and he wondered who it was. Presently some words caught his ear which he could quite take in the meaning of --"Give us this day our daily bread." The poor ignorant boy thought it must be a fine thing to know some one who would do that; many a time he had wanted such a friend when he was standing at his crossing. But in a few seconds Mary and her mother got up, and Tom was sent to bed in the back kitchen: yet his last thoughts were of the crucifix, and he resolved to find out a little more about it next day. Little Mary Kelly lay by her mother's side wide awake, though it was growing late. "Mother, are you asleep ?" she asked softly. "No, child, but I soon shall be; I'm very sleepy." "I only want to ask one thing, mother. Why don't Tom know any prayers ? " "Because he's never had any one to teach him. You'd best say a Hail Mary for him, dear." "Yes, mother," said Mary, turning her face to the wall again. "I'll say prayers for him until he knows how;" and so she whispered a prayer to Christ's dear mother for the poor crossing-sweeper, and shutting her eyes fell fast asleep. It was still quite dusky when Mrs. Kelly with her little girl and Tom were getting breakfast, for she rose early and worked hard all day for her bread — sometimes getting a job of cooking or cleaning at gentlemen's houses, and doing a little washing at home between whiles. Times were hard then, for food and firing were dear, and Joseph's earnings had always been enough to clear the weekly rent, so it pressed heavily on the poor woman now; and yet she had not been afraid to take in this poor homeless boy, because she felt quite sure God would not let her miss what she gave him. "I'm going out for half-a-day's work, Tom," she said, when breakfast was over, " and Mary goes to school; can I trust you to take care of the place till I come back, instead of locking it up as I mostly do?" Tom nodded: "All right," he said. "You won't let in any street boys, will you, or get up to any mischief ? Remember, God's looking at you all the time, and He'll know everything you do; God, who came down here to be a man and die on the cross like that, you know, Tom;" and Mrs. Kelly pointed to the crucifix. "That can't see! " he said. "No, that's only an image to remind us of Jesus who did just like that when He was alive. He's up in heaven now, Tom, but He's quite near too, and He'll be watching you all day." Tom looked in each corner of the room as if he expected to see some one there; however, he appeared to believe what he was told. "All right," he said. " He shan't see me doing no harm, I'll promise you." And the boy kept his word, staying quietly in till Mrs. Kelly returned; spending the time in looking over some books with pictures they had left out for him, but gazing still more at the crucifix, as if he was yet wondering and thinking over all he had been told. "What do you learn at your school ?" he asked Mary, when she came home again. "Oh, ever so many things," said the child. "Reading and spelling and writing and needlework; and then we sing, and then of course there's catechism." "Whatever's that there last thing you said ? I've heard of the rest, but I never heard of that." "Oh, it's a little book which teaches us our religion: all about God, and what we've got to do and to believe. The sister asks the questions and we children say the answers." "Whose sister ? — yours ?" inquired Tom. "The sister, I said; the nun who teaches us. Sister Mary Agnes her name is." "Lor! do you mean to say one of them queer looking women teaches you?" cried Tom. "Why, I wonder you're not frightened ! I've seen a nun or two walking by sometimes, and me and a lot more boys calls after them and shouts. It's such fun." But Mary's little pale face was red now. "You naughty, bad boy; I'm sorry mother brought you here, that I am; I'll ask her to send you right off if you behave so. Don't you know Jesus loves the nuns? Why, they belong to Him, and you must make Him very sorry when yon treat them badly." Tom looked very grave then. "I'm sure I Torn," he said. "I didn't know they belonged to anybody, I only thought they dressed themselves precious queer. I'll never laugh -at 'em again, Mary, if you like them so." But Mary could not get over it at all that day, and she began to wish Tom had never come, only she hoped he would learn better. That night the boy knelt down with them before the crucifix without feeling quite so puzzled; he was listening for the words that had struck him so the night before, and at last they came, and Tom said out with the others, "Give us this day our daily bread," for he thought he should be sure not to be hungry any more if he asked for that. " Mother," said Mary, when she was going to bed, " don't you think Tom ought to learn his catechism ? " "Yes, I mean to teach him a bit when I get a chance, and we must get him to go to school and to church, if he stays here." "Oh, let him stay, mother," said Mary, forgetting all about her anger and the nuns. "I'm sure he's not such a bad boy, and he'll never learn any better if he goes away. Couldn't I tell him some of the things that's in the catechism, mother?" " Yes, I believe you could, dear. The sister's taught you so nicely, I should think you might teach Tom what you learn yourself." "Then I'll begin tomorrow," said Mary. Next day was a holiday at the school, being Saturday, so at the first opportunity Mary drew near to where Tom was sitting cutting up firewood, with her catechism in hand. "Tom, if you like I'll teach you a bit," she said. "All right," answered Tom; "go ahead." "Yes, but you'll listen and try and understand, won't you? You'd like to save your soul, Tom, and go to heaven, wouldn't you?" "I don't know nothing about that, but I'd like to please you, anyhow," said Tom. "Well then we'll begin. Now you can answer the first question, I'm sure." "Who made you?" "Who made you," repeated Tom. "Yes, but that's the question. You are not to say it after me, but tell me the answer." "So I will if I knows what it is," said Tom. " It's only to say who did make you, Tom. You know that." Tom burst out laughing. "Well, if that ain't the queerest thing I ever heard. I s'pose I was made same as every one else, wasn't I?" "Yes, of course God made us all. You should just say, "God, Tom; that's the answer." "Well, I never knowed it afore," explained Tom. But Mary shut her catechism in despair and rushed to her mother. "Oh, mother, I meant to teach him all I'd learnt, and he's so stupid he doesn't understand how to answer at all. He says he didn't know God made him, mother!" "Very likely he didn't, poor lad," said Mrs. Kelly, in no way surprised at Tom's ignorance. "It will all come in time, Mary, but you must have patience. They'll be able to teach him his catechism if we can get him to go to school. Suppose you talk to him and tell him anything he wants to know; and I'd teach him the Hail Mary, if I was you, and our dear Lady will help him to understand all the rest." So Mary went back to her pupil, and after trying a good many days she got him to learn the Hail Mary sufficiently well to join them in saying it at night and morning prayers. "I don't clearly see the good of it, though," he said, when his little teacher declared he could say it quite well. "Well, I'll tell you," said Mary, smoothing down her pinafore with both hands. "It's a prayer to Our Lady, the mother of Jesus who hung on the cross. Her name was Mary." "Same as yours," put in Tom. "Yes, Tom, I'm called after her because I want to be a little bit like her. Now, Tom, please listen. Of course we love Mary very much because Jesus loved her so dearly, and now she is up in heaven with Him He listens to all she asks for, and so if we get her to pray for us He's quite certain to do what she wants Him to." Tom nodded his head. "I see," he said; " then if we ask Him things ourselves He won't do them 'cept for her ?" "Oh yes, Tom, indeed He does all we ask if it's good for us, only He likes His dear mother to be asking at the same time, and I think He listens with a deal more pleasure when we pray and she prays too." "She didn't hang on the cross, I s'pose," said Tom presently. "No, but she knelt close by all the while, and saw her dear Son bearing all the pain, and it would almost have broken her heart, only she knew it was the way we'd get our sins washed away, so she was willing to bear it. So you see how much she loves us, Tom." "Yes," said Tom, "I see all that quite plain like; it's fine to hear you talk, Mary, go on a bit more." "Oh, I can't tell you much, Tom, for I'm so little; I can only say what I've learnt ; but the priest will tell you all you want to know, if you like." Tom whistled and looked grave. "I don't know ; I've heard about them priests, and I don't much fancy them." "But if Jesus was here now you'd like Him, Tom; you'd like to go and hear Him speak and teach ?" "Yes, that I should ; I'd go ever so far just to get a sight of Him and ask Him to make it all plain to me. That's different to them priests." "No, it's just exactly the same," said Mary quickly. "Jesus knew we'd want some one to help us when He had to go away, and so He left the priests here, and made them able to do all that we