Frenchmen liked authority well enough within its proper sphere; but they expected it to obey the law and common sense.

All these things inspired a strong dislike of the doctrine of papal infallibility. Dogmatically speaking, Frenchmen thought it unhistorical, and opposed to the ancient traditions of their Church. Administratively speaking, it meant a revolution. Hitherto they had settled their ecclesiastical disputes at home. Once admit infallibility, and appeals innumerable would go from their own highly competent tribunals to a set of incapable judges in a foreign land. Lastly, Bellarmin and the Roman Ultramontanes had grafted on to the theological dogma a set of political consequences highly exasperating to French national pride. It was argued that ecclesiastical interests took precedence of all other interests; and of these the Pope was the only judge. Hence he had a right to dictate his will to temporal sovereigns, whenever he thought such interests were concerned. If they refused to listen, he could punish them in any manner he thought fit; in the last resort he could depose them, incite their subjects to rebellion, and head a crusade of Catholic Powers against

them.

Much of this, no doubt, was simply dialectical steam, blown off by heated professors in a class-room. But steam can drive small wheels as well as great. The French Ministers knew very well that Ultramontanism could not depose Louis XIII from his throne; it could, and did, write seditious pamphlets, whenever Richelieu supported a Protestant Power against a Catholic. But in their foreign policy, at any rate, Richelieu and his successors meant to keep their hands entirely free; here they must be able to ignore ecclesiastical interests as much as they pleased without fear of ecclesiastical disturbance. Hence the need of a doctrine that would bind the consciences of all Frenchmen to obey no master but their King.

This need Gallicanism supplied. It may be described as a generalisation of the ancient Gallican Liberties, evolved as a counterblast to Ultramontanism. Like the rival theory, it developed a theological and a political side. Theological Gallicanism maintained that the supreme infallible authority of the Church was committed to Pope and Bishops jointly. Political Gallicanism declared that no amount of misconduct, or neglect of Catholic interests, justified the Pope in interfering with a temporal sovereign. The two doctrines grew up independently; and even under Louis XIV many Jesuits and other divines were politically Gallican, and theologically Ultramontane. But early in the seventeenth century the two sides of Gallicanism were welded together by Edmond Richer (1559-1631), a famous Doctor of the Sorbonne. To the Richelieus and Colberts Gallicanism was a mere device for snuffing out clerical opposition; in the hands of Richer and his successors it became an honest attempt to solve the great problem of the age, and show Frenchmen how to be at once good citizens and good Catholics.

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The divine right of Kings.

For a new era was dawning. On the divisions of the Wars of Religion there followed an irresistible reaction towards patriotism and national unity. France had suddenly grown to her full stature; like the contemporary England of John Milton, she was become "a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep." Ultramontanism strove hard to check what it called this "separatist" tendency, and to strangle national aspirations in the leading-strings of the Papacy. But even the clergy were swept away by the current, and meant to be patriots like everyone else. "Before my ordination," said Richer, "I was a subject of the King of France. Why should that ceremony make me a subject of the Pope?" His eccentric follower, Michael Chrétien, went further still, and exhorted the assembled Sorbonne to rally to the service of its King. "Exhibeamus nos gallos, et non gallinas," he cried. Before long the Gallican wave had invaded the Jesuits themselves. When Louis XIV, after a period of diplomatic coolness, again sent an ambassador to Alexander VII, Father Rapin overflows about his royal condescension in thus "honouring" the Pope. And in the great quarrel with Innocent XI the Society was among the strongest supporters of the Crown.

Gallicanism necessarily led up to the doctrine of the divine right of kings. This doctrine is developed by Bossuet in his Politique tirée de l'Écriture Sainte, written between 1675 and 1680, while the author was tutor to Louis XIV's only son. But Bossuet by no means followed the same lines as his contemporaries across the Channel. The theologians of Charles II upheld the divine right of legitimate monarchy, as opposed to other forms of government. Bossuet's object was to show that all established sovereignties-whether monarchical or republican-hold their power directly of God, and not mediately through the Pope. God wills that in every country there should be some settled constitution; what particular form it takes the customs of the country will decide. But, once a particular form of government has established its prescriptive right, no power on earth can interfere either with the system itself or with its lawfully-appointed officers; a bad, but legitimate, king can no more be exchanged for a good than an established republic can transform itself into a monarchy. In short, Bossuet's book is a plea for political stability at all costs. He was old enough to remember the Fronde, and the misery its flighty constitutional experiments brought upon the common folk. He was writing a manual for the son of Louis XIV at a time when Louis' methods of government had culminated in a blaze of glory. Naturally he wished those methods to continue for

ever.

