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Title: Hurrell Froude - Memoranda and Comments
Author: Guiney, Louise Imogen
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Hurrell Froude - Memoranda and Comments" ***

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to our friend Emmy, who "fell off the planet" far too soon.

            This ebook is dedicated to
     friend, colleague, mentor, and role model,
       who fell off the planet far too soon.


  _From an unfinished portrait by William Brockedon, A.R.A._]







  _First Published in 1904_









  PREFACE                                              xi


    RELATION TO THE OXFORD MOVEMENT                   231

  INDEX                                               411



  HURRELL FROUDE AS A CHILD                _Frontispiece_
     _From a Photograph by F. Hollyer_

    (AFTERWARDS REV.), 1832                          xxii

  DARTINGTON PARSONAGE                                  5

  COMMON-ROOM GROUP                                    75

  FAC-SIMILE LETTER                                   160

  ORIEL COLLEGE                                       175
     _From a Photograph by H. W. Taunt and Co._

     BURIAL-PLACE                                     202


THE epistolary matter in the first section of this volume is drawn
from material already in print: chiefly from Part I. of _The Remains
of the Reverend Richard Hurrell Froude, M.A., Fellow of Oriel_,
published by the Rivingtons in 1838, and, incidentally, from _John
Henry Newman: Letters and Correspondence to 1845_, published by the
Longmans in 1890: from one notable work, that is to say, which is
wholly forgotten, and from another yet recent, of great and unique
interest, which has not yet won its full public appreciation. For the
unrestricted use of the desired extracts from these books, the
Editor’s grateful thanks are due equally to the representatives of the
elder branch of the Froude family, and to Cardinal Newman’s literary

The liberal selection from Hurrell Froude’s Letters which appeared in
the _Remains_ is invalidated, to modern curiosity, by manifold
suppressions and omissions necessary for private reasons then in
force. Some clue, however, is to be found, if it be looked for,
towards the identification of those to whom his correspondence was
addressed. The Editors of the _Remains_ silently adopted, for the
Letters, the same system of differentiation as they had already
employed, two years before, in regard to the authorship of the
collected poems in _Lyra Apostolica_: that is to say, in both books γ
stands for Keble, δ for Newman, ε for Robert Wilberforce, and ζ for
Isaac Williams. As Hurrell Froude’s own contributions to the _Lyra_
had appeared over the signature β, it was easy to surmise that _Beta_
in the _Remains_ might refer to his brothers or sisters, and _Alpha_,
by a sort of primacy, to his father: as is certainly the case. But it
was more difficult, for instance, to identify η as Mr. Frederic
Rogers, or θ as the Rev. John Frederick Christie: for to these there
was no key but that of internal evidence of an elusive sort. The Greek
alphabet, in the _Remains_, served only as a heading to marshal the
recipients of the Letters written by Froude; proper names figuring in
the course of the Letters were almost in every instance replaced by a
blank. The verification of these names will perhaps be accepted,
though not all are based on a manuscript reading;[1] and of course no
blank has been filled experimentally without due indication of that
process. Nor has effort been made, at any point, to fill out
sentences, or gaps of any kind, save those caused by the suppression
of proper names. This line of procedure, and, indeed, the entire
scheme of the _rifacciamento_, stands subject first and last to the
circumstance that the Editor has had no access to the great mass of
dated and classified manuscript correspondence now at Edgbaston. As it
was impossible to collate the Froude-Newman Letters with the
originals, there appeared something supererogatory in reprinting any
of the others in their complete form, or including unpublished addenda
most kindly placed at the Editor’s disposal, when an exception had to
be ruled in regard to the most interesting and most important material
of all. Unfortunately, moreover, Froude’s letters to his father, the
Archdeacon, to Robert Wilberforce and to Isaac Williams, have
perished; and those to Mr. Keble, if existent, had not been recovered
by his grandnephew, the Rev. George C. Keble, at the time when this
volume went to press. A few letters have been pieced together by
comparison of passages, as they stand in the _Remains_, and in the
Newman _Correspondence_, issued a half-century later. Examination of
the fac-simile page of the amusing letter from Barbados, written on
December 26, 1834, and of its counterpart in the text here given,
copied from that of the _Remains_, will show that some de-editing
might be called for, under the right conditions, in the matter of
Hurrell Froude’s edited correspondence. It will be seen, on the whole,
that neither close study nor long acquaintance with the subject could
keep the reprinting, as it pressed forward, from degenerating into
more or less of a game of guesswork. Yet exclusions and limitations
may cast a befitting half-light upon used literature of long ago,
which was in itself elliptical, and tends to create new ellipses,
inasmuch as its purpose now is to throw stress less on historic or
theological issues than on human character. Many given data, or few,
yield pretty much the same residuum when the personality which reigns
over them is as rich and strong as Hurrell Froude’s. Says one of the
most penetrating of modern writers:

‘The art of biography has accustomed those who read to expect … as the
word implies, the portrayal of a life, of a process: the record of the
growth and unfolding of a soul and character. This it is which
interests the subjective temper of our days…. Our mind has learnt that
its choicest food need not be sought from afar, but lies scattered
with the wild flowers by the wayside, and that nothing is so
extraordinary as the ordinary. Thus we have come to care less for a
full inventory of the events which make up a man’s life, or for the
striking nature of those events in themselves, than for such a
judicious selection and setting of them as shall best bring out and
explain that individuality which is our main interest. We care less
for what a man does and more for what he is; and it is mainly as a key
to what he is that we study the circumstances which act upon him, and
the conduct by which he reacts upon them.’[2] A selection and setting
to explain individuality: such is the aim, such (it is to be feared)
is only very partially the achievement, of this book.

Concerning its second section a few remarks may be called for. That
section actually had, from the first, in the Editor’s intention, the
right of way. It is quite independent, not called into auxiliary play
as a mere illustrative collection of _pièces justificatives_. Many of
these essays and reviews have authority; a few have great literary
beauty; the Editor’s work, which could not vie with them, has borrowed
almost nothing from them, and thus preserved two integrities. Although
limits of space forbade the reproduction of any one chapter of
appreciable length quite in its entirety, yet there existed no reason,
but only the whim of artistic choice, for the inclusion or exclusion
of one part of any paper at the cost of another part. The process of
making excerpts, at best, has something of disagreeableness and of
danger. Where that process cannot be avoided, it is well, at least, if
its lever be not a preconceived theory. An Editor not of Froude’s own
religious communion should scruple all the more to interfere in any
wise with the witnesses. Such lines or pages as are here scored out
are not inaccessible in their original forms. It will be seen that
they are not deleted to favour any special plea, but are either
somewhat irrelevant to the subject in hand, or a repetition of facts
and impressions more succinctly stated in other accompanying papers.
Where aught of moment is involved, the fullest and clearest expression
of it is in every case allowed to carry the field: _e.g._, Dean
Church’s apologetics concerning Froude’s so-called ‘Romanising’ will
be found more satisfactory to the uneasy than the paler defence in the
first Preface to the _Remains_. A broad selective principle has ruled
the Editor also in minor matters: _e.g._, a poem of Froude’s own,
imbedded in the text of an early review by Lord Blachford, or a poem
of his great friend’s imbedded in an analysis by Mr. R. H. Hutton,
are, though coveted, left where they are, and are not transferred to
the main narrative sketch. A slight overlapping, as it were, is
inevitable: what is super-serviceable sometimes serves more than one
pen. Nothing written in English about Hurrell Froude which has colour
and individuality, has been altogether passed by, though the present
scheme is not in the least bibliographical. On the whole, there is set
forth a richly varied testimony: comment buttressed on comment,
sometimes, and contradiction against contradiction. Everything about
the man calls for criticism, and gets it: his private examen of
conscience, his verses, his letters, his traditional sayings, his
ecclesiastical theory and religious practice; everything, in fact,
except his dreaded arguments. These are conspicuously let alone by
those who disapprove of them. They lurk, however, beyond the borders
of parley, and they constitute the aggressiveness of one, who but for
insistence on them, and whatever they imply, was essentially courteous
and gentle. By his commentators he is incessantly quoted: the ‘party
of the second part,’ whoever may be writing, successfully holds the
stage. It is always instructive to watch reflections of so simple and
boyish, yet powerful a personality, on the complex surface of literary
interpretation. We count Hurrell Froude’s a long-forgotten name; yet
during the sixty-eight years since he died, more serious students than
would seem at first thought likely, have felt for this fighting
recluse true attraction, or the equally legitimate attraction of
repulsion; and their number bids fair to increase.

    ‘Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
     In every fragment multiplies, and makes
     A thousand images of one that was,
     The same; and still the more, the more it breaks.’

The apprehension of all he was, if not the whole truth about him,
should be, in this synod of philosophical friends and deeply
interested foes, no difficult thing to win and hold.

It may not be usual to treat a man of genius like an unglossed
manuscript, and to set him forth impartially with all his variants. As
dear Izaak says in his innocent-seeming irony, this is, perhaps, to
impale him ‘as if you loved him.’ But a free hearing is good law and
good art; diverging guesses, contrasted points of view, exercised by
the competent, have their uses, especially in England; and some
natures and motives bear analysis gallantly well. The reason, at
bottom, for so catholic a treatment of Hurrell Froude, is that Hurrell
Froude, with his singular detachment and sound humour, would not have
disclaimed it: that is, if he had come to know that posterity would
fain hear of him again. And there is but one conclusion to be drawn
from the spirited discussions about him. As M. Henri Malo was pleased
to write, not so long ago, of his historic hero: ‘_En somme, quelle
que soit l’opinion que l’on ait sur son compte, c’est une figure!_’[3]

The sole purpose of this unconventional yet homogeneous volume is to
show Froude, the mind and the man, in his inferential completeness,
and without primary reference to that application of his
best-cherished principles which meant so much then, and which means so
much now. Without primary reference, we say: yet to part him by one
hair’s breadth from the Oxford Movement, who would, and who could? A
book which aims at being not a disquisition, not even a biography, but
simply a convenient rearrangement of obvious data for the study of a
temperament, may plead its own voluntary poverty as a general
extenuation. In the matter not of exegesis but of mere quantity, no
reader will complain of too little!

The chronology of many of the footnotes has been compiled from the
_Alumni Oxonienses_, the _Registrum Orielense_, and the _Dictionary of
National Biography_. In a book of this nature, appealing chiefly to
those who know by heart the golden commonplaces of the educated world,
it has not been thought pertinent to ‘overset’ or verify the classical

Something may be added concerning the illustrations. William
Brockedon, before he was famous, once started to paint a life-size
head in oil of Hurrell, then aged about eleven. It was left
unfinished, and is now in the possession of the young sitter’s
namesake and nephew, R. H. Froude, Esq., of Bernstein, Newton Abbot,
by whose kindness a half-tone ‘restoration’ of it serves as
frontispiece to this book. Outside a casual pencil sketch, it is the
only portrait at present known of Hurrell Froude; nor has it ever
before been reproduced, save once as a small scratchy characterless
detail of a Keble College panorama. The painting was unfortunately
abandoned while in its half-chaotic condition: eyebrows and ears are
but barely indicated; the entire background, the collar, a portion of
the hair growing so wilfully on the large shapely head, remarkable
then and always for its even convexity, are a mere disordered wash;
and it was difficult to follow, and to fix by process after process, a
vision of the beautiful boy, with his melancholy and his racial fire.
No idealisation, as need hardly be said, has been attempted. Patience
and sincerity, brought to a rather discouraging task, have succeeded,
in some measure, in recapturing an imperfect image, and in having it
recognised (so far as a man can be recognised in a child), with
gratified pleasure, by the one or two known to the Editor who are the
enviable rememberers of Hurrell Froude. The reduction of the original
head to an almost miniature size justified itself at once in the
disappearance of many blemishes. The print from which the block was
made is an outcome of the photographic skill and artistic feeling, now
historic in England and beyond it, of Mr. Frederick Hollyer. The
‘casual pencil sketch’ just mentioned figures also in this book, and
has in even higher degree the preciousness of a unique thing: for the
reproduction is made directly from an unaltered original in a
portfolio of 1832. Students of that period in England will recall Miss
Maria Giberne, the ‘Queen of Tractaria,’ the animated, romantic, and
loyal friend of the Newmans, who followed her art with long devotion,
and became, later, Sister Maria Pia in the Visitation Convent at
Autun, where she died at a great age. Of her, in her early prime, one
who knew her well wrote:

‘[Maria Giberne] was always a most excellent talker and narrator, but
her great power lay in the portraits she did in chalks. At a very
short sitting, and even from memory, she would draw a portrait which
was at least perfectly and undeniably true. I have heard her drawings
criticised, and her drapery called conventional, but her faces, to my
apprehension, were proof against all criticism. Perhaps they are
better in outline than when filled up and tinted…. Her interest in the
whole [Tractarian] circle was insatiable, and there was hardly
anything she would not do and dare for a sight of one she had not yet

Given, therefore, Miss Giberne’s ardour in the matter, and her
frequently-recurring opportunities as a visitor, it would seem almost
certain that she would not have let slip any chance of portraying so
noticeable a luminary as Hurrell Froude, often absent, like herself,
from Oxford, during 1831-1833, and away from it almost altogether
afterwards. Her discovered sketch-books, preserved in the hands of
relatives and friends, yield, so far, but a single page in which
Froude appears. She groups and labels him with other conspirators’ at
a historic moment,[5] in the one Oxford Common Room which ‘stank of
logic.’ Something in the too quiescent gesture of the graceful person
‘on the box,’ as well as in the nature of the circumstance, make one
suspect that the whole was drawn not on the spot, nor from memory, but
from hearsay at the time. Were such the case, the implication would be
that Miss Giberne had a good prior knowledge of Froude’s face and
figure, and even that she was not committing these to paper for the
first time. This little drawing is the property of her nephew, George
Pearson, Esq., of Manchester; it is owing to his courtesy and kindness
that it is here made public.

The picture of Dartington Parsonage, the antique house in the vale
three miles from Totnes, Devonshire, where Hurrell Froude was born,
and where he died, is from a larger water-colour drawing by Arthur
Holdsworth Froude, in the possession of his sister, the Baroness
Anatole von Hügel. The Parsonage, in its mediæval simplicity, was
first sketched by Archdeacon Froude, then the newly-appointed Rector,
in 1799; this sketch yet exists on a fly-leaf of the Parish records.
He at once rebuilt the whole west wing, planted shrubs and vines, and
drained away the pond; but there were no other alterations until after
his death and the removal of the family in 1859-60, when his grandson
Arthur drew the house from memory. Even now, the porch, and everything
to the right of it, upstairs and down, is practically the very same as
in Hurrell’s time; elsewhere the gables have disappeared, and the
tourelle has changed its place. The Parish Church (of fourteenth
century work, like the Hall) is from an old negative by Messrs.
Brinley and Son, of Totnes. This view from the south-west shows the
low railing over the Froude vault, which lay in the angle of the
porch, next the wall. The Church being taken down in 1878, the strong
plain Tower was left alone and intact, standing sentinel over the
dead; and the large slab shown in the foreground of the modern
photograph, covering the burial-place of Hurrell Froude and of his
kindred, is as it looks to-day. The print of Oriel College great
quadrangle is from a photograph copyrighted many years ago by Messrs.
Henry W. Taunt and Co., of Oxford, and here used by their permission.
The inner top tier of three windows next the angle of the Chapel marks
the rooms occupied by Froude. They are on the second floor of
Staircase No. 3, the door being at the right hand as one mounts the
stairs. The beautiful Porch and the whole front have since been
renovated, and the tall bold _Regnante Carolo_ again runs around the
ruined open stone-work parapet, shown in our illustration, which an
Oriel man of the Thirties saw every day as he went in and out of Hall.

It remains only to thank the family of William Froude, Esq., and the
Rev. Charles Martin, the present Rector of Dartington; the Rev. G.
Kenworthy, Vicar of Bassenthwaite, whose generosity and knowledge have
supplied the Editor with many biographical data of the Spedding
family; the Rev. T. Herbert Bindley for authentic information about
Codrington College; the Rev. J. Christie for much painstaking
friendliness, and the use of a page of one of the Theta letters for a
fac-simile; the Rev. G. A. Williams, and several other kind
correspondents of Tractarian lineage, who have patiently answered
inquiries. Lastly, a more intimate acknowledgment is especially due to
the Rev. W. H. Carey, of SS. Michael and All Angels, Woolwich; for
chiefly through the sense of his steady encouragement, based on an
enthusiasm for Hurrell Froude, the Editor’s task, more than once
interrupted and laid by, was pushed on to its completion.

     OXFORD, _October, 1904_




  [Illustration: Yours ever affectionately
                 R H Froude

    ESQ., (AFTERWARDS REV.), 1832.

  (_By the kind permission Of the Rev. H. I. D. Ryder, D.D., of the




THE persons who most compel our interest in this world are not often
the great, exemplars of what we call intellectual eminence: they are
rather the men and the women of genius. On that ground they win the
eye. Vital and unexhausted spirits, under no subjection to results,
can afford, if they choose, to die anonymous; and never having
established a pact with their times, nor with Time at all, they are
contemporary backward and forward as far as thought can reach. Of this
strangely numerous company in England, though he be but

     ――‘a fugitive and gracious light
     Shy to illumine,’

stands Newman’s early friend, Richard Hurrell Froude, the lost Pleiad
of the Oxford Movement. Akin to some others, names earlier and later,
‘which carry a perfume in the mention,’ he left little to prove and
approve himself. Such as he, in the pageant of eternity, are not the
tallest harvesters with the most recognisable sheaves. Like Crichton
and Falkland and Pergolesi, like Arthur Hallam and Henri Perreyve, he
is known to history as it were by a smiling semi-private hint, or a
sort of May-orchard coronal which the wind has no power to scatter,
rather than by virtue of any personal innings in the complex game of
life. He was a mere man of genius. His inheritance was richly varied:
of mental currents possible in one cross-bred island, there could
hardly be a more spirited blend. ‘The thinkers of the West,’ as an
analytic pen has lately written,[6] ‘reveal a certain practical
sagacity, a determination to see things clearly, a hatred of cant and
shams, a certain “positive” tendency which is one of the notes of
purely English thought.’ Exact in the wider application, the sentence
has an almost startling appropriateness when it is narrowed down to
fit the one ‘thinker of the West’ (not in Mr. Ellis’s lists) with whom
these pages deal. Never to maunder, never to mince matters, never to
pet an illusion, never to lay down arms while there are ‘cant and
shams’ to fight,――all that is very Devonian; and Hurrell Froude, true
at every point, was true Devon in this. His ancestral Speddings, on
the other hand, had imagination and a love of letters, and were ironic
and opinionative after another fashion. They had also, for generation
after generation, as an unexpected corollary, a strong turn for
science, and even for mechanical science, as the less bookish Froudes,
to offset their hard common sense, were restless and romantic lovers
of the open air and of the sea. The shy, critical, solitary, but
ardent and adventurous character which belonged not only to our
particular Fellow of Oriel, but in some measure to all his nearest
kindred, seems to have been inherited equally from the contrasted
streams which ran in their blood. All Hurrell’s religiousness, all his
poetry and fire and penetrative thought, came straight from his
beautiful and highly intelligent mother, whom he lost just as he
really came to know her, and whom he worshipped during the rest of his
life. His stature, colour, and expression, as also his delicacy of
constitution, he received through her.

The Speddings were Anglo-Irish, migrating during the sixteenth century
to Scotland, then, early in James II.’s time, to Cumberland. John
Spedding and his wife Margaret were seated at Armathwaite Hall, in
Bassenthwaite parish, Keswick, when their second daughter Margaret,
afterwards Mrs. Froude, was born in 1774. Her elder sister Mary, her
brothers John, James, Anthony, and William (in order of their age),
comprised with her, her father’s family; and she was but seven when he
died. Armathwaite Hall was left in the hands of trustees, who so
wasted it that when John Spedding, the son, came of age he found his
patrimony gone, and resolved to leave the country to join the army,
then in the thick of the Peninsular War. Meanwhile, four miles away,
at the head of Bassenthwaite Lake lay Mirehouse, the owner of which
was Thomas Story, Esquire, a bachelor, attached to his Spedding
neighbours. In the most opportune and romantic way, he made young John
Spedding his heir, just in time to prevent his self-imposed exile, and
in 1802 died, and was succeeded by him in the estate. It was thus that
the Speddings, who had occupied Armathwaite Hall for over a century,
came ultimately to live at the other end of the Lake. John Spedding
married Miss Sarah Gibson of Newcastle. They lived to old age, and had
a numerous issue. James Spedding, the distinguished scholar, the
intimate friend of Tennyson, and leader of the famous Cambridge set
‘The Apostles,’ known afterwards in the world of letters as the
vindicator of Bacon, was their third son. He spent most of his life
(1808-1881) at Mirehouse, and is buried not far away, in the old
churchyard of Bassenthwaite. He and his knew all the Froudes well;
visits were constantly interchanged; and it was he who introduced
James Anthony Froude, his cousin, and brother-in-law at one remove, as
it were, to Carlyle. For James Spedding’s eldest brother, Thomas Story
Spedding, married his cousin Phillis Froude, the second daughter of
the household at Dartington.

To revert to the elder generation――Margaret Spedding, her own mother’s
namesake, born, as we have seen, in 1774, was dearly loved at home for
seven and twenty years; at that somewhat mature age (as it was
considered in 1802), she married the Rev. Robert Hurrell Froude,
Rector of Dartington in Devonshire. His own people were not less
interesting, and even more ancient, than hers. Hurrells, an armigerous
family, and Froudes, rising yeomen from Kent, had struck deep and wide
roots in Devon soil at least as early as the reign of Elizabeth. The
second of these was probably a place-name, though there are those who
derive it from the Icelandic _frod_, wise, not from the likelier
Celtic _ffrwd_, a rushing stream.[7] We find the race numerous and
active, and settled chiefly about Kingston, and about Modbury, where
in the year of Culloden, Richard Hurrell, gentleman, was married to
Mistress Phillis[8] Collings. Their daughter, Phillis Hurrell, became
the wife of Robert ffroud of Walkhampton, third son of John, to whom
descended the Modbury manors of Edmerston and Gutsford; these two
lived at Aveton Giffard, and are buried there in the Parish Church,
where their monuments still exist. ‘Robert ffroud Armiger’ died young,
four years after his marriage, which had for issue one son, and three
daughters. Phillis the widow, a person of strong character, lived on
for sixty-six years longer, and saw the grave opened, or opening, for
nearly all her brilliant and fated grandchildren. Her babes, left
fatherless in 1770, were Mary, Margaret, and Elizabeth; her son Robert
Hurrell was a posthumous child. The latter was to rise to more than
local eminence, known throughout an exceptionally long life as Rector
of Dartington, and from 1820 on, as Archdeacon of Totnes in the
diocese of Exeter.[9] He matriculated at Oriel College, Oxford, in
January 1788, aged seventeen, and in due course, in 1795, proceeded
Master of Arts. He came from Denbury, of which he was already
Incumbent, to his new parish of Dartington, in 1799. Many children
were born in Dartington Parsonage to him and to Margaret Spedding his
wife, of whom Richard Hurrell Froude, named for his paternal
grandfather Richard Hurrell of Modbury, was the eldest. His birth was
on March 25, 1803. Certain critics who disliked the aroma, real or
imaginary, of the Oxford Movement, seemed to harbour, in after years,
a special grudge against Hurrell for his Marian circumstances. It was,
as it were, piling offence on offence that he entered the world on the
Feast of the Annunciation, and consciously, votively belonged to the
College of S. Mary at Oxford. He was privately baptized at home, and
with his next brother, carried up the hill to be received in the
ancient Church at the Hall gates (again S. Mary’s), on the 17th of
April, 1805. Hurrell seems to have been from the first a stormy sort
of child, handsome, and odd, and adored by his relatives. Like the
young Persians in their national prime, he learned ‘to ride, and to
speak truth.’ He was sent early to the Free School at Ottery S. Mary,
where he lived in his master’s house. This was the Rev. George May
Coleridge, nephew of that poet who has made classic the lovely
neighbourhood to all readers of English. He survived until 1847, dear
to all the Froudes. (Perhaps it is not generally known that Mr. James
Anthony Froude, then in deacon’s orders, was responsible for Mr.
Coleridge’s funeral sermon at S. Mary Church, Torquay.) Hurrell was as
happy at his first School as a dreamy rebel boy always subject to
moods and to home-sickness could well be. Everything was done, at any
rate, to keep him happy. His own memories of the green village, with
its great minster and its bright stream, seem to have been pleasant
ones. A lady who was but a young child during his last months at
Dartington recalls his frank smile at drawing in a lottery a picture
of Ottery Church, which she had coveted, lotteries not being abhorred
then, as now, by Christian folk. Had the winner known of the little
girl’s envy, he would certainly have parted with his treasure on the
spot; for he was a born de-collector. Hurrell began, almost as soon as
he could hold a pen, to draw well, and to write agreeable letters. At
thirteen he was sent to Eton. A year or two before, that is, in or
about 1814, he sat for his portrait to that lovable interesting man
and capable artist, William Brockedon, Archdeacon Froude’s particular
protégé and most grateful friend.[10] It may have been begun as one of
many thank-offerings; for some reason, it was left unfinished.
Brockedon was a patient person, by all accounts. Perhaps wild little
Master Froude, for all his innocent looks, may have been, in the
immortal words of Pet Marjorie, ‘whot human nature cant indure.’ The
Archdeacon, too, was critical, and thought his friend happiest in
sketch-work, and that to finish, with him, was, sometimes, to
over-refine. Who could have foreseen that the abandoned canvas was
long to take on unique accidental value to persons then unborn who
should be interested in his sitter? For though that childish sitter
was to live over a score of years longer, and endear himself to men of
a certain school of thought for ever, there was no discoverable hand
but William Brockedon’s to tell them how he looked. There was not
known until the other day a single other portrait, not so much as a
silhouette, of a draughtsman associated with so many, both at home and
at College, who could draw.

    _From a water-colour drawing by Arthur Holdsworth Froude_]

The boy, with his half-indolent, half-clairvoyant way of studying, and
his high spirits in and out-of-doors, got on fairly well at Eton,[11]
though his years there seem to have made no great impress on his mind
and character. He developed, perhaps, too slowly, and too much by
instinct and intuition, to be much harmed or helped by a Public
School. Winthrop Mackworth Praed was one of his memorable
contemporaries there; Edward Bouverie Pusey, though in an upper Form,
was another.[12] Like Pusey, Hurrell had a talisman and a safeguard in
the love of a pious mother. The extreme natural sympathy between them
was heightened by the boy’s fickle health, and his unconscious appeal
for continued care. One experience of early invalidism and its
results, lasting for some time, drew from Margaret Froude an oblique
comment or protest which is enough to make one love and admire her
womanliness. She drew up a letter to an imaginary correspondent, which
was really intended for her tall son himself. It sounds wholly like a
page from the _Spectator_, in Steele’s tenderest whimsical vein; and
it would be an ungenerous lad (her Hurrell certainly knew not how to
be ungenerous) who would not be touched by the genuine foreboding
sorrow breathing through it. Whether it was ever actually left in his
way is doubtful; a passage in his Journal may imply that he knew
nothing of it until after her death. Its date lies early in 1820.

‘SIR,――I have a son who is giving me a good deal of uneasiness at this
time, from causes which I persuade myself are not altogether common;
and having used my best judgment about him for seventeen years, I at
last begin to think it incompetent to the case, and apply to you for
advice. From his very birth his temper has been peculiar: pleasing,
intelligent, and attaching, when his mind was undisturbed, and he was
in the company of people who treated him reasonably and kindly; but
exceedingly impatient under vexatious circumstances; very much
disposed to find his own amusement in teasing and vexing others; and
almost entirely incorrigible when it was necessary to reprove him. I
never could find a successful mode of treating him. Harshness made him
obstinate and gloomy; calm and long displeasure made him stupid and
sullen; and kind patience had not sufficient power over his feelings
to force him to govern himself. His disposition to worry made his
appearance the perpetual signal for noise and disturbance among his
brothers and sisters; and this it was impossible to stop, though a
taste for quiet, and constant weak health, made it to me almost
insupportable. After a statement of such great faults, it may seem an
inconsistency to say that he nevertheless still bore about him strong
marks of a promising character. In all points of substantial principle
his feelings were just and high. He had (for his age) an unusually
deep feeling of admiration for everything which was good and noble;
his relish was lively, and his taste good, for all the pleasures of
the imagination; and he was also quite conscious of his own faults,
and, untempted, had a just dislike to them. On these grounds I built
my hope that his reason would gradually correct his temper, and do
that for him which his friends could not accomplish. Such a hope was
necessary to my peace of mind; for I will not say that he was dearer
to me than my other children, but he was my first child, and certainly
he could not be dearer. This expectation has been realised, gradually,
though very slowly. The education his father chose for him agreed with
him; his mind expanded and sweetened; and even some more material
faults (which had grown out of circumstances uniting with his temper)
entirely disappeared. His promising virtues became my most delightful
hopes, and his company my greatest pleasure. At this time he had a
dangerous illness, which he bore most admirably. The consequences of
it obliged him to leave his School, submit for many months to the most
troublesome restraints, and to be debarred from all the amusements and
pleasures of his age, though he felt, at the same time, quite
competent to them. All this he bore not only with patience and
compliance, but with a cheerful sweetness which endeared him to all
around him. He returned home for the confirmation of his health, and
he appeared to me all I could desire. His manners were tender and
kind, his conversation highly pleasing, and his occupations manly and
rational. The promising parts of his character, like Aaron’s rod,
appeared to have swallowed up all the rest, and to have left us
nothing but his health to wish for.――After such an account, imagine
the pain I must feel on being forced to acknowledge that the ease and
indulgence of home is bringing on a relapse into his former habits. I
view it with sincere alarm as well as grief, as he must remain here
many many months, and a strong return to ill-conduct, at his age, I do
not think would ever be recovered. I will mention some facts, to show
that my fears are not too forward. He has a near relation, who has
attended him through his illness with extraordinary tenderness, and
who never made a difference between night and day, if she could give
him the smallest comfort, to whom he is very troublesome, and not
always respectful. He told her, in an argument, the other day, that
“she lied, and knew she did,” without (I am ashamed to say) the
smallest apology. I am in a wretched state of health, and quiet is
important to my recovery, and quite essential to my comfort; yet he
disturbs it, for what he calls “funny tormenting,” without the
slightest feeling, twenty times a day. At one time he kept one of his
brothers screaming, from a sort of teasing play, for near an hour
under my window. At another, he acted a wolf to his baby brother, whom
he had promised never to frighten again. All this worry has been kept
up upon a day when I have been particularly unwell. He also knows at
the same time very well, that if his head does but ache, it is not
only my occupation, but that of the whole family, to put an end to
everything which can annoy him.

‘You will readily see, dear Sir, that our situation is very difficult
and very distressing. He is too old for any correction but that of his
own reason; and how to influence that, I know not! Your advice will
greatly oblige

     ‘A very anxious parent,
                            ‘M. F.

‘_P.S._――I have complained to him seriously of this day, and I thought
he must have been hurt; but I am sorry to say that he has whistled
almost ever since.’

The kind relative, who was so ungraciously repaid for her goodness,
was his aunt Miss Mary Spedding, the eldest of all her family, devoted
to her only sister Margaret, and to that sister’s memory; the baby
brother, who must have conceived of the wolf as a perseveringly
disagreeable animal, was James Anthony Froude, then nearly two years
old. A year later, on February 16, 1821, Margaret Froude breathed her
lovely soul away, and was laid to rest next the south porch of
Dartington Church, where her children’s feet passed in and out on
Sunday mornings over the flagstones, between the first spring flowers.
‘The Froudes were eight in family,’ wrote Isaac Williams, on a happy
visit long after. On the morrow of their bereavement, this was the
junior roll-call in Robert Froude’s desolate Parsonage:

     Richard Hurrell, aged not quite eighteen.
     Robert Hurrell, aged sixteen years, ten months.
     John Spedding, just fourteen.
     Margaret, aged twelve years, nine months.
     Phillis Jane, nearly eleven and a half.
     William, aged ten years, three months.
     Mary Isabella, not quite seven and a half.
     James Anthony, under three.

Hurrell Froude was admitted Commoner by the University of Oxford and
matriculated at Oriel College, within a few weeks of his mother’s
death, on April 13, 1821. His delicate health had kept him back: his
father and his brothers all matriculated at seventeen. Robert Froude,
‘Bob,’ was then entering upon his Sixth Form at Eton. Little Margaret
began at once, under guidance, her tender and long continued task of
comforting her father and mothering the motherless. She found no time
to seek her own happiness, till her marriage in 1844,[13] when only
her father and herself, William and Anthony, survived. John Spedding
Froude died in 1841, thirty-four years old, and, like his two elder
brothers, unmarried. Of Phillis, William, Mary, and (James) Anthony,
Hurrell’s own annals will have more to say. Beside one of the leafy
winding roads of Dartington rose afterwards a little grey almshouse,
and over the doorway a stone tablet with this inscription:

            HAEC DOMUS
           EXTRUCTA EST.

         A.D. MDCCCXXXV.’

It must have been building during the last year of Hurrell’s life, and
no doubt with his ‘very managing sort of mind’ he worked into it some
of his rather primitive Gothic theories. There still is the home which
Mary Spedding’s love built, where age and poverty have privacy and
peace, and roses at every window, and thankful sweet remembrance of
human kindness, as in the ancient time.

Away from home, and without his mother, Hurrell fell silent enough;
and his sadness would have hurt and corroded him, had it not been for
the exquisite friendship which sprang up between him and his tutor at
Oriel. That tutor was John Keble. It is pleasant to think of these
two, with their spiritual foreheads and strong chins, in that
fashionable Georgian College full of decanters and gold tufts, and
‘rows in quad.’ No one in all England whom Hurrell Froude in his youth
was likely to know could have so fostered in him, even by his
unconscious presence, whatsoever things are lovely and of good report.
According to Mr. J. A. Froude’s _Short Studies_ account, there was no
very high level of supernatural religion at Dartington Parsonage. ‘My
father,’ he says, ‘was a High Churchman of the old school. The Church
itself he regarded as part of the Constitution, and the Prayer-Book as
an Act of Parliament which only folly or disloyalty could quarrel
with.’ This theory perfectly harmonised with the wonted order and
general practice fixed for a century before. The Royal Arms, flanked
by the lamentable monuments of all the local gentry, dominated the
chancel; the Squire’s pew had its fat cushions, and a stove in the
middle, and was walled away from any view of the ignored
Communion-table chastely covered with green baize; plebeian hats were
piled in the Font, and there was a ‘national custom of bending forward
in Church,’ as an almost too fond concession to Christian etiquette.
Truthful observers have given us the whole catalogue in print; and it
has been corroborated on every side within living memory. The finer
spirits who did not turn infidel must have felt all this ugliness to
be dreary and hideous enough, though perhaps necessary to feed the
sacred spite against the Middle Ages, so Popishly ‘dark’ with candles
and incense-coals, pageants and bright Alleluias, brought into the
service of God. But to no one in the Church of England before the
Oxford Movement, did it seem an abnormal state of things. Nor was it
so, dogma being dead. When poor Hurrell’s decided opinions had formed,
he must have felt himself in some domestic difficulty. Ritual was
nothing to him except as the language of belief: scant where that is
feeble, full where that is steadfast and profound; how it can be
anything else to man is not quite apparent to an inquiring mind. As he
never lived to work out his beliefs very far, he had no drastic
changes to suggest in the local ordinances, but he must have dedicated
some uphill work to the excellent parent whom he truly reverenced, and
ended by making over into a valuable defender of sacramentalism. The
numerous clerical progeny of Squire Western, worthies like the famous
fox-hunting ‘Păsson Freüde’[14] of his own blood, in another part of
Devon, remained faithful to the Constitution and Parliament, to pay up
for the Archdeacon’s partial defection.

Hurrell’s attitude towards the mother for whom his heart ached, and
towards those who won his fealty at home, discovered itself day by day
in letters to Mr. Keble, a record of occasional thoughts, and the
private journals which he kept for his own conscience to whet itself
upon. Sacred as these pages are, they have been printed before in the
opening volume of his _Remains_; and they prove how very far he was
from being a mere intellectual theoriser, oblivious of daily duty and
common ties. His strife for perfection, a difficult and joyless one at
best, began with these. Some excerpts, scattered or consecutive, will
serve to show his sincerity and thoroughness: how his thoughts ran;
how he fed upon his mother’s memory; with what lowliness he prayed for
the divine help, and with what merciless constancy he learned to
discipline himself, arraign his own motives, and master the bitter and
sovereign science of self-knowledge.

――‘Yesterday I was very indolent, but … my energies were rather
restored by reading some of my mother’s journal at Vineyard. I did not
recollect that I had been so unfeeling to her during her last year. I
thank God some of her writings have been kept: that may be my
salvation; but I have spent the evening just as idly as if I had not
seen it. I don’t know how it is, but it seems to me that the
consciousness of having capacities for happiness, with no objects to
gratify them, seems to grow upon me, and puts me in a dreary way.
Lord, have mercy upon me.’

――‘Spent the morning tolerably well; read my mother’s journal and
prayers, two hours: I admire her more and more. I pray God the prayers
she made for me may be effectual, and that her labours may not be in
vain, but that God in His mercy may have chosen this way of
accomplishing them; and that my reading them so long after they were
made, and without any intention of hers, may be the means by which the
Holy Spirit will awaken my spirit to those good feelings which she
asked for in my behalf. I hope, by degrees, I may get to consider her
relics in the light of a friend, derive from them advice and
consolation, and rest my troubled spirit under their shadow. She seems
to have had the same annoyances as myself, without the same
advantages, and to have written her thoughts down, instead of
conversation. As yet they have only excited my feelings, and not
produced any practical result.’

――‘Read my mother’s journal till half-past twelve: here and there I
think I remember allusions. Everything I see in it sends me back to
her in my childhood: it gets such hold of me that I can hardly think
of anything else. It is a bad way to give a general account of oneself
at the end of a day: people at that time are not competent judges of
their actions; besides, everyone ought to be dissatisfied with himself
always: it is better to give a detailed account like my mother’s by
means of which I may hereafter have some idea of what was my standard
of virtue, rather than my opinion of myself.’

――‘O Lord, consider it not as a mockery in me, that day after day I
present myself before Thee, professing penitence for sins which I
still continue to commit, and asking Thy grace to assist me in
subduing them, while my negligence renders it ineffectual. O Lord, if
I must judge of the future from the past, and if the prayers which I
am now about to offer up to Thee will prove equally ineffectual with
those which have preceded them, then indeed it is a fearful thing to
come before Thee with professions whose fruitlessness seems a proof of
their insincerity! But Thine eye trieth my inward parts, and knoweth
my thoughts, independently of the actions which proceed from them. “O
that my ways were made so direct that I might keep Thy statutes! I
will walk in Thy commandments when Thou hast set my heart at

――‘Read my mother’s journal. I hope it is beginning to do me some
serious good, without exciting such wild feelings as it did at first.’

――‘I must fight against myself with all my might, and watch my mind at
every turning. It will be a good thing for me to keep an exact account
of my receipts and spendings: it will be a check on silly prodigality.
I mean to save what I can by denying myself indulgences, in order to
have wherewith I may honour God and relieve the poor.’

     (To KEBLE, but never sent.)

――‘Perhaps you may think it very odd, but this summer[15] has been the
first time I have had resolution to ask for the papers which they
found of my mother’s after her death. The most interesting to me are
some prayers, and two fragments of [a] journal, one for the year 1809,
I think, and the other in 1815. The prayers seem to have been a good
deal later.’

     (Not sent either.)

――‘All this summer I have been trying a sort of experiment with
myself, which, as I have had no one to talk to about it, has brought
on great fits of enthusiasm and despondency, and being conscious at
the time of most contemptible inconsistencies, both in my high and
dejected feelings, I set to work to keep a journal of them, to answer
the purpose of a sort of conversation between my present and my future
self: an idea which I got from reading an old journal of my mother’s,
which they found after her death, and which I never could make up my
mind to look at till this summer.’

――‘I have confessed to myself a fresh thing to be on my guard against.
Every now and then I keep feeling anxious that by bringing myself into
strict command, I may acquire a commanding air and manner, and am in a
hurry to get rid of the punishment of my former weakness. I sometimes
try to assume a dignified face as I meet men, and am never content to
be treated as a shilly-shally fellow. I must not care the least, or
ever indulge a thought, about the impression I make on others;[16] but
make myself _be_ what I would, and let the _seeming_ take its course;
or, rather, be glad of slights, as from the Lord. This will be a hard
struggle. O Lord, give me strength to go through with it!’

――‘I felt as if I have got rid of a great weight from my mind, in
having given up the notion of regulating my particular actions, by the
sensible tendency I could perceive in them to bring me towards my τὸ
καλόν. I had always a mistrust in this motive; and it seems quite a
happiness to yield the direction of myself to a Higher Power Who has
said: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all
these things shall be added unto you.”’

――‘It seems to me a great help towards making myself indifferent to
present things, to conjure up past events, and distant places and
people before me: things that happened at Eton, or Ottery, or in the
very early times of childhood. I felt again to-day as if … the secret
world of new pleasures and wishes to which I am trying to gain
admittance, is a mere fancy. I must be careful to check high[17]
feelings, [as] they are certain to become offences in a day or two,
and must regulate my practice by faith, and a steady imitation of
great examples: in hopes that, by degrees, what I now have only faint
and occasional glimpses of may be the settled objects on which my
imagination reposes, and that I may be literally hid in the presence
of the Lord.’

――‘I might not indeed be too penitent, but penitent in a wrong way.
Abstinences and self-mortifications may themselves be a sort of
intemperance: a food to my craving after some sign that I am altering.
They ought not to be persevered in, farther than as they are
instrumental to a change of character in things of real importance: …
how hard it is to keep a pure motive for anything!… I will refrain,
rather, by forcing myself to talk, and attend to the wants of others
[at table] than by constantly thinking of myself.’

――‘Made good resolutions about behaviour when I go home. Never to
argue with my father, or remonstrate with him, or offer my advice,
unless in cases where I feel I should do so to the [Provost?]. For
even if it subjects me to unnecessary inconvenience, it would do so
equally in both cases; and, if I would submit to it in one case
through pusillanimity, I ought in the other for a punishment. It would
be a good way to make opposite vices punish each other so, and be
likely to cure both in time. In the same way to behave to Bob and my
sisters as I would to [College equals?]: to comply with their wishes,
and not interfere with their opinions, except where I would with the
latter. I must try at home to be as humble, and submissive, and
complying, as I can; and here as resolute and vigorous, till I get to
be the same in all places and all company. I do not preclude myself
from making amendments in this resolution, till I have left Oxford.’

――‘It has turned out a beautiful day, and fasting will cost but little
pain. I have just been shocked at hearing that ――――’s acquaintance,
Mr. ――――, had shot himself yesterday. How strongly it reminds me that
I understand little of the things invisible which I talk and think
about, when the most terrible occurrences having taken place quite
close to me affect me so little! I could work up my feelings easy
enough, but it is enthusiasm[18] to anticipate in this way the steady
effects of moral discipline; even supposing both effects are, whilst
they last, the same. I could not help crying violently just now, on
reading over my mother’s paper. The ideas somehow mixed up together,
and forced on my thoughts what a condition I may be in as to things
unseen, and yet be unconscious of it. O God, keep up in my mind a
feeling of true humility, suitable to my blindness and the things that
I am among.’

――‘I have just been reading over my account of the time I spent at
home last summer…. The great root of all my complicated misdeeds seems
to have been (1) A want of proper notions respecting my relations to
my father. (2) A notion that I was a competent judge how to make other
people happy, by giving a tone to their pursuits. (3) A craving after
the pleasures which I admire. (4) Arrogant pretensions to superiority.
(5) A wish to make my conduct seem consistent to myself and others.
The first is the main point, and when I have carried that, the rest
will all go easily. The only way we can ever be comfortable is by our
all uniting to make his will our law, and what little I can do towards
this will be better accomplished by example than by presumptuous
advice…. Nor do I see how I can so well repress my arrogance as by
always keeping in mind that I am in the presence of one who is to me
the type of the Most High.’

     (To KEBLE.)

――‘Among the other lights which have been gradually dawning on me, one
from following the guidance of which I hope I may derive great
comfort, has made me conscious of the debt of reverence that I owe my
father: not only in that, bearing his sacred name, he is proposed to
me as a type of the Almighty upon earth, but that he has, in his high
character, so demeaned himself as to become a fortress and rock of
defence to all those who are blessed with his protection. Under his
shadow I will, by God’s blessing, rest in peace, and will endeavour
for the future to esteem his approbation as the highest earthly honour
and his love as the highest reward. I feel in this resolution real
peace; and while I am conscious of endeavouring to act up to it, will
try, as you advise me, to quiet my gloomy apprehensions.’

――‘O my God! I dare no longer offer to Thee my diseased petitions in
the words by which wise and holy men have shaped their intercourse
between earth and Heaven. Suffer me, with whose vileness they can have
had no fellowship, to frame for myself my isolated supplication. O my
Father, by Thy power I began to be, and by Thy protection Thou hast
continued to me my misused existence: yet I have forsaken Thee, my
only Strength, and forgotten Thee, my only Wisdom. I have neglected to
obey Thy voice, and gone a-whoring after my own inventions. As soon as
I was born, I went astray and spake lies. I loved the delights which
Thou hast given me more than Thee who gavest them; and I dreaded the
might which Thou hast delegated to man more than Thee the Almighty….
Yet, praised be Thy holy Name, Thou hast not even thus utterly left me
destitute; but with hideous dreams Thou hast affrighted me; and with
perpetual mortifications Thou hast disquieted me; and with the
recollections of bright things fascinated me; and with a holy friend
Thou hast visited me. Thou hast sought Thy servant while astray in the
wilderness; Thou hast shown me the horrible pit, the mire and clay in
which I am wallowing: O mayest Thou, of Thy great goodness, set my
feet upon a rock, and order my goings. Purge me with hyssop, and I
shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Turn Thy
face from my sins, and put out all my misdeeds. Make me a clean heart,
O God, and renew a right spirit within me. O give me the comfort of
Thy help again, and stablish me with Thy free Spirit…. Bless, O Lord,
with Thy constant favour and protection that high spirit whom, as Thy
type upon this earth, Thou hast interposed between me and the evils I
have merited. Fill him, O Lord, with the fulness of Thy grace, that,
running with patience the race which has been set before him, he may
finish his course at Thy good time with joyfulness, and find a rest
from his labours in the portion of the righteous.’

――‘I will be cautious about talking of myself and my feelings: what I
like; whom I admire; what are my notions of a high character; how few
people I find to sympathise with me on any subject; and many other
egotistical, mawkish, useless matters, about which I have suffered
myself to prate. Also, I will avoid obtruding my advice, and taking
high grounds to which I have no pretensions.’

――‘Just now, at breakfast,[19] I felt the inconvenience of not
omitting an oath in a story I told of Sheridan. I felt directly that I
lost ground, and should be unable to make a stand, if conversation
were to take a turn I disliked. I must be watchful and strict with
myself in this respect: for, if I comply with my father’s wishes, and
enter freely into society, I shall have much harder work to fight off
my old shuffling vanity, and shall be drawn, from not feeling my own
ground, into foolishness and flash, and everything that is

――‘I used to speculate on the delight of keeping fasts upon the river
in fine weather, among beautiful scenery, rather than in my dull rooms
at Oxford; but last Friday was a real fine day, yet I did not at all
turn it to this account. Though I ate little, it was something very
different from my Oxford fasts, and still more so from what I then
used to picture to myself, when I should get home. I waste time in
preparing boats, and thoughts in speculating on schemes for
expeditions, and for improving our appointments. Also, I observe other
bad effects resulting from my misconduct, which I cannot but regard as
signs that good spirits are deserting me. The other evening I had an
argument with my father, almost in a sort of tone which I used to feel
ashamed of last summer, and which, in the Christmas vacation, I think
I was not even tempted to; and when I caught myself getting untuned,
it cost me a [severe[20]] effort to check myself; nor was it till the
next morning that all the effects of it subsided, and I felt quite
good-natured and humble again. In this fight I was greatly helped by
the experience of former conflicts, and recollecting the ways I had
caught myself in self-deceit, so that it gives me some hope as well as
humiliation. I pray God that He will not suffer all my feeble efforts
to be wasted, and prove quite ineffectual, and that He will enable me
to lie down to-night with a better conscience.’

――‘Just now, in riding home from Denbury,[21] I got arguing with my
father about the little chance anyone has of doing good, in a way
rather inconsistent with our relative condition; yet, when I thought I
was going rather too far, could hardly convince myself that, at any
particular moment, it was incumbent on me to stop. It is this
self-deceiving disposition that I am afraid of.’

――‘I will brace myself and keep my attention on the alert on this
S[alcombe?] expedition, by a vow about my food: I will make my meals
as simple as I can, without being observed upon; will take no command
upon myself, but obey my father’s instructions to the utmost of my
power; will try to make no objections or propositions unless called
upon; and that no one may be able to put me out of the way [of
self-denial] everyone shall have theirs, however disagreeable they may
seem to me.’

――‘We returned to-day, and on reading over these resolutions, which I
called a vow, I find I have acted very poorly up to them. I believe
they have operated as a sort of check upon me in some respects, that I
have been less of an epicure and less of an interferer than I should
have been else. But yet, quite at starting, I suggested, when my
father proposed going ashore, that it would take a longer time than he
calculated on: but this was merely a suggestion. And on one of the
evenings when we were by ourselves, I argued about people going to
Church in a way very inconsistent with our relative situations;
neither was I quite cordial in my acquiescence with propositions of my
father’s about minor excursions at S[alcombe?] and feel as if I had
pressed unpleasantly on him some of my opinions about tides, and names
of places.’

――‘Yesterday, I was talking to [Phill?] about [Peg?[22]]; and among
other things, when I said how considerate she was about everybody’s
wants, and how she was always on the lookout for an opportunity to
relieve them, I said (and have reason enough to say it) that things of
that sort did not come into my head. But I am afraid I must confess
that I was a little annoyed at [Phill? allowing] that she did not
think they did! I cannot accuse myself of having been so insincere as
to have laid a trap for a compliment; but I was not quite prepared to
find that my negligence was such as to obtrude itself on the
observation of those who would always make the best of one. O God!
give me grace to look on this as a warning voice from Thee, and let
the remembrance of it brace my energies for the future…. Also, I
yesterday gave way to a covetous inconsistent wish for a beautiful
colt that we happened to see, and which my father had half a mind I
should get for my own. I feel all these selfish wishes crowding on me,
and have no clear decided rule by which to check them. I think I will
always ask myself, when I wish for an elegant superfluity, what
business I have to be so much better off than my sisters, and will not
allow myself anything I can avoid till I have got them all the things
they are reasonably in want of.’

――‘Teach me to be ever mindful of the wants and wishes of others, and
that I may never omit an opportunity of adding to their happiness; let
each particular of their condition be present with me, what they are
doing or suffering. I am most fearfully deficient in this mark of a
child of God. Protect me from all covetous desires of the pleasant
things which money can procure: the D[enbury?] cottage, the new
dining-room window, nice furniture, equipage, musical instruments, or
any other thing, in order to obtain which I must lessen my means of
benefiting others.

――‘I have done many things to-day that I ought to be ashamed of. For
instance: I said to the [Provost?] I had not examined carefully an
analysis that I had hardly read a word of. I have assumed, too, a
harsh manner in examining. I feel too anxious to show my own knowledge
of the subjects on which I am examining. Was very inattentive at
morning Chapel, and not sorry to find that there was none in the
evening. I believe the day before yesterday I made a bungle in
examining W[illy] in Euclid, which made him appear to be doing wrong
while he was quite right, but did not discover it in time to rectify
it by confession (which I hope I should have done).’

The youth who wrote much else thus singularly and severely of himself,
had an almost fierce sincerity. At an early hour, he made up his mind
to be in his strength, what many men are said to be in their weakness,
‘nobody’s enemy but his own,’ and he carried out both clauses implied
in the contract. Neither at Eton nor at Oxford, with opportunities by
the score, did he ever make a single ‘influential’ personal friend; to
no position or emolument did he ever aspire, though he was to give
unremitting and precious labour to what he believed to be the best
cause in the world. ‘Froude and I were nobodies,’ said Newman, two
lifetimes later, with a touch of whimsical pride. Like a child of
Socrates, our philosopher would fain see how many things there are
which he could do without; like a child of Seneca, he would fain enjoy
this life, with the zest possible to those alone who are always ready
to leave it. Enough of this Journal, most practical in all its
self-searching. It appears to concern itself with trivialities only to
those who do not realise how relentless is the ascetic spirit, and how
small a quarry it will still hunt when all the tigers are met and
exterminated. As was said of a greater than Hurrell Froude: ‘_Ce
diable d’homme a toujours été en se perfectionnant. Il serait devenu
honnête homme, si on l’eut laissé vivre._’

When Mr. Keble went down to his curacy at Southrop, at the beginning
of the Long Vacation of 1823,[23] Hurrell went with him to read for
his B.A. degree, which he took in December of that year. The summer
was to him, as to one of his companions there, Isaac Williams, the
turning-point in his career. In those tranquil fields and winding
roads and the solemn little village Church, where he found ‘a man
wholly made up of love, and religion a reality,’ Hurrell began to see
the Last Things: he never could forget the place, the person, and the
occasion which meant so much to him in the Providence of God. His
third companion, Robert Wilberforce, ‘did not feel towards Keble,’
wrote Isaac Williams, ‘as we did at that time, having been brought up
in an opposite school.’ In all the fresh and brave happinesses of
nature and of grace which were round Keble like an aureole wherever he
went, Hurrell brightened and strengthened visibly.

     ‘You are my Spring: and when you smile, I grow.’

He learned from him to follow conscience and to fear applause. As soon
as he parted from Mr. Keble, their long correspondence began, and the
home-loving pupil was proud indeed when the ‘first man in Oxford,’ as
Newman enthusiastically called him, came on a visit to Dartington. We
know from recent testimony of a delightful pen[24] how dear the
neighbourhood became to Mr. Keble, and how often he would wander away
from the animated household of his friends to the fourteenth-century
priest’s-house hard by at Little Hempston, an almost unique survival,
with its small quadrangle, its hall and solar, of Chaucer’s time. The
lovely old Vicarage, in its still secluded situation, had taken
captive Hurrell’s twenty-year old fancy, as a letter of 1823 to Mr.
Keble shows.

‘I will pledge my own peculiar veracity to the following statement:
The situation is, I am confident (and on this matter experience has
peculiarly qualified me to judge), [by] far the most beautiful place
in the world, the focus of irradiated perfection, the favoured haunt
of romance and sentiment, the very place which, if you recollect the
circumstance, you taxed me with a disposition to romanticity for
encomiasing, when I informed you that I had destined it for my
κρησφύγετον, where, unmolested, _flumina amem silvasque inglorius_.
The Parsonage is situated in a steep and narrowish glen, which
intersects a long line of coppice that overhangs the Dart for the
length of nearly a mile, and rises almost perpendicularly out of the
river to the height of about two hundred feet. The stream there is
still, clear, and very deep; on the opposite side is Dartington; and a
line of narrow, long, flat meadows, interspersed with large oak and
ash trees, forms the bank of the river. The steep woods on the Little
Hempston side are in the form of a concave crescent (thereby agreeing
with Buckland).[25] From the Parsonage to the river is a steep descent
through a small orchard; at the bottom of which, on turning the corner
which the glen aforesaid makes on its north side with the course of
the stream, you come at once on a sort of excavation, of about half an
acre, which, terminated by an overhanging rock, forms a break in the
line of coppice aforesaid. In this said rock young M. found the hawks’
nests. I think they build there every year. On the opposite side,
_i.e._ the Dartington side, is what was formerly a little island, but
now no longer claims that proud title, in the oaks of which I am in
hopes we shall soon have an heronry, as they haunt there all the
summer. After this I should not so utterly despair of success, if I
felt less interested in the event;[26] but as it is, I can hardly hope
for so great a gratification.’

Several months later, he is still in the descriptive vein.

‘When I came home I found things looking most dismal. My father had
cut all the laurels to the roots, in hopes of making them come up
thicker. A field almost outside the windows, which had been put in
tillage, was ploughed so extremely ill that we were afraid it would be
forced to be tilled with turnips (_Dî talem campis avertite pestem!_)
instead of clover…. The copse also, which overhung the river by the
Little Hempston rocks, was in great part gone, “and the place thereof
knew it no more.” I hope the rest may be spared.’

The laurels he had planted gave the energetic Archdeacon some trouble.
In his old age he had them all swept away, and made a needed if
unromantic improvement in the outlook of the beautiful old house.
Hurrell’s implicit differences with his ‘knowing, quick, and handy’
father, so many of whose best qualities he shared, hinged laughably
often on such things as the culture of trees and the make and
management of boats. In all, he did his best to become what the
epitaphs of the time call ‘an humble obsequious son.’

Hurrell took only a second class in Classics and Mathematics
(disappointing and astonishing everyone who knew him) during 1824. But
he had exactly the sort of mind which, sooner or later, would come to
grief with any curriculum.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, March 29, 1825.

‘… Be so good as to write a sermon on “_flumina amem sylvasque
inglorius_,” for the benefit of my father, who objects to our having a
four-oar given us, as infallibly tending to debilitate and torpify the
mental faculties! I am afraid it is not in my stars to be ever
contented; for I confess I do not feel that serene felicity which I
pictured to myself last October as my destiny; though my delight is
not impaired as to the misery I have escaped. I am sure the ghosts of
those who have taken a degree at Oxford will require a double portion
of Lethe before they begin “_in corpora velle reverti_.”

‘_March 31. P.S._――I wrote enclosed the day before yesterday, but, as
you will perceive, incapacitated it for going by the post without a
cover; so I waited for a frank. And, as I am become so prudent as not
to like wasting paper, you are indebted to this circumstance for an
elongation of my epistle. I don’t recollect whether I told you that I
have been reading Clarendon, for which, though I skipped over some
parts, I feel much veneration. I am glad I know something of the
Puritans, as it gives me a better right to hate Milton,[27] and
accounts for many of the things which most disgusted me in his
not-in-my-sense-of-the-word poetry. Also, I adore King Charles and
Bishop Laud!… You prosed me once for not sending regards,
remembrances, compliments, etc., so let everyone choose which they
like best, as I commit to you an assortment of each kind for

     ‘“Tuque vale, sedesque juvet meminisse meorum,
       Heu, nunquam rediture.”’

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, May 13, 1825.

‘Αἰνότατε: I have been long intending to thank you for your benevolent
instructions, which (I don’t know whether I ought to be ashamed or not
in confessing it) answered a purpose different from what they were
intended for; viz., they convinced me and (what was more to the point)
my father, that I knew so little about the matter, and had so little
time left, that it was no use to proceed. It certainly was no small
satisfaction to me to have so good an excuse for giving up what I had
exhausted the entertainment of, and had nothing but the laborious to
come. Also, the weather has been so very beautiful this spring, and
the delicious blue sky, with hardly a cloud on it for six weeks, so
very tempting, that it was hardly possible to help being idle. But
somehow my conscience rather misgives me, and what with admonitions
now and then from my father, and my lately having taken up with
reading sermons, I am become “as melancholy as Moorditch or the drone
of a Lincolnshire bagpipe”; so that upon the whole I think I must come
to you to be prosed and put into a better way…. By the by, I am now
officiating as ethical instructor to B[ob?], in which capacity I have
been much humiliated at finding how little I know about the matter;
but it makes me get them[28] up, which perhaps I should never have
done else. I do not think them at all less prosy and long-winded than
I used, and I would bet Bishop Butler against all the ‘stotles in the
world. Among other things I am also becoming something of a florist,
and something of an architect, in which latter I make some
proficiency. I am a powerful coadjutor (though I say it that should
not say it), in the completion of D[enbury], which bears a different
aspect from when you saw it last. It will be a pretty monastic-looking
erection, and if we could but make it old, and buy a ghost or two,
would be somewhat sentimental. For, thanks to my grandmother’s[29]
perverseness, she would not have a new house except in the shape of an
old one repaired, which superinduced the necessity of so many crooked
little passages and such an irregular exterior, that my father had an
excuse for doing what would else have seemed fanciful. Talking about
architecture, a new town[30] is going to be built down by Torbay,
which is to cut out Brighton and every place. The ground where it is
to stand is perfectly unencumbered with houses, and covered with
trees, so that there is every advantage at starting; and all will be
done on a general plan, so that the buildings shall as little as
possible interfere with each other. If you know anyone that wishes for
a delightful sea-residence, send him there. You must know you narrowly
escaped having a poetical effusion from me the other day. I was out in
so magnificent an evening; but being, as you know, a man of few words,
I found that by the time I had made my verses scan and construe, they
would be so remote from an effusion, at least in the quality of being
_effunded_, that it was better to be contented with a prosaic
statement: viz., that coming home from Little Hempston the other
evening after sunset, and having with some difficulty discovered and
scrambled into my boat, which was moored under an old stump at the
bottom of the woods, as I proceeded on my course down the river, the
sky gradually assumed a portentous appearance, and distant flashes of
lightning, growing gradually more distinct, began at regular
intervals. Things however are not so constituted as to allow the
sublime to amalgamate with the comfortable: according to the decrees
of Fate, the storm which had lingered in the upper regions till I had
got so far on my way home as to be out of reach of shelter from
Dartington House, now came down with such violence as to save me the
trouble of running at any rate, by convincing me that whether I was
out five minutes or fifteen I should be in an equally bad case. The
thunder got very loud, and the lightning was so green and brilliant,
that I could see the stiles and gates, and even their latches, like
the spectres of the things from which “_nox abstulit atra colorem_.”
Sometimes the flashes lasted for nearly a second, and dazzled me so
that after they were passed I could make no use of the twilight at
all. Having got thus far, I feel in the awkward situation of having
told a story without a point, and feel inclined to resort to the usual
remedy, and apply to my invention to help me out of the scrape with a
marvellous conclusion. Perhaps however you may be contented with a
moral: so here goes. As good never comes unalloyed with evil, so that
very evil often serves to give it a relish which it might otherwise be
destitute of. I could not have reckoned this as an adventure, if I had
not been forced to change my clothes when I came home.’

To the same ‘holy friend’ for whom Hurrell privately says on his knees
his heartfelt thanksgiving, he writes often, from the first, in a mood
of bantering and almost irreverent freedom.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, 1824.

‘… Now I proceed to vindicate my character from the unwarrantable
aspersions you have been pleased to throw upon it. Be it known then
that since the first of May I have read the four first books of
Herodotus, three of Ethics, two of Thucydides, _Œdipus Tyrannus_,
_Eumenides_, Ἱκέτιδες, and a book of Homer; and all this not
carelessly, but with Scapula and Matthiæ. And though there are several
posing places in the Æschylus and Herodotus with which I shall in
course of time bother you, still upon the whole I flatter myself that
in a short space I shall be at least equal to Peter Elmsley,[31] and I
would advise you to prepare the examining masters for the reception of
such a luminary…. My father, I must assure you, has received no
favourable impression of your moral organisation from the injudicious
exposure which you made in your last letter. But I will urge the
matter no further; … the shortness of the time during which your
ἐνέργεαι have been discontinued may not yet have allowed the
annihilation of the ἕξις. I shall rest in hope that this timely
admonition may awaken you to a sense of your duty, and reinstate your
perceptions of the ἀληθὲς in their full vigour. “Thine by yea and nay,
which is as much as to say, as thou usest him.”’

Mr. Keble was settled in 1825 as Curate in sole charge of Hursley,

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Aug. 16, 1825.

‘… _Suaviter ut nunc est inquam_: but it was not so with poor
[Williams] in the packet, being that he was sick all the way from
Portland Head to Plymouth Sound; and was so completely miserable that
he would not be spoken to, and kept on groaning out that he would give
all he ever expected in the world to be on shore. By this unfortunate
circumstance he was prevented from seeing the sun rise over the watery
element in the very act of “pillowing his chin upon an orient wave,”
and from bearing testimony (which I can do) that there is nothing the
least sublime in the mere fact of being out of sight of land, and
having nothing but the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky. But
what was most melancholy of all, he was unable to get a glimpse of all
the glorious coast of the south promontory of Devonshire…. Next day we
came upon Southampton, while it was under one of the most imposing
magnificent effects possible: a rainbow, lost in a dark cloud which
was raining as hard as it could pelt, was resting one of its ends on
the woods: and the sun on the waters, and the spires, made the misty
smoke that was rising up from the town, quite imposing and
sentimental. However, my complacency was much alloyed by the
tantalising sight of the beautiful yachts, with their glittering
sails, skimming along in the breeze, which had just started up after
the violent rain which had fallen, and the melancholy _Heu, non mea_
rushed on me with irresistible force.’

How well he loved a boat! He complains, in one entry of his Journal,
that the thought of boats distracts him insufferably during his

Hurrell was asked to say his say about _The Christian Year_, then in
manuscript. He seems to have been inclined to begrudge the fact that
Keble had set himself to write not as a poet for poets, but as a
challenging voice to ‘earth-drudging hearts.’ That he appreciated the
lasting charm of the book is quite apparent from the singularly
apposite quotation applied to it in the second letter on the subject.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Sept. 10, 1825.

‘About the poems――it is really too ludicrous for a fellow like me to
sit down deliberately to criticise the taste and philosophy of a
production of yours: so that I have no inclination to expose or commit
myself, by detailing to you my remarks on particular passages. There
are, as you may suppose, many places which, in fun, I would show fight
about; and there is something which I should call Sternhold-and-Hopkinsy
in the diction, of which I began to note down the first instances I
met; but, finding it go through, I concluded it was done on a theory.
But though I am not quite such a fool as to think my opinion worth
offering in point of criticism, it may not, perhaps, be quite useless
to confess it as a matter of fact, with which you may begin an
induction as to the probable good you may do by publication. I
confess, then, and not without some shame, that you seem to me to have
addressed yourself too exclusively to plain matter-of-fact good sort
of people … and not to have taken much pains to interest and guide the
feelings of people who feel acutely, nor to have given much attention
to that dreary visionary existence which they make themselves very
uncomfortable by indulging in, and which I should have hoped it was
the peculiar province of religious poetry to sober down into practical
piety. I know all this may be great nonsense, may be even humbug; for
long experience has convinced me how much I can cheat myself as to my
real feelings. But that you may see that it has not been concocted
since, but was the impression made on me while reading, I will extract
a note which I made … I suppose I meant that things like Gray’s
_Elegy_, which turn melancholy to its proper account, by pointing out
the vanity of the world without telling us so, seem to me more to
answer the purpose. And now I will cease making an ass of myself!… I
am half-conscious that the same sort of objections might be made
against the Psalms; and though I cannot but think that they will make
your poems less generally liked and read, I am far from confident that
it may not be better, upon the whole, for those who attend to them as
a religious duty.