should want, to teach us how to be good and to forgive us our sins ; and Jesus tells them what to say to us, Tom." "Come now, I ain't a-going to believe all that," said Tom. " That's too strong, that is." "You must believe it," said Mary, getting very earnest — "Jesus said so, and it must be true. You wouldn't have seen Him die on the cross, and then go away and say you wouldn't believe what He told you, surely, Tom?" "No, that 'd be real mean," answered Tom. " If I heard Him say all that it'd be all very well, but you see I didn't." "No, but other people did, and you must take their word. You didn't see Jesus die on the cross, but you believe He did it, don't you, Tom?" Tom was caught then. "Yes, I do," he said at last; "and I'll try and believe it all. Suppose I go and kneel down before that image under the crucifix — her as you call Our Blessed Lady — and say the Hail Mary you've taught me, do you suppose she'll hear me a-doing of it, and pray for me too that I may believe it all ?" "Of course she will, Tom — come on." So Mary and the rough ignorant boy knelt side by side before the little figure, and surely the dear Mother to whom they prayed looked down with love and tenderness upon them then. "I think it's done me good," said Tom, getting up. " I'll do it again by-and-by, and perhaps I'll begin to understand it all after a bit." A few days had passed since the little crossing- sweeper had found a new home, when to Mrs. Kelly's great distress he announced his intention one morning of going away. "Tain't that I don't like you," he said; "I'd like to stop always, but I ain't a-going to live out of you; it ain't fair. So I'll take my broom and do as best I can at my crossing, and maybe you'd let me come once in a while to see you and Mary and learn a bit more." "Oh, Tom, you mustn't go!" cried Mary, and Mrs. Kelly was equally determined not to part with him. "I can't let you go sweeping crossings now you live here, Tom," she said. " I don't want you to play in the streets; but I'm asking all about to see if I can't find anything decent for you to do, only you must have a bit of patience.'' "But I'm a-living out of you, and that's what I don't want to," said Tom. "But you help me, Tom. Who's to carry water and fill the kettle and light the fire, and take care of the place when Mary's at school and I'm out at work ? You be a good boy and go on behaving quietly here, and you'll get on finely by-and-by, I know." So Tom said no more, but the thought remained in his mind, though he kept it secretly there, meanwhile filling up his time by doing anything that came in his way to help. After a bit he got employment from a greengrocer in the next street, who sent him errands on Saturdays, when he had extra business, and after finding he could be trusted, began to give him work for a few hours every day; and then Tom was happy, for he felt he was earning something. Meantime he was slowly beginning to understand what Mrs. Kelly and Mary tried to teach; he had very quickly got to know the Our Father, and they had succeeded in making him feel that there was a God who was angry when he was dishonest and wicked, who saw all that he did by day or night. The first Sunday Tom was with the Kelly's they could not persuade him to go to church, but after that he always went, although at first he was very much astonished at what he saw and heard. "Mary, Mary," he had whispered the first Sunday morning he had gone to Mass, "is that there image meant for Our Lady, same as yours at home?" Mary nodded her head. "Yes, Tom, only it's larger." "What's all them flowers and candles for ?" But Mary would not say any more then. "I'll tell you after; please don't talk, Tom; say your beads and try and think that Jesus is going to offer Himself to God for our sins." So Tom was silent, although many a time he wanted dreadfully to ask some question; however, he tried hard to keep saying Our Fathers and Hail Marys on the beads, as Mary with great difficulty had taught him to do. "When Mass was over and they were going home, Mrs. Kelly asked Tom what he thought of it all. "It was wonderful," he said, drawing a deep breath. "I never did see such a lot of candles alight afore; I tried to say them beads as Mary told me, but I couldn't manage it very well because of them candles and flowers." "You wanted to know what they were for, I suppose," said Mrs. Kelly. "When you understand, you'll find they help you to say your prayers better instead of hindering you." Tom looked puzzled again. "You know why we have an image of our dear Lady, don't you ?" "Oh yes, 'cause she was the Mother of our Lord, and so we love her, and looking at the image makes us think of her up in heaven. Mary told me that." "Yes; so we put flowers and candles at her feet all to be little proofs of our love, to show her how we would like to give her everything sweet and beautiful if she was in the world now." "I never thought of that," said Tom. " Why, of course I can look at the flowers and say Hail Marys at the same time. It's a pity I didn't know that, afore I went to church." "Well, then you saw lights and flowers on the altar, where the priest stood, didn't you, Tom?" "Heaps of 'em," answered the boy. "That was because Jesus was there. No, you didn't see Him," she added, noticing Tom's surprised face. "He does not choose to let us see Him looking as He did when He lived in the world; but He is there just the same, only He allows Himself to look like a little bread and wine, but it is really Jesus, Tom— can you believe it?" "Yes," said the boy. "I suppose He's said it, and He knows better than me. Oh, yes, I mean to believe all He's said." "I am so glad," said Mrs. Kelly. "If you only do that, Tom, you will be so safe and happy, because then you will try and do what our Lord tells you." "I am a- trying; I ain't prigged anything since you told me it made Him sorry," said Tom. "And He has seen you trying, and it has made Him love you very much, and He wants to forgive you all the sins you ever did against Him." "I'm glad of it," remarked Tom. "There's a precious lot of 'em." "Well, you'd best let me take you to see the priest tonight, and he'll talk to you and teach you better than me or Mary." So Tom agreed, and from that time he went regularly to school in the week-days and to church on Sunday, and was gradually learning all of which he had been so ignorant a little while before. "Oh, mother, ain't you glad you brought Tom home?" said Mary, one night. "Why, he's been to confession today, and got all his terrible sins forgiven, and it's so nice to know he's been baptized and made a Christian. I shall keep on saying a Hail Mary for him every night, for I'm sure Our Lady has been praying for him ever so." Days and weeks went by, and though Tom Rogers said nothing, the old idea was still working in his mind, and he felt that he ought to be doing something more for himself instead of being a burden to Mrs. Kelly, who had hard work to support herself and child. But it wasn't easy to get employment there in London, where there were so many boys who could do far more than he, and Tom did not know how to set about finding any work which, would bring him in more wages than he had for running errands for the greengrocer. At last a bright thought struck him: why shouldn't he go to sea ? He had heard a boy talking about it once, and saying what a fine thing it was, and that they were often glad to get hold of strong boys when a ship was sailing. The worst was it was such a long, long way, to the sea, and Tom had no idea that a vessel could be found there in London. One day he confided his wish to Mary, when they were watching together at the window for Mrs. Kelly to come home. "I say, Mary," he said, "wouldn't it be a fine thing if I went to sea ?" "No," replied Mary. "I shouldn't like it at all; but they wouldn't have you, Tom." "I'd bring you home a parrot, and some shells, and some gold, and a lot of things," said Tom, who had not a very clear notion of geography, but imagined these things were to be found in every place he might sail to. Mary laughed. She had no idea he meant it seriously, and then Mrs. Kelly came in, so no more was said about it. But Tom did not forget, although perhaps he would not have carried out his plan but for some words which happened to catch his ear one day. "Poor Mrs. Kelly," said one of the neighbours, as Tom passed by; "it's a shame to have a great lad like that on her hands, and she a widow; working so hard too for her bread." Tom did not hear any more, but his resolution was taken; he would go away without saying anything, and then they would get on better without him to keep in food and clothes. So one morning, when Mary was at school and Mrs. Kelly out, Tom packed up a few things in a bundle, and giving one last look round the room went quietly out, feeling very, very sad, for he thought he should never see the kitchen again where he had been so happy and so kindly treated. He had got a little crucifix and a medal of his own safe in his jacket pocket; those were his only treasures to remind him of his friends when he was far away. Tom did not feel quite sure he was doing right in going away secretly like this, but