he does not hesitate to tell us that the trial by jury was a suggestion of, and a derivation from, the Holy Office! Remember ye this, O our dull and inconsiderate North American countrymen, the next time you enter a court-room, and see twelve thoughtful men in a jury-box, with lawyers doing their very prettiest to persuade them to accredit their statements, the Inquisition is the bright and blessed author of the interesting scene! Such a form of trial is no modern invention, like steamships, telegraphs, and railways. It was long, long ago evolved, to speak as do the scientists, from the maternal bosom of a Church, which claims the safe keeping of our bodies and our souls, our liberties and civil government. We mean the Holy Roman Catholic Church; and not the Holy Catholic Church of the ancient and old-fashioned creeds. For Mr. Meyrick, in his deft little book about "The Working of the Church in Spain," has effectually enlightened us upon this subject. They have done there with a Church which is plain Catholic, and insist upon the Roman prefix. This is exactly as it should be; and now, at last, we have jury trials under their proper parentage. We will only add, that such a personage as Tomas de Torquemada was a juryman of incredible industry. To say nothing of lighter performances, he actually converted ten thousand two hundred and twenty human subjects into a pile of ashes, and could have manured all Granada with bone-dust.1

Doubtless, Torquemada would have complained that such an innovator as the first Napoleon did not properly understand his exceedingly thrifty employment. No sooner had Napoleon made his appearance on Italian soil, in 1797, than he came in contact with the "ecclesiastical Inquisition." "He summoned into his presence," says Dr. Rule (vol. ii. 319), “the vicar-general, the curates, the chiefs of monastic orders, and the vicar of the Inquisition." It was as reverend an assembly as could possibly have been got together. The address he made them was, for him, a long one; as long, probably, as his dinners, which lasted for fifteen minutes. At the conclusion, he turned abruptly to the representative of the oldest of jury systems, and became intensely Napoleonic: "Your tribunal is

The French historian of the Inquisition, Leonardo Gallois, quoted by his son, Napoleon Gallois, makes the number of the victims of the Spanish Inquisition, including the Moors and Jews who were banished, amount to five millions of persons" (Vicuña, p. 69, note). The Inquisition, it may be well enough to add, has had at least three important historians: Limborch, who wrote in Holland; Gallois, the Frenchman; and Llorente, who was its own secretary. According to Llorente, more than thirty thousand were burnt alive.

suppressed from this moment. There shall be no more butchers" (Rule, ii. 319). No wonder that Bonaparte had so many difficulties with the Pope, and wrung a Concordat from him, as if he were tapping his very life-blood. His Holiness never would have yielded had he not become satisfied that a bigger evil would loom up, if not eclipsed by this-an evil about which Le Maistre would not have been mistaken if he had called it a creation of the State. If England could have given him her countenance, Napoleon would have founded a Reformation Church? Pius VII. had an unmentionable horror of a second edition of the Eighth English Henry. Mr. Charles Butler in his Reminiscences (i. 246) says that Napoleon entertained the wonderful idea, "of effecting the reunion of all Christians on the continent of Europe." This made him, to the frightened pontiff, worse than Henry VIII., twice over.1

After such a taste of Saavedra as his discovery about the jurysystem, we will only recite an interpretative anecdote, and let his whole volume pass. When John Taylor had finished his Pelagian commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, he sent a copy to John Newton, the celebrated Evangelical. Meeting him soon after, he asked if he had read the book. "I have just looked into it," says Newton. "And is this the way," Taylor angrily retorted, "in which a life-labor is to be treated?" 66 Why, look here, Taylor," was the reply; "if my cook sends me up a joint of meat for dinner, and at the first cut with the carving knife I find it tainted, would you have me eat a plateful to find the fact out?"2

We do not care to inflict upon our readers a plenum of the

'The Popes took all the revenge they could, when Napoleon's downfall opened an opportunity. "It is true that when the Popes returned to Rome, after the fall of Bonaparte, they revived the Inquisition in full form, if not in full force; and we know that Leo XII., in 1825, raised another set of prisons, equally numerous and substantial" (Rule, ii. 320). The question has been raised, whether the Roman Inquisition has ever been known to order the execution of capital punishment. The "Dublin Review " of June, 1850, affirmed that it never had done so. It was effectually answered by two pamphlets. The title of the first was "Were heretics ever burned alive at Rome?" (London: Petheram. 1852.) The other, "Records of the Inquisition." (At the University Press, Dublin. 1853.) Perhaps the Inquisition never ordered executions. The Pope could and did. Paul V., for instance, is convicted by the pamphlets. One victim was burnt on a Sunday too! And on a Fourth of July! Sometimes they let them drop unawares into a pit (Rule, ii. 321). No order was necessary for that.

Taken, for brevity's sake, ad sensum, from "Cecil's Remains," one of the spiciest little books we know of (see Remarks on Authors; or pp. 157, 158).

prebendary of Santiago, and so will only quote a declaration of Vicuña, that after he went to original authorities for his statements, he found it best to let the Inquisition answer for itself, by an exhibition of its own documents.