‘I can hardly shut up without telling you of such an interesting set
of fellows that we heard of in our peregrinations. They were sixteen
French fishermen and three boys, who had all come over, in one boat,
to get bait on the English coast, and were kept there ten days by the
wind: all that time they sat upon the deck knitting stockings and
nightcaps; and, when Sunday came, they were just so far out at sea
that the people on the coast could hear them singing the Roman
Catholic service so beautifully, and in the evening they came on
shore, and danced, out of mere jollity, for an hour. They were such
grateful fellows, that a gentleman on the coast who had done them some
kindness, could hardly get rid of them without his giving them some
commission to do for him in France, _i.e._ to let them smuggle
something over for him; and, when they could not remove his scruples
as a Justice of [the] Peace, they caught him an immense fish, and were
quite disappointed that he would not accept it as a present.’

The great mass of Keble’s letters to his pupil and friend have
disappeared: but we have the answer promptly sent to this, and written
with his own winning humility. ‘For your telling me exactly what you
think about [the verses] I shall hold you in greater honour as long as
I live.’ He goes on, sweetly and sagaciously, to explain that _The
Christian Year_ but aimed at helping ‘the plain and good.’[32] It will
be remembered that the archpriest of letters, Mr. William Wordsworth,
once offered to go over _The Christian Year_, with a view to
correcting the English. To that height Hurrell could not rise.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Dec. 6, 1825.

‘“Sir, my dear friend,” you cannot tell how much I am obliged to you
for your benevolence to my last letter, but that does not make me the
less a fool for having expressed myself so; and what provokes me most
of all is that I did not give myself fair play by not writing till my
opinions had settled; for as far as my memory goes, I think they are
now undergoing a revolution, and that if I were to see the pottery[33]
in question again, I should think quite differently of it. There is
something about them which leaves (to use the words of our friend Tom

     ‘“A sad remembrance fondly kept
       When all lighter thoughts are faded.”

And though I cannot account for the fact, I have been much more
sensible of this since a re-perusal of Genesis.――I wrote the foregoing
not long after the receipt of your letter, but have been such a dawdle
that I have not been able to collect materials for finishing it: and
the circumstance which now at last helps me out is a melancholy one,
no other than the decease of our friend and companion Johnny Raw:[34]
who was taken off, some days since, in the staggers. There was
something peculiarly doleful in the poor fellow’s exit; and there was
a sort of dreariness diffused over all its circumstances, which set it
off with almost a theatrical effect. As B[ob] says, it would have not
been so much if he had wasted away by a long illness, or if he had
heard of his death at a distance; but to have been using and admiring
him till within a few days of his decease, to have watched all the
stages of his rapid illness, seen him bled, given him his physic
(which seemed to distress him very much, though all along the pain he
suffered was evidently very great), and, after all, to have got up at
two o’clock in the night, when the crisis was to take place, and come
into the stable only a minute after his death, where we could just see
him, by lantern-light, stretched out on the straw:――were incidents not
calculated to excite pleasure. Add to this, it was one of those
shivering cold stormy nights which make me feel as if I and the people
with me were the only human beings in the world: a fact, by-the-by,
which I am not yet sufficient psychologist to account for. And the
next day, when we went out to bury him, the weather was just the same,
and there was nothing to excite one cheerful association. Also, it was
somewhat staggering to the speculatively inclined, not to be able to
discover one single reason why he should not be able to gallop about
as well as ever. He was evidently in good condition, his flesh hard,
and his limbs sound: and why I should be able to walk any better than
he, was more than I could elicit. We buried him under an elm tree in
the lawn, and nailed his shoes to it for a monument.[35]

‘… My father has found the Εἰκὼν [βασιλική] among some old books, and
I have been reading it. It puts me in mind of a verse in this
morning’s Psalms: “Thou shalt hide me privily by Thine own presence
from the provoking of all men, Thou shalt keep me secretly in Thy
tabernacle from the strife of tongues”; which seems to point out the
clearest and most beautiful instance of the moral government of God
being begun on earth. I should like to know the Hebrew of the verse
before: “O how plentiful is Thy goodness, which Thou hast prepared for
them that trust in Thee _even before the sons of men_.” For if
“before” means “in the presence of,” then David is drawing the
conclusion I want; but I am afraid it must mean “greater than falls to
the lot of the rest of mankind.” … Please to look, when you are in a
humour for it, in _Medea_, 705, where Ægeus says, εἰς τοῦτο γὰρ δὴ
φροῦδος εἰμὶ πᾶς ἐγώ. The commentators cited by Elmsley have fumbled
much about it, and some of them I do not understand; but may it not
mean: “For as to my name continuing in my posterity, in that respect I
am clean gone.” If εἰς τοῦτο will bear this signification, it is
certainly prettier than as it is commonly explained. I like _Hecuba_
far better than _Medea_…. Another interval has elapsed, and the
leaves, which had held out surprisingly hitherto, have almost totally
disappeared, and now we may reckon winter to be fairly set in. I wish
I could write verses to perform the obsequies of this delicious
summer, the like of which will probably never visit the abodes of
mortals again….’

The little implied joke, celibate and Greek, on his own name, is not
the least adornment of this charming letter.

At the outset of 1826, Hurrell found at least one modern book to his
liking. This was the _Fragments in Verse and Prose, by a Young Lady,
Miss Elizabeth S――――, with Some Account of her Life and Character_, by
H[enrietta] M[aria] Bowdler, a new edition of which, in two volumes
octavo, had just appeared. Elizabeth Smith of Burnhall near Durham,
the Oriental scholar, was born in 1776 and died in 1806. Our present
standard reference, the _Dictionary of National Biography_, which
highly commends her self-won learning and its methods, adds that ‘her
verses have no merit, and her reflections are of the obvious kind,
gracefully expressed.’ But the reflections do not seem obvious to some
readers, save inasmuch as at first all simple and profound little
discoveries of the sort seem so: which is ever their highest praise.
The book is but poorly representative, and badly put together: it
certainly would give no clear idea, to our own more exacting public,
of a personality full of goodness and charm, nor of a remarkable mind
with a dozen hobbies, and not one affectation.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Jan. 12, 1826.

‘Δαιμόνιε: As I am conscious of being one of those imbecile-minded
people who one day admire a thing as if they could never think of
anything else, and soon after cease to think of it at all, I must
write to you while a little book that I took up the other day
accidentally continues uppermost in my thoughts. It calls itself
_Fragments in Verse and Prose, by a Young Lady_; and struck with the
sentimentality of the title, I took it up to laugh at it; nor did I
find anything in the preface to do away with my preconceived opinion.
But on opening the book at random, among some fragments extracted from
her private meditations, I began to like her most extremely. The
mention of Piercefield,[36] and the initials Miss S., made me remember
your having told me of a Miss Smith that lived there, while we were
scrambling up the Windcliff. I am sure if you had admired her half as
much as I do, you would not have let me go till we had hunted out
every corner that she mentions. There is something to my mind very
peculiar in all the turn of her thoughts, and those half-metaphysical,
half-poetical speculations which almost put me in mind of my mother.
Yesterday I mentioned the book to a person who I was surprised to find
knew a great deal about her, and from whom I was still more astonished
to hear that I myself knew very well indeed her intimate friend Miss
H[unt], to whom most of her letters are addressed….’

And again, a little later, winding up an intimate letter in Latin to
Keble, there is more of this pleasant heroine-worship, coupled with
some feeling analysis and amusing self-portrayal. Hurrell’s repugnance
to things German were a foregone conclusion, had he never expressed

‘… I could not find the places you referred me to in Miss Smith, but
am happy to find that we sympathise in the extent of our admiration,
if not in the sources; though indeed, I am willing to believe, both.
But as for old Klopstock, I cannot read about him and his wives;[37]
and am rather horrified at Miss S[mith’s] having taken so much trouble
about him, or any other sentimental old German. What makes me admire
Miss S[mith] so excessively, is more than I can give any intelligible
account of: she either does not admire, or is not acquainted with my
favourite books; and those that she fancies she admires (for I am sure
she does it only in ignorance) are my inveterate enemies. Neither
could I fix upon any passages in her own writings which would seem to
justify me if I quoted them. But somehow I seem perfectly certain I
know her intimately, and that I can trace the feelings in which all
she says and does originates; and all this is so consistent, as far as
it goes, with what I have imaged to myself as the archetype of human
perfection, that I have invested her, in my imagination, with all its

‘Lloyd’s[38] immense catalogue of books, that he recommends as
necessary, has frightened me beyond measure: but I am getting to be of
your opinion, that to be fully occupied is almost necessary, in order
to get through life with tolerable ease and comfort….’

Says the Editor of the Newman _Correspondence_, in entering upon the
annals of the year 1826: ‘The Oriel election and Fellowship was this
year a momentous one to Mr. Newman, as bringing him into intimacy with
the friend whose influence he ever felt powerful beyond all others to
which he had been subject.’ Newman writes of the election to his
mother on March 31, 1826, in terms of convinced enthusiasm which are
not unlike Crabb Robinson’s after encountering for the first time the
youthful William Hazlitt. ‘By-the-bye, I have not told you the name of
the other successful candidate:[39] Froude of Oriel. We were in grave
deliberation till near two this morning, and then went to bed. Froude
is one of the acutest and clearest and deepest men in the memory of
man. I hope our election will be _in honorem Dei et sponsæ suæ
ecclesiæ salutem_, as Edward II. has it in our Statutes.’ The Oriel
electors had their own standards, and gloried in them. Fellowships
depended hardly at all on the technical and the prescribed;
indications of the scope and accuracy of acquired knowledge passed for
next to nothing; but what did count, in Oriel’s golden days, was a
man’s whole momentum and equilibrium, his relationship to the
intellectual life, his mastery over his own faculties: ‘not what he
had read, but what he was like.’ Originality, distinction, was the
cachet, and Oriel College was the first in Oxford to throw open her
unhampered Fellowships to the entire University. Like Whately, Thomas
Mozley, and Newman himself, Froude who stood only moderately high in
the books of the University examiners, had been preferred before
candidates who were double-firsts. He took, as was but natural, an
even more rapturous pleasure in the event than Newman had done. He
wrote to Keble, when he was steadying himself under the impact of a
lasting good fortune:

‘My dreamy sensations have at length subsided, and I cannot think how
I could have made myself such a fool as to be so upset! But it was
altogether such a surprise to me, and I knew it would delight my
father so much, that I could not stand it all. I do not mean that when
the news was announced to me I did not contemplate the possibility of
it; for you must know that I am the most superstitious of the species,
and that on the first day of the examination I had a sort of
indescribable sensation from which I augured the event. But such a
confused prophesying as this is so very different from a sober
expectation that it served rather to increase than to diminish my
surprise at its being realised.’

And again, turning from what he thought an almost unnatural success,
he seeks refuge in his own special pun. ‘_Crede mihi_,’ he confides to
Keble on the eve of Candlemas, ‘_idem sum ille φροῦδος qui utroque
pede claudicans e scholis evasi: me in nulla re scholastica ex illo
tempore usque ad hunc diem sentio profecisse_.’ In ‘Empty-head’
limping with both feet out of the Schools, we are to recognise an
allusion to Hurrell’s unforgotten double-second class. He was too
humble to see that for a Romany rye of his sort, a double-second class
was really a quite extravagant toll to pay to University conventions.

Oriel soon became a hotbed of revolution, as the consequence of her
anti-academical processes of selection. Within two years, troubles
began, and Froude, with Newman, R. I. Wilberforce, and Dornford, the
other public Tutors, took up and for a long time maintained, against
the settled paganism of the College, their own ‘fierce’ views of their
duty towards undergraduates. Of this duty Froude and Newman had a
particularly clear conviction. Keble had struck, and struck strongly,
the pastoral note as early as 1818, and developed it in a letter to
Sir J. T. Coleridge.[40] On the other hand, the Provost and the
administrators held that intercourse between Tutor and pupil should be
a routine of lectures only, and not that and a cure of souls beside.
The antagonism lasted for nearly four years, during which Froude’s
deep friendship with Newman grew up, and was perfected. The end came
with Hawkins’ express refusal to sanction the further supply of pupils
to the would-be spiritual directors who so quietly defied him. They
had ‘led the last struggle for the ancient quasi-parental and
religious character of the College Tutor.’[41] As the pupils they had
went up for degrees and left the University, they fell quite idle, in
that respect, by 1831, and with all their smouldering zeal and moral
fire within them, the way was open for another onset of the Laudians
which was destined to affect the consciences not alone of young Oriel,
but of the nation and the age.

Froude’s allotted rooms were directly over Newman’s, in the Chapel
angle of the Great Quad of Oriel College. The new Fellow did not, as
such, come into residence until after the Easter vacation; during the
following month, April, we find him still luxuriating in Devonshire
and plunging deep into abstract metaphysics. ‘I have been taken with a
fit of writing,’ he confesses to Keble. ‘I am happier than I ever was
at Oxford, far: but that is not saying much.’ Apparently, he had
posted manuscripts for criticism, and received it as gratefully and as
combatively as usual. ‘I am infinitely indebted to you,’ he writes,
‘for your expeditious attention to my concern, and will try my best to
set to rights the places you row [about]. However, I still maintain
that my end is both relevant and true and my puzzle-headed antithesis
a good one; but I bow my head in implicit confidence, as far as
practice goes. Distinctions and refinements are growing on me, and I
am all in a maze; and it is delightful to have the shadow of a great
rock in a weary land to which I may turn for temporary shelter. If I
had a year more, I could not make it at all to my satisfaction; so I
must make the best of it.’

His note-books for this year and the next are full of the contemned
‘distinctions and refinements.’ In trying to beat out his conceptions
of moral growth (a thing he refused to recognise in himself), he jots
down some striking and arresting thoughts. Two or three which lie
metaphysically not far apart, must suffice for transcription. They
show the coherence, the synthetic power with which Froude’s philosophy
knit all worlds into one.

――‘For whatever cause the great Author of Nature contrived that
resemblance (as it appears to us) which subsists between the part of
His dominions of which He has given us a consciousness, and that other
part with which we are acquainted only through our understanding, it
seems calculated to assist our conceptions of the one to observe what
passes in the other…. The business of our life seems to be to acquire
the habit of acting as we should do if we were _conscious_ of all that
we _know_…. It is delightful to see things turn out well whose case
seems in some sort to represent to us our indistinct conceptions of
our own. Animals fainting under the effect of exercise, and then again
recovering their strength which that very exercise has contributed to
increase; the slow and, uncertain degrees in which this increase is
effected, and yet the certainty in which it is effected: the growth of
trees sometimes tossed by winds and checked by frosts, yet, by the
evil effects of these winds, directed in what quarter to strike their
roots so as to secure themselves for the future, and by these frosts
hardened and fitted for a new progress the next summer:――in things of
this sort I am so constituted as to see brethren in affliction
evidently making progress towards release.’

――‘Some people imagine that there is something blasphemous in the
supposition that a finite creature can be conscious in two places at
once. This is so far from being true that even our own experience
contradicts it. Perhaps there is some absurdity in the very idea which
attributes a place to consciousness, or the things capable of it. With
regard to ourselves, there is nothing to show us _where_ we are
conscious (though most people suppose the conscious thing is somewhere
within the body), or that we may not be with equal propriety said to
be conscious, or, in other words, to _be_, wherever anything is of
which we are conscious. It seems to me that the question where we are,
is one not of fact, but of degree; and that the only facts which make
us suppose we are where our body is, give us likewise the same reason
for supposing that in the same sense we sometimes are far away from
the body.’

――‘Yesterday, before breakfast, while the vacancy produced by fasting
was still on me, and I was reading the Psalms, and craving for a
comprehension of the things which I could only look on as words, and
was worked up to such a pitch that I felt trying to see my soul, and
make out how it was fitted to receive an impression from them,――Merton
bell[42] began to go; and it struck me (I cannot tell why) that if
such a trifle as that could give me such a vivid idea, my soul must be
a most intricate thing; and that when senses were given to the blind
part of it, what things would those appear, the apprehension of which
I was struggling after! This is as near what passed in my mind as I
can find expressions to shape my memory by. This blindness of heart is
what, by habit and patience, it is our work practically to remove. We
are to shape our souls for its removal, by making it in harmony with
the things invisible.’

These passages mark a great point of divergence between the writer and
the ‘religious genius’ with whom his memory is identified to all
generations. It is something of an anomaly, even, to find the young
Froude, and not the young Newman (rather the less practical of the
practical pair), developing so strong a habit of purely speculative
thought; but it was that which gave him his silent leadership. He
combined with his turn for abstractions (yet with scorn shared with
Newman for ‘formulas which antedate the facts’) an unexpected power of
philosophical application of scientific ideas. All these half-mystical
gymnastics of the reflective faculty are going to tell in 1833 and
after, when the hour of action strikes, and when, by his already
gathered impetus, Hurrell Froude is going to dart ahead in a still
level flight, like a gull’s. He will seem external, as if talking more
than he thinks, talking somewhat to the bewilderment of those others
who can hardly think for his talking. He will be gay; he will be glib;
he will pass care-free amid the sweat of horses and men, simply
because of these long hard mental vigils, pen in hand, up Oriel
Staircase No. 3, while he is hearing Merton bell, and trying to see
his soul.

To Keble, who was still at home during the spring of 1826, Hurrell
confides impressions of the Newman who had already conceived so lofty
an opinion of him, and had probably not taken pains to conceal it: the
Newman who dearly loved, to the last, to be ‘disvenerated.’ Many
important Fellows of Oriel, such as Arnold, Hampden, Jelf, Jenkyns,
Pusey, were absent from Oxford: hence they lack mention in our
critic’s roster.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, May 25, 1826.

‘I should like to detail to you our [College] proceedings, but no
striking features occur to my mind at present; so I will favour you
with my general impressions. [Whately?][43] is the only one with whom
I have got to be at all intimate; he is not the least of a Don, and I
like him very much indeed. [Davison?] is a person for whom I have a
very great veneration: but he is such an immense person that I hardly
dare bring myself in contact with him.[44] [Newman] is, to my mind, by
far the greatest genius of the party, and I cannot help thinking that,
sometime or other, I may get to be well acquainted with him: but he is
very shy,[45] and dining with a person now and then does not break the
ice so quickly as might be wished. I venerate [Davison?] but dislike
him: I like [Newman] but disvenerate him. Old [Wilberforce?][46] is
very funny, good-natured, and, I think, very much improved. And now
for my ill-fated inconsistent self; I have been trying to be diligent,
and have been horribly idle; trying to be contented, and yet
constantly fidgety; trying to be matter-of-fact, and have nearly
cracked myself with conceited metaphysics. This last is principally
attributable to Lucretius, whom I have been reading with considerable
attention, and intense admiration; I shall very soon have finished
him, as I have got on some way in the Sixth Book. In the end of the
Book, about the mortality of the soul, there are some magnificent
extraordinary reflections on our longings for something indescribable,
and beyond our reach; on our having affections which have no adequate
object, and which we long to forget and smother, because we cannot
gratify them: [reflections] which make a striking preface to Bishop
Butler’s sermons on the Love of God.’

June 15, 1826, was the five hundredth anniversary of the foundation of
Oriel College. Perhaps the observance of it served to stimulate
Hurrell’s filial piety and his spontaneous regard for the past. Few
Fellows of Colleges, then or since, ‘supinely enjoying the gifts of
the Founder,’ as Gibbon says, would have offered, after such an
occasion, this private prayer, found among Hurrell’s papers:

――‘Almighty God, Father of all Mercies, I beg to offer Thee my deep
and unfeigned thanks for all the blessings which Thou hast bestowed
upon me; but in addition to those of Thy favours which I enjoy in
common with all mankind, I more particularly bless Thy Holy Name for
those of which I partake as member of this College; for the means Thou
hast given me of daily sustenance, and of a continual admission to Thy
house and service, through the pious charity of holy men of old. I
bless Thee, O Lord, in that Thou didst put into their heart the desire
of erecting to themselves a memorial, and of leaving to posterity a
great example in the foundation and endowment of a seminary of
religious learning; and I pray Thee that, as it has fallen to my lot
to succeed to this their institution, I may fulfil my part in it as I
believe they would approve if they could be present with me; that I
may not waste in foolish or gross indulgences the means afforded me of
obtaining higher ends; or allow myself to consider as my own that time
which I receive their wages for dedicating to Thy service, by the
advancement of useful learning, and adorning the doctrine of God our
Saviour. But more especially do I beg of Thee to accept my
thankfulness for those merciful dispensations of Thy Providence which
affect my lot in particular. That it has pleased Thee to bring me into
the world under the shadow of my holy mother, in the recollection of
whose bright society Thou hast given me, as it were, a consciousness
of that blessedness which Thou hast taught us to look for in the
presence of Saints and Angels. Also, that my lot has been so cast that
I should fall into the way of one[47] whose good instructions have, I
hope, in some degree, convinced me of the error of my ways, and may,
by Thy grace, serve to reclaim me from them; with whose high
friendship I have most unworthily been honoured, and in whose presence
I taste the cup of happiness.’

The correspondence with Keble continued implicitly confidential at all
times. But Hurrell writes freely at the close of his first Long
Vacation as Fellow, and after his return to Oriel, of his scruples and
self-dissatisfactions and aspirations: ‘thoughts that do wander
through eternity.’

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Oct. 14, 1826.

‘It will seem rather pompous to announce my determination not to rise
till I have got a letter written to you; but unless I start with some
such resolution, I shall not be able to get one written at all. I have
made three attempts to write … but all of them ran off into something
wild, which upon reflection I thought would be better kept to myself.
The fact is, that I have been in a very strange way all the summer,
and having had no one to talk to about the things which have bothered
me, I have been every now and then getting into fits of enthusiasm or
despondency. But the result has been in some respects a good one, and
I have got to take a very great pleasure in what you recommended to me
when we were together at F[airford], the evening before I left you our
first summer, _i.e._ good books; and I feel I[48] understand places in
the Psalms in a way I never used to. I go back to Oxford with a
determination to set to at Hebrew and the early Fathers, and to keep
myself in as strict order as I can: a thing which I have been making
ineffectual attempts at for some time, but which never once entered my
head for a long time of my life….

‘I wish you would say anything to me that you think would do me good,
however severe it may be. You must have observed many things very
contemptible in me, but I know worse of myself, and shall be prepared
for anything. I cannot help being afraid that I am still deceiving
myself about my motives and feelings, and shall be glad of anything on
which to steady myself. Since I have been here I have been getting
more comfortable than I had been for a good bit, from the society of
I[saac][49] and P[revost][50] whom I get to like more and more every
day…. We were to have wandered over North Wales together, but have
been obliged to relinquish that scheme for this time, and perhaps it
is a good thing, as far as I am concerned, to have a less exciting
life for the present. I have had one bit of romance, viz., a walk
early in the morning up the Vale of Rydal to Devil’s Bridge. The
W[illiamses] wanted us to ride, but I thought I should remember it
better by walking…. I shall always like scrambling expeditions as long
as I can recollect ours up the Wye. Those few days seem like a bright
spot in my existence; or perhaps it would be a more apt similitude to
compare it to what you quoted as we were going in the boat to Tintern:
“The shadow of a great rock in a weary land.”

‘I daresay you will think this letter rather strange, but it cannot do
me any good to bottle everything up; besides, I think there is no
pleasure in letters which do nothing but detail matters of fact. I
should have liked much better to have seen you; but as I suppose there
is no chance of that for some time, I must make the best of it. When I
said that I had taken to liking good books, I did not mean that I had
read many. I have read over and over again Bishop Taylor’s _Holy
Living and Dying_, but till I came here I had not gone farther; since,
I have read five sermons of Bishop Wilson, one on the History of
Christianity, and the others on Profiting by Sermons; also most of
Law’s _Serious Call_, about which I remember what you said to me three
years ago.’[51]

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Nov. 5, 1826.

‘It may seem an odd sort of thing to say, but I got from your letter
something more like happiness than I have known since my mother died.
Since that time it seems as if I had been ἄθεος ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ; but I
hope I may yet get right at last. It is a great comfort to find so
many expressions in the Psalms like “O tarry thou the Lord’s leisure,”
as they serve to keep up the hope that, weary and unsatisfactory as
are my attempts to be religious, they may in time “comfort my heart.”
And now I can talk to you about myself, I feel a sort of security
against bewildering my mind with vague thoughts, which I did not know
where to check, because I could not get anyone to sympathise with them
at all.

‘I have borrowed Mr. Bonnell’s _Life_,[52] and have got about
two-thirds through it. I did not at first like the plan you
recommended to me about reveries, as I had been directing all my
actions with a view to fitting myself for realising my reveries. But
it is a wretched unsatisfactory pursuit, for besides that it does not
seem to have any real religion in it, I have often felt as if I had
lost myself, and that I was acting blindly, without a drift. It is
much better to give up all notion of guiding myself, and “seek first
the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall
be added.” I beg your pardon for putting before you the roundabout
fantastic methods to which I have been resorting to arrive at a plain
simple truth that ought to have come at once; but perhaps they may
serve to show the state of my mind better than any direct description
I could give. It is very frightful to see people like Mr. Bonnell so
alarmed about themselves, and expressing so strongly the wretchedness
of their moral condition. It seems as if, to a fellow like me, it must
always be presumptuous not to despair. The evening before last I was
much struck with a thought in the beginning of Hooker’s Preface to the
_Ecclesiastical Polity_, about not permitting thoughts to pass away as
in a dream. It seems as if people might make so much more out of their
lives by keeping records of them….

‘I will write you down some horridly-expressed verses which call
themselves to the tune of “Allan Water” and “Rousseau’s Dream”; the
first sketched in autumn, 1825, but undergoing changes for a long
time, poor as is the result; the second written at W[illiams’s]. I
have not shown them to anyone, and they may give you a sort of guess
at the things my mind has been running upon.’

‘On the Banks of Allan Water’ was his favourite air.


     ‘Ere the buds their stores deliver,
        Have ye watched the springtime gay?
      Have ye seen the sere leaves shiver
        In an autumn day?

      Have ye loved some flower appearing,
        Tulip, or pale lily tall,
      Day by day its head uprearing,
        But to mourn its fall?

      Have ye on the bosom rested
        Of some friend that seemed a god?
      Have ye seen her relics vested
        In their long abode?

      With the years that ye have numbered,
        With the flowers that gaily blow,
      With the friends whose sleep is slumbered,
        Ye shall perish too.’


     ‘Oh, can it be that this bright world
        Was made for such dull joys[53] as ours?
      Dwells there not aught in secret furled
       ‘Mid Nature’s holy bowers?[54]

      Is it for naught that things gone by
        Still hover o’er our wondering mind,
      And dreamy feelings, dimly high,
        A dwelling-place within us find?

      No: there are things of higher mould,
        Whose charmèd ways we heedless tread;
      And men even here a converse hold
        With those whom they shall meet when dead.

      Lord of the World, Almighty King,
        Thy shadow resteth over all:
      Or where the Saints Thy terrors sing,
        Or where the waves obey Thy call.’

To this productive year belong also some haunting unfinished lines
which might bear for a title The Summons. Of course none of these
three poems of Hurrell’s appeared, later, in _Lyra Apostolica_; nor
elsewhere than in the _Remains_.

     ‘To-night my dreary course is run,
      And at the setting of the sun,
      Far beneath the western wave
      I seek my quiet grave,

      Amid the silent halls of Fate,
      Where lie in long and shadowy state
      The embryos of the things that be
      Waiting the hour of destiny.

      I hear thy magic voice;
      I hear it, and rejoice….
      To-morrow: ere the hunter’s horn
      Has waked the echoes of the morn….’

Froude at this time was associating a good deal with Blanco White, the
Anglicised Spaniard and ex-priest who came to Oriel, aged fifty-one,
when Tyler left it, and deeply interested Oriel men with his knowledge
of the scholastic philosophy. For some three years he was in great
repute among them: his mental gifts were invalidated to them, later,
by his aimlessness and instability. To his practical acquaintance with
the Roman Breviary, often demonstrated in his own rooms, after dinner,
to Froude, Newman, Pusey, and Wilberforce, Hurrell owed much,
especially in conjunction with the able lectures on liturgical
subjects being delivered by Dr. Lloyd.

Hurrell’s most intimate letter of all those addressed to Keble,
beating and surging with the pathos which is inseparable from a young
man’s interior life, ends sadly and bravely on Jan. 8, 1827:

‘I am glad of your advice about penance, for my spirit was so broken
down that I had no vigour to go on even with the trifling self-denials
I had imposed on myself; besides, I feel that though it has in it the
colour of humility, it is in reality the food of pride. Self-imposed,
it seems to me quite different from when imposed by the Church; and
even fasting itself, to weak minds, is not free from evil, when,
however secretly it is done, one cannot avoid the consciousness of
being singular…. I have not much more to say, and when anything comes
over me, will put it down on a large sheet, and send it off when it is
full. I am so very unequal to my feelings, that sometimes I suspect
all to be hypocrisy; but the tide has by this time so often returned
after its ebbing, that finding myself again on the dry land does not
make me so much doubt the reality of all His waves and storms which
have gone over me.’

To his dear Robert Isaac Wilberforce, an approaching guest, Hurrell
indites on the same day a more mundane theme:

‘I must prepare you to find me a great humbug about cock-shooting;
for, though I will not recede from my assertions concerning the
pre-eminent qualifications of our woods in that line, yet, as our
sporting establishment does not go beyond the bare appointments for
what Bob calls hedge-popping, the vicinity of the cocks will serve no
other purpose than to make you feel more acutely the disadvantages of
a connection with such unknowing people.’

His Tutorship was not an unmixed enjoyment to him, after taking his
M.A. Of it he writes thus seriously, humbly, and characteristically:

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Oct. 23, 1827.

‘Perhaps it may amuse you to hear something of my proceedings in my
new line of life. I have six Lectures in all: three each day…. I have
now got through two days and seen the general aspect of affairs, and
as yet no liberties have been taken with me, to my knowledge: however,
this is the thing against which I endeavour to arm myself, and from
which I expect a fruitful harvest of moral discipline. I look upon it
as one of the best opportunities which can be given me to put my
elements into order and harmony. It is a quick and efficacious
refreshment to me to think of the south-westerly waves roaring round
the Prawle after our stern, or the little crisp breakers that we cut
through, when you cruised with us off Dartmouth Harbour. Somehow or
other, without having exposed myself that I know of, in any flagrant
way, there remains upon my mind a more vivid impression of my
incompetence than I expected to await my entrance into the office. I
feel called on to act a part for which neither my habits nor my
studies have fitted me. I am, and always have been, childishly alive
to the pain of being despised, and I cannot but feel that I have not
the sort of knowledge to give me any command over the men’s attention,
or even power of benefiting the attentive; and, if it was not that I
know how good it is for myself, I believe I should give it up at
once!… Two more tedious days are over; I am not a bit more in love
with my occupation, so that this letter, instead of suggesting to you
some ludicrous ideas and reminiscences, will terminate in a
concatenation of dolefulness, and ask for a consolatory answer.

‘Lloyd gave us his introductory Lecture to-day, _i.e._, settled the
books we were to do, and the times of coming, and was very
good-natured, as usual, in his reception of all of us. I am afraid my
time and spirits will be so much drawn upon in another quarter, that I
shall not have much left of either for him. Otherwise an historical
account of the Liturgy, tracing all the prayers, through the Roman
Missals and Breviaries, up to their original source, for one Lecture,
and the Epistle to the Romans and First of Corinthians for the other,
would be a very eligible subject to spend a good deal of time on…. I
go to the Tyrolese singers, who perform some national music in the
Town-Hall at eight o’clock. I hope they will help to lull me into a
momentary forgetfulness; and that I may dream myself among lakes and
mountains, far, far away from the vulgar crowd.’

Hurrell’s forecast that his time and spirits would be drawn upon to
the detriment of his studies, was due to the anxiety he began to feel
about his brother Robert. The latter had followed Hurrell to Oriel in
1822, and graduated B.A. on the 8th of June, 1826. Ardent and active
in everything, he had taken a chill during that Long Vacation, after a
particularly long pull at sea, and the chill was to terminate only in

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, New Year’s Day, 1828.

‘… I wish I could write verses! and then I should make an attempt to
perpetuate in my mind the notions that came into it the other day at
seeing the dead body of a poor woman who for the last two years has
been in a state of intense bodily suffering, from which she was
released a few days since. I do not recollect having seen her before
her illness; but while she was alive I had never seen her free from
the expression of dull pain; and her face was distorted by a sore
wound, which never healed, on the side of her mouth. But the morning
after her death there was such a quiet careworn beauty on her
countenance, that it seemed to me as if good spirits had been
ornamenting her body at last, to show that a friend of theirs had
inhabited it. I am willing to hope that the recollection of it may be
a help to me in fits of scepticism, when everything seems so tame and

These serious thoughts haunted Hurrell at home where his brother’s
health was failing day by day. ‘Bob’ had the chief share of the
physical beauty and vitality of the family. One who knew him well has
preserved an anecdote of his lovable mischief.

‘The richness and melody of Copleston’s[55] voice surpassed any
instrument…. It was no small part of the daily amusement of the
undergraduates to repeat what Copleston had said, and just as he said
it, and to vary it from their own boyish imaginations…. The second of
the four Froudes, who died young, made this a special study. Coming
out of Tyler’s room after a Lecture, he tapped gently at the door, and
said in the exact Copleston tone: “Mr. Tyler, will you please step out
a moment?” Tyler rushed out, exclaiming: “My dear Mr. Provost!” but
only saw the tail of the class descending the staircase. “You silly
boys, you’ve been playing me a trick!” was all that he could say.’[56]

The wheel of fortune brought the Provostship of Oriel not to ‘an
angel,’ John Keble, but to Edward Hawkins, on the promotion of
Copleston to the See of Llandaff, early in this year. A letter of
Froude’s to him has been preserved. There is an entry in the former’s
Diary, under date of Nov. 22, 1826, thus printed: ‘Promised ―――― I
would not vote against him if ever he stood for the ――――. Foolish: but
I must abide by it.’ Hawkins and James Endell Tyler were the two among
the Fellows who had for years set their hearts upon the Provostship.
Tyler lost his chance when he left Oriel during the autumn for the
living of S. Giles-in-the-Fields, London, where Endell Street, W.C.,
yet preserves his name. Either to him, or to Hawkins, Hurrell had
hastily pledged his word. But when he wrote the following letter he
was quite aware of Mr. Keble’s definite withdrawal from the candidacy
which was not yet announced. As a matter of fact, Mr. Keble had never
consented to come forward, and his disciple’s course became, thereby,
easy as well as plain.

     To the Rev. EDWARD HAWKINS,[57] JAN. 23, 1828.

‘MY DEAR HAWKINS,――Though I don’t set so high a value on the
emanations of my pen as to volunteer a superfluous communication, yet,
from what Churton said to me in his note, I fancy I ought to supply an
ἔλλειμμα in my last letter by making a more formal declaration of my
unconditional and uncompromising determination to rank myself among
your retainers. I am really very sorry that my stupid delay in
answering your letter should have caused you any bother (to use a
studiously elegant expression, than which I cannot hit on a better):
and this is the more provoking, as I actually had written you an
answer the first day; but as I said something at the end of it about
my brother, which afterwards I thought too gloomy, and which, I
believe, was suggested by seeing him look particularly unwell from
some accident, I thought it rather too hard to call on you for
sympathy in my capricious fancies. I suppose I may take the liberty to
enclose this in a cover to the Bishop, otherwise I should hesitate to
draw on your purse as well as your time for such a scribble as this.
However, I have left you enough clear paper at the end to work out a
question in algebra, or make the skeleton of a sermon! And as this is
probably worth more than any words I have to put into it, I shall
conclude by begging you to consider me ever affectionately,

                                             ‘R. H. FROUDE.’

For poor ‘Bob’ Froude, full of frolic and power, the _Lusisti satis_
had been spoken. He died on April 28, 1828, between the dates of the
two following letters, which Hurrell wrote with a heavy heart.

     To the Rev. ROBERT ISAAC WILBERFORCE, April 2, 1828.

‘… I have not much spirits to write to you, but will not allow my
promise to go for nothing. When I first came home I found my brother
very much emaciated and enfeebled, but not quite so far gone as I had
been prepared for. But since I have been here his disorder has been
making very rapid progress indeed…. From what I had heard at Oxford, I
almost doubted I might not find all over before my arrival: and the
relief which I felt when, on getting off the coach at Totnes, I heard
from my father that, not a quarter of an hour before, he[58] had
driven in to meet me, was so great as almost to unsettle my
resolution. So that now the near prospect of a conclusion is rather
hard to face. Even so late as yesterday evening I began a letter to
you, in which I expressed a hope that when Monday came my brother and
I might not part for ever, but that he would be alive on my return for
the Long Vacation. But the medical person who has attended him told
me, just now, that unless he was relieved from his present oppression,
forty-eight hours would end him. In this state I really do not think
that the [Oriel] election has claims on me so great as those which
retain me here; and, unless his illness take some unexpected turn, I
shall write to [the Provost] in a day or two, to apologise for
absenting myself. I cannot, indeed, flatter myself that any turn will
long retard the encroachment of the disorder; but, unless appearances
decidedly indicated that, by staying out the Vacation, I should see
all, I think it would be foolish to shrink from my business; for, when
the time of parting came, it would be worse a fortnight hence than
now…. I have known enough of myself to foresee the return of all my
fretfulness and absurdity, when I leave this enchanted atmosphere. I
hope you will excuse my not writing a longer letter; for most things
now seem insipid to me, except such as I have no right to inflict upon
you. So good-bye, my dear [Robert], for the present, and do not expect
to see me till the beginning of Term. I should very much wish to take
my part in the election, and do not even now wholly abandon the idea.
For I know that active occupation is the best resource, and I shall
not shrink from it merely to indulge my feelings.’

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, May, 1828.

‘… The feelings under which I wrote to you last, were, as you say,
like the effect of a stunning blow, and I was quite surprised, myself,
how quickly they evaporated. I cannot indeed call them either
groundless or irrational, and I am, in some respects, not contented at
being so soon released from them. Yet many things have occurred to me,
which, even to my reason, have made things seem better than they did
at first. The more I think of B[ob], the more I am struck with his
singleness of heart, and the low estimation in which he held himself.
I have found, too, some things which he had written, which I regret
much that he had not shown me, which give me almost assurance that he
was farther advanced in serious feeling, and had taken greater pains
to fight against himself than anyone supposed. Among others, there is
one which seems to me quite beautiful, On the Legitimate Use of
Pleasure; which he has headed with: “My opinion, June, 1827. I wonder
what it will be next year.” It is well arranged as a composition,
quite elegant in the language, and shows that he must have thought
over the _Ethics_ in a common-sense way, and compared it with Bishop
Butler. I had often heard him say what a fool he used to be in
thinking that the _Ethics_ was only something to be got up, and
something quite irrelevant to actual conduct…. But I feel now as if I
had been conversing with a person, who, if he had not much undervalued
himself, would never have deferred to me….’

     To the Rev. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, Aug. 12, 1828.

‘I have just torn up a letter which I began for you the other day, and
fear that you will have cause to wonder how I could reserve this for a
better destiny. For the fact is, that I seem to myself to become
duller as I grow older, and to have acquired a fustiness independent
of place and occupation, an inherent fustiness which idleness cannot
blow away nor variety obliterate…. I fear from what I hear of
C[hurton][59] that the chance of his recovery is at present very
slender. His brother wrote to me the other day to ask what place in
Devonshire we reckoned the best suited[60] to complaints of that
description, as his enfeebled state put his going abroad out of the
question. But I know from experience how little Devonshire air can do
… I myself am still, as I indeed have been for a long time, perfectly
well. But I find the freshness which at first resulted from a
relaxation from College discipline now gradually wearing out; and as
the images of impudent undergraduates fade away from the field of my
fancy, and the consciousness of what I am released from becomes less
vivid, a new host of evil genii take possession of the deserted spot.
Till within this last week or so, I felt quite differently from what I
ever used to, and reckoned myself to have become quite a cheerful
fellow; but now I begin to see with my old eyes, and to feed upon the
dreams of faëryland.

     ‘“And as I mark the line of light that plays
       O’er the smooth wave towards the burning west,
       I long to tread that golden path of rays,
       And think ’twould lead to some bright Isle of Rest.”

… I have a brother now at home who is coming to Oriel next term, and
will make a very good hand at mathematics unless he is very idle.’

The brother at home referred to was William Froude, afterwards LL.D.
(Glasgow) and F.R.S., then newly come from Westminster School. He was
entered at Oriel on Oct. 23, 1828, with Hurrell for Tutor.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Aug. 26, 1828.

‘… I have long been meditating a letter to you, and have put it off
from day to day, in hopes that when the fine weather should come at
last, it might rekindle in me some spark of poetical feeling. But I
was thinking over with myself last night how I could scrape up a verse
or two in honour of this long-wished-for revolution, and was, after
some fruitless pains, obliged to abandon the undertaking. It is a
melancholy fact, yet full often does it force itself upon me, and in
too unquestionable a shape, that I get stupider as I get older; and
that I either never was what I used to think myself, or that Nature
has recalled her misused favours! In vain is it that night after night
I have tried to peep through the clouds at Lyra and Cassiopeia, as
they chase one another round the pole, and that I have got up at three
to see Mercury rise, when he was at his longest distance from the sun;
and that I have sailed to Guernsey on a fine day and come back on a
finer, when the waves washed in on the deck as each passed in
succession; and that (when for a short time off the island in a calm)
I found the latitude within a minute by taking the sun’s meridian
altitude, and that I have seen him rise out of the water, cut in two
by the horizon as sharp as a knife. “This brave o’erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,――what seemeth it to me
but a pestilent congregation of vapours?” I can partly account for it
from the fact that we are so uncommonly comfortable and cosy here, and
quite agree with you, that “home by mazy streams” is not the most
bracing school in which the recipient of habits can be disciplined.

‘Then, henceforth, hail! ye impudent undergraduates: γεύεσθε, μὴ

‘I heard from N[ewman] the other day, with the testimonials,’ he adds,
a little later. ‘… He is a fellow that I like the more, the more I
think of him; only I would give a few odd pence if he were not a
heretic!’ This in reference to Newman’s early Evangelicalism, not yet
sloughed away. As between Froude and Newman, so between Newman and
Pusey, affection appears to have preceded perfect intellectual
confidence. There is a parallel thought, in more sedate dress, in
Newman’s private journal of May 17, 1823: ‘That Pusey is Thine, O
Lord, how can I doubt? … yet I fear he is prejudiced against Thy
children…. Lead us both on in the way of Thy commandments!’[61]
Hurrell quickly came to a correct reading of Newman, and he presently
made sure that his beloved Keble should share it too. He said once,
when conversation ran on the traits of undoubted excellence in
criminal characters: ‘Were I asked what good deed I had ever done, I
should say that I had brought Keble and Newman to understand each
other.’ That mutual love, indeed, despite a long parting, never
wavered. There is an odd little footnote to be gathered from Mr.
Anthony Froude’s ‘Oxford Counter-Reformation.’[62] He is speaking of
events subsequent to 1845.

‘My eldest brother had left to us younger ones, as a characteristic
instruction, that if we ever saw Newman and Keble disagree, we might
think for ourselves. The event which my brother had thought as
impossible as that a double star should fly asunder in space, had
actually occurred. We had been floated out into mid-ocean upon the
Anglo-Catholic raft, buoyed up by airy bubbles of ecclesiastical
sentiment. The bubbles had burst, the raft was splintered, and we――I
mean my other brother and myself――were left, like Ulysses, struggling
in the waves.’

Says Mr. Thomas Mozley,[63] referring to this time, and to tastes
shared in common among Oriel men: ‘I think we all of us found it
easier to admire and even to criticise, than to design. Keble, Froude,
and Ogilvie undertook a memorial of William Churton, to be placed in
S. Mary’s. It was to be simple, modest, and unobtrusive, like the
subject. Whether the result carried out this idea, I leave others to
say,’ If we are to judge from a letter of Hurrell’s addressed to
Keble, the first design emanated from Newman, though drawn by himself.
‘I don’t make much progress in my design for C[hurton’s] monument,’ he
writes on May 23, 1829. ‘O[gilvie] decides on its being Gothic; and if
this is the case, it will never do to let it take its chance in the
hands of a statuary.[64] Yet the responsibility of doing it one’s self
makes me so fastidious that I cannot settle on anything,’ He had
thought of falling back upon ‘the sort of niches which are used to
hold statues of saints, or [stoups for] holy water: somehow it does
not seem quite congruous to make one of these merely to frame an
inscription.’ However, he draws a narrow pointed arch over a tall
pedestal supporting a plain cross, on the suggestion of Newman, adding
that he likes it especially, though it may be a bit eccentric.[65] ‘It
is to stand in the wall over one of the doorways, between the blank
window on the south side, and the window in which the gallery
terminates. This is meant to be represented standing under an arch cut
out in the wall.’ There were not many Englishmen attempting Early
English decoration in 1829. The memorial to William Ralph Churton,
Fellow of Oriel, aged twenty-seven, _phthisi eheu præreptus_, is to be
found in S. Mary’s Church, though not in the position allotted it in
this letter; and the big ugly white sarcophagus with fussy details in
high relief on a grey ground is certainly no design of Hurrell

Froude’s intimate correspondence with Newman began in 1828, their
friendship having been forming since 1826. To all to whom the latter
spoke or wrote with affection, as Miss Mozley reminds us, he was ever
open and confiding. ‘But there is distinction in his confidences. Thus
to his mother he writes what it would not occur to him to say to
anyone else: experiences, sensations, and odd encounters; dreams,
fancies, and passing speculations: while to Hurrell Froude, on another
field altogether, there is the same absolute trust, and unlocking of
the heart.’[66]

Sometimes, in the early letters, the correspondent at Dartington feels
impelled to continue his autobiography, in default of anything better
to deal with. ‘When I come to consider my resources,’ he says in his
smiling mock-grandiose way, ‘I feel that they will not prove
commensurate with my malignity, and that I shall not be able even to
bore you with success.’

     To the Rev. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, Aug. 12, 1829.

‘Since I left Oxford, little has happened to me, and still less have I
done. I have indeed written two sermons, and they lasted near twenty
minutes, so that I may hope to get on. But the time that they took me
is quite absurd, and that which they gave me an excuse for wasting,
under the plea of thought, grotesque indeed. Also, the paper that I
wasted on things that turned out to have no reference to the subject
would form a distinct object of contemplation; and after all, when I
came to preach them, they seemed so rambling and incomplete that I
could not fancy, while I was reading them, how anyone could possibly
follow me. Besides this, I have done nothing except getting my
equatorial put up and adjusted in our garden, and trying provoking
experiments on the insensibility of my hearing organs. I find the
summit of perception to which I can attain is to observe that a note
harmonises better with its octave, twelfth, and fifth, than with their
next-door neighbours. I also can acknowledge a discord in a deuce[67]
and a seventh; but as for knowing one from the other, unless they come
very close on each other, it passes my comprehension how man can do
it…. I am quite ashamed of the length of time this has been on the
stocks, and of the shabby performance which it turns out. Alas, it is
a sad reflection that I am condemned to retrograde in all respects: to
find no resting-place for my self-complacency either in my
intellectual, moral, or corporeal prowess, and notwithstanding to be
as conceited as ever!’

This was a note of needless dissatisfaction only too sincere, repeated
in Keble’s ear. ‘As for me, I despair of ever becoming a scholar or
mathematician either, beyond just enough to amuse myself when I am a
solitary country Curate….’

1829 is a silent year with Hurrell, on the whole. He had lost his
beloved brother, and he was preparing for his own Ordination. In the
late summer he paid his first visit to his cousins at Keswick.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Sept. 17, 1829.

‘The evening I received your criticisms I wrote you three sides of a
letter, and did not send it, only because I thought time would produce
things better worth writing: and now I am so changed in position and
circumstances I think I may as well begin again. So all I will retain
of my former letter is a criticism on _The Christian Year_, suggested
by a very tempestuous night, in which all our party were crossing the
Channel in a pilot-boat. You must not say “the wild wind rustles in
the _piping_ shrouds”:[68] shrouds never “pipe” when trees or rustling
can be presented to the fancy, but only on occasions when it is more
sublime than comfortable to be a listener. This, in my letter, I
endeavoured to enforce by a description of the scene I witnessed, and
the night I spent on deck: but I doubt not you will willingly take all
this for granted…. I left Devonshire more than a fortnight since for
Cumberland. [Dornford?][69] made me stay some time in Dublin, which
was my first stage, and is, in point of time, much the nearest way:
and also sent me into the north of Ireland after Captain Mudge, who is
surveying the coast. In my hunt for him, I saw the Giants’ Causeway,
every stone of which is beset by some fellow who claims a fee for
describing it. It is certainly well worth seeing; but you can conceive
nothing so perfectly unlike any of the pretended representations of
it. I made two bad drawings there, which will serve to keep it in my
own mind, but will do little to illuminate mankind at large. I am
forgetting all this while to tell you that, while at Dublin, I found I
was within twenty-five miles of

     ‘“The Lake whose gloomy shore
       Skylark never warbles o’er”:

and immediately hired a horse, to start the next morning at five to
see it. I was most unlucky in my day, as it had been fine for the
preceding week, and only set in for rain when I got among the Wicklow
mountains. I had a very wild romantic uncomfortable ride through a
wholly uninhabited country, till I got within the baleful influence of
lionisers,[70] and was pestered out of my wits by humbugging guides
who dinned into my ears miserable expansions of Tom Moore’s note about
St. Kevin, till I was quite out of patience. The day was so misty that
it was only once or twice that I could make out the scene distinctly,
and so constantly raining, that all my paper was soaked in trying to
draw what I could make out. By dint of perseverance, I crawled into
poor St. Kevin’s[71] cell, which is hardly large enough to coil one’s
self up in, and when I was there hardly a square foot of it was dry:
so the day answered the purpose, at any rate, of showing me that there
is a dark side to a hermit’s existence. He had chosen himself a most
picturesque rocky point, which projects a little into the Lake, with
one or two hollies and mountain ashes growing up in its crevices; and
cut out a cell for himself in its perpendicular face. It would take
too much space to describe the grand gloom of the Lake, the seven
ruined Churches on its borders (one of which is still a burial-ground
for the Roman Catholics), and that extraordinary Tower, a relic of
paganism, which stands in one of the churchyards.

‘I am now on the bank of the Lake by which my mother was brought up,
and of which I used to hear over and over again. It has been much
altered by Macadamisers, and the house she lived in has been sold.
Houses seem to have sprung up about Keswick Lake as if it was a
Torquay or Sidmouth; and new dandy names have been given to all the
creeks and islands, and nothing but gaiety seems to be going on or
thought of. But I suppose old Skiddaw looks pretty much the same as he
used to do, and will see things go to pot with their predecessors…. I
hope in a day or two to find out the Parish Register, and see her
birth and marriage: which is something like poring over the name of a
place one likes in a map….’

The home of Margaret Spedding’s childhood, Armathwaite Hall, is within
six miles of Cockermouth, the birthplace of Wordsworth. It stands at
the foot of Bassenthwaite Lake, and looks out towards some of the
loveliest and best-known mountains of the district, including Skiddaw,
Helvellyn, and the Borrowdale Hills. It had been sold to Sir Frederick
Vane, Bart., of Hutton Hall, Penrith, in 1796. Hurrell was a guest at
Mirehouse, where his cousin John Spedding was always from time to time
entertaining some of the noted literary men of the period.

To Newman, on Sept. 27, 1829, he writes more of St. Kevin’s dismal and
delightful habitation, and ends with the praises of his mother’s
county. ‘I got to Cumberland about ten days since, and I can safely
assert that it exceeds anything that imagination can conjure up. I
don’t mean that the extensive views of lake and mountain are so
especially splendid, for, when the scene is on so large a scale, the
trees and rocks become deplorably insignificant, woods seem little
better than furze brakes; but, in rambling along the brooks and
waterfalls, one comes to such excessively romantic corners, that they
have quite put me out of love with Devonshire. The only thing which I
desiderate is a Church steeple here and there in the valleys; for the
worst of it is, that very few of the Parish Churches here are in
exterior little better than a decent barn. What a horrid-looking
scribble this is! and I know it is full of false spellings of all
sorts, which will in many places make it unintelligible.’

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Feb. 5, 1830.

‘My Lectures this Term are less fatiguing than they have ever been
yet, and there are fewer men that one cannot take an interest in. I
have a set of very nice men in Pindar, which I am glad to be forced to
get up: it certainly is one of the most splendid organs of Tory
feeling that I have come in contact with! Don’t you think he had the
republican artificial style in his head when he talked about

     κόρακες ὣς ἄκραντα γαρύετον Διὸς πρὸς ὄρνιχα θεῖον?’

All was grist which came to this preoccupied critic’s mill. He had an
unaffected fondness for the classics. His theory about the poet whom
he loved and understood best, and whom he is always quoting, is that
he was a shy pastoral lyrist driven by officious friends into the epic
field. Says Newman in a passing note of interest: ‘It was [Froude’s]
notion that Horace and others used to (what is now called) patronise
Virgil, as a man who really had a great deal in him; but who, the pity
was, would not conform himself to the habits of society, and so lost
opportunities of influence. So they set him upon the _Æneid_, to make
something of him.’[72]

On Easter Monday, 1830, the Rev. R. H. Froude preached in the pulpit
of S. Mary-the-Virgin, before the University, his sermon on Knowledge.
His quiet sober sermons, of which no fewer than twenty appear complete
in the _Remains_, are to a reader searching, pitiless, unforgetable.
The undergraduate, however, must have ‘disvenerated’ them.

This to Newman, on Aug. 1, 1830, in a letter filled with political
comment admiring the spirit of King Charles X. and Polignac in their
disasters, and growling over Whig successes in England, is too amusing
to be omitted. ‘… I set out in the rain to Exeter. I was not very
well; and had made up my mind, as a matter of conscience, to have a
tooth out when I got there; because, though it had not yet ached, I
thought it probable it might before I had another opportunity. I got
to Exeter, went to the dentist, had the forceps applied: the top of
the tooth broke; they were applied again: a splinter came out of the
side; and so on, till it was down fair with the jaw, and part of the
nerve had come away in the fragments. Nothing remained to be done
except to punch, etc.; and here I thought: “_Satis jam pridem sanguine
fuso_”: I had satisfied my debt to my future self; and the present
self might be excused from further suffering, till the toothache
actually came.’

Froude’s lecturing at Oxford was now quite done; Newman’s and Robert
Wilberforce’s likewise; they resigned their Tutorships as gracefully
as they might, being joyful over the turn things had taken. The long
opposition maintained against their desire to arrange the terminal
table in accordance with their own best judgment, ended in total
defeat for ‘the erect fighting figures’ of the three friends. The
Provost himself, Hampden, Denison, and the junior Copleston rushed
into the breach with Lectures many and purposeful; but Oriel felt the
change, whether for good or ill, to be a real crisis. According to one
distinguished commentator, her regeneration dates from that day;
according to another, she never recovered the loss, and could but
suffer her scholarly pre-eminence to pass, gradually but surely, to
Balliol, which has ever since held it. Two at least of the
dispossessed Tutors had conceived already a wider field of action for
their energies. They had leisure now to think and to write; and
leisure bred consequences. ‘Humanly speaking,’ Newman assures us, in
his fragment of autobiography, written throughout in the third person,
‘the Movement never would have been, had they not been deprived of the
Tutorship, or had Keble, not Hawkins, been Provost.’

Newman made a proposal that Robert Wilberforce or Froude should join
him in the care of S. Mary’s parish, or rather, in building up at
Littlemore what the Vicar ultimately intended even then should become
a separate parish: but neither saw his way to accept the work. From
letters of this time we gather knowledge of their ever-increasing
attention to the Fathers; to the ethical aspects of many great
political questions; and to the country walks and rides, apart or
together, which did so much to strengthen that pure passion for
Nature, ‘subdued and cherished long,’ which in Newman, as in Froude,
lent sweetness and balance to character. Froude’s heartfelt love of
Devon is conspicuous, whether he be in it or away from it. During the
Long Vacation of 1831, he succeeded in carrying Newman off from his
books and the stuffy summer air of low-lying Oxford, to the delights
of Dartington. As a glowing corroboration of what Hurrell himself was
always writing, it is worth while to quote his friend’s description of
the district, sent to his interested mother at Iffley.

                                             ‘Dartington, July 7, 1831.

‘I despatched a hasty letter yesterday from Torquay which must have
disappointed you from its emptiness; but I wished you to know my
progress. As we lost sight of the Needles, twilight came on, and we
saw nothing of the coast. The night was beautiful, and on my
expressing an aversion to the cabin, Froude and I agreed to sleep on
deck…. When I awoke, a little before four, we were passing the
Devonshire coast, about fifteen miles off it. By six we were entering
Torbay…. Limestone and sandstone rocks of Torbay are very brilliant in
their colours and sharp in their forms; strange to say, I believe I
never saw real rocks before, in my life! This consciousness keeps me
very silent, for I feel I am admiring what everyone knows, and it is
foolish to observe upon. You see a house said to have belonged to Sir
Walter Ralegh;[73] what possessed him to prefer the court at Greenwich
to a spot like this?… I know I am writing in a very dull way, but can
only say that the extreme deliciousness of the air, and the fragrance
of everything makes me languid, indisposed to speak or write, and
pensive. My journey did not fatigue me, to speak of, and I have no
headache, deafness, or whizzing in my ears; but, really, I think I
should dissolve into essence of roses, or be attenuated into an echo,
if I lived here!… What strikes me most is the strange richness of
everything. The rocks blush into every variety of colour, the trees
and fields are emeralds, and the cottages are rubies. A beetle I
picked up at Torquay was as green-and-gold as the stone it lay upon,
and a squirrel which ran up a tree here just now was not the pale
reddish-brown to which I am accustomed, but a bright brown-red. Nay,
my very hands and fingers look rosy, like Homer’s Aurora, and I have
been gazing on them with astonishment. All this wonder I know is
simple; and therefore, of course, do not you repeat it. The exuberance
of the grass and the foliage is oppressive, as if one had not room to
breathe, though this is a fancy. The depth of the valleys and the
steepness of the slopes increase the illusion, and the Duke of
Wellington would be in a fidget to get some commanding point to see
the country from. The scents are extremely fine, so very delicate yet
so powerful; and the colours of the flowers as if they were all shot
with white. The sweet peas especially have the complexion of a
beautiful face: they trail up the wall, mixed with myrtles, as
creepers. As to the sunset, the Dartmoor heights look purple, and the
sky close upon them a clear orange. When I turn back and think of
Southampton Water and the Isle of Wight, they seem, by contrast, to be
drawn in Indian ink, or pencil. Now I cannot make out that this is
fancy, for why should I fancy? I am not especially in a poetic mood. I
have heard of the brilliancy of Cintra and still more of the East, and
I suppose that this region would pale beside them; yet I am content to
marvel at what I see, and think of Virgil’s description of the purple
meads of Elysium. Let me enjoy what I feel, even though I may
unconsciously exaggerate.’

Newman’s senses were extraordinarily delicate: he writes as if at
thirty he was half unaware of some of his most special faculties.

A week later, a postscript follows, addressed to Harriett Newman,
telling of ‘a sermon to write for to-morrow, which I do believe to be
as bad a one as I have ever written, for I was not in the humour; but
I do not tell people so. It may do good, in spite of me!’ and this
confidence: ‘The other day the following lines came into my head. They
are not worth much; but I transcribe them:

     ‘There strayed awhile, amid the woods of Dart,
      One who could love them, but who durst not love:
      A vow had bound him ne’er to give his heart
      To streamlet bright, or soft secluded grove.
     ’Twas a hard humbling task, onward to move
      His easy-captured eye from each fair spot,
      With unattached and lonely step to rove
      O’er happy meads which soon its print forgot.
      Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot.’[74]

There was a lifelong strife in Newman’s mind between created and
Uncreated Beauty, or rather, a lifelong choice. He seems to have felt
that he could not be as much of a poet as his own heart prompted, and
be also as much of a hard-working saint as Divine Grace called him to
be. For him, as in the beginning, a loved landscape was ‘pagan’: a
temptation towards false gods. How little his attitude was understood,
during his life, is well illustrated by the published complaint of Mr.
Aubrey de Vere that his friend Dr. Newman of the Catholic University
would never make time to go driving with him through the exquisite
scenery about Dublin, though invited again and again. In all this, as
in much else, he was entirely Augustinian. _Ejiciebas eas et intrabas
pro eis._ It does not seem clear that Hurrell Froude, who outran
Newman in many austerities, shared fully in the exercise of this
signal one. His loneliness of spirit, far more developed than his
friend’s, was also far less conscious, and his boyish relish of the
beauties of moor and sea based itself, rather, on a philosophy which
was Keble’s, and Henry Vaughan’s long before him:

     ‘Thou who hast given me eyes to see
      And love this sight so fair,
      Give me a heart to find out Thee,
      And read Thee everywhere!’[75]

Certainly, Newman was never so tormented by his affection for music,
or for anything else in the same class, as he was by the glamour of
out-of-doors at Taormina, and the homelier charms of ‘Devon in her
most gentle dimplement.’ Spiritual matters apart, one does not
perceive what else could have inwrought him more effectually with the
very fibres of Hurrell’s being, than his felt infatuation for the
Dartington he visited but twice in his busy life. They shared the same
passion, again, for Rome. The spirit of place can always create a
final test between any two cultivated minds. To differ in kind or even
in degree of response to it, is indeed to differ.

The principle which lay at the bottom of Newman’s renunciation was
one, however, which was equally familiar to his friend. It may not
always have involved, for him, the need of so determined a
depreciation of the loveliness of rural England, as too keen a
reminder of

     ‘Isaac’s pure blessings, and a verdant home,’

things forsworn by both young men in that ‘highly religious and
romantic idea of celibacy’ which they had adopted for good and all,
between them, without Keble’s help. As Newman says of S. Basil and S.
Gregory, retiring together from the world: ‘somehow, the idea of
marrying-and-taking-Orders, or taking-Orders-and-marrying; building or
improving their parsonages, and showing forth the charities, the
humanities, and the gentilities of a family man, did not suggest
itself to their minds.’ Nothing is plainer than that the arch-celibate
was Froude, and not Newman: perhaps it would be quite exact to say
that the idea, in Froude, as in Pascal, was wholly endemic, and in
Newman only so in part. We are told in the _Apologia_ how the idea was
strengthened and supernaturalised by contact with Froude. Hurrell
sometimes deplored with unmixed simplicity the social disqualifications
of a total abstainer. ‘I wrote S[am] a letter the other day,’ he tells
Robert Wilberforce, when the future Bishop had plighted his troth. ‘I
suspect it was of the dullest! for I have no knack at writing to
people in his interesting situation.’ In all this lack of sympathy
with ordinary conduct and motive, there was no touch whatever of
conscious oddity, but only of childishness. Newman, by far the
tenderer heart of the two, never shared it.

Newman has left us an account of the origin of the sermon he mentions,
which was preached in the old Church on July 16, 1831: that on the
Pool of Bethesda, ‘Scripture a Record of Human Sorrow,’ in the first
volume of _Parochial Sermons_. ‘Twice in my life,’ he writes about
1862, ‘have I, when worn with work, gone to a friend’s house to
recruit…. When I was down at Dartington for the first time, in July,
1831, I saw a number of young girls collected together, blooming, and
in high spirits; “and all went merry as a marriage-bell.” And I sadly
thought what changes were in store, what hard trial and discipline was
inevitable. I cannot trace their history; but Phillis and Mary Froude
married, and died quickly. Hurrell died. One, if not two, of the young
Champernownes died.[76] My sermon was dictated by the sight and the
foreboding. At that very visit [from Oxford] Hurrell caught, and had
his influenza upon him, which led him by slow steps to the grave. He
caught it sleeping, as I did, on deck, going down the Channel from
Southampton to Torbay. Influenza was about, the forerunner of the
cholera. It went through the Parsonage at Dartington. Every morning
the sharp merry party, who somewhat quizzed me, had hopes it would
seize upon me. But I escaped; and sang my warning from the pulpit…. I
am a bird of ill omen.’[77]

Correspondence of course broke out anew, the moment the two were
parted. Hurrell’s Greek reading progressed on his own summary lines.
‘_Timæus_ gets worse and worse. I can see no point in which it is
interesting, except as a fact to prove what stuff people have sucked
down…. I have cut _Timæus_,’ he announces a bit later, ‘and have
nearly finished _Gorgias_, which is as elegant and clever and easy as
possible.’ His weather comments (such being unavoidable in England)
are concise and instructive. By way of letting Newman know that there
had been a fortnight of fine weather since the latter’s own rainy
experiences at Dartington, he throws out an abrupt postscript of July
29: ‘What a lie old Swith.[78] has told!’

The Rev. Thomas Mozley seems to have received conditional offers or
promises from Hurrell of sharing with him a country cure. The former
proposed first the vacant Moreton Pinkney, thirty miles north of
Oxford, then the parish of S. Ebbe’s, within its ancient limits. But
both projects failed of realisation. Hurrell’s strength had to be
hoarded, and Archdeacon Froude was averse to any measure which would
create new duties, and cause a stricter separation between them.
Keble, on behalf of his friend, would have favoured Northamptonshire
rather than the city. He saw Newman on August 10 of this Long Vacation
of 1831. ‘He wishes you to have a country parish,’ Newman writes; ‘he
did not give his reasons.’ Newman himself coveted Hurrell’s parochial
co-operation. These plans for an active employment of superfluous
energies, formed, one after another, by appreciators of them, were
destined to be vain. Meanwhile, relish for historical study was
indicating to him how he could be of use, in a day full of most
unscholarly conceptions of the past, long before the documentary
firmament had been unrolled by Government for the man in the street.
_Dandum est Deo eum aliquid facere posse._ He knew the path he meant
to take, and communicates his dream to Newman, prefacing it with a bit
of encouraging domestic news: ‘W[illy] continues very steady, getting
up at half-past five, and working without wasting time till two or
three.’ His next surviving brother William was then twenty years old,
and reading for Honours.

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, Aug. 16, 1831.

‘Since you wish to have a definite categorical answer to M[ozley’s]
question, I will say, No; and having said this, will proceed to my
reasons and qualifications. First, whatever you may think, I have a
serious wish, and (if I could presume to say so) intention of working
at the ecclesiastical history of the Middle Ages. Now, my father
assures me that such a parish as [S. Ebbe’s] would be a complete
occupation of itself, so that I am unwilling at once, and without
giving myself the trial, to give up the chance of doing what I cannot
but think as clerical, as improving, and much better suited to my
capacity, such as it is, than the care of a parish. A small parish,
and a less bothering one, might be a recreation, almost; but such an
absorbing one as this I should be sorry to take, till I found that I
could not work at anything else. Secondly, my qualification of the
‘No’ is this: if you either feel very certain I shall do nothing else,
or have a strong opinion as to the improvement I should get from the
occupation you propose, believe me willing to be convinced that my
present view is incorrect.

‘I have read a good deal of Plato, have stuck in _Parmenides_ as in
_Timæus_, but think all which keeps clear of metaphysics is as
beautiful and improving as anything I ever read. As to Socrates, I can
scarcely believe that he was not inspired, and feel quite confident
that Plato is responsible for every tint of [puzzleheadedness] which
shows itself in his arguments. One is apt, of course, to be carried
away with a thing at the moment; but my present impression is, that
_Gorgias_, _Apologia Socratis_, _Crito_, and _Phædo_, rank next to the
Bible in point of the greatness of mind they show, and in grace of
style and dramatic beauty surpass anything I have ever read. I think I
am improved in composition, and attribute it to imitation of Plato. I
am going to serve D[enbury?] for the next month, and shall have to
write a number of sermons.