he was so resolved not to be a burden any longer on Mrs. Kelly, and so sure that she would not let him leave if he asked, that he felt this was his only chance of carrying out his plan; yet when he thought of Mary missing him, and her mother thinking him ungrateful, his heart was very full. However, he determined to find some way of letting them know why he had gone when he was fairly out of reach; he couldn't bear them to think perhaps he was amongst bad companions and falling into sinful habits again. So Tom walked on and on, though he did not know which way to take, and after some hours he found himself getting quite into the country, leaving streets and houses far behind. He was hungry then, but he had brought with him what Mrs. Kelly had left out for his dinner, so he sat down under a hedge to eat it, thinking of Mary, and wondering if she was home and had found him gone yet. After resting awhile he went on again, until after a bit a good-natured woman gave him a lift in her cart, and hearing his story gave him some straw for a bed in her barn, and a good breakfast of bread and milk before he started again. Tom found everybody kind to him, and so he managed to get along, asking his way from village to village, until he reached the sea, after a journey of several days. When he got there his courage gave way, for it was night, and he was tired and hungry, and people looked coldly at him, not speaking kindly as they did in the villages he had passed through ; so at last he went to sleep on a doorstep, just as he had often done in his old miserable life, waking in the morning from confused dreams of Mrs. Kelly, Mary, and Bouncer. A woman had given him two pennies the day before, and with these Tom got some breakfast very early in the morning, at a dirty little shop he happened to find, and then, feeling better and braver, he went down to the harbour to look at the shipping. There was a perfect forest of masts — vessels of all sizes; and the boy's spirits rose at the sight, for surely he would find some one to take him from amongst so many! While he stood gazing wistfully, a gentleman who had been watching his face touched his shoulder. "Are you a stranger here, my lad, or are you looking for somebody ?" "I'm a-looking for somebody as'11 take me a-board one of them ships and make a sailor of me," said Tom, looking up into the good-natured face. "Where's your father and mother, boy ? " "Ain't got any: I lived with a woman who was kind to me, but she's hard work to keep herself, so I'm going to sea." "How do you know you'll like it ?" "I know I'll like it; I can tell by the very looks of it." The gentleman laughed. "How would you like to have a voyage with me? Yonder's my ship, and we sail tomorrow morning." "I'd like it uncommonly," said Tom, with glistening eyes. "But there's no one to speak a good word for you. How am I to know you'll behave yourself ? You'll get a good rope's-ending if you don't." But Tom was in no way discouraged. "All right," he said, " I don't care as long as you'll take me." "Well, come and see how you like the look of my ship, and then if you're in the same mind I'll give you a trial." All Tom's fears and regret were gone then, and he felt happier than perhaps he had done in all his life before, as he found himself standing on the deck of a real vessel, such as he had often tried to imagine. Before many hours the sea was between him and the few friends he had, who were by that time so anxious and distressed about him, but Tom got a good-natured sailor to write a few words at his own dictation to Mrs. Kelly, and this letter was put into the post before the vessel sailed. Poor little Mary was in terrible distress when she found her companion gone, and Mrs. Kelly walked about to look for him in all directions. If it had not happened that a neighbour had seen him start with his bundle, nothing would have convinced her he was not killed or run over ; as it was she could only persist in saying they should hear something yet, there was too much good in the boy for him to go off for any bad reason. Now of course everybody had something to say. "Depend on it, Mrs. Kelly," exclaimed one, " you'll hear no more of him. It's always the way if you've been kind to any one; they go off when they've had all they want." "Ah, I thought no good would come of it," said another. " You won't be for taking in street-boys again in a hurry, I'm thinking." But in the face of all this Mrs. Kelly and Mary would think no harm of Tom, and they were not at all surprised when the postman brought a letter written in a scrawling man's band, though the words, they could tell, were Tom's. This is what it said: -- "Ship 'Alice: " Dear Mother and Mary, — This comes hoping to find you quite well as it leaves me at present, only I couldn't stop to be a burden no longer, and I'm going to be a sailor, and come home in a year with lots of money and Mary's parrot. So no more at present, from " Yours affectionately, " Tom." Mary burst into a storm of crying, and Mrs. Kelly wiped her eyes with her apron. "Oh, mother, it's dreadful ! " sobbed the child. " We won't see Tom for a year, and perhaps he'll be drowned and never come back." "Don't be so silly, child," said her mother. " Can't our dear Lady watch over him at sea as well as ashore ? Tom will come home again, you'll see; bless him I " Mrs. Kelly went round amongst her neighbours with the letter in her hand. " I said I knew we'd hear all about it," she exclaimed triumphantly. "He's gone away for fear of being a burden to me; I'm proud of that boy, that I am. He's worth a dozen of them that's been better brought up ! If I thought any one had said a word to him about being a burden, I really don't think I could help giving them a bit of my mind;" and then the good-hearted woman went off to the priest at the church to show him the letter. "Well, really, Mrs. Kelly, it may be the best thing for the boy, after all ; that love of the sea seems born in some lads — it's like water to young ducks. Still Tom ought not to have gone off like that; he never said a word to me." "I only hope he will come safe home again, Father," said poor Mrs. Kelly. " If I only had known before this ship sailed, I'd have fetched him home if I'd walked every bit of the way." The priest laughed as he rose to open the door for her. "You mustn't be down-hearted," he said. "You'll see Tom safe back in a year's time, if you pray to our blessed Lady to watch over him." "That's just what I said to my little Mary, Father; she's fretting dreadfully. If he'd only gone in one of those boats which keep near shore, and only stop away a week or two, I think I could have borne it, but it's dreadful to think Tom's miles and miles away at sea," and Mrs. Kelly went home again to try and comfort Mary. So the summer passed, and autumn was over, and then came winter with its storms of wind and rain, when Mrs. Kelly and her little girl shuddered as they thought of Tom tossing on the sea, perhaps in danger. What a number of prayers went up to God and the blessed Virgin, I could never tell you; but I can say that they were not in vain, for at the end of the year Tom Rogers came home safe and well. He was so grown and improved that the neighbours scarcely knew him, and he had become a thorough sailor, and loved the sea as much as he had expected. And he had not forgotten his friends, for he had brought Mary her parrot, and a smart shawl for Mrs. Kelly, which she put on with the greatest delight to go to church next Sunday. "You haven't forgotten your religion, have you, Tom?" she asked, that first evening they were together again. Tom hesitated a minute and looked down. "No," he said, slowly. "I've been precious near it, though ; they were a bad lot in our ship, both out and home, and there was a deal of swearing and drinking; and I was near giving up many times, only somehow I thought of this," (and here Tom put his hand on the little crucifix he carried inside his jacket), "and then I couldn't do like the rest." "I'm thankful you took that with you, Tom; but you shouldn't have gone away as you did. You never even got the priest's blessing." Tom looked ashamed. "I know," said. "It wasn't because I didn't care, though; I thought he'd stop me going to sea. But I'll go to confession tomorrow, and I'll try and do better next voyage." "Don't talk to me of next voyages," said Mrs. Kelly. "Surely you've had enough of the sea now, and can settle down and work on shore." But Tom couldn't hear of that: his whole heart was in a sailor's life, and he had already imagined himself getting on step by step until at last he should have saved money enough to own a ship himself. "And then I'll give you both a voyage," he said; but Mrs. Kelly did not care about that offer. The time soon came when Tom was longing to start again, and when they saw how firm his resolution remained, no one opposed him; so with many tears Mrs. Kelly and Mary saw him go. But this time he obtained a berth in a large steam-ship running between England and America, so that his passages would be short and frequent. This was a great comfort to Mrs. Kelly. "It's all very well to keep to your own prayers, but I must say that it seems