But it is not our wish, as we have before declared, that our humble echo should be heard in this arduous, but antiquated controversy. No, we desire that the Inquisition itself should answer; it being at the same time both accused and accuser, denouncing itself, judging itself, and inflicting upon itself its own punishment. And after having listened patiently, and given an account of the depositions for its canonization, and of the brilliant conceptions for its hypotheosis, we shall see from its ashes, although forever quenched, from its dark and gloomy dungeons, yet still in existence, from the unknown graves of its martyrs, and from the tombs of its most conspicuous executioners, arise the spirits of those long departed, and, in the suit we will bring against it, these themselves shall bear witness to its infernal abominations (Vicuña, p. 52).

The diatribe of Saavedra was authorized in November, 1867, and would seem to have been the herald for an attempt to reëstablish the Inquisition in the Republic of Chile, where the Romish priesthood are still vigorous-we need not say, busy and contriving. The book has even been adopted as a text-book for the young. It is read to children at dinner in a Jesuitical college; intended, it may be, like Worcestershire sauce, to whet the appetite (Vicuña, p. 21).

The Inquisition, Dr. Rule tells us, is dead, and that he has had the immense satisfaction of having acted as its pall-bearer. Still, let him restrain self-congratulation. If dead, it may not be effectually buried. No mean attempt, and that not ten years old, has been made to give it a resurrection under American skies. And if Pius IX., the quondam liberal, has been regenerated backward, and begun to canonize an Inquisition's favorite, the time may come when Te Deums will be chanted for it, such as were rung out at St. Peter's, over the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Yes, the time may come when the famous Court Apostolic, like the equally famous Tamerlane, may amuse its officials by piling the heads of its enemies into colossal pyramids! Tamerlane had one pile with ninety thousand skulls in it. Nine Torquemadas would have outdone him.

G

REAT truths never stand alone. Every one has its correla

tive, which often appears contradictory. The human mind is not endowed with the power to discriminate with accuracy that may be formulated or expressed, and much less has it capacity to comprehend fully. Every truth holds in its nature depths which man cannot fathom, while one or more others modify and limit it. The two great truths of the Divine sovereignty and human freewill illustrate this principle. The first, taken alone, leads to the doctrine of irreversible decrees; against which man's efforts and prayers are unavailing, while his holiest obedience and devoutest submission are useless. The other, taken alone, leads to exemption from responsibility, and the setting up man as an independent being, with no Lord over him. Both are true, and therefore capable of harmony, and yet the whole of human history is a narrative of struggles after that harmony. All religions endeavor to reconcile the supreme God and the free man. The religion of Christ has in view the same end. These are instances illustrative of a rule that has innumerable applications. Theology, as a science, is peculiarly wanting in demonstration. Demonstration would destroy it, by cutting away the ground of faith, hope, and charity. Hence theociii.-7

logical doctrines are mutually restrictive. They are true as revealed. All revelations are equally true. The problem in every case is, to determine how far a truth extends, what its relations are, and how modified or limited by others equally evident or as clearly revealed.

Sacerdotalism is one of the great truths of Christianity. An equally great truth is the freedom, under God, of all mankind; involving, not only the right, but the duty to call no man master. "Every one of us shall give account of himself to God," is a Divine declaration which, whoever respects himself, claims as a charter of liberty. Religious history shows that interference between man and his God debases man and dishonors God. This point should be put in the clearest and strongest light. It is impossible to set forth too strongly or to defend too earnestly this glorious right of man to deal directly with God. God is a person essentially free; man is a person made in God's image, and therefore like Him. Something in man corresponds to God's absolute freedom. Man, as a creature, is absolute in nothing. His freedom, therefore, is a gift. He receives it from Him who created him. It is not, and cannot be, a commission of free range through creation. The confusion that would follow throughout the universe, were man free in this wild sense, is only faintly shadowed forth in the dreadful misery and wretchedness and war which the passionate generations have already spread out on the fields of the earth.

As the necessity of limitations to man's freedom is apparent in secular affairs, so is it none the less clear in spiritual matters.

In secular affairs this necessity has been met, in our age, by representative government. Under various forms, the principle is established, that the will of the governed is the basis of the authority of governments. It will be understood that Western civilization only is now under review. Nothing is mentioned of other civilizations, because the question of sacerdotalism, which we are approaching, demands of the American Church a solution that shall not fatally conflict with whatever is good and true in Western civilization.

In fact, one of the most important works the Church has to perform in this age and country, is the defence and setting forth of the ancient faith upon true, as distinct from spurious, Catholic principles. Rome has thrown herself squarely in the way of modern civilization, and is evidently resolved to fight it to the death. It is widely believed that she pushes sacerdotalism to the extreme, which-in awful parody of Holy Scripture-demands that every man shall give an account of himself to the priest.