modern Church historians; Spain produced Suarez, most philosophical of divines. A generation later the French Oratory became the home of Malebranche and of Richard Simon, father of Biblical criticism. Mabillon and his Benedictines of Saint-Maur paved the way for the systematic investigation of historical records. The Flemish Jesuit Bolland brought the light of criticism to bear on the legends of the saints (see Bollandists). His French colleague, Petau, better known under his latinized surname of Petavius, opened still wider floodgates when he taught that theological dogmas, like everything else, have a history. Lastly, the Jansenist “hermitage” at Port Royal contributed the historian Tillemont, whose bigotry Edward Gibbon declares to be overbalanced by his erudition, veracity and scrupulous minuteness. Other such communities and “congregations”—semi-monastic bodies standing in closer touch with the world than did the medieval orders—undertook the diffusion of knowledge. Wherever they went the Jesuits opened grammar-schools, which had the double advantage of being excellent and cheap. An Italian sisterhood, the Ursulines, was founded for the higher instruction of girls; late in the 17th century a French priest started the Christian Brothers, pioneers of elementary education. Other communities again devoted themselves to parochial work. Such were the Oratorians of St Philip Neri, founded to evangelize the middle classes of Rome. Such, again, were the Lazarists of St Vincent de Paul, whose duty was to preach in neglected country districts. But the most interesting of all these new foundations was the Sisters of Charity, also founded by St Vincent de Paul. This admirable body represents a significant departure from medieval ideals. The old-fashioned nun had spent her time behind high walls in prayerful contemplation; the one object of the Sister of Charity was the service of her neighbour.
Not that medieval ideals were by any means dead; they never burned more brightly than in the Spain of St Teresa (1515-82). Her first idea had been to combat alike the heresies and the worldliness of her time by a return to the austerities of a more heroic age. With this object she founded her order of “Discalced” or barefooted Carmelites; it presently became the refuge of Louise de la Vallière and many another penitent of rank. But mere bodily rigours were not enough for Teresa; she felt the need of rising to a state of complete detachment from all earthly interests and ties. Her whole theology centres in the lines—
| “ | The love of God flows just as much |
| As that of ebbing self subsides; | |
| Our hearts, their scantiness is such, | |
| Bear not the conflict of these rival tides.” |
How, then, subdue the rivalry? Teresa turned to the mystical writers, and learnt from them how to root out the last relics of self-love from the mind by a long discipline of mystical trance and “contemplation.” These ideas, in a very modified form, were introduced into France by the great devotional writer, St Francis of Sales; in the latter half of the 17th century they were pushed to the extravagant length known as Quietism by Fénelon, and especially by Madame Guyon and Michel de Molinos. Meanwhile, the leading conception from which St Teresa started had developed along characteristically different lines in the mind of her compatriot and contemporary, Ignatius Loyola. He quite agreed that self-will was the enemy; The Jesuits. but was there no quicker way of checkmating it than an interminable course of ecstasies and austerities? The thoughts of the converted soldier flew back to the military virtue of obedience. In the long-run no self-imposed hardships could prove quite as disagreeable as always being under the orders of some one else. Obedience accordingly became the typical virtue of Ignatius's society (see Jesuits). The individual Jesuit obeyed his superior, who obeyed the rector, who obeyed the provincial, who obeyed the general, who obeyed the pope, who took his orders straight from God Almighty. Such a theory was of untold practical value to the Church of Rome, more especially during the era of the Reformation. Laynez at the council of Trent has given one signal instance of its working, but its operations were by no means confined to the abstract field of dogma. If men were really to be made obedient, it could only be by stopping them from thinking for themselves about the everyday problems of conduct; and the best way to do this was to furnish them beforehand with a ready-made code' of answers to such problems, warranted to Casuistry. meet all needs. Hence casuistry and the confessional loomed large on the Jesuit horizon. The casuist's duty was to apply the general precepts of the Church to particular cases. He explained, for instance, when a man was strictly bound to tell the truth; when he might avail himself of the mild licence of an equivocation; and when the Church placed at his service the greater indulgence of a mental reservation. The confessor brought the casuist's principles to bear on the conscience of his penitents, and thus saved them from the danger of acting on their own responsibility (see Casuistry).
In its origin this system was a perfectly honest attempt to widen the sphere of obedience by making morality wholly objective and independent of the vagaries of the individual conscience. But what was begun in the interest of obedience was carried on in those of laxity. Experts proverbially differ, and the casuists were no exceptions to the rule. But when great authorities were at variance, it ill became an average priest or penitent to decide. Whatever a grave doctor said must have some solid reasons behind it—aliqua niti probabilitate—and humble lay-folk could act upon it without a twinge of conscience. Thus arose lax casuists of the type of Antonio Escobar (1589-1669), the central figure of Pascal's Provincial Letters. Their whole business was to hunt through the older authorities in search of “benign” decisions. Their temptation is easy to understand. Half Europe was full of waverers between Protestantism and Catholicism tolerably certain to decide for the Church that offered them the cheapest terms of salvation; and even in wholly Catholic countries many, especially of the upper class, might easily be scared away from the confessional by severity. Thereby their money and influence would be lost to the Church, and their souls robbed of the priceless benefit of priestly absolution. On the other hand, these “Escobarine morals” by no means passed unchallenged; ever since the foundation of the society the aims and methods of the Jesuits had called forth lively opposition in many parts of Catholic Europe, and not least in Loyola's native land of Spain. But the most effective protest against them was a movement which began when Michel de Bay, a professor at the Flemish university of Louvain, put forward certain theories on grace and free-will in the latter part of the 16th century. In 1640 a much more elaborate statement Jansenism. of the same ideas appeared in a posthumous treatise on the theology of St Augustine from the pen of Cornelius Jansen, also a Louvain professor (see Jansenism). Into the technical detail of the controversy there is no need to enter. It is enough to say that two rival doctrines of grace and free-will were struggling for mastery in the Roman Church. One theory emphasized the necessity of grace; having been put together by St Thomas Aquinas, it was known as Thomism, and was especially championed by the Dominicans. The other laid the chief stress on free-will; it was known as Molinism from its inventor, the Jesuit Louis de Molina, and was in great favour with the society. The two orders came into violent collision at Rome between 1588 and 1606. But the quarrel, known as the controversy de auxiliis gratiae, was brought to an end by Pope Paul V., who closed the debates and adjourned his decision sine die.
At first sight this abstract question seemed endlessly remote from the practical policy of Escobar; really there is a close connexion between the two. The whole system of the Jesuits rested on a basis of free-will. Their quarry was the average man; and the best way of impressing the average man is to set before him duties that he feels himself fully capable of performing. Then he will really feel morally responsible if he leaves them undone, hence the necessity of free-will. On