like running into temptation to choose a life where you can't get Mass month after month; now it will be different." The last night before Tom started he had a talk with Mary which she remembered long after. "It makes a fellow thoughtful," he said, "going out in those winds and storms again: some of these times I might get wrecked, or have a fall overboard. One of our crew fell from the mast as we came home, and by the time they 'd hauled him in he was quite dead." "Oh, Tom, don't tell me such things, I can't bear them: I wish you weren't going." "Nonsense," said Tom. "I suppose I'm as safe there as here. There won't nothing happen to me afore my time. But Mary," — and here the boy looked graver, — " suppose anything happened to me, do you think I'd be all right ? " "All right?" asked the child, not quite comprehending. "Yes, you know I can't get to confession except on shore, suppose a storm or anything happened all of a sudden like, would God forgive me my sins without going to the priest ?" "Oh, yes, Tom; I've been taught all about that ever so long ago. Tom see, God expects us to go and tell our sins if we want Him to pardon us, but if there was no priest near you couldn't, and God is too good to punish us for what we can't help. If you'd look at your crucifix, Tom, and try and feel very, very sorry, and say the names of Jesus and Mary, I'm quite certain God would forgive you." "I'm glad of that; I felt pretty sure I'd heard so myself, only I thought I'd make certain and ask you," said Tom. But a great fear rose in Mary's mind after that. "You don't think you're not going to come home again, Tom, do you?" she said anxiously. "No, of course not," he answered, trying to laugh away her fear. "Don't I tell you I'm going to make lots of voyages until I've earned money enough to buy a ship of my own. What shall I bring you from America, Mary ? " "Oh, I don't care for anything, I don't want anything, if you'll only come back quite safe, Tom," and with that Mary burst into tears, and could not be comforted for a long time, even by her mother. Next day they parted, and Tom, as he looked back to wave his hand, had a strange feeling in his heart as if he was looking at those two faces for the last time, and he could not help wondering why it was. "One good thing is, he won't be away long," said Mrs. Kelly, turning from the doorstep and wiping her eyes with her apron, as if she felt the time for crying was past when Tom was clear out of sight; but poor little Mary fretted all that day and many more, for that last conversation had left a very unhappy feeling in her mind. Then, more than ever, she prayed to the Blessed Virgin to keep Tom safe, and to help him to be good amidst all the temptations which might be around him. Before the boy had started he had told the priest how all the sailors had laughed at him for bringing his crucifix and caring for the medals which he always wore, and how once or twice he had been near throwing them away so as to escape the ridicule. And then the priest had bidden him try and be like Jesus, who bore so much greater contempt without saying a word in complaint, and he encouraged Tom to try to help some of those around him to understand his religion. "I'll try, Father," Tom had said. " I know it won't come easy, but I'll see what I can do, and anyway they shan't laugh me out of my crucifix and my prayers." So the vessel sailed with every chance of a good voyage, and everything went well with them until they started for the return passage. Then, before they had been out of port three days, they were overtaken by a fearful gale, and though it was a fine vessel every one on board felt the greatest alarm: even the captain and crew looked pale and anxious. Tom was frightened too, but he kept saying his beads and begging pardon of God for all the sins of his life, and so he grew calmer. There was a little child on board belonging to the captain, who had always taken a great fancy to Tom; now she came shivering and sobbing: "I don't want to be drowned, I want to go home to mamma." "Hush, Missy," said Tom. "Don't cry— that's no good. Here, take a look at this," and he pulled out his crucifix. "See, that's what Jesus did, because He loved you. He was in as bad a storm as this once, but He made the waves still all in a moment : let us ask Him to do it again now." "I can't," said the child, clinging closer to the boy. "I forget my prayers now I'm so frightened." "Say just a Hail Mary," said Tom. "I don't know it; you say it, Tom! oh, be quick, pray quick!" she shrieked as another huge wave struck the vessel, shaking it from stem to stern. The captain came by to look for the child, and caught her up all soaked and shivering. "Tom, Tom, where is he ?" she cried, looking round as her father carried her away; but the sailor-boy was missing — he had been washed over with the wave, and hours after they picked him up, cold and lifeless of course, but his rosary twisted firmly round his fingers and his crucifix still safe against his breast. The storm had abated then, there was every chance of getting safely home, and all were rejoicing, but the news of Tom's death cast a shadow over them all, for they remembered him kneeling and praying so fervently during the danger, and there were some who said their safety was God's answer to those prayers. All this time Mary and Mrs. Kelly were looking forward hopefully to Tom's return. Never a day passed without his name being spoken many times, and every knock at the door brought the flush into Mary's cheeks, as she almost fancied it might be him come home unexpectedly. So it was a terrible shock to the poor child when one day, after she had been on an errand for her mother, she found a stranger in the kitchen, at sight of whom she stopped short with her hand upon the door. Then, as she took in the whole scene — her mother crying, the strange gentleman talking earnestly, and the crucifix Tom had taken to sea lying on the table, she understood it all, and with a bitter cry threw herself into her mother's arms, saying: "Oh, I know he's dead ! I know he'll never come home !" It was some time before Mary could listen quietly to what was said to her, but after a bit she dried her eyes and attended to what the stranger had to tell about Tom ; how at the worst of the storm he was calm and quiet, praying all the time with a great trust in God, and that his rosary had been so firmly clasped round his hands that they had left it so when they put him in his rough coffin and left him to his grave a sea. "Oh, mother, mother !" sobbed Mary, when they were alone again, " if only he had died at home, where we could have gone and looked at his grave sometimes, it wouldn't have seemed half so bad. I can't bear to think of him buried in the sea." "But it was beautiful, Mary, to have him die so," said Mrs. Kelly. " We ought to be thankful about it, to know that he died with a prayer to our dear Lady on his lips. I think I never can feel glad enough that we saw him that night a poor little dirty boy crying on the doorstep." "Yes, he'd never have learnt anything good but for that, would he, mother ? " " Oh, yes, Mary, God meant him to learn, and so He'd sure to have found some way of making it come right. Only we ought to be very thankful God let us help." "Don't you remember, mother, how he stared at the crucifix that night, and asked all kinds of questions ? And then I tried to teach him, but he didn't seem as if he could learn anything but the Hail Mary. That was the first prayer he said, mother. Wasn't it nice it should be the last?" And so they talked on of Tom and the old days as if they would never weary; and the little Crucifix, which had been brought back to them was hung up as their greatest treasure. Every one was sorry to hear the news; even those who had once felt a dislike to him because he was so poor and ignorant had all something kind to say, and promised to offer up prayers for his soul. So poor Tom was not forgotten, and as years went by, and Mrs. Kelly grew old, and Mary was a woman and had little children of her own about her, they still loved nothing better than to talk of the cold winter evening when they had found him homeless and ignorant, and of God's goodness in letting them be the means of teaching him that faith and love to Jesus and His blessed Mother which comforted him and saved him in his early death. Source: Tom's Crucifix and Other Tales, 1877 Self-preservation is nature's first law and the first and essential means of preserving one's existence is the taking of food and drink sufficient to nourish the body, sustain its strength and repair the forces thereof weakened by labor, fatigue or illness. God, as well as nature, obliges us to care for our bodily health, in order that the spirit within may work out on earth the end of its being. Being purely animal, this necessity is not the noblest and most elevating characteristic of our nature. Nor is it, in its imperious and unrelenting requirements, far removed from a species of tyranny. A kind Providence, however, by lending taste, savor and delectability to our aliments, makes us find pleasure in what otherwise would be repugnant and insufferably monotonous.