‘How atrociously the poor King of Holland[79] has been used; but
nothing yet is so painful as the defection of the heads of the Church.
I hear that the Bishop of Ferns[80] is dying: _spes ultima_.’

During the early autumn, Froude returns to the curacy question, and
reiterates the conviction which his own idiosyncrasy was strengthening
in him every day, and which surely was as warranted as it was sincere.

‘I have read the Lives of Wycliffe and Peacocke[81] in Strype; but
must read much more about them and their times, before I shall
understand them. At present I admire Peacocke and dislike Wycliffe. A
great deterioration seems to have taken place in the spirit of the
Church after Edward III.’s death. I hope I shall have perseverance to
work up the history of the period. If I do this, I shall not think
myself bound to take a curacy.’

It is a thousand pities that we can never have on our shelves the
Froude of historical verity, to counterbalance the Froude of
historical romance. Hurrell, so far as he got, was certainly all for
‘the ideas underlying history, and their organic connection,’ and was
but poorly adapted for ‘the insertion of his own ideas into history …
the professing to find in history what he had in reality put
there.’[82] Is it not clear that such a fault may spring not from
perverseness, but from the too pictorial eye? This the elder brother
lacked, as likewise the other disadvantage of a magical prose style.
That perturbing possession, the luckiest asset of the essayist, seems
to delight in playing tricks on historians, for in the past, at least,
the dullest have been the safest.

As one who understood the dangers of style, Hurrell chides Newman for
the hair-splitting preliminary method to which he was treating _The
Arians_. ‘If you go on fiddling with your Introduction, you will most
certainly get into a scrape at last!’ And then: ‘I have for the last
five days been reading Marsh’s _Michaelis_, which I took up by
accident, and have been much interested by it. I see that old
Wilberforce[83] owes to it much of the profundity which I have before
now been floored and overawed by. It has put many things into my head
that I never thought of before.’

The first unmistakable symptoms of Hurrell’s chronic illness had
developed by the January of 1832. ‘I don’t think he takes care of
himself,’ Keble says anxiously, in a letter to Newman, shortly after
his election to the Professorship of Poetry. And Hurrell himself had
confessed to Newman, as it were, ‘how ill all’s here about my heart:
but ’tis no matter.’ Hence the reply from Oxford, on the 13th.

‘Your letter was most welcome, sad as it was; I call it certainly,
from beginning to end, a sad letter, and yet somehow sad letters, in
their place, and in God’s order, are as acceptable as merry ones. What
I write for now is to know why you will not trust your brother to come
up by himself? Let him go into your rooms; and do stop in Devonshire a
good while, in which time you not only may get well, but may convince
all about you that you _are_ well――an object not to be neglected….
Your advice about my work is not only sage, but good, yet not quite
applicable, though I shall bear it in mind. Recollect, my good Sir,
that every thought I think is thought, and every word I write is
writing, and that thought tells and that words take room, and that
though I make the Introduction the whole book, yet a book it is; and
though this will not steer clear of the egg blunder, to have an
Introduction leading to nothing, yet it is not losing time. Already I
have made forty-one pages out of eighteen.’ The correspondence between
the two, then as ever, gives diverting glimpses of the mordant and
ineffably frank critic away from Oxford, and the divine and
man-of-letters in residence who continually sought, ‘in the beaten way
of friendship,’ the advice he did not invariably need. Thus he sends a
rough draft to Dartington of ‘a sermon against Sir James Mackintosh,
Knight,’[84] expecting strictures, ‘should you discern anything
heretical,’ and calling special attention to the argument: ‘therefore
be sharp.’ The young censor was pleased to approve ‘on the whole,’
though with minor reservations. ‘As to your _Annotationes in
Neandri[85] Homiliam_,’ Newman writes cheerfully, ‘to be sure I have
treated them with what is now called true respect; for I have spoken
highly of them, and done everything but use them! I did not have them
till Saturday morning; so having your authority for what I wanted
(_i.e._, the soundness of the main position and the τόποι), I became

Meanwhile, towards the end of January, Hurrell sends an asked-for
bulletin of his physical progress, and follows it up with several
others, in all of which he makes it unconsciously plain that he has
more pressing interests than his own sinking barometry. His mind was
going forward by leaps and bounds towards convictions then
unguessed-at, now quite general, about ‘the Tudor Settlement.’

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, Jan. 29, 1832.

‘I promised I would give an account of myself, if I did not appear in
person by the beginning of Term. I am getting rid, though by slow
degrees, of all vestiges of cough, and, what is more to the purpose,
my father is quite easy about me, which he was far from being when I
first came home…. I have been very idle lately, but have taken up
Strype now and then, and have not increased my admiration of the
Reformers. One must not speak lightly of a martyr, so I do not allow
my opinions to pass the verge of scepticism. But I really do feel
sceptical whether Latimer was not something in the Bulteel[86] line;
whether the Catholicism of their formulæ was not a concession to the
feelings of the nation, with whom Puritanism had not yet become
popular, and who could scarcely bear the alterations which were made;
and whether the progress of things in Edward the Sixth’s minority may
not be considered as the jobbing of a faction. I will do myself the
justice to say that those doubts give me pain, and that I hope more
reading will in some degree dispel them. As far as I have gone, too, I
think better than I was prepared to do of Bonner and Gardiner.
Certainly the ἦθος of the Reformation is to me a _terra incognita_,
and I do not think that it has been explored by anyone that I have
heard talk about it.’

With what astonishing prescience this novice surveys his _terra

Again, writing to Newman on Feb. 17, the obsession for historical
truth, as the handmaid to religious reform, breaks through some
melancholy detail. He has been asked for a full bulletin; he confesses
that the doctor states, and that he himself cannot deny, that there
has been an attack on the lungs, attended, however, with but little
pain or fever. He finds it ‘disheartening,’ for he had been taking
long rides, and was in great spirits. Then he runs on to a topic which
occurs to him not for the first nor for the last time. Might it not be
a good thing to turn journalist, to have a Quarterly, and to speak in
it the thing which is? ‘Imagine me in a yellow jacket,’ he says
elsewhere to Newman; imagine him seated, and goose-quilled, and
editorial. It was never to be. Was it not quite as well? Would not Mr.
Froude (if the pun will pass muster) have proved gunpowder in a
Magazine? He talks as he always talks of his own inspirations,
derisively. But plainly, his heart is in it. He would start, this
time, ‘on a very unpretending scale,’ and design his foxy Quarterly
‘to be at first only historical and matter-of-fact, so that writing
for it would be the reverse of a waste of time even if it failed
entirely, which I really hardly think possible, considering the
ridiculous unfounded notions most people have got, and the vast
quantity of unexplored ground. A thing of that sort might sneak into
circulation as a book of antiquarian research, and yet, if
well-managed, might undermine many prejudices. I am willing to think
that I could contribute two articles per annum to such a work, without
losing a moment of time, indeed getting through more than I should
else. Memoirs of Hampden would be a subject [Keble] would take to with
zest, as he hates that worthy with as much zeal and more knowledge
than your humble servant. However, this is a scheme formed at a
distance, which, as Johnson remarks, makes rivers look narrow and
precipices smooth. Can you tell me where to go for the history of
Lutheranism? I must know something of it, before I get a clue to
Cranmer and the rest.’

     Lastly, to the same correspondent, on Feb. 26.

‘… I trouble you with a few lines of grateful acknowledgment for the
concern you are so kind as to take in my welfare, though I cannot at
the same time refrain from observing that your advice does more credit
to your heart than your head…. I was at Dr. [Yonge’s[87]], where I
stayed three days, and was thoroughly examined. He assures me that
whatever may have been the matter with me, I am now thoroughly well,
and that I may return to Oxford at once without imprudence. At the
same time, he says I must be extremely cautious, as the thing which
formed in my windpipe proves me to be very liable to attack, and he
looks on it as an extraordinary piece of luck that I got rid of it as
I did. I am to wear more clothing than I have hitherto done, and to
renounce wine for ever; the prohibition extends to beer: _quò

Before Hurrell left home, his father had notified Newman of their
conditional intention to visit the Continent. ‘If the doctor advises
it,’ the Archdeacon writes on Feb. 22, ‘I have offered to be Hurrell’s
companion to the Mediterranean, or any other part of the world that
may be supposed most favourable in such a case as his. I own [that] my
faith in the advantages to be gained by going abroad is not very
great, unless they can be procured under the most favourable
circumstances. At any rate, I think your suggestion for his giving up
the office of Treasurer[88] shall be followed.’ He had held this
office of Junior Treasurer since 1828, to the great general
satisfaction, sharing with Newman the mental quickness, the
‘constitutional accuracy’ and the conscientiousness which go towards
the casting-up of a perfect accountant. Hurrell, however, came up in
the spring, whence he blithely reports his improved health.

  [Illustration: Common room Oriel July 12 1832
      H. Froude   J. Mozley    J. H. Newman
  _From a pencil drawing by Miss Maria Giberne_]

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, May 5, 1832.

‘… Thinking that you may wish to know something of my concerns, and
wishing to know something of yours, … I send you the following. As to
myself, about which valuable thing I am most concerned, you must know
that I have at last found a κρησφύγετον in barley-sugar; only to think
that my stars should let me off so easily! Sucking has had a most
wonderful effect on me, and has removed nearly all that F[airford][89]
had left of tendency to irritation; I might say all, if I could suck
continually, but just now these east winds take advantage of casual
intervals, and remind me that I am not perfectly at liberty. However,
I have left off my handkerchief, and never feel the want of it; also,
I am up at half-past six every morning; and taking an enlarged view of
myself, I think my condition to be approved of.’

Up to July 31, Froude remained in Oxford, being and doing with all his
usual zest, writing his papers on architecture, proving a very
well-head of vitality to his friends, and ‘living his life.’ Could it
have been indeed as early as this that he cut across the preliminaries
described by Lord Blachford,[90] and paralysed an intended appeal to
Bishops and Deans by announcing that he, for one, meant to ‘get on the
box’ in person? This is thought to be the moment of Miss Giberne’s
inspiration. It would seem as if the date should be a year later. In
July of 1832 the Tutorial question was over; and there was no other
_agendum_ in debate between Froude and Newman. However that may be,
there in the handsome lady’s sketch-book is Hurrell, smoothly, almost
infantinely, mischievous, with one obedient Mozley to listen and abet;
there is Newman, at an angle of the ottoman, distinctly not surveying
with fond adoring gaze and yearning heart his friend (as he says he
does, in a poem, part of which, at least, was written that very week),
but back to back with him, sulking furiously, and putting on a silent
stare which sufficiently expresses human disapproval: that little
sudden void stare, entirely characteristic, as of one who is forced to
survey, for the time being, an endless vista of Siberian snows.

It was a boding time; the cholera was raging all about; Newman himself
was tired and dejected from overwork, and none too hopeful concerning
Hurrell’s health or the impending prospect of separation. Long after,
annotating his own correspondence at Edgbaston, he tells us something
special about the lines just referred to, in what may be called, from
a merely literary point of view, one of the most successful, though
one of the least known, of his shorter lyrics. Hurrell’s share in it
is no more, so to speak, than a tiny marginal portrait of him, tender,
in passing, as the work of some old Flemish illuminator. Newman
ascribes the origin of the last lines to this July. ‘With reference to
the memory of that parting, when I shook hands with him, and looked
into his face with great affection, I afterwards wrote the stanza:

     ‘And when thine eye surveys
      With fond adoring gaze
      And yearning heart, thy friend,
      Love to its grave doth tend.’[91]

But it is remarkable that the completed poem is dated Valetta, January
30, 1833: as if to mark the vanishing of the only shadow which ever
crossed the united path of Newman and Froude; and that shadow was due,
as we shall see, to a fancy of Newman’s, conceived in illness.
Abstract and gnomic as his verses are, two human faces, nameless but
recognisable, look through them with ‘sad eyes spiritual and clear.’
One is Mary Newman’s, in her sisterly youth;[92] the other is Hurrell
Froude’s. Dearly as Newman loved his many friends, then and after (and
as Dean Church reminds us, mutual affection as profound as that of the
early Christians, was the very hall-mark of the Tractarians), there is
but one friend discernible in the long vista of his poetry, most of
which was written in his living presence. Hurrell may never have
suspected as much. The temper of both, shrinking from the least
emotional emphasis, would have precluded any open give-and-take. The
privilege of being English has its own system of taxation. The
Cardinal, in his old age (possibly when _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ was
overrunning the stage), had to assure some inquirer, by post, that he
hardly had been in the habit of addressing Hurrell as ‘Dearest,’ in
the prose exigences of every day.

The truant Fellow, restored to his father’s Parsonage, was able to
send a definite announcement of his future movements, within a
fortnight of his leaving Oxford.

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, Sept. 9, 1832.

‘I am afraid poor [Willy] will make no hand of his Second Class. He
has no interest, and can pick up none, for what he is about; and all
his interleaves and margins are scribbled over with lug sails. You
will be glad to hear that I have made up my mind to spend the winter
in the Mediterranean, and my father is going with me, the end of
November, and we shall see Sicily and the south of Italy. We are both
very anxious that you should come with us. I think it would set you
up…. I have read M. Thierry’s stuff.[93] His ignorance is surprising.
He supposes Oxford to have been a Bishopric in Henry the Second’s
time, and he sticks in Saxons _ad libitum_, quoting authorities with
which I am familiar, and where nothing of the sort occurs. My
translations have been at a standstill…. Also, I am getting to be a
sawney,[94] and not to relish the dreary prospects which you and I
have proposed to ourselves. But this is only a feeling: depend on it,
I will not shrink, if I buy my constancy at the expense of a permanent
separation from home. I think this journey will set me up, and then I
shall try my new style of preaching. We must indulge ourselves and
other people with a little excitement on such matters, or else the
indifferentists will run away with everything!’

William Froude, at Michaelmas, took his First Class in Mathematics,
and a Third in Classics, quite as Hurrell expected. As to the microbe
of travel thus featly introduced into the post, it did its work upon
the recipient, though not without much hesitation and debate. One of
Newman’s arguments against a plan with which, it is plain, he fell
violently in love at once, was the state of his own health, involving,
possibly, some additional responsibility for Archdeacon Froude. ‘You
need fear nothing,’ Hurrell gallantly assures him, ‘on the score of
two invalids: I am certainly better now than I have been for more than
a year. I bathed yesterday with great advantage, took a very long
walk, drank five glasses of wine, and am better for it all. My
contemplated expedition is wholly preventative, so don’t be uneasy on
that score…. As to my sawney feelings, I own that home does make me a
sawney, and that the First Eclogue runs in my head absurdly. But there
is more in the prospect of becoming an ecclesiastical agitator than in
_At nos hinc alii_, etc.’

On Monday, December 3, Newman set out on the Southampton coach,
reaching Exeter next day, and Falmouth, whence the Maltese packet of
800 tons, called the _Hermes_, was to sail, early on the Wednesday
morning following. He wrote there his poem,

     ‘Are these the tracks of some unearthly friend?’

the first of eighty-five dating from the Mediterranean voyage, the
eighty-fifth being the ‘Lead, Kindly Light’ which has endeared to
English-speaking pilgrims the Straits of Bonifacio. When the Froudes
arrived at Falmouth, Newman had a nocturnal adventure to relate to
them. He had been very roundly sworn at by a person, apparently a
gentleman, who sat near him on the box. ‘I had opened by telling him
he was talking great nonsense to a silly goose of a maid-servant stuck
atop of the coach; so I had no reason to complain!’ The hasty
fellow-traveller afterwards apologised. In the moonlight he had
attributed a highly laic motive to Newman’s interference, so the
latter explains to his mother. On the 8th of December the _Hermes_
sailed. The three friends were to be together for five months, and
their route is minutely and enchantingly mapped out in the first
volume of the Newman _Correspondence_. The journey held unique
experiences, filled with interest, for the two younger men, and they,
on their part, seemed to have interested deeply many whom they met.
Hurrell kept a log as they moved, for his brothers and sisters, for
Mr. Keble, for Mr. Williams, and a few others; and out of it a fairly
connected narrative can be extracted, of a colour and form quite other
than Newman’s, the better correspondent, but graphic enough. Before
starting on his voyage, Hurrell had seen in print, in the first and
second volumes of _The British Magazine_, both his pioneer papers on
Gothic Architecture, and the earlier chapters of his history of S.
Thomas à Becket; these were followed, in volume iv., by The Project of
Henry II. for Uniting Church and State, A.D. 1154.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Dec. 12, 1832.

‘We started from Falmouth about eleven, on the 8th. “_Jamque tibi e
mediis pelagi_ mirabilis _undis_,” about sixty-eight miles to the
south of Oporto, and thirty from the shore: the sea a perfect sheet of
glass, showing the reflection of the stars, particularly Sirius, which
is most splendid. The Pole-star sinking perceptibly: I am sure the
Great Bear’s tail must have had a dip as he went his rounds. It has
been very calm all day, and we have gone seven-and-a-half miles an
hour: when the sun came to the meridian our latitude was 41° 36´. In
the daytime the sea was a pale blue colour; I will not attempt to
describe the sunset. Yesterday was very interesting: when we came on
deck in the morning we could just make out Cape Ortegal to the
south-east of us, at a distance of about forty miles. It was very
pale, and scarcely to be distinguished from the sky, but rose very
high above the horizon, and, as we neared it, seemed to be quite
precipitous; we did not get within thirty miles, so that it has left
on my mind only the ghost of an impression: but it is a grand ghost.
We saw where Corunna lay, and must have been within twenty miles of
some part of the coast between that and Cape Finisterre, which we
doubled in the dark. All of it was of a very singular character, but
insignificant compared with Cape Ortegal. All that day the wind was
fresh from the east, and the sea very wild and grand, of a deep
black-blue, covered with breakers: we went rather more than eight
miles an hour, though the ship tossed amazingly. This was the first
day that we had had a clear sky, and marvellous it was: a strong east
wind in the middle of December, and the climate like May! our latitude
at noon 44° 3´. There is something in the colour of the sea out of
soundings, which is very striking to one who has only seen the shallow
water that surrounds England. There is not a tint of green in it;
to-day it has been a pale blue, like a beautiful lake; yesterday it
was a black-purple. We find that this steamer is to touch at Cadiz and
Algiers, and to spend two days at Gibraltar, in the way to Malta, and
that afterwards it is to spend four days between Zante, Cephalonia,
Ithaca, and Leucadia, touching at Patras (_olim_ Patræ), then to spend
six at Corfu, and afterwards return to Malta the same way; so we shall
certainly extend our trip. The commander and the midshipmen are a very
gentlemanlike set, and we the only passengers: so it is most
luxurious…. And now I am stupid; if there is nothing more to tell
to-morrow, I shall fill up the blank between Falmouth and Cape Ortegal,
which may be regarded as our Dark Age.

‘_Thursday evening._――The day has again been beautiful, and quite
summery, with scarcely a cloud. When the sun rose we were off the
Berlingas (some small sharp rocks, which you will see in a map), and
from thence we kept near shore all the way to the rock of Lisbon. The
greater part of the way we could not have been much more than a mile
off. The sea has been its old green to-day; the coast all along very
peculiar, not very high, but wild, and strongly marked; the rock
precipitous, and deeply indented, and every promontory relieved by a
thin mist of spray from the breakers of the Atlantic. We watched them
curl in upon the shore, each rising in a green transparent line as it
came to its turn to break, and then turning partially into a delicate
mist where it met the more prominent rocks, till at last the whole
line seemed to burst, and another rose behind its aërified relics, and
put me in mind of Ἀφροδίτη…. When we passed Mafra we saw the cupolas
of the palace of Cintra, and, through an opening of the hills, made
out the greater part of it through glasses. The situation is strange
for so magnificent a building. And now we had a clear view of the
ridge on which the Duke took up his position on the northern side of
the lines of Torres Vedras. I will not attempt to describe it, except
that it is grand to a degree, rising in spire-like shaggy tops, and
cut by deep ravines, the sides of which were fringed with what we were
told were cork trees. As we got near we saw many villas about half-way
up, and on the two highest points were two convents. The Roman
Catholics are queer fellows: they are determined to be admired and not
envied; we, unhappily λαχόντες ἀντιοστρόφον τυχὴν, are envied and not
admired. We doubled Capo Roca at three, and then went down to dinner.
The mouth of the Tagus was too distant to make anything out, except
the masts of the English ships, who are there to bully Don Miguel.[95]
On Friday we got up at seven to see Cape St. Vincent, and passed close
under it. The light on it was very fine, and the form of the rocks
bold; but yesterday had spoiled us. The day is fine, cloudless, and
windless――almost too hot…. Just now we saw a fishing-boat, and made
towards it. The people were in a great fright, and pulled with all
their might, while they thought there was a chance to get away; at
last they gave up in despair. When we came up we found they had no
fish: there were four of them, very dark complexions, and, as well as
I could judge, Moorish features: the boat, sails, and all, perfectly
un-English (a word which has ceased to be vituperative in my
vocabulary). The coast which we are now passing is too distant to be
very interesting, but a grey ridge of mountains rises behind, out of a
dead flat, reminding one that we are off a strange land. The lateen
sails, too, of which many are about, and two turtles which we almost
ran over just now, and a shark’s fin just showing above water, all
tell the same story…. On Sunday morning it was foggy and disagreeable,
and we were in the dreaded Bay of Biscay: however, I was still well
enough to do Service on board…. All the ship’s crew attended except
the steersman and the stokers, _i.e._, the fellows that feed the fire
of the engine. The commander had them all upon deck in the morning and
gave them a practical discourse on good behaviour, which amused
[Newman] and me by being so much to the point: he is a nice fellow, I
think. After Service I was fairly done up, and lost my character….
Next day we were in the middle of the Bay: still cloudy and damp, and
a long gentle swell: but we had served our time, and were all alive
and merry…. In the evening we found that the commander was a musician
and a painter; he had a very elegant miniature of his wife that he had
finished up for his amusement at sea; and he sang us several songs,
accompanying himself on the Spanish guitar, in very good taste, as
[Newman] said: we the ἀμύητοι liked it much; and we have not had any
qualms since: and now I have got on to where the rest begins. We live
splendidly on board, have a cabin each, capital dinners, and good
company: the three midshipmen, gentlemanlike obliging fellows as can
be: yesterday they went out of the vessel’s course, to show us the
coast to advantage.

‘_Saturday._――On getting up, found ourselves in Cadiz harbour; the
convent bells put us in mind that we are in a religious country: it
sounded just like Oxford before Morning Chapel. We found ourselves in
quarantine and unable to land. The Consul’s boat came off for the
letters, rowed by eight Spaniards, such odd-looking fellows! they row
without rullocks, having a strap and a τροπωτήρ…. We saw the
unfinished Cathedral very distinctly through a glass: it had not at
all an ecclesiastical look, but was large and picturesque. It will
never be finished now, I suppose, as the day of apostasy seems at hand
in Spain.

‘_Sunday morning._――Here we are at Gibraltar.’

Newman’s letters, enthusiastic over sky and sea, are full of the
horrors of the ship (which he says was not properly cleaned before
being sent down from Woolwich), and of the little stuffy rooms which
are enough to kill a valetudinarian; but valetudinarian Hurrell seems
to have enjoyed it all.

     To the Rev. ISAAC WILLIAMS, Dec. 27, 1832.

‘… We were at Gibraltar only forty-eight hours, and of that we were in
quarantine forty. The remaining eight hours, however, we turned to
account, under the auspices of the Colonel of engineers, who was kind
enough to lend us horses, and go over everything with us:
unfortunately we were there so short a time, that we could only see
what was curious, and had no leisure for the picturesque; to enjoy
which, it would have been necessary to ride away five or six miles, on
what they call the neutral ground: the low sandy isthmus which joins
the rock to the continent; but from the fortifications we saw enough
to convince us what a magnificent object it must be. In our scramble
we had the luck to see three or four monkeys, scrambling, with the
greatest ease, up and down what seemed a smooth precipice. I know how
odious descriptions are, yet I must just tell you that, among other
things, we were taken through a gallery cut out in the most
precipitous face of the rock, about 650 feet above the base, and 800
feet below the top, so that when you peep out through the port-holes,
which are cut every here and there for cannon, you seem suspended in
mid-air, and feel giddy, in whatever direction you look. Thanks to
Colonel R[ogers] we saw so much that we had no right to grumble at the
quarantine: but it really is something so exquisitely grotesque, that
one cannot help being provoked. We were moored close alongside of a
coal-wharf, and all the day that we were imprisoned, a parcel of
fellows of the town were at work, wheeling coals into our vessel, and
upsetting them on the deck, so that they were in all but contact with
our crew for a whole day; also, all packages were received, after
undergoing the ceremony of a partial ducking in the water; and letters
had a chisel dug into them, which was supposed to let out the cholera.
And while all this absurd farce was going on, we were imprisoned in
one of the most interesting places in the world, not knowing when we
should be released, or whether at all; however, even in this time, we
had some amusement from the variety of curious figures that came down
to the Quay to look at us. One fellow, a Moorish Jew, was dressed so
picturesquely, and looked so exotic altogether, that I tried to draw
him; but he saw what I was at, and first hallooed out: “You no paint
me,” and, when I went on, he bolted as fast as he could. The Moors are
magnificent-looking fellows, with very high stern features, dark eyes,
and very marked nostrils that give to the full face rather a look of
ferocity; even the lowest of them look like aristocrats. The Spanish
women, too, were worth looking at: three of them came down to visit a
merchant who came with us from Cadiz; the high head-dresses were the
only peculiarity in their dress, but one of them was very
fine-looking, and very unlike an Englishwoman. I should have thought
her ladylike, only she spat with the most perfect indifference, just
as ―――― would in C[ommon] R[oom]. We left Gibraltar at ten on Monday
night, and had very calm beautiful weather for two days…. We got to
Algiers [Thursday morning] about three, and it was then rough, cloudy,
and blowing fresh. This is the most wretched, wicked-looking place I
ever set eyes upon. I can associate its idea with nothing but a wasp’s
nest. It is huddled together, leaving no apparent room for its
streets; its windows are loop-holes, as if to fire through. All beyond
its walls looks perfectly desolate, except a number of white specks,
which are houses where the rich inhabitants retire in time of plague.
The town itself is a mass of white, as perfectly white as a chalk
quarry; and the monotony of the glare[96] is only relieved by the rust
of weather-stains, which are not white-washed by the French so
regularly as by the Moors.

‘The Quay, as every one knows, is a strong battery, expressly for the
shelter of pirates; and, when one thought of the horrors that had been
practised in that detestable place, and felt the personal discomfort
of an approaching storm, and saw, for a foreground, the infamous
tricoloured flag on the ships, the general impression was as much the
reverse of favourable as can easily be fancied. A boat came alongside
with the Vice-consul, for letters. His Excellency was an English Jew,
and there was an half-starved Frenchman for his πάρεδρος. He was rowed
by four fellows, of what race I know not…. Their features were perfect
apathy, and looked like stuffed red leather more than flesh and blood.
If we had touched any one of the crew we should have been in for a
hundred days’ quarantine in every port of Europe, and yet the wretches
had the impudence to insist on our slitting all the letters, to let
out the cholera. We stayed an hour, and then started; and sure enough,
the storm came. The wind was north-west, and blew right across from
the Gulf of Lyons, which I shall always think more formidable than the
Bay of Biscay. The wind lasted till we got under the lee of Sardinia;
and what with the stink of the bilge-water, which was stirred up by
the tossing, and the constant noise, and the difficulty of standing
and sitting and eating and drinking, we were constantly wretched
enough. My father spent the whole time in his berth; [Newman] and I
the greater part of ours. But ills have their end. The sea and the
stink subsided, and we made the rest of our voyage to Malta stilly and
quickly, arriving there on Monday morning after breakfast. [Newman]
does not think his health perceptibly improved yet,[97] but he has
entirely got over sea-sickness, and has written an immense deal for
the _Lyra Apostolica_.[98] He has written so many letters to his
mother and sisters, that I need say no more about him. He will write
to you soon. I know you will think this a very dull letter, as it is
about places and not people; but we have been so little on shore, that
I have not been able to indulge your taste. Kindest remembrances to
O.[99] I will write to him soon.――Yours affectionately,     R. H. F.’

From Malta also, on Christmas night, a letter was despatched to
Dartington, addressed, apparently, to John Spedding Froude, which
carries on the record of the travellers. All the Froudes, like all the
Hares, could draw.

‘… There is so much that is picturesque and singular about this place,
that I do not despair of occupation for all the fifteen days in
drawing, if the weather is only tolerable. The boats, and the dresses,
and the colours and forms of the buildings are all as good practice as
anything I can fancy, and I shall not be sorry to have time on my
hands for studying them at leisure. We shall be allowed to go about
the harbour [in quarantine] as much as we like, and there are several
places where we may land. This will have to start a day or two after
our return, so you will not hear much more of Malta till the next
packet. As yet I have made egregious failures in attempts to colour;
indeed, I have had no opportunity of doing anything from nature, and
recollection supplies one too indistinctly. My father has made many
very interesting coast drawings as we have come along, but he has done
nothing in a finished way.

‘_Corfu, Jan. 1._――We got here the day before yesterday, after a most
interesting voyage. The sea has been as still as a lake, and we have
had a light breeze in our favour; but it must be owned that we have
sailed away from the fine weather. Ever since we got here it has
rained torrents, and is now blowing a violent gale, so that we thank
our stars we are in harbour. On Friday morning we (as you would say)
made Zante on our larboard bow, at a distance of about fifty miles.
The high land of Cephalonia appeared at the same time, so they kept
her away three-quarters of a point, and made for the passage between
the islands. The south point of Cephalonia is a very high mountain; it
was covered with snow, which here and there appeared through the
clouds. Zante is cliffy, and not so very unlike some of the Isle of
Wight.[100] We got to the town just after dark, and went ashore to
make out what we could. We went to a billiard-room, a coffee-house,
the head inn, and two or three shops. Everything was filthy to a
degree, but there seemed to be some really handsome houses, such as
Sir John Vanbrugh might have built. The shops are all open to the
street, and one would think that the shopkeepers had never taken more
than coppers in their lives; yet in a tobacco shop, on asking the
price of a cherry-stick pipe, which I should have guessed at twelve
shillings in England, they told me it was one hundred dollars, and a
midshipman who was with us, and had lived a great deal in those parts,
said that it was not at all dear at the money. The mouthpiece was
amber inlaid with turquoise, and in that miserable-looking shop there
must have been thirty or forty more pipes as costly: I wonder where
they get customers? We drank a bottle of Zante wine at the head inn,
and very nice it was; on asking the price, the landlord most
unaffectedly said there was nothing to pay, and when we gave him a
shilling he seemed to think it was most munificent.

‘… The town is now in possession of a Suliote chief, who has taken the
castle into his own hands, and has quartered himself and his followers
in all the best houses of the town, which is now newly building, and
promises to be regular, and even elegant. The streets are quite
straight, and cut one another at right angles, and the houses all have
piazzas before them; but everything is now at a standstill, and the
streets themselves, unpaved, are more like the courses of rivulets
than anything else. It was a night of rejoicing, this being the Day of
St. Dionysius, and all the common people were assembled in the bazaar,
a sort of shambles, and the gentlemen in a coffee-room, smoking and
playing cards, in their best dresses: most of them were fine-looking
fellows, very quiet and polite. We had coffee there, and very capital
it was, but thick and almost like chocolate. I should like to know how
they make it. The Greeks there were all dressed in their white linen
petticoats, embroidered coats, and shaggy capotes, except one old
fellow, who had on an English box-coat, and one other fellow, whom,
from his vulgar impudent countenance, I conclude to have been an
English blackguard. They all say the Morea is in a most wretched
state, full of banditti and pirates, so that you cannot go anywhere
without an escort. Next day we found ourselves just off Ithaca, at
breakfast-time, and got breakfast over before we entered the strait
between Ithaca and Cephalonia. This was the first day that I attempted
what is called sketching, and I made a tolerable hand of it; at least,
I found out how to make memoranda that did to work upon afterwards. I
can make no hand of colour, and think I shall hardly attempt it, till
I have time to make some finished studies from nature. You and W[illy]
care so little about classics, that I need not trouble you about
Ulysses’ castle, Sappho’s leap, etc. We got here on Sunday night, and
the rain came soon after us, and has persecuted us incessantly ever
since. We got ashore yesterday and walked about the town, which is
very picturesque, and exactly like the panorama….

‘We were at a ball at Corfu on the anniversary of the installation of
the Ionian Government, at which all the native population were
expected; but the day was so stormy that it made a poor show. I meant
to have got you a real Albanian capote, but they were not to be had at
Corfu, and the cherry-stick tobacco-pipes were too dear.’

     To the Rev. ISAAC WILLIAMS, Jan. 10, 1833.

‘We spent Christmas Day at Malta in an incessant row, taking in coals,
while the bells of all the many Churches of Valetta told what was
going on in that land of superstition;――watched one poor fellow in
quarantine all day, saying prayers to himself, and looking towards the
Church nearest on the shore, opposite to the Lazaretto.[101] The time
is now drawing nigh when we shall spend fifteen long days in that
abode of the unblessed. It is now the 10th of January, and we are just
in sight of Malta, on our return from the Ionian Islands. We have not
seen them under the most favourable circumstances, as the weather has
been wintry, _i.e._, either very stormy or very cold. I have been
often longing for the bright hot Spanish sun which conducted us from
the Bay of Biscay to Gibraltar…. Among other things, we spent half an
hour in the coffee-house [at Zante] where the Greek merchants were
assembled for the holiday evening: a little wretched dirty place, but
the company were very polite to us, and we were surprised at the
cleanness of their dresses, and a certain refinement in their
appearance and manner. We were under the guidance of Major L[ongley]
brother of L[ongley] of H[arrow][102] who is Governor of Cythera, and
knows something of the habits and language of the people. The company
all rose to him, and sat down when he said κάθεστε; but they pronounce
so queerly, that one can hardly ever make out a word, although their
newspapers are quite intelligible, and differ but little from old
Greek. I would give much to live among them for a bit, and get into
their notions. As it is, we have seen nothing but the surface, and
heard the notions of the resident English, which cannot be relied on….
In Corfu, the breed is very mongrel, mixed up with Venetian and
Italian blood; so that, altogether, the sight was uninteresting,
except that when one saw a splendid set of apartments, with
magnificent English furniture, and brilliantly illuminated, with a
band of music, etc., it contrasted itself oddly with the thought of
old Thucydides and the Corcyrean sedition. The remains of the old town
are very scanty, and one cannot make out anything satisfactory about
τὸ Ἡραῖον, etc. There is a rock that they call Ulysses’ ship; but I
suspect the name of a Venetian origin. In one place there is the
remains of an Ionic temple, on a very small scale, lately discovered;
but we had no time to go into antiquarian questions. We rode over most
of the island, and saw several of the villages, all of which bear
marks of having been tenanted by a rich population; but everything is
of a Venetian character. I cannot make out whether the people are
religious or not; yet they seem, on the whole, to be an innocent civil
set. Every small knot of families have their priest and their chapel,
but no parishes that we could hear of. Their Churches are very small,
but great numbers of them: two or three to a small village. [Newman]
and my father went into one in an out-of-the-way village, in which
there [were] fine silver lamps, a copy of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last
Supper, well executed, and several pictures of Saints, in the hard
German style of the fifteenth century. I went twice into the Church
which is the depository of the body of St. Spiridion;[103] and people
were praying there both times, one person apparently from the higher
classes. In the chapel where the body lies, lamps are always kept
dimly burning, and the people go in and kiss the shrine. The feet are
stained with tears, and there are many splendid offerings there of
precious stones. They keep all the Saints’ days by going to Church,
and playing cards afterwards; and on the fast days they fast fairly….
On our way back from Corfu, the curtain was drawn back which had
before hung over the scenery, and the long ridges of the Acarnanian
mountains appeared in full splendour; among these many points in the
range of Pindus were visible in the distance; and from Zante we
certainly saw the summit of Parnassus, though partially intercepted
with clouds. To look at, Mount St. Meri, in the north of Morea, is the
most magnificent, but I do not know its classical name.[104] And now I
suppose I must bid farewell to these extraordinary places for the rest
of my life; having only just seen enough of them to know how well
worth seeing they are.’

The fifteen days of detention were not quite so annoying or so
monotonous as the travellers had feared. ‘This Lazaret,’ says Newman
in the course of a long letter to his sister Jemima, ‘was built by the
Knights [of St. John at Malta] for the Turks…. We burn olive wood. I
assure you we make ourselves very comfortable. We feed well from an
hotel across the water. The Froudes draw and paint. I have hired a
violin, and bad as it is, it sounds grand in such spacious halls. I
write verses, and get up some Italian, and walk up and down the rooms
about an hour and a half daily; and we have a boat, and are allowed to
go about the harbour.’ An incident on the quarantine island is
responsible, in Newman’s biography, for the one and only tiff between
himself and Froude.[105] In reality, it was no tiff at all, as Froude
was wholly innocent of offence. (Newman, it may be remarked in
passing, had just written his _David and Jonathan_.) It seems that
during the January nights in the Lazaretto, all three of the English
travellers used to hear unaccountable footsteps, in the rooms and
galleries, their own doors having been locked from the outside. On one
occasion Newman thought he heard the noises in Archdeacon Froude’s
room. ‘The fourth time it occurred, I hallooed out: “Who’s there?” and
sat up in my bed ready to spring out. A deep silence followed, and I
sat waiting a considerable time: and thus I caught my cold.’ A week
later, there is no clean bill of health to send Mrs. Newman. ‘The
weather has been unusually severe here. My cold caught in the Lazaret
ripened the day I came out of it into the most wretched cough I ever
recollect having, as hard as the stone walls, and far more tight than
the windows.’ In short, Newman was housebound, a close prisoner, and
miserable enough, despite his successful completing of his
‘Patriarchal Sonnets.’ Archdeacon Froude forbade his going out to
Church. The next day, Monday, he confides to the all-sympathetic bosom
of his family: ‘I am properly taken at my word. I have been sighing
for rest and quiet. This is the sixth day since I left the Lazaret,
and I have hardly seen or spoken to anyone. The Froudes dine out every
day; and are out all the morning, of course. Last night I put a
blister on my chest; and never having had one on before, you may fancy
my awkwardness in taking it off and dressing the place of it this
morning. I ought to have had four hands. Our servant was with the
Froudes…. Well, I am set upon a solitary life, and therefore ought to
have experience what it is; nor do I repent…. I have sent to the
library, and got _Marriage_[106] to read. Don’t smile――this
juxtaposition is quite accidental! You are continually in my thoughts.
I know what kindness I should have at home.’ He ends dismally, not
without citing the Apostolic precedent of going not alone but two and
two: ‘I wonder how long I shall last without any friend about me!’ One
can imagine the anxiety and indignation of the devoted hearts at
Iffley. Early in April their unfriended John Henry received his sister
Jemima’s answer, distinctly uncomplimentary to Hurrell Froude;
whereupon Newman rushed into explanation: he could not have Froude
blamed; he had begged to be left alone (‘you know I can be very
earnest in entreating to be left alone’): he had refused his repeated
solicitations even to let him sit by him and read to him; he had, in
short, driven him away. Hurrell, indeed, was not cut out by Nature for
a nurse. Be that as it may, would it be far wrong to surmise that it
was influenza which had been playing its now-well-understood tricks on
Newman? But he made up like a lover for his passing semi-accusation.
Froude, as it happened, was singularly well at this time, though the
reprieve from discomfort was to be but brief.

The three companions went from Malta to Messina, where, in wretched
weather, they had divers small misadventures, shared with
Rohan-Chabots. Hurrell kept, that week, a sort of journal of events;
and the pages describing the capture of lodgings at Palermo seem worth
transcription, since they show the revered Vicar of S. Mary-the-Virgin
defeated by female diplomacy, and in the unexpected rôle of a

‘We got to Palmero about eleven or twelve next morning [Feb. 11,
1833]: the sea calm, the sun hot, and everything beautiful to a
degree. Here we knew that there was to be a scramble for rooms; so
when we anchored, [Newman] and I made a rush for the ladder, and were
first in the boat; but unfortunately, when we were in it we found that
we had mistaken the landing-place. Our boat was nearest the Quay; and
we had to clear out round all the others to make for the custom-house
and town, which were a mile off; also, our boat had only one man. So
we saw two other boats give us the go-by, in one of which was the wife
of the Governor of Moldavia and Wallachia:[108] they landed about four
minutes before us, and we thought to make up our way by running. I was
soon left behind by [Newman] and the boatman. When they passed the
Countess, I saw her tap a fellow on the shoulder, who ran off for a
coach, in which she set off as hard as she could for the Albergo di
Londra. We found afterward that she had secured Page’s whole house by
letter; and not contented with this, she had two servants ahead, who,
when [Newman] came up with them, raced him; and being fresh, they
contrived to keep ahead by a foot or two, so as just to bespeak
Jaquerie’s whole house before he could speak to the landlord. On this,
we despaired, and put up with the first place we could find to hide
our noses in: luckily, it had no fleas! and that was more than we had
bargained for.’ Newman, in his own letters, does not single out for
praise the one negative charm of their temporary dwelling. “It is
astonishing,” he says from the depth of English decency, “how our
standard falls in these parts!”

The Archdeacon, with his attendant spirits, was off at four in the
morning for Egesta. They had a carriage to themselves, drawn by three
mules with bells, and a boy and a guide, besides the driver; much
æsthetic rapture and next to nothing to eat, seems to have been their
portion. But the culminating point, the complete satisfaction of the
heart’s desire, was Rome. ‘All the cities I ever saw are but as dust,
even dear Oxford inclusive, compared with its majesty and glory,’
writes Newman to the Rose Hill auditory. This enthusiasm of his was
not without its scruples and torments. He adds an occasional colophon
of genuine self-comfort, being sure that ‘our creed,’ the while, is
‘purer than the Roman’: a matter which, apparently, Hurrell forgot to
dwell upon. He never had to rid himself of the least taint of the
Pharisee, although he had been scandalised enough at Naples. That
alien city of all badness had given his notions of its nominal
religion a rude shock. Frederick William Faber, passing through
Cologne in 1839, got, unwillingly, the very same sort of painful
disedification which Froude got at Naples.[109] The sadness of the
decay of an ideal, even though a misplaced and mistimed one, hangs
over some of the letters sped towards holy Oxford.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, March 16, 1833.

‘_Rome._――… I should like to be back at the election much; _sed fata
vetant_. Being abroad is a most unsatisfactory thing, and the idleness
of it deteriorating. I shall connect very few pleasing associations
with this winter, and I don’t think I shall come home much wiser than
I went. The only μάθησις on which I can put my hand, as having
resulted from my travels is, that the whole Christian system all over
Europe “_tendit visibiliter ad non esse_.”[110] The same process which
is going on in England and France is taking its course everywhere
else; and the clergy in these Catholic countries seem as completely to
have lost their influence, and to submit as tamely to the State, as
ever we can do in England…. Egesta … by good luck we have been able to
see, though we were obliged to abandon the rest of our Sicilian
expedition. It is the most strangely romantic place I ever saw or
conceived.[111] It is no use attempting to describe it, except that
the ruins of the city stand on the top of a very high hill,
precipitous on three sides, and very steep on the other, literally
towering up to heaven, with scarcely a mule-track leading to it, and
all round the appearance of an interminable solitude. After going some
miles through a wild uninhabited country, you approach it by winding
up a zigzag path cut in the face of what looks a perpendicular and
inaccessible rock, and, till you have got some way up, it wears so
little the appearance of a track, that without guides no one would
venture on. At the top the old walls of the town can be distinctly
traced, where one would think that mortal foot had never or rarely
been, and numbers of tooled stones [are] scattered in all directions,
evidently the remains of well-finished buildings. Here and there is a
broken arch which makes one fancy the remains to be Roman, and in the
most conspicuous place a fine theatre, nearly perfect. When you come
to the ascent on the opposite side, you all at once see the Temple, in
what seems a plain at the bottom, with its pediments and all its
columns perfect, and only differing from what it was at first in the
deep rich colouring of the weather-stains. When we saw it there was a
large encampment of shepherds in the front of it, with their wolf-dogs
and wild Salvator-like dresses; and, by-the-by, as we found
afterwards, with no great objection to lead Salvator-like lives; for
when by some accident we were separated from one another, they got
round [Newman] shouting “_Date moneta!_” and, he thinks, would
certainly have taken it by force, except for a man with a gun who is
placed there by Government, as _custode_ of the Temple, and who came
up when the others were getting most troublesome. On getting close to
the Temple, we found that it stands on the brink of a precipitous
ravine 200 or 300 feet deep, which gives a grandeur to the whole scene
even beyond what it gets from the mountains and the solitude. Compared
with Egesta, Pæstum is a poor concern, and so is Naples when compared
with Palermo.

‘But Rome is the place, after all, where there is most to astonish
one, and [it is] of all ages, even the present. I don’t know that I
take much interest in the relics of the Empire, magnificent as they
are, although there is something sentimental in seeing (as one
literally may), the cows and oxen _Romanoque foro et lautis mugire
Carinis_. But the thing which most takes possession of one’s mind is
the entire absorption of the old Roman splendour in an unthought-of
system: to see their columns, and marbles, and bronzes, which had been
brought together at such an immense cost, all diverted from their
first objects, and taken up by Christianity: St. Peter and St. Paul
standing at the top of Trajan’s and Antonine’s columns, and St. Peter
buried in the Circus of Nero, with all the splendour of Rome
concentrated in his mausoleum. The immense quantity of rare marbles,
which are the chief ornament of the Churches here, could scarcely have
been collected except by the centre of an universal Empire, which had
not only unlimited wealth at its command, but access to almost every
country; and now one sees all this dedicated to the Martyrs. Before I
came here I had no idea of the effect of coloured stone in
architecture; but the use Michael Angelo has made of it in St. Peter’s
shows one at once how entirely that style is designed with reference
to it, and how absurd it was in Sir C. Wren to copy the form when he
could copy nothing more. The coloured part so completely disconnects
itself from the rest, and forms such an elegant and decided relief to
it, that the two seem like independent designs that do not interfere.
The plain stone-work has all the simplicity of a Grecian temple, and
the marbles set it off just as a fine scene or a glowing sky would. I
observe that the awkwardness of mixing up arched and unarched
architecture is thus entirely avoided, as all the arched work is
coloured, and the lines of the uncoloured part are all either
horizontal or perpendicular. So Michael Angelo adds his testimony to
my theory about Gothic architecture.

‘As to Raphael’s pictures, I have not had time to study them with
attention. The most celebrated of them, especially your friend
Heliodorus, are so damaged or dirty that one cannot see them
distinctly except close; they say we should use an opera-glass. All
that the painters say of Raphael tends to exalt him as a poet and a
man of genius, but rather at the expense of his technical skill; he
and Michael Angelo seem, by what they say, to be counterparts. But I
wish I could hope to form an opinion of my own about it.

‘There is an English artist here, a Mr. S[evern],[112] to whom
[Newman] had an introduction, and who certainly is a very clever man,
who gave us a most curious and interesting account of a German school
of painters that is now growing up in Rome. He says that several of
them are here, living on pensions from German Princes, particularly
the King of Bavaria, and are studying Raphael in a very singular way:
curious fellows, with a great deal of original enthusiasm (utterly
unlike the βαναυσοί of England), who have got it into their heads that
the way to study Raphael is not to copy him, but to study the works he
studied, and to put their mind into the attitude in which he formed
his conceptions. So they poke away at the old hard pictures of early
Masters, with stiff drapery and gilt backgrounds, and are so intent on
dissociating Christian and classical art, that they think grace and
beauty bought too dear, if they tend to disturb the mind by pagan
associations. One of these fellows,[113] he said, had become intimate
with him in a curious way. Mr. S[evern] has made colouring his
principal study; he seems to be a bit of an enthusiast himself, and
has been aiming at combining the colouring of the Venetian school with
the designs of the Roman. Well, this German, who is a shy, reserved
man, having been one day in Mr. S[evern’s] studio, returned the next
day with ten or twelve of his German friends, and again, the day
after, with as many more; and so on, for some time. At last Mr.
S[evern], who took it as a great compliment, asked him what it was
that had attracted his notice. He said he had always gone on a notion
that colour had nothing to do with the poetry of painting, but was
merely sensual, and that a Madonna he had seen of Mr. S[evern’s] made
him alter his mind; so he had been bringing friends to see if they
felt the same about it. Since this time they have been very intimate;
but the man is so reserved, in general, that except for this accident
he might have kept his notions to himself. Mr. S[evern] says his
designs are quite in the spirit of Raphael, and that his whole mind is
so taken up with Catholic ἦθος, that he has given up his
Protestantism, and is a rigid conformer to all the ordinances of the
Church. I have prosed about this because I was struck with it. I hope
it is no mare’s nest…. I don’t know whether I mentioned to you that
[Newman] and [Williams] are going to indite verses for _The British
Magazine_, under the title _Lyra Apostolica_? [Rose][114] would not
take a sonnet that I made, because it was too fierce; but says it may
come by-and-by. I will write it out for your edification and criticism.


    ‘“The Powers that be are ordained of God.”

    ‘Yes, mark the words: deem not that Saints alone
     Are Heaven’s true servants, and His laws fulfil
     Who rules o’er just and wicked. He from ill
     Culls good; He moulds the Egyptian’s heart of stone
     To do Him honour, and e’en Nero’s throne
     Claims as His ordinance; before Him still
     Pride bows unconscious, and the rebel will
     Most does His bidding, following most its own.
     Then grieve not at their high and palmy state,
     Those proud bad men, whose unrelenting sway
     Hath shattered holiest things, and led astray
     Christ’s little ones: they are but tools of fate,
     Duped rebels, doomed to serve a Power they hate,
     To earn a traitor’s guerdon, yet obey.

‘I mean to do one on Lord Grey’s interpretation of the Coronation
Oath.[116] Will you do some? A mixture, some fierce and some meek: the
plan is to have none above twenty lines…. My cough is just the same as
when I left England. The climate is worse than an English autumn, and
sight-seeing does no good. I was almost well at Malta, and if I had
stayed there should have been quite so now. I expect to see the
original Epistolæ S. Thomæ in the Vatican Library.’

Overbeck seems to have attracted Froude purely, or chiefly, on moral
grounds, but he found at Rome an abiding object of enthusiasm in the
lovely genius of Francesco Francia. One of his letters to his second
brother, from Leghorn, illustrates both his own passion for
thoroughness, and the range and zest of his lifelong interest in arts
and crafts. He was ‘an ingeniose person,’ and constantly invites the
application of that favourite and comprehensive seventeenth-century

     To WILLIAM FROUDE, April 12, 1833.

‘… If you choose, you may easily find out in London what is the
particular process by which the red colour of glass is produced from
gold, and also in what way they would go to work to give glass a
vitrified coat of gold, retaining its own colour; and whether any
accident in attempting the latter might effect the former. For it has
always struck me as a puzzle how so recondite an idea as that of
producing a ruby tint from a yellow metal should come into the heads
of the early glass-painters; and it has occurred to me that some such
accident as I have guessed at above might be the key to the puzzle,
for the practice of giving glass a vitrified coat of gold for the
purpose of mosaic work was very common, long before the use of
coloured glass in windows had been thought of, and specimens of it are
to be seen in Rome of almost every age between [A.D.] 400 and [A.D.]
1000. Please not to forget this question, or be contented with vague
answers. It will be likely to take some time and trouble to get at the
truth, but it is curious, and there is no hurry, and you will at any
rate have more opportunities than I shall. The best red colour that
has been produced in modern times has been managed by a French
chemist, and there is a wholesale house of his goods somewhere in
Holborn. The Pope’s mosaic manufactory in Rome is curious: there are
eighteen thousand shades of colour in it, which can be looked out as
in a directory. Some of the imitations of pictures which they have
made are so perfect that you must look close before you can see
joinings and transitions of colour; and they have the advantage over
every kind of painting, being mellow from the first and brilliant to
the last. In St. Peter’s there are many very fine ones, copies of all
the most famous pictures, and they are said to have cost 4500_l._ a
piece. St. Peter’s itself is the great attraction of Rome, worth all
the classics put together. I think the dome is built with all the
layers of stone horizontal, so that the principle of the arch applies
not to the vertical section, but only to the horizontal. I am not sure
of this, but I think so.’

It does not appear, though Newman and Froude saw the Pope’s mosaic
manufactory, that they saw the Pope himself, Gregory XVI. They seem to
have gained their chief vistas of Roman society through their
acquaintance with the Prussian Chargé d’Affaires, Baron Bunsen,[117]
and his English wife, at whose house of all hospitality Sir Walter
Scott, then near his end, had been the beloved guest less than a year
before. Hurrell must have had his own impressions of the excellent
Bunsen, with his pleasant Teutonic habit of holding up his finger and
hushing the company, before he began to speak. There is no mention of
our modest and all-observing pilgrims in the published correspondence
either of Bunsen or of Joseph Severn, for 1832-1833.

On April 13, 1833, Hurrell sends to the Rev. John Frederick Christie
one of the most discussed letters in the first volume of the

‘It would not become me to apologise for not having written before,
since I much doubt my capacity[118] to produce anything worth the
postage. Nevertheless, I have for some time been intending to write to
you, and can’t account for having let so much time slip through my
fingers. My father and I are now on our way home, having left [Newman]
to retrace his steps to Sicily…. I hope to be at Genoa to-morrow
morning…. Between [Lyons] and Paris, I hope to visit and make drawings
of some of the Abbeys, etc., which are connected with the history of
St. Thomas of Cant. “Sixth and lastly,” if the Fates allow, we shall
cross from Havre to Southampton by the first steamer in May … soon
after which you may expect to see me in Chapel. I congratulate you on
having got over your first audit so prosperously;[119] … it is better
occupation than travelling, take my word for it. It is really
melancholy to think how little one has got for one’s time and money.
The only thing I can put my hand on as an acquisition is having formed
an acquaintance with a man of some influence at Rome, Monsignor
[Wiseman][120] the head of the [English] College, who has enlightened
[Newman] and me on the subject of our relations to the Church of Rome.
We got introduced to him to find out whether they would take us[121]
in on any terms to which we could twist our consciences, and we found
to our dismay that not one step could be gained without swallowing the
Council of Trent as a whole! We made our approaches to the subject as
delicately as we could. Our first notion was that the terms of
communion were, within certain limits, under the control of the Pope …
or, that in case he could not dispense solely, yet at any rate the
acts of one Council might be rescinded by another; indeed, that in
Charles the First’s time it had been intended to negociate a
reconciliation on the terms on which things stood before the Council
of Trent. But we found, to our horror, that the doctrine of the
Infallibility of the Church made the acts of each successive Council
obligatory for ever, that what had been once decided could never be
meddled with again, in fact, that they were committed finally and
irrevocably, and could not advance one step to meet us, even though
the Church of England should again become what it was in Laud’s time….

‘… So much for the Council of Trent, for which Christendom has to
thank Luther and the Reformers. [Newman] declares that ever since I
heard this I have become a staunch Protestant, which is a most base
calumny on his part, though I own it has altogether changed my notions
of the Roman Catholics, and made me wish for a total overthrow of
their system. I think that the only τόπος now is “the ancient Church
of England,” and, as an explanation of what one means, “Charles the
First” and “the Nonjurors.” When I come home I mean to read and write
all sorts of things; for now that one is a Radical, there is no use in
being nice![122] I wish you had sent a longer postscript to [Newman]
about the position of things; all I have heard, directly or
indirectly, has made me long to be home again. You don’t say whether
you have done anything for the _L[yra] A[postolica]_?[123]…. Tell
[Isaac Williams] that I think he has used me basely to send me a mere
scribble of a few lines, prosing about some theory of poetry, when
there were such a lot of atrocities going on on all sides, of which
one can get no tolerable account through the papers.

‘_Genoa, April 15._――Here we are, as at Leghorn, detained a day beyond
our time, though there is a perfect calm, because these absurd fellows
are afraid of a swell which was got up by last night’s wind. The more
I have to do with these wretched Neapolitans, the more my first
impressions about them are confirmed. I wonder how anyone can tolerate
either them or their town, which is as nasty and uninteresting a place
as I ever set foot in. As to this Genoa, I should not grumble at being
detained here, if I were in plight for sight-seeing, for it is truly
magnificent, both in itself and in its situation; but, unfortunately,
I was taken with a very severe feverish cold the morning we landed,
_i.e._, the day before yesterday; and that day and yesterday was
confined to my bed, where I should probably be now but that I had to
get up early, in hopes the vessel would keep its appointment…. Never
advise a friend of yours to come abroad for his health! It would be
very well if one could have Fortunatus’ cap, and wish one’s self at
Rome; but travelling does more harm than change of climate does good.

‘While we were at Rome [Newman] and I tried hard to get up the
march-of-mind phraseology about pictures and statues, and we hoped we
were making some little progress under the auspices of a clever
English artist, to whom we had an introduction: but, unfortunately for
our peace of mind, just before our departure we became acquainted with
[a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge], who, though he had not been
in Italy much longer than ourselves, had attained an eminence so far
beyond what we could even in thought aspire to, that we gave the thing
up in despair, and retire upon the τόπος, that “we don’t enter into
[those] technicalities.” Certainly those C[ambridge] men are wonderful
fellows; I know no one but [Head][124] that could compete with them at
all. They know everything, examine everything, and dogmatise about
everything; they have paid particular attention to the geological
structure of this place, and the botany of that, and the agriculture
of another, and they are antiquaries, and artists, and scholars, and,
above all, puff off one another with the assiduity of our friends the
[W.]s. W[hewell’s][125] book, and S[edgwick’s][126] Lectures, and
T[hirlwall’s][127] research, and H[are’s][128] taste, pop upon one at
every turn…. We mean to make as much as we can out of our acquaintance
with Monsignor [Wiseman], who (by the by), is really too nice a person
to talk nonsense about. He desired me to apply to him, if on any
future occasion I had to consult the Vatican Library: and a
transaction of that sort would sound well….’

The ‘transaction would sound well’: this, as if the writer’s study
were only to heighten others’ opinion of him! Newman was surely right
in calling attention, years after, to this habit of Froude’s of
depreciating, nay, belying, his own motives. It was not an
affectation, but it was a little piece of sheer cruelty.

The friends had parted at Rome, the Froudes very loath to leave Newman
behind; and he, on his part, roaming about the Janiculum after they
had gone, in a silent passion of grief, reproaching himself for his
wilful fancy to return, under a sort of romantic obsession, to Sicily
alone. There he was all but destined to meet an untimely death.
Hurrell finished his long letter to Mr. Christie as he moved homeward.

‘_Marseilles, April 22._――This France is certainly a most delicious
place: we landed in Hyères Bay, owing to a storm from the north-west,
and found everything so warm and green that I could quite enter into
John of Salisbury’s[129] feelings. The people, too, [are] so extremely
civil that I cannot help hoping there may yet be the seven thousand in
Israel, and that sometime or other we may be able to talk of _la belle
France_ with some kind of pleasure. I feel like a great fool here,
from not being able to talk French. In Italy half the population kept
me in countenance, but here it is a constant humiliation. And what is
worst, I can’t hope to make progress; for having learned the little I
know by writing and not [by] speaking, I annex wrong-shaped words to
all the sounds. It is like talking Latin[130] to a foreigner.’

Again, on May 23, to William Froude, is expressed further commendation
of the French people, founded on the keenest instinctive understanding
of them: an understanding even more unusual then than now. Newman,
until later, was certainly far from sharing it, or wishing to learn to
share it. The ordinary attitude of the contemporary Oxford mind was
frankly, though playfully expressed, by the young W. R. Churton, some
years before. He gallantly addresses France: ‘What have I seen in thee
that should make me long to see thee again? Have I seen a gentleman
from Calais to Beauvoisin? Have I seen one gleam of poetry in the
country or its inhabitants?’[131] Hurrell Froude was ‘un-English’
enough to be arrested, but not repelled, while on the Continent, by
the spectacle of extra-English human nature. We have heard him
longing, at Zante, to ‘live among them a bit, and get into their
notions.’ This beautiful and uncommon openness of mind stamps him an
ideal traveller, despite his lack of opportunity; at no single point
of a hurried route, beset with difficulties, could he look far below
the surface of things. But it is strikingly inaccurate to say of him,
as Mr. Mozley does, that he lacked not only opportunity, but
curiosity, ‘to see the interior of either the political or the
religious systems they came upon.’[132]

‘What I have seen since my last letter ends, has been more interesting
than anything else except Rome. We stopped about at many places in the
central part of France, to see out-of-the-way things connected with
Becket’s history, and found some of them so very curious and striking
in themselves, that they would have amply repaid us by their own
merits. But what I was most interested with was, that the French seem
to me to have been so grossly belied as a nation. I never saw a people
that tempted me to like them so much, on a superficial observation. I
declare, if I was called upon to make a definition of their national
character, I should say they were a primitive innocent people. The
fact seems to be that France is governed by a small despotic
oligarchy, the aristocracy of wealth, who by their agitating spirit
have contrived to get the franchise so restricted as to secure to
themselves a majority in the Chamber, and the command of the military,
by which they keep France under such a strong hand…. There is now in
France a High Church party who are Republicans,[133] and wish for
universal suffrage, on the ground that in proportion as the franchise
falls lower the influence of the Church makes itself more felt; at
present its limits about coincide with those of the infidel faction.
Don’t be surprised if one of these days you find us turning Radicals
on similar grounds.’

The next communication posted to Mr. Keble, on June 26, contained a
nameless poem. The title and the motto here given belong to the
version in _Lyra Apostolica_.


  “And the Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth
    say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will,
    let him take the water of life freely.”

    ‘O Lord, I hear: but can it be
     The gracious word was meant for me?
     O Lord, I thirst: but who shall tell
     The secret of that Living Well
     By whose waters I may rest,
     And slake this lip unblest?

     O Lord, I will, but cannot do!
     My heart is hard, my faith untrue.
     The Spirit and the Bride say, Come;
     The eternal ever-blessed Home
     Oped its portals at my birth;
     But I am chained to earth.

     The Golden Keys,[134] each eve and morn,
     I see them with a heart forlorn:
     Lest they should iron prove to me.
     O set my heart at liberty!
     May I seize what Thou dost give,
     Seize tremblingly; and live.’

‘Very flat, I know,’ the author says, in his usual undecorative
manner; but he adds: ‘I wrote it the night before you went; I wanted
to show it you, that you might do one on “He that testifieth these
things saith: Surely I come quickly”; and then, after the verse, to
finish with: “Even so, come, Lord JESUS.” I think that so it might
make a composition on which some people’s thoughts would run.[135] You
may think all this bother; but I cannot help fancying that this sort
of arrangement is worth some little trouble.’ Hurrell’s poem stands
collocated with Keble’s ‘Encouragement’ in the _Lyra_, with its
opening ‘Fear not’: and its heartening beauty is almost a direct
address to the burdened spirit who called it forth:

    ‘Surely the time is short:
     Endless the task and art
     To brighten for the ethereal Court
     A soiled earth-drudging heart!
     But He, the dread Proclaimer of that hour,
     Is pledged to thee in love, as to thy foes in power.’

Even the text from S. John, which Hurrell had suggested as colophon,
stands under his separate β after Keble’s poem, in every edition, as
if by some solemn little rubrical observance. Both Keble and Newman
were most careful, in all these delicate ways, to preserve their
friend’s least touch upon the early printed work of the Movement. It
was his death which led to the revelation of the authorship of all the
poems in _Lyra Apostolica_. They would else have remained strictly
anonymous. ‘One of the writers in whom the work originated,’ says
Newman in his very brief preface, dated at Oxford on All Saints’ Day
of 1836, ‘having been taken from his friends … it seemed desirable …
to record what belonged to him, while it was possible to do so; and
this has led to a general discrimination of the poems, by signatures
at the end of each.’

Two days after ‘Trembling Hope,’ on June 28, Hurrell sends to his old
Tutor the most beautiful, and also the most characteristic of his


  εἰσὶν εὐνοῦχοι, οἵτινεσ εὐνούχισαν ἑαυτοὺς διὰ τὴν βασιλείαν τῶν
  οὐρανῶν ――S. MATT. xix. 12.[136]

    ‘Son of sorrow, doomed by fate
     To a lot most desolate,
     To joyless youth and childless age;
     Last of thy father’s lineage;
     Blighted being! whence hast thou
     That lofty mien and cloudless brow?

     Ask’st thou whence that cloudless brow?
     Bitter is the cup, I trow:
     A cup of weary well-spent years,
     A cup of sorrows, fasts, and tears;
     That cup whose virtue can impart
     Such calmness to the troubled heart.

     Last of his father’s lineage, he
     Many a night on bended knee,
     In hunger many a lifelong day,
     Hath striven to cast his slough away.
     Yea, and that long prayer is granted:
     Yea, his soul is disenchanted.

     O blest above the sons of men!
     For thou, with more than Prophet’s ken,
     Deep in the secrets of the tomb
     Hast read thine own, thine endless doom;
     Thou by the hand of the Most High
     Art sealed for immortality.

     So may I read thy story right,
     And in my flesh so tame my spright,
     That when the Mighty Ones go forth,
     And from the east and from the north
     Unwilling ghosts shall gathered be,
     I, in my lot,[137] may stand with thee!’

And immediately after, linked with a quotation from the beloved
Eclogues: ‘I send you some sawney verses…. Can these be doctored into
anything available, or are they dotings?’


         NEW SELF.

      ‘Why sittest thou on that sea-girt rock,
    With downward look and sadly-dreaming eye?
      Playest thou beneath with Proteus’ flock,
    Or with the far-bound sea-bird wouldst thou fly?

         OLD SELF.

      I sit upon this sea-girt rock
    With downward look and dreaming eye;
      But neither do I sport with Proteus’ flock,
    Nor with the far-bound sea-bird would I fly.
      I list the splash, so clear and chill,
    Of yon old fisher’s solitary oar;
      I watch the waves, that rippling still,
    Chase one another o’er the marble shore.

         NEW SELF.

      Yet from the splash of yonder oar
    No dreary sound of sadness comes to me;
      And the fresh waves that beat the shore,
    How merrily they splash, how merrily!

         OLD SELF.

      I mourn for the delicious days
    When those calm sounds fell on my childish ear,
      A stranger yet to the wild ways
    Of triumph and remorse, of hope and fear.

         NEW SELF.

      Mourn’st thou, poor soul? and wouldst thou yet
    Call back the things which shall not, can not be?
      Heaven must be won, not dreamed; thy task is set:
    Peace was not made for earth, nor rest for thee.’

