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Rh together with a Syllabus of eighty of the most important “errors of our time” (see ). These two documents caused

an excitement nowadays hard to understand. Apart from some fulminations against such modern pests as “socialism, communism, secret societies, Bible societies, clerico-liberal societies,” the Syllabus says nothing that the papacy had not been saying for hundreds of years. Its real object is to attack such professedly Catholic governments as have fallen in with modern ideas—as for instance, by allowing freedom of worship to their Protestant subjects, or by refusing to punish brawling in Catholic churches more severely than other breaches of the peace. In other words, Pius utterly rejected the whole principle of toleration, and declared that the Church would still impose itself by force, whenever it got the chance to do so. However, any hopes he may have had of finding another Philip II. were soon dashed to the ground. Eighteen months after the publication of the Syllabus broke out the Austro-Prussian War (June 1866), when the one faithful ally of Rome was trampled under the feet of the arch-Protestant Hohenzollerns. But the pope's spirit was not broken. If he could not lord it over one sphere, at least he could be master in another. In 1869 he summoned a general council at the Vatican, avowedly for the purpose of getting it

to declare his personal infallibility. For although the old rivalry between pope and council had long ago been practically settled in favour of the pope, no council had yet formally acknowledged its defeat. Indeed, many prominent French and German divines still denied papal infallibility altogether; and Louis Napoleon had regularly fallen back on Richelieu's old device of stirring up the embers of Gallicanism, whenever the French clergy grew restive about his alliance with Victor Emmanuel. And even the more moderate believers in the pope's infallibility maintained that it was merely negative, a heaven-sent immunity against falling into error. But Pius and his immediate circle argued that this was not enough. The great need of the age was authority; and authority was most likely to strike the imagination of the faithful if it found a vivid concrete embodiment in the person of the pope. He must not simply be immune from error; truth must stream down on his head from heaven, and on his head alone. “We all know only one thing for certain,” wrote the great Catholic pamphleteer, Louis Veuillot, “and that is that no one knows anything, except the man with whom God is for ever, the man who carries the thoughts of God.” But this view was too extreme for the council; the most Pius could hope for was to be declared immune from error, instead of positively inspired. Even this negative infallibility was stoutly contested by the French and German bishops during the eight months that the council lasted (December 1869 to July 1870). But they were richer in talents than numbers: out of six hundred prelates they only commanded eighty votes. Most left Rome before the final session; only two—one from Naples, one from the United States—continued their protest up to the end. On the 18th of July the pope's decrees were declared “irreformable of themselves, irrespectively of the consent of the Church,” always provided that they dealt with doctrines of faith and morals, and were delivered ex cathedra—that is, with the intention of binding the consciences of all Catholics. These limitations were the work of the moderate infallibilists, but the real hero of the day was Pius. Theologians might draw their fine-spun distinctions between realms where the pope was actually infallible and realms where he was not; but Pius knew well that loyal Catholic common sense would brush their technicalities aside and hold that on any conceivable question the pope was fifty times more likely to be right than any one else (see and ).

So absolute became the papal sovereignty over conscience that more than one government took alarm. While the council was still sitting the Bavarian minister, Prince Chlodwig zu Hohenlohe-Schillingsfurst, suggested to Bismarck that the Powers would do well to bring its deliberations to an end; and

immediately after the publication of its decrees Austria notified the pope that so vast an extension of the Church's claims would necessitate a revision of the concordat. And when the excommunication of Döllinger and other anti-infallibilist divines

(1871) led to the formation of an independent Old Catholic Church (see ) Bavaria, Switzerland and other countries gave it a warm welcome. So also did Berlin. The new German empire, consolidated through wars with Catholic Germany and Catholic France, was of all countries least likely to tolerate Roman attempts to dictate to its subjects. Tension was increased by the fact that the Centre, or Catholic, party in the Reichstag was led by Windhorst, formerly prime minister to the dispossessed king of Hanover, and thus naturally became identified with the opposition of the smaller German states to the supremacy of Prussia. The quarrel began in 1871 when the Prussian government supported some teachers in state-aided Catholic schools whom the bishops wished to dismiss on account of their anti-infallibilist opinions. A year later, under the ministry of Falk, it developed into what the great scientist, Rudolf Virchow, called a Kulturkampf, or conflict of civilizations.

The famous May laws (1873) were a determined attempt to bring the literary education, appointment and discipline of the clergy under state control, and to regulate the use of such spiritual penalties as deprivation and excommunication. When the bishops refused to obey, Falk fell back on force. The Jesuits were banished from the German Empire, and most of the other orders from Prussia. The archbishops of Gnesen and Cologne and many minor dignitaries were imprisoned (1874); and the so-called “Bread-basket Law” was passed to coerce the parish clergy by suspending the salaries of the disobedient. The result of these severities was exactly the opposite of what Falk intended. He had meant only to lop off a few ultramontane extremists; he succeeded in sending Catholics of every shade and colour pell-mell into the arms of Rome. And the effect remained long after the cause had died away. On the death of Pius IX. (February 1878) his successor, Leo XIII., at once showed himself willing to come to terms. Negotiations were long and difficult; for Bismarck would not abolish the May laws outright, and Leo had much ado to hold in check the zelanti of the Vatican. But Falk retired in 1879; various mutual concessions were made which led to a gradual abrogation of the May laws. Yet—thanks to its organization, its press, and the elaborate network of alliances spun by Windhorst—the Ultramontane Centre still remains a powerful force in German politics.

This conciliatory policy towards Berlin was the first-fruits of a new régime; Leo XIII. was in every way a complete contrast

to Pius IX. Pius had fed on inspirations; Leo was a man of calm, deliberate judgment, little likely to yield to the promptings of his monsignori. He was a polished scholar of the old-fashioned type; early in his reign he threw open the Vatican Archives to the students of the world. Having spent his youth in the papal diplomatic service—he was nuncio at Brussels from 1843-46—he had a certain knowledge of the workings of parliamentary institutions, while the years immediately before his accession had been spent as archbishop of Perugia, so that he was not closely identified with any of the Vatican parties. The results of a change of master were soon seen. Pius IX. had died at war with almost every country in Europe. He had quarrelled with Austria; Russia was persecuting its Catholic subjects; France was under the spell of Gambetta and his doctrine that clericalism was the enemy; Spain and Belgium followed France; even Switzerland was waging a Kulturkampf on a small scale. In a few years Leo had made peace with Austria, pacified Switzerland and Belgium, opened up negotiations with Russia; while his elevation of Newman to the cardinalate (1879) made a great impression in Great Britain. About 1886 hopes even ran high that he was on the eve of a reconciliation with King Humbert at the Quirinal. These hopes were vain. Leo was absolutely convinced that a territorial sovereignty was required to