An appetite is a good and excellent thing. To eat and drink with relish and satisfaction is a sign of good health, one of the precious boons of nature. And the tendency to satisfy this appetite, far from being sinful, is wholly in keeping with the divine plan, and is necessary for a fulsome benefiting of the nourishment we take. On the other hand, the digestive organism of the body is such a delicate and finely adjusted piece of mechanism that any excess is liable to clog its workings and put it out of order. It is made for sufficiency alone. Nature never intended man to be a glutton; and she seldom fails to retaliate and avenge excesses by pain, disease and death. This fact coupled with the grossness of the vice of gluttony makes it happily rare, at least in its most repulsive form; for, be it said, it is here question of the excessive use of ordinary food and drink, and not of intoxicants to which latter form of gluttony we shall pay our respects later. The rich are more liable than the poor to sin by gluttony; but gluttony is fatal to longevity, and they who enjoy best life, desire to live longest. 'Tis true, physicians claim that a large portion of diseases are due to over-eating and over-drinking; but it must be admitted that this is through ignorance rather than malice. So that this passion can hardly be said to be commonly yielded to, at least to the extent of grievous offending. Naturally, the degree of excess in eating and drinking is to be measured according to age, temperament, condition of life, etc. The term gluttony is relative. What would be a sin for one person might be permitted as lawful to another. One man might starve on what would constitute a sufficiency for more than one. Then again, not only the quantity, but the quality, time and manner, enter for something in determining just where excess begins. It is difficult therefore, and it is impossible, to lay down a general rule that will fit all cases. It is evident, however, that he is mortally guilty who is so far buried in the flesh as to make eating and drinking the sole end of life, who makes a god of his stomach. Nor is it necessary to mention certain immentionable excesses such as were practiced by the degenerate Romans towards the fall of the Empire. It would likewise be a grievous sin of gluttony to put the satisfaction of one's appetite before the law of the Church and violate wantonly the precepts of fasting and abstinence. And are there no sins of gluttony besides these? Yes, and three rules may be laid down, the application of which to each particular case will reveal the malice of the individual. Overwrought attachment to satisfactions of the palate, betrayed by constant thinking of viands and pleasures of the table, and by avidity in taking nourishment, betokens a dangerous, if not a positively sinful, degree of sensuality. Then, to continue eating or drinking after the appetite is appeased, is in itself an excess and mortal sin may be committed even without going to the last extreme. Lastly, it is easy to yield inordinately to this passion by attaching undue importance to the quality of our victuals, seeking after delicacies that do not become our rank, and catering to an over-refined palate. The evil of all this consists in that we seem to eat and drink, if we do not in fact eat and drink, to satisfy our sensuality first, and to nourish our bodies afterwards; and this is contrary to the law of nature. We seemed to insist from the beginning that this is not a very dangerous or common practice. Yet there must be a hidden and especial malice in it. Else why is fasting and abstinence—two correctives of gluttony—so much in honor and so universally recommended and commanded in the Church? Counting three weeks in Advent, seven in Lent and three Ember days four times a year, we have, without mentioning fifty-two Fridays, thirteen weeks or one fourth of the year by order devoted to a practical warfare on gluttony. No other vice receives the honor of such systematic and uncompromising resistance. The enemy must be worthy. As a matter of fact, there lies under all this a great moral principle of Christian philosophy. This philosophy sought out and found the cause and seat of all evil to be in the flesh. The forces of sin reside in the flesh while the powers of righteousness —faith, reason and will—are in the spirit. The real issue of life is between these forces contending for supremacy. The spirit should rule; that is the order of our being. But the flesh revolts, and by ensnaring the will endeavors to dominate over the spirit. Now it stands to reason that the only way for the superior part to succeed is to weaken the inferior part. Just as prayer and the grace of the sacraments fortify the soul, so do food and drink nourish the animal; and if the latter is cared for to the detriment of the soul, it waxes strong and formidable and becomes a menace. The only resource for the soul is then to cut off the supply that benefits the flesh, and strengthen herself thereby. She acts like a wise engineer who keeps the explosive and dangerous force of his locomotive within the limit by reducing the quantity of food he throws into its stomach. Thus the passions being weakened become docile, and are easily held under sway by the power that is destined to govern, and sin is thus rendered morally impossible. It is gluttony that furnishes the passion of the flesh with fuel by feeding the animal too well; and herein lies the great danger and malice of this vice. The evil of a slight excess may not be great in itself; but that evil is great in its consequences. Little over-indulgences imperceptibly, but none the less surely, strengthen the flesh against the spirit, and when the temptation comes the spirit will be overcome. The ruse of the saints was to starve the enemy. Source: Moral Briefs by Rev. John H. Stapleton, Imprimatur 1904 Never say, when you are angry, that you are mad; it makes you appear much worse than you really are, for only dogs get mad. The rabies in a human being is a most unnatural and ignoble thing, Yet common parlance likens anger to it.
It is safe to say that no one has yet been born that never yielded, more or less, to the sway of this passion. Everybody gets angry. The child sulks, the little girl calls names and makes faces, the boy fights and throws stones; the maiden waxes huffy, spiteful, and won't speak, and the irascible male fumes, rages, and says and does things that become him not in the least. Even pious folks have their tiffs and tilts. All flesh is frail, and anger has an easy time of it; not because this passion is so powerful, but because it is insidious and passes for a harmless little thing in its ordinary disguise. And yet all wrath does not manifest itself thus exteriorly. Still waters are deepest. An imperturbable countenance may mask a very inferno of wrath and hatred. To hear us talk, there is no fault in all this, the greater part of the time. It is a soothing tonic to our conscience after a fit of rage, to lay all the blame on a defect of character or a naturally bad temper. If fault there is, it is anybody's but our own. We recall the fact that patience is a virtue that has its limits, and mention things that we solemnly aver would try the enduring powers of the beatified on their thrones in heaven. Some, at a loss otherwise to account for it, protest that a particular devil got hold of them and made resistance impossible. But it was not a devil at all. It was a little volcano, or better, a little powder magazine hidden away somewhere in the heart. The imp Pride had its head out looking for a caress, when it received a rebuff instead. Hastily disappearing within, it spat fire right and left, and the explosion followed, proportionate in energy and destructive power to the quantity of pent-up self-love that served as a charge. Once the mine is fired, in the confusion and disorder that follow, vengeance stalks forth in quest of the miscreant that did the wrong. Anger is the result of hurt pride, of injured self love. It is a violent and inordinate commotion of the soul that seeks to wreak vengeance for an injury done. The causes that arouse anger vary infinitely in reasonableness, and there are all degrees of intensity. The malice of anger consists wholly in the measure of our deliberate yielding to its promptings. Sin, here as elsewhere, supposes an act of the will. A crazy man is not responsible for his deeds; nor is anyone, for more than what he does knowingly. The first movement or emotion of irascibility is usually exempt of all fault; by this is meant the play of the passion on the sensitive part of our nature, the sharp, sudden fit that is not foreseen and is not within our control, the first effects of the rising wrath, such as the rush of blood, the trouble and disorder of the affections, surexcitation and solicitation to revenge. A person used to repelling these assaults may be taken unawares and carried away to a certain extent in the first storm of passion, in this there is nothing sinful. But the same faultlessness could not be ascribed to him who exercises no restraining power over his failing, and by yielding habitually fosters it and must shoulder the responsibility of every excess. We incur the burden of God's wrath when, through our fault, negligence or a positive act of the will, we suffer this passion to steal away our reason, blind us to the value of our actions, and make us deaf to all considerations. No motive can justify such ignoble weakness that would lower us to the level of the madman. He dishonors his Maker who throws the reins to his animal instincts and allows them to gallop ahead with him, in a mad career of vengeance and destruction. Many do not go to this extent of fury, but give vent to their spleen in a more cool and calculating manner. Their temper, for being less fiery, is more bitter. They are choleric rather than bellicose. They do not fly to acts but to desires and well-laid plans of revenge. If the desire or deed lead to a violation of justice or charity, to scandal or any notable evil consequence, the sin is clearly mortal ; the more so, if this inward brooding be of long duration, as it betrays a more deep-seated malice. Are there any motives capable of justifying these outbursts of passion ? None at all, if our ire has these two features of unreasonableness and vindictiveness. This is evil. No motive, however good, can justify an evil end. If any cause were plausible, it would be a grave injury, malicious and unjust. But not even this is sufficient, for we are forbidden to return evil for evil. It may cause us grief and pain, but should not incite us to anger, hatred and revenge. What poor excuses would therefore be accidental or slight injuries, just penalties for our wrongdoings and imaginary grievances! The less excusable is our wrath, the more serious