Four other sacred poems which Hurrell wrote in 1833 may as well be
given here. He and Newman burst into song together, though he with far
more remote and infrequent music. Probably no lyrist ever had such a
poor opinion of himself. But in the qualities of clearness,
simplicity, orderly thought and noble severity, there is something
very remarkable in Hurrell’s few brief scattered verses. They have a
strong singleness and sad transparency, the tone of them a little
chilly, yet almost Virgilian, and arrestingly beautiful; they, like
himself, are impersonal, and full of character; abstinent,
concentrated, true. The unexpected grace is their cunning harmony, and
the trick of that is neither derived nor deliberately invented. His
every line instinctively sings and flies. He has nothing to match a
certain refrain of Newman’s, in what he calls his ‘ecclesiastical

     ‘For scantness is still Heaven’s might.’

It is a good instance of an always interesting literary anomaly that
such a line, in its raucous sibilation, should have been produced by
an accomplished musician, whereas unfailing melody belongs to Froude,
who, loving naturally what he once called ‘the bright and silent
pleasures of poetry,’ had small sense of music as an independent art.
Yet Newman certainly was capable of a sustained grandeur, as in his
verses on Greek models, which Froude did not attempt, and could not


         ‘High on the stately wall
              The spear of Arvad hung;
          Through corridor and hall
              Gemaddin’s[139] war-note rung.
          Where are they now? The note is o’er:
          Yes! for a thousand years, and more,
          Five fathom deep beneath the sea,
          Those halls have lain all silently,
          Nought listing save the mermaid’s song,
    While rude sea-monsters roam the corridors along.

          Far from the wondering[140] East
              Tubal and Javan came;
          And Araby the blest,
              And Kedar, mighty name.
          Now on that shore, a lonely guest,
          Some dripping fisherman may rest,
          Watching on rock or naked stone
          His dark net spread before the sun,
          Unconscious of the dooming lay
    That broods o’er that dull spot, and there shall brood for aye.’


  ‘“And Lot went out, and spake unto his sons-in-law that married his
      daughters, and said: ‘Up, get you out of this place; for the
      Lord will destroy this city.’ But he seemed as one that mocked,
      unto his sons-in-law.”

    ‘Sunk not the sun behind yon dusky hill
       Glorious as he was wont? The starry sky
       Spread o’er the earth in tranquil majesty,――
     Discern’st thou, in its clear deep, aught of ill?
     Or in this lower world, so fair and still,
       Its palaces and temples towering high,
       Or where old Jordan, gliding calmly by,
     Pours o’er the misty plain his mantle chill?
       Dote not of fear, old man, where all is joy!
     And Heaven and earth thy augury disown;
     And Time’s eternal course rolls smoothly on,
     Fraught with fresh blessings, as day follows day.
     The All-Bounteous hath not given to take away;
       The All-Wise hath not created to destroy!’


  ‘“The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God
      shall stand for ever.”

    ‘’Tis sad to watch Time’s desolating hand
       Doom noblest things to premature decay:
       The feudal court, the patriarchal sway
     Of Kings, the cheerful homage of a land
     Unskilled in treason, every social band
       That taught to rule with sweetness, and obey
       With dignity,――swept, one by one, away!
     While proud empirics rule, in fell command.

       Yet, Christian! faint not at the sickening sight,
     Nor vainly strive with that Supreme Decree.
     Thou hast a treasure and an armoury
       Locked to the spoiler yet; thy shafts are bright.
       Faint not: Heaven’s Keys are more than sceptred might,
     Their Guardians more than King or Sire, to thee.’


  ‘“Be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart.”

    ‘Lord, I have fasted, I have prayed,
       And sackcloth has my girdle been;
     To purge my soul I have essayed
       With hunger blank and vigil keen.
     O God of mercy! why am I
     Still haunted by the self I fly?

    Sackcloth is a girdle good:
      O bind it round thee still!
    Fasting, it is Angels’ food,
      And JESUS loved the night-air chill.
    Yet think not prayer and fast were given
    To make one step ’twixt earth and Heaven.[142]

The following fragmentary lines are appended to the poem as given in
the _Remains_, though they do not, of course, appear in _Lyra

    ‘As well might sun and rain contending
     Their sweet influence array
     On new-fallen seed descending,
     To raise a forest in a day.
     Think’st thou prayer and fast alone
     Can animate a heart of stone?

     _It must be rooted in charity._

     _Thinkest thou art fit for fasting at all yet?_

     The food of Saints is not for thee!’

From poetical ‘dotings,’ Hurrell, having reached England, throws
himself gladly into the interests of the young scientist his brother,
who was already at work on the unique experiments concerning the
resistance and propulsion of ships, which now stand connected, all
over the world, with his successful name. He was going forward to be,
as Hurrell anxiously wished, no ‘mere engineer,’ no ‘Liberal,’ _i.e._,
agnostic or materialist, ‘at heart.’

     To WILLIAM FROUDE, July 11, 1833.

‘… I cannot understand how the dock-gates can make any further
resistance to the water after the curvature has been squatted out of
them, nor how, if the curvature is right, the pressure should have any
tendency to alter it. Tell me if you succeed in getting a verdict
against them; also, how your resistance experiments succeed. I will
never believe that a sail will do as much work if you split it in two;
but, if R ∝ area, you might have each cloth independent, and all would
do as well. I never gave you an answer about the Book of Job, for I
cannot get a distinct idea of its argument. It is said to be a
discussion on the moral government of God; but my view of it is not
more distinct than what ladies get of Butler’s _Analogy_.’

Honest Hurrell and his baffled Willy were looking for the sort of
intellectual company which misery is said to love, and found it in
‘ladies.’ These, as yet, were certainly busier with worsted samplers
than with the problems of the educated.

On July 14, the day of the storming of the feudal Bastille, came the
formal start of another revolution which had a quieter, but no less
ominous foot. Mr. Keble mounted the pulpit stair of S. Mary-the-Virgin’s
at Oxford, and preached his memorable Assize Sermon, which went to
press under its title of _National Apostasy_. It served as a bugle to
let men know that the work of recapturing Faith for England had begun,
and that ‘things have come to the pretty pass’ (in Lord Melbourne’s
celebrated expression), ‘that religion is to invade the sphere of
private life!’ There had been long preliminary agitation, and much
personal consciousness, especially on Newman’s part and on Froude’s,
of ‘a work to do in England.’

Secular authority was on the eve of abolishing in Ireland ten
Bishoprics, which, in that country at least, it is not pretended that
it had not created. But there could be no guarantee whatever that
secular authority, so gorged, would be sated; and operations in
England being only too likely, it was time for the objectors to rise.
Besides, the general change effected during 1832-3, in the relations
of Church and State, was the most disheartening or enraging thing in
the world to the sentinels at Oxford, according to individual mood. Up
to then, ‘spiritual cases were referred by the Sovereign to the Court
of Delegates, which contained a majority of spiritual persons. But in
those years, the final appeal was transferred, by Act of Parliament,
from the Court of Delegates to, first, the Privy Council, and then a
Committee formed from it.’[143] In that bondage, a worthy legacy from
the ‘unidea’d’ reign of William IV., the Church of England stood, and
stands. Things had been bad enough before. Already Hurrell had cried
out in private: ‘The Church can never right itself without a blow-up.’
This was more sanguine than Dr. Arnold’s simultaneous jeremiad, and
quite as loyal. ‘The Church as it now stands,’ he said, ‘no human
power can save.’ But now Froude’s song is: ‘If the State would but
kick us off!’ caught from Lamennais and the great democrat-Ultramontane
agitation in France. The wish is translated into the weighty and
telling pages of the long essay which stands first in his _Remains_,
and which he wrote in 1833. _More suo_, he uses in it all the original
documents which he can lay his hands on, and furthers his argument by
italicisation and capitalisation of leading words and phrases. Ambrose
Phillipps de Lisle once remarked that the step of throwing off the
supremacy of the State had been dreamed of, in England, only by the
Nonjurors, and ‘the first authors of the _Tracts for the Times_.’ Has
it not been dreamed of ever since? The deification of a Privy Council
was the occasion, not the cause, of the High Anglican onset, itself
but one movement of several against the intrenchments of British
materialism, but distinct from them all, inasmuch as Scott and
Coleridge, riding just before, with the armed protest of Carlyle, of
Ruskin, and of Emerson to follow, bore no known emblems of a Christian
Crusade. The hour of latent dissatisfaction had crept up to
flood-water mark. As we are well aware, no great movement springs
full-armed from the brain of any local Jupiter; and this one was a
birth, and only a birth, of 1833. For years previously, semi-active
agitation, fed by the feeling all over the country, was quite patent
and open. There was much popular stir and screaming, all making, no
doubt, for righteousness and right ideas. The thinkers, the
Universities, were far clearer as to what they did not mean, or wish,
than as to what they did. ‘Newman and I are both so consequential,’
Froude writes in a leave-taking letter of 1832, ‘that we fear all
sorts of things going wrong while we are away.’ It is perfectly true
that these men did not create, but evoke, the religious spirit of
their time. The Chinese narcissus bourgeons at a miraculous rate from
a bulb a year old. The Platonic theory of individual knowledge should
be extended to meet the case of nations: they, too, remember, and have
rhythms which antedate the conscious life, and recur throughout it. We
are always forgetting the commonplace that a spirit rather than
intelligent persons with a polity, a law rather than its visible
agencies, is the true operative force. Well-meaning students of the
Movement have looked upon one name or another as the generating cause,
whereas the real leader is ever nameless, like Odysseus in the cave of
his baffled giant. There was ‘an unseen agitator,’ as Newman knew. His
earliest friend of undergraduate days, whom he called, afterwards,
_Princeps Apostolicorum_, was, for one, independently aware of it, as
soon as events began.

‘… What a wonderful drama is going on,’ Mr. Bowden[144] writes, ‘if we
could but trace it as a whole, and know the multiplied bearings of
each varied scene upon our nation and our Church! However, we can see
our own parts, and that must for the present suffice us.’ Newman
confessed the same wide vision, writing later in that year to Froude:
‘I do verily believe a spirit is abroad at present, and we are but
blind tools, not knowing whither we are going. I mean, a flame seems
arising in so many places as to show no mortal incendiary is at work,
though this man or that may have more influence in shaping the course,
or modifying the nature of the flame.’

‘This man or that’ was not lacking, and there was work for him: work
for ‘the bright, vivacious, and singularly lovable figures with whom
the eyes of Oriel men were then familiarised.’[145] Mr. Charles
Kingsley thought them, as it would appear, not ‘virile’: a necessary
opinion for any ‘virile’ Kingsley to hold. So much depends upon
definition! It was a passing conversational remark made by Hurrell
Froude concerning the great Churchmen of the Middle Ages, that their
portraits had ‘a curious expression as of neither man nor woman, a
kind of feminine sternness.’ A very similar remark was made at almost
the same moment by the prince of English metaphysical critics. Of the
coincidence Froude was not aware; but his Editors, in a footnote, fail
not to refer to it. ‘[Wordsworth’s] face is almost the only exception
I know,’ said Coleridge, ‘to the observation that something feminine,
(not effeminate, mind!) is discoverable in the countenances of all men
of genius.’[146] This angelic or epicene aspect is, indicatively, the
most terrible force in the world. It is certain that the Tractarians
lacked the girth, the gait, the entire and triumphant visibility of
John Bull going out with his gun. They lived with abstract ideas, and
came to look like them.

‘Mr. Froude, if anyone,’ wrote Newman anonymously in _The British
Critic_ of April, 1839, ‘gained his views from his own mind.’ But
indeed, as is implied, none of us ever gain our views from our own
minds: views coming with an underived spontaneous air are born of a
man’s superior attentiveness to the working Mind of things. Hurrell,
pacing Trinity Gardens, his hand on Williams’ shoulder, with the
off-hand edict: ‘Isaac, we must make a Row in the world!’ recalls to
us another agitator of whimsical disinterestedness, Camille
Desmoulins. Or he is speaking a too free translation of the message of
high and urgent poetry which La Pucelle once poured into the ears of
Durand Laxart at Domremy. (It is always of French genius that his
genius reminds us.) In all the polemics of the day his voice is the
Æolian one, fitful and laconic, unexpected and alarming, yet oddly
sweet. He is very busy chastising and correcting himself; but that
other strife going on is far more interesting: he is a soldier of
fortune, he must fight, he must interfere. When the outriders of the
whole sea of returning Catholicism charge at first singly and
silently, then with uproar, along the levels of the sleeping
Protestant kingdom, the Hurrell Froude who loved duty and hard work,
and abhorred display and conspicuosity, rises, despite himself, a
little dominant, a little spectacular. He is inevitably marked, to ear
and eye, as the legendary ninth wave, the foamiest green breaker of
the line, ever re-forming and breaking, so long as he is visible,
brighter, taller, and farther in-shore than the rest. With the year
1833 he comes into public play, and vanishes almost as soon.

     To J. F. CHRISTIE, Esq., July 23, 1833.

‘… By the bye, I write [“Newman”] as if you knew he was returned. He
came back last Tuesday week.[147]… He has been delayed by what one can
now look back on without uneasiness, as he has not suffered
eventually; but the fact is, he has had a very narrow escape of his
life, owing to a severe epidemic fever which he caught in Sicily, and
in a place where he could get access to no kind of medical aid. At the
place where he was seized he was laid up for three days, unable to
move, and at the end of that time strangely took it into his head that
he was well. In consequence, he set out on his journey, and after
having gone about seven miles, was carried almost lifeless into a
cabin, just at a moment when, by a strange accident, a medical man was
passing. This person relieved him sufficiently to enable his
attendants to remove him to a town some way farther on, in which a
doctor resided: Enna, or Castro Giovanni. Here he was eleven days
before the crisis of his fever arrived, and it was long thought he had
no chance of recovering…. He was afterwards delayed at Palermo by the
stupid vessel, which did not sail for three weeks after it had
promised, and thus lost all the advantages of a good wind. However, he
is back safe at last, and really looks well, though his hair is all
coming off, and his strength is not yet thoroughly restored. Do
something for the [Magazine] and the _Lyra_. Wherefore stand ye all
the day idle? I am going to [Hadleigh] in an hour or two to concert

Hadleigh Rectory, in Suffolk, was the scene of the little four-days’
congress called together on July 25, by the independent Cambridge
forerunner of the Movement, the Rev. Hugh James Rose; ‘the most
eminent person of his generation as a divine,’ Dean Church calls him.
It is interesting to recall that the young Richard Chevenix Trench was
Curate of Hadleigh at this time. Neither Keble nor Newman was able to
attend. It was the first rally of those willing to fight ‘for the
doctrine of Apostolical Succession, and for the integrity of the
Prayer-Book’; and means were about to be taken to found a powerful
Association of Friends of the Church. Froude, impatient of talk and of
preliminaries, distrustful of the need of organisations, cherishing a
preference such as Newman was to express long after, writing to Pusey,
for ‘generating an ἦθος rather than a system,’ went down from Oxford
somewhat grumblingly. The subjects brought forward at Hadleigh were
chiefly disciplinary. The complicated relationship of Church and
State, the call for Lay Synods, and the ever-burning topic of the
manner of the Appointment of Bishops in the Church of England, seem to
have engrossed the four men present, Froude then as always, in his
extreme abstract way, pushing on to conclusions the others were not
ripe for. He found Rose, disinterested as he knew him to be,
‘conservative’; he lamented that Rose and Palmer of Worcester clung to
what he calls the ‘gentleman heresy,’ to ‘the old prejudices about the
expediency of having the clergy gentlemen, _i.e._, fit to mix in good
society; and about “prizes” to tempt men into the Church, and the
whole train of stuff…. What I have learned,’ he adds, generalising,
‘is not to be sanguine, not to expect to bring other people into my
views in a shorter time than I have been in coming to them myself.’
And again to Newman, with candour: ‘You seem to think I am floored,
and in fact, I partly am so; at least the predominant impression left
on my mind is that I am a poor hand at entering into other people’s
thoughts.’ There follows a description of a fellow-guest, which must
have made both Newman and Keble smile, as being possibly applicable to
another and more fiery spirit who, as Mr. Rose their host said
afterwards, with his delicate Gallic justness of criticism, was ‘not
afraid of inferences.’ It can hardly be proved that Hurrell
appreciated Mr. Rose, who was a sort of precursor in Pusey’s spiritual
dynasty, as Hurrell himself was in Newman’s. But he overrated Mr.
Perceval. Newman was given to understand, at the close of the session,
on the thirtieth day of July, some of Mr. Perceval’s excellences and
moral dangers.

‘Perceval,’[148] Hurrell writes, ‘is a very delightful fellow in ἦθος,
a regular thorough-going Apostolical; but I think Keble should warn
him about putting himself in the way of excitement. Some of the things
he says and does make me feel rather odd. I am sure he should be set
to work on something dull that would keep his thoughts from present
interests. I never saw a fellow who seemed more entirely absorbed,
heart and soul, in the cause of the Church, and without the remotest
approach to self-sufficiency.’

‘Both Rose and Palmer,’ wrote Newman on the other hand, after he had
heard from those allies, ‘think Froude and Perceval very deficient in
learning, and therefore rash.’ Considerable time had been spent in
revising the _Churchman’s Manual_, by Mr. Perceval. Books, committees,
bylaws, and such tangible machinery, seemed important to Mr. Rose, who
was intelligently planning a great local campaign, to improve the
position of his disadvantaged party. Froude, ahead of Newman or Keble,
seems from the first to have outrun anything of this sort. To these
three, the very existence of religion, whether expressed in the public
worship and formularies, or in the conduct and belief of Englishmen,
was at stake. He alone lacked a just conception of minor needs, what
was the nature of these, or how far they should be satisfied: he felt
only the need of supernaturalism in a society again grown godless
since Wesley’s time. He did not, therefore, march forward in order,
but by a long leap threw himself half-blindly upon ‘incomprehensibles,
and thoughts of things which thoughts do but tenderly touch.’
Certainly, cohesion, as not being the note of the Church of England,
was not the note of the conference at Hadleigh. Froude especially,
with his terrible consistency, his capacity for getting all there was
to get out of the mere innuendoes and half-lights of circumstance, his
passion (to employ a serviceable expression of Locke’s) ‘to bottom
everything,’ must have obstructed unconsciously the deliberations of a
great liturgiologist and a true ecclesiastical statesman, both born to
move with caution, and to end in the deltas of compromise or sheer
weariness. Froude felt then, as afterwards, what he calls his ‘stigma
of ultraism’; what really worried him more than that, was the slow
foot of reform, toiling behind his own. He wished nothing less, as we
have seen, than a ‘blow-up,’ and reconstruction. His poetic foresight
made him implacable; consequences, not processes, were in his
foreground. He had the individual vision. Galahad-like, he saw, while
wise men were spurring up and down upon the quest. Mr. Palmer’s
adjectives were well chosen: Hurrell was not ‘learned,’[149] and he
was ‘rash.’ But it is also true that learning will call anything
rashness which travels towards a given goal by a shorter route than
its own. An extremely fine definition of Froude’s might be wrested
from its context, and applied to his discomfiture at Hadleigh, and his
position in general. ‘The understanding,’ he says, ‘pursues something
which it does not know by means which it does; while genius endeavours
to effect what it has a previous idea of, by means of which it has to
ascertain the use.’[150] The ‘bold rider across country’ would perhaps
look unnatural as a mounted collaborator in a procession. It is to be
feared that the Rev. Richard Hurrell Froude was a difficult factor, a
Montagnard, in the debates of nascent Anglo-Catholicism.

In the strife of ideas, during the summer, there were not lacking
pastoral interludes.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, August, 1833.

‘… You can’t think what delicious weather we have had here [at
Dartington]. It is like May back again…. I saw the other night what I
can hardly convince myself not to have been a supernatural fire. I and
one of the [Champernownes?] and two other boys, and a labourer, were
coming up the river in a boat when it was dark, and we all saw as
distinctly as possible under a tree, close by the water, what we took
for a wood fire: hot embers, which did not blaze, but gave off sparks;
the boys thought a wasp’s nest must have been burned out there, and
landed to stir up the embers and examine; in landing we lost sight of
the fire for a minute behind the bush, and in going to the place found
nothing; no smell of burning, no ashes, no marks of fire on the leaves
or grass: in fact, there certainly could not have been any fire there!
The labourer was really frightened, and I cannot account for my not
having been so; but somehow the thing has made an impression on my
imagination. I never dream of it, nor think of it in the dark, or
anything: yet I am absolutely certain of the facts, and wholly unable
to account for them. Sometimes I look on it as a half-miracle, of
which the counterpart is in store for us. The return of rough times
may revive energies that have been dormant “in the land of peace
wherein we trusted.” Is this nonsense?… I am very well, all but my
cough, which is exactly what it was, and is likely to continue….’

This touch of mysticism, gracing a phosphoric phenomenon, reminds one
keenly of what Newman thought and expressed about the whole Movement,
if not of the men who seem to us now ‘of unearthly radiance.’ ‘No
mortal incendiary,’ he said, in one of his splendid phrases already
cited, ‘is at work.’

To Newman, during this August, Hurrell pours out his mind, with his
usual forecasting irrelevance.

‘_Aug. 22._――I have written a sermon on the duty of contemplating a
time when the law of the land shall cease to be the law of the Church;
and I hope to get it preached by a friend of mine at the Bishop’s
Visitation. My father thinks it most temperate and satisfactory.[151]
If I had strong lungs I should go about the country, holding forth.

‘_Aug. 31._――… It has lately come into my head that the present state
of things in England makes an opening for reviving the monastic
system. I think of putting the view forward under the title of
“Project for Reviving Religion in Great Towns.” Certainly colleges of
unmarried priests (who might, of course, retire to a living, when they
could and liked) would be the cheapest possible way of providing
effectively for the spiritual wants of a large population…. I must go
about the country to look for the stray sheep of the true fold: there
are many about, I am sure; only that odious Protestantism sticks in
people’s gizzard. I see Hammond takes that view of the Infallibility
of the Church which P[almer] says was the old one. We must revive it.
Surely the promise, “I am with you always,” means something?’

It is extraordinary how Hurrell’s talk runs not so much on existing
outer problems as on notions which ‘have lately come into my head.’
The others were content to face emergencies the moment they arose. He
knew not how to wait till things turned up: he went forward to turn
them up. His vocation was less to lead than to prompt the men born to
be leaders. The hard necessity of his lot, the denial to so vigorous a
spirit of the physical fuel to keep it alight, imposed this upon him:
to be what Emerson calls ‘the seeing eye, not the helping hand.’ Yet
his enforced contemplative life kept those active brother lives
together; he riveted their armour, mounted their banners, and
re-tipped their spears. It was his destiny to give very much more than
they could use, so highly congested and quintessential were his ideas,
and the verbal hints born of them:

    ‘Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart,
     For Thought to do her part.’

He is the vision of a pilgrim entering from the Middle Ages, barely
laying down his staff and wallet before turning roadwards again, yet
managing to blurt out, irrespective of the tavern conversation,
fragments of his own correlated thought, immemorial things which he,
at least, seems never to have forgotten. He is no opportunist, and
chooses neither the audience nor the hour. ‘What to assume and what to
prove,’ as he says, do not sort themselves in his mind. He is only
oracular. He instructs Newman, in relation to no particular topic
whatever, but on a mere salutary general principle: ‘Do keep writing
to Keble, and stirring his rage. He is my fire, but I may be his
poker.’ His influence over Keble’s fearless intelligence, felt from
the first, was ultimately very great. His influence over Newman will
hardly bear analysis, for Newman and he were one: the gnomon and the
disk of a dial, or the arrow and the bow of some busy archer. We have
all seen just such influence as Froude, invalided, had upon the
Movement, privately exercised by Ministers of State, or by wives with
a ripe understanding of their husbands’ practical concerns. It is the
uncatalogued and intangible power, almost a plaything to its
possessor, least known among the powers which move human society; and,
therefore, perhaps it is the grimmest reality of all.

On September 9, Newman burst forth with the famous first sentence of
his famous first Tract: ‘I am but one of yourselves, a Presbyter.’
Hurrell wrote no comment on the move; he was intimately aware of it
from the beginning, and the earliest and hungriest reader. By the
16th, he is deep in study; there is a new historical theory to start,
opening with an ironic reference to Mr. Keble’s ‘friends’:

‘… I have been reading a good deal lately about your friends the
Puritans in Queen Elizabeth’s time; and really I like poor Penry very
much. I think of writing An Apology for the Early Puritans, whose case
I think to be this. The Church of England had relinquished its claim
to the _jus divinum_, and considered Ordination to emanate ultimately
from the Queen. These poor fellows, _i.e._, Penry and Co. (not Beza
and Co., nor Knox and Co.), detested so abominable a notion: but what
could they do? They had been bred up in a horror of trusting history
in matters of religion, so they could look for a divine institution
and a priesthood nowhere except in the Bible. Here, then, they looked,
assuming as an axiom that they must find; and finding nothing more
reasonable than the platform, they caught at this. In the meantime our
people, and the smug[152] fellows on the Continent, were going on with
their civilities to one another, and servilities to their respective
Governments, and left these poor men to fight for a _jus divinum_,
though not the true one. It seems to me that Saravia and Bancroft are
the revivers of orthodoxy in England, and that the Puritans shielded
them from martyrdom. Had it not been for their pertinacity in claiming
a _jus divinum_, that tyrant[153] would certainly have smothered the
true one. Such are my crude speculations, on a rough survey: if you
think me hopelessly wrong, floor me at once, and save me from wasting
my time. How do you like my “Appointment of the Bishops?”[154] I have
sent one on “State Interference in Matters Spiritual,” very dry and
matter-of-fact, and mean to have a touch at the King’s supremacy,
which I think Hooker would not justify under present circumstances. I
think, if we manage well, we may make the idea of a Lay Synod popular.
Its members should be elected by universal suffrage among the
communicants, _more primitivo_. I find this view most effective in
conversation. I am very well, and don’t think of going abroad this
winter, though you seem to say I must. Time and money are two good
things, and I don’t like wasting more of them. I have done enough in
that line already…. I am quite surprised to see how much less of a
conservative [Rose?] is than he was six months since. I do believe the
progress of events is converting every one, and that we shall not have
much longer to encounter the stigma of ultraism.’

Froude supplied, at most, but four of what George Eliot called _The
Tracts Against the Times_, if we are to count as his only what he
wrote out with his own hand. Of these, the earliest, briefest, and
most comprehensive is No. 8, The Gospel a Law of Liberty, the
authorship of which was, and is, frequently assigned to Newman.[155]
It somewhat complicates matters that in Newman’s printed
correspondence are various remarks addressed to him as responsible for
No. 8, which bear no disclaimer in any note or parenthesis supplied by
himself. It is also noticeable that he writes to Hurrell on November
13, 1833: ‘Evangelicals, as I anticipated, are struck with The Law of
Liberty, and The Sin of the Church. The subject of Discipline, too, I
cannot doubt, will take them. Surely my game lies among them.’[156] He
might have said ‘our game,’ but he does not. Nor does The Gospel a Law
of Liberty appear in Froude’s _Remains_. Dean Burgon, however, prints
in the Appendix to his _Twelve Good Men_ an extract from a letter of
the Rev. Charles Marriott to the Rev. A. Burn of Chichester, Jan. 29,
1840. ‘You ought to know,’ says that gentle and unimpeachable
authority, ‘that Froude was the author of the Tract, The Gospel a Law
of Liberty, which is the subject of No. 8.’ Froude and Newman may well
have devised this No. 8 in concert. So far as the wording goes,
Newman’s light galloping touch is certainly upon it. In idea it is
intensely Froude-like in its concentrated suggestiveness: in it we see
the very pupa, as it were, of the wide-winged theory of Dogmatic
Development, broached at Littlemore so long after. No. 8, with its
_staccato marcato_ form, is perhaps the most typical of the early
_Tracts_, and most expressive of the spirit in which they were
conceived. These shared in common (in the opinion of Dr. Pusey’s
conjoint biographers, men who usually see things as they are) a
‘startling and peremptory language.’ ‘First rouse,’ ran Hurrell’s
business-like programme, ‘then modify.’ Newman certainly, in his
office of rouser, availed to set gentle and simple by the ears.
Briefly, pungently, he did his inimitable work. Dr. Pusey, with his
serious grasp, his moral weight, his immense learning, by contributing
to the series his great signed Tract on Baptism, changed the fashion
as we know. To ‘modify’ began with him, and progressed with him. He
had the genius of explicit statement. It might even be said that his
whole influence and care, especially from 1845 on, were on the side of
expounding and applying, as Newman’s and Froude’s had been
preponderately on that of naked presentment, full of novelty,
excitement, and ‘danger.’ The little guided Israel which had followed
the pillar of fire by night, found it well, in due course, to follow
the pillar of cloud by day.

Froude’s other contributions to the _Tracts_ were No. 9, On Shortening
the Church Services; No. 59, Church and State (incorporated in the
_Remains_ as the concluding section of State Interference in Matters
Spiritual); and No. 63, on The Antiquity of Existing Liturgies. The
last-named was intended to display the novel features of the Communion
Service in the Book of Common Prayer, as contrasted with those Uses
having inter-resemblance and an unbroken Apostolic derivation. It is
shown that every Ordo except the English contains a memento of the
dead; a sacrificial oblation; and a prayer ‘that God may make the
bread and wine the Body and Blood of Christ.’ The method adopted by
Froude in printing the Forms of Consecration is that of the parallel
column: an early instance of the employment of that practical and
sometimes deadly modern device. He calls the Tract, elsewhere, ‘my
analysis of Palmer,’ and it was certainly fitted to concentrate fresh
attention on Mr. Palmer’s _Origines Liturgicæ_, as well as on the norm
of the matter it deals with.

Hurrell’s hands were full of writing in 1833; and being so busied with
larger matters, he ceased to compose and preach sermons. Two very fine
sombre ones, on S. John Baptist, and Riches a Temptation, date from
June of this year; but they were his last. His true work lay in a less
trodden field. The strong essays signed ‘F.’ in _The British Magazine_
are in a happier vein than any of the sermons, and far more
spontaneously worded. Like Dr. Johnson, Hurrell had a writing
language, and a talking language which made faces at it. The only
papers of his which approach in animation the unconventional
utterances of his living voice and of all his letters, are just those
upon historic-ecclesiastical, not secular subjects. There he sends up
rockets too, though with a certain resigned decorum, and would have
filled the sky had he not been curbed, as time went on, both by Rose
and by Newman.

He came up to Oriel on October 5. Newman, now in the thick of affairs,
and overjoyed to have him close at hand, writes privately to Keble,
whom it ‘grieved to the heart’: ‘I fear that Calvert,[157] whom you
may recollect here, and a physician now, has pronounced about Froude
(not _to_ him) a judgment so unfavourable that I cannot bear to dwell
upon it, or to tell it. Pray exert your influence to get him sent to
the West Indies. I know he has a great prejudice against it; but,
still, what other place is hopeful? They say Madeira is not. He might
take a cargo of books with him. _N.B._――Could you not manage to send
Isaac Williams too?’ On Oct. 26, Hurrell left Oxford for home, Keble
going with him as far as Bath. He sailed away on his second long
voyage a month later. During the interval, he takes up his tireless

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, Oct. 29, 1833.

‘Thank I[saac Williams] for a Thomas à Kempis he sent me, and tell him
to know more about the other Sanctus Thomas before he draws invidious
comparisons. I have got here without increasing my cough at all…. We
will have a _vocabularium apostolicum_, and I will start it with four
words: “pampered aristocrat,” “resident gentlemen,” “smug parsons,”
“_pauperes Christi_.”[158] I shall use the first on all occasions: it
seems to me just to hit the thing…. Love to C[hristie] the prefect,
and all the sub-Apostolicals. I am like the man[159] who “fled full
soon on the first of June, but bade the rest keep fighting.”… Mind and
write me all the news as it comes to hand; else I shall go to sleep at
Barbados entirely…. Tony Buller[160] was here yesterday. He is a
capital fellow, and is anxious to assist us with trouble and money in
any way he can. I told him it was better not to say anything about
money yet, till we had given people a longer trial of us. It is no use
to form expectations of people, but I am willing to hope that he is a
most zealous fellow, and will not start aside like some other broken

By early November the address of the clergy to the Archbishop (Howley)
of Canterbury, which covered much ground, took many revisions, and
ultimately was so well received, was afoot. Hurrell was ready, with
his own uncompromising diction, to help it into being, leaving it to
others to ‘supply the etiquette about “the undersigned clergy, etc.”’
Rhetorical drapery was hardly in his line. He sends to Newman some
pithy sentences about ‘the misapplication to which some of the
Services [of the Church of England] are exposed by the practical
disuse of the Rubrics prefixed to them, and the inefficiency of
attempting to act on these Rubrics without first completing the
ecclesiastical system they presuppose.’ Also, he would have the
reformers declare their conviction that ‘measures such as these,
affecting the spiritual welfare of the Church, ought to originate only
with its spiritual rulers, and that in such matters they deprecate
every kind of extra-ecclesiastical interference.’ ‘_Satis hæc
lusisse_,’ he breaks off. ‘I am very well indeed;――not had so little
cough as to-day and yesterday, since the Lazaretto at Malta.’

So on Nov. 4; and on the 14th, some affectionate abuse: ‘Ἀγείων ὄχ’
ἄριστε. Have you not been a spoon to allow the Petition to have
nothing about “the system presupposed in the Rubrics,” and to leave
out your key-words “completing” and “extra-ecclesiastical”? The last
word I would introduce thus: “They take this opportunity of expressing
their conviction that the powers with which God has entrusted the
spiritual rulers of the Church are sufficient for its spiritual
government, and that all extra-ecclesiastical interference in its
spiritual concerns is both unnecessary and presumptuous.” My father is
annoyed at its being such milk-and-water. Do make a row about it. I
see already that I shall find in your book[161] sentences which I am
sure stood, when they were first written, after some other sentence
than that which affects to introduce them now, and seem conscious of
being in the neighbourhood of a stranger: “buts” where there should
have been “ands,” etc., of which I shall make a catalogue, and pay you
off for all the workings you have given me before now. However, it
looks very pretty; and when I puff it, and people turn over the pages,
they have a very imposing effect. People say, “Ah! I dare say, a very
interesting work.”… Love and luck to all the Apostolicals. Why do you
say “yours _usque ad cineres_”? If I am wrecked on Ash-Wednesday you
will be the cause of it….’

‘My father’ was usually the bridle, not the spur, to his young
high-pacing ‘Apostolical.’ ‘I have often told Hurrell he was going too
fast,’ the Archdeacon writes a little later to Newman. ‘He alarms
people by his speculations, and is incautious in talking to persons
who cannot enter into the purity of his motives. I dare say he laid
himself completely open on his visit to Archdeacon Lyall.’[162]

Hurrell could not but enjoy his too quickly-ended months at the
Parsonage. However, he was never, even in full health, very social,
because having tested society, he feared the effect of it upon
himself. Much of it, he thought, would wake in him pettiness of
various sorts, and lead him to be ‘flash and insincere,’ and tempt him
also to value those who thought him clever and charming, and to form
‘wild schemes about becoming popular.’ But he ‘made himself
agreeable,’ as it is called, to please his father. He even rode to
hounds, though on principle he objected to hunting; and he put up
generally, without visible grimaces, with the customs, viands,
amusements and conversation of his class. He hated eccentricity, most
of all in himself, and very likely from his native fastidiousness, as
well as from the supernatural motive. Conscious idiosyncrasy is so
cheap! a deliberate escape from the vulgar being essential vulgarity.
‘Any eccentric pleasure we have a fancy for, particularly if we think
it a proof of genius,’ had small chances with Froude. His very
difficult ideal, borrowed unconsciously from S. Benedict and S.
Bernard, was moderation, the mean of things, the spiritual adornment
of the ordinary. He would attain to the ‘humdrum.’ ‘Whatever is
disagreeable,’ he formulates to himself at twenty-three, ‘whatever, at
the same time, makes us like other people, is an opportunity for
self-denial,’ and through self-denial he meant, if possible, to
remodel Hurrell Froude. That was his fine art and his religion. To
‘make a few saints,’ as he told his friend Rickards, was the way for
each man to build up Christianity again for all.

‘I have heard from dear Froude, who is certainly downcast,’ Newman
confides to Keble towards the middle of this month of November, in an
undated letter. ‘He left home to-day, and was to be with Canon Rogers
till Saturday, when the packet sails. He is full of disappointment at
the address; but then, say I, it effects two things: first, it
addresses the Archbishop as the head of the anti-innovators, and it
addresses him, and not the King or Parliament: which has a doctrinal
meaning, and is a good precedent. However, Froude calls me names, and
bids me stir you up into a fury, if I can.’

Newman’s thoughts continued to play pensively about his friend
‘ordered South.’ He reverts to him, without naming him, on the 22nd,
when he writes to Mr. Rickards, in reply to a letter of censure: ‘Nor
can I wish anyone a happier lot than to be himself unfortunate, yet to
urge on a triumphant cause: like Laud and Ken in their day, who left a
name which after ages censure or pity, but whose works do follow them.
Let it be the lot of those I love to live in the heart of one or two
in each succeeding generation, or to be altogether forgotten, while
they have helped forward the Truth.’

Hurrell put to sea, again from Falmouth, this time without Newman or
his father. ‘Blowing a full gale … and I to start to-morrow morning!’
And, by way of hygienic consolation: ‘A sailing vessel is as nearly
the cleanest thing in the world as a steamer is the dirtiest.’

Mr. Keble, who may have chiefly influenced his decision to go to
Barbados, would be intimately interested, for a dozen reasons, to hear
of Hurrell’s welfare in a field where he himself might once have found
his lifework. As long before as 1824, he had been offered the
Archdeaconry of Barbados (worth £2000 a year), and declined his only
ecclesiastical dignity, as he declined or accepted pretty much
everything, for a pious domestic reason: his father was too infirm.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Jan. 9, 1834. Barbados.

‘With hands bitten sore by mosquitoes, I set to, upon a sheet of paper
which will witness many fresh bites before I get through it. The
wretches are flitting about me on all sides, and every moment I am
forced to put down my pen and hit at them. People soon cease to care
for them: that is my only consolation. The weather here is most
delicious, the thermometer averaging eighty-three degrees, and showers
flying in all directions. When it rains here, they say: “What a fine
day!”… The room I am in has seven windows and four doors, with a
thorough draught every way; everything is contrived for getting up
thorough draughts: long passages open at both ends, for the
everlasting east wind to blow through, and windows on every side of a
room where it is possible, or immense doors opposite them, where it is
not. I suppose before the hurricane[163] this must have been a house
fit for a resident gentleman of high pretensions; now it consists only
of two rooms, and a number of sheds erected round them against the
walls that remain standing…. The sum which was set aside by Government
to repair the injury done here is not allowed to go to the repair of
Churches, even though 24,000_l._ of it is still in hand, which they do
not know how to dispose of, and seven Churches are in complete ruins….

‘I have heard some facts which seem to show a good spirit among the
clergy…. Mr. ――――, about whom you may remember the great row that took
place some years since for admitting a black to the Communion in
company with whites, has now so completely broken down that feeling,
that last Sunday, when I received the Sacrament at his Church, at
which near two hundred people were present, all colours were mixed
indiscriminately. In the Roman Catholic islands this was always
insisted on, and carried with a high hand…. This island is very green,
and its plants very exotic-looking, but there is a total want of
beauty. For all I have yet seen, the coasts of the Mediterranean are
the places “_mortalibus ægris munere concessæ Divom_.” Also, the negro
features are so horridly ugly, at least the generality of them: now
and then indeed one sees finely-chiselled Egyptian features, and among
the others one can distinctly trace the difference of caste in all
shades from man to monkey…. You will be shocked at my avowal, that I
am every day becoming a less and less loyal son of the Reformation. It
appears to me plain that in all matters that seem to us indifferent or
even doubtful, we should conform our practices to those of the Church
which has preserved its traditionary practices unbroken. We cannot
know about any seemingly indifferent practice of the Church of Rome
that it is not a development of the Apostolic ἦθος; and it is to no
purpose to say that we can find no proof of it in the writings of the
six first centuries; they must find a _dis_proof if they would do
anything…. I have been reading the controversy between Law and Hoadly
for the first time. Law’s brilliance quite astonished me: I think it
the most striking specimen of writing I ever saw. Yet I own now and
then he seems rather wild. Surely one could get such splendid
compositions into circulation by puffing them? It was a noble end of
Convocation to be put down for censuring Hoadly, and the censure looks
well as the last record in Wilkins’s _Concilia_. The sun that set so
bright must have a rising!… I have translated all the Becket
correspondence, and should go [on] at once to Anselm, if I was not on
the point of starting with the Bishop[164] on his Visitation. All I
hear makes me wish to go to America, though I do not conceive the
views of the clergy in general there to be very high. Preaching goes
for everything, and a person that cannot fill his Church gets
dismissed. I think that in the present state of religion preaching
should be quite disconnected from the Services, and looked on as an
address to the unconverted.[165]… We ought to employ itinerant talkers
in England; I am sure I could stir up people very much in Devonshire
and Cornwall in that way.’

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, Jan. 25, 1834.

‘… I have a very poor account to give you of my studies. I have been
here near a month, and have not set to work regularly on anything.
Although I have not done anything like regular work, I have picked up
a good deal. I have been looking about, here and there…. Does not the
Archbishop of Canterbury claim patriarchal authority (_qualem qualem_)
over as large a portion of the globe as ever the Bishop of Rome did?
and are not the Colonial Bishops just as much exonerated from their
oath of canonical obedience, by proving that there is no universal
Bishop recognised in Scripture, as ever Cranmer was?… I have been much
surprised to find that the first Latitudinarians were Tories: _e.g._,
Hales, Chillingworth, and that set. How Whiggery has by degrees taken
up all the filth that has been secreted in the fermentation of human
thought! Puritanism, Latitudinarianism, Popery, Infidelity; they have
it all now, and good luck to them.[166] I see the reason Convocation
was put down in 1717 was the remonstrance of the Lower House against
the Upper, to make them censure Hoadly’s _Preservative_. The Upper
House had a very little while before taken part with the Socinianising
Bishops against the Lower. Also, what a curious thing it is to see the
popularity of High Churchism among the lower orders at the time of
Sacheverell’s trial! These matters have opened to my weak mind a field
of thought and inquiry which I have no great chance of following up.
If I had 5000_l._, I would pay all the clever fellows I could find to
analyse the pamphlets, etc., of that time, and make a good History of
Protestantism. A continuation of Collier[167] would just take in all I
desiderate, and if done well, most curious and amusing it would be….
The most sensible people here seem to think it certain, that, after
the emancipation of the slaves, no estate will be profitable enough to
pay for a manager, so that all English proprietors who from age or
habit, etc., are not able to come out and reside on their own
property, must sell at a reduced price; also that since this climate,
state of society, etc., suits the coloured people better than the
whites, it will answer to them to buy at a higher rate than others, so
that the islands will by degrees become what they call “brown”
islands, and relapse into a semi-savage state by the gradual
withdrawal of those who now keep up the tone of acquirement, etc.;
that this will happen without any bloodshed, but will destroy the
commercial value of the islands, for that not more than one-fifth of
the sugar will be grown, and the rest of the land employed in growing
sustenance for the idle population.’

     To the Ven. Archdeacon FROUDE, Feb. 6, 1834.

‘… The weather has been very boisterous since I have been here: people
say that they should have called the night of Friday 17th [January] a
hurricane, if it had been in August or September…. I don’t know
whether I may lay any blame on the weather, but certainly my cough has
made no progress for the better since I landed. I don’t mean that I am
worse, for I certainly have gained flesh, but my cough is exactly
where it was when I first got into the warm latitudes: an improvement
on what it was in England, but no more. The temperature of the air is
quite delightful, but there is nothing to interest one out-of-doors:
horridly ugly faces, most uninteresting scenery, an extremely shabby
town, the population of which may, in point of morals, be called
almost the sink of humanity; and then the vulgar names of all the
places (I forget them as fast as I hear them), and money-making
associations, which intrude into everything one sees and hears, offer
a sad contrast to last winter’s work. But I don’t mention this out of
grumbling, only as a reason why I am not more out-of-doors: the fact
is, I spend my time in-doors very agreeably indeed. The Bishop stands
very high in my estimation as a man of imperturbable equanimity among
great trials to his temper, and the footing on which all his clergy
are with him is a model. … The Bishop’s library is capital――much
better than I expected; and as the daily expectation of setting off on
the Visitation has kept me from going to work on anything regular, I
have been dipping about, to my great amusement. … They say that if the
growth of sugar were discontinued the island would produce sustenance
enough for a very much larger population, almost without any
cultivation. The vegetation is really wonderful. The guinea corn grows
near fifteen feet high: and in the sugar crop there seems to be a mass
of solid vegetable matter thrown up, as much as there is in a copse of
ten years’ growth. It is an impenetrable thicket of rank iris: the
cane part is just like the knotty root of an iris straightened out,
and rising six or seven feet out of the ground; its colour is the
richest yellow-green that can be conceived.

‘_Feb. 6._――At anchor off Nevis,――between it and St. Christopher’s,
which the Protestants have vulgarised into St. Kitt’s. The Bishop is
ashore confirming, and I have stayed to fetch up leeway. Since Monday,
Jan. 26, when we started on our voyage, I have been in quite a new
state of things…. I have a very uncomfortable hot, dark berth, which I
could go into amusing details about, if it was worth the trouble; but
“beggars must not be choosers,” as they say, so I may think myself
well off to have any berth at all. The first place we got to was
Antigua. About seven in the morning I came on deck, and found we were
close to it: quite unlike Barbados; it put me in mind of Ithaca, or
bits of the Sicilian coast: very beautiful, but on a small scale.
While we stood off and on before what seemed an iron-bound coast, a
pilot-boat emerged from one-could-not-say-where; and when the pilot
was on board, we tacked, and sailed straight against a rock. As we got
quite close, it began to appear that the shore was not a continuous
line, but that one rock overlapped another, and between these there
turned out to be an entrance about a gun-shot wide, which took us into
a beautiful little lake, where there was just room to anchor. You will
find it in the map, under the name English Harbour. And now I will not
go on bothering with descriptions. We landed at the dockyard, where a
file of soldiers were drawn up in compliment to the Bishop, and as he
stepped out of the boat the batteries saluted. That part of Antigua is
exquisitely beautiful; very deep bays and rocks, and pasture and wood
and mountains, put the sugar and the niggers quite out of one’s head.
The people seem a superior set to what you have elsewhere. I liked
some of the clergy much, and the resident proprietors are said to be,
with some exceptions, intelligent gentlemen…. We were at Antigua six
days; since that we have been at Montserrat and Nevis, both
mountainous on a large scale, and generally lost in cloud. Nevis is
not unlike Pantelaria. Yesterday we dined at the President’s,[168] and
had turtle for the first time.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Feb. 8, 1834.

‘Here I am with the Bishop on his Visitation, so that I have the
advantage of a good long sea-voyage and some variety of scenery, both
[of] which are good for me, though I cannot say they have as yet
produced any perceptible effect. I seem to be just as well and no
better than I was last summer; in fact, this is nothing else than a
protracted summer, and it is unreasonable to expect more from climate
here than from the same climate in England. You will see in my letter
to [Newman] how I have employed my time in Barbados, and the length
that I am being pulled on in anti-Protestantism. Would not Hammond,
and Fell, and the rest of those holy humble men of God have altered
the Articles?[169]

‘… [Rose?] seems to think anything better than an open rupture with
the State, as sure to entail loss of caste on the clergy. Few men can
receive the saying that the clergy have no need to be gentlemen….

‘… We have just left St. Christopher’s; it is the most beautiful of
any of the islands I have yet seen. Mount Miserere is quite fine; a
precipitous granite crag, quite bare, and of a very great height,
rising out of the rich woods with which the mountain is clothed up to
the top, and stooping over a very deep hollow, which has once been the
crater of a volcano. I should have liked much to get up there, but had
not time, and besides, they say it is very difficult. The people here
seem to have very little curiosity: in fact, few tastes except
acquisitiveness…. I see the papers have begun to talk; addresses to
the Archbishop are said to be pouring in. I wish I could get my lungs
right again to make preachments, and give the Yanks a talking over. We
shall be back at Barbados the second week in March, and about then the
weather in New York brightens up. I think I have made up my mind not
to be in England till the latter end of May, whatever news we have, so
I shall certainly have time on my hands, and if I can’t preach I can
prose; so I may as well go at any rate. Do ply the people with Tracts
on the “safest course” principle: the more I think of it, the more
important it seems as the intellectual basis of Church authority…. We
have now got a north-west wind, which a few years since would have
been almost a miracle in these latitudes. It is generally said that
the trade-winds are becoming yearly more irregular, and have been for
this last fifty years. It will make a curious change if they cease
altogether; certainly nothing can be more irregular than we have had
them, both in quantity and direction; it goes from a storm to a calm
in no time, and the other night went all round the compass. This puts
me in mind of an adventure we had the other evening at Nevis. There is
no harbour there, but only a beach to land on, and sometimes a heavy
surf. We landed in the morning, in still weather. In the course of the
day it came to blow on shore, and we had to embark in the dark, in a
very heavy sea breaking on the sands most furiously. The Bishop slept
on shore, but the Commodore, the Captain, the Chaplain, and myself
were carried on men’s shoulders to the boat, which was lying as near
the shore as it could, in the midst of the breakers. I was put in
second, and was only wetted by the water in the bottom of the boat,
but the two last were fairly soused…. I am sure this stuff is not
worth sending across the Atlantic.’

     To WILLIAM FROUDE, Feb. 12, 1834.

‘… I will try to scrape together stuff for a letter to you. We are
becalmed with Saba off our starboard quarter, in the _Forte_ frigate,
forty-six guns, Commodore P…. Somehow, this frigate is beyond my
comprehension. I am not up to taking an interest in its movements; it
is 1150 tons and the sails are so large, and the masts so high, and
such an immense lot of ropes, that I see no hope of learning anything
about it. When they get up the anchor they have 100 men at the
capstan, and if they want to tack quickly they put 300 men to work at
once. They do their work to the sound of two fiddles and a fife,
instead of the gibber that one is accustomed to in the _Ranger_ and
elsewhere; so, as the [Provost?] would say, “I don’t comprehend the
style of things.” The day before yesterday we had two adventures. (1)
A man was to be flogged, and as I knew that he would be let off out of
compliment to the Bishop, I went on deck to see the preliminary
ceremony. The whole ship’s crew were mustered, while the fellow stood
under guard; then a grating was lashed to the gangway, and his wrists
and ankles made fast to it, his jacket having been stripped off in
readiness; the officers stood in full dress on one side of him, and
the boatswain’s mates on the other; and the Commodore read over the
articles of war. I watched the fellow’s countenance closely. At first
he seemed very unconcerned, but the ceremony seemed by degrees to work
on his imagination, and just before his pardon was announced he seemed
in considerable dismay. The thing has stuck in my mind deeper than I
expected, and I feel rather sick at thinking of it. The officers say
that letting him off did a great deal of harm. Last night ever such a
lot were drunk, and I suppose they will catch it in a day or two!
Twenty-four hours must elapse between the offence and the punishment.
(2) The other adventure was falling in with a man-of-war by night, so
that we could not distinguish each other’s colours. On nearing them we
heard them pipe to quarters, and on coming up we found them, contrary
to etiquette, with their main-deck lighted up, their guns and rigging
manned, and with every demonstration of readiness for action; so we
had to make similar preparations with all speed: powder was got up,
and both sides loaded and shotted, exactly as if we intended to fight.
On passing them the Commodore asked what they were, and they would not
tell, and nothing more came of it: a beautiful mare’s nest. The
officers say it was a Dutch frigate, and that since our ill behaviour
to them they have made a point of showing our ships disrespect;
however, if a gun had gone off by accident, which might easily have
been, as they all have flint and steel locks, it would have ended in a
fight, most likely…. From St. Thomas’s we go to Santa Cruz, and from
thence to La Guayra, so I shall have a fine cruise altogether; yet
somehow I take no interest in the places I see: there is something so
unromantic among the English, and so unpleasing about the niggers,
that they spoil the scenery altogether. The thing that strikes me as
most remarkable in the cut of these niggers is excessive immodesty; a
forward, stupid familiarity, intended for civility, which prejudices
me against them worse even than Buxton’s[170] cant did…. I want much
to hear about your steam-engine…. I begin to think that the Nonjurors
were the last of English divines, and that those since are twaddlers.
The more I read, the more I am reconciled to the present state of
things in England, and prospects of the Church. It seems to be only
the fermentation of filth which has long been in existence, and could
not be got rid of otherwise…. And now my ideas run slow, and take more
trouble writing than they are worth reading; so, with best love to

     To the Ven. Archdeacon FROUDE, April 2, 1834.

‘… We left the island [Santa Cruz] at four o’clock on Thursday, the
Bishop having been conveyed to Fredericstadt in the Governor’s
carriage and four, escorted by an aide-de-camp, and embarking under a
salute. We were under weigh in about an hour, with a breeze
east-north-east. On Saturday evening we saw, like a pale blue mist
rising above the clouds, the outline of the South American mountains.
The next morning, when I came on deck, we were within nine miles of
the coast, and the gigantic features of the scenery produced the same
effect that we observed between Salerno and Amalfi, viz., of making
distant objects seem so near each other. The mountains rose boldly out
of the sea, as far as the eye could reach before us and behind us, as
we sailed along the coast. Their height varies from 5000 to 9000 feet.
One of them (the highest) is a perpendicular precipice for 8000 feet:
Humboldt describes it as the most remarkable precipice in the world.
However, the effect, as a whole, cannot be compared to that of the
Italian or Sicilian coast. The mountains are richly covered with wood
from the very bottom to the top, except the peaks of the very highest,
which are naked granite, but so high that the rocky features, when
diminished by the great distance and rendered indistinct by the haze
of the hot air, lose all their raciness; so that there is no variety
of colour, but a mass of uniform green, or rather gray, more or less
pale according to the distance. We coasted along about twelve miles
almost under the shadow of the rocks, yet near nine miles from them.
Early in the morning they were visible from top to bottom, but
indistinct from the dazzle of the sun, which was behind them. About
ten o’clock a line of little misty dots formed at a uniform height
above the sea, perhaps 3000 feet. This became denser and denser, till
it became one impenetrable cloud, above which we could see nothing.
About twelve we anchored at La Guayra, which Humboldt says is the
hottest place in the world. The thermometer in the cabin window was
ninety degrees. The Bishop and Commodore disembarked that evening and
rode over the mountains to Caraccas; I and some of the officers were
to follow before daylight. Accordingly, having ordered mules
over-night, we got up at half-past three, breakfasted on board, and
set out for the shore, two boat-loads. There was a very heavy rolling
swell, and the landing-place is a wooden stage upon piles, which does
not keep off the sea at all. We lay by anxiously waiting for a lull,
and all of us in the first boat succeeded in landing dry on the stage,
and running off before a wave had time to reach us; but when the
second boat was lying on its oars, in hopes of a lull like ours, a
wave far above the size of the rest broke just ahead of them; and
really, I never saw such a nervous sight! The boat, in which were ten
rowers and several officers, seemed to stand quite upright on its
stern, so as to leave us doubtful which way it would fall. The whole
was hid for a moment in a mass of spray, except that we could see the
blades of the oars sticking out, all in confusion, as the water took
them. When the wave passed and the boat righted, they say it was full
up to the thwarts. On seeing this Captain H. ordered them to pull off,
and sent a shore boat for them, i.e., two niggers in a canoe, which
took them out one or two at a time. The last load consisted of the
Commodore’s steward, an old Italian for whom I have an affection, and
a midshipman. As they were alongside the stage a wave broke outside
them; the mid was lucky enough to catch hold in time, but the poor
Italian, canoe, niggers, and all, totally disappeared, and were seen
again about thirty yards off progressing with the crest of the wave
towards the beach, on which all were deposited safe, after a dive of
near 600 yards. _N.B._――The niggers and Spaniards, when landing
themselves, never think of going to the stage, but sitting very
steadily in their canoes, wait where the waves begin to break, and
only taking care to keep the boat straight, and paddling a little to
assist it in getting way at first, they are shot in without any
effort, on the crest of the wave, with wonderful velocity, keeping on
the downhill side of it all the time, and at last are deposited high
and dry. When I saw this first, I could hardly believe my eyes.

‘I shall stay here a fortnight longer at least, and then set off for
New York. I am very grateful for your long letters, which come by
every packet.’

There follows a letter on April 8, 1834, conjointly addressed:

‘Joannibus Keble et Newman: _fratres ignavissimi, ut quid fecisti
nobis sic_? as St. Thomas says to the Bishop of Poictiers…. The Bishop
[of Barbados] is a thorough Z;[172] and I can make no impression on
him, though I think I have frightened him. If he had not been as kind
to me as one man can be to another, I should be terribly provoked with
him sometimes…. You may like to know of my health: I really think I am
getting well. I left England in the impression that I was μινυνθάδιος,
as you may see in a scratched-out passage in one of my letters; since
I have conceived hopes, I have become much more careful. I should not
wonder, if I stayed here, till[173] I get quite rid of my cough. The
Bishop’s library is a great piece of luck. I don’t think I am wasting
my time here, independent of my health. I don’t ask how anyone is, for
I shall certainly be gone before I can have an answer; and when I
shall go to Yankland I do not know…. _Valete, et confortamini in

     The Rev. J. KEBLE to the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, April, 1834.

‘… As to Froude, I know, of course, no more than the letters have told
us both, and the first was so flattering that I was disappointed at
the other; yet, on consideration, I see no additional reason for
alarm. It seems much as it used to be, and we cannot be wrong in
hoping the best. Anyone who remembers him three or four years ago must
acknowledge that to have him now is much more than we could have been
sure about. I wish him strong enough, please God, to take duty and
wait on some flock. I think he would get more calm and less young in
his notions, or rather in his way of putting them, which makes people
who do not know him think him not a practical man. What a wise
old[174] letter! Well, good-bye.’

On May 2, Hurrell makes to Mr. Keble the frank confession that he is
not well enough to return to England, or to travel at all. He never
saw the United States. He adds, referring to clauses in the Oriel
Statutes, which he seems to have known by heart, ‘Try to satisfy the
College that though my _ægritudo_ is _diutina_, it may not be
_incurabilis_.’ And he goes on to say that a mathematical instructor
is wanted at Codrington College,[175] ‘so I mean to offer myself, on
condition of having a room given me, and being allowed to battel.[176]
Mind, this is mere castle-building as yet, but it is ten to one it
will be realised. In fact, unless I get suddenly and decidedly well
before the end of this month, I see no chance against it; so will your
worships have the goodness to get together a few sets of the [Oxford]
Tracts; also three or four copies of a work[177] which I see much
praised in _The British Magazine_, as coming from the pen of “a
scholar, a man of refined taste, and above all, a Christian”; also a
copy of an anonymous work called _The Christian Year_, which I forgot
to bring with me; also the parts _Autumnalis_ and _Hyemalis_ of my
Breviary; also any newspapers or reviews, or anything else which will
throw light on your worships’ proceedings; and send the package to [my
father]: let it be a good big one; and mind to send lots of Tracts,
for I shall try hard to poison the minds of the natives out here….
There is a most commendable production in the supplemental December
number, signed C.[178] Whose is it? he should be cultivated. I should
like to see a good one on clergy praying with their faces to the Altar
and backs to the congregation. In a Protestant Church the parson seems
either to be preaching the prayers or worshipping the congregation….
The climate out here is certainly delicious, though it alters one’s
metaphors a little: _e.g._, the shady side of the hedge would be the
cheerful one. The only nuisance is that everything is so inelegant:
money and luxury are the people’s sole objects, and their luxuries are
only of the kind that can be enjoyed on the instant: no one counts on
living here, so there are no porticos, no fountains, no avenues,
nothing that makes the south of Europe such a fairyland. Windmills and
boiling-houses, treeless fields and gardenless houses, are the only
things one sees; except at my dreamed-of residence, Codrington
College, where there is a grand avenue of gigantic palms,[179] a
delicious spring of the freshest (nothing is cold here) clearest
water, and a very tolerably nice flower-garden with mowed turf, and
roses that smell, and almost complete seclusion. If I go there I shall
turn sentimental, and sit παρὰ θῖνα θαλάσσης ἀτρυγέτοιο δακρυχέων. I
wish I could be in England now, and see a little of “Nature’s
tenderest, freshest green,” etc. Out here it is the leafless time….’

One circumstance which would turn Hurrell’s thoughts the more readily
to a tutorship was that he could no longer be domestic Chaplain. The
Bishop of Barbados had gone on a long visit to England.

Beginning in June of this year, and lasting into October, appeared in
_The British Magazine_,[180] copious excerpts from the ancient Parish
Books of Dartington. There is a very high value put now upon all such
publications, and a very general interest in them; but one wonders how
many readers of the time, brought up on controversy, begrudged the
space given to the statistics of bygone village people. Archdeacon
Froude sent up copies of his registers to London, in response to the
behest of that busy antiquary in the making, his eldest son: that
seems an obviously safe deduction.

Newman has something to say to the absentee on June 15.

‘Was it not a strange mishap, that much as you abused me for making
you a cat’s paw, yet when the time of danger came, you should get out
of the way, and leave innocent me to trouble? So it was: only think
how mildly I have always spoken of Arnold, and how bitterly you! Never
did I use a harsh word against him, I think, except that once, and
then at Rome, and with but one or two friends.[181] Yet even from Rome
those few words are dragged forth, and I have to answer for them…. In
the next place, my _Tracts_ are abused as Popish; as for other things,
so especially for expressions about the Eucharist. Here, as you well
know, it was you who were apt to be unguarded, not I. I could tell you
much, only it is renewing sorrows, and nothing else, of the plague the
_Tracts_ have been to us, and how we have removed them to Rivington’s.
That the said _Tracts_ have been of essential benefit it is impossible
to doubt. Pamphlets, sermons, etc. on the Apostolic Succession are
appearing in every part of the kingdom…. H[enry] Wilberforce engaged
to marry Miss S[argent] last December, was afraid to tell me, and left
Oxford without; spread abroad I had cut R[yder][182] for marrying. Yet
he has not ratted,[183] and will not: so be it. Marriage, when a
crime, is a crime which it is criminal to repent of.’

Poor Henry Wilberforce, caught red-handed, did not repent. He had
poured forth various misgivings in the ear of the ever sympathetic
Rogers. ‘Indeed, though I did not tell Neander (as who would?) yet I
did tell his sister, and gave her leave to tell him…. I suppose,
however, he will cut me. I cannot help it. At any rate, you must not….
Nor again, am I without a feeling of the danger, as you know, of
married priests in these days of trouble and rebuke; but I have taken
my line.’

‘It is needless to say,’ adds Miss Mozley in her narrative notes,
‘that “Neander” did not “cut” the writer of this letter, whose
firstborn was subsequently his godson.’

But to return to Newman’s letter to Froude, which goes on:

‘I have long come to the conclusion that our time is not come, _i.e._,
that other persons can do the day’s work as well as, or better than we
can, our business being only to give them a shove now and then. You
send home flaming papers, but, after all, I fall back to what I said
last year on your articles about the Præmunire. Not that it is not
right, very right, to accustom men’s imaginations to the prospect of
changes; but they cannot realise the arguments: they are quite beyond
them…. This is our gain, and I intend to make use of it…. Meanwhile
let us read, and prepare ourselves for better things…. As to Rose, he
is a fine fellow, certainly he is, and complains that he has no one,
all through London, in whom he can confide. O that you were well
enough to assist him in London! You are not fit to move of yourself,
but you would act through Rose as spirit acts on external matter
through a body. He has everything which you are without, and is so
inflammable that not even muscles are more sensitive of volition than
he would be of you.’

The ‘flaming papers,’ as Newman calls them, were the disconnected,
wide-branching chapters dealing with various aspects of Rationalism in
relation to doctrine, composed entirely at Barbados during 1834, and
pieced together and published in 1839 from four incomplete
manuscripts. Fragmentary as they are, they would, under careful
editing, and coupled with the _State Interference_ and _Church
Discipline_, display Froude’s tangential and remorseless intelligence
at its very best.

The proposed conjunction of Froude with Rose was less than a dream: a
flat impossibility. It is wonderful that Newman, who loved Rose truly
in a measure, should never have quite sounded the reasons why he and
Froude were not in closer accord and amity. When they were both in
their untimely graves, Newman associated their memories as
fellow-workers of the Will of God, in his comforting letter to Mr.
Rose’s widow. But the two, clearly, were temperamental antipodes,
partners in nothing but their stainless zeal, and their uncomplaining
battle with long disease.

Once settled as instructor of mathematics to his young theologians,
Hurrell pays epistolary dues to his father, and offers some ghostly
counsel of a then drastic kind.

     To the Ven. Archdeacon FROUDE, August 22, 1834.

‘… I am now at Codrington College, where Mr. P[inder][184] the
Principal, and his wife, have made me very comfortable indeed. I am
quite ashamed to think how much trouble they have taken. I have two
rooms about thirteen by fourteen each, twelve high; the sitting room
looks out on the Atlantic, which is about half a mile off at the
bottom of a very steep hill to which the Babbacombe[185] one is
nothing. The view is very pretty: the foreground is the Principal’s
garden, which is the most English thing in the West Indies, they say:
then comes some very rough uncultivated ground, some part of which is
quite parkish; and at the bottom a beautiful little bay which just
now, while the wind is south, is as still as a millpond.

‘I give two Lectures a day, which is an amusement, and helps me to
avoid thinking, which is ruination, I am sure. Some of the youngsters
are very stupid, some passable, and one rather clever; so that the
work is not monotonous. I have commons from the College kitchen very
comfortably, and since I have had the ordering of my own dinner, I
have entirely left off animal food. My dinner is a sort of slimy
vegetable, the name of which I forget, but which tastes something like
an oyster; and custard pudding, and a tumbler of water. At breakfast I
eat two eggs, and put lots of butter to my bread; it is only lately
that I have got over my dislike to Barbados butter. The first hour
after daylight, I work myself with dumb-bells, which is very dull, but
they say a good thing; and washing afterwards is a great treat. Also I
sometimes undress in the middle of the day, and have a bout at the
same dull occupation to get an appetite for dinner; and about
half-past five in the evening I get an hour’s walk: so I am doing all
I can for myself if nature will but help me, and if my patience will
hold out. The disheartening thing is, that if I ate a beefsteak and
drank a bottle of porter and six glasses of wine a day, I don’t
believe my pulse would rise or my cough increase an atom. However, I
hope to give this abstemious plan a fair trial; for unless it weakens
me, which I have not yet found, it can do no harm.