No doubt, this royalist enthusiasm acquired a thick enough coating of vulgarity by the time it reached the lower strata of the clergy. The great Huguenot controversialist, Jurieu, has much to say about a thesis on the argument from design maintained by certain Franciscans of

Church and Crown.

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Marseilles, wherein the chief proof of a Deity's existence was drawn from the triumphs of Louis the Great. But the worst effect of this perpetual incense was on the character of Louis himself. It is true it did not touch his religion; for that was a mass of Spanish superstitions inherited from his mother. As Madame de Maintenon told Cardinal de Noailles, the King would never miss a sermon or a fast-day, but no one could make him understand what was meant by humility or repentance. His private superstitions had, however, little to do with his public policy. Here he walked in the steps of Richelieu, and made the glory of God come altogether second to the glory of the King of France. The Church was a most effective instrument of government, and therefore he supported the Church; but he expected Pope and Bishops to take their marching orders from him. If they refused, he was perfectly ready to make war on the one, and send the others to the Bastille.

The clergy, in fact, were supernumerary members of the civil service. By the Concordat of 1516 the Crown appointed to all bishoprics and abbeys. But the mere nomination was the least part of the business; the real strength of the Crown lay in its power to raise or lower clerical incomes as it pleased. It could burden an incoming bishop's revenues with pensions to whomsoever it chose; it could reward good service with fat sinecures. Of these the most important were the abbeys in commendam. They could be granted to whomsoever the King chose. No residence, or other duty, was expected from the abbot. He need not be in holy orders; he might be a child, or even a Huguenot. Indeed, he could be anything except a monk; for if a qualified person were appointed, the abbey was "restored to rule," and further abuse became impossible.

Still more curious was the royal perquisite of the régale, or right to the temporalities of a vacant bishopric. Of these by far the most important was the patronage of benefices in the bishop's gift-chiefly canonries, archdeaconries, and a host of minor appointments in cathedral and collegiate churches. Parochial livings were excluded, as directly involving cure of souls. In the hands of successive generations of Crown lawyers this prerogative was developed to an incredible extent. It was held that prescription could not be pleaded against the Crown; hence, if a benefice once fell under the régale, there it remained, until the Crown had exercised its right. As a matter of grace, the Crown seldom interfered with a dignitary who had been in possession of his stall for thirty years; but at any time within that period an episcopally-appointed canon was liable to ejectment, on the ground that the patronage of his place rightfully belonged to the Crown. Hence, to present a man to a canonry was often equivalent to presenting him to a costly lawsuit.

Quite apart from the régale, however, litigiousness was a besetting sin of the French clergy. Cathedral Chapters, in particular, were proverbial for their lawyers' bills. Their great object was to make themselves as independent as possible of the Bishop; and herein their

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The religious revival.

lead was followed by numberless deans of peculiars, rectors, incumbents of donatives, and the like. "The lichen of exemptions," said St Francis of Sales, "is fast eating away the trunk of the Church." Another great evil was non-residence. Bishops no longer commanded fleets; nor could they throw up their pastoral charges and marry, as more than once happened under Louis XIII. But most of them would very much rather serve at Court than reign in their cathedral cities; and to "banish” a prelate to his diocese was one of the heaviest sentences Louis XIV could pronounce. Even Fénelon talks of his palace at Cambray much as Ovid talks of Tomi.