is our delinquency. Our guilt is double-dyed when the deed and the cause of the deed are both alike unreasonable. Yet there is a kind of anger that is righteous. We speak of the wrath of God, and in God there can be no sin. Christ himself was angry at the sight of the vendors in the temple. Holy Writ says: Be ye angry and sin not. But this passion, which is the fruit of zeal has three features which make it impossible to confound it with the other. It is always kept within the bounds of a wise moderation and under the empire of reason; it knows not the spirit of revenge; and it has behind it the best of motives, namely, zeal for the glory of God. It is aroused at the sight of excesses, injustices, scandals, frauds; it seeks to destroy sin, and to correct the sinner. It is often not only a privilege, but a duty. It supposes, naturally, judgment, prudence, and discretion, and excludes all selfish motives. Zeal in an inferior and more common degree is called indignation, and is directed against all things unworthy, low and deserving of contempt. It respects persons, but loathes whatever of sin or vice that is in, or comes from, unworthy beings. It is a virtue, and is the effect of a high sense of respectability. Impatience is not anger, but a feeling somewhat akin to it, provoked by untoward events and inevitable happenings, such as the weather, accidents, etc. It is void of all spirit of revenge. Peevishness is chronic impatience, due to a disordered nervous system and requires the services of a competent physician, being a physical, not a* moral, distemper. Anger is a weakness and betrays many other weaknesses ; that is why sensible people never allow this passion to sway them. It is the last argument of a lost cause: "You are angry, therefore you are wrong." The great misery of it is that hot-tempered people consider their mouths to be safety-valves, while the truth is that the wagging tongue generates bile faster than the open mouth can give exit to it. St. Liguori presented an irate scold with a bottle, the contents to be taken by the mouthful and held for fifteen minutes, each time her lord and master returned home in his cups. She used it with surprising results and went back for more. The saint told her to go to the well and draw inexhaustibly until cured. For all others, the remedy is to be found in a meditation of these words of the "Our Father:" "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us." The Almighty will take us at our word. Source: Moral Briefs by Rev. John H. Stapleton, Imprimatur 1904 Pride resides principally in the mind, and thence sways over the entire man; avarice proceeds from the heart and affections; lust has its seat in the flesh.
By pride man prevaricating imitates the angel of whose nature he partakes; avarice is proper to man as being a composite of angelic and animal natures; lust is characteristic of the brute pure and simple. This trinity of concupiscence is in direct opposition to the Trinity of God—to the Father, whose authority pride would destroy; to the Son, whose voluntary stripping of the divinity and the poverty of whose life avarice scorns and contemns; to the Holy Ghost, to whom lust is opposed as the flesh is opposed to the spirit. This is the mighty trio that takes possession of the whole being of man, controls his superior and inferior appetites, and wars on the whole being of God. And lust is the most ignoble of the three. Strictly speaking, it is not here question of the commandments. They prescribe or forbid acts of sin —thoughts, words or deeds; lust is a passion, a vice or inclination, a concupiscence. It is not an act. It does not become a sin while it remains in this state of pure inclination. It is inbred in our nature as children of Adam. Lust is an appetite like any other appetite, conformable to our human nature, and can be satisfied lawfully within the order established by God and nature. But it is vitiated by the corruption of fallen flesh. This vitiated appetite craves for unlawful and forbidden satisfactions and pleasures, such as are not in keeping with the plans of the Creator. Thus the vitiated appetite becomes inordinate. At one and the same time it becomes inordinate and sinful, the passion being gratified unduly by a positive act of sin. This depraved inclination, as everyone knows, may be in us, without being of us, that is, without any guilt being imputed to us. This occurs in the event of a violent assault of passion, in which our will has no part, and which consequently does not materialize, exteriorly or interiorly, in a human act forbidden by the laws of morality. Nor is there a transgression, even when gratified, if reason and faith control the inclination and direct it along the lines laid down by the divine and natural laws. Outside of this all manners, shapes and forms of lust are grievous sins, for the law admits no levity of matter. No further investigation, at the present time, into the essence of this vice is necessary. There is an abominable theory familiar to, and held by the dissolute, who, not content with spreading the contagion of their souls, aim at poisoning the very wells of morality. They reason somewhat after this fashion: Human nature is everywhere the same. He knows others who best knows himself. A mere glance at themselves reveals the fact that they are chained fast to earth by their vile appetites, and that to break these chains is a task too heavy for them to undertake. The fact is overlooked that these bonds are of their own creation, and that every end is beyond reach of him who refuses to take the means to that end. Incapable, too, of conceiving a sphere of morality superior to that in which they move, and without further investigation of facts to make their induction good, they conclude that all men are like themselves; that open profession of morality is unadulterated hypocrisy, that a pure man is a living lie. A more wholesale impeachment of human veracity and a more brutal indignity offered to human nature could scarcely be imagined. Reason never argued thus; the heart has reasons which the reason cannot comprehend. Truth to be loved needs only to be seen. Adversely, it is the case with falsehood. It is habitual with this passion to hide its hideousness under the disguise of love, and thus this most sacred and hallowed name is prostituted to signify that which is most vile and loathsome. Depravity? No. Goodness of heart, generosity of affections, the very quintessence of good nature ! But God is love, and love that does not see the image of the Creator in its object is not love, but the brutal instinct. There are some who do not go so far as to identify vice with virtue, but content themselves with esteeming that, since passion is so strong, virtue so difficult and God so merciful to His frail creatures, to yield a trifle is less a sin than a confession of native weakness. This ''weakness" runs a whole gamut of euphemisms; imperfections, foibles, frailties, mistakes, miseries, accidents, indiscretions—anything to gloss it over, anything but what it is. At this rate, you could efface the whole Decalogue and at one fell stroke destroy all laws, human and divine. What is yielding to any passion but weakness? Very few sins are sins of pure malice. If one is weak through one's own fault, and chooses to remain so rather than take the necessary means of acquiring strength, that one is responsible in full for the weakness. The weak and naughty in this matter are plain, ordinary sinners of a very sable dye. Theirs is not the view that God took of things when He purged the earth with water and destroyed the five cities with fire. From Genesis to the Apocalypse you will not find a weakness against which He inveighs so strongly, and chastises so severely. He forbids and condemns every deliberate yielding, every voluntary step taken over the threshold of moral cleanness in thought, word, desire or action. The gravity and malice of sin is not to be measured by the fancies, opinions, theories or attitude of men. The first and only rule is the will of God which is sufficiently clear to anyone who scans the sacred pages whereon it is manifested. And the reason of His uncompromising hostility to voluptuousness can be found in the intrinsic malice of the evil. In man, as God created him, the soul is superior to the body, and of its nature should rule and govern. Lust inverts this order, and the flesh lords it over the spirit. The image of God is defiled, dragged in the mire of filth and corruption, and robbed of its spiritual nature, as far as the thing is possible. It becomes corporal, carnal, animal. And thus the superior soul with its sublime faculties of intelligence and will is made to obey under the tyranny of emancipated flesh, and like the brute seeks only for things carnal. It is impossible to say to what this vice will not lead, or to enumerate the crimes that follow in its wake. The first and most natural consequence is to create a distaste and aversion for prayer, piety, devotion, religion and God; and this is God's most terrible curse on the vice, for it puts beyond reach of the unfortunate sinner the only remedy that could save him. But if God's justice is so rigorous toward the wanton, His mercy is never so great as toward those who need it most, who desire it and ask it. The most touching episodes in the Gospels are those in which Christ opened wide the arms of His charity to sinful but repentant creatures, and lifted them out of their iniquity. That same charity and power to shrive, uplift and strengthen resides to-day, in all its plenitude, in the Church which is the continuation of Christ. Where there is a will there is a way. The will is the sinner's; the way is in prayer and the sacraments. Source: Moral Briefs by Rev. John H. Stapleton, Imprimatur 1904 "What is a miser?" asked the teacher of her pupils, and the bright boy spoke up and answered: one who has a greed for gold. But he and all the class were embarrassed as to how this greed for gold should be qualified. The boy at the foot of the class came to the rescue, and shouted out: misery. Less wise answers are made every day in our schools. Misery is indeed the lot, if not the vice, of the miser. 'Tis true that this is one of the few vices that arrive at permanent advantages, the others offering satisfaction that lasts but for a moment, and leaves nothing but bitterness behind. Yet, the more the miser possesses the more insatiable his greed becomes, and the less his enjoyment, by reason of the redoubled efforts he makes to have and to hold. But the miser is not the only one infected with the sin of avarice. His is not an ordinary, but an extreme case. He is the incarnation of the evil. He believes in, hopes in, and loves gold above all things; he prays and sacrifices to it. Gold is his god, and gold will be his reward, a miserable one.