‘I wish you did not set your face so pertinaciously against any
alteration in the mode of appointing Bishops; that is the real seat of
the disorder of the Church: the more I think of it, the more sure I am
that unless something is done about it, there must be a separation in
the Church before long, and that I shall be one of the separatists. It
will not do to say that you see great evils in any proposed new plan:
that is a very good argument when the present state of things is good;
but when a man is dying, it is poor wisdom in him to object that the
plans the surgeons propose for his relief are painful and dangerous.
There is another reform, which I have been thinking of lately more
than I did before, though I have long thought something should be done
about it; and it is one which every clergyman can make for himself
without difficulty. I believe it to be the most indispensable of all
the duties of external religion, that every one should receive the
Communion as often as he has opportunity; and that if he has such
opportunity every day of the week, it is his duty to take advantage of
it every day of the week. And further, as an immediate corollary from
this, I think it the duty of every clergyman to give the serious
members of his congregation this opportunity as often as he can
without neglecting other parts of his duty. Now at [Dartington] if you
had the Communion every Sunday you might make sure of a sufficient
number of communicants: and I don’t know of any other duty that you
would have to neglect in consequence. Or, at any rate, you might have
it every month without the slightest difficulty, and need assign no
reason for the change; indeed, people would not find out at first that
there was any change. I wish you would turn this over in your mind. I
dare say you will think my view overstrained, and very likely it may
be a little. Yet the more I think of it, the less doubtful it seems to
me. I know that neither N[ewman][186] nor K[eble], when I left
England, saw the thing in the light in which it now strikes me; they
thought that it was desirable to have the Communion as often as
possible, but still that the customs of particular places ought not to
be changed without particular reason. But it really does seem to me
that the Church of England has gone so very wrong in this matter, that
it is not right to keep things smooth any longer. The administration
of the Communion is one of the very few religious duties now performed
by the clergy for which Ordination has ever been considered necessary.
Preaching, and reading the Scriptures, is what a layman can do as well
as a clergyman. And it is no wonder the people should forget the
difference between ordained and unordained persons, when those who are
ordained do nothing for them but what they could have done just as
well without Ordination! If you are determined to have a pulpit in
your Church, which I would much rather be without, do put it at the
west end of the Church, or leave it where it is: every one can hear
you perfectly; and what can they want more? But whatever you do, pray
don’t let it stand in the light of the Altar, which, if there is any
truth in my notions of Ordination, is more sacred than the Holy of
Holies was in the Jewish Temple.

‘I have just heard that the postman is going, and so must write for my
life. The College is about fourteen miles from Bridge Town, and about
in the same latitude on the east side of the island. It is a long
handsome stone building, which has been very ill-repaired since the
hurricane. It consists of a Hall and Chapel, each about fifty feet
long, with a handsome porch between them, and two wings in which the
rooms are. I will give you a sketch in my next. The Principal’s house,
which is a separate building at the west end, is a very good specimen
of a Queen Anne house, only without chimneys. The carving of the
staircase and doors is very costly, in cedar. It is so well built that
the hurricane hardly hurt it at all. I generally drink tea there; but
breakfast and dine in my rooms. I get out of bed as soon as it is
light, if they bring me my coffee so soon; else I wait for it. You
can’t think how odd one feels at getting up without a cup of it. I did
not feel this at first, and perhaps it is only habit now. I breakfast
at half-past eight, dine at three: give Lectures from twelve to two;
and the rest of the day give my body as much exercise, and my mind as
little, as I can. There are about fourteen students here: very little
for so expensive an establishment. If I was the Bishop, I should not
make it a place for the exclusive education of gentlemen, but should
let the respectable coloured people, who had time and inclination to
study divinity, come here and prepare for Orders, without insisting on
Latin and Greek. These colonies are not ripe for supporting a learned
clergy; the wealthy are too irreligious to pay towards the maintenance
of anything like a sufficient number to look after the population. The
Bishop should take people of the caste in life that the Wesleyan
ministers come from, and taking care to keep a tight hand over them,
should ordain all who have sufficient zeal and knowledge to undertake
the burden. I will not even insist on their giving up their trades;
for if a parish priest can keep a school, I am sure he may make shoes
without giving up more of his time: and if St. Paul could maintain
himself by tent-making while he discharged the duties of an Apostle, I
don’t see why other people should not be able to maintain themselves
as well, while they do the duties of a parish priest. The notion that
a priest must be a gentleman is a stupid exclusive Protestant fancy,
and ought to be exploded. If they would educate a lower caste here,
they would fill the College directly.’

It was not long after the date of this letter that a restoration, not
‘an addition,’ as Mr. Thomas Mozley says,[187] was made, from
Hurrell’s designs and under his superintendence, of Codrington
College. The hurricane which had wrought the original havoc spent
itself in August, 1831. The great porch between Chapel and Hall, an
open passage locally known as the Belfry, was rebuilt, retaining the
triple arch below, but not the cupola or small dome which formerly
lifted itself over the palm-trees and the bridged waters. The whole
remains as our amateur architect left it. Busy as he was, he thirsted
for fuller news from home.

     To FREDERIC ROGERS, Esq.,[188] Sept. 25, 1834.

‘… By the time you get this, it will be near a year since I have heard
a word about you…. Of N[ewman] I heard as late as December 15, 1833: I
have just referred to the rascal’s letter. But as to K[eble] and
C[hristie] and you and the M[ozleys], I am in utter ignorance on which
side the Styx you are all residing…. I have entirely left off animal
food, which has cooled me without weakening me; and I have left off
writing radicalism, which did myself harm, and no one else any good:
for I see neither N[ewman] nor [Rose] will take any of it. Also, above
all, I have left off thinking, which, on matured reflection, I am
convinced is the great evil of human life…. If the sun was not so
intensely hot as to make sitting in the open air intolerable (_N.B._,
there is no shade here), I should take to drawing; but, somehow, there
is not much to tempt one in that department. The lights and shades are
here a third proportional to the lights and shades of an English
summer day, and those on a moonlight night. Everything is one mass of
brightness, except for the first and last half-hours of the day. The
skies, too, are entirely deficient in that glow which one’s English
imagination associates with heat; pale transparency, which one can
hardly look at for its brilliance, stares at one on every side, and
every part of the sky reflects so much light on every part of the
landscape, that you may apply to day what Virgil says of night:

              ‘“――――_cœlum condidit [igne]
    Jupiter, et rebus [lux] abstulit [alma] colorem_.”

‘The two things which I should like to make drawings of are the
bread-fruit tree, and the particular kind of palm which, in the
poetical language of the country, they call the cabbage-tree; both of
which are certainly very beautiful, the former most especially so; and
both so unlike anything English, that I don’t yet understand how to
touch the foliage…. I have two very pleasant rooms in the pleasantest
spot in the whole island, and battel just as at Oxford, which serves
to keep up a pleasant illusion. The College is about four hundred feet
above the sea, which is about two-thirds of a mile off, and the aspect
of my sitting-room is straight towards England; so that when I am
sentimental and dumpish,

     πόντον ἐπ’ ἀτρύγετον δερκέσκομαι ἀχνύμενος κήρ.

‘This windward coast is for ever exposed to the full roll of the
Atlantic, and its monotonous perturbation wearies one’s imagination,
as well as the mud and sand, neither of which does it suffer to repose
for a moment. I often wish for what I used to think no very
interesting object, the motionless calms of Torbay or Dartmouth.’

‘Rogers heard from Froude yesterday,’ runs a postscript of Newman to
Keble on Nov. 10. ‘He says nothing about his health, but is evidently
homesick and lonely.’ And two days after, Newman tenderly explains to
Hurrell himself: ‘I am not surprised you should be so unjust to me,
for I should be so to you under the same circumstances. You see we
expected you here with the Bishop of Barbados till the middle of May,
and therefore did not send letters. When we found him here without
you, we instantly began to write; by accidents which we could not help
(_e.g._, the box was a fortnight on the road to Dartington), it was
August before it was off. However, you had news of Oxford up to the
minute of its going…. Keble’s father has taken to his bed, and is so
ill that Keble does not leave him.’

Meanwhile, Hurrell had pursued his grievance, attacking Mr. Keble with
wistful humour, during October. ‘I wish I knew Horace’s receipt for
giving the sound of a swan to mute fishes,[189] and I most certainly
should administer you a dose. I know you must have a great deal on
your hands, so I should be contented with extracting only two pages in
as big a hand as an idle undergraduate’s theme: but I really do wish
to hear something of you…. Concerning your worship’s self, I have been
able to collect that you were in existence on or about the 12th of
June last…. [Davison’s?] death was a great surprise to me, and I may
almost say a shock, as I had always looked to him to do something
great for us…. Do you know, I partly fear that you … are going to back
out of the conspiracy and leave me and [Newman] to our fate? I mean to
ally myself to him in a close league, and put as much mischief into
his head as I can. He has sent me a great many of his pamphlets, etc.,
which I admire greatly for their ἦθος and execution; and I have
written back to him, pointing out wherein I think him too

The deceased colleague may well have been John Davison, who had died
on the sixth day of May, 1834; but Hurrell would not have seen the
announcement before July. Davison is commonly reckoned as one of the
old school, the Oriel Noetics, or Liberals; but there is a contrary
impression of him to be drawn from some charming pages in Mozley’s
_Reminiscences_.[190] Newman twice names him with Rose as a steadfast
encourager of the earliest _Tracts_.[191] There is no doubt that he
sympathised with the Tractarians more than his indecisive habit would
suffer him to testify by deed, and he was much beloved by them.
Hurrell’s expectation of ‘something great’ from him would almost
inevitably centre about the Scripture Commentary which he was known to
be writing and rewriting, but his fastidious self-criticism got the
better of that and him, after a most Oxonian fashion, as he directed
his widow to burn all his manuscripts. Besides, he was fifty-seven,
and naturally preferred an evening siesta on Troy Wall to any chances
of war. Newman, looking back, wrote feelingly of him in April, 1842:
‘It is surely mysterious, considering what the world is, how it needs
improvement, and, moreover, that this life is the appropriate time for
action, or, what is emphatically called in Scripture, work, that they
who seem gifted for the definite purpose of influencing and edifying
their brethren, should be allowed to do so much less than might be
expected…. Left to ourselves, we are apt to grudge that the powers of
such a mind as [Mr. Davison’s] have not had full range in his age and
country, and that a promise of such high benefits should, owing to
circumstances beyond man’s control, have been but partially

Hurrell’s playful use of the word ‘conspiracy’ to indicate the
Movement, will be noted. It was habitual with him from the first. It
irritated many excellent persons at the time; it irritated Dean Burgon
fifty years later. In the chapter devoted to Mr. Rose, in _Twelve Good
Men_, Dean Burgon administers to Hurrell an oblique rebuke. ‘Froude, a
man of splendid abilities and real genius, but sadly wanting in
judgment and of fatal indiscretion, rendered the good cause the
greatest disservice in his power by speaking of the Hadleigh
Conference in a letter to a friend as “the conspiracy”: which letter
was soon afterward published.’ Yet the word was really employed, and
it may have been even invented, a fortnight before the meeting at
Hadleigh, by none other than Mr. William Palmer! ‘Now I hope you will
be able to join in this little plan and conspiracy,’ he wrote to Mr.
Perceval on July 10, 1833. A more recent, and an equally historic use
of the word (not ironic in the least, this time), is Archbishop
Tait’s, in condemning the publications of the Society of the Holy
Cross:[193] ‘to counteract what I feel obliged to call a CONSPIRACY
within our own body against the doctrine, the discipline and the
practice of our Reformed Church.’

In this later Newman correspondence, as Miss Mozley the Editor of it
remarks, ‘R. H. Froude appears more as critic than originator or
author. His more intimate friends required his criticism, and rested
on his judgment. In his own person, this faculty acted mainly as a
check. He often speaks of trial and failure in his own attempts to
bring out what was working in his mind; as, for instance: “I have
tried to write a criticism on the Apollo [Belvedere], but cannot bring
out my meaning, which is abstruse and metaphysico-poetical. I always
get bombastic, and am forced to scratch out.” His critical faculty was
too masterful to be practised upon himself, but when exercised for the
benefit of friends to whom he looked up, he could give free license to
a pungent pen, and yet leave the modern reader to understand how
anxious those friends might well be to secure his comments, as long as
they were attainable. Keble, in his own simple way, sends his papers
to his old pupil to be overlooked by him; and Mr. Newman was more at
ease with Froude’s _imprimatur_. Thus, he sends him draughts of
papers; for example, “No. 2, Keble’s, No. 1, mine”; with the order:
“criticise the whole very accurately in matter and style, and send it
back by return of post.” Of course the state of Froude’s health made
criticism more possible than authorship, but, also, different
intellectual powers and functions are called into play.’[194]

It is certainly noticeable enough, in all the intercourse of these
years, between Keble, Newman and Froude, how the ordinary business of
the University is completely ignored. It is like necromancy to
remember that men were really still hastily reading the _Ethics_ by
the fire, and emptying bottles, and, with their pipes, racing off to
Shotover, through the white salve-like mud, for a constitutional. ‘The
_Tracts_,’ says Mr. Mark Pattison sadly, ‘desolated Oxford life, and
suspended, for an indefinite period, all science and humane letters,
and the first strivings for intellectual freedom which had moved in
the bosom of Oriel.’ Such æsthetic havoc was never caused in a city,
unless under Savonarola, when all the wonted social graces went to the
dust-bin, and works of art made acceptable fagots, and Christ was
hailed, without legal precedent, King of Florence.

On November 18, 1834, Newman resumes, in reference to complaints from
Hurrell, ‘suffering under intolerable delays incident to distant
correspondence in those days’:

‘I am so angry with you, I cannot say! Have we not sent you a full
box? That up to Sept. 29 you had not received it, is as hard for us to
bear as for you. Why will you not have a little faith?… I suppose all
this is for your good. You want a taming in various ways. It is to
wean you from your over-interest in politics … so you see you are
being taught to unlearn the world, the ecclesiastical as well as the
worldly world. A strange thought came across me about you some six
weeks ago, when I saw a letter from Tucker[195] of C. C. C., giving an
account of his prospects in India. He is not at all an imaginative or
enthusiastic man; but really, a religious spirit has sprung up among
military men at our stations, and having no angel to direct them to
Joppa, they have turned Evangelicals. The various sects there have a
leaning towards the Church, and the men of colour are forming centres
of operation. My thought was, if your health would not let you come
home, you ought to be a Bishop in India….’

What Newman did not confess to his friend was that he had dreamed of
their fates as one: he, too, would be a Bishop in India. To his sister
Jemima he had written from Tunbridge Wells on October 2: ‘I have been
much struck with a most sensible account of the state of India just
received here from Mr. Tucker, in almost every word of which (it is
full of practical and doctrinal matters), I agree. Though he is a
Calvinist, I do believe our differences would, in India, almost be a
matter of a few words. He gives a most exciting account of his field
of labour, without intending it. At this moment, could I choose, and
have all circumstances and providences at my disposal, I would go as
an independent Bishop to his part of India, and found a Church there.
This, you will say, is an ambitious flight. I am sure some one ought
to be sent as Bishop; but the State, the State! we are crippled. I can
fancy the day coming when India might be a refuge, if our game was up
here.’ Froude agreed. He says elsewhere: ‘The present Church system is
an incubus upon the country. It spreads its arms in all directions,
claiming the whole surface of the earth for its own, and refusing a
place to any subsidiary system to spring upon. Would that the waters
would throw up some Acheloides, where some new Bishop might erect a
See beyond the blighting influence of our upas trees.[196] Yet I
suppose that before he could step in, an Act of Parliament would put
its paw upon the κρησφύγετον, and include it within the limits of some
adjacent diocese. I admire [Mozley’s?] hit about our being united to
the State as Israel was to Egypt.’

To return to the letter sent to Barbados on November 18. Around this
half-quaint suggestion of young mitred revolutionaries in unhampered
Sees, Newman’s love and genius break forth together.

‘It quite amused[197] me for awhile, and made me think how many posts
there are in His Kingdom, how many offices, who says to one “Do this,
and he doeth it,” etc. It is quite impossible that some way or other
you are not destined to be the instrument of God’s purposes. Though I
saw the earth cleave and you fall in, or Heaven open, and a chariot
appear, I should say just the same. God has ten thousand posts of
service. You might be of use in the central elemental fire; you might
be of use in the depths of the sea.’

To the editor of the _Letters and Correspondence to 1845_ we owe,
again, this enriching footnote:

‘In Vol. ii. of the _Parochial Sermons_ (Ascension Day, p. 214) there
is a passage which throws light on this ardent confident strain,
prompted as it is evidently by the failure of hope in his friend’s
recovery for service in this present scene. “Moreover, this departure
of Christ and coming of the Holy Ghost leads our minds with great
comfort to the thought of many lower dispensations of Providence
towards us…. This is a thought which is particularly soothing as
regards the loss of friends, or of especially gifted men who seem, in
their day, the earthly support of the Church…. Doubtless, ‘it is
expedient’ they should be taken away; otherwise some great mercy will
not come to us. They are taken away, perchance, to other duties in
God’s service equally ministrative to the salvation of the elect as
earthly service. Christ went to intercede with the Father: we do not
know, we may not boldly speculate, yet it may be that Saints departed
intercede, unknown to us, for the victory of the Truth upon earth …
they are taken away for some purpose surely; their gifts are not lost
to us; their soaring minds, the fire of their contemplations, the
sanctity of their desires, the vigour of their faith, the sweetness
and gentleness of their affections, were not given without an

Lastly, the long letter closes with a little budget of news welcome to
the exile, and with its crowded mention of names unforgotten, familiar
fifty years after as they were then.

‘The Tracts now form a thick volume. We have put a title-page and
preface to them, and called them _Tracts for 1833-4_. I think you will
like them, as a whole. You go too fast yourself. Williams has been so
unwell, we were going to send him out to you; but he has lately
mended. I have just engaged with Rivington to publish another volume
of _Sermons_. The first volume was nearly sold off in the course of
nine months: one thousand copies. I have not dared all along to
indulge the hope that I should be favoured with having you here again;
but now really the prospect seems clearing. I do not like to say so,
lest I break a spell! Rogers’ eyes are little or not at all better.
Gladstone is turning out a fine fellow. Harrison has made him confess
that the doctrine of the Apostolical Succession is irresistible.’

A long letter to Newman, on Nov. 23, opens: ‘Do you know, I am hungry
and thirsty to hear about you, and whether your health stands, in the
midst of your occupations? My father tells me your _Sermons_ are
talked of in all directions…. I have entirely left off meat; my dinner
is toast, and a basin of very weak chicken broth. Breakfast is my
chief meal, and consists of a vast joram[198] of milk and arrow-root.
It is an odd thing, [as] milk never used to agree with me, but I find
that by putting a good lot of cinnamon into it, I can digest any
quantity. I find I must not take exercise so as to put me out of
breath, as that increases my cough, yet the more I take the stronger I
get; so that I am in a dilemma, which I shall cut by borrowing one of
the Bishop’s horses instead of walking. I am perforce as idle as
possible, my chief occupation being to keep thoughts out of my head.
In this respect I find my friend Sanctus Thomas[199] of infinite use.
Dawdling over translations, and picking facts out of allusions just
keep one going for the time, without supplying any materials to brood
over. If you see Keble, congratulate him on the Yank edition of _The
Christian Year_,[200] which has gone on Oakeley’s[201] plan of putting
the fine passages in italics. It is amusing to see the selection which
he[202] has made…. As to sentiment, I am heartily tired of this place
and climate. I am sure it has been too hot for me, particularly during
August, September, and October, the hurricane months. I fancy, too, if
there was something more to interest one, I should have been benefited
by it. Niggerland is a poor substitute for the _limen Apostolorum_!
However, I do verily believe that if I had stayed in England I should
have had a confirmed disease on my lungs by this time…. I have not
written a verse since I have been out here, and could not, for the
life of me…. If I had the necessary books here, I should like much to
get together materials for the Lives of Bishops Andrewes, Cosin, and
Overall. They might be made into a nice first volume for a series of
Lives of Apostolical Divines of the Church of England: a genus which
seems to me to have come into existence about the beginning of James
I., and to have become extinct with the Nonjurors…. I wish I could
say, as John of Salisbury of Saint Thomas: “_Domino Cantuarensi, quoad
literaturam et mores, plurimum profuit exilium illud._” But somehow I
think I have become even more uncharitable and churlish than I was!’

Hurrell addressed both Christie and Newman on Saint Stephen’s Day. The
letter to the former caused immense laughter at Oriel. ‘Even Froude is
beginning to joke about matrimony!’ writes James Mozley to his sister.
Never was a joke in less danger of becoming practical.

     [Illustration, hand-written letter:

                                            _St Stephen’s day_――
     _My dear Christie_――

     _When I come home I mean to rat-&-be married: i.e, if I can
     hook in any one to be such a fool. The great difference
     between A wife & a friend is that a wife cannot cut one, & a
     friend can. It is a bad thing περισσὰ φρονεῖν so I shall
     certainly rat. I see that little goose H. W. has gone the
     way of all flesh. Old Ryder’s apostacy I knew of before.
     Isaac cannot hold out long if he is not fall’n already. So
     why should you & I be wiser than our neighbours?_

     _Some months ago before I had repented of my radicalism &c,
     I was devising a scheme for you which was knocked on the
     head by my finding from the Brit Mag. that you were ordained
     by the Bp. of Oxford. For my part, I’d rather have had my
     Orders from a Scotch Bishop, & I thought of suggesting the
     same to you. The stream is purer; & besides it w’d have left
     one free from some embarrassing engagements. By the by, all
     I know about any of you is through the Brit. Mag. Here it
     was I learnt about Ryder & Henry, & N’s sermons, & your
     ordination & whatever else I have happened to pick up about
     any one――I am very thirsty for more authentic
     information――Not that I w’d have you write to me after the
     receipt of this letter tho, for by that time I should most
     likely be on my way back. I shall start as early as I can in
     April: & I really begin now to think that I shall come back
     cured: At least people tell me that since the weather has
     become cooler I have altered for the better in appearance
     rapidly, & certainly I have in strength. I have now left off
     animal food for many months_]

‘When I come home, I mean to rat-and-be-married: _i.e._, if I can hook
in anyone to be such a fool. The great difference between a wife and a
friend is that a wife cannot cut one, and a friend can. It is a bad
thing περισσὰ φρονεῖν, so I shall certainly rat.[203] I see that …
[Henry Wilberforce][204] has … Old [Ryder’s] apostacy I knew of
before. [Isaac][205] cannot hold out long, if he is not fallen
already. So why should you and I be wiser than our neighbours?[206]
Some months ago, before I had repented of my radicalism, I was
devising a scheme for you, which was knocked on the head by my finding
from _The British Magazine_ that you were ordained by the Bishop of
Oxford.[207] For my part, I would rather have had my orders from a
Scotch Bishop, and I thought of suggesting the same to you. The stream
is purer, and, besides, it would have left one free from some
embarrassing engagements.[208] By the by, all I know about any of you
is through _The British Magazine_…. I am very thirsty for more
authentic information. Not that I would have you write to me after the
receipt of this letter, though; for by that time I shall most likely
be on my way back. I shall start as early as I can in April, and I
really begin now to think that I shall come back cured. At least
people tell me that since the weather has become cooler I have altered
for the better in appearance rapidly, and certainly I have in
strength…. For the last three weeks, I have had a horse, which I have
been cool enough to smug from the Bishop’s stables in his
absence;[209] and this, I think, has been of use to me.’

The letter to Newman, as usual, goes deeper, and touches sadly on more
intimate matters.

‘… There was a passage in a letter I have just received from my father
that made me feel so infinitely dismal, that I must write to you about
it. He says you have written to him to learn something about me, and
to ask what to do with my money. It really made me feel as if I was
dead, and you were sweeping up my remains; and, by the by, if I was
dead, why should I be cut off from the privilege of helping on the
Good Cause? I don’t know what money I left: little enough I suspect;
but, whatever it was, I am superstitious enough to think that any good
it could do “_in honorem Dei et sacrosanctæ Matris Ecclesiæ_,” would
have done something too “_in salutem animæ meæ_.”

‘… My father’s letter was a dismal one altogether. He tells me
Isaac[210] is far from well, and Sir George and Lady Prevost obliged
to leave England. Also that my poor sister [Phillis] has just sailed
for Madeira to escape the winter, for fear of an affection just like
mine…. Also that Mr. Keble[211] is supposed to be on his death-bed.
About you personally I hear nothing. As for myself, it really seems as
if I was going to have a respite. I have still some symptoms which
make me fear it may turn out moonshine, _e.g._, great irritability of
pulse, and shortness of wind in walking up hill. But everyone says,
and I cannot help observing, that my looks are greatly altered for the
better…. Sometimes I seem to myself very ridiculous to give way to
such doleful thoughts, considering how very little there is apparently
the matter with me; and if it was not for the effect consumption had
taken on my … family, I should be ashamed of myself. But the
pertinacity of my trifling ailment has sometimes seemed to me like a
warning that fate had put its hand on me for the next [world].

‘When I get your letter, I expect a rowing for my Roman Catholic
sentiments. Really, I hate the Reformation and the Reformers more and
more,[212] and have almost made up my mind that the Rationalist spirit
they set afloat is the ψευδοπροφήτης of the Revelations. I have a
theory about the Beast and Woman too, which conflicts with yours; but
which I will not inflict on you now. I have written nothing for a long
time, and only read in a desultory, lounging way; but really, it is
not out of idleness, for I find that the less I do the better I am,
and so on principle resist doing a good deal that I am tempted to. One
of the Bishop’s horses has contributed much to my recovery, as well as
amusement. To my great satisfaction, I have found that just beyond the
range of my longer walks there is a range of real fine scenery that I
had not a dream of.

     Οὕρεά τε σκιόεντα θάλασσά τε ἠχήεσσα

‘I start sometimes between three and four, and come back between six
and seven, in which interval the thermometer averages between 78° and
76°, and there is generally a roaring wind from the sea…. I wish I
knew how you were, and what you are about.’

     To the Rev. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, Jan., 1835.

‘I am ashamed of myself for having grumbled at you; your letter[213]
almost made me cry! My dumps are my only excuse, and you may guess I
have had a good dose of them. Now I am in much better spirits about
myself, and flooded with letters to boot, so I ought to be in a good
humour; yet I don’t know whether the prospect of being home again
soon, and the knowledge of what is going on there, has not made me
less contented…. I am sorry to hear such poor accounts of you and
Isaac. Keble says you are overworked. So does Christie; yet I would
not have you leave any of it except the Deanship. On one or two points
I am inclined to grumble at you. You seem to be finessing too deep.
Why publish poor Bishop Cosin’s Tract on Transubstantiation?[214]
Surely no member of the Church of England is in any danger of
overrating the miracle of the Eucharist?… I am more and more indignant
at the Protestant doctrine on the subject of the Eucharist, and think
that the principle on which it is founded is as proud, irreverent, and
foolish as that of any heresy, even Socinianism. I must write you out
a sentence of Pascal on this. (My edition is differently arranged from
most, so I cannot refer you to it.[215]) Speaking of Isa. xlv. 15, he
says: “_Il a demeuré caché sous la voile de la nature qui nous le
couvre, jusqu’à l’Incarnation; et quand il a fallu qu’il ait paru, il
s’est encore plus caché, en se couvrant de l’humanité…. Enfin, quand
il a voulu accomplir la promesse qu’il fit à ses apôtres de demeurer
avec les hommes jusqu’à son dernier avènement, il a choisi demeurer
dans le plus étrange et le plus obscur secret de tous: savoir, sous
les espèces de l’Eucharistie._” And then he goes on to say that deists
penetrate the veil of Nature, heretics that of the Incarnation; “_mais
pour nous, nous devons nous estimer heureux de ce que Dieu nous
éclaire jusqu’à le reconnaître sous les espèces du pain et du vin_.” I
believe you will agree with me that this is orthodox…. Also, why do
you praise Ridley?[216] Do you know sufficient good about him to
counterbalance the fact that he was the associate of Cranmer, Peter
Martyr, and Bucer? (_N.B._――How beautifully the _Edinburgh
Review_[217] has shown up Luther, Melancthon, and Co.! What good
genius has possessed them to do our dirty work?) I have also to
grumble at you for letting Pusey call the Reformers “the Founders of
our Church,” in that excellent and much-to-be-studied paper on
Fasting.[218] _Pour moi_, I never mean, if I can help it, to use any
phrases even, which can connect me with such a set. I shall never call
the Holy Eucharist “the Lord’s Supper,” nor God’s priests “Ministers
of the Word,” nor the Altar “the Lord’s Table,” etc., etc.; innocent
as such phrases are in themselves, they have been dirtied: a fact of
which you seem oblivious on many occasions. Nor shall I even abuse the
Roman Catholics _as a Church_ for anything except excommunicating us.
So much for fault-finding…. I am amused to see among your _Sermons_
the Naples one and the Dartington one. I can see the train of thought
which suggested the latter.[219] Since then I have never been well,
and then came my poor sister’s business, who, by the bye, is now at
Madeira…. I have two schemes about the _Tracts_…. 1st, I should like a
series of the Apostolical Divines of the Church of England…. 2nd, I
think one might take the Jansenist saints, Francis de Sales,[220] the
nuns of Port Royal, Pascal, etc., who seem to me to be of a more
sentimental imaginative cast than any of our own, and to give more
room for writing _ad captandum_…. Must it not be owned that the Church
of England Saints, however good in essentials, are, with a few rare
exceptions, deficient in the austere beauty of the Catholic ἦθος?
K[eble] will be severe on me for this, but I cannot deny that Laud’s
architecture seems to me typical.’

This is the letter so charmingly annotated for us by Lord Blachford’s
anecdote. ‘There’s a Basil for you!’ said Newman, with humorous
deprecation, when he read the grudging advice to lay by, in his great
weariness, ever so little of his accustomed work. The comparison rose
readily to his lips, for he had been busy writing the chapters of his
_Church of the Fathers_, month by month, and he was fresh from the
beautiful portraiture of SS. Basil and Gregory Nazianzum.[221] He had
called Hurrell his Basil under no mere momentary sense of a certain
ineradicable blithe hardness in his friend. Newman, as sensitive and
seeing as S. Gregory himself, must have been conscious at the time how
mysteriously fragments of modern biography were getting lodged into
his Early Christian exegetics: for in truth he and Hurrell were as
like Gregory and Basil as their impersonators in a miracle play. The
analogy is not irrelevant, and it is the more attractive the more it
is followed out, especially as there is in it nothing akin to the
painful difference which long severed the loving-hearted great Saints
from each other. ‘Basil’ at Dartington pitied no one much, himself
least of all; the personal consideration affected him at all times as
little as it had affected his mighty archetype, a man of yea and nay,
of cloudless vision and unstinted enterprise.

Newman had written: ‘One of the more striking points of Basil’s
character was his utter disregard of mere human feeling where the
interests of religion were concerned…. This self-sacrifice, which he
observed in his own case for the good of the Church, he scrupled not
to extend to the instance of those to whom he was related, and for
whom he had to act. His brother and his intimate friend, the two
Gregories of Nyssa and Nazianzum, felt the keenness and severity of
his zeal as well as the comfort of his affection.’ And again: ‘Gregory
disliked the routine intercourse of society, he disliked
ecclesiastical business, he disliked publicity, he disliked strife …;
he loved the independence of solitude, the tranquillity of private
life, leisure for meditation, reflection, self-government; study and
literature. He admired, yet he playfully satirised Basil’s lofty
thoughts and heroic efforts. Yet upon Basil’s death, Basil’s spirit,
as it were, came into him…. Was it Gregory or was it Basil that blew
the trumpet in Constantinople, and waged a successful war in the very
seat of the enemy, in despite of all his fluctuations of mind,
misgivings, fastidiousness, disgust with self, and love of quiet? Such
was the power of the great Basil, triumphing in his death, though
failing throughout his life. Within four or five years of his
departure to his reward, all the objects were either realised, or in
the way to be realised, which he had vainly attempted and sadly waited
for. His eyes had failed in longing: they waited for the Morning, and
death closed them ere it came.’ All this amounts to a strange and
touching forecast.

Newman writes again most tenderly on Jan. 18, from London.

‘… I could say much, were it of use, of my own solitariness, now you
are away. Not that I would undervalue that great blessing, which is
what I do not deserve, of so many friends about me: dear Rogers,
Williams, ὁ πάνυ Keble, and the friend in whose house I am staying
(whom I wish with all my heart you knew as _Apostolicorum princeps_,
Bowden); yet, after all, as is obvious, no one can enter into one’s
mind except a person who has lived with one. I seem to write things to
no purpose, as wanting your imprimatur. Perhaps it is well to
cultivate the habit of writing as if for unseen companions; but I have
felt it much, so that I am getting quite dry and hard. My dear Froude,
come back to us as soon as you safely can; and then next winter,
please God, you shall go to Rome, and tempt Isaac, who is very
willing, to go with you. But wherever you are (so be it!) you cannot
be divided from us.’

Hurrell held an irregular correspondence with some old friends to whom
he was warmly attached, and remembered them in his winter leisure.

                 Feb. 25, 1835.

‘I would give twopence if circumstances should ever so turn up that
you could make an occasional residence in Oxford compatible with your
clerical duties,[222] and that we could concoct a second edition of
old times again. It makes me laugh when I think of your old clipped
horse, and how I was choused[223] by John G.; and sundry other matters
which come into one’s head when more serious matters ought to be
there. I wonder if you are the same fellow now that you used to be? I
am afraid my old self is determined to stick by me till the last. But
to talk sense: I really do indulge the hope that sometime we may be
thrown together again. Undoubtedly you owe a debt to your destinies,
which as a mere parish priest you can never repay. Your old project
about the Mendicant Orders was the sort of thing: though perhaps
something connected with later times would tell more just at present.
As to myself, θεῶν ἐν γούνασι κεῖται whether I am ever to be of any
use, though I now begin to entertain serious hopes that I shall
recover. Perhaps you know that I have been out here, in exile _inter
nigridas_, for this year and a quarter. The first winter I got very
little good; and in the summer the heat kept me in a feverish state,
which low diet could not counteract; so I began to think it was up
with me; ὅταιν ὕδωρ πνύγῃ, etc., and I own I felt very doleful: but
since the cool weather set in I have made a decided start, which has
put me in a better humour; and the cooler it is the better I am; so
that I dare say if I had gone to Madeira, or to Rome a second time, I
might have been well. I shall not be sorry for an excuse for spending
another winter in the south of Europe.

‘While out here I have stuck to my old prejudices as tight as I could;
yet I fairly own that I think the niggers less incapable of being
raised in the scale of being than I used. I don’t mean that, generally
speaking, they are at all fit for the situation in which the law has
placed them; but that here and there you see specimens which prove
them, unequivocally enough, to be of the race of Adam, is not to be
denied. Many of them are clever, and some affectionate and even
honest, and if a more judicious system had been pursued, I should not
have despaired of seeing them become generally so. As it is, the
prospect is even in this island a very gloomy one, and in the others,
the state of things seems next to hopeless. In Antigua, where they are
quite let loose, they have been playing a very clever trick in many
places: which is very characteristic of the negro intellect, sharp
enough as to the moment, and absolutely without thought as to the
next. In making sugar it is very important that the canes should be
squeezed as soon as possible after they are cut: a few hours hurts
them, and twenty-four spoils them; so our friends Quakoo and Co. cut
away very diligently, and then strike for wages. Here in Barbados they
cannot play the same trick, as the magistrates would flog them; and
indeed flogging is scarcely less common, and more severe now, than
under the old system. In this island, the most melancholy result of
the change yet discernible is the condition of the emancipated
children under six. The mothers, who have gone on hitherto in their
lax amours with a certainty that any consequences that might result
would be rather in their favour than otherwise, have been bringing a
host of wretched urchins into the world and consigning them over to
the estate nurses, _sans soin_; and now the produce of the last six
years is returned upon their hands, unless they will consent to
apprentice them; this they will not do, out of spite to their masters,
but take the trouble on themselves they will not: so the squalid
little wretches starve and die off shockingly; and those that live are
locked up in their mother’s house while she is at work, doing nothing
but quarrel, growing up in absolute uselessness, and with no chance of
improving…. As to the religious prospects of these colonies, I think
them very bad indeed. If the Church was thrown on the voluntary
system, and left to make its way as the Wesleyans do among the poorer
classes, it would make sure as it went, though perhaps the progress
might at first seem slow; but now all is mere show and rottenness….
Another difficulty arises from the views of the Clergy: those who have
any deference for Church authority are too generally mere Z’s….
Religious instruction out here means marrying the niggers, baptizing
them, and teaching them to read.

      ‘“The age[224] is out of joint. O cursèd spite,
        That ever I was born to set it right!”

      ‘_Vivas, valeas, et Apostolicus fias._ I shall be back in May.’

Sir James Stephen was very wroth with Froude for his attitude towards
the slaves of the West Indian Colonies, deducing that attitude from
some allusions of Froude’s own to ‘anti-slavery cant.’ The Editors of
the _Remains_ attest that Hurrell did not suffer (as later Mr. J. A.
Froude was said to do, from other alleged causes) from negrophobia.
But certainly his speech about ‘the niggers’ does not always sound
reassuring. Perhaps in this, as in other matters, he leans upon the
reader’s general knowledge of him, and requires that to supply the
marginal comment.

It is a common jibe against reformers, though not always a true one,
that their range of ideas is disproportioned or partial. Members of
the Anti-Vivisection Society are supposed to be indifferent to
wife-beating. Perhaps, if known, Hurrell’s _tendre_ for his only Roman
Catholic, Monsignor Wiseman, and for ‘Roman Catholic sentiments,’ as
he calls them, would seem enough to account for his limitations of
sympathy on an island where he spent an unwilling year-and-a-half. It
is interesting that to a Wilberforce, of all persons, he confides his
final impressions, still pessimistic enough, of ‘our brothers carved
in ebony.’ The Bill for the total abolition of slavery in the British
dominions had received the Royal assent on August 28, 1833, and had
come at last into full operation as Froude wrote. He was not wont, in
other matters, to judge of the justice of a measure by its practical
workings, or by the local material it had to work upon.

Hurrell approaches Keble in his most lucid and mischievous
argumentative mood on the same day.

‘I have a miscellaneous jumble of things that I want to talk to you
about, if I can but arrange them in any sort of order…. And first, I
shall attack you for the expression “The Church teaches” so-and-so,
which I observe is in the Tract[225] equivalent to “The Prayer-Book
etc. teach[es] us” so-and-so. Now suppose a conscientious layman to
inquire on what grounds the Prayer-Book etc., are called the teaching
of the Church: how shall we answer him? Shall we tell him that they
are embodied in an Act of Parliament? So is the Spoliation Bill. Shall
we tell him that they were formerly enacted by Convocation in the
reign of Charles II.? But what especial claim had this Convocation to
monopolise the name and authority of the Church? Shall we tell him
that all the clergy assented to them ever since their enactment? But
to what interpretation of them have all, or even the major part of the
clergy assented? For if it is the assent of the clergy that makes the
Prayer-Book etc. the teaching of the Church, the Church teaches only
that interpretation of them to which all, or at least the majority of
the clergy have assented; and in order to ascertain this, it will be
necessary to inquire, not for what may seem to the inquirer to be
their real meaning, but for the meaning which the majority of the
clergy have, in fact, attached to them! It will be necessary to poll
the Hoadleians, Puritans, and Laudians, and to be determined by [the]
most votes. Again, supposing him to have ascertained these, another
question occurs. Why is the opinion of the English clergy, since the
enactment of the Prayer-Book, entitled to be called the teaching of
the Church, more than that of the clergy of the sixteen previous
centuries; or, again, than the clergy of France, Italy, Spain, Russia,
etc., etc.? I can see no other claim which the Prayer-Book has on a
layman’s deference, as the teaching of the Church, which the Breviary
and Missal have not in a far greater degree…. I know you will snub me
for this…. Surely no teaching nowadays is authoritative in the sense
in which the Apostles’ was, except the Bible? nor any in the sense in
which Timothy’s was, except that of Primitive Tradition? To find a
sense in which the teaching of the modern clergy is authoritative, I
confess baffles me.[226] …

‘Next, as to _The Christian Year_. In the Fifth of November――[as to]

                 ‘“There present in the heart
     Not in the hands,”――

how can we possibly know that it is true to say “not in the hands”?[227]
Also, on the Communion … you seem cramped by Protestantism. I
desiderate something in the same key with

                 ‘“Shall work a wonder there
     Earth’s charmers never knew,”


     ‘“When the life-giving stream,” etc.[228]

So much for quarrelling. I have attacked N[ewman] for some of the
Tract Protestantism…. However, the wiseacres are all agog about our
being Papists. P. called us the Papal Protestant Church, in which he
proved a double ignorance: as we are Catholics without the Popery, and
Church-of-England men without the Protestantism…. It seems to me that
even if the laity were as munificent as our Catholic ancestors, they
could do nothing for the Church, as things are, except in their
lifetime. Any Churches they might build, any endowment they might
make, would be as likely as not to become in another generation
propagandas of liberalism. Certainly we cannot trust the Bishops for
patrons…. I don’t feel with you on the question of tithes. They cannot
be a legal debt and a religious offering at the same time. When the
payment began to be enforced by civil authority the desecration took
place…. The Wesleyan system is voluntary … they are the strongest, and
most independent of their congregations, of any existing society in
the United States, and, I believe, in England….’

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, March 4, 1835.

‘… My dearest [Newman], I suppose by this time you will have learned
to think as little of my inconsistent reports as I do when making
them! I see [that] on one and the same day I must have sent my father
a cheerful account, and you a dismal one. I am forced to say
something, but have no data to judge by, and so talk at random.
Certain indeed I am that my pulse is still progressively calming, and
that now it is scarcely more irritable than it ought to be; but in
nothing else can I be sure that I change at all…. _Favus distillans
labia tua_, as someone said to John of Salisbury.[229] What can have
put it into your head that your style is dull? The letter you sent me
in the box was among the most amusing I ever received. I have now made
up my mind to come back [in] the packet after the next, so as to be in
England the middle of May, and am not wholly without hope that the
voyage may do something for me. The notion of going to Rome with Isaac
is very gratifying. I must learn French for it, though; for I have no
notion of trusting “Providence,” as I did last time. The sun has
already got almost to his full strength, though the earth is of course
[only] beginning to collect its stock of caloric, and the experience
of last year assures me that the less I have of it the better…. I am
most sincerely sorry to hear of Mr. K[eble’s] death.[230] I suppose if
there ever was anyone to whom death was like going to bed, it would be
Mr. K[eble]. I have written lots of stuff since I have been out here,
some of which I must inflict on you on my return; but none of it will
do to publish. When I look over anything long after I write it, I see
such jumps and discontinuities as make me despair of ever being
intelligible. How I wish to see you all again!’

Shortly after this letter was sent to post, Hurrell left Barbados for
good. No personal records of him exist there, and all memories of him
have faded away. His face was set at last towards another island where
his few remaining days could be crammed full of intelligent toil, and
played at their full value. From Bristol, on May 17, he was able to
announce: ‘_Fratres desideratissimi_! here I am, _benedictum sit nomen
Dei_, and as well as could be expected. I will not boast, and indeed,
have nothing[231] to boast of, as my pulse is still far from

‘When we asked our pilot “Who was Speaker?” he did not know; but after
much cross-examining he recollected that he had heard it cried about
the street that the old one was turned out; who “the other gentleman”
was, he could not tell. Our next informant was the Custom House
officer, who boarded over night, when we anchored, to see that nothing
was taken out of the ship. All he knew was that “there had been a
jabbering” about a change of Ministers.[232] The day is as dull and
gloomy as possible; but after the torrid zone, any English May day is
“a sight for sair e’en.” … I hope to get a sight of you soon. And now
goodbye both! also I[saac] and R[ogers], and all that are within

This is Newman’s narrative note, drawn, thirty years after, from his
own retentive memory:

‘R. H. F. made his appearance in Oxford on Tuesday, May 18. On the
morrow occurred the Convocation in the Theatre, when the proposed
innovation of a Declaration of Conformity to the Church of England,
instead of Subscription to the Articles, was rejected by 459 to 57. It
was the last vote he gave…. He left Oxford, never to return, on June
4. During this time Bowden was in Oxford; and for the first and last
time saw R. H. F.’

Miss Anne Mozley, too, remembered in old age her only sight of Hurrell

‘It happened to [me], passing the coach office, in company with Mrs.
Newman, to see Froude as he alighted from the coach which brought him
to Oxford, and was being greeted by his friends. He was terribly thin,
his countenance dark and wasted, but with a brilliancy of expression
and grace of outline which justified all that his friends had said of
him. He was in the Theatre next day, entering into all the enthusiasm
of the scene, and shouting _Non placet_ with all his friends about
him. While he lived at all, he must live his life.’


Frederic Rogers was of the company at Convocation who protested
against a local Repeal of the Test and Corporation Act. He had no very
hopeful feelings about the much-welcomed immigrant, and wrote to his
sister from Oriel on May 2:

‘Wilson, Ryder, Wilberforce, Harding, spent several days here, with a
quantity of other contemporaries, and Hurrell Froude arrived just in
time from Barbados to cut into the middle of it. It quite surprises me
how little people change! All these gentry, married and single, were
so exactly what they always had been, that I could hardly believe I
was not a freshman again. The only painful thing was that I fear
Barbados has not done much for Froude. I was quite shocked to see him,
but I suppose I had been too sanguine; his wretched thinness struck me
more than it had ever done. They say, however, that no one ever gains
flesh in the West Indies, but that it tells when they come back: I
most earnestly trust it may be so. He talks of spending the winter at
Rome again, going straight there, and coming straight back. He
certainly cannot spend it in England. I cannot describe the kind of
sickness I felt in looking at him when just the first meeting was
over. I suppose it is a hopeful sign that his spirits are just as high
as they always were; at least, were so when he first came here: for I
am afraid we must look for a change in that, as Newman tells me he has
heard to-day that his sister who was so ill is given over. I have not
seen him since his hearing the news. However, I am getting

William Froude was still in Oxford also, having moved into Hurrell’s
vacant rooms. Says the Rev. Thomas Mozley, in his most entertaining

‘William Froude gave his heart in with his brother’s work at Oriel,
though his turn even then was for science…. He was the chemist, as
well as the mechanist of the College. His rooms on the floor over
Newman’s were easily distinguishable … by the stains of sulphuric acid
(I think) extending from the window-sills to the ground. The Provost
must sometimes have had to explain this appearance to his inquiring
guests, as they could not but observe it from his drawing-room

With Hurrell and William, during these May days, was Anthony Froude, a
boy of seventeen, coming up to Oriel with his private Tutor (with whom
he was reading in the neighbourhood) in order to see his eldest

‘When I went into residence at Oxford my brother was no longer alive.
He had been abroad almost entirely for three or four years before his
death; and although the atmosphere at home was full of the new
opinions, and I heard startling things from time to time on
Transubstantiation and suchlike, he had little to do with my direct
education. I had read at my own discretion in my father’s

Anthony matriculated during the early December of this very year, two
months before Hurrell died. Perhaps not many College rooms have known
three such notable successive occupiers of one family, each of strong
idiosyncrasy, and alike in nothing whatever but in personal charm.

The happy three weeks ended, Hurrell set out for Devon, with Mr. Keble
for companion part of the way. People who had known him ‘looked
horribly black at me, at first,’ until they became ‘accustomed to my
grim visage,’ he tells Newman, five days later. Doubtless it was a
harrowing thing in the pastoral neighbourhood, this continual
spectacle of young faces at the Parsonage visibly withdrawing from the
summer air. And another indomitable dying Froude was there, poor
Phillis Spedding, the tradition of whose pathetic beauty yet lingers
about the Cumberland hillsides whither she came as a bride.

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, Dartington, June 11, 1835.

‘_Dulcissime_, I got home Friday evening before dark very comfortably.
My poor sister is perfectly cheerful, and free from pain, but daily
declines in strength. Indeed, she is now very visibly weakened since I
first saw her. It is impossible she should live many days. She is
quite aware of her state, and seems to be as composed, and almost [as]
happy, as if she was going to sleep…. There is something very
indescribable in the effect which old sights and smells produce in me
here just now, after having missed them so long. Also, old Dartington
House, with its feudal appendages, calls up so many Tory associations
as almost to soften one’s heart with lamenting the course of events
which is to re-erect the Church by demolishing so much that is
beautiful! “rich men living peaceably in their habitations.” On my way
from Oxford, Keble talked a good deal about Church matters, and
particularly about the ancient Liturgies, and my analysis of
Palmer,[236] which had put the facts to him in rather a new point of

And he reverts, in his animated vein, to the propaganda never out of
his thoughts, saying encouragingly to Newman:

‘I have heard from my sisters and the Champernownes of the efficacy of
your opuscula in leading captive silly women. One very curious
instance I heard the other day of an exceedingly clever girl who for
the last two or three years has been occasionally laid up with a very
painful illness, and suffered severely. Nobody that she lives with can
have acted as channels for infecting her,[237] as they are all either
commonplace sensible people, or Evangelical, or lax. But she has got
it into her head that there is a new party springing up in the Church,
which she calls “the new men,” and has been pumping my sisters about
you, and whether your notions are spreading, etc…. They say she has
been working the Dartmouth Evangelicals with your _Sermons_, and made
one of the parsons knock under! I have also heard of a learned lady (a
very good and sensible person, by-the-bye), poking away most
industriously at your _Arians_, and saying that her views had been
much cleared by it.’

Phillis Spedding did not long survive her return to England. She died
at Dartington three days after the date of Hurrell’s letter, on June
14, 1835, in her twenty-sixth year. Her one little child, Edward
Spedding, then aged eighteen months, grew up only to attain his
majority, and to be buried in January, 1855, at Bassenthwaite, not
with his mother. Thomas Story Spedding, living on at the manor which
he had so romantically inherited, married again.

Meanwhile, in Littlemore, Mrs. Newman was about to lay the
corner-stone of her son’s Early English chapel, with the plans of
which the architectural zeal of Mr. Thomas Mozley, the Vicar’s future
brother-in-law, had much to do. The rumour that Hurrell Froude had
designed it got some currency; and there is a mirth-provoking growl on
the subject in the pages of that watchful worthy, the Rev. Peter
Maurice of Yarnton, Chaplain of New College.[238] Upon the return of
Newman and Froude from Rome in 1833, he says, ‘we soon found that the
malaria of the Pontine marshes, the nondescript fogs of the fatherland
of all heresy, began to develop their miasmata in a new diagnosis….
That edifice [Littlemore Church] was constructed from outlines and
plans sketched out for the architect by an amateur friend of
[Newman’s] own: the Rev. R. H. Froude. It was in a particular style of
Church architecture which they were plotting to introduce. It was, in
fact, the very first Church in modern times[239] that was ever
consecrated with a stone altar, a stone cross, and credentia.’

Hurrell, however, at this very time, 1835, was busying himself with
artistic needs nearer home. After his death, Archdeacon Froude wrote
to Newman in one of his letters, which affectionately begged for a
visit: ‘I hear you have a splendid Altar-table at Littlemore. That
which dear Hurrell designed, and had executed for my chancel, is now
in its proper place.’ This was in December, 1836. Hurrell’s Altar,
practically modelled on the High Altar of Cologne Cathedral, has
always been preserved as his gift at Dartington, and constantly used;
it has undergone no alteration except that it had to be raised for
convenience, after Archdeacon Froude’s death, as he was short, and
both his successors have been very tall men. It was brought from the
old Church to the new. Hurrell also changed the place of the
chancel-screen in the Church now destroyed, moving it eastward, from
the entrance to the choir, to enclose the rail at the Altar-foot, so
that none but communicants passed beyond it: an irregular proceeding
for an ecclesiologist. But it seems clear that he meant by the action
to emphasise the sacredness of the Altar itself.

He was ever on the move, physically and mentally, in and about his
father’s parish. Neighbours and social equals found it a bracing
pleasure to see and hear him again, after absence; he had the greatest
possible influence with them; those of his own age, fifty years later,
and scattered all over England, were still quoting him. He dearly
loved children, whom he met upon equal terms. Wherever there were
children, Hurrell was always testing their metal, while romping with
them. Would they run away from a comrade in danger? Would they throw
blame on others? Would they break promises? He knew of what stuff
every lamb of them was made, and it has been quite impossible for any
of these, either, to forget him. This sweet solicitude, comeliest in
one _auquel une grâce particulière a révélé le prix et la beauté de la
virginité sacerdotale_,[240] played in and out among his graver cares.
That, and the old preoccupation with architecture, stood for his best
diversions, during his final year. It would appear that he also
visited London. The admirable critic of the Movement just quoted lays
some stress, in passing, on Hurrell’s interview with Dr. Wiseman; he
even surmises that it was caused by spiritual anxieties of one sort or
another.[241] But he forgets that Hurrell’s intention then was to
return to Rome, and to historical work in the Vatican Library, and
that, long before, Dr. Wiseman had promised his aid and interest in
obtaining for him facilities for research.

The Gothic plotter (no more Gothic, Mr. T. Mozley thinks, than he
should be), was employing his July of 1835 in outdoor devices. He
tried to allure Newman as far as Torbay. ‘I am sure the lark will do
you good, and the money (£2, 15s.) will not be grossly misspent.’ To
which his friend replies on July 20: ‘… I should like of all things to
come and see you, but can say nothing to the proposal at present,
being very busy here, and being, in point of finances, in a very
unsatisfactory state. I am at present at Dionysius and the Abbé, whom
Oh! that I could despatch this vacation!’

This is the Abbé Jager, the Rev. Benjamin Harrison’s Parisian friend,
a lively, learned, and apparently provoking controversialist, author
of _Le Protestantisme aux Prises avec la Doctrine Catholique_. Newman
received his reply promptly from Paignton, though he put off the
visit. ‘_Frater desiderate_,’ says Hurrell, ‘speak not of finances,
since all the people here are ready to subscribe for you; as for the
Abbé, you can work him here as well as anywhere. It is exquisitely
pleasant here: a hot sun with a fresh air is a luxury to which I have
long been a stranger. If you were to stay here a fortnight, you might
get on with your controversy, and be inspired for the novel! I give
out in all directions that you mean to write it, and divulge the

Miss Mozley thus comments on this inciting of a new literary activity
in Newman. ‘There is nothing in the papers before [me] to show that
any ground whatever, in fact, existed for the novel Froude here talks
of. In the Postscript to _Callista_, the author speaks of being
stopped at the fifth chapter “from sheer inability to devise
personages or incidents.” Was the attempt to express the feelings and
mutual relations of Christians and heathens in early Christian times
already an idea in the author’s mind?’ The intrinsic evidence is
certainly strong against the likelihood of Newman’s earlier story,
_Loss and Gain_, or anything remotely resembling it in subject or
framework, being contemplated in 1835. Attentive readers of that very
Oxonian book will recall, incidentally, that Devonshire becomes the
home of the Redings, and may even, without being too fantastic, detect
some faint irregular adumbration of Hurrell Froude, Froude deduced as
Newman would fain have him, in the phantom figure, so illusive and
attractive, of Willis.[242] Perhaps ‘the novel,’ the plot of which
Froude was so pleased to divulge, was but an original inspiration of
his own. He had long before formed a critical, if rather despiteful
interest in fiction, as the unwelcome supplanter of poetry in a
decadent age; and perhaps he had invited Newman to write a story as
Newman had invited him to dream of the Indian Bishopric: all _ad
majorem Dei gloriam_. At any rate, five weeks before, Froude had
mentioned what is apparently the same ‘novel’ as his own affair, in a
letter to Newman printed in the _Remains_ but not in the Newman
_Correspondence_. ‘My ideas about the novel,’ he says, ‘are but
cloudy, as I have no books of reference to get details out of. Would
that the stars may let me return to Oxford before long, to work at
things,[243] and rub up my intellects!’ It would be pleasant, were
there any sure grounds for it, to associate the profound spiritual
passion, as Mr. R. H. Hutton calls it, of _Callista_, with the
emulating and holy friendship of John Henry Newman and Hurrell Froude.

Newman had been bringing forward in print something very dear to both:
the monastic ideal. With his usual scrupulousness, he had begun to
fear that he was laying too great a burden upon his well-wishers in
leaving them to accept and defend a thesis so inexpedient, because so
hostile to the spirit of the time; and Hurrell strikes out against the
expressed misgiving before ending the letter of July 31 just quoted.
His father, as ever, was his standard of wise moderation.

‘… As to your Monasticism articles in _The British Magazine_,[244] my
father read the offensive part in the June one, and could see nothing
in it that any reasonable person could object to; and some persons I
know have been struck by them. I cannot see the harm of losing
influence with people when you can only retain it by sinking the
points on which you differ with them. Surely that would be _Propter
vitam vivendi_, etc.? What is the good of influence except to
influence people?’ To Mr. Keble, at the same time, Froude expresses a
generous envy of Newman’s ‘taking’ utterance (what Newman himself
calls his ‘mere rhetorical or histrionic power’), and admits again the
difficulty of winning any such command over souls in England, with his
own very elliptical genius. ‘I find myself so ignorant of the way to
get at people, that I never know what to assume and what to prove!’
Froude’s straightforward case was Jeremy Taylor’s of old, of whom
Chillingworth regretfully said: ‘Hee wants much of the ethickall part
of a Discourser, and slights too much, many times, the Arguments of
those hee discourses with.’

Newman tells his dear sister Jemima, on August 9: ‘I think I shall go
down to Froude for ten days. I am very unwilling to do it; but it is
so uncertain whether he will be able to come to Oxford at all, that I
think I ought to secure seeing him before he goes abroad.’ And again,
to the absent comrade, a fortnight after: ‘I am sick of expecting a
letter; for the last week I have every day made sure of one, and been
disappointed. I cannot help fearing you are not well…. I must (so be
it!) come down to you before Vacation ends, to get some light struck
out by collision.’ For Newman had been trying to work out alone
‘whether Tradition is ever considered by the Fathers, in matters of
faith, more than interpretative of Scripture.’ To Mr. Rogers, at the
same time, he speaks of the contemplated move. ‘I have little to show,
this Vacation, in point of work done. The time seems to have slipped
away in a dream. Perhaps it would be as well to go down to Froude,
were it only to adjust my notions to his. Dear fellow! long as I have
anticipated what I suppose must come, I feel quite raw and unprepared.
I suppose one ought to get as much as one can from him, _dum licet_.’

Newman himself was again over-busied and ailing. No reader can fail to
notice the deepening tenderness of the correspondence between the two
during these last months, where yet sportiveness and candour, and a
certain mutual deference, keep their old due order. Words go quickly
and lightly, without emphasis or strain, as if driven willingly on the
rising wind which is the eternal silence.

‘My dearest Newman,’ opens the awaited missive of Sept. 3, ‘I am
afraid you will have been grumbling in your heart at me…. But really,
I am not to blame, as I have not put pen to paper for a fortnight,
except yesterday, when I began a letter to you upside down. I cannot
explain what has been the matter with me; but I am sure that the
apothecary into whose hands I fell made a fool of himself…. As to our
controversies, you are now taking fresh ground, without owning, as you
ought, that on our first basis I dished you! Of course, if the Fathers
maintain that “nothing not deducible from Scripture ought to be
insisted on as terms of communion,” I have nothing more to say. But
again, if you allow Tradition an interpretative authority, I cannot
see what is gained. For surely the doctrines of the Priesthood and the
Eucharist may be proved from Scripture interpreted by Tradition; and
if so, what is to hinder our insisting on them as terms of communion?
I don’t mean, of course, that this will bear out the Romanists (which
is perhaps your only point?), but it certainly would bear out our
party in excommunicating Protestants…. You lug in the Apostles’ Creed,
and talk about expansions. What is the end of expansions? Will not the
Romanists say that their whole system is an expansion of the Holy
Catholic Church and the Communion of Saints?’

Finally, on the 10th, arrives Newman’s definite word: ‘I propose
coming to you next week,’ coupled with anxious inquiries about his
health. Hurrell replies at once:

‘We shall be ready for you whenever you come. Dr. [Yonge] and a young
doctor called Hinkson, who has paid much attention to the stethoscope,
examined my chest all over; and they both told my father they never
examined a chest in which there was more complete freedom from bad
symptoms. Yet they say the disorder in my throat is dangerous unless
stopped. Dr. Yonge is decided that I am not to go abroad this winter.’

Newman reached Dartington on the 15th, and was most happy there, among
scenes and faces ‘loved long since,’ for nearly a month. Every one who
has ever come across it remembers the phrase in which he briefly sums
up the end of the visit: ‘I left, and took my last farewell of R. H.
F. on Sunday, October 11, in the evening, sleeping at Exeter. When I
took leave of him his face lighted up, and almost shone in the
darkness, as if to say that in this world we were parting for ever.’
The angel, the ‘beautiful young man girded,’ who knew well ‘the way to
the country of the Medes,’ had turned homewards, his mission over, and
was to walk with Tobit no more.

Travel was an unconscionably slow business then, especially in the
south-west. On the following Thursday Newman wrote from Southampton to
Mr. Rogers at Oriel:

‘I have just got here from Lyndhurst, and find the Oxford coach full.
Nothing therefore is left for me but to go up to London, and try to
get to Oxford in that way. Be so good as to make my excuses to College
for my non-appearance: it is the first time, I believe, I ever was
away any day of an Audit, (except when abroad) since I have been
Fellow. I trust I shall be with you to-morrow.

‘Dear Froude is pretty well, but is languishing for want of his Oxford
contubernians. I trust I have been of use, in this way, in stimulating
his spirits. So strongly do I feel this, from what I see and hear of
him, that I mean almost to make myself responsible for some intimate
going down to him at Christmas. He is allowed to read now, which is a
great comfort. I am to send him a lot of books. It is wonderful,
almost mysterious, that he should remain so long just afloat, and as
far as it is mysterious, it is hopeful. Really, it would seem as if he
were kept alive by the uplifted hands of Moses: which is an
encouragement to persevere [in prayer].’

The delayed traveller wrote to Hurrell the day after his arrival at

                                          ‘St. Luke’s Day, 1835.

‘I have been obliged to come round by London, and having business
there, I did not regret it. Rivington will publish a third volume [of
_Sermons_]; and please will you manage to get for me your father’s
leave to dedicate it, in a few words, to him? Keble was married on the
10th, and told no one. The College has but heard from him that he
resigns his Fellowship on that day, without a year of grace.[245] I
engage to undertake and pledge myself to provide a visitor for you
next Christmas: Rogers, or [Tom] Mozley, or Williams. But if no one
comes, I shall come myself, which would be too great a pleasure: for I
cannot put into words, or rather I do not realise to myself, how much
the _genius loci_ of Dartington Parsonage draws. I could be very
foolish did I allow myself! All my own reminiscences of the place are
sad, and I am almost debarred from them; and I seem to have no right,
_alienigena_, to intrude elsewhere.’

Newman adds his parenthesis long, long after. ‘This feeling is
expressed in the verses I wrote on my first visit to Dartington, in

     ‘There strayed awhile, amid the woods of Dart.

I have never seen Dartington since I saw Hurrell there.’[246] He
shared to the full, as we have seen, Hurrell’s own passion for the
place, a place even yet, despite the profane railway along the very
bank of the Dart, of romance and peace; but he held his dedicated
heart aloof from it in 1835 as in 1831, as a passage in a letter to
his elder sister shows: ‘This country [Devon], is certainly
overpoweringly beautiful and enchanting, except to those who are
resolved not to be enchanted.’

     To the Rev. J. H. NEWMAN, _Die Omnium Sanctorum_, 1835.

‘_Carissime_: After all this delay I write without being able to
report progress;――but don’t be hard on me. For a long time the weather
has been so very bad as to confine me entirely to the house, which has
dullified me, partly by its inherent dulness, and partly by making me
rather worse, to such a degree that, till the last two days, which
have rather revived me, I have been up to little more than thinking in
my arm-chair, or listening to a novel. Yesterday I got a drive, and
to-day a ride, which I hope have done me good; and if I can go on so
for a week, I shall be as well as when you went, I have no doubt; and
in a diligent humour I am willing to hope…. Don’t be conceited if I
tell you how much you are missed here in many quarters. Now you are
gone, I clearly see that a step has been gained. Even I come in for my
share of the benefit, in finding myself partially extricated from an
unenviable position hitherto occupied by me: that of a prophet in his
own country….

‘Before I finish this, I must enter another protest against your
cursing and swearing[247] [at the end of the first _Via Media_] as you
do. What good can it do?――and I call it uncharitable to an excess. How
mistaken we may ourselves be on many points that are only gradually
opening on us! Surely you should reserve “blasphemous,” “impious,”
etc., for denial of the articles of the Faith.’

This latter passage is well known from its incorporation in the
_Apologia_. Again, Hurrell resumes on the 15th:

‘You will be in a rage with me when I tell you I have not answered
[Boone].[248] If I was sure of being able to think and write whenever
I chose, I should not have hesitated for a moment to promise the
[article] in a week or two. But this is far from my case; and I was in
a particularly do-nothing way, the day I got your letter. I don’t know
whether you know the sensation of a pulse above 100°? If you do, I
think you will admit it not to be favourable to mental exertion. So
you see I can’t count on myself, or make promises, and wish much I was
not committed at all. As to the review of Blanco White, it is an
amusement to me, for which I am grateful to you; but being tied up
about time, correcting the proofs, etc., are my bothers. I may,
indeed, be up to business-like work soon, and I hope I shall; but I am
no prophet. So I have almost a mind to tell Boone that I will let it
stand over till the next.’

Newman’s instant reply was reassuring:

‘… I shall write to Boone to-night to tell him that you think you
could not get the article done in time for January. I will take it
through the press, if you will trust me. Do not fuss yourself, or
think yourself pledged….

‘Keble was thrown from his horse, and broke a small bone in his
shoulder, but is better. He will not be editor of the _Tracts_….

‘M. Bunsen has pronounced upon our views, gathered from the _Arians_
(!), with singular vehemence. He says that if we succeed, we shall be
introducing Popery without authority, Protestantism without liberty,
Catholicism without universality, and Evangelism without spirituality.
In the greater part of which censure you doubtless agree!’

The all-but-dying invalid finished the long, able, dispassionate
review, entitled ‘Mr. Blanco White: Heresy and Orthodoxy,’ for the
printers. It appeared in time, in _The British Critic_ for January,
1836. It ends: ‘We must now, however, leave our argument imperfect,
hoping very shortly to recur to it.’ This is the colophon from Hurrell
Froude. It is diligent and collected, and keeps the colours boldly
flying after a fashion wholly characteristic. The manuscripts went in
sections to Newman.

‘In the last five days I have written forty of the enclosed
sixty-three pages. If the humour lasts, I may do the rest in a jiffy.
I have spent a week with Dr. Yonge…. [He] was not satisfied with the
effect of steel, and changed it for I know not what, three days ago;
since when I am decidedly stronger. But the Bishop of Llandaff[249]
has warned us against confounding succession with causation. If Rogers
will bring my Breviary, I shall be obliged. I shall be delighted if
Mozley comes with him. They will meet Wilson, though but for a day.’

The Breviary is the celebrated identical book, first studied under
Blanco White’s direction, the history of which is briefly given in the
_Apologia_, and which is, to Dr. Abbott, so important an agent in
determining Newman’s after-career. It may be assumed that Mr. Rogers
forgot to take it, that Christmastide, to Dartington, as it was on the
shelves of Hurrell’s rooms at Oriel when he died, and when Archdeacon
Froude asked Newman to choose a keepsake there. It is still at the
Oratory in Edgbaston.

A long letter to Newman from the Rev. R. F. Wilson, on Dec. 19,
contained, incidentally, no very cheery news of their friend,
succumbing to consumption of the throat.