These non-resident pluralists were divided by a yawning gulf from the humble country curates. Most of these were miserably poor-even poorer, relatively speaking, than their successors in modern France. Of education they had little; no means existed for obtaining it. The Sorbonne, or theological faculty of Paris University, gave an elaborate education in divinity; but very few young men could afford to spend seven years over their degree. Few of the provincial universities taught theology at all; and seminaries, or diocesan colleges preparing directly for the priesthood, were only just beginning to be founded. On the other hand, the Bishops expected nothing more from a candidate for holy orders than some evidence to character and enough Latin to stumble through a few lines of the Breviary. Hence the most astounding ignorance was common enough. Priests were found who did not know the common formula of absolution. St Vincent de Paul had much trouble in persuading others that they ought not to take money for hearing confessions. Jean-Jacques Olier, founder of the seminary of Saint-Sulpice, came across a priest in his parish, who was in the habit of praying to St Beelzebub.

The awakening of these poor curates and their flocks became the favourite project of St Vincent de Paul (1576–1660). His Lazarists, or Priests of the Mission, were to evangelise the country districts; his Sisters of Charity were to relieve their temporal distresses. These two bodies represent the triumph of two important innovations. The oldfashioned nun had spent her whole time behind high walls in prayer and contemplation; the one object of the Sister of Charity was the service of her neighbours. The first aim of an old-fashioned Order was to make itself independent of all existing authorities; St Vincent's two institutions were expressly intended to collaborate with the Bishops and parochial clergy.

This last idea was not absolutely new. Cardinal de Bérulle (1574– 1629) had founded the French Oratory-a very free adaptation of the original institute of St Philip Neri-in order to train up clergy for country dioceses. But the Oratory proved too lettered for its work. Instead of a popular training college, it became the home of speculative recluses, such as the philosopher Malebranche (1638-1715), or Richard

Directors of Conscience, and Preachers.

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Simon (1638-1712), founder of Biblical criticism in France. As a nursery of clerical scholars, the Oratory had only one rival. This was the Congregation of St Maur (1627), an offshoot of the Benedictine Order. Under the guidance of Mabillon (1632-1707), it developed an invaluable school of critics and ecclesiastical historians.

Mabillon and Malebranche only touched the few; the education of the mass of the clergy fell into the hands of the Sulpicians, founded by the Abbé Olier in 1641, and the Eudists (1643), so called from their founder, the Abbé Eudes de Mézerai. Following their lead came the Christian Brothers (1680), an association of celibate laymen, who furnished teachers for the humbler class of schools. But all three bodies laid much more stress on piety than on learning; Saint-Sulpice, in particular, devoted itself "not so much to theological science, as to the practice of that science, and the virtues proper to the clerical state."

An abounding interest in applied religion marks the whole revival. Perhaps its most characteristic outcome was the rise of professed Directors of Conscience-divines who specialised in spiritual ailments; they stood to ordinary confessors much as a consulting physician stands to a general practitioner. No doubt, their rise was not an altogether healthy sign, and a director often aggravated the ills he was sent to cure. He became the natural target for all the morbid scrupulosity and self-analysis which idle and luxurious lives produce. Fénelon, a great expert in these matters, has many hard things to say about the valetudinarians in soul, who felt their pulses twenty times a day, and sent continually to the director to beg new drugs, or promises of quick recovery. But the prominence of Direction was a strong acknowledgment of the need of personal religion. It was felt, on the one hand, that something more than routine religious duties was demanded of the laity; it was felt, on the other, that they could not be trusted to pick out the vital elements in religion for themselves. Some were too feeble, others too erratic. Hence the use of a Director. He kept flightiness from trying dangerous experiments, and broke up the bread of doctrine into morsels suited to a feeble appetite.

Direction, however, was only for the few; for the many the one means of instruction was the sermon. Nowadays it is hard to realise how large a part the pulpit played in the life of seventeenth century France. Political assemblies were unknown. Journalism, still in its infancy, was closely muzzled. The pulpit was the only place where popular criticism of those in high places could safely make itself heard. Nor did preachers always resist the obvious temptation of airing their views on subjects in general, just to show off their own cleverness. La Bruyère declares that they made their pulpit a means of advancement as rapid, but not less hazardous, than the profession of arms. Others gave in to the dominant préciosité. Mascaron (1634-1703) and Fléchier (1632-1710), the two earliest of Louis XIV's Court-preachers,