This degree of the vice is rare; or, at least, is rarely suffered to manifest itself to this extent; and although scarcely a man can be found to confess to this failing, because it is universally regarded as most loathsome and repulsive, still few there are who are not more or less slaves to cupidity. Pride is the sin of the angels; lust is the sin of the brute, and avarice is the sin of man. Scripture calls it the universal evil. We are more prone to inveigh against it, and accuse others of the vice than to admit it in ourselves. Sometimes, it is "the pot calling the kettle black;" more often it is a clear case of "sour grapes." Disdain for the dollars "that speak," "the mighty dollars," in abundance and in superabundance, is rarely genuine. There are, concerning the passion of covetousness, two notions as common as they are false. It is thought that this vice is peculiar to the rich, and is not to be met with among the poor. Now, avarice does not necessarily suppose the possession of wealth, and does not consist in the possession, but in the inordinate desire, or greed for, or the lust of, riches. It may be, and is, difficult for one to possess much wealth without setting one's heart on it. But it is also true that this greed may possess one who has little or nothing. It may be found in unrestrained excess under the rags of the pauper and beggar. They who aspire to, or desire, riches with avidity are covetous whether they have much, little, or nothing. Christ promised His kingdom to the poor in spirit, not to the poor in fact. Spiritual poverty can associate with abundant wealth, just as the most depraved cupidity may exist in poverty. Another prejudice, favorable to ourselves, is that only misers are covetous, because they love money for itself and deprive themselves of the necessaries of life to pile it up. But it is not necessary that the diagnosis reveal these alarming symptoms to be sure of having a real case of cupidity. They are covetous who strive after wealth with passion. Various motives may arouse this passion, and although they may increase the malice, they do not alter the nature, of the vice. Some covet wealth for the sake of possessing it; others, to procure pleasures or to satisfy different passions. Avarice it continues to be, whatever the motive. Not even prodigality, the lavish spending of riches, is a token of the absence of cupidity. Rapacity may stand behind extravagance to keep the supply in-exhausted. It is covetousness to place one's greatest happiness in the possession of wealth or to consider its loss or privation the greatest of misfortunes; in other words, to over-rejoice in having and to over-grieve in not having. It is covetousness to be so disposed as to acquire riches unjustly rather than suffer poverty. It is covetousness to hold, or give begrudgingly, when charity presses her demands. There is, in these cases, a degree of malice that is ordinarily mortal, because the law of God and of nature is not respected. It is the nature of this vice to cause unhappiness which increases until it becomes positive wretchedness in the miser. Anxiety of mind is followed by hardening of the heart; then injustice in desire and in fact; blinding of the conscience, ending in a general stultification of man before the god Mammon. All desires of riches and comfort are not, therefore, avarice. One may aspire to, and seek wealth without avidity. This ambition is a laudable one, for it does not exaggerate the value of the world's goods, would not resort to injustice, and has not the characteristic tenacity of covetousness. There is order in this desire for plenty. It is the great mover of activity in life; it is good because it is natural, and honorable because of its motives. Source: Moral Briefs by Rev. John H. Stapleton, Imprimatur 1904 0 Comments Excellence is a quality that raises a man above the common level and distinguishes him among his fellow-beings. The term is relative. The quality may exist in any degree or measure. 'Tis only the few that excel eminently; but anyone may be said to excel who is, ever so little, superior to others, be they few or many. Three kinds of advantages go to make up one's excellence. Nature's gifts are talent, knowledge, health, strength, and beauty; fortune endows us with honor, wealth, authority; and virtue, piety, honesty are the blessings of grace. To the possession of one or several of these advantages excellence is attached. All good is made to be loved. All gifts directly or indirectly from God are good, and if excellence is the fruit of these gifts, it is lawful, reasonable, human to love it and them. But measure is to be observed in all things. Virtue is righteously equidistant, while vice goes to extremes. It is not, therefore, attachment and affection for this excellence, but inordinate, unreasonable love that is damnable, and constitutes the vice of pride.
God alone is excellent and all greatness is from Him alone. And those who are born great, who acquire greatness, or who have greatness thrust upon them, alike owe their superiority to Him. Nor are these advantages and this preeminence due to our merits and deserts. Everything that comes to us from God is purely gratuitous on His part, and undeserved on ours. Since our very existence is the effect of a free act of His will, why should not, for a greater reason, all that is accidental to that existence be dependent on His free choice? Finally, nothing of all this is ours or ever can become ours. Our qualities are a pure loan confided to our care for a good and useful purpose, and will be reclaimed with interest. Since the malice of our pride consists in the measure of affection we bestow upon our excellence, if we love it to the extent of adjudging it not a gift of God, but the fruit of our own better selves; or if we look upon it as the result of our worth, that is, due to our merits, we are guilty of nothing short of downright heresy, because we hold two doctrines contrary to faith. "What hast thou, that thou hast not received ?" If a gift is due to us, it is no longer a gift. This extreme of pride is happily rare. It is directly opposed to God. It is the sin of Lucifer. A lesser degree of pride is, while admitting ourselves beholden to God for whatever we possess and confessing His bounties to be undeserved, to consider the latter as becoming ours by right of possession, with liberty to make the most of them for our own personal ends. This is a false and sinful appreciation of God's gifts, but it respects His and all subordinate authority. If it never, in practice, fails in this submission, there is sin, because the plan of God, by which all things must be referred to Him, is thwarted; but its malice is not considered grievous. Pride, however, only too often fails in this, its tendency being to satisfy itself, which it cannot do within the bounds of authority. Therefore it is that from being a venial, this species of pride becomes a mortal offense, because it leads almost infallibly to disobedience and rebellion. There is a pride, improperly so called, which is in accordance with all the rules of order, reason and honor. It is a sense of responsibility and dignity which every man owes to himself, and which is compatible with the most sincere humility. It is a regard, an esteem for oneself, too great to allow one to stoop to anything base or mean. It is submissive to authority, acknowledges shortcomings, respects others and expects to be respected in return. It can preside with dignity, and obey with docility. Far from being a vice, it is a virtue and is only too rare in this world. It is nobility of soul which betrays itself in self-respect. Here is the origin, progress and development of the vice. We first consider the good that is in us, and there is good in all of us, more or less. This consideration becomes first exaggerated; then one-sided by reason of our overlooking and ignoring imperfections and shortcomings. Out of these reflections arises an apprehension of excellence or superiority greater than we really possess. From the mind this estimate passes to the heart which embraces it fondly, rejoices and exults. The conjoint acceptation of this false appreciation by the mind and heart is the first complete stage of pride—an overwrought esteem of self. The next move is to become self-sufficient, presumptuous. A spirit of enterprise asserts itself, wholly out of keeping with the means at hand. It is sometimes foolish, sometimes insane, reason being blinded by error. The vice then seeks to satisfy itself, craves for the esteem of others, admiration, flattery, applause, and glory. This is vanity, different from conceit only in this, that the former is based on something that is, or has been done, while the latter is based on nothing. Vanity manifested in word is called boasting; in deed that is true, vain-glory; in deed without foundation of truth, hypocrisy. But this is not substantial enough for ambition, another form of pride. It covets exterior marks of appreciation, rank, honor, dignity, authority. It