‘It was a great pleasure to me to meet poor Froude, though he looks
sadly, and without any abatement of those symptoms which must make his
friends most anxious about him, appears weaker [by] a great deal than
when he was in Oxford. To me, he was a more interesting person than
ever, because I find that his peculiar way of thinking, and manner of
expressing himself, which I thought might only belong to him in health
and strength, continue just the same. I saw also Rogers there, for a

Froude himself ‘continues just the same,’ on paper. He was busily
hoisting sail in the offing, and quite calm about it. ‘I don’t know
that it does one any harm,’ he had written eighteen months before, ‘to
have the impression brought seriously before one that one is not to
see out the changes which seem to be at hand.’

He keeps on rallying Newman in his old animated strain, on Dec. 21,
winning the quick official contradiction: ‘As to our being out of
joint here! No, no; we are doing well.’

‘By Rogers’ account, things don’t go exactly as they ought at Oxford.
Golius[250] has rebelled, he says; and Ben Harrison[251] has jibbed;
and the Theological meetings go flat; and old Mozley[252] won’t work.
Harpsfield is the writer on the Breviary services whose name I could
not remember. Rogers says that Sancta Clara is rich. Wilson,[253] for
your comfort, is much less tender in the finger’s end than he was last
spring, though I hear Keble does complain of his being rather soft. I
very much wish to hear of your putting into execution your plan of a
campaign in London, and enlarging the basis of operations.

‘… When you write, tell me if you think there was any of the “nasty
irony”[254] you used to complain of? I tried to avoid it…. I am
entirely confined to the house, which we succeed in keeping very warm,
though out-of-doors it is a sharp windy frost.’

Frederic Rogers wrote to Newman from Dartington, where, according to
Newman’s arrangement, he was spending Christmas with Hurrell:

‘I am excessively amused at the alternations of treatment Miss Froude
is subject to from Hurrell and Mr. B[ogue].[255] In fact, I can hardly
help being in a constant half-laughter when anything is going on
between Froude and his sister.’

‘Mary Froude,’ adds Newman’s annotating hand in or about 1860, ‘was
one of the sweetest girls I ever saw. She was at this time engaged to
Mr. B[ogue]. He used to come with a great consciousness of his
situation, much gravity, and great reverence for her. Hurrell, on the
other hand, treated his sister, in a good-humoured way, as a little
child, calling her “Poll,” and sending her about on messages, etc., to
Mr. B[ogue’s] seeming scandal and distress. Mary Froude all the while
was the very picture of naturalness and simplicity, receiving with
equal readiness and equability the homage of the one, and the playful
rudeness of the other.’ Mr. Bogue won his bride only to lose her. Her
strength had been greatly impaired by her devoted attendance on her
favourite brother; nor did she long outlive him. She was the youngest
of Archdeacon Froude’s three daughters. The inscription over the vault
in the old beautiful churchyard next Dartington Hall, on the slope of
the hill, thus includes her name:

‘Also Mary Isabella Froude, wife of the Rev. Richard Bogue, [who] died
August 7, 1836, in her 22nd year.’

Shortly after the loss of his young wife, Mr. Bogue bought the
patronage of Denbury from the Duke of Bedford, and enlarged the old
Rectory House. He was Curate there for a good while to Archdeacon

‘The most important year in the history of the Oxford Movement was the
year 1836,’[256] the Hampden year. The great fight at Arques was
coming on, with ‘brave Crillon’ far away. Newman duly wished a Happy
New Year to Hurrell at Dartington. Sadly welcome are such conventions,
when nothing less may be said, and nothing more can be said. He sends
divers comments, with a postscript: ‘T. Mozley cannot come to you. His
brother is going to marry my younger sister.’[257] There was the usual
prompt answer, touching on the testimonial to Wellington, then
Chancellor of the University, as ‘abominable’ and _doctrinaire_; and
on the 16th Mr. Rogers wrote from Bridehead, as he knew well that
Newman would be anxious for personal news, as soon as might be:

‘I have left Froude, who professes to remain much as he has been,
rather weaker than when you were with him, from never being in the
open air, but not worse than he has been from the beginning of his
confinement. I am afraid, too, he is not quite in such good spirits as
he used to be. You ought to send Harrison down to him, to take lessons
on the subject of the Reformers; for certainly he has a way of
speaking which carries conviction in a very extraordinary way, over
and above the arguments he uses. Did Froude tell you that some good
lady who has read you wonders how it is that you and Arnold should
have any difference between you, your sentiments and general tone so
perfectly agreeing? (!)’

As the young host at Dartington had always loved the younger guest, it
is natural to find the praises of the latter in Froude’s notes to
Newman. Thus on Jan. 12: ‘Rogers leaves us on Thursday, having been
the greatest of acquisitions, in the eyes of everyone.’ ‘The greatest
of acquisitions’ of course meant an acquisition to the Cause: Mr.
Rogers’ own worth being properly valued, and that valuation added as
so much credit to local impressions of the Movement. Hurrell had no
merely social triumphs in mind. He had paid Newman, as guest and
passive proselytiser, the same compliment.

Again: ‘R[ogers] left us on [Thursday]. We had many arguments and
proses,[258] in the former of which he was generally victorious, but
in the latter I think I may boast of having succeeded. I do believe he
hates the meagreness of Protestantism as much as either of us.’

One who had never spared himself scrutiny and blame could, without
affectation, arraign his dying languor as ‘selfishness’ and
‘idleness.’ Poor Hurrell’s capacity for work and perseverance had
always been on the heroic scale. ‘These are not times,’ he had written
in 1831, ‘in which people who think their own principles right have
any business to be shilly-shally … [but] times when it seems almost a
sin to be jolly.’ Newman knew how to cheer on that astounding energy,
though with an aching heart.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, Jan. 7, 1836.

‘I am quite ashamed to think how long it is since I got your last
letter; but illness makes one selfish, at least mine does, and dislike
of writing, or in fact of doing anything, except trying to keep myself
as comfortable as possible, has become a ruling passion. Since autumn
set in I have done actually nothing except that review of B. White,
which N[ewman] committed me about in such a way that I could not back
out, and so was forced to go forward whether I would or not. However,
I hope to turn over a new leaf as the weather mends, and indeed I
begin to feel its reviving influence already. It is now more than two
months since I have been out of doors, except in a close carriage, and
for the last three weeks I have not been out at all, but have lived in
an artificial summer at about the temperature of sixty-five degrees….
I am also prohibited altogether from eating meat, poultry, etc., or
any animal food except fish, which, considering that milk does not
agree with me, makes my case rather a hard one. On the whole, however,
I am very comfortable, if it was not for an occasional twinge of
conscience at my total idleness, for which I fear I really have no
excuse, as I did not find myself a bit worse when obliged for a week
to work as hard as I could for _The British Critic_. N[ewman] is now
trying to hook me in for something else in the same line, and though I
doubt not I shall be provoked with myself for having agreed to it,
when the time for delivering the MS. draws near, yet I really think
that the stimulus is a good thing for me. I am really very much
obliged to you for your compliments about Becket,[259] for they really
are the only ones I get in any quarter.’

There was no longer the least hope for a patient who had inherited
consumption; who had never taken care of himself; whom no change of
climate had ever benefited; whose long austerities had done, no doubt,
their share of the work. As it was, he had entered his thirty-third
year, outliving several of his family. But the treatment to which he
was subjected seems radically wrong to those who glory in hygienic
science revolutionised since his day. The hot climate, the low diet,
the extra clothing while in England, the atrocious dumb-bell exercise,
instead of a gentle and uniform strengthening of every muscle in the
body, and last of all, the deprivation of fresh air, his one possible
alleviation, were so many superfluous death-wounds in the fight. Mr.
Keble, like Mr. Rogers and Newman, deplored the shut windows at
Dartington, remembering their friend’s lifelong predilection for the
open. ‘I am sorry to find they think it necessary to confine him so,’
he sighs to Newman. And then he adds, with a whipped-up miscellaneous
optimism: ‘His being able to write is an excellent sign. What have you
set him on now?… Thank you for sending me Wilson’s letter: it shows
him in a most amiable light. You have all of you made much more than I
meant out of that little word of mine of his being “softish.” I only
meant that he was not as disposed to hang all Whigs, Puritans, etc.,
as some might be; but this we charitably attribute to the bad company
he has kept in London.’

From Oriel Hurrell had, every few days, a full journal of the party’s
doings, interspersed with all manner of private and autobiographical
references. Newman, dining with a celebrated Evangelical (Mr.,
afterwards Sir James Stephen), sketches in the latter’s instructive
conversation. ‘It is so hard to [repeat] without seeming to bepraise
myself; but since I am conscious I have got all my best things from
Keble and you, I feel, ever, something of an awkward guilt when I am
lauded for my discoveries. He did not like my _Arians_, which, if I
understood him, jumped about from one subject to another, and was
hastily written, though thought out carefully…. He seemed to treat
with utter scorn the notion that we were favouring Popery: this age of
Mammon and this shrewd-minded nation were in no danger of it….
Further, the most subtle enemy which Christianity has ever had was
Benthamism. Now he thought our views had in them that which could
grapple with it…. He wanted from me a new philosophy…. Indeed, go
where I will, “the fields are ready for harvest,” and none to reap
them. If I might choose my place in the Church, I would, as far as I
can see, be Master of the Temple. I am sure, from what little I have
seen of the young lawyers, I could do something with them. You and
Keble are the philosophers, and I the rhetorician’ … the fascinating
miscellany of a letter goes on. And another quickly follows, when the
writer (who had been named to Lord Melbourne as well as Keble) fears
that Keble will refuse the Divinity Professorship at Oxford if it be
proffered him, and flies to Froude as to one who can help to prevent
that calamity. ‘I dread lest he should decline it. I write to you,
that if you agree with me, you may write to him at once. For myself, I
should go by your judgement, if such a thing occurred to me….
_Carissime_, I think I may say with a clear conscience I have no
desire for it, and, had I my choice, would decide that the offer
should not be made to me. I am too indolent, and like my own way too
well, to wish it. I should be entangled in routine business, which I
abhor. I should be obliged to economise,[260] and play the humbug, in
a way I should detest, and I have no love for the nuisance of house
and furniture, adding up bills, settling accounts, hiring servants,
and getting up the price of butcher’s meat. I have the unpopularity,
the fame, of being a party man, [with] the care of Tracts and the
engagements of agitation. I am more useful as I am; but Keble is a
light too spiritual and subtle to be seen unless put upon a
candlestick.’ There is a most affectionate ending to his letter sent
to the post on Candlemas Day. ‘Θάρσει, φίλον ἦτορ You could not but
get weaker this weather, so confined.’

Meanwhile Hurrell had written ‘the last letter he wrote to me, perhaps
the last letter he wrote at all.’ It is dated Jan. 27, 1836; the flow
of it, the wonted pace, is gallant as usual, though it held both
serious criticism and sad news. ‘You may perhaps have seen in the
papers,’ he says to Newman, that my grandmother died, the 14th of this
month. She retained her faculties to the last, and seems to have
undergone the minimum of suffering which death requires. She was
within a month or two of eighty-nine.’ This was his father’s mother,
Phillis Hurrell.

‘It is very encouraging about the Oxford Tracts, but I wish I could
prevail on you, when the second edition comes out, to cancel or
materially alter several. The other day accidentally put in my way the
Tract on “The Apostolical Succession in the English Church”; and it
really does seem so very unfair, that I wonder you could, even in the
extremity of οἰκονομία and φενακισμὸς have consented to be a party to
it.[261] The Patriarchate of Constantinople, as everyone knows, was
not one “from the first,” but neighbouring Churches voluntarily
submitted to it, in the first instance, and then by virtue of their
oaths remained its ecclesiastical subjects; and the same argument by
which you justify England and Ireland would justify all those Churches
in setting up any day for themselves. The obvious meaning of the canon
[of Ephesus] is that Patriarchs might not _begin_ to exercise
authority in Churches _hitherto_ independent, without their consent.

‘Christie tells me you have had a letter from poor Blanco White,
pleased rather than otherwise with [my] review,[262] and mistaking it
for yours, and sending you a copy of the book. Poor fellow: I should
much like to know in what tone he wrote; it must have been a painful
thing answering him…. I don’t gain flesh, in spite of all the milk.
Indeed, I suspect that in the last six weeks I have lost a good deal,
but the symptoms remain the same.’ It is in this letter that Froude
arranges for the continued dedication of the accumulated dues from his
own Fellowship to the propagation of the Cause dear to his heart. ‘So
spend away, my boy,’ he calls cheerfully to Newman, ‘and make a great
fuss, as if your money flowed in from a variety of sources!’ It was
his valediction.

Archdeacon Froude, early in February, leaves a blank on the last page
of his communication to Newman, ‘for your regular correspondent to
fill.’ Then comes the ominous postscript: ‘Hurrell wishes me to say
that he has nothing particular to say just now, but that you shall
hear from him in three or four days. He has received your two letters.
And now (as he will not ask to see what I may write), I will tell you
in a few words that my fears for him have increased considerably
within the last week. There can be now no doubt that he has been
losing ground, that he is much thinner than when Mr. Rogers left us,
and as evidently weaker…. He is generally cheerful, sleeps well, and
takes a sufficient quantity of food.’

Newman’s thirty-fifth birthday came on February 21, and upon that day,
absorbed as he now became in fighting Hampdenism, he penned a loving
letter of ‘long, long thoughts’ to his favourite sister Jemima,
betrothed to John Mozley. ‘Thank my Mother and Harriet for their
congratulations upon this day. They will be deserved, if God gives me
grace to fulfil the purposes for which He has led me on hitherto in a
wonderful way. I think I am conscious to myself that, whatever are my
faults, I wish to live and die to His glory; to surrender wholly to
Him as His instrument, to whatever work, and at whatever personal
sacrifice, (though I cannot duly realise my own words when I say so).
He is teaching me, it would seem, to depend on Him only; for, as
perhaps Rogers told you, I am soon to lose dear Froude: which, looking
forward to the next twenty-five years of my life, and its probable
occupations, is the greatest loss I could have. I shall be truly
widowed; yet I hope to bear it lightly.’

At intervals of five days, Archdeacon Froude gave Newman his
melancholy bulletin. Nowhere is he more admirable than in facing the
impending loss of the son who had come to be his pride and glory, and
his bosom friend. Says the Rev. Thomas Mozley: ‘There was a sort of
stoicism about Archdeacon Froude’s character which sometimes surprised
those who had only seen him for a day or two, conversing, or
sketching, or sight-seeing. He once rather shocked his clergy by
delivering a Charge while a very dear daughter was lying dead in his
house: but there was a romantic conception of duty in the act which
affords some key to Richard Hurrell’s character.’

                                                  Feb. 18, 1836.

‘My dear Hurrell desires me to account to you for his long silence,
but … I am sure you must have attributed it to the real cause, and be
prepared for a confirmation of the fears I then expressed…. All hope
of his recovery is gone; but we have the comfort of seeing him quite
free from pain, and in sure trust that the change will be a happy one
whenever it shall please God to take him. His thoughts continually
turn to Oxford, to yourself, and Mr. Keble; but my heart is too full
to add more than his instructions to thank you for all you have
written to him, and to say how much he was interested in Mr. Rogers’
most amusing account of the late proceedings in the University.’

                                                  Feb. 23, 1836.

‘Your friend is still alive. The morning after I wrote my last, he
awoke with a fluttering about the heart and a pulsation at the wrist I
could not count. Our apothecary thought he could not live out the day;
but our doctor holds out no hope of any change having taken place that
should raise our expectations beyond that of a short respite. As he
continues free from pain, or any very uncomfortable sensation except
that of extreme weakness … I am thankful that he is permitted to
remain with us, even for a few days. On no account, my dear Mr.
Newman, would I have you come down: no good could come of it. You
shall hear again from me in a few days; sooner, if anything occurs
that should call for an earlier communication. Hurrell desires me to
thank you, and also to say that he is “sorry that he has given you any
trouble about those stupid accounts,” to use his own words, and that
he “cannot scrape up ideas and strength enough” to write to you
himself. Should he, (contrary to all reasonable grounds for hope), get
a little about again, do tell Mr. Williams [that] his paying us a
short visit will give us great pleasure indeed.’

                                                  Feb. 28, 1836.

‘My dear son died this day. Since my last he has been gradually but
quietly sinking. After a rather more than usually restless night, he
spoke of himself as being quite comfortable this morning, and appeared
to hear the Service of the day, and a sermon, read to him with so much
attention that I did not think the sad event so near as it has been.
About two o’clock, as I was recommending him to take some egg and
wine, I observed a difficulty in his breathing. He attempted to speak;
and then after a few slight struggles, his sufferings were at an end.’

He was laid to rest on March 3, beside his mother, brother, and
sister, close to the Church porch. The burial service was read by the
Rev. Anthony Buller, a Devonian and an Oriel man, an old friend who
dearly loved him. Apparently neither Newman nor Keble travelled down
for the day to Dartington Parsonage, though the former, at least, had
arranged to do so from London. But the Archdeacon’s tidings were sent
to Oxford, and it was only on the morning of March 1 that Newman
learned of his loss. It quite overcame him. ‘He opened the letter in
my room,’ writes Thomas Mozley to his sister, ‘and could only put it
into my hand, with no remark. He afterwards, Henry Wilberforce told
me, lamented with tears (not a common thing for him), that he could
not [have seen] Froude just to tell him how much he felt that he had
owed to him in the clearing and strengthening of his views.’ Keble,
too, at the Hursley Altar, the Sunday after Hurrell’s home-going,
which must have been his own first Sunday there as Vicar, broke down
completely, and for some minutes could not go on. At Oriel (to
overhear again the Rev. T. Mozley addressing his brother John):
‘Froude’s death seems not a gloom, but a calm sadness over the
College. Newman showed me his father’s letter written the same day,
perfectly quiet and manly, making various arrangements, and telling
Newman and his [other] friends to make selections from Froude’s scanty
collection of books, to keep for his sake. I suppose Froude never got
a book or anything else, in his life, merely for the sake of having
it. His absolute indifference to possession was something marvellous.
Did I ever tell you that for two years, at least, he has given his
Fellowship to Newman, to go towards the _Tracts_? Yet he was by no
means careless about money matters; for he with great pains put the
accounts of Junior Treasurer (which I find troublesome enough even
now), on an entirely new and simpler plan, to the great convenience of
his successor…. I dare say there is no one who has said more severe
and cutting things to me, yet the constant impression Froude has
always left on my mind is that of kindness and _sweetness_.’ This
testimony, indeed, was general.

On March 2, Newman wrote to his old friend J. W. Bowden, from Oxford:

‘Yesterday morning brought me the news of Froude’s death; and if I
could collect my thoughts at this moment, I would say something to you
about him; but I scarcely can. He has been so very dear to me, that it
is an effort to me to reflect on my own thoughts about him. I can
never have a greater loss, looking on for the whole of my life, for he
was to me, and he was likely to be ever, in the same degree of
continual familiarity which I enjoyed with yourself in our
undergraduate days…. It would have been a great satisfaction to me had
you known him. You once saw him, indeed; but it was when his health
was gone, and when you could have no idea of him. It is very
mysterious that anyone so remarkably and variously gifted, and with
talents so fitted for these times, should be removed. I never, on the
whole, fell in with so gifted a person. In variety and perfection of
gifts I think he far exceeded even Keble. For myself, I cannot
describe what I owe to him as regards the intellectual principles of
religion and morals. It is useless to go on to speak of him: it has
pleased God to take him, in mercy to him, but by a very heavy
visitation to all who were intimate with him. Yet everything was so
bright and beautiful[263] about him, that to think of him must always
be a comfort. The sad feeling I have is that one cannot retain in
one’s memory all one wishes to keep there; and that as year passes
after year, the image of him will be fainter and fainter.’

The long-memoried man who uttered that was only too conscious that he
had no portrait of his departed friend.

On the 6th, turning aside from other things, Newman says, in his
thrilling undertone, to Keble:

‘… We have indeed had an irreparable loss; but I have for years
expected it. I would fain be his heir. When I was with him in October,
I so wished to drink out his thoughts, but found they would not flow
except in orderly course, as all God’s gifts. It was an idea of
Bowden’s, the other day, that as time goes on, and more and more
Saints are gathered in, fewer are needed on earth: the City of God has
surer and deeper foundations, day by day.’

Some thought of kindred wing crossed at the same time the mind of
Charlotte Keble at Hursley. ‘I shall be very glad,’ she says,
feelingly, to her sister-in-law Elizabeth on March 9, ‘for poor Mr.
Newman to have the comfort of John’s being in Oxford. He seems very
much to need it; and nobody, I suppose, can so entirely sympathise
with him, both in his distress for the loss, and also in the views and
opinions which knit them all three together. I can’t help thinking (at
least, one doesn’t know), but that Mr. Froude may in some way or other
be of more service now than if he had been kept here longer.’[264]

Perhaps no apology need be made for dwelling on the impression left by
Hurrell Froude on the minds of his comrades, above all, on the mind of
his best-loved comrade, after he had passed away. This afterglow, this
‘trailing cloud of glory,’ is biographic comment indeed. He had lived
so detached a life that it is pleasant to associate him, at the last,
with the _schwärmerei_ of much tender common human sorrow, with sorrow
sure of his own immortal continued interest in all that he had worked
for in England: for it helps to show him less as an elf and a ‘kinless
loon,’ than as the Saint-errant which, through his thirty-two years,
he was.

The heavy blow of his mother’s unexpected death fell on Newman in May.
The association of this loss with the sharp foregoing one, and the
remembrance of Froude, whom he had known and lived with so happily
since they first became colleagues at Oriel, are palpable enough in
the brave sigh of that greatly religious soul, breathed in a letter to
Harriett Newman, dated June 21, 1836:

‘You have nothing to be uneasy at, so far as I am concerned. Thank
God, my spirits have not sunk, nor will they, I trust. I have been
full of work, and that keeps me generally free from dejection. If it
ever comes, it is never of long continuance, and is even not
unwelcome. I am speaking of dejection from solitude. I never feel so
near Heaven as then. Years ago, from 1822 to 1826, I used to be very
much by myself, and in anxieties of various kinds which were very
harassing. I then, on the whole, had no friend near me, no one to whom
I opened my mind fully, or who could sympathise with me. I am but
returning, at worst, to that state … and after all, this life is very
short, and it is a better thing to be pursuing what seems God’s Will
than to be looking after one’s own comfort. I am learning more than
hitherto to live in the presence of the dead: this is a gain which
strange faces cannot take away.’

Less than a year later, a similar strain comes like a music of triumph
over sorrow in such a letter to Frederic Rogers, on the death of his
sister, as none but Newman could write:

‘This is only a fresh instance of what I suppose one must make up
one’s mind to think, and what is consoling to think, that those who
are early taken away are the fittest to be taken, and that it is a
privilege so to be taken, and that they are in their proper place when
taken. Surely God would not separate from us such, except it were best
both for them and for us; and that those who are taken away are such
as are most acceptable to Him seems proved by what we see: for
scarcely do you hear of some especial instance of religious
excellence, but you have also cause of apprehension how long such a
one is to continue here…. We pray daily: “Thy Kingdom come”: if we
understand our words, we mean it as a privilege to leave the world,
and we must not wonder that God grants the privilege to some of those
who pray for it, … pray for our eventual re-gathering, but our
dispersion in the interval. The more we live in the world that is not
seen, the more shall we feel that the removal of friends into that
unseen world is a bringing them near to us, not a separation. Our
Saviour’s going brought Him nearer, though invisibly, in the Spirit.’
It is all reticent and impersonal, but it rises, before his great
battle begins, from Newman’s stricken lonely heart. ‘Thou doomed to
die,’ as he had said, long before, in his poem, ‘David and Jonathan’:

     ‘Thou doomed to die: he on us to impress
      The portent of a blood-stained holiness.’

Last of all, come from his half-unwilling hand the lines well-known to
students of sacred verse.

     ‘Dearest! he longs to speak, as I to know:
      And yet we both refrain.’

What beauty is in that word ‘refrain,’ a filament of English feeling
kept between the quick and the dead! It occurs in a little
afterthought of a stanza, which was the only poetic offering of
Newman’s pen to Hurrell Froude gone.[265] Never was there so
imponderable an obituary; nor ever any more exquisitely in keeping.

For ‘the rest’ was indeed ‘silence.’ A proposal for a monument in S.
Mary’s at Oxford, affectionately brought forward by Robert
Wilberforce, as due to ‘our incomparable friend,’ ‘that invaluable
friend,’ somehow fell through. A special paper for _The British
Magazine_ fell through too, neither Newman nor Keble being able, in
his first grief, to write it to his own satisfaction. The only actual
notice of Froude’s decease occurred in a bare alphabetical list
printed in the April number, 1836. ‘Tributes of Respect’ were usual in
the Magazine, but he had none. The _Annual Biographer and Obituary_,
published by the Longmans in 1837, does not include him. Nor had he
any epitaph, not even when Archdeacon Froude died twenty-three years
later, until Dartington Church was taken down, being thought too
remote from the village population, in 1878, and the stones used in a
re-erection close to the highway below; then the vault was railed in,
where it was left in the lonely grassy space, with only the ancient
Hall, the grey ivied tower, and the sun-dial for solemn neighbours,
and the name and dates of each of the Froude family were cut on the
plain slab. They are unaccompanied even by a text, or a Christian
symbol. And thus, in the abstention which was his lifelong garment,
Hurrell sleeps. On the hundredth anniversary of his birth, March 25,
1903, a great garland of leaves and simple Devon blossoms lay there,
with a dedicatory good word from his favourite Book of Daniel: ‘O man
greatly beloved! peace be unto thee: fear not; be strong, yea, be
strong…. But go thou thy way till the end be; for thou shalt rest, and
stand in thy lot at the end of the days.’ It cannot be for ever that
‘Froude of the Movement’ shall lack a less perishable memorial.

  (_The railing by the south porch enclosed the tomb of the Froudes_)]


In 1836, the ‘vanishing of such a spirit without sign’ was not to be
endured. It was the most natural thing in the world that all he had
written should be gathered together, that such a lover of books (as
Leigh Hunt says somewhere, in one of his happy literary retrospects),
should himself become a book. Hurrell became a singular book, as it
happened, made up, paradoxically, of matter never prepared by himself
for publication; and he and it were put forth as a party manifesto. It
may not be uninteresting to review the origin and character of _The
Remains of the late Reverend Richard Hurrell Froude, M.A., Fellow of
Oriel College, Oxford_, printed by the Rivingtons in 1838 and 1839,
and consisting of four volumes octavo. The Editors, whose names do not
appear upon the title-page, were the Rev. John Keble and the Rev. John
Henry Newman. The latter is generally supposed to have done most of
the work; there are published letters of Keble’s to Sir John
Coleridge, and of Newman’s to Mr. Frederic Rogers, which go to show
that the idea of bringing out the _Remains_, and the initiatory
labour, including the first Preface, were Newman’s. But according to
Coleridge’s _Memoir_, Mr. Keble, as collaborator, wrote by far the
greater part of both Prefaces. For the very beautiful second one he
was certainly responsible.[266]

Of Part I. of these _Remains_, Vol. i. is devoted to a Private
Journal; Memoranda personal and philosophical; Letters to Friends; one
Latin and five English poems; seven pages of remembered miscellaneous
sayings; and a diary as Appendix. The companion volume is devoted to
Sermons complete and fragmentary; three Essays on subjects connected
with arts and sciences, and three on subjects purely ecclesiastical.
Part II., Vol. i., has five papers and some fragments, none of which
are on secular themes; and the final volume is given up to the History
of the Contest between Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, and
Henry II., drawn from original documents and State Papers, left
unfinished by Hurrell Froude, and carried on and edited by the Rev.
James Bowling Mozley.

The collecting of ‘dearest Froude’s papers’ had begun before April,
1836; they were looked over at Hursley in July; by September, Newman,
otherwise busy as he was, writes that he is getting on with the
transcriptions, and that James Mozley has been hard at work during the
whole Vacation on S. Thomas of Canterbury. Archdeacon Froude sends up
his auxiliary supplies in October, from Dartington Parsonage.

‘… I sent off a parcel to you, three days ago, by Henry Champernowne:
it contains the text of dear Hurrell’s manuscripts. All your letters
to him that I can find are also enclosed. With the latter I must
confess I have not parted without regret. They are memorials of your
affectionate friendship with one whose image is ever before me, and to
which I could never turn without a delightful interest that I cannot
describe. His correspondence for many years with myself[267] turns
principally on little passing incidents, or relates to matters of
private concern; but it is of great value to me as a sort of journal
from early boyhood nearly to the time of our separation.’

_Lyra Apostolica_ was issued in November, and several of the critics
had taken pains to single out ‘β’s’ poems for special commendation,
even if at the expense of Keble and Newman: certainly Samuel
Wilberforce did so, in his asked-for review, the tone of which was so
disconcerting and unexpected to the asker;[268] and _The Christian
Observer_ had saluted Hurrell as ‘the most spiritual and least bigoted
of the whole set.’ All this was encouraging to the projectors of the
_Remains_, who knew better than outsiders of how keen and high an
intellect, how holy an inspiration, their cause had been deprived.
Newman’s notes, as the editing progressed, are very sanguine.

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, June 30, 1837.

‘… I have transcribed [R. H. F.’s] Private Thoughts, and am deeply
impressed with their attractive character. They are full of
instruction and interest, as I think all will feel. I have transcribed
them for your imprimatur. If you say Yes, send them to me; I propose
to go to press almost immediately. These Thoughts present a remarkable
instance of the temptation to rationalism, self-speculation, etc.,
subdued. We see his mind only breaking out into more original and
beautiful discoveries, from that very repression which, at first
sight, seemed likely to be the utter prohibition to exercise his
special powers. He used playfully to say that his “highest ambition
was to be a humdrum,” and by relinquishing the prospect of originality
he has but become the more original.’

On July 5, Newman gives to Rogers categorical reasons for his plan of

‘1. To show his … unaffectedness, playfulness, brilliancy, which
nothing else would show. His Letters approach to conversation, to show
his delicate mode of implying, not expressing, sacred thoughts; his
utter hatred of pretence and humbug. I have much to say on the danger
which I think at present besets the Apostolical Movement of getting
peculiar in externals, _i.e._, formal, manneristic. Now Froude
disdained all show of religion. In losing him we have lost an
important correction…. His Letters are a second-best preventative.

‘2. To make the work interesting, nothing takes so much as these
private things.

‘3. To show the history of the formation of his opinions. Vaughan[269]
was observing the other day that we never have the history of men in
the most interesting period of their life, from eighteen to
twenty-eight or thirty, while they are forming: now this gives

‘4. To show how deliberately and dispassionately he formed his
opinions. They were not taken up as mere fancies: this invests them
with much consideration. Here his change from Tory to Apostolical is

‘5. To show the interesting growth of his mind, how indolence was
overcome, etc.; to show his love of mathematics, his remarkable
struggle against the lassitude of disease, his working to the last.

‘6. For the intrinsic merit of his remarks.

‘If you think the notion entertainable, I wish you could put the MS.
into the hands of some person who is a good judge, yet more impartial
than ourselves, in order to ascertain his impression of it…. If you
and the other agree in countenancing the notion, then send down the
MS. to Keble, with an enumeration of [my] reasons for publishing.’

     To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, July 16, 1837.

‘… Williams has suggested the publication of extracts from Hurrell’s
letters. I feared at first they would be too personal as regards
others; but then I began to think that if they could be given, they
would be next best to talking with him, and would show him in a light
otherwise unattainable. Then there are so many clever things in those
he sent me: the first hints of principles which I and others have
pursued, and of which he ought to have the credit. Moreover, we have
often said the Movement, if anything comes of it, must be
enthusiastic. Now here is a man fitted above all others to kindle
enthusiasm. I have written to William Froude about it, who caught at
the idea, which he said had already struck him. Considering the state
of the University, everything which can tell against Hampdenism[270]
will be a gain.’

Newman continued sanguine.

     To J. W. BOWDEN, Esq., Hursley, Oct. 6, 1837.

‘… I am here for a week to consult with Keble about Froude’s papers,
which are now in the press, and require a good deal of attention. You
will, I think, be deeply interested in them. His father has put some
into my hands of a most private nature. They are quite new even to
Keble, who knew more about him than anyone…. All persons of
unhackneyed feelings and youthful minds must be taken with them;
others will think them romantic, scrupulous, over-refined, etc.’

The ‘papers of a most private nature’ dated chiefly from Hurrell’s
twenty-third to his twenty-seventh year. ‘They have taught me,’ Mr.
Keble writes to that friend, his own earliest biographer, whom they
were to disturb and shock when once in print, ‘they have taught me
things concerning him which I never suspected myself, as to the degree
of self-denial which he was practising when I was most intimate with
him. This encourages me to think that there may be many such whom one
dreams not of.’

How Froude came to leave these secret manuscripts behind him is not
perfectly clear. Mr. Keble had advised burning them, long before.
During the months and even years when there was natural opportunity
for disposing of all his affairs, Froude had abstained from destroying
his papers. The only explanation is that he was too completely
indifferent, in all such matters, to make a move of any sort. He
belonged to a journal-keeping age and a journal-keeping family: to
write, and to dismiss the writing from memory, were to him easy
matters. Neither his kind of memory, nor his degree of self-attentiveness,
would have helped him to produce an _Apologia_. His diaries, properly
speaking, have absolutely no egotism: he is merely dramatically
concentrated on R. H. F. as a moral ‘dummy’ convenient for observation
and correction, and it was quite in keeping with his habit that he
should have taken no thought whatever of a testamentary nature,
towards the end. He could, of course, have had no suspicion of the
ultimate use to which his confessions were soon to be put. Besides, he
would harbour no fear of depreciation, but would rather have desired
that, even in the grave.

On the fly-leaf of the finished book they placed a sweet motto from
the _Adeste, sanctæ conjuges_, the midnight hymn appointed for the
Office of the Commemoration of Holy Women. It came from the Parisian
Breviary, in which Froude had delighted. Newman was editing the Hymns
included in it at this very time.

    ‘_Se sub serenis vultibus
      Austera virtus occulit,
      Timens videri, ne suum,
      Dum prodit, amittat decus._’

Isaac Williams’ sensitive translation is a fit mate for the Latin:

     ‘Neath [a] look serene concealed,
      Stern Virtue hid her shield,
      Fearing to lose that Love, within,
      Which half is lost by being seen.’

Such a motto, it might be urged, was both too personal and too
deprecatory. The perfect posy for the venture would have been,
instead, a word of Felippo di Boni:

    ‘_Son soldato
      Ancor io:
      Stringo una spada
      Che forte in pugno
      Ed immortal mi sta.
      Dio mi l ha data;
      Equando morto io cada,
      Fatta spirito mio,

The Editors felt, no doubt, that anything like this, for all of its
fitness, would have imported a note of unnecessary defiance. To print
the _Remains_ at all was certainly war-cry enough.

The first Part, comprising two volumes, appeared at mid-winter, 1838.
It was much talked of, as was inevitable, among the interested friends
and foes of the High Church party, and it bred the most contrary
impressions. Beyond the familiar circle, Froude’s comrades and their
followers, what success the book won was a frank _succès de scandale_.
Its one tangible result was to urge on Low Church zealots to build the
Martyrs’ Memorial at Oxford. It was dedicated in 1841; and
subconsciously, it was from plinth to finial what Mr. Keble called it,
‘a public dissent from Froude.’[271] Love for Ridley, Latimer, and the
great Cranmer who, as F. Rogers once predicated, ‘burned well,’ were
less potent in raising that graceful landmark than heated
disapprobation of Froude, Newman, and Keble himself. _Sic vos non
vobis._ Hurrell liked ironical situations. Here was one to his hand.

The sale of the _Remains_ was never great; in fact, it was so
restricted that the publishers, about seven months after the launching
of the first Part, made considerable demur before bringing the second
Part out at all. No extra edition was called for; the work has stood,
ever since, among the out-of-print rarities of London catalogues. Of
the mass of writing which it comprised, sacred or secular, there has
been but a single paper reprinted: the remarkable paper on State
Interference in Matters Spiritual, issued by Selwood in 1869, with a
strongly corroborative Introduction from the pen of that good militant
shepherd, the Rev. William J. E. Bennett, Vicar of Frome.

On March 29, 1838, Newman wrote from Oxford to Keble, on the subject
then uppermost in their minds.

‘You must not be vexed to have a somewhat excited letter from Edward
Churton[272] on the subject of dear Hurrell’s _Remains_. I doubt not,
too, you really will not be so. All persons whose hearts have been
with Cranmer and Jewel are naturally pained; and one must honour them
for it. It is the general opinion here that the Journal ought to have
been published, and is full of instruction. Yesterday morning I had
the following pleasant announcement from William Froude: “My father is
much pleased with Hurrell’s book. He had been rather alarmed by some
comments made upon it in a letter from Sir John Coleridge; but the
book itself has quite reassured him. The Preface says exactly what one
wished to have said.”’

If Archdeacon Froude felt satisfied, that would atone for much. Mr.
Rose’s opinion was next in importance to the Archdeacon’s, to the
Oriel men responsible for this particular exercise of it. Fortunately,
he was sufficiently favourable, writing to Pusey from King’s College
on March 14, 1838, to ask for ‘an account,’ or ‘a sketch’ of ‘poor
Froude’s most interesting _Remains_. I do not know to whom to give
them for review. For very few can understand or appreciate his very
peculiar excellences. A book so miscellaneous, touching on so very
many points is a very hard matter for a regular reviewer.’[273] Apart
from these graded expressions of private sympathy, there was censure
and even ridicule to bear; and self-earned troubles are proverbially
not the sweetest. Violent denunciations arose on all sides, and
especially within the bosom of an ungrateful Church. The Lady Margaret
Professor of Divinity fulminated from the very University pulpit; the
Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, the most persevering ‘charger’ of all,
thundered against ‘that very rash and intemperate young man.’ Even the
House of Commons was, on one occasion at least, disturbed by godly
zeal exerted against the book. To James Mozley, during July, Newman
wrote: ‘You see Lord Morpeth[274] has been upon me in the House, as
editor of the _Remains_. Gladstone has defended me; Sir R[obert]
Inglis the University.’[275] And Rogers sends his vivacious message to
Newman: ‘What do you think of Gladstone’s exculpation of you? And what
of the face Froude would have made at being quoted in the House of
Commons as “an accomplished gentleman” by Lord Morpeth?’[276]

The _Remains_, quickly as it fell out of print, was a storm-centre.
Mr. Gladstone, concerned with defending the good faith of the
editor-in-chief, yet handled the oppugned work with repeated
regrets.[277] He has left it upon record, referring to an earlier
year, and echoing the adjectives of Bishop O’Brien just quoted: ‘My
first impressions and emotions in connection with [the Oxford
Movement] were those of indignation at what I thought the rash
intemperate censures pronounced by Mr. Hurrell Froude upon the
Reformers.’[278] Newman’s _Correspondence_[279] gives quite a
roll-call of the Bishops, editors, magazines, and private persons
‘opening on us.’ He adds: ‘I can fancy the old Duke sending down to
ask the Heads of Houses whether we cannot be silenced.’

Some who took the _Remains_ to heart were more than half sorry that it
was published. The real reasons for that measure had been in the
Prefaces a little obscured, because largely taken for granted as
obvious. So much is clear: the need had been felt of issuing a book to
serve as a dead friend’s only monument. But the moment one came to
handle his compositions, all warlike, all new, one foresaw the ethical
risk of putting them forward, without first educating a public to read
them. Mr. Wilson, representing his own earliest feeling, and that of
Mr. Keble his Vicar, sympathised, in the very beginning, with Newman
over ‘the great difficulty and perplexity you must be in at present,
as to what course to take…. We cannot afford by any shock even to
throw back into their former upright posture of indifference or
suspicion some who are now leaning our way.’ To publish poor Hurrell
at all turned out a large diplomatic matter. Confident that he needed
only to be known to be loved and trusted, Newman resolved to make him
intimately and unmistakably known, and his opinions, in consequence,
heeded as they deserved. The _Remains_ is almost the first among
modern English books to expose what is sacredly private: we are all
used now, whether with diminishing or undiminishing protest, to
exhibitions of the spiritual anatomy of humankind. The Editors’
challenge to an Erastian world seemed based on the belief that their
cause had bred its perfect flower in Froude, and that only to show him
as he was, with his mighty single-hearted zest, his aspirations
towards holiness, and his playful gentleness, would be to show also
the attaching loveliness of their cause. They proceeded upon one or
two syllogisms which had no flaw, but also no application. For,
plainly, Froude was impossible to be understanded of the people, and
the more he himself was expounded the worse it was for the system
which he personified. An eminent critic led the way in dwelling, not
on the question so unmistakably thrust forward, of Præmunire, but on
Hurrell’s confessed and repented glance to see ‘whether goose came on
the table at dinner!’ That goose is well known to a number of
contemporary persons who have never owned a copy of the _Remains_, nor
heard what ascetic theology has to say of such a thing as
concupiscence of the eyes. Hurrell, in a secret hour, had named the
goose only to his guardian angel, between whom and himself the sense
of humour could hardly come into play. Keble’s humour, and Newman’s
likewise, were almost incomparably keen: one knows not how these
passages survived the proofreading. It was inevitable, however, that
public attention should fasten upon them with disrelish and horror.
They were unusual, they were not ‘self-respecting’; they belonged to
types outgrown and superseded; in short, they were fatally
‘un-English,’ to that most respectable year 1838. It was bidden to
admire a humility and disinterestedness in which it could not believe.
A completely non-sentimental religion was a trying spectacle, even to
the most religious among Early Victorian readers. A young man ever
accusing himself, a young man waiving his own profit, and doing these
monstrous things by force of will and habit, all his life, was simply
an offence to common morals. Natural virtues are well enough: truth,
industry, ambition, family affection, are at least legal: they are not
a slap in the face to what is called a Christian community. But a
temper fed from hidden springs, and full of austerity and detachment,
must ever look to the mass of men like an alien thing, the outcome of
hypocrisy or sheer foolishness. Nothing but an outward and visible
career passed in nursing the sick in hospitals can, to this day,
redeem it.

‘The public,’ says a sociologist,[280] with charming scorn, ‘are
acquainted with the nature of their own passions, and the point of
their own calamities; can laugh at the weakness they feel, and weep at
the miseries they have experienced: but all the sagacity they possess,
be it how great soever, will not enable them to judge of likeness to
that which they have never seen, nor to acknowledge principles on
which they have never reflected. Of a comedy or a drama, an epigram or
a ballad, they are judges from whom there is no appeal; but not of the
representation of facts which they have never examined, of beauty
which they have never loved.’ The good public and anything which
savours of the merely supernatural, the good public and the Kingdom of
Heaven, in short, are incongruous. But it is only fair to them to
quote, again, the word of a far more practical observer, which had,
from the first, a bearing on those whom the writer calls ‘the
firebrands of the Movement’: ‘I do not say the English are a people of
good sense, but I say they abhor extremes, and always fly off from
those who carry things too far.’[281] They do indeed. But every
conclusion becomes an extreme, and a thing carried too far, where they
are concerned.

Froude had always trimmed his sails not so much to the wind, as
according to a theory of navigation. It follows that ‘the picture of a
mind,’ his mind, such as his friends wished to exhibit it, was not a
‘necessity to the times’: in fact, it was an intrusion upon them. It
was in deadly hostility not only to their low ideals, but to their
ordinary characteristics and best accepted spirit. Froude, or his
unconscious influence, was only too well organised to ‘toss and gore
several persons,’ and the self-satisfied Establishment which had
honourably reared them. An illustration of existing contraries may not
be far to seek. Two good men of mark, born and dying in the roomy
Church of England, once expressed, each in his turn, his feeling about
his epitaph. Mr. Robert Southey was pleased to say (with what his age
considered perfect decorum, with what our age must admit to be perfect
truth): ‘I have this conviction: that die when I may, my memory is one
of those which will “smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.”’ He also
repeated the sentiment in verse. But the testamentary ideas of Richard
William Church ran in another mould:

    ‘_Rex tremendæ majestatis,
      Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
      Salva me, Fons Pietatis!_’

It is safe to predicate that thinking persons who sympathise with the
one, revolt from the other. Now the cleavage between the dispositions
which brought about these irreconcilable expressions, is the cleavage
in the national ideals. What is so sure of blossoming in the dust,
although professedly it lay all stress upon the Vicarious Atonement,
is Protestantism. The belief in the necessity of the co-operative
human will in the scheme of Redemption, although it attain only to an
awestruck hope of the Almighty Mercy, is, well――not precisely
Protestantism! Between the two moods there is no mutual approach,
still less, amalgamation: for between them is set up the Sign to be
contradicted. It is to be feared that Hurrell Froude, had he known of
an admired poet’s intention for ever to ‘smell sweet,’ could hardly
have been restrained from quoting his kinsman Hamlet’s ‘Pah!’ Piety
which of malice prepense smells sweet, will like Hurrell Froude no
better now than it liked him in the Tractarian twilight. It will be
seen that Mr. Southey was not enthusiastic over the _Remains_.

To put the _Remains_ on the open market was too bold a venture of
faith, though they would have served their dialectic purpose well, and
found their own readily, even had they been privately issued, even if
edited with greater reserve. It was quite natural that Froude should
have passed posthumously for a mere agitator given up to triviality
and impudence. If it were true that for him living, ‘one constantly
trembled, in mixed society,’ what can have possessed his Editors to
think that his anarchist voice (the voice, really, of a great
constructive critic) would be suffered in a four-volume monologue? All
he was, all he thought, separated him by whole elements and universes
from the ordinary citizen. Accost between them turned farcical in the
act: ‘as if a dog should try to make friends with a fish!’ His
disqualifications for the final mission given him were intellectual as
well as moral. To name but two among them, he was in love with the
‘Dark’ Ages, the fountainhead of hard logic and thorough
craftsmanship, and still more in love with the original document, at a
period when historical research was not only unfashionable, but
inferentially abhorred; and his animus must needs have seemed ‘Popish’
or worse, when it but led him to handle as self-evident fallacies the
darling predilections of centuries of British basilolatry.

It would have been bad enough had his convictions been expressed
always in academic terms, such as he himself, after all, did employ
pretty constantly in addressing the magazine public. But Hurrell’s
‘little language,’ superadded to his strong opinions, was too much for
a day of buckramed dignity. His verbal polity spared neither himself
nor the species, and it must have been appalling to others beside the
Holy Willies. Moreover, there was such gusto and emphasis in all he
said, that the effect was almost that, as it were, of calling a spade
a spade, with a plebeian ‘swear-word’ before it. Nobody else in that
English generation, not even Welby Pugin, dealt in so elastic a
vernacular. But surely, private letters may take what tone and pace
they please? Why did it not occur to everyone to allow, in extenuation
of this too lively fashion of ‘sparks running to and fro among the
reeds,’ that the Rev. Mr. Froude was young, and younger, moreover,
than his years? The ideas of personal chronology then current were
illiberal. We know that men and women aged thirty were looked upon as
fairly venerable figures in the world of our grandfathers, and were
bound to have shed the last of the pin-feathers of indiscretion. For
purposes of general protest against the common vanities of plumage,
primitive attire may with profit be retained: but it is likely to
enrage the barnyard. There is a good deal to be said for the speech
which suggests to us not Court dress, not even dressing-gown and
slippers, but overalls. It puts everything at once on a workmanlike
basis. A masterly critic has observed how great a debt Newman owed to
Hurrell Froude in the development of his peerless ease and
naturalness. To go further, it may truly be said that one caught up
the living accent of the other. As a good latter instance, take
Newman’s famous passage in the _Apologia_ about ‘seeing a ghost’ when
the point raised in an article on the Donatists first arrested him in
1839. The echo is yet clearer in a contemporary letter. ‘It gave me
the stomach-ache,’ he says. Such sportive phraseology sounds the
majestic capacity of educated human expression. But sportive
phraseology had its disadvantages, when it was sent forth broadcast to
‘dictate to the clergy of this country,’ or contribute towards ‘the
picture of a mind’ known by the picturers to be chastened and grave.
The innumerable chapters of the _Remains_ which were sober as a
monochrome were quite overborne, in popular estimation, even where
that estimation inclined to friendliness, by some few prancing words
or lines. The amice and cope of the stately Muse of Theology
symbolised nothing to the carpers who believed that they had once
caught a handmaid of hers in the neat no-drapery of the _corps de
ballet_. Indisposed to look below the surface of Froude’s puzzling
temperament, they found only effrontery in his clear, terse, vivacious
call, and only dulness in his underlying mood, master of statement and
definition, and of armoured synthesis. It was not altogether their
fault: because his slang, it may as well be admitted, constitutes a
defect of character. It was a conscious revolt against all that goes
to make up ‘donnishness,’ and in so far an element of strength as well
as of comedy; but it was also the makeshift of a man who contemned
himself almost to the point of eccentricity, and who often could not
bear without a mocking grimace, the serious utterance of his most
serious thought. Keble was full of fun, but Keble had no Hurrellisms,
no ‘little language.’ With the other, it is the note of a certain
spiritual unrest; an impiety against his own nature which all
sensitive human nature resents in some degree: the jest, indeed, of a
philosopher who never lost courage, but who never found joy.
Self-valuation and its calmly pompous accents are understood, and even
commended, all over the intellectual world. But this bitter mood, as
of a Cabinet Council plus the Court fool, is too strange and new.
There are those now, as there were then, whom it shocks and deters.

Closely allied with all this is the question of his so unceremonious
dealing with men and things. As we are reminded by his Editors, most
of it was impersonal enough, for his mind was set on principles only.
‘I allow hatred is an imperfect state, but I think it is just young
people that it becomes’: is a remark from his remembered talk. ‘The
most difficult virtue to attain,’ he went on, ‘seems to me the looking
on wanton oppressors as mere machines, without feeling any personal
resentment.’ This is akin to a curious axiom of Hazlitt’s, which would
exonerate almost any cynic and sluggard, that ‘to think ill of
mankind, and not to wish them ill, is perhaps the highest genius and
virtue.’ Many adherents, unblessed with imagination, of Froude’s own
party, might be brought to bay by his Common Room pronouncement that
‘the cultivation of right principles has a tendency to make men dull
and stupid.’ (His friend Thomas Mozley goes even farther in the
impious generalisation, and accuses Evangelical goodness, ‘mixed with
poverty and a certain amount of literary or religious ambition,’ of
producing ‘an unpleasant effect on the skin!’) These endearments were,
as was but just, not confined by Froude to the elect. He was a hard
hitter also against individuals non-Jacobite and non-Apostolical; he
made ninepins of living and dead, great and small. On this faculty,
however, he was very far from priding himself. No one could be more
keenly aware of his sharp tongue than he. Given events as he saw them,
and his naked eye to transpierce them, and his store of natural
animation fostered in a home atmosphere which was at all times highly
charged with criticism, and we have some explanation of his merciless
proficiency in adverbs and adjectives, applied impartially to the
Bishop Jewels of a past age, or the undergraduates of his own. From
the first, he had felt this smartness of speech to be his pitfall. His
journals are full of self-accusations, prayers, and resolutions on the
subject. ‘To-day, when ―――― called on me, I was forced to watch myself
at every turn, for fear of saying something irreligious or
uncharitable.’ … ‘I have again been talking freely of people.’ … ‘Not
to go out of my way to say disrespectful things … not to say satirical
things either in people’s presence or behind their backs, or to take
pleasure in exposing them when they seem absurd, or to answer them
ill-naturedly when they have said offensive things.’ … ‘I said I
thought ―――― an ass, when there was not the least occasion for me to
express my sentiments about him. And yet I, so severe on the follies,
and so bitter against the slightest injuries I get from others, am now
presenting myself before my great Father to ask for mercy on my most
foul sins, and forgiveness for my most incessant injuries. “How shall
I be delivered from the body of this death!”… I see nothing for it but
not to talk at all, and let myself be reckoned stupid and glumpy: and
this I will do. I must give up talking altogether except where
civility absolutely requires it. I am not to be trusted with words.’

All this ‘mortal moral strife’ dates from his earliest manhood. He
certainly never relaxed the effort toward humbleness and mental
correction; though a superficial reader might question whether he had,
at the end, succeeded in attaining any appreciable measure of either.
But it is worth while to remember here that his whole effort would be
not to let his friends at Oxford become aware of his victory, if he
gained it. Sooner than face human approval in these matters, he would
say, every day in the week, that he ‘thought ―――― an ass,’ if only to
keep up appearances.

Again, and apart from the amenities, the _Remains_ are not edited in a
way to conciliate the unwilling. In one department, they are
provokingly presented with raggedly-pieced phrases, names suppressed,
and divers eliminations, almost enough to kill interest; in another,
they commit to the general scrutiny amorphous themes, repetitions, the
mere crude bones of theory, fragments never shaped for the press.
Never was it truer, of any book or of any man, that

     ‘――you must love him ere to you
      He will seem worthy of your love.’

The just apprehension of such an one is never discoverable from what
he may write. To be told that here was an Oxford Fellow of genius and
culture, and to be shown, in proof of it, no professional arts
whatever, but a stripped argument, and ‘the rigour of the game,’
flying personalities, tonic commonplaces, buried first principles,――this
was somewhat disconcerting. Those who knew Hurrell Froude would take
pride in the Spartan simplicity of his every page, where sincere words
are welded with sincere thought. Those who knew him not might turn
away from that as from downright incapacity.

Of Keats, in his marvellous development, Mr. Lowell beautifully says:
‘He knew that what he had to do had to be done quickly.’ So, in a
contrasted fashion, with Hurrell Froude, intent not upon his own
artistic perfection, but upon the leavening of the national mind.
Graces were just what he could best afford to neglect in that too
hurried working-hour. He had begun to die at eight-and-twenty, and he
was to die unconsummated; therefore speech compacted and anticipative
became his sole concern. He is not light reading. His typical
sentences, apart from his many paradoxes, move like the Latin axioms
which break the heads of unwilling schoolboys in walnut-time. A
skeleton style, it must be confessed, has its disqualifications as a
miscellaneous entertainer. Anything more unlike the golden, glowing,
misleading glide of the language of another Froude with whom this
generation is more familiar, can hardly be imagined. Yet it was
Hurrell who was the poet. It was Hurrell who, according to all
evidence, communicated in even higher degree the extraordinary
fascinations of that fascinating family. It is not the least lovely of
his attributes that he sacrificed the literary possibilities of a born
historian, as he sacrificed everything else, to his holy
master-passion, and carried his genius for reigning into a hidden
door-keeping of the House of God.

The novelty and unexpectedness inseparable from his original mind
appear in print only as by innuendo, and in the conduct of some
coherent train of thought. Slyly quiet can be the manner in which he
understates, and negatively proceeds through harmless analogies,
until, of a sudden, readers find with surprise, and cannot shake off,
that ‘sting in their bosoms’ which is referred to in a piercingly
apposite phrase, itself of classic origin, of the second Preface
(1839) of the _Remains_. All his papers, at least, of whatever nature,
display his faculty, which was like a scout’s or frontiersman’s, of
discovering, breaking, and defending border ground. They are
remarkable chiefly for their practical far-seeing sagacity. Written
over seventy years ago by a mere unconscious young prophet with no
conceit of himself, they have an amazing modernity. The keen
prescience of the few random secular essays is, however, intensified
in the other essays on religious subjects. They ‘look before and
after.’ They have not begun to seem out-of-date, nor to label their
author as fit only for the never-dusted top shelf. In a day when views
of Inspiration and Revelation are no longer Butler’s or Paley’s; when
new keys are tried, and new tools taken up, and in the ancient
workshops men live and die to a different and far more perplexing
spheric music, such staying power, independent of any encouragement of
it, is sufficiently remarkable. It gives Hurrell Froude an
illustrative importance. His very catchwords have a diverting
contemporaneousness; witness his uses of ‘Protestant’ as applied by
him to the unloved majority in his Church. The stuff of his
intellectual daily life is never altogether the timid, domestic, and
amateurish thing which Anglicanism must be, even at its best. In
Froude himself there is nothing very cognate to the long development
of European Christian thought; but at least he is no slave of
conventions, and from that tendency towards shrinkage and encrustation
which makes ‘every Englishman an island’ he is always shaking himself
free, by a half-unconscious gesture. It is this good chronic revolt,
this heroic reaching-forth, which lends to him, in his incompleteness,
a sporadic air of greatness. In the spirit, as in the flesh, he was
the traveller of the party. His written pages are not, like Newman’s,
literature for ever. Their worth is that they show, with loyal
plainness, not only Froude’s dedicated interests, but the weight and
depth of his selfless intelligence; his bold adventurings and
outridings; his habit of looking unflattering deductions in the face;
his preoccupation with framework and foundation, and with them
exclusively; his instinct for the essential, for major issues, for one
or two premises which matter most, on subjects of faith, and for the
events of real significance in the history of England which bear upon
the Church. This instinct, in him, was spontaneous and uncompanioned.
In the whole field of dogma, he first, of the seeking Wise Men of that
generation, was drawn towards the ‘Eucharistic doctrine with its huge
wealth of meaning, its promises of light, its complicated connection
with the body of revealed truth, to a great extent unexplored, a mine
of treasures hardly touched’;[282] in the whole field of
ecclesiastical discipline, he alone fastened upon the principle of
freedom as the divine prerogative of the Church. He inspired another
to write of Hildebrand; he himself wrote of the great Becket who was
honoured, we know, by Henry VIII. with a hatred highly intelligent and
quaintly contemporary; he notes more than once how Henry VIII.’s
tyrannising work, yet active, was in many respects the very work
attempted by Henry II., against whose ideals S. Thomas of Canterbury
flung his influence and his life. On these topics of incalculable
importance, Froude laid his pausing finger. He never occupied himself
for one moment with accidents and incidentals. Yet it has been said:
‘The Movement brought into action not a few who, like Mr. Richard
Hurrell Froude, could never advance beyond the impertinent minutiæ and
the ecclesiastical fopperies which became the badges of their
fraternity.’[283] It has been said. Let it pass for ‘funny

Coleridge remarked, in summing up his old friend Charles Lamb,[284]
that he had more totality and universality of character than any man
he had ever known. In some such terms must be couched the eulogy of
Hurrell Froude. He is all of a piece. ‘From his very birth,’ as his
mother put it, ‘his temperament has been peculiar.’ He knew his mind,
and went his way. He, at least, did not

     ‘――half-live a hundred different lives.’

He paid for such concentration of purpose with long oblivion.
Biography, a purblind creature, took him at his own valuation, as we
have seen, and gathered him not to her bosom. The history of all the
other Tractarians was written, the history of the men who lived very
long, long enough to see as Cardinal Manning once said, the polarity
of England changed, when the one among them who died young was given
his chance. Until Dean Church, abetted by Lord Blachford, made his
worth plain, in the beautiful subduing art of a book where all is
charity and serene wisdom, Froude had inhabited shadow-land, and was
less than the phantom of his brother’s brother. Eventually no mystic,
but a wide-awake, matter-of-fact person, he yet had always a sort of
seal upon him of the objective, the remote, the unearthly. Now that he
has his station and we have our perspective, these qualities increase
rather than diminish. The enfranchised vision of him now is his inner
self, more like a harper than a trumpeter. We seem to see the thin
tender face ‘shine’ out of night air, as it shone at parting on his
friend at Dartington, fifty-four years before it smiled again at him
out of the Light. Time is the only crystal which gives us the souls of
men and things. Whatever looks like idealisation there must be the
literal truth.

Hurrell Froude’s poet-friend Williams calls him

     ‘Like to himself alone, and no one else.’

But he is unique without being isolated. His habitual mood was a
country of far distances, not unlike his own Devon, where the rote is
audible from a stern coast, and the desolate tors stand up abrupt and
sharp against the white February horizon: a country which gets, in due
season, its own merriment of interlying verdure, and builds a most
delicate overhanging opal sky. There is in him, though unexpressed, a
wholeness and relativity as of this landscape. His saliency and
roguery, his affection, his wistful oddity, his extraordinary
intensity of life, the endearing charm which has served to keep his
memory bright as racing sea-fire, only remind us the more how fully he
belongs to the issues to which he gave himself of old. The temptation
to think him a good deal like the sworded poets of the Civil Wars,
with their scarcely exerted aptitudes for the fine arts, whose names
leave a sort of star-dust along the pages of the anthologies, need not
blind us to his severer aspect: he is also a good deal like the more
militant among the Saints. His first Editors thought so, and say so in
that most fragrant and touching Preface of theirs to his volumes
printed in 1839. He was wing and talon to them and to their holy hope.
‘Froude of the Movement’: he is that, first and last. Great as is to
the mere humanist eye his individual interest, he cannot fairly be
separated for a moment from the ideal to which all that was in him
belonged; to which he belongs in its present and its yet unrevealed
phases; to which he will belong when, as the very vindication of his
foregone career, helping to breathe into successive generations the
spirit of cleansing scrutiny and renewing faith, Catholicism shall
triumph in England.

With that thought, we come suddenly out, as through a black
mountain-pass, into a quiet-coloured vista rolling between us and the
dawn. It is only too possible, in the beclouded state of fallen man,
to mistake some stage of a vast progress for a disconnected trivial
episode. But who are they so unblest as to do it in this instance?
Chiefly those enemies who belong to the household. It was a convert
squire of Leicestershire, the friend of Montalembert, who in the
boldness of sanguine charity welcomed the very first _Tracts_ as
nothing less than a pledge, given as it were in sleep, of ‘the return
of the Church [of England] to Catholic Unity and the See of
Peter’;[285] and it was an Oxford Dean, long after, who denied any
orthodox future or any legitimate past to the Ritualists of his day,
refusing to connect them or their great popularising leaven with the
theoretic fathers that begat them. There is little morality in this
preference for reducing everything to scraps and segments. Those who
dare search for processes rather than for dead issues may at least be
respected. To them, in an hour of all Latin degeneracy, the old sap of
the strongest of the northern races laughs in a stock long barren but
sound. Great outlooks call for great patience, lest they strain the
sight; and so with a spiritual event, believed-in, and hardly
descried. The lens of controversy will never bring it nearer; only
constant prayer, like an eye purged and made new, can peer forward,
and rest on the horizon-brink. If Catholicism indeed triumph in
England, Hurrell Froude’s cannot ultimately remain a hidden and
homeless name. Is it not undeniable that he is to his own communion
to-day, exactly what he was long ago, a Hard Saying? Who have fought
shy of him, who have even belittled, hushed, buried him, if not they?
Has a single one of the vital questions which his restless agitation
opened, been settled by the exerted authority of the corporate Church
of England? In her immense miraculous increase of ‘Catholic-mindedness,’
who has gone beyond this wild, pathetic, precursive child in groping
towards the fulness of Revealed Truth, yet groping in the dark? He
loved reality, and entity: they were there next his hand, and he felt
them not. He seems never to have surmised the existence beside him of
the down-trodden _Ecclesia Anglicana_ of Continental sympathy, which
in his brief day timidly lifted up her long-shrouded penal head. But
she, on her part, saw him reconstruct, as in a worshipping dream, her
every lineament. It was a remark of Mr. Bernard Smith’s[286] which
impressed Dr. Wiseman, that ‘my friends at Oxford all think and speak
of Catholic practices and institutions as past or possible, not as
things actually existing and acting.’ That remark would not need to be
made now, when a people who owe nothing to their Tudor organisers have
won back by the power of what Sir Thomas Browne calls ‘reminiscential
evocation,’ so much of the spirit of the religion which is their
heritage. But when it was made, the remark was curiously accurate.
Even Froude, in his _Becket_, cites the never-suspended usage of
religious houses in having books read aloud in the refectory, as an
English custom of ‘those times.’ As in trifles, so in graver matters:
Froude, and the contemporaries never quite abreast of him, knew
nothing of the continuity of family habit in the historic Church.
Newman tells us that while he was in Italy, (and it can hardly have
been otherwise with his friend,) he did not guess at the significance
of the burning sanctuary lamps in Churches. ‘Radiantly sure of his
position,’ as Canon Scott Holland says, Froude was indeed; he had no
personal misgivings; his good faith was intact. Yet even he feared for
his ‘Branch’;[287] and he laid stress upon something in himself higher
than loyalty. If certain reforms did not follow, he would set up for a
‘separatist.’[288] He did not live long enough to make his choice; but
those reforms have not followed. It stands for little that some of his
nearest relatives, and especially the one friend whom he had most
breathed upon, were constrained to go the ‘separatist’ way; it stands
for something more that to a group of able observers of various
creeds, he himself has seemed a moving aurora, and not a fixed star of
the Anglican heaven. The speculation whether or no Froude would have
been ‘out in the ‘45’ has no lasting pertinence; but it has its
illicit unavoidable interest. No one who studies him tries to blink
it. Some among the distinguished High Churchmen who have written of
him are practically unanimous in the conviction that longer lease of
life would have made no difference in his views, or that in any case
he would have dwelt always in the tents where he died. But the
majority, having broached the contrary opinion, encourage it, and lean
towards it: of this company are the Nonconformists, the Deists, the
Catholics. Dr. Rigg, a profound student of ethics, goes so far as to
say ‘there can be no doubt’ that Hurrell Froude would have changed his
creed; Dr. Abbott’s strong arraignment implies nothing less; many
reviewers of Dean Church’s history propound the question and assent to
it; and Mr. James Anthony Froude saw fit to play with it. The men of
the ‘extreme Left,’ in this convocation, speak after a non-committal
fashion, yet there is no mistaking their longing, partly unexpressed:
M. Thureau-Dangin, Cardinal Wiseman, and the rest of their following,
seem to be ever thinking what only Canon Oakeley quotes: _Cum talis
sis, utinam noster esses!_ They might make, with perfect justice, the
indisputable claim that the _Remains_ exerted the deeper influence
over those very men whose consciences drove them at last to leave the
Church as by Law Established in these Realms: the book bore a
confessedly vital part in the formation of William Lockhart, of James
Robert Hope-Scott, of Frederick William Faber, of William George Ward.
It is curious that the Rev. Thomas Mozley should father the statement,
that the _Remains_ ‘never brought any one to Rome.’[289] But he may
have had only direct or primary causation in mind. That prickly book,
moreover, active as Hurrell himself, may be said, without
exaggeration, to have reacted on Newman’s ‘young men’ at Oxford, who
first disturbed, and then outstripped, their master. It was the very
crux of the complaint against them that, as Newman himself was to say
so accurately of Froude, they were ‘powerfully drawn to the Mediæval,
not to the Primitive Church.’ We know how the cross-currents, coming
from Ward, Oakeley, Dalgairns, and the other extremists, cut across
the path of Newman turned anchorite, like a spring freshet from
unimagined hills. The ‘new party’ spoken of in Stephens’ _Life_ of
Dean Hook,[290] as being ‘as different in its teachings from the
original Tractarians as they had been from the Evangelicals,’ were men
almost all of whom entered the Catholic Church of the Roman Obedience.
They were filled with the idea of the ever-living Interpretative
Voice, as against the mere bookish appeal to Christian antiquity. They
were strong in zeal, will, and prayer, and self-sacrificing; they were
also rash, notional, irrepressibly gay. Newman, whom they so worried,
did not suspect their descent; no critic seems to have suspected it
since: but were they not the true and immediate seed of Hurrell
Froude? If they were not, then, in the language of the heralds, _obiit
sine prole_. How difficult it were to accept that as part of the
epitaph of so generative a spirit! No school of thought in any
communion, since 1836, has reproduced so markedly the singular
physiognomy of the author of the _Remains_. To them alone he was not
in the least ‘dangerous.’ But it is clear that in what has been called
the Church of Lord Halifax, there are a thousand young Froudians, a
collateral kindred with plenty of trouble before them, flying his

If we know aught about the trend of human character, we know that
there was a highly integrant strain in Hurrell Froude; his whole short
life was a thirst after the coherence and continuousness of the things
of faith. If we know aught about the laws of moral motion, we know
that he could neither have gone round in a circle, nor stood still.
Like the paradoxical Briton he was, _il savait conclure_. It is far
truer, potentially, of him, than of Newman. Says Père Ragey, after the
neat and merciless manner of Frenchmen: ‘_Pour pousser ses idées
jusqu’à leurs dernières conséquences, Newman, n’avait eu qu’à suivre
la nature même de son esprit. Il était un de ces esprits (assez rares
parmi nos voisins d’outre Manche) qui se laissent conduire par la
logique, qui vont jusqu’au bout de leurs idées, et qui savent
conclure. La vie et les écrits de Pusey, au contraire, nous montrent
en lui un de ces esprits anglais si bien décrits par Taine, qui
“restent en chemin et ne concluent pas.” … De plus, il sentait bien
qu’il n’était pas seul. Il avait avec lui plus que des corréligionnaires,
plus que des collaborateurs, plus que les disciples: il avait avec lui
et pour lui l’esprit anglais. Les anglais, tout en admirant beaucoup
Newman, et en le plaçant au-dessus de Pusey, reconnaissent mieux leur
esprit dans Pusey que dans Newman._’[291]

Nothing can be safer for all of us conjointly than to answer ‘No’ at
once to that pithless query: Would Froude have followed Newman? Froude
would never have _followed_ Newman. Nor would the latter have paced up
and down for long lonely years in Oriel Lane, and in the _Limbus
Innocentium_ at Littlemore, nor invented _Oret pro nobis_ for an
anodyne, had Froude been alive. It is the summing-up of a thoughtful
review that ‘most readers of the _Apologia_ are under the impression
that [Newman] had started on the road to Rome as soon as Froude’s
influence succeeded to Whately’s; and that if he were not unfaithful,
he had to go on to the end…. Certainly, it does seem as if, after he
had lost Froude, Newman was very liable to be perplexed by opposition,
to watch for omens, to be at the mercy of accidents.’[292] Nothing
gives one such an idea of the immense propelling force which Hurrell
Froude was, as the untoward indecision into which Newman soon fell,
though he still had Pusey’s fortress-like strength at his side. Even
Keble, without the beloved ‘poker,’ burned with a somewhat darker
flame. His silent beneficent career at Hursley was a different matter
from his career as Oriel captain of artillery; and no careful student
can fail to notice that his later spiritual direction tended more and
more towards the nebulous. As for Hurrell, he was bound to be astir,
living or dead, in one direction or another. Without being prepared to
look frankly upon October 9, 1845, as his true field-day, open-minded
persons may harbour a sympathetic wonder whether in the English event
which crowns it he were quite unimplicated? ‘Was it Gregory or was it
Basil, that blew the trumpet in Constantinople?’ When Newman sadly
transferred himself to Oscott, in the February of 1846, he would have
remembered, after his remembering habit, how strangely, yet naturally,
in the Providence of God, he was keeping the tenth anniversary of the
loss of his dearest friend, no part of whose office could be filled
even by an Ambrose St. John, ‘whom God gave me when He took all else

‘Hurrell Froude lives,’ says Principal Fairbairn epigrammatically, ‘in
Newman.’ It would be an interesting task for a biographer to examine
and define the measure of response with which ‘the Vicar,’ in his
historic seclusion, worked into one scheme his ideas, and the ideas
bequeathed to him by the least ‘flinching’ Anglican in the world.
Froude had managed to give Newman, (and with no more ceremonial pomp
than one infant employs in tossing sea-shells to another,) the norm of
every single one of his great theories. This short span beside that
old age, this quick, forward-reaching, never-ripened thought beside
the ‘long gestation’ of the sublime soul whom we know better, may not
unfitly be compared to a keynote struck in a grace-note before the
full major chord. The chord owes nothing of its position, or its
compotent harmony, to the mere sweet hint which announces it and is
instantaneously whelmed in it, but it certainly does owe to it almost
all of what may be called its idiomatic beauty. To no educated ear is
the chord with that apposition, and the chord without it, conceivably
the same.

