The defence of Edwards is neither more nor less than a play on the term _evil_. When it is said, that “we may do evil that good may come;” the meaning of the maxim is, that the means in such a case and under such circumstances ceases to be evil. The maxim teaches that “we may do evil,” that it is lawful to do evil, with a view to the grand and glorious end to be attained by it. Or, in other words, that it is right to do what would otherwise be morally evil, in order to accomplish a good end. If Edwards had considered the other form of the same odious maxim, namely, that “the end sanctifies the means,” he would have found it impossible to evade the force of its application to his doctrine. He could not have escaped from the difficulty of his position by a play upon the word _evil_. He would have seen that he had undertaken to justify the conduct of the Father of Lights, by supposing it to be governed by the most corrupt maxim of the most corrupt system of casuistry the world has ever seen. What God does, says Edwards, is not evil at all; because his purpose is holy, because his object is good, his intention is right. In like manner, the maxim says, that when the end is good and holy, “it sanctifies the means.” The means may be impure in themselves considered, but they are rendered pure by the cause in which they are employed. This doctrine has been immortalized by Pascal, in his “Provincial Letters;” and we cannot better dismiss the subject than with an extract from the “Provincial Letters.” “I showed you,” says the jesuitical father, “how servants might, with a safe conscience, manage certain troublesome messages; did you not observe that it is simply taking off their intention from the _sin itself_, and fixing it on the advantage to be gained.”(77) On this principle, stealing, and lying, and murder, may all be vindicated. “Caramuel, our illustrious defender,” says the Jesuit, “in his Fundamental Theology,” ... enters into the examination of many new questions resulting from this principle, (of directing the intention,) as, for example, whether the Jesuits may kill the Jansenists? “Alas, father!” exclaimed Pascal, “this is a most surprising point in theology! I hold the Jansenists already no better than dead men by the doctrine of Father Launy.” “Aha, sir, you are caught; for Caramuel deduces the very opposite conclusion from the same principles.” “How so?” said Pascal. “Observe his words, n. 1146 and 1147, p. 547 and 548. The Jansenists call the Jesuits Pelagians; may they be _killed_ for so doing? No—for this plain reason, that the Jansenists are no more able to obscure the glory of our society, than an owl can hide the sun; in fact, they promote it, though certainly against their intention—_occidi non possunt, quia nocere non potuerunt_.” “Alas, father,” says Pascal, “and does the existence of the Jansenists depend solely upon their capacity of injuring your reputation? If that be