seeks to rise, by hook or crook, for the sole reason of showing off and displaying self. Still growing apace, pride becomes indignant, irritated, angry if this due appreciation is not shown to its excellence; it despises others either for antipathy or inferiority. It believes its own judgment infallible and, if in the wrong, will never acknowledge a mistake or yield. Finally the proud man becomes so full of self that obedience is beneath him, and he no longer respects authority of man or of God. Here we have the sin of pride in all the plenitude of its malice. Pride is often called an honorable vice, because its aspirations are lofty, because it supposes strength, and tends directly to elevate man, rather than to debase and degrade him, like the other vices. Yet pride is compatible with every meanness. It lodges in the heart of the pauper as well as in that of the prince. There is nothing contemptible that it will not do to satisfy itself; and although its prime malice is to oppose God it has every quality to make it as hideous as Satan himself. It goeth before a fall, but it does not cease to exist after the fall ; and no matter how deep down in the mire of iniquity you search, you will find pride nethermost. Other vices excite one's pity; pride makes us shudder. Source: Moral Briefs by Rev. John H. Stapleton, Imprimatur 1904 You can never cure a disease till you get at the seat or root of the evil. It will not do to attack the several manifestations that appear on the surface, the aches and pains and attendant disorders. You must attack the affected organ, cut out the root of the evil growth, and kill the obnoxious germ. There is no other permanent remedy; until this is done, all relief is but temporary. And if we desire to remove the distemper of sin, similarly it is necessary to seek out the root of all sin. We can lay our finger on it at once; it is inordinate self-love. Ask yourself why you broke this or that commandment. It is because it forbade you a satisfaction that you coveted, a satisfaction that your self-love imperiously demanded; or it is because it prescribed an act that cost an effort, and you loved yourself too much to make that effort. Examine every failing, little or great, and you will trace them back to the same source. If we thought more of God and less of ourselves we would never sin. The sinner lives for himself first, and for God afterwards. Strange that such a sacred thing as love, the source of all good, may thus, by abuse, become the fountainhead of all evil! Perhaps, if it were not so sacred and prolific of good, its excess would not be so unholy. But the higher you stand when you tumble, the greater the fall; so the better a thing is in itself, the more abominable is its abuse. Love directed aright, towards God first, is the fulfillment of the Law; love misdirected is the very destruction of all law. Yet it is not wrong to love oneself; that is the first law of nature. One, and one only being, the Maker, are we bound to love more than ourselves.
The neighbor is to be loved as ourselves. And if our just interests conflict with his, if our rights and his are opposed to each other, there is no legitimate means but we may employ to obtain or secure what is rightly ours. The evil of self-love lies in its abuse and excess, in that it goes beyond the limits set by God and nature, that it puts unjustly our interests before God's and the neighbor's, and that to self it sacrifices them and all that pertains to them. Self, the ''ego," is the idol before which all must bow. Self-love, on an evil day, in the garden of Eden, wedded sin, Satan himself officiating under the disguise of a serpent; and she gave birth to seven daughters like unto herself, who in turn became fruitful mothers of iniquity. Haughty Pride, first-born and queen among her sisters, is inordinate love of one's worth and excellence, talents and beauty; sordid Avarice or Covetousness is excessive love of riches; loathsome Lust is the third, and loves carnal pleasures without regard for the law; fiery Anger, a counterpart of pride, is love rejected but seeking blindly to remedy the loss; bestial Gluttony worships the stomach; green-eyed Envy is hate for wealth and happiness denied finally Sloth loves bodily ease and comfort to excess. The infamous brood! These parents of all iniquity are called the seven capital sins. They assume the leadership of evil in the world and are the seven arms of Satan. As it becomes their dignity, these vices never walk alone or go unattended, and that is the desperate feature of their malice. Each has a cortege of passions, a whole train of inferior minions, that accompany or follow. Once entrance gained and a free hand given, there is no telling the result. Once seated and secure, the passion seeks to satisfy itself ; that is its business. Certain means are required to this end.and these means can be procured only by sinning. Obstacles often stand in the way and new sins furnish steps to vault over, or implements to batter them down. Intricate and difficult conditions frequently arise as the result of self-indulgence, out of which there is no exit but by fresh sins. Hence the long train of crimes led by one capital sin towards the goal of its satisfaction, and hence the havoc wrought by its untrammeled working in a human soul. This may seem exaggerated to some; others it may mislead as to the true nature of the capital sins, unless it be clearly put forth in what their malice consists. Capital sins are not, in the first place, in themselves, sins; they are vices, passions, inclinations or tendencies to sin, and we know that a vice is not necessarily sinful. Our first parents bequeathed to us as an inheritance these germs of misery and sin. We are all in a greater or lesser degree prone to excess and to desire unlawful pleasures. Yet, for all that, we do not of necessity sin. We sin when we yield to these tendencies and do what they suggest. The simple proneness to evil, devoid of all wilful yielding is therefore not wrong. Why? Because we cannot help it; that is a good and sufficient reason. These passions may lie dormant in our nature without soliciting to evil; they may, at any moment, awake to action with or without provocation. The sight of an enemy or the thought of a wrong may stir up anger; pride may be aroused by flattery, applause or even compliments; the demon of lust may make its presence known and felt for a good reason, for a slight reason, or for no reason at all; gluttony shows its head at the sight of food or drink, etc. He who deliberately and without reason arouses a passion, and thus exposes himself imprudently to an assault of concupiscence, is grievously guilty; for it is to trifle with a powerful and dangerous enemy and it betokens indifference to the soul's salvation. Suggestions, seductions, allurements follow upon the awakening of these passions. When the array of these forces comes in contact with the will, the struggle is on; it is called temptation. Warfare is the natural state of man on earth. Without it, the world here below would be a paradise, but life would be without merit. In this unprovoked and righteous battle with sin, the only evil to be apprehended is the danger of yielding. But far from being sinful, the greater the danger, the more meritorious the struggle. It matters not what we experience while fighting the enemy. Imagination and sensation that solicit to yielding, anxiety of mind and discouragement, to all this there is no wrong attached, but merit. Right or wrong depends on the outcome. Every struggle ends in victory or defeat for one party and in temptation there is sin only in defeat. A single act of the will decides. It matters not how long the struggle lasts ; if the will does not capitulate, there is no sin. This resistance demands plenty of energy, a soul inured to like combats and an ample provision of weapons of defense—faith, hatred of sin, love of God. Prayer is essential. Flight is the safest means, but is not always possible. Humility and self-denial are an excellent, even necessary, preparation for assured victory. No man need expect to make himself proof against temptation. It is not a sign of weakness; or if so, it is a weakness common to all men. There is weakness only in defeat, and cowardice as well. The gallant and strong are they who fight manfully. Manful resistance means victory, and victory makes one stronger and invincible, while defeat at every repetition places victory farther and farther beyond our reach. Success requires more than strength, it requires wisdom, the wisdom to single out the particular passion that predominates in us, to study its artifices and by remote preparation to make ourselves secure against its assaults. The leader thus exposed and its power for evil reduced to a minimum, it will be comparatively easy to hold in check all other dependent passions. Source: Moral Briefs by Rev. John H. Stapleton, Imprimatur 1904 |
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