It is his glory that Froude cannot be severed, early or late, from the
superior genius once so ‘fain to be his heir.’ As he stands fast with
what Mr. Wilfrid Ward has named ‘that great crisis of spiritual
animation, unparalleled in our age and country,’ which has transformed
the Church of England, and with his Achates, as that Achates was up to
1845, so he walks on with the white-haired Cardinal of all men’s
honour, through whom a torrent of new life streamed, and streams, into
the English-speaking children of the Apostolic See, but who

     ‘――came to Oxford and his friends no more.’

Newman’s unnecessary readiness to acknowledge any moral debt, was
surely no small part of his delightful greatness. Never was it better
justified than in his lifelong sense of obligation to the clear brain
and pure devout heart of a young man of no celebrity, whose full
significance is not past, but to come.

To a Catholic, Froude has something yet finer than his ‘totality and
universality of character.’ He has the grace of God. He stands in a
mysterious place,

     ‘Beautiful evermore, and with the rays
      Of dawn on his white shield of expectation,’

and it would be covetous indeed, it might be even impious, to wish to
dislodge him. Such as he is, and where he is, he stands pledge enough
for Reunion. Meanwhile, let him enjoy the irony for what it is worth,
that to compensate for many of his own who esteem him not, many
‘swallowers of the Council of Trent as a whole’ esteem him well. The
English Oratory has for him a sort of veneration, as for a little
brother lost who had Saint Philip’s very brow and mouth;[293] the
Benedictine monks at Buckfast Abbey, near his old home, familiarly
remember him, on birthdays, with prayer which is both a gift and a
petition; and there are lay hearts which cannot think of his lonely
burial-place, in snow-time or in rose-time, without the sense of
hearing over it a solemn music from the _Purgatorio_:

    ‘_Qui sarai tu poco tempo silvano;
      E sarai meco senza fine cive
      Di quella Roma onde Cristo è Romano._’

That wonderful prophetic strain, meant for eternity, must linger in
the ear of every ‘Roman’ who has learned to love Hurrell Froude.


     [1] The present Editor once hit upon a copy of the _Remains_
     in a bookstall, which had many of these names filled out in
     pencil; several of them, not all, proved to be accurate, and
     have been incorporated without acknowledgment to a nameless
     and deceased annotator.

     [2] ‘What is Mysticism?’ in _The Faith of the Millions_.
     First Series. By George Tyrrell, S.J. Longmans, 1901, pp.

     [3] _Un Grand Feudataire, Renaud de Dammartin de la
     Coalition de Bouvines._ Par H. Malo. Paris: Champion, 1898.

     [4] _Reminiscences chiefly of Oriel College and the Oxford
     Movement_, by the Rev. T. Mozley, M.A. London: Longmans,
     Green & Co., 1882, ii., 42-43.

     [5] See p. 75. The incident was recognised by the Rev. T.
     Mozley when he again saw the sketch, in 1891, as having
     taken place in the Common Room, not in ‘Newman’s rooms.’

     [6] _A Study of British Genius_, by Havelock Ellis. London;
     Hurst & Blackett, 1904, p. 53. The passages cited first
     appeared in _The Monthly Review_, during 1901.

     [7] This, and much of the condensed genealogical information
     following, is from a paper on the Froudes or Frowdes of
     Devon in the _Reports and Transactions of the Devonshire
     Association_, 1892, written by the Rev. R. E. Hooppell,
     M.A., LL.D., D.C.L.

     [8] Always so spelled, in this family.

     [9] Archdeacon Froude, sixty years Rector of his parish,
     died Feb. 23, 1859. See _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for that
     year, i., 437, and _Boase’s Modern English Biography_, i.,

     [10] W. Brockedon, F.R.S., F.R.G.S. (b. 1787, d. 1854), was
     a watchmaker and inventor at Totnes. In 1809 he was enabled
     by Archdeacon Froude and Mr. Holdsworth, M.P. for
     Dartmouth, to go up to London to study at the Royal Academy
     till 1815, when he went abroad and started upon his career.

     [11] ‘Poor Att’ [little Anthony Froude], Hurrell wrote in
     1828, ‘is such a very good-tempered little fellow that in
     spite of his sawneyness [_i.e._, sensitiveness, or softness]
     he is sure to be liked.’ ‘I,’ he goes on to say, ‘was an
     ill-natured sawney, and do not at all wish my time at School
     to come again.’

     [12] _Eton School Lists_, edited by H. E. Chetwynd.
     Stapleton, 1864.

     [13] She married William Mallock, Esq. The distinguished
     writer, Mr. William Hurrell Mallock, is their son.

     [14] The ‘Passon Chowne’ of Mr. Blackmore’s _Maid of Sker_.

     [15] 1826.

     [16] ‘To do our best is one part, but to wash our hands
     smilingly of the consequence is the next part of any
     sensible virtue.’ _The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson._
     New York: Scribner, 1899, i., 342.

     [17] _i.e._ extravagant or emotional.

     [18] In the now obsolete sense of fanaticism.

     [19] Oxford.

     [20] ‘Mere’ in _Remains_.

     [21] Archdeacon Froude had come into possession of his
     Denbury estate, through the three coheiresses of the last
     feoffee, in 1807, when his eldest son was four years old.

     [22] His two elder sisters are always so called in his

     [23] Keble quitted Oxford when his mother died, and took
     sole charge of East Leach, Burthorpe and Southrop parishes,
     near his father’s home in Fairford. He had one thousand
     people to look after, in all; the three livings aggregated
     but £100 a year.

     [24] The Rev. S. Baring-Gould, _The Book of the West_.
     Devon, i., 319.

     [25] Buckland-in-the-Moor, near Ashburton, celebrated for
     its rocky heights and magnificent views.

     [26] Mr. Keble’s first visit.

     [27] Milton, as early as 1817, was one of Keble’s own big
     bold prejudices. It is but fair to Froude to quote, in order
     that his remark may not be misconstrued, his conviction that
     ‘it is not perhaps too much to say that [Milton’s] was the
     most powerful mind which ever applied itself to poetry.’
     Like Professor Raleigh in our own day, Froude denied that
     colossal genius to be, properly speaking, a religious poet
     at all. See _Remains_, part i., ii., 318-321, and Note.

     [28] The moral philosophers of the ancient world.

     [29] Phillis, widow of Robert ffroud.

     [30] Torquay.

     [31] Peter Elmsley, S.T.P., 1773-1825, then Principal of S.
     Alban Hall, and Camden Professor of History in the
     University of Oxford.

     [32] _A Memoir of the Rev. John Keble, M.A., late Vicar of
     Hursley_, by the Right Hon. Sir J. T. Coleridge, D.C.L.
     Oxford: Parker, 1869, p. 121.

     [33] _i.e._, poetry.

     [34] ‘His rapier he’d draw,
           And pink a _bourgeois_,

     (A word which the English translate “Johnny Raw”).’――‘The
     Black Mousquetaire,’ _Ingoldsby Legends_.

     [35] There is no old elm tree now on Dartington Parsonage
     lawn [1902].

     [36] Piercefield Park, Chepstow, Monmouthshire, where
     Elizabeth Smith had lived from 1785 to 1793.

     [37] Her translation of the _Memoirs of Frederick and
     Margaret Klopstock_ form, in most editions, the second
     volume of Miss Elizabeth Smith’s _Fragments_. ‘Old
     Klopstock’: Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock, 1724-1803, married
     Margarethe Möller (Meta) who died in 1758; and in 1791, in
     his sixty-eighth year, her cousin Johannah von Wenthem.

     [38] Dr. Charles Lloyd, 1784-1829; then Canon of Christ
     Church, and Regius Professor of Divinity in the University
     of Oxford, appointed a year later Bishop of Oxford.

     [39] The first was Robert Isaac Wilberforce, 1802-1857,
     second son of William Wilberforce, and the flower of a
     remarkable family of brothers. He became Vicar of East
     Farleigh, preceding there his brother Henry, and Archdeacon
     of the East Riding. He died at Albano in 1857, while
     preparing for the priesthood at Rome.

     [40] _Oriel College_ (College History Series), by David
     Watson Rannie, M.A. London: Robinson, 1900, p. 185.

     [41] _Reminiscences chiefly of Oriel College and the Oxford
     Movement_, by the Rev. T. Mozley, M.A. London: Longmans,
     1882, ii., 388.

     [42] Merton College lies south-east over against Oriel: the
     beautiful tower stands up just behind the roof of Hurrell’s

     [43] Hurrell seems to have known and liked his senior,
     Edward Hawkins (1798-1884, Fellow of Oriel, 1813, Provost,
     succeeding Copleston, 1828), at this time. But ‘not the
     least of a Don’ is emphatically not descriptive of him, but
     of Richard Whately, 1787-1863, afterwards Archbishop of
     Dublin. ‘No Don was ever less donnish … he revelled in
     setting conventions at naught,’ etc. Dr. Rigg, in the
     _Dictionary of National Biography_, lx., 423-429, _inter

     [44] John Davison, 1777-1834, Fellow and Tutor of Oriel,
     afterwards Vicar of Old Sodbury, Gloucester, and Prebendary
     of Worcester Cathedral. He had a very high repute at Oxford,
     and, like Whately, was mentioned ‘with bated breath.’

     [45] ‘Newman’s relations with Whately largely cured him of
     the extreme shyness that was natural to him.’ W. S. Lilly,
     in the _Dictionary of National Biography_, xi., 342.

     [46] Probably Hurrell’s old friend, Robert Isaac
     Wilberforce, then, like himself, a newly-made Fellow of
     Oriel. (‘Old’ was Hurrell’s most endearing adjective: he
     applies it unexpectedly in one letter: ‘old Becket.’) Robert
     Wilberforce’s temperament was far more studious and calm
     than that of his genial younger brothers, but apparently he
     could be ‘funny’ and ‘good-natured’ too. ‘R. Wilberforce was
     as merry as he generally is,’ writes his hostess, Mrs.
     Rickards, from Ulcombe, to Miss Jemima Newman, in the autumn
     of 1827.

     [47] Keble.

     [48] ‘To’ in _Remains_.

     [49] Isaac Williams, 1802-1865: Scholar of Trinity,
     afterwards perpetual Curate of Treyddn, Flintshire, and
     author of _The Cathedral_.

     [50] Sir George Prevost, Bart., 1804-1893, M.A., Oriel,
     1827, married Jane, sister of Isaac Williams, 1828. Curate
     to Thomas Keble at Bisley, 1828-1834: afterwards perpetual
     Curate of Stinchcomb and Archdeacon of Gloucester.

     [51] See p. 236 for Mr. Keble’s rebuke to Hurrell for a
     verbal flippancy. ‘When at Oxford, I took up Law’s _Serious
     Call to a Holy Life_, expecting to find it a dull book, as
     such books generally are, and perhaps laugh at it. But I
     found Law quite an over-match for me; and this was the first
     occasion of my thinking in earnest of religion, after I
     became capable of rational inquiry.’ _Boswell’s Johnson_,
     edited by George Birkbeck Hill, i., 68.

     [52] _The Exemplary Life and Character of James Bonnell,
     Esq. [1653-1699], late Accomptant General of Ireland_, by
     William Hamilton, A.M., Archdeacon of Armagh. The book was
     first published in 1703.

     [53] The common flash going on. R. H. F.’s note.

     [54] A foot wanting. R. H. F., _ut supra_.

     [55] Edward Copleston, 1776-1849: from 1814 to 1828 Provost
     of Oriel, afterwards Bishop of Llandaff. The Hurrells had
     Copleston blood.

     [56] _Reminiscences chiefly of Oriel College and the Oxford
     Movement_, by the Rev. T. Mozley, M.A. London: Longmans,
     1882, i., 384.

     [57] From the chapter entitled Edward Hawkins, the Great
     Provost, in _Lives of Twelve Good Men_, by John William
     Burgon, pp. 208-209.

     [58] ‘Bob.’

     [59] William Ralph Churton, Fellow of Oriel, the brilliant
     and much-loved younger brother of the better-known Edward
     Churton, Archdeacon of Cleveland. He died at his home in
     Middleton Cheney, Northamptonshire, during the following
     month. His _Remains_ were privately printed in 1830, and are
     dedicated to the then Archbishop of Canterbury, and to nine
     clergymen, the Oxonians Keble, Ogilvie, Cotton, Perceval,
     and Froude among them. Their friendship, says the Preface,
     ‘honoured him in his death’; perhaps they bore together the
     expenses of publication. There is nothing particularly
     memorable in the book.

     [60] Misprinted ‘situated’ in R. H. F.’s _Remains_.

     [61] _John Henry Newman, Letters and Correspondence to
     1845._ Edited by Anne Mozley. Longmans, 1890, i., 103.

     [62] _Short Studies on Great Subjects_, 4th Series. London:
     Longmans, 1883, p. 235.

     [63] _Reminiscences chiefly of Oriel College and the Oxford
     Movement_, by the Rev. T. Mozley, M.A., sometime Fellow of
     Oriel. London: Longmans, 1882, i., 18.

     [64] Sculptor. How recently has ‘statuary’ become an
     obsolete word!

     [65] A print of it appears in the _Remains_, i., 235.

     [66] _John Henry Newman, Letters and Correspondence to
     1845_, i., 8.

     [67] The interval of a second in music: an amusing
     employment of the word, in this sense then, as now, obsolete
     and rare.

     [68] _The Christian Year_: Forms of Prayer to be Used at
     Sea, line 5, not quite correctly quoted:

          ‘The wild winds rustle in the piping shrouds
             As in the quivering trees.’

     [69] Joseph Dornford, 1794-1868, Fellow of Oriel; after a
     military career, Rector of Plymtree, Devon, and Canon of
     Exeter Cathedral. He had travelled in Ireland this summer.

     [70] The word now has come to imply a sort of hero-worship
     based on a questionable social motive; but in Froude’s day
     it meant only those who showed, described, or patronised
     celebrated places, these being the ‘lions.’

     [71] A half-legendary contemporary of S. Columbkille. Sir
     Walter Scott had crawled into the Hole or Bed at Glendalough
     in 1825.

     [72] _Remains of the Rev. Richard Hurrell Froude_, part i.,
     ii., 318, Note.

     [73] At Greenaway on the Dart, between Dartmouth and Totnes,
     opposite Dittisham.

     [74] The lines were written in some lady’s autograph album
     during this visit.

     [75] _The Christian Year_: Septuagesima Sunday, closing

     [76] Arthur, eldest son of Arthur Champernowne, Esq., of
     Dartington Hall, died during this year, 1831, aged 17. His
     next brother Henry died in 1851, aged 36.

     [77] Newman, _Letters and Correspondence_, ii., 73.

     [78] Of course in allusion to the proverb that rain on July
     15 (S. Swithun’s Day) means a more or less prolonged

     [79] William I., King of the Netherlands, formerly William
     Frederick, Prince of Orange.

     [80] Thomas Elrington, M.A., D.D., formerly President of
     Trinity College, Dublin, an active and devoted prelate. He
     lived until July 12, 1835.

     [81] The name of the Bishop who was the great antagonist of
     the Lollards, Fellow of Oriel in his day, is properly
     spelled Pecock.

     [82] ‘The Time-Spirit of the Nineteenth Century,’ in
     _Problems and Persons_, by Wilfrid Ward. Longmans, 1903.

     [83] Robert Isaac Wilberforce. His mind was truly profound,
     and it was ‘authentic,’ to borrow the word beautifully
     applied to him in a memorial verse of his friend Mr. Aubrey
     de Vere.

     [84] On Justice as a Principle of Divine Governance.
     _University Sermons_, VI.

     [85] Neander: this playful Hellenising of Newman’s name was
     general, at one time, among Oxonians of his own circle.

     [86] Henry Bellenden Bulteel (1800-1866), a Devonshire man,
     Fellow and Tutor of Exeter College, Hurrell’s former
     contemporary at Eton. He got into difficulties with the
     Church of England and the University in 1831; after his
     calling the Heads of Houses ‘dumb dogs,’ from the pulpit of
     S. Mary’s, Bishop Bagot revoked his licence; he then married
     a pastry-cook’s sister in the High Street, spent £4000
     building the Baptist Chapel in the Commercial Road, and set
     up as an independent dissenting minister. He was the
     anonymous author of _The Oxford Argo_. A good deal laughed
     at in his day, Bulteel had, according to evidence, the
     sympathy of Hurrell Froude in his ill fortunes. ‘Froude went
     about for days with a rueful countenance, and could only
     say: “Poor Bulteel!”’ _Reminiscences_, Mozley, i., 228.

     [87] James Yonge, M.D., F.C.P., 1794-1870, a graduate of
     Exeter College, Oxford, and resident at Plymouth, where his
     practice was famous in its day, all over England.

     [88] Of Oriel College.

     [89] Hurrell had visited Keble there early in April, and
     caught a fresh cold.

     [90] See p. 257.

     [91] Prosperity, in _Lyra Apostolica_. Edited by H. C.
     Beeching, M.A. London: Methuen [1900], p. 146.

     [92] Mary Sophia Newman, the youngest of the family, died,
     aged 17, on January 5, 1828.

     [93] _Histoire de la Conquête de l’Angleterre par les
     Normands._ Par Augustin Thierry. Paris: Santelet, 1826.
     Tomes 1-4, 2de edition, 8o.

     [94] A sentimental complaining fellow: the ‘dreary
     prospects’ being the prospects of a single life devoted to
     moral reforms.

     [95] The usurper of the Portuguese crown, third son of King
     John VI. The English destroyed his fleet off Cape St.
     Vincent, July 5, 1833.

     [96] ‘Stare’ in the _Remains_.

     [97] Six weeks later, an English lady, Miss Frere, writes
     home from Malta of our three tourists, ‘Archdeacon Froude,
     his son, and another clergyman’ … ‘all very agreeable.’ She
     laments the ill-health of Mr. Newman, but adds that ‘the
     son, on whose account they are travelling, is quite well.’
     _Works of the Rt. Hon. John Hookham Frere_, vol. i., Memoir,
     by the Rt. Hon. Sir Bartle Frere. London: Pickering, 1874,
     p. 242.

     [98] Newman says, ‘It was at Rome that we began the _Lyra
     Apostolica_’ (_Apologia_, 1890, p. 34); this letter
     antedates the arrival at Rome by some days. Newman dates the
     _Lyra_ from Froude’s choosing its motto from the _Odyssey_
     on the eve of magazine publication.

     [99] The Rev. C. A. Ogilvie? or Frederick Oakeley? or the
     young Devonian Nutcombe Oxenham, who, like Isaac Williams,
     his tutor and lifelong friend, was a Scholar of Trinity? The
     associates of Mr. Williams were almost exclusively of Oriel.

     [100] Froude had visited Samuel Wilberforce there, at

     [101] ‘We are keeping the most wretched Christmas Day … by
     bad fortune we are again taking in coals…. This morning we
     saw a poor fellow in the Lazaret, close to us, cut off from
     the ordinances of his Church, saying his prayers with his
     face to the house of God in his sight over the water; and it
     is a confusion of face to me…. The bells are beautiful here
     … deep and sonorous, and they have been going all morning:
     to me very painfully.’ Newman to his sister Harriett,
     _Letters and Correspondence_, i., 274.

     [102] Major John Longley, afterwards Lieutenant-Governor of
     Dominica. Charles Thomas Longley, Head Master of Harrow
     School from 1829 to 1836, became Archbishop of Canterbury.
     Cythera is Cerigo.

     [103] Spiridion or Spiridon, patron of the island, Bishop of
     Tremithus near Salamis, present at the first General Council
     of Nice, and at the Council of Sardica. The Greeks keep his
     feast on the 12th, the Western Church on the 14th of

     [104] [Mount Scollis in Elis.]

     [105] _Correspondence_, i., 293-300, _passim_: and p. 332.

     [106] The well-known novel by Susan Edmonstone Ferrier,
     published at first anonymously in 1818. A beautiful edition,
     marking some revival of popularity, was issued in 1902.

     [107] He could jump well, too: ‘a larking thing for a Don!’
     as he tells his mother. _Letters and Correspondence_, i.,

     [108] Provinces now merged in the kingdom of Roumania.

     [109] _Life and Letters of Frederick William Faber, D.D.,
     Priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri_, by John Edward
     Bowden of the same Congregation. Richards, 1869, p. 78.

     [110] A quaint phrase from the Oriel Statutes. They read:
     ‘_Quoniam omnia existentia tendunt ad non esse_.’

     [111] ‘I am drawn to [Sicily] as by a loadstone. The chief
     sight has been Egesta: its ruins with its Temple. O
     wonderful sight! full of the most strange pleasure…. It has
     been a day in my life to have seen Egesta … really, my mind
     goes back to the recollection of last Monday and Tuesday, as
     one smells again and again at a sweet flower.’ Newman to his
     sister Harriett, _Letters and Correspondence_, i., 302.

     [112] Joseph Severn, Keats’ friend, 1793-1879.

     [113] Friedrich Overbeck, 1789-1869. He became a Catholic in

     [114] Rev. Hugh James Rose, founder and editor: 1795-1838,
     M.A. of Cambridge University, Rector of Hadleigh, Suffolk;
     Principal of King’s College, London.

     [115] ‘On The Hateful Party: probably the Liberal Party of
     1833.’ _Lyra Apostolica_, Beeching’s edition, p. 140. But
     possibly the reference is to the English Reformers, and the
     poet’s idea that they should be considered serviceable, in a
     way, to the very spirit of Catholicism which they did their
     best to destroy. However, the context of Froude’s letter to
     Keble, going on to mention, as it does, a current political
     interest as inspiration (not forthcoming) for the next copy
     of verses, tends to bear out Mr. Beeching’s theory. _Lyra
     Apostolica_ began as a separate poetic section of _The
     British Magazine_ in June, 1833. The poem above is an
     unconscious expansion of S. Augustine’s _Ne putetis gratis
     esse malos in hoc mundo, et nihil boni de illis agere Deum_.

     [116] Exactly what this interpretation was is not apparent
     from Lord Grey’s biographers, nor from his _Letters_. On
     this ground, he was suspect, after his significant remark in
     the House of Lords, on May 7, 1832: ‘I do not like, in this
     free country, to use the word Monarchy.’

     [117] Christian Carl Josias, Baron Bunsen, 1791-1860,
     Minister Plenipotentiary, and German Ambassador to England
     from 1841-1854.

     [118] Misread, and misprinted ‘ability’ in the _Remains_.

     [119] The first audit at Oriel, Mr. Christie being then, as
     Froude’s successor, Junior Treasurer of the College.

     [120] Afterwards Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster.

     [121] [All this must not be taken literally, being a jesting
     way of stating to a friend what really was the fact, viz.,
     that he and another availed themselves of the opportunity of
     meeting a learned Romanist to ascertain the ultimate points
     at issue between the Churches.] Note, _Remains_, 1838, i.,

     [122] Newman writes to a friend then out of England, R. F.
     Wilson, Esq., on Sept. 8 following: ‘… If we look into
     history, whether in the age of the Apostles, St. Ambrose’s,
     or St. Becket’s [_sic_], still the people were the fulcrum
     of the Church’s power. So they may be again. Therefore,
     expect on your return … to see us all cautious, long-headed,
     unfeeling, unflinching Radicals.’ Newman, _Letters and
     Correspondence_, i., 399.

     [123] The contributors to the _Lyra_ numbered but six, in
     the end. Mr. Christie is not among them.

     [124] Sir Edmund Walker Head, Bart., 1805-1868, an
     accomplished Oriel man, Fellow of Merton, M.A., D.C.L.,
     F.R.S., and K.C.B., Governor-General of Canada, author of a
     _Handbook of the Spanish and French Schools of Painting_,
     and of various philological and literary essays. Hurrell
     might have named also a young Mr. Gladstone, late of Christ
     Church, already eminent in the Oxford academic world and
     beyond it, who spent a good part of this year, 1832-1833, in

     [125] William Whewell, 1794-1866: Master of Trinity College,
     Cambridge. The particular ‘book’ may be, judging from the
     context and the date, the _Astronomy and General Physics,
     considered with Reference to Natural Theology_.

     [126] Adam Sedgwick, 1785-1873: Woodwardian Professor of
     Geology in the University of Cambridge.

     [127] Connop Thirlwall, 1797-1875: historian and Bishop of
     S. David’s.

     [128] Julius Charles Hare, 1795-1855, of Trinity College,
     Cambridge, afterwards Incumbent of Hurstmonceaux, and
     Archdeacon of Lewes. Like Thirlwall, he was a familiar
     friend of Baron Bunsen. For a passing instance of the
     ‘puffing’ contemned by Froude, see _Memorials of a Quiet
     Life_, 1876, iii., 224.

     [129] John of Salisbury, afterwards Bishop of Chartres, the
     companion and biographer of S. Thomas à Becket, and ‘for
     thirty years the central figure of English learning.’
     (Stubbs, _Lectures_, p. 139.) He was born _circa_ A.D. 1118,
     and died in the year 1180.

     [130] Anglicised Latin, that is: Latin taught with the
     Continental pronunciation, or any approach to it, being
     unheard-of in the England of that time.

     [131] _Remains of William Ralph Churton_ (Private
     Impression), 1830, p. 162.

     [132] _Reminiscences_, etc., i., 294.

     [133] Froude means the Abbé de Lamennais, Lacordaire,
     Montalembert, and their friends, to whom he was strongly
     attracted. Lacordaire, newly withdrawn from _L’Avenir_, was
     at this time at Nôtre Dame, not yet a Dominican. What a
     friend he would have been for R. H. F.!

     [134] The Absolutions, in the Book of Common Prayer.

     [135] [Here, and in many other places, it is the author’s
     way to bring forward as motives of action for himself and
     others what were but secondary, and rather the reflection of
     his mind upon its acts, and that as if with a view to avoid
     the profession of high and great things. Such, too, is the
     Scripture way: as where we are told to do good to our
     enemies, as if ‘to heap coals of fire on their heads,’ and
     to take the lowest place, in order to ‘have worship in the
     presence’ of spectators.] Note, _Remains_, 1838, i., 314.

     [136] The motto appears first in _The British Magazine_,
     Dec., 1833, followed by: ‘Compare _Daniel_ i., 7.’

     [137] Dan. xii., 13.

     [138] The reading here, slightly altered and bettered from
     the copy printed in the _Remains_, is from _Lyra
     Apostolica_, 1836.

     [139] Ezek. xxvii., 11.

     [140] The text in 1833 has ‘wandering.’ The Rev. H. C.
     Beeching adopts it, with this Note: ‘Perhaps the line should
     run: “Far-wandering from the East.”’

     [141] In _The British Magazine_ for May 1835 (vii., 518)
     this poem first appears, and there bears no motto, and has
     ‘The Exchange’ for title. The title in the _Remains_ is
     ‘Farewell to Toryism.’

     [142] S. Paul, Eph. ii., 8.

     [143] _The Anglican Revival_, by J. H. Overton, D.D. London:
     Blackie, 1897, p. 206.

     [144] James William Bowden, 1798-1844, the most zealous lay
     participant in the early Movement.

     [145] _Reminiscences_, Mozley, i., 580.

     [146] _Specimens of the Table-Talk of the late Samuel Taylor
     Coleridge._ Murray, 1835, ii., 26. The curious inference may
     be made, in regard to Froude’s Editors, that they did not
     light upon Coleridge’s passage at first-hand, but that
     somebody brought it to their attention: they, on their part,
     had accomplished, by chance, the extraordinary feat of
     ignoring Coleridge. ‘In extreme old age Newman wrote to a
     friend: “I never read a word of Kant. I never read a word of
     Coleridge…. I could say the same of Hurrell Froude, and also
     of Pusey and Keble.”’ _Newman_, by William Barry. Literary
     Lives Series. Hodder & Stoughton, 1904, p. 30. The inclusion
     of the name of Dr. Pusey, Germanic by temperament and by his
     line of study, is remarkable.

     [147] This was July 9, 1833. The Froudes had never had word
     by post since he had parted from them, and they knew
     something had gone wrong.

     [148] Arthur Philip Perceval, 1799-1853, of Oriel, brother
     of Lord Arden, and Vicar of East Horsley; afterwards Royal
     chaplain, and expounder of High Church principles, on one
     celebrated occasion, before Queen Victoria.

     [149] Nobody but Dean Hook calls him ‘learned,’ and the
     concession may have been thrown in to balance the
     depreciatory context. ‘With a kind heart and glowing
     sensibilities, Mr. Froude united a mind of wonderful power,
     saturated with learning, and from its very luxuriance
     productive of weeds, together with many flowers.’ _A Call to
     Union on the Principles of the English Reformation_, 2nd
     ed., 1838, p. 167.

     [150] _Remains_ of R. H. F., part i., ii., 307. On the
     Causes of the Superior Excellence of the Poetry of Rude

     [151] This is not among his published Sermons, but may have
     gone to make up the mosaic of State Interference papers in
     the _Remains_, part ii., i., 184-269.

     [152] ‘Snug’ in _Remains_.

     [153] The Queen.

     [154] _The British Magazine_ for July, 1833, vol. iii., The
     Appointment of Bishops by the State. Correspondence under
     the same title opens in the September number, v., 290 _et
     seq._, signed ‘F.’

     [155] Newman figures as responsible for it in the valuable
     Appendix to the third volume of the _Life_ of Dr. Pusey.

     [156] _Correspondence_, i., 421.

     [157] John Mitchinson Calvert of Crosthwaite, Cumberland,
     and of Oriel, M.A., M.D., who knew Froude well, and was his
     own age.

     [158] S. Thomas à Becket’s word for the poor.

     [159] The ‘man’ is Jean Bon de St. André, Deputy to the
     Convention for the Department of Lot during the Reign of
     Terror; he was preferred by Napoleon, and died in 1813. He
     was present when Earl Howe defeated the French fleet on June
     1, 1794, and distinguished himself after the fashion
     commemorated in the Elegy which appeared in the
     _Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine_ on May 14, 1798, and was
     the joint production of Canning, Gifford, and Frere:

          ‘Poor John was a gallant captain
           In battles much delighting;
           He fled full soon,
           On the first of June,
           But he bade the rest keep fighting.’

     The stave appears again, of course, in _Poetry of the
     Anti-Jacobin_, Edited with Explanatory notes by Charles
     Edmonds, 3rd edition, London, Sampson Low, etc., 1890, p.
     187. The _New Anti-Jacobin_, a brilliant monthly advocating
     high Tory principles, sprang into life for April and May,
     1833, and died. Froude must have been deeply interested in
     it. Nothing we know of him is more engaging than this very
     gallant applying to himself of such a quotation at such a
     time, and for such a reason.

     [160] Rev. Anthony Buller, 1809-1881, afterwards Rector of
     Mary Tavy; ordained at Exeter on Oct. 27 of this year.

     [161] _The Arians of the Fourth Century._

     [162] Mr. Rose’s friend, William Rowe Lyall, 1788-1857, then
     Archdeacon of Colchester, afterwards Dean of Canterbury.
     Owing to Mr. Rose’s failing health, the two exchanged
     livings this year, and Archdeacon Lyall remained at Hadleigh
     till 1841, Mr. Rose having died in Italy.

     [163] Of 1831.

     [164] William Hart Coleridge, 1789-1849, brother to George,
     Master of Ottery Free School; first Bishop of Barbados and
     the Leeward Islands, 1824, and reorganiser of Codrington
     College. He resigned in 1841, when the diocese was divided.

     [165] ‘Unconnected’ in the text of the _Remains_, but
     corrected in the little list of _errata_.

     [166] This, of course, is one of the passages upon which the
     Editors of the _Remains_ rely to prove negatively their
     contention that Froude’s Anglicanism was immutably fixed.
     The ‘Popery’ in this passage is not in its ‘grammatical
     sense,’ but plainly refers to furtherance of O’Connell’s

     [167] Jeremy Collier’s _Ecclesiastical History of Great
     Britain_, first published in two volumes folio in 1708,

     [168] Lieutenant-Colonel J. Lyons Nixon, L.G.

     [169] [If they had had the _whole body_ of the English
     Church in agreement with them. The sort and amount of
     alteration which the writer probably contemplated may be
     seen in _Tracts for the Times_, Via Media.] Note, _Remains_,
     i., 348. So sure was Newman of R. H. F.’s posthumous

     [170] Thomas Fowell Buxton, 1786-1845, M.P., knighted in
     1840, prison reformer (brother-in-law of Mrs. Fry), and
     William Wilberforce’s successor as head of the Anti-slavery
     party in England.

     [171] John Spedding Froude.

     [172] A ‘Z’ stood, in Tractarian, for an ‘Establishment

     [173] Thus in the _Remains_, but ‘if,’ by a misprint, in The
     Newman _Correspondence_, ii., 33.

     [174] Keble was eleven years older than Froude, nine years
     older than Newman.

     [175] Founded by a bequest to the S.P.G. of Christopher
     Codrington, 1668-1710, the munificent Fellow of All Souls,
     Oxford; licensed by Queen Anne; opened as a Grammar School
     in 1742; but not a Collegiate institution for West Indian
     clergy, as originally intended, until 1830.

     [176] To ‘battel’ is a verb purely Oxonian by origin.
     Battels are a man’s College accounts for supplies from
     kitchen and buttery, or else all College accounts, inclusive
     of board, lodging, tuition, rates, and sundries.

     [177] _The Arians of the Fourth Century; their Doctrine,
     Temper, and Conduct, chiefly as Exhibited in the Councils of
     the Church between A.D. 325 and A.D. 384_, by John Henry
     Newman, M.A., Fellow of Oriel College. London: Rivingtons,
     1833. The book is dedicated to Keble. The review is in _The
     British Magazine_ for January, 1834, v., 67. Mr. T. Mozley
     thinks that _The Arians_ is the landmark of Newman’s
     progress from Low Church to High Church.

     [178] There are two brief papers and a poem signed ‘C.’ in
     _The British Magazine_ Supplement, Dec. 31, 1833, in vol.
     iv. The matter referred to is probably that dealing
     ‘Apostolically’ with Confirmation and First Communion. The
     Editor has not been able to identify ‘C.’

     [179] This still exists, the tallest, (a huge tree in
     Froude’s time,) being over one hundred feet high.

     [180] Vol. v., pp. 667 _et seq._; vi., 380 _et seq._

     [181] ‘Some one, I think, asked in conversation at Rome
     [1833], whether a certain interpretation of Scripture was
     Christian. It was answered that Dr. Arnold took it; I
     interposed: “But is _he_ a Christian?” The subject went out
     of my head at once.’ _Apologia pro Vita Sua_, 1890, p. 33.

     [182] The Rev. George Dudley Ryder, second son of the Hon.
     and Rt. Rev. Lord Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry. He
     married in June, 1834, Sophia Lucy, youngest daughter of the
     Rev. J. Sargent, Rector of Lavington, Sussex, sister of Mrs.
     Henry and of Mrs. Samuel Wilberforce, and of Mrs. H. E.

     [183] To ‘rat,’ a favourite verb with the two hide-bound
     purists who used it daily, means obviously to forsake or
     abandon anything, as rats skurry away from a sinking ship.

     [184] The Rev. John Hothersal Pinder, M.A., Cambridge, first
     Principal, from 1830 to 1835, subsequently first Principal
     of Wells Theological College.

     [185] North-east of Torquay.

     [186] Newman, prompted by Isaac Williams, and following
     Thomas Keble at Bisley, had, unknown to Froude, begun a
     month before to read the two Church services daily in the
     chancel of S. Mary’s at Oxford: but a daily Eucharist was
     then unheard of in the Church of England.

     [187] _Reminiscences_, i., 217.

     [188] Frederic Rogers, afterwards Lord Blachford, 1811-1889.
     He had been Froude’s pupil, and also Newman’s, through a
     dazzlingly brilliant University career. He occupied Froude’s
     rooms at Oriel on staircase No. 3 for at least one term
     during his absence.

     [189] In reference to Lib. iv., Carm. iii., 19-20: Ad

     [190] Vol. i., 369-372.

     [191] J. H. N., _Letters and Correspondence_, i., 397-399.

     [192] _Essays Critical and Historical_, by John Henry
     Cardinal Newman. London: Longmans, 1891, ii., 375.

     [193] _Chronicle of Convocation, Sessions, July 3-6, 1887._
     The capitals occur there, as here.

     [194] J. H. N., _Letters and Correspondence_, i., 423.

     [195] John Tucker, 1793-1873, Fellow of Corpus Christi
     College, and at this time Dean; Vicar of West Hendred,

     [196] The Note in the _Remains_, i., 405, calls attention to
     the circumstance that R.H.F. was speaking of the Church
     _system_ only; _i.e._, the Establishment.

     [197] Both Newman and Froude often employ this word in a
     sense now quite obsolete. ‘The notion of diversion,
     entertainment, is comparatively of recent introduction into
     the word. To amuse was to cause to muse, to occupy or
     engage, and in this sense indeed to divert, the thoughts and
     attention.’ Trench, _Select Glossary_, 1890, p. 7.

     A perfect example of the bygone function of the word occurs
     in Daniel’s _Musophilus_, where he condoles with ‘Sacred
     Religion, mother of form and fear,’ in the days when she must

          ‘Sit poorly, without light, disrobed; no care
           Of outward grace to amuse the poor devout.’

     [198] Joram or jorum is a drinking-bowl.

     [199] _I.e._, the work, then in progress, on _The Life and
     Times of Thomas à Becket_.

     [200] _The Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays
     and Holy-days Throughout the Year._ First American Edition.
     Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard, MDCCCXXXIV.

     [201] Frederick Oakeley, 1802-1880: Tutor and Lecturer of
     Balioll College, Select Preacher to the University in 1831,
     Minister of Margaret Chapel (on the site of All Saints,
     Margaret Street, London W.) 1839-1845, and for the last
     thirty years of his life priest and Canon of the Archdiocese
     of Westminster.

     [202] The American editor, ‘G. D. W.’ [George Washington

     Among the footnotes is the following: ‘The Editor is
     accountable, throughout the volume, for the use of the
     Italic letter. He has adopted that method of designating
     such lines as possess, in his judgment, peculiar beauty.’
     The preface is dated July 1, 1834. More than twenty-five
     editions had been published in England at this time.

     [203] With Froude always, though not with Newman,
     domesticity spelled desertion of the Cause: to be married
     was, practically, to ‘rat.’

     [204] _The British Magazine_ for September, 1834, had
     announced the marriage of H. W. Wilberforce, Esq., M.A.,
     Oriel College, to Mary, second daughter of the late Rev. J.
     Sargent, Rector of Lavington.

     [205] Hurrell may well have known the state of poor
     Williams’ heart in regard to Miss Caroline Champernowne of
     Dartington Hall: the marriage, however, did not come off
     until 1842. Mr. Keble is not mentioned in his worshipping
     disciple’s incriminating list, but he had married Miss
     Charlotte Clark at Bisley on the tenth of the preceding
     October. He was then in his forty-fourth year. The
     engagement was of several years’ standing.

     [206] Mr. Christie married in 1847.

     [207] John Frederick Christie, M.A., Fellow of Oriel,
     received Deacon’s Orders in the Cathedral at Oxford, on May
     25, 1834, and Priest’s Orders in the same place, on December
     20, 1835.

     [208] [Such as the necessity of holding by the union of
     Church and State; of contenting himself with the English
     liturgical services, etc. Note, _Remains_, i., 386.] The
     Editors mistook Hurrell’s word ‘one’ in the text, printing
     it as ‘me.’

     [209] To _smug_ is to confiscate without ceremony.

     The _Exeter Flying Post_, during the last week of the
     preceding May, had announced the arrival of ‘the Bishop of
     Barbados and his family, on a visit to Mrs. Coleridge’s
     father, the venerable Dean of Winchester.’ The ‘thorough Z’
     was in delicate health, and it forced him, ultimately, to
     resign his charge. His only son, a young child in Froude’s
     time at Barbados, Mr. Rennell Coleridge, has just died at
     Salston, Ottery St. Mary (May, 1904).

     [210] Isaac Williams was long believed to be hopelessly ill,
     but recovered.

     [211] The Rev. John Keble, Sr., Vicar of Coln St. Aldwyn,
     father and sole educator of John and of Thomas Keble, up to
     the time of their entering the University. He had inherited
     what he so splendidly transmitted: the Carolian and
     Nonjuring tradition.

     [212] He was by no means alone in indulging this pious
     sentiment. On all sides, in 1835, ‘from Newman to Macaulay,
     from Cobbett to Arnold, the Reformers were receiving
     scathing criticism.’ The Life-Work of Cardinal Wiseman, in
     _Problems and Persons_, by Wilfrid Ward. Longmans, 1903.

     [213] Of Nov. 18, 1834. This is a homespun boyish
     acknowledgement of Newman’s beautiful flight of words,
     straight to the heart of his friend.

     [214] Newman’s note some thirty years later, _Letters and
     Correspondence_, ii., 7. ‘_N.B._――Froude would not believe
     that I was in earnest, as I was, in shrinking from the views
     which he boldly followed out. I _was_ against

     [215] In the standard modern edition, _Pensées Fragments et
     Lettres de Blaise Pascal_ … par M. Prosper Faugère, Paris,
     Leroux, 1897, the passage occurs in Lettre V. (à
     Mademoiselle de Roannez), fin d’Octobre, 1656, pp. 52-53.

     [216] Probably in a letter. Mr. Christie was at this time
     devoting himself to Ridley, whom he looked upon, Mr. Mozley
     tells us, as a Saint and an Authority; his papers appeared
     later in _The British Critic_.

     [217] Sir William Hamilton’s celebrated (anonymous) article
     on ‘Admission of Dissenters to the Universities,’ _Edinburgh
     Review_, vol. lx., pp. 202 _et seq._, for October, 1834,
     includes some telling paragraphs on the Practical Theology
     (in reference to the countenancing of polygamy) and the
     Biblical Criticism (boldly destructive) of Luther, Bucer,
     and Melancthon.

     [218] First published as Tract 18: _Thoughts on the Benefits
     of the System of Fasting enjoined by our Church._ It is
     dated Oxford, The Feast of S. Thomas [1834], and signed E.
     B. P., being the first of the _Tracts_ to bear a signature,
     by way of disassociating its author from the real

     [219] The ‘Dartington one’ is, as we have seen, ‘Scripture a
     Record of Human Sorrow’; the ‘Naples one’ is possibly
     ‘Religious Emotion,’ Nos. xiv. and xxv. in _Parochial
     Sermons_, by John Henry Newman, M.A., Vicar of S. Mary the
     Virgin’s, Oxford, and Fellow of Oriel College. London:
     Rivington, 1834.

     [220] Did Froude mean to write ‘Gallican’? Saint Francis de
     Sales as a Jansenist fills a new rôle.

     [221] ‘The Rise and Fall of Gregory,’ chapter ix., in _The
     Church of the Fathers_. Reprinted from _The British
     Magazine_, by Rivington, 1840, p. 146.

     [222] Robert Isaac Wilberforce, as Vicar of East Farleigh,
     near Maidstone, Kent, was out of Oxford life practically
     from 1831 to 1849.

     [223] Choused means swindled, duped.

     [224] _Sic._

     [225] Unidentified.

     [226] He has forgotten, for the moment, his own illuminating
     word spoken two years before: ‘Surely the promise “I am with
     you always” means something?’ …

     [227] The famous emendation of the thirteenth stanza in the
     Gunpowder Treason hymn, which now reads in all editions of
     _The Christian Year_,――

               ‘There present in the heart
          As in the hands,’

     was made after Keble’s death, by his executors, and in
     accordance with his own request. The request was based upon
     that of ‘my dear friend Hurrell Froude,’ over thirty years
     before. Keble had long held out against the alteration, and
     for what he thought good cause, even against Pusey,
     maintaining that ‘Not in the hands’ should be understood as
     ‘Not [only] in the hands.’ He had precedents and analogies
     to lean upon. But when Bishop Jeune on February 9, 1866,
     quoted the original lines in Convocation as against the Real
     Objective Presence, the poet, then near his end, eagerly
     effected the change. The ordinary reader may wonder whether
     a more astounding variant be known to doctrinal statement.

     [228] Both quotations are from one of the loveliest and
     tenderest numbers of _The Christian Year_: that entitled
     ‘Holy Baptism,’ stanzas v. and iii.

     [229] ‘Someone’ was of course quoting from the Vulgate, the
     Song of Solomon, iv., 11.

     [230] The Rev. John Keble, Sr., died on Jan. 24, 1835, aged

     [231] Thus in the Newman _Correspondence_, ii., 94. In the
     _Remains_ the reading is ‘little to boast of.’

     [232] Froude would not have heard of the famous contest for
     the Speakership on Feb. 19, 1835, as he left the West Indies
     in March, or early April. James Abercromby, Esq., of
     Edinburgh, obtained on that day a majority of ten over Sir
     Charles Manners Sutton, who thereupon retired in chagrin
     from public life, and was created Viscount Canterbury.

     [233] _Letters of Frederic Lord Blachford_, edited by George
     Eden Marindin. London: Murray, 1896, p. 24.

     [234] _Reminiscences_, ii., 14.

     [235] ‘The Oxford Counter-Reformation,’ in _Short Studies on
     Great Subjects_, 4th Series: 1883.

     [236] Tract 63, afterwards published, with additions, in the
     _Remains_, part i., ii., 383-423.

     [237] (With dogma: not with disease!)

     [238] _The Ritualists, or Non-Natural Catholics._ London:
     Shaw & Co., 2nd edition, 1867, p. 73.

     [239] In the Church of England, he means. Catholic altars
     were, and are, always of stone, the custom of stone altars
     having been ruled as obligatory at the Council of Epaon,
     A.D. 517. Dr. Pusey’s dismay will be remembered at the
     adverse decision given on 31st January, 1845, against stone
     altar-slabs, as ‘revived’ in S. Sepulchre’s Church at
     Cambridge. (Liddon’s _Pusey_, ii., 483.)

     [240] _La Renaissance Catholique en Angleterre_, par Paul
     Thureau-Dangin de l’Académie française. 1re Partie. Paris:
     Plon, 1899, p. 160.

     [241] ‘_Que se passa-t-il entre eux? Wiseman ne l’a jamais
     révélé._’ _Idem_, p. 104. M. Thureau-Dangin’s treatment of
     Froude throughout is exquisite and just, though he contrives
     to miss a point or two.

     [242] Newman warns us in the Preface to _Loss and Gain_
     against actual identifications of his scenes and characters;
     and the warning is just, because there is no warrant for the
     identifications. But reading between the lines is
     particularly profitable with every page of Newman’s,
     dictated by an almost unexampled deliberation and
     sensitiveness. Reding (for one instance out of many),
     quitting his beautiful and beloved Oxford, goes early in the
     morning to kiss the willows along the Water-walks good-bye.
     It is almost impossible that the man who thinks such a thing
     should not also be the man who has done it.

     [243] ‘Things,’ one is left to infer, which depended more or
     less on the proximity of the Bodleian, and implied something
     in the way of historical fiction.

     [244] In vol. vii., 1835. The article for June, pp. 662-668,
     is Letter No. xii. in _The Church of the Fathers_, and
     consists of a little essay on S. Augustine, with excerpts
     from his treatises and private correspondence on the subject
     of the religious life.

     [245] The Statutes excluding married Fellows being still in

     [246] Years after this was written, late in the seventies,
     he must have passed near it, going to visit his
     brother-in-law, the Rev. Thomas Mozley, at Plymtree.

     [247] _I.e._, haranguing against ‘Romanism.’

     [248] James Shergold Boone, 1799-1859, an Oxonian, then
     editor of _The British Critic_.

     [249] Copleston.

     [250] The Rev. Charles Portates Golightly, 1807-1885, M.A.,
     Oriel: King of the ‘Peculiars.’

     [251] The Rev. Benjamin Harrison, 1808-1887, M.A.,
     Christchurch, afterwards Archdeacon of Maidstone and Canon
     of Canterbury.

     [252] Probably Thomas Mozley, newly appointed Junior
     Treasurer of Oriel.

     [253] The Rev. Robert Francis Wilson, M.A., Oriel, was
     appointed Mr. Keble’s Curate in 1835, and became his
     lifelong friend.

     [254] In the review of Blanco White’s _Observations on
     Heresy and Orthodoxy_.

     [255] The Rev. John Richard Bogue, a Cambridge graduate,
     then, or later, Curate of Cornworthy, towards Dartmouth.

     [256] _Life of Edward Bouverie Pusey_, by Henry Parry
     Liddon, D.D., etc. London: Longmans, 1893, i., 359.

     [257] John Mozley and Jemima Newman were married on April
     28, 1836. Thomas Mozley’s first wife was Harriet Newman,
     married to him in September of the same year. Not only the
     Mozleys of the Tractarian group, but two of the Wilberforces
     (Samuel and Henry), and the two Kebles, married sisters.

     [258] A ‘prose,’ in this pleasant sense, seems always, with
     Oxford men of that date, to mean a disquisition in the
     nature of a monologue.

     [259] Hurrell Froude’s first instalments of the articles
     embracing translations of S. Thomas à Becket’s original
     letters (from the Vatican Archives and other original
     sources) appeared in _The British Magazine_ for November,
     1832, ii., 233-242, and had run on pretty regularly ever

     [260] In the theological sense.

     [261] William Palmer (Vigornensis, as he was locally called
     to distinguish him from his namesake at Magdalen College),
     and Newman, in lesser measure, were responsible for this
     Tract, numbered 15.

     [262] During this month Blanco White had avowed himself a
     Unitarian, and quitted Archbishop Whately’s house in Dublin.

     [263] By accident, the same adjectives had instinctively
     occurred in a postscript of Harriett Newman’s, written a
     month or two before. ‘Who can refrain from tears at the
     thought of that bright and beautiful Froude?’ she writes.
     ‘He is not expected to last long.’

     [264] Coleridge’s _Memoir of John Keble_, p. 235.

     [265] ‘Separation,’ _Lyra Apostolica_, Beeching’s edition,
     p. 17. See p. 331 of this book.

     [266] Cholderton (Thomas Mozley’s Rectory), Oct. 3,
     1839.――‘Keble’s Preface to the _Remains_ [Part II.], which
     awaited me here, is very good, as far as I can judge; but
     somehow I want the faculty of judging anything of
     Keble’s.’――_John Henry Newman, Letters and Correspondence to
     1845._ Longmans, 1890, ii., 213, 257.

     [267] Lost.

     [268] Newman. The anonymous review appeared in _The
     Christian Observer_ for July, 1837, pp. 460-479. The volume
     bears no number.

     [269] Probably Henry Halford Vaughan of Christ Church,
     1811-1885; the distinguished jurist; elected Fellow of Oriel
     in 1835; afterwards Regius Professor of Modern History.

     [270] Renn Dickson Hampden, D.D., 1793-1868, received in
     October, 1836, his famous (Dean Burgon’s adjective was
     ‘scandalous’) appointment by Lord Melbourne to the Regius
     Professorship of Divinity in the University of Oxford,
     against the vehement and prolonged opposition of both Low
     Church and High Church, to whom ‘Hampdenism’ meant nothing
     less than the negation of Christian doctrine and the
     Catholic spirit. Hampden, if not ‘Hampdenism,’ was to be
     greatly crippled by the Oxford Convocation of the following

     [271] The Rev. R. C. Fillingham’s wit, wasted on a winter
     Sunday morning in the Pembroke Street Chapel, Oxford, may be
     worth hoarding up. ‘The Martyrs died to protest against the
     ridiculous doctrine of the Real Presence, and the man who
     preached that doctrine from the pulpit was a traitor, and
     deserved to be drummed out of the Church. (Applause)…. The
     new religion of the Church of England was founded in 1833 …
     in order to save the endowments, and was really a pecuniary
     dodge. The Martyrs’ Memorial protested against it, and said
     this new thing was not the religion of the true Church of
     England. The Memorial protested against dishonesty; it stood
     as a protest against shams, etc., etc.’――_The Oxford Times,
     Jan. 16, 1904._

     [272] The Rev. Edward Churton, 1800-1874, Rector of Crayke,
     the Spanish scholar, biographer of Joshua Watson.

     [273] _Lives of Twelve Good Men_, by John William Burgon,
     B.D., late Dean of Chichester. London: Murray, 1891, p. 129.

     [274] Afterwards seventh Earl of Carlisle.

     [275] _Correspondence_, ii., 255.

     [276] _Letters of Frederic Lord Blachford_, edited by George
     Eden Marindin. Murray, 1896, p. 50.

     [277] _Life of William Ewart Gladstone_, by John Morley.
     Macmillan, 1903, i., 306.

     [278] _Idem_, p. 161.

     [279] _Remains_, vol. ii., 229, 250, and elsewhere.

     [280] Mr. Ruskin.

     [281] Rose to Pusey, in Burgon’s _Lives of Twelve Good Men_,
     p. 125.

     [282] ‘A More Excellent Way,’ in _The Faith of the
     Millions_. First Series. By George Tyrrell, S. J. Longmans,
     1901, p. 5.

     [283] Sir James Stephen, ‘The Evangelical Succession,’ in
     _Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography_. London: Longmans,
     1860, 4th edition, i., 462.

     [284] Quoted in _The Monthly Repository_ for 1835,
     discovered and reproduced in Mr. Bertram Dobell’s
     _Sidelights on Charles Lamb_, 1903, p. 325.

     [285] _Life and Letters of Ambrose Phillipps de Lisle_, i.,
     199. Compare the Rev. Spencer Jones’ remarkable article,
     ‘Who Makes the Division?’ in _The Lamp_ for April or May,
     1904. ‘The _terminus ad quem_ of the Oxford Movement, by
     logical and divine necessity, seems to us to be the return
     of the Anglican Church to the supreme authority of the Holy
     See. To it we must come, if we desire to possess a sanctuary
     once more.’

     [286] Canon Smith, Rector of S. Peter’s Catholic Church at
     Marlow, once the Anglican Rector of Leadenham, died, aged
     89, on October 24, 1903, while the first sheets of this book
     were passing through the press.

     [287] It is the saying of a contemporary wit: ‘Did you ever
     see a clever Anglican who did not worry over his Church? and
     did you ever see a clever Roman who did?’

     [288] See p. 148.

     [289] _Reminiscences_, i., 441.

     [290] _Life and Letters of Walter Farquhar Hook, D.D.,
     F.R.S._, by his Son-in-Law, W. R. W. Stephens. Bentley,
     1878, ii., 103.

     [291] _L’Anglo-Catholicisme_, par le Père Ragey. Paris:
     Lecoffre [1897], pp. 4, 7.

     [292] Mr. Simcox in _The Academy_, May 22, 1891, xxxix.,

     [293] The physical resemblance between R. H. F.’s
     child-portrait and _il buon Pippo_, becomes none the less
     noteworthy when one turns towards what Newman wrote from
     Rome to his sister about S. Philip Neri, on January 26,
     1847. ‘This great Saint reminds me in so many ways of Keble,
     that I can fancy what Keble would have been … in another
     place and age; he was formed on the same type of extreme
     hatred of humbug, playfulness, nay, oddity, tender love of
     others, and severity.’ _John Henry Newman, Letters and
     Correspondence to 1845_, ii., 424.







  From ‘THE OXFORD MOVEMENT,’ 1833-1845, BY R. W. CHURCH          235

  From ‘APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA,’ by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN              259

     WILLIAM FABER                                                263

     Sir JAMES STEPHEN                                            263

  From ‘A MEMOIR OF THE REV. JOHN KEBLE,’ by the Right Hon.
     Sir J. T. COLERIDGE                                          276


  From ‘MEMOIR OF JOSHUA WATSON,’ edited by EDWARD CHURTON        281

     WILFRID WARD                                                 282

     WORCESTER COLL.]                                             287

     J. H. RIGG                                                   291

     FREDERICK OAKELEY                                            299

  From ‘THE BRITISH CRITIC’ for Jan., 1838. (A review of
     the _Remains_, Part I., by FREDERIC ROGERS.)                 306

     GEORGE PREVOST                                               320

  From ‘THOUGHTS IN PAST YEARS,’ by ISAAC WILLIAMS                326

  From ‘CARDINAL NEWMAN,’ by RICHARD H. HUTTON                    329

  From ‘THE ANGLICAN REVIVAL,’ by J. H. OVERTON                   334


     A. ABBOTT                                                    344

  From ‘ORIEL COLLEGE,’ by DAVID WATSON RANNIE                    356

     FROUDE                                                       358


     JOHN KEBLE and JOHN HENRY NEWMAN], 1838                      367

  _Idem_, 1839                                                    374

     MOVEMENT,’ BY T. MOZLEY                                      391

  From ‘THE BRITISH CRITIC’ for April 1840. (A review of the
     _Remains_, Part II., by T. MOZLEY)                           398

     INTRODUCTION BY H. S. HOLLAND                                402

  From ‘NEWMAN,’ by WILLIAM BARRY                                 405





      CHURCH, M.A., D.C.L., sometime Dean of St. Paul’s, and Fellow of
      Oriel College, Oxford. London: Macmillan & Co., 1891.

  [By the kind permission of Miss Church and of Messrs. Macmillan & Co.]

       *     *     *     *     *

‘What was it that turned [Keble] by degrees into so prominent and so
influential a person? It was the result of the action of his
convictions and ideas, and still more of his character, on the
energetic and fearless mind of a pupil and disciple, Richard Hurrell
Froude. Froude was Keble’s pupil at Oriel, and when Keble left Oriel
for his curacy at the beginning of the Long Vacation of 1823, he took
Froude with him to read for his degree. He took with him ultimately
two other pupils, Robert Wilberforce and Isaac Williams of Trinity.
One of them, Isaac Williams, has left some reminiscences of the time,
and of the terms on which the young men were with their tutor, then
one of the most famous men at Oxford. They were terms of the utmost
freedom. “Master is the greatest boy of them all,” was the judgment of
the rustic who was gardener, groom, and parish clerk to Mr. Keble.
Froude’s was a keen logical mind, not easily satisfied, contemptuous
of compromises and evasions, and disposed on occasion to be
mischievous and aggressive; and with Keble, as with anybody else, he
was ready to dispute and try every form of dialectical experiment. But
he was open to higher influences than those of logic, and in Keble he
saw what subdued and won him to boundless veneration and affection.
Keble won the love of the whole little society; but in Froude he had
gained a disciple who was to be the mouthpiece and champion of his
ideas, and who was to react on himself and carry him forward to larger
enterprises and bolder resolutions than by himself he would have
thought of. Froude took in from Keble all he had to communicate:
principles, convictions, moral rules and standards of life, hopes,
fears, antipathies. And his keenly-tempered intellect, and his
determination and high courage, gave a point and an impulse of their
own to Keble’s views and purposes. As things came to look darker, and
dangers seemed more serious to the Church, its faith or its rights,
the interchange of thought between master and disciple, in talk and in
letter, pointed more and more to the coming necessity of action; and
Froude at least had no objections to the business of an agitator. But
all this was very gradual; things did not yet go beyond discussion;
ideas, views, arguments were examined and compared; and Froude, with
all his dash, felt as Keble felt, that he had much to learn about
himself, as well as about books and things. In his respect for
antiquity, in his dislike of the novelties which were invading Church
rules and sentiments, as well as its Creeds, in his jealousy of the
State, as well as in his seriousness of self-discipline, he accepted
Keble’s guidance and influence more and more; and from Keble he had
more than one lesson of self-distrust, more than one warning against
the temptations of intellect. “Froude told me many years after,”
writes one of his friends, “that Keble once, before parting with him,
seemed to have something on his mind which he wished to say, but
shrank from saying, while waiting, I think, for a coach. At last he
said, just before parting, ‘Froude, you thought Law’s _Serious Call_
was a clever book; it seemed to me as if you had said the Day of
Judgement will be a pretty sight.’ This speech, Froude told me, had a
great effect on his after life.”[294]

‘At Easter, 1826, Froude was elected Fellow of Oriel. He came back to
Oxford, charged with Keble’s thoughts and feelings, and from his more
eager and impatient temper, more on the look-out for ways of giving
them effect. The next year he became Tutor, and he held the tutorship
till 1830. But he found at Oriel a colleague, a little his senior in
age and standing, of whom Froude and his friends as yet knew little
except that he was a man of great ability, that he had been a
favourite of Whately’s, and that in a loose and rough way he was
counted among the few Liberals and Evangelicals in Oxford. This was
Mr. Newman. Keble had been shy of him, and Froude would at first judge
him by Keble’s standard. But Newman was just at this time “moving,” as
he expresses it, “out of the shadow of Liberalism.” Living not apart
like Keble, but in the same College, and meeting every day, Froude and
Newman could not but be either strongly and permanently repelled, or
strongly attracted. They were attracted: attracted with a force which
at last united them in the deepest and most unreserved friendship. Of
the steps of this great change in the mind and fortunes of each of
them we have no record: intimacies of this kind grow in College out of
unnoticed and unremembered talks, agreeing or differing, out of
unconscious disclosures of temper and purpose, out of walks and rides
and quiet breakfasts and Common-Room arguments, out of admirations and
dislikes, out of letters and criticisms and questions; and nobody can
tell afterwards how they have come about. The change was gradual and
deliberate. Froude’s friends in Gloucestershire, the Keble family, had
their misgivings about Newman’s supposed Liberalism; they did not much
want to have to do with him. His subtle and speculative temper did not
always square with Froude’s theology. “N. is a fellow that I like
more, the more I think of him,” Froude wrote in 1828; “only I would
give a few odd pence if he were not a heretic.”[295] But Froude, who
saw him every day, and was soon associated with him in the tutorship,
found a spirit more akin to his own in depth and freedom and daring,
than he had yet encountered. And Froude found Newman just in that
maturing state of religious opinion in which a powerful mind like
Froude’s would be likely to act decisively. Each acted on the other.
Froude represented Keble’s ideas, Keble’s enthusiasm. Newman gave
shape, foundation, consistency, elevation to the Anglican theology,
when he accepted it, which Froude had learned from Keble. “I knew him
first,” we read in the _Apologia_, “in 1826, and was in the closest
and most affectionate friendship with him from about 1829 till his
death in 1836.”[296] But this was not all. Through Froude, Newman came
to know and to be intimate with Keble; and a sort of _camaraderie_
arose of very independent and outspoken people, who acknowledged Keble
as their master and counsellor.

‘“The true and primary author of it” (the Tractarian Movement), we
read in the _Apologia_, “as is usual with great motive powers, was out
of sight…. Need I say that I am speaking of John Keble?” The statement
is strictly true. Froude never would have been the man he was but for
his daily and hourly intercourse with Keble; and Froude brought to
bear upon Newman’s mind, at a critical period of its development,
Keble’s ideas and feelings about religion and the Church, Keble’s
reality of thought and purpose, Keble’s transparent and saintly
simplicity. And Froude, as we know from a well-known saying of
his,[297] brought Keble and Newman to understand one another, when the
elder man was shy and suspicious of the younger, and the younger,
though full of veneration for the elder, was hardly yet in full
sympathy with what was most characteristic and most cherished in the
elder’s religious convictions. Keble attracted and moulded Froude: he
impressed Froude with his strong Churchmanship, his severity and
reality of life, his poetry, and high standard of scholarly
excellence. Froude learned from him to be anti-Erastian,
anti-Methodistical, anti-sentimental, and as strong in his hatred of
the world, as contemptuous of popular approval, as any Methodist. Yet
all this might merely have made a strong impression, or formed one
more marked school of doctrine, without the fierce energy which
received it and which it inspired. But Froude, in accepting Keble’s
ideas, resolved to make them active, public, aggressive; and he found
in Newman a colleague whose bold originality responded to his own.
Together they worked as Tutors; together they worked when their
tutorships came to an end; together they worked when thrown into
companionship in their Mediterranean voyage, in the winter of 1832 and
the spring of 1833. They came back full of aspirations and anxieties
which spurred them on; their thoughts had broken out in papers sent
home from time to time to Rose’s _British Magazine_ (“Home Thoughts
Abroad”) and the _Lyra Apostolica_. Then came the meeting at Hadleigh,
and the beginning of the Tracts. Keble had given the inspiration,
Froude had given the impulse; then Newman took up the work, and the
impulse henceforward, and the direction, were his.

‘Doubtless, many thought and felt like them about the perils which
beset the Church and religion. Loyalty to the Church, belief in her
divine mission, allegiance to her authority, readiness to do battle
for her claims, were anything but extinct in her ministers and laity.
The elements were all about of sound and devoted Churchmanship. Higher
ideas of the Church than the popular and political notion of it,
higher conceptions of Christian doctrine than those of the ordinary
Evangelical theology――echoes of the meditations of a remarkable
Irishman, Mr. Alexander Knox――had in many quarters attracted attention
in the works and sermons of his disciple, Bishop Jebb, though it was
not till the Movement had taken shape that their full significance was
realised. Others besides Keble and Froude and Newman were seriously
considering what could best be done to arrest the current which was
running strong against the Church, and discussing schemes of
resistance and defence. Others were stirring up themselves and their
brethren to meet the new emergencies, to respond to the new call. Some
of these were in communication with the Oriel men, and ultimately took
part with them in organising vigorous measures. But it was not till
Mr. Newman made up his mind to force on the public mind, in a way
which could not be evaded, the great article of the Creed, “I believe
one Catholic and Apostolic Church,” that the Movement began. And for
the first part of its course, it was concentrated at Oxford. It was
the direct result of the searchings of heart and the communings for
seven years, from 1826 to 1833, of the three men who have been the
subject of this chapter.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Hurrell Froude[298] soon passed away before the brunt of the fighting
came. His name is associated with Mr. Newman and Mr. Keble, but it is
little more than a name to those who now talk of the origin of the
Movement. Yet all who remember him agree in assigning to him an
importance as great as that of any, in that little knot of men whose
thoughts and whose courage gave birth to it…. He was early cut off
from direct and personal action on the course which things took. But
it would be a great mistake to suppose that his influence on the line
taken, and on the minds of others, was inconsiderable. It would be
more true to say that, with one exception, no one was more responsible
for the impulse which led to the Movement; no one had more to do with
shaping its distinct aims and its moral spirit and character, in its
first stage; no one was more daring and more clear, as far as he saw,
in what he was prepared for. There was no one to whom his friends so
much looked up with admiration and enthusiasm. There was no “wasted
shade”[299] in Hurrell Froude’s disabled, prematurely shortened life.

‘Like Henry Martyn, he was made by strong and even merciless
self-discipline over a strong and for a long time refractory nature.
He was a man of great gifts, with much that was most attractive and
noble; but joined with this there was originally in his character a
vein of perversity and mischief, always in danger of breaking out, and
with which he kept up a long and painful struggle. His inmost thought
and knowledge of himself have been laid bare in the papers which his
friends published after his death. He was in the habit of probing his
motives to the bottom, and of recording without mercy what he thought
his self-deceits and affectations. The religious world of the day made
merry over his methods of self-discipline; but whatever may be said of
them, (and such things are not easy to judge of), one thing is
manifest, that they were true and sincere efforts to conquer what he
thought evil in himself, to keep himself in order, to bring his inmost
self into subjection to the Law and Will of God. The self-chastening
which his private papers show, is no passion or value for asceticism,
but a purely moral effort after self-command and honesty of character;
and what makes the struggle so touching is its perfect reality and
truth. He “turned his thoughts on that desolate wilderness, his own
conscience, and said what he saw there.”[300] A man who has had a good
deal to conquer in himself, and has gone a good way to conquer it, is
not apt to be indulgent to self-deceit or indolence, or even weakness.
The basis of Froude’s character was a demand which would not be put
off for what was real and thorough; an implacable scorn and hatred for
what he counted shams and pretences. “His highest ambition,” he used
to say, “was to be a humdrum.”[301] The intellectual and the moral
parts of his character were of a piece. The tricks and flimsinesses of
a bad argument provoked him as much as the imposture and “flash” of
insincere sentiment and fine talking; he might be conscious of “flash”
in himself and his friends, and he would admit it unequivocally; but
it was as unbearable to him to pretend not to see a fallacy as soon as
it was detected, as it would have been to him to arrive at the right
answer of a sum or a problem by tampering with the processes. Such a
man, with strong affections and keen perception of all forms of
beauty, and with the deepest desire to be reverent towards all that
had a right to reverence, would find himself in the most irritating
state of opposition and impatience with much that passed as religion
round him. Principles not attempted to be understood and carried into
practice; smooth self-complacency among those who looked down on a
blind and unspiritual world; the continual provocation of worthless
reasoning and ignorant platitudes; the dull unconscious stupidity of
people who could not see that the times were critical, that Truth had
to be defended, and that it was no easy or light-hearted business to
defend it;――threw him into an habitual attitude of defiance, and
half-amused, half-earnest contradiction, which made him feared by
loose reasoners and pretentious talkers, and even by quiet easy-going
friends, who unexpectedly found themselves led on blindfold, with the
utmost gravity, into traps and absurdities, by the wiles of his
mischievous dialectic. This was the outside look of his relentless
earnestness. People who did not like him or his views, and who,
perhaps, had winced under his irony, naturally put down his strong
language, which on occasion could certainly be unceremonious, to
flippancy and arrogance. But within the circle of those whom he
trusted, or of those who needed at any time his help, another side
disclosed itself: a side of the most genuine warmth of affection; an
awful reality of devoutness, which it was his great and habitual
effort to keep hidden; a high simplicity of unworldliness and
generosity; and, in spite of his daring mockeries of what was
commonplace or showy, the most sincere and deeply felt humility with
himself. Dangerous as he was often thought to be in conversation, one
of the features of his character which has impressed itself on the
memory of one who knew him well, was his “patient, winning
considerateness in discussion, which, with other qualities, endeared
him to those to whom he opened his heart.”[302] “It is impossible,”
writes James Mozley in 1833, with a mixture of amusement, speaking of
the views about celibacy which were beginning to be current, “to talk
with Froude without committing one’s self on such subjects as these;
so that by and by I expect the tergiversants will be a considerable
party.” His letters, with their affectionately playful addresses,
δαιμόνιε, αἰνότατε, πέπον, _Carissime_, “_Sir, my dear friend_,” or
“Ἀργείων ὄχ’ ἄριστε, have you not been a spoon?” are full of the most
delightful ease and verve and sympathy.

‘With a keen sense of English faults he was, as Cardinal Newman has
said, “an Englishman to the backbone”; and he was, further, a
fastidious, high-tempered English gentleman, in spite of his
declaiming about “pampered aristocrats” and the “gentleman heresy.”
His friends thought of him as of the “young Achilles,” with his high
courage, and noble form, and “eagle eye,” made for such great things,
but appointed so soon to die. “Who can refrain from tears at the
thought of that bright and beautiful Froude?” is the expression of one
of them[303] shortly before his death, and when it was quite certain
that the doom which had so long hung over him was at hand. He had the
love of doing for the mere sake of doing what was difficult or even
dangerous to do, which is the mainspring of characteristic English
sports and games. He loved the sea; he liked to sail his own boat, and
enjoyed rough weather, and took interest in the niceties of seamanship
and shipcraft. He was a bold rider across country. With a powerful
grasp on mathematical truths and principles, he entered with
wholehearted zest into inviting problems, or into practical details of
mechanical or hydrostatic or astronomical science. His letters are
full of such observations, put in a way which he thought would
interest his friends, and marked by his strong habit of getting into
touch with what was real and of the substance of questions. He applied
his thoughts to architecture with a power and originality which at the
time were not common. No one who only cared for this world could be
more attracted and interested than he was by the wonder and beauty of
its facts and appearances. With the deepest allegiance to his home,
and reverence for its ties and authority, (a home of the old-fashioned
ecclesiastical sort, sober, manly, religious, orderly,) he carried
into his wider life the feelings with which he had been brought up;
bold as he was, his reason and his character craved for authority, but
authority which morally and reasonably he could respect. Mr. Keble’s
goodness and purity subdued him, and disposed him to accept, without
reserve, his master’s teaching: and towards Mr. Keble, along with an
outside show of playful criticism and privileged impertinence, there
was a reverence which governed Froude’s whole nature. In the wild and
rough heyday of reform, he was a Tory of the Tories. But when
authority failed him, from cowardice or stupidity or self-interest, he
could not easily pardon it; and he was ready to startle his friends by
proclaiming himself a Radical, prepared for the sake of the highest
and greatest interests to sacrifice all second-rate and subordinate

‘When his friends, after his death, published selections from his
journals and letters, the world was shocked by what seemed his amazing
audacity, both of thought and expression, about a number of things and
persons which it was customary to regard as almost beyond the reach of
criticism. The _Remains_ lent themselves admirably to the
controversial process of culling choice phrases and sentences and
epithets surprisingly at variance with conventional and popular
estimates. Friends were pained and disturbed; foes, naturally enough,
could not hold in their overflowing exultation at such a disclosure of
the spirit of the Movement. Sermons and newspapers drew attention to
Froude’s extravagances, with horror and disgust. The truth is, that if
the off-hand sayings in conversation or letters of any man of force
and wit and strong convictions about the things and persons that he
condemns, were made known to the world, they would by themselves have
much the same look of flippancy, injustice, impertinence, to those who
disagreed in opinion with the speaker or writer; they are allowed for,
or they are not allowed for by others, according to what is known of
his general character. The friends who published Froude’s _Remains_
knew what he was; they knew the place and proportion of the fierce and
scornful passages; they knew that they really did not go beyond the
liberty and the frank speaking which most people give themselves in
the _abandon_ and understood exaggeration of intimate correspondence
and talk. But they miscalculated the effect on those who did not know
him, or whose interest it was to make the most of the advantage given
them. They seem to have expected that the picture which they presented
of their friend’s transparent sincerity and singleness of aim,
manifested amid so much pain and self-abasement, would have touched
readers more. They miscalculated in supposing that the proofs of so
much reality of religious earnestness would carry off the offence of
vehement language, which without these proofs might naturally be
thought to show mere random violence. At any rate the result was much
natural and genuine irritation, which they were hardly prepared for.
Whether on general grounds they were wise in startling and vexing
friends, and putting fresh weapons into the hands of opponents by
their frank disclosure of so unconventional a character, is a question
which may have more than one answer: but one thing is certain, they
were not wise, if they only desired to forward the immediate interests
of their party or cause. It was not the act of cunning conspirators:
it was the act of men who were ready to show their hands, and take the
consequences. Undoubtedly, they warned off many who had so far gone
along with the Movement, and who now drew back. But if the publication
was a mistake, it was the mistake of men confident in their own

‘There is a natural Nemesis to all over-strong and exaggerated
language. The weight of Froude’s judgments was lessened by the
disclosure of his strong words, and his dashing fashion of
condemnation and dislike gave a precedent for the violence of
shallower men. But to those who look back on them now, though there
can be no wonder that at the time they excited such an outcry, their
outspoken boldness hardly excites surprise. Much of it might naturally
be put down to the force of first impressions; much of it is the
vehemence of an Englishman who claims the liberty of criticising and
finding fault at home; much of it was the inevitable vehemence of a
reformer. Much of it seems clear foresight of what has since come to
be recognised. His judgments on the Reformers, startling as they were
at the time, are not so very different, as to the facts of the case,
from what most people on all sides now agree in; and as to their
temper and theology, from what most Churchmen would now agree in.
Whatever allowances may be made for the difficulties of their time,
(and these allowances ought to be very great), and however well they
may have done parts of their work, such as the translations and
adaptations of the Prayer-Book, it is safe to say that the divines of
the Reformation never can be again, with their confessed Calvinism,
with their shifting opinions, their extravagant deference to the
foreign oracles of Geneva and Zurich, their subservience to bad men in
power, the heroes and saints of Churchmen. But when all this is said,
it still remains true that Froude was often intemperate and unjust. In
the hands of the most self-restrained and considerate of its leaders,
the Movement must anyhow have provoked strong opposition, and given
great offence. The surprise and the general ignorance were too great;
the assault was too rude and unexpected. But Froude’s strong language
gave it a needless exasperation.

‘Froude was a man strong in abstract thought and imagination, who
wanted adequate knowledge. His canons of judgment were not enlarged,
corrected, and strengthened by any reading or experience commensurate
with his original powers of reasoning or invention. He was quite
conscious of it, and did his best to fill up the gap in his
intellectual equipment. He showed what he might have done under more
favouring circumstances in a very interesting volume on Becket’s
history and letters. But circumstances were hopelessly against him: he
had not time, he had not health and strength, for the learning which
he so needed, which he so longed for. But wherever he could, he
learned. He was quite ready to submit his prepossessions to the test
and limitation of facts. Eager and quick-sighted, he was often apt to
be hasty in conclusions from imperfect or insufficient premises; but
even about what he saw most clearly he was willing to hold himself in
suspense, when he found that there was something more to know.
Cardinal Newman has noted two deficiencies which, in his opinion, were
noticeable in Froude. “He had no turn for theology as such”; and,
further, he goes on: “I should say that his power of entering into the
minds of others was not equal to his other gifts”: a remark which he
illustrates by saying that Froude could not believe that “I really
held the Roman Church to be anti-Christian.” The want of this
power――in which he stood in such sharp contrast to his friend――might
be either a strength or a weakness: a strength, if his business was
only to fight; a weakness, if it was to attract and persuade. But
Froude was made for conflict, not to win disciples. Some wild solemn
poetry, marked by deep feeling and direct expression, is scattered
through his letters, kindled always by things and thoughts of the
highest significance, and breaking forth with force and fire. But
probably the judgment passed on him by a clever friend,[304] from the
examination of his handwriting, was a true one: “This fellow has a
great deal of imagination, but not the imagination of a poet.” He felt
that even beyond poetry there are higher things than anything that
imagination can work upon. It was a feeling which made him blind to
the grandeur of Milton’s poetry. He saw in it only an intrusion into
the most sacred of sanctities….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Froude’s first letter to Mr. Newman is in August, 1828. It is the
letter of a friendly and sympathising colleague in College work, glad
to be free from the “images of impudent undergraduates”; he inserts
some lines of verse, talks about Dollond and telescopes, and relates
how he and a friend got up at half-past two in the morning, and walked
half a mile to see Mercury rise; he writes about his mathematical
studies and reading for Orders, and how a friend had “read half
through Prideaux and yet accuses himself of idleness”; but there is no
interchange of intimate thought. Mr. Newman was at this time, as he
has told us, drifting away from under the shadow of Liberalism; and in
Froude he found a man who, without being a Liberal, was as
quick-sighted, as courageous, and as alive to great thoughts and new
hopes as himself. Very different in many ways, they were in this
alike, that the commonplace notions of religion and the Church were
utterly unsatisfactory to them, and that each had the capacity for
affectionate and whole-hearted friendship. The friendship began and
lasted on, growing stronger and deeper to the end. And this was not
all. Froude’s friendship with Mr. Newman overcame Mr. Keble’s
hesitations about Mr. Newman’s supposed Liberalism. Mr. Newman has put
on record what he thought and felt about Froude: no one, probably, of
the many whom Cardinal Newman’s long life has brought round him, ever
occupied Froude’s place in his heart.[305] The correspondence shows in
part the way in which Froude’s spirit rose, under the sense of having
such a friend to work with, in the cause which, day by day, grew
greater and more sacred in the eyes of both. Towards Mr. Keble Froude
felt like a son to a father; towards Mr. Newman like a soldier to his
comrade, and him the most splendid and boldest of warriors. Each mind
caught fire from the other, till the high enthusiasm of the one was
quenched in an early death.

‘Shortly after this friendship began, the course of events also began
which finally gave birth to the Oxford Movement. The break-up of
parties caused by the Roman Catholic Emancipation was followed by the
French and Belgian revolutions of 1830, and these changes gave a fresh
stimulus to all the reforming parties in England: Whigs, Radicals, and
Liberal religionists. Froude’s letters mark the influence of these
changes on his mind. They stirred in him the fiercest disgust and
indignation, and as soon as the necessity of battle became evident to
save the Church (and such a necessity was evident) he threw himself
into it with all his heart, and his attitude was henceforth that of a
determined and uncompromising combatant. “Froude is growing stronger
and stronger in his sentiments every day,” writes James Mozley, in
1832, “and cuts about him on all sides. It is extremely fine to hear
him talk. The aristocracy of the country, at present, are the chief
objects of his vituperation, and he decidedly sets himself against the
modern character of the gentleman, and thinks that the Church will
eventually depend for its support, as it always did in its most
influential times, on the very poorest classes.” “I would not set down
anything that Froude says for his deliberate opinion,” writes James
Mozley a year later, “for he really hates the present state of things
so excessively that any change would be a relief to him.” … “Froude is
staying up, and I see a great deal of him.” … “Froude is most
enthusiastic in his plans, and says, ‘What fun it is living in such
times as these! how could one now go back to the times of old Tory
humbug?’” From henceforth his position among his friends was that of
the most impatient and aggressive of reformers, the one who most urged
on his fellows to outspoken language and a bold line of action. They
were not men to hang back and be afraid, but they were cautious and
considerate of popular alarms and prejudices, compared with Froude’s
fearlessness. Other minds were indeed moving, minds as strong as his;
indeed, it may be, deeper, more complex, more amply furnished, with a
wider range of vision and a greater command of the field. But while he
lived, he appears as the one who spurs on and incites, where others
hesitate. He is the one by whom are visibly most felt the _gaudia
certaminis_, and the confidence of victory, and the most profound
contempt for the men and the ideas of the boastful and short-sighted

‘In this unsparing and absorbing warfare, what did Froude aim at――what
was the object he sought to bring about, what were the obstacles he
sought to overthrow?

‘He was accused, as was most natural, of Romanising: of wishing to
bring back Popery. It is perfectly certain that this was not what he
meant, though he did not care for the imputation of it. He was,
perhaps, the first Englishman who attempted to do justice to Rome, and
to use friendly language of it, without the intention of joining it.
But what he fought for was not Rome, not even a restoration of Unity,
but a Church of England such as it was conceived of by the Caroline
divines and the Nonjurors. The great break-up of 1830 had forced on
men the anxious question: “What is the Church, as spoken of in
England? Is it the Church of Christ?” and the answers were various.
Hooker had said it was “the nation”; and in entirely altered
circumstances, with some qualifications, Dr. Arnold said the same. It
was “the Establishment,” according to the lawyers and politicians,
both Whig and Tory. It was an invisible and mystical body, said the
Evangelicals. It was the aggregate of separate congregations, said the
Nonconformists. It was the Parliamentary creation of the Reformation,
said the Erastians. The true Church was the communion of the Pope, the
pretended Church was a legalised schism, said the Roman Catholics. All
these ideas were floating about, loose and vague, among people who
talked much about the Church. Whately, with his clear sense, had laid
down that it was a divine religious society, distinct in its origin
and existence, distinct in its attributes from any other. But this
idea had fallen dead, till Froude and his friends put new life into
it. Froude accepted Whately’s idea that the Church of England was the
one historic uninterrupted Church, than which there could be no other,
locally, in England; but into this Froude read a great deal that never
was and never could be in Whately’s thoughts. Whately had gone very
far in viewing the Church, from without, as a great and sacred
corporate body. Casting aside the Erastian theory, he had claimed its
right to exist, and if necessary, govern itself, separate from the
State. He had recognised excommunication as its natural and
indefeasible instrument of government. But what the internal life of
the Church was, what should be its teaching and organic system, and
what was the standard and proof of these, Whately had left unsaid. And
this outline Froude filled up. For this he went the way to which the
Prayer-Book, with its Offices, its Liturgy, its Ordination services,
pointed him. With the divines who had specially valued the
Prayer-Book, and taught in its spirit, Bishop Wilson, William Law,
Hammond, Ken, Laud, Andrewes, he went back to the times and the
sources from which the Prayer-Book came to us, the early Church, the
Reforming Church (for such, with all its faults, it was), of the
eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, before the hopelessly
corrupt and fatal times of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,
which led to the break-up of the sixteenth. Thus, to the great
question, What is the Church? he gave without hesitation, and gave to
the end, the same answer that Anglicans gave and are giving still. But
he added two points which were then very new to the ears of English
Churchmen: (1) that there were great and to most people unsuspected
faults and shortcomings in the English Church, for some of which the
Reformation was gravely responsible; (2) that the Roman Church was
more right than we had been taught to think, in many parts both of
principle and practice, and that our quarrel with it on these points
arose from our own ignorance and prejudices. To people who had taken
for granted all their lives that the Church was thoroughly
“Protestant” and thoroughly right in its Protestantism, and that Rome
was Antichrist, these confident statements came with a shock. He did
not enter much into dogmatic questions. As far as can be judged from
his _Remains_, the one point of doctrine on which he laid stress, as
being inadequately recognised and taught in the then condition of the
English Church, was the Primitive doctrine of the Eucharist. His other
criticisms pointed to practical and moral matters: the spirit of
Erastianism, the low standard of life and purpose and self-discipline
in the clergy, the low tone of the current religious teaching. The
Evangelical teaching seemed to him a system of unreal words. The
opposite school was too self-complacent, too comfortable, too secure
in its social and political alliances; and he was bent on shaming
people into severer notions. “We will have a _vocabularium
apostolicum_, and I will start it with four words: ‘pampered
aristocrats,’ ‘resident gentlemen,’ ‘smug parsons,’ and ‘_pauperes
Christi_.’ I shall use the first on all occasions; it seems to me just
to hit the thing.” “I think of putting the view forward (about new
monasteries), under the title of a ‘Project for Reviving Religion in
Great Towns.’ Certainly colleges of unmarried priests (who might, of
course, retire to a living, when they could and liked) would be the
cheapest possible way of providing effectively for the spiritual wants
of a large population.” And his great quarrel with the existing state
of things was that the spiritual objects of the Church were overlaid
and lost sight of in the anxiety not to lose its political position.
In this direction he was, as he proclaims himself, an out-and-out
Radical, and he was prepared at once to go very far. “If a National
Church means a Church without discipline, my argument for discipline
is an argument against a National Church; and the best thing we can do
is to unnationalise ours as soon as possible”; “let us tell the truth
and shame the devil: let us give up a _National_ Church and have a
_real_ one.”[306] His criticism did not diminish in severity, or his
proposals become less daring, as he felt that his time was growing
short and the hand of death was upon him. But to the end, the
elevation and improvement of the English Church remained his great
purpose. To his friend, as we know, the Roman Church was either the
Truth or Antichrist. To Froude it was neither the whole Truth nor
Antichrist; but like the English Church itself, a great and defective
Church, whose defects were the opposite to ours, and which we should
do wisely to learn from, rather than abuse. But, to the last, his
allegiance never wavered to the English Church.

‘It is very striking to come from Froude’s boisterous freedom in his
letters, to his sermons and the papers he prepared for publication. In
his sermons his manner of writing is severe and restrained even to
dryness. If they startle, it is by the force and searching point of an
idea, not by any strength of words. The style is chastened, simple,
calm, with the most careful avoidance of over-statement or anything
rhetorical. And so in his papers, his mode of argument, forcible and
cogent as it is, avoids all appearance of exaggeration or even
illustrative expansion: it is all muscle and sinew; it is modelled on
the argumentative style of Bishop Butler, and still more, of William
Law. No one could suppose from these papers Froude’s fiery
impetuosity, or the frank daring of his disrespectful vocabulary.
Those who can read between the lines can trace the grave irony which
clung everywhere to his deep earnestness.

‘There was yet another side of Froude’s character which was little
thought of by his critics, or recognised by all his friends. With all
his keenness of judgment and all his readiness for conflict, some who
knew him best were impressed by the melancholy which hung over his
life, and which, though he ignored it, they could detect. It is
remembered still by Cardinal Newman. “I thought,” wrote Mr. Isaac
Williams, “that knowing him, I better understood Hamlet, a person most
natural, but so original as to be unlike any one else, hiding depth of
delicate thought in apparent extravagances. _Hamlet_, and the
_Georgics_ of Virgil, he used to say, he should have bound together.”
“Isaac Williams,” wrote Mr. Copeland, “mentioned to me a remark made
on Froude by S. Wilberforce in his early days: ‘They talk of Froude’s
fun, but somehow I cannot be in a room with him alone for ten minutes
without feeling so intensely melancholy, that I do not know what to do
with myself. At Brighstone, in my Eden days, he was with me, and I was
overwhelmed with the deep sense which possessed him of yearning which
nothing could satisfy, and of the unsatisfying nature of all

‘Froude often reminds us of Pascal. Both had that peculiarly bright,
brilliant, sharp-cutting intellect which passes with ease through the
coverings and disguises which veil realities from men. Both had
mathematical powers of unusual originality and clearness; both had the
same imaginative faculty; both had the same keen interest in practical
problems of science; both felt and followed the attraction of deeper
and more awful interests. Both had the same love of beauty; both
suppressed it. Both had the same want of wide or deep learning; they
made skilful use of what books came to their hand, and used their
reading as few readers are able to use it; but their real instrument
of work was their own quick and strong insight, and power of close and
vigorous reasoning. Both had the greatest contempt for fashionable and
hollow “shadows of religion.” Both had the same definite, unflinching
judgment. Both used the same clear and direct language. Both had a
certain grim delight in the irony with which they pursued their
opponents. In both it is probable that their unmeasured and unsparing
criticism recoiled on the cause which they had at heart. But in the
case of both of them it was not the temper of the satirist, it was no
mere love of attacking what was vulnerable, and indulgence in the
cruel pleasure of stinging and putting to shame, which inspired them.
Their souls were moved by the dishonour done to religion, by public
evils and public dangers. Both of them died young, before their work
was done. They placed before themselves the loftiest and most
unselfish objects, the restoration of truth and goodness in the
Church: and to that they gave their life and all that they had. And
what they called on others to be they were themselves. They were alike
in the sternness, the reality, the perseverance, almost unintelligible
in its methods to ordinary men, of their moral and spiritual

  [Supplementary Chapter, written by LORD BLACHFORD
     (FREDERIC ROGERS).[308]]

‘Hurrell Froude was, when I, as an undergraduate, first knew him, in
1828, tall and very thin, with something of a stoop, with a large
skull and forehead, but not a large face, delicate features, and
penetrating grey eyes, not exactly piercing, but bright with internal
conceptions, and ready to assume an expression of amusement, careful
attention, inquiry, or stern disgust, but with a basis of softness.
His manner was cordial and familiar, and assured you, as you knew him
well, of his affectionate feeling, which encouraged you to speak your
mind (within certain limits), subject to the consideration that if you
said anything absurd it would not be allowed to fall to the ground. He
had more of the undergraduate in him than any “don” whom I ever knew:
absolutely unlike Newman in being always ready to skate, sail, or ride
with his friends, and, if in a scrape, not pharisaical as to his means
of getting out of it. I remember, _e.g._, climbing Merton gate with
him in my undergraduate days, when we had been out too late boating or
skating. And unless authority or substantial decorum was really
threatened he was very lenient: or, rather, had an amused sympathy
with the irregularities that are mere matters of mischief or high
spirits. In lecture it was, _mutatis mutandis_, the same man. Seeing,
from his _Remains_, the “high view of his own capacities of which he
could not divest himself,” and his determination not to exhibit or be
puffed up by it, and looking back on his tutorial manner (I was in his
lectures, both in classics and mathematics), it was strange how he
disguised, not only his sense of superiority, but the appearance of
it, so that his pupils felt him more as a fellow-student than as the
refined scholar or mathematician which he was. This was partly owing
to his carelessness of those formulæ, the familiarity with which gives
even second-rate lectures a position of superiority which is less
visible in those who, like their pupils, are themselves always
struggling with principles; and partly to an effort, perhaps sometimes
overdone, not to put himself above the level of others. In a lecture
on the _Supplices_ of Æschylus, I have heard him say _tout bonnement_:
“I can’t construe that: what do you make of it, A. B.?” turning to the
supposed best scholar in the lecture; or, when an objection was
started to his mode of getting through a difficulty: “Ah! I had not
thought of that; perhaps your way is the best.” And this mode of
dealing with himself and the undergraduates whom he liked, made them
like him, but also made them really undervalue his talent, which, as
we now see, was what he meant they should do. At the same time, though
watchful over his own vanity, he was keen and prompt in snubs in
playful and challenging retort, to those he liked, but in the nature
of scornful exposure, when he had to do with coarseness or coxcombry,
or shallow display of sentiment. It was a paradoxical consequence of
his suppression of egotism that he was more solicitous to show that
you were wrong than that he was right. He also wanted, like Socrates
or Bishop Butler, to make others, if possible, think for themselves.

‘However, it is not to be inferred that his conversation was made of
controversy. To a certain extent it turned that way, because he was
fond of paradox. (His brother William used to say that he, William,
never felt he had really mastered a principle till he had thrown it
into a paradox.) And paradox, of course, invites contradiction, and so
controversy. On subjects upon which he considered himself more or less
an apostle, he liked to stir people’s minds by what startled them,
waking them up, or giving them “nuts to crack.” An almost solemn
gravity, with amusement twinkling behind it (not invisible, and ready
to burst forth into a bright low laugh when gravity had been played
out), was a very frequent posture with him. But he was thoroughly
ready to amuse and instruct, or to be amused and instructed, as an
eager and earnest speaker or listener on most matters of interest. I
do not remember that he had any great turn for beauty of colour; he
had none, I think, or next to none, for music, nor do I remember in
him any great love of humour; but for beauty of physical form, for
mechanics, for mathematics, for poetry which had a root in true
feeling, for wit (including that perception of a quasi-logical
absurdity of position), for history, for domestic incidents, his
sympathy was always lively, and he would throw himself naturally and
warmly into them. From his general demeanour (I need scarcely say) the
“odour of sanctity” was wholly absent.

‘I am not sure that his height and depth of aim and lively versatility
of talent did not leave his compassionate sympathies rather
undeveloped; certainly to himself, and, I suspect, largely in the case
of others, he would view suffering not as a thing to be cockered up or
made much of, though of course to be alleviated if possible, but to be
viewed calmly as a Providential discipline for those who can mitigate,
or have to endure it. J. H. N. was once reading me a letter just
received from him in which (in answer to J. H. N.’s account of his
work and the possibility of his breaking down), he said in substance:
“I daresay you have more to do than your health will bear, but I would
not have you give up anything except perhaps the Deanery” (of Oriel).
And then J. H. N. paused, with a kind of inner exultant chuckle, and
said: “Ah! there’s a Basil for you”; as if the friendship which
sacrificed its friend, as it would sacrifice itself, to a cause, was
the friendship which was really worth having.

‘As I came to know him in a more manly way, as a brother Fellow,
friend, and collaborateur, the character of “ecclesiastical agitator”
was of course added to this. In this capacity his great pleasure was
taking bulls by their horns. Like the “gueux” of the Low Countries, he
would have met half-way any opprobrious nickname, and I believe coined
the epithet “Apostolical” for his party because it was connected with
everything in Spain which was most obnoxious to the British public. I
remember one day his grievously shocking Palmer of Worcester, a man of
an opposite texture, when a council in J. H. N.’s rooms had been
called to consider some memorial or other to which Palmer wanted to
collect the signatures of many, and particularly of dignified persons,
but in which Froude wished to express the determined opinions of a
few. Froude stretched out his long length on Newman’s sofa, broke in
upon one of Palmer’s judicious harangues about Bishops and Archdeacons
and such like, with the ejaculation: “I don’t see why we should
disguise from ourselves that our object is to dictate to the clergy of
this country; and I, for one, do not want anyone else to get on the
box!” He thought that true Churchmen must be few before they were
many: that the sin of the clergy in all ages was that they tried to
make out that Christians were many when they were only few, and
sacrificed to this object the force derivable from downright and
unmistakable enforcement of truth in speech or action.

‘As simplicity in thought, word, and deed formed no small part of his
ideal, his tastes in architecture, painting, sculpture, rhetoric, or
poetry were severe. He had no patience with what was artistically
dissolute, luscious, or decorated more than in proportion to its
animating idea, wishy-washy, or sentimental. The ornamental parts of
his own rooms (in which I lived in his absence) were a slab of marble
to wash upon, a print of Rubens’s “Deposition,” and a head (life-size)
of the Apollo Belvedere. And I remember still the tall scorn, with
something of surprise, with which, on entering my undergraduate room,
he looked down on some Venuses, Cupids, and Hebes, which,
freshman-like, I had bought from an Italian.

‘He was not very easy even under conventional vulgarity, still less
under the vulgarity of egotism; but, being essentially a partisan, he
could put up with both in a man who was really in earnest and on the
right side. Nothing, however, I think, would have induced him to
tolerate false sentiment, and he would, I think, if he had lived, have
exerted himself very trenchantly to prevent his cause being
adulterated by it. He was, I should say, sometimes misled by a theory
that genius cut through a subject by logic or intuition, without
looking to the right or left, while common sense was always testing
every step by consideration of surroundings (I have not got his terse
mode of statement), and that genius was right, or at least had only to
be corrected, here and there, by common sense. This, I take it, would
hardly have answered if his trenchancy had not been in practice
corrected by J. H. N.’s wider political circumspection. He submitted,
I suppose, to J. H. N.’s axiom, that if the Movement was to do
anything it must become “respectable”; but it was against his nature.

‘He would (as we see in the _Remains_) have wished Ken to have the
“courage of his convictions” by excommunicating the Jurors in William
III.’s time, and setting up a little Catholic Church, like the
Jansenists in Holland. He was not (as has been observed) a theologian,
but he was as jealous for orthodoxy as if he were. He spoke
slightingly of Heber as having ignorantly or carelessly communicated
with Monophysites. But he probably knew no more about that and other
heresies than a man of active and penetrating mind would derive from
text-books. And I think it likely enough, not that his reverence for
the Eucharist, but that his special attention to the details of
Eucharistic doctrine, was due to the consideration that it was the
foundation of ecclesiastical discipline and authority: matters on
which his mind fastened itself with enthusiasm.’

      Oratory of St. Philip Neri. London: Longmans, Green, Reader &
      Dyer, 1873.

  [By the kind permission of the Rev. W. P. Neville of the Oratory,
      and of Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co.]

‘… Hurrell Froude was a pupil of Keble’s, formed by him, and in turn
reacting upon him. I knew him first in 1826, and was in the closest
and most affectionate friendship with him from about 1829 until his
death in 1836. He was a man of the highest gifts: so truly many-sided,
that it would be presumptuous in me to attempt to describe him, except
under those aspects in which he came before me. Nor have I here to
speak of the gentleness and tenderness of nature, the playfulness, the
free elastic force and graceful versatility of mind, and the patient
winning considerateness in discussion, which endeared him to those to
whom he opened his heart; for I am all along engaged upon matters of
belief and opinion, and am introducing others into my narrative, not
for their own sake, or because I love them and have loved them, so
much as because, and so far as, they have influenced my theological
views. In this respect, then, I speak of Hurrell Froude, in his
intellectual aspect: as a man of high genius, brimful and overflowing
with ideas and views, in him original, which were too many and strong
even for his bodily strength, and which crowded and jostled against
each other, in their effort after distinct shape and expression. And
he had an intellect as critical and logical as it was speculative and
bold. Dying prematurely, as he did, and in the conflict and
transition-state of opinion, his religious views never reached their
ultimate conclusion, by the very reason of their multitude and their
depth. His opinions arrested and influenced me even when they did not
gain my assent. He professed openly his admiration of the Church of
Rome, and his hatred of the Reformers. He delighted in the notion of
an hierarchical system, of sacerdotal power, and of full
ecclesiastical liberty. He felt scorn of the maxim, “The Bible and the
Bible only is the religion of Protestants,” and he gloried in
accepting Tradition as a main instrument of religious teaching. He had
a high severe idea of the intrinsic excellence of Virginity, and he
considered the Blessed Virgin its great Pattern. He delighted in
thinking of the Saints; he had a vivid appreciation of the idea of
sanctity, its possibility and its heights; and he was more than
inclined to believe a large amount of miraculous interference as
occurring in the early and middle ages. He embraced the principle of
penance and mortification. He had a deep devotion to the Real
Presence, in which he had a firm faith. He was powerfully drawn to the
Mediæval Church, but not to the Primitive.

‘He had a keen insight into abstract truth; but he was an Englishman
to the backbone in his severe adherence to the real and the concrete.
He had a most classical taste, and a genius for philosophy and art;
and he was fond of historical inquiry, and the politics of religion.
He had no turn for theology as such. He set no sufficient value on the
writings of the Fathers, on the detail or development of doctrine, on
the definite traditions of the Church viewed in their matter, on the
teaching of the Ecumenical Councils, or on the controversies out of
which they arose. He took an eager courageous view of things, on the
whole. I should say that his power of entering into the minds of
others did not equal his other gifts: he could not believe, for
instance, that I really held the Roman Church to be anti-Christian. On
many points, he would not believe but that I agreed with him, when I
did not: he seemed not to understand my difficulties. His were of a
different kind: the contrariety between theory and fact. He was a High
Tory of the Cavalier stamp, and was disgusted with the Toryism of the
opponents of the Reform Bill. He was smitten with the love of the
Theocratic Church: he went abroad, and was shocked by the degeneracy
which he thought he saw in the Catholics of Italy.

‘It is difficult to enumerate the precise additions to my theological
creed which I derived from a friend to whom I owe so much. He taught
me to look with admiration towards the Church of Rome, and, in the
same degree, to dislike the Reformation. He fixed deep in me the idea
of devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and he led me gradually to believe
in the Real Presence.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘There were other reasons, besides Mr. Rose’s state of health, which
hindered those who so much admired him from availing themselves of his
close co-operation in the coming fight. United as both he and they
were in the general scope of the Movement, they were in discordance
with each other, from the first, in their estimate of the means to be
adopted for attaining it. Mr. Rose had a position in the Church, a
name, and serious responsibilities; he had direct ecclesiastical
superiors; he had intimate relations with his own University, and a
large clerical connection through the country. Froude and I were
nobodies, with no characters to lose, and no antecedents to fetter us.
Rose could not go ahead across country, as Froude had no scruples in
doing. Froude was a bold rider: as on horseback, so also in his
speculations. After a long conversation with him on the logical
bearing of his principles, Mr. Rose said of him, with quiet humour,
that “he did not seem to be afraid of inferences.” It was simply the
truth. Froude had that strong hold of first principles, and that keen
perception of their value, that he was comparatively indifferent to
the revolutionary action which would attend on their application to a
given state of things; whereas, in the thoughts of Rose, as a
practical man, existing facts had the precedence of every other idea,
and the chief test of the soundness of a line of policy lay in the
consideration whether it would work. This was one of the first
questions which, as it seemed to me, on every occasion occurred to his
mind. With Froude, Erastianism, that is, the union (so he viewed it)
of Church and State, was the parent, or if not the parent, the
serviceable and sufficient tool of Liberalism. Till that union was
snapped, Christian doctrine never could be safe; and while he well
knew how high and unselfish was the temper of Mr. Rose, yet he used to
apply to him an epithet, reproachful in his mouth: Rose was “a
conservative.” By bad luck, I brought out this word to Mr. Rose in a
letter of my own, which I wrote to him in criticism of something he
had inserted in his Magazine: I got a vehement rebuke for my pains;
for though Rose pursued a conservative line, he had as high a disdain
as Froude could have of a worldly ambition, and an extreme
sensitiveness of such an imputation. But there was another reason
still, and a more elementary one, which severed Mr. Rose from the
Oxford Movement. Living movements do not come of committees, nor are
great ideas worked out through the post, even though it had been the
penny post. This principle deeply penetrated both Froude and myself
from the first, and recommended to us the course which things soon
took spontaneously, and without set purpose of our own.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘It was an apparent accident which introduced me to [the Roman
Breviary], that most wonderful and most attractive monument of the
devotion of Saints. On Hurrell Froude’s death, in 1836, I was asked to
select one of his books as a keepsake. I selected Butler’s _Analogy_;
finding that it had been already chosen, I looked with some perplexity
along the shelves, as they stood before me, when an intimate friend at
my elbow said: “Take that.” It was the Breviary which Hurrell had had
with him at Barbados. Accordingly, I took it, studied it, wrote my
Tract from it, and have it on my table in constant use till this
day.[309] That dear and familiar companion,[310] who thus put the
Breviary into my hands, is still in the Anglican Church. So, too, is
that early-venerated long-loved friend,[311] together with whom I
edited a work which, more perhaps than any other, caused disturbance
and annoyance in the Anglican world, Froude’s _Remains_; yet, however
judgments might run as to the prudence of publishing it, I never heard
any one impute to Mr. Keble the very shadow of dishonesty or treachery
towards his Church in so acting.’

      FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, M.A., Fellow of University College,
      Oxford. London: Rivingtons; and Oxford, Parker, 1840.

  [By the kind permission of the Rev. Charles Bowden of the London

Verses sent to a Friend with a copy of Froude’s _Remains_.[312]

     ‘The languid heart that hath been ever nursed
      By strains of drowsy sweetness, ill can brook
      The rude rough music that at times doth burst
      From him whose thoughts are treasured in this book.
      It was his lot to live in days uncouth
      That shrink from aught so hard and stern as Truth.

      I know my generous friend too well to fear
      This holy gift will be unsafe with thee:
      Thou never yet hast had the heart to sneer
      At the eccentric feats of chivalry;
      And well I know there are cold men who deem
      This saintly Cause a weak knight-errant’s dream.

      When thou hast marked him well, thine eye will trace
      Lines deep and steadfast; features grave and bold;
      Beauty austere and masculine; a face
      And stalwart form wrought in the antique mould;
      And if some shades too broad and coarse are thrown,
      ’Tis where the Age hath marred the block of stone.’

      BIOGRAPHY,’ by the Right Honourable Sir JAMES STEPHEN, K.C.B.
      London: Longman, Brown, Green & Longmans, 1849.[313]

  [By the kind permission of Herbert Stephen, Esq., and of Messrs.
  Longmans, Green & Co.]

‘… In obedience to the general law of human affairs, arrived the day
of reaction. A new race of students had grown up at Oxford. They were
men of unsullied, and even severe virtue; animated by a devotion
which, if not very fervent, was at least genuine and grave; conversant
with classical literature, and not without pretensions, more or less
considerable, to an acquaintance with Christian antiquity. As they
paced thoughtfully along those tall avenues, to which, a hundred years
before, Whitfield and the Wesleys had been accustomed to retire for
meditation, they recoiled, with a mixture of aversion and contempt,
from the image of the crowded assemblages, and the dramatic exercises,
in which the successors of those great men in the Church of England
were performing so conspicuous a part. They revolved, not without
indignation, the intellectual barrenness with which that Church had
been stricken, from the time when her most popular teachers had not
merely been satisfied to tread the narrow circle of the “Evangelical”
theology, but had exulted in that bondage as indicating their
possession of a purer light than had visited the other ministers of
the Gospel. They invoked, with an occasional sigh, but not without
many a bitter smile, the reappearance amongst us of a piety more
profound and masculine, more meek and contemplative. They believed
that such a change in the religious character of their age and country
was a divine command, and that a commission had been given to
themselves to carry it into effect.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘… It came to pass, in the Oxonian as in other leagues, that the head
moved forward by the impulse of the tail. Step by step in their
progress, “the Church,” whom they worshipped, changed her attitude and
her aspect. She soon disclaimed her Elizabethan or statutory origin,
and then made vehement efforts to escape from her Elizabethan or
statutory ceremonial. She assumed the title, and laid claim to the
character, of the Primitive Church, or the Church of the Fathers, and
at length arrogated to herself the prerogatives of that Catholic or
universal Church, which “lifts her mitred front in courts and
palaces,” whether at Rome, at Moscow, or at Lambeth, but whose
presence is never vouchsafed to any who cannot trace back from
Apostolic hands an Episcopal succession.

‘At this stage of the history of the Oxonian league, its progress was
quickened and animated by the panic which exhibited itself from one
end to the other of the hostile camp. The disciples of Whitfield and
of Wesley, united to those of Newton and Scott, of Milner and of Venn,
and, reinforced by the whole strength of the Nonconformists, began to
throw up, along the whole field of controversy, entrenchments for
their own defence, and batteries for the annoyance of their
assailants. Amongst the literary missiles cast by the contending hosts
against each other, there are few better worth the study of those who
wish to estimate the probable result of the conflict, than the _Life_
of Richard Hurrell Froude. It was launched from a catapult under the
immediate direction of Messrs. Keble and Newman themselves, and,
though it is a book of no great inherent value, it has a considerable
interest as the only biography which the world possesses of a
confessor of Oxford Catholicism. It contains a vivid picture of the
discipline, the studies, the opinions, and the mental habits of his
fraternity, and is published by the two great fathers of that school,
with the avowal of their “own general coincidence” in the opinions and
feelings of their disciple. We have thus a delineation, at full
length, of one of those divines who are to effect the conquest which
was attempted in vain by the Bellarmines and the Bossuets of former
times. If it teaches us nothing else, this biography will at least
teach us what is the real extent and urgency of the danger which has
so much disturbed the tranquillity of the guardians of the Protestant
faith of England.

‘Richard Hurrell Froude was born, as we read, on the “Feast of the
Annunciation,” in the year 1803, and died in 1836. He was an Etonian,
a Fellow of Oriel College, a priest in Holy Orders of the Church of
England, the writer of unsuccessful prize essays, and of journals,
letters, and sermons; an occasional contributor to the periodical
literature of his theological associates; and, during the last four
years of his life, an invalid in search of health, either in the south
of Europe or in the West Indies. Such are all the incidents of a life
to the commemoration of which two octavo volumes have been dedicated.
A more intractable story, if regarded merely as a narrative, was never
undertaken. But Mr. Froude left behind him a great collection of
papers, which affection would have committed to the fire, though party
spirit has given them to the press. The most unscrupulous publisher of
diaries and private correspondence never offered for sale a
self-analysis more frank or less prepossessing. But the world is
invited to gaze on this suicidal portraiture, on account of “the
extreme importance of the views, to the development of which the whole
is meant to be subservient,” and in order that they may not lose “the
instruction derivable from a full exhibition of his character as a
witness to those views.” Heavy as are the penalties which the Editors
of these volumes have incurred for their disclosure of the infirmities
of their friend, the world will probably absolve them if they will
publish more of the letters which he appears to have received from his
mother, and to have transmitted to them. One such letter which they
have rescued from oblivion, is worth far more than all which they have
published of her son’s. Though both the parent and the child have long
since been withdrawn from the reach of this world’s judgment, it yet
seems almost an impiety to transcribe her estimate of his early
character, and to add that the less favourable anticipations which she
drew from her study of him in youth, were but too distinctly verified
in his riper years. She read his heart with a mother’s sagacity, and
thus revealed it to himself with a mother’s tenderness and truth.

‘“From his very birth his temper had been peculiar; pleasing,
intelligent, and attaching, when his mind was undisturbed, and he was
in the company of people who treated him reasonably and kindly; but
exceedingly impatient under vexatious circumstances; very much
disposed to find his own amusement in teasing and vexing others; and
almost entirely incorrigible when it was necessary to reprove him. I
never could find a successful mode of treating him. Harshness made him
obstinate and gloomy; calm and long displeasure made him stupid and
sullen; and kind patience had not sufficient power over his feelings
to force him to govern himself. After a statement of such great
faults, it may seem an inconsistency to say that he nevertheless still
bore about him strong marks of a promising character. In all points of
substantial principle his feelings were just and high. He had (for his
age) an unusually deep feeling of admiration for everything which was
good and noble; his relish was lively, and his taste good, for all the
pleasures of the imagination; and he was also quite conscious of his
own faults, and (_untempted_) had a just dislike to them.”’

‘Exercising a stern and absolute dominion over all the baser passions,
with a keen perception of the beautiful in nature and in art, and a
deep homage for the sublime in morals; imbued with the spirit of the
classical authors, and delighting in the exercise of talents which,
though they fell far short of excellence, rose as far above
mediocrity, Mr. Froude might have seemed to want no promise of an
honourable rank in literature, or of distinction in his sacred office.
His career was intercepted by a premature death; but enough is
recorded to show that his aspirations, however noble, must have been
defeated by the pride and moroseness which his mother’s wisdom
detected, and which her love disclosed to him; united as they were to
a constitutional distrust of his own powers, and a weak reliance on
other minds for guidance and support. A spirit at once haughty, and
unsustained by genuine self-confidence; subdued by the stronger will
or intellect of other men, and glorying in that subjection; regarding
the opponents of his masters with an intolerance exceeding their own;
and, in the midst of all his animosity towards others, turning with no
infrequent indignation on itself,――might form the basis of a good
dramatic sketch, of which Mr. Froude might not unworthily sustain the
burden. But a “dialogue of the dead,” in which George Whitfield and
Richard Froude should be the interlocutors, would be a more
appropriate channel for illustrating the practical uses of “the Second
Reformation,” and of the “Catholic Restoration,” which it is the
object of their respective biographies to illustrate. Rhadamanthus
having dismissed them from his tribunal, they would compare together
their juvenile admiration of the drama, their ascetic discipline at
Oxford, their early dependence on stronger or more resolute minds,
their propensity to self-observation and to self-portraiture, their
contemptuous opinions of the negro race, and the surprise with which
they witnessed the worship of the Church of Rome in lands where it is
still triumphant. So far all is peace, and the _concordes animæ_
exchange such greetings as pass between disembodied spirits. But when
the tidings brought by the new denizen of the Elysian fields to the
reformer of the eighteenth century, reach his affrighted shade, the
regions of the blessed are disturbed by an unwonted discord; and the
fiery soul of Whitfield blazes with intense desire to resume his
wanderings through the earth, and to lift up his voice against the new

‘It was with no unmanly dread of the probe, but from want of skill or
leisure to employ it, that the self-scrutiny of Whitfield seldom or
never penetrated much below the surface. Preach he must; and when no
audience could be brought together, he seized a pen and preached to
himself. The uppermost feeling, be it what it may, is put down in his
journal honestly, vigorously, and devoutly. Satan is menaced and
upbraided. Intimations from Heaven are recorded, without one painful
doubt of their origin. He prays and exults, anticipates the future
with delight, looks back to the past with thankfulness, blames himself
simply because he thinks himself to blame, despairs of nothing, fears
nothing, and has not a moment’s ill-will to any human being. Mr.
Froude conducts his written soliloquies in a different spirit. His
introverted gaze analyses with elaborate minuteness the various
motives at the confluence of which his active powers receive their
impulse, and, with perverted sagacity, pursues the self-examination,
until, bewildered in the dark labyrinth of his own nature, he escapes
to the cheerful light of day by locking up his journal. A friend
(whose real name is as distinctly intimated under its initial letter,
as if it were written at length) advises burning confessions. “I
cannot make up my mind to that,” observes the penitent; “but I think I
can see many points in which it will be likely to do me good to be cut
off for some time from these records.” On such a subject the author of
_The Christian Year_ was entitled to greater deference. That bright
ornament of the College _de Propagandâ_ at Oxford had also gazed on
his own heart through the mental microscope, till he had learnt the
danger of the excessive use of it. While admonishing men to approach
their Creator not as isolated beings, but as members of the Universal
Church, and while aiding the inmates of her hallowed courts to worship
in strains so pure, so reverent, and so meek, as to answer not
unworthily to the voice of hope and reconciliation in which she is
addressed by her Divine Head, this “sweet singer” had so brooded over
the evanescent processes of his own spiritual nature, as not seldom to
render his real meaning imperceptible to his readers, and probably to
himself. With how sound a judgment he counselled Mr. Froude to burn
his books, may be judged from the following entries in them:

‘“I have been talking a great deal to P.[314] about religion to-day.
He seems to take such straightforward practical views of it that, when
I am talking to him, I wonder what I have been bothering myself with
all the summer, and almost doubt how far it is right to allow myself
to indulge in speculations on a subject where all that is necessary is
so plain and obvious.”――“Yesterday, when I went out shooting, I
fancied I did not care whether I hit or not; but when it came to the
point, I found myself anxious, and, after having killed, was not
unwilling to let myself be considered a better shot than I described
myself. I had an impulse, too, to let it be thought that I had only
three shots when I really had had four. It was slight, to be sure, but
I felt it.”――“I have read my journal, though I can hardly identify
myself with the person it describes. It seems like having someone
under one’s guardianship who was an intolerable fool, and exposed
himself to my contempt, every moment, for the most ridiculous and
trifling motives; and while I was thinking all this, I went into L.’s
room to seek a pair of shoes, and on hearing him coming, got away as
silently as possible. Why did I do this? Did I think I was doing what
L. did not like? or was it the relic of a sneaking habit? I will ask
myself these questions again.”――“I have a sort of vanity which aims at
my own good opinion, and I look for anything to prove to myself that I
am more anxious to mind myself than other people. I was very hungry,
but because I thought the charge unreasonable, I tried to shirk the
waiter: sneaking!”――“Yesterday I was much put out by an old fellow
chewing tobacco and spitting across me; also bad thoughts of various
kinds kept presenting themselves to my mind when it was vacant.”――“I
talked sillily to-day, as I used to do last Term, but took no pleasure
in it, so I am not ashamed. Although I don’t recollect any harm of
myself, yet I don’t feel that I have made a clean breast of it.”――“I
forgot to mention that I had been looking round my rooms, and thinking
that they looked comfortable and nice, and that I said in my heart,
‘Ah, ah! I am warm.’”――“It always suggests itself to me that a wise
thought is wasted when it is kept to myself, against which, as it is
my most bothering temptation, I will set down some arguments to be
called to mind in time of trouble.”――“Now I am proud of this, and
think that the knowledge it shows of myself implies a greatness of
mind.”――“These records are no guide to me to show the state of my mind
afterwards; they are so far from being exercises of humility, that
they lessen the shame of what I record, just as professions [of]
goodwill to other people reconcile us to our neglect of them.”

       *     *     *     *     *

‘As it is not by these nice self-observers that the creeds of hoar
antiquity, and the habits of centuries are to be shaken; so neither is
such high emprise reserved for ascetics who can pause to enumerate the
slices of bread and butter from which they have abstained. When
Whitfield would mortify his body, he set about it like a man. The
paroxysm was short indeed, but terrible. While it lasted, his diseased
imagination brought soul and body into deadly conflict, the fierce
spirit spurning, trampling, and well-nigh destroying the peccant
carcase. Not so the fastidious and refined “witness to the views” of
the restorers of the Catholic Church. The strife between his spiritual
and animal nature is recorded in his journal in such terms as these:
“Looked with greediness to see if there was goose on the table for
dinner.”――“Meant to have kept a fast and did abstain from dinner, but
at tea eat buttered toast.”――“Tasted nothing to-day till tea-time, and
then only one cup and dry bread.”――“I have kept my fast strictly,
having taken nothing till near nine this evening, and then only a cup
of tea and a little bread without butter, but it has not been as easy
as it was last.”――“I made rather a more hearty tea than usual, quite
giving up the notion of a fast in W.’s rooms, and by this weakness
have occasioned another slip.” Whatever may be thought of the
propriety of disclosing such passages as these, they will provoke a
contemptuous smile from no one who knows much of his own heart. But
they may relieve the anxiety of the alarmists. Luther and Zwingle,
Cranmer and Latimer, may still rest in their honoured graves. “Take
courage, brother Ridley, we shall light up such a flame in England as
shall not soon be put out!” is a prophecy which will not be defeated
by the successors of the Oxonian divines who listened to it, so long
as they shall be [able?][315] to record, and to publish, contrite
reminiscences of a desire for roasted goose, and of an undue
indulgence in buttered toast.

‘Yet the will to subvert the doctrines and discipline of the
Reformation is not wanting, and is not concealed. Mr. Froude himself,
were he still living, might, indeed, object to be judged by his
careless and familiar Letters. No such objection can, however, be made
by the eminent persons who have deliberately given them to the world
on account “of the truth and extreme importance of the views to which
the whole is meant to be subservient,” and in which they record their
“own general concurrence.” Of these weighty truths take the following
examples: “You will be shocked at my avowal that I am every day
becoming a less and less loyal son of the Reformation. It appears to
me plain that in all matters which seem to us indifferent, or even
doubtful, we should conform our practices to those of the Church which
has preserved its traditionary practices unbroken. We cannot know
about any seemingly indifferent practice of the Church of Rome that it
is not a development of the Apostolic ἦθος, and it is to no purpose to
say that we can find no proof of it in the writings of the first six
centuries: they must find a disproof if they would do anything.”――“I
think people are injudicious who talk against the Roman Catholics for
worshipping Saints and honouring the Virgin and images, etc. These
things may perhaps be idolatrous: I cannot make up my mind about
it.”――“P. called us the Papal Protestant Church, in which he proved a
double ignorance, as we are Catholics without the Popery, and Church
of England men without the Protestantism.”――“The more I think over
that view of yours about regarding our present Communion Service,
etc., as a judgement on the Church, and taking it as the crumbs from
the Apostles’ table, the more I am struck with its fitness to be dwelt
upon as tending to check the intrusion of irreverent thoughts, without
in any way interfering with one’s just indignation.”――“Your trumpery
principle about Scripture being the sole rule of faith in fundamentals
(I nauseate the word), is but a mutilated edition, without the breadth
and axiomatic character, of the original.”――“Really I hate the
Reformation and the Reformers more and more, and have almost made up
my mind that the Rationalist spirit they set afloat is the
ψευδοπροφήτης of the Revelations.”――“Why do you praise Ridley? Do you
know sufficient good about him to counterbalance the fact that he was
the associate of Cranmer, Peter Martyr, and Bucer?”――“I wish you could
get to know something of S. and W.” (Southey and Wordsworth), “and
un-Protestantise, un-Miltonise them.”――“_How is it_ WE _are so much in
advance of our generation?_” Spirit of George Whitfield! how would thy
voice, rolled from “the secret place of thunders,” have overwhelmed
these puny protests against the truths which it was the one business
of thy life to proclaim from the rising to the setting sun!

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Penetrating the design and seizing the spirit of the Gospels, the
Reformers inculcated the faith in which the sentient and the spiritual
in man’s compound nature had each its appropriate office: the one
directed to the Redeemer in His palpable form, the other to the Divine
Paraclete in His hidden agency; while, united with these, they
exhibited to a sinful, but penitent, race the parental character of
the omnipresent Deity. Such is not the teaching of the restored
theology. The most eminent of its professors have thrown open the
doors of Mr. Froude’s oratory, and have invited all passers-by to
notice in his prayers and meditations “the absence of any distinct
mention of our Lord and Saviour.” They are exhorted not to doubt that
there was a real though silent “allusion to Christ” under the titles
in which the Supreme Being is addressed; and are told that “this
circumstance may be a comfort to those who cannot bring themselves to
assume the tone of many popular writers of this day, who yet are
discouraged by the peremptoriness with which it is exacted of them.
The truth is, that a mind alive to its own real state often shrinks to
utter what it most dwells upon; and is too full of awe and fear to do
more than silently hope what it most wishes.”

‘It would indeed be presumptuous to pass a censure, or to hazard an
opinion, on the private devotions of any man; but there is no such
risk in rejecting the apology which the publishers of those secret
exercises have advanced for Mr. Froude’s departure from the habits of
his fellow-Christians. Feeble, indeed, and emasculate must be the
system, which, in its delicate distaste for the “popular writers of
the day,” would bury in silence the Name in which every tongue and
language has been summoned to worship and to rejoice. Well may “awe
and fear” become all who assume and all who invoke it. But an “awe”
which “shrinks to utter”[316] the Name of Him Who was born at
Bethlehem, and yet does not fear to use the Name which is ineffable; a
“fear” which can make mention of the Father, but may not speak of the
Brother, of all;――is a feeling which fairly baffles comprehension.
There is a much more simple though a less imposing theory. Mr. Froude
permitted himself, and was encouraged by his correspondents, to
indulge in the language of antipathy and scorn towards a large body of
his fellow-Christians. It tinges his Letters, his Journals, and is not
without its influence even on his devotions. Those despised men too
often celebrated the events of their Redeemer’s life, and the benefits
of His Passion, in language of offensive familiarity, and invoked Him
with fond and feeble epithets. Therefore, a good Oxford Catholic must
envelope in mystic terms all allusion to Him round Whom, as its
centre, the whole Christian system revolves. The line of demarcation
between themselves and these coarse sentimentalists must be broad and
deep, even though it should exclude those by whom it is drawn, from
all the peculiar and distinctive ground on which the standard of the
reformed Churches has been erected…. The martyrs of disgust and the
heroes of revolutions are composed of entirely opposite materials, and
are cast in quite different moulds. Nothing truly great or formidable
was ever yet accomplished, in thought or action, by men whose love for
truth was not strong enough to triumph over their dislike of the
offensive objects with which truth may chance to be associated.

‘Mr. Froude was the helpless victim of such associations. Nothing
escapes his abhorrence which has been regarded with favour by his
political or religious antagonists. The Bill for the Abolition of
Slavery was recommended to Parliament by an Administration more than
suspected of Liberalism in matters ecclesiastical. The “witness to
Catholic views,” “in whose sentiments, as a whole,” his Editors
concur, visits the West Indies, and they are not afraid to publish the
following report of his feelings: “I have felt it a kind of duty to
maintain in my mind an habitual hostility to the niggers, and to
chuckle over the failures of the new system, as if these poor wretches
concentrated in themselves all the Whiggery, dissent, cant, and
abomination that have been ranged on their side.” Lest this should
pass for a pleasant extravagance, the Editors enjoin the reader not to
“confound the author’s view of the negro cause and of the _abstract
negro_ with his feelings towards any he should actually meet”; and
Professor Thöluck is summoned from Germany to explain how the
“originators of error” may lawfully be the objects of a good man’s
hate, and how it may innocently overflow upon all their clients,
kindred, and connections. Mr. Froude’s feelings towards the “abstract
negro” would have satisfied the learned Professor in his most
malevolent mood. “I am ashamed,” he says, “I cannot get over my
prejudices against the niggers.”――“Every one I meet seems to me like
an incarnation of the whole Anti-Slavery Society, and Fowell Buxton at
their head.”――“The thing that strikes me as most remarkable in the cut
of these niggers is excessive immodesty, a forward stupid familiarity
intended for civility, which prejudices me against them worse even
than Buxton’s cant did. It is getting to be the fashion with
everybody, even the planters, to praise the emancipation and Mr.

‘Mr. Froude, or rather his Editors, appear to have fallen into the
error of supposing that their profession gives them not merely the
right to admonish, but the privilege to scold. Lord Stanley and Mr.
Buxton have, however, the consolation of being railed at in good
company. Hampden is “hated” with much zeal, though, it is admitted,
with imperfect knowledge. Louis Philippe, and his associates of the
Three Days, receive the following humane benediction: “I sincerely
hope ‘the march of mind’ in France may yet prove a bloody one.”――“The
election of the wretched B. for ――――, and that base fellow H. for
――――, in spite of the exposure,” etc. Again, the Editors protest
against our supposing that this is a playful exercise in the art of
exaggeration. “It should be observed,” they say, “as in other parts of
this volume, that the author used these words on principle, not as
abuse, but as expressing matters of fact, as a way of bringing before
his own mind things as they are.”

‘Milton, however, is the special object of Mr. Froude’s virtuous
abhorrence. He is “a detestable author.” Mr. Froude rejoices to learn
something of the Puritans, because, as he says, “it gives me a better
right to hate Milton, and accounts for many of the things which most
disgusted me in his (not-in-my-sense-of-the-word) poetry!”――“A lady
told me yesterday that you wrote the article on Sacred Poetry, etc. I
thought it did not come up to what I thought your standard of aversion
to Milton.” … There are much better things in Mr. Froude’s book than
the preceding quotations might appear to promise. If given as
specimens of his powers, they would do injustice to one whom we
willingly would believe to have been a good and able man, a ripe
scholar, and a devout Christian; though as illustrations of the temper
and opinions of those who now sit in Wycliffe’s seat, they are neither
unfair nor unimportant. But they may convince all whom it concerns,
that hitherto, at least, Oxford has not given birth to a new race of
giants, by whom the Evangelical founders and missionaries of the
Church of England are about to be expelled from their ancient
authority, or the Protestant world excluded from the light of day and
the free breath of Heaven.’

  From ‘A MEMOIR OF THE REV. JOHN KEBLE, M.A., Late Vicar of Hursley,’
      by the Right Hon. Sir J. T. COLERIDGE, D.C.L. Oxford. London:
      James Parker & Co., 1870. [3rd ed.]

  [By the kind permission of Messrs. J. Parker & Co.]

‘Of Hurrell Froude Dr. Newman has written: “He was a pupil of Keble’s,
formed by him, and in turn reacting upon him.” This sentence is
followed by a short and striking account of this extraordinary man, to
which it would be unwise in me to attempt any addition, except as it
may bear on the object of this memoir. I knew [Hurrell Froude] from a
child, and I trace in the somewhat singular composition of his
character, what he inherited both from his father, and his highly
gifted mother: his father, whom Keble after his first visit to
Dartington Parsonage playfully described to me as “very amiable, but
provokingly intelligent, one quite uncomfortable to think of, making
one ashamed of going gawking as one is wont to do about the world,
without understanding anything one sees”; his mother very beautiful in
person and delicate in constitution, with a highly expressive
countenance, and gifted in intellect with the genius and imagination
which his father failed in. Like the one, he was clever, knowing,
quick, and handy; like the other, he was sensitive, intellectual,
imaginative. He came to Keble full of respect for his character; he
was naturally soon won by his affectionateness and simplicity, and, in
turn, he was just the young man in whom Keble would at once take an
interest and delight, as pupil; and so in fact it was. I find him
again and again in Keble’s letters spoken of in the most loving
language, yet often not without some degree of anxiety as to his
future course: he saw the elements of danger in him, how liable he
might be to take a wrong course, or be misunderstood even when taking
a right one. Yet his hopes largely prevailed; and especially I
remember his rejoicing at his [Froude’s] being elected Fellow of
Oriel, thinking that the new society and associations, with the
responsibilities of College employment, would tend to keep him safe.
That Keble acted on him (I would rather use that term than “formed”)
is certain; and even when, in the later years of his short life,
symptoms of coming differences in opinion may be traced in his
letters, there is no abatement of personal love and reverence, nor,
indeed, in a certain sense, of his feeling the weight of Keble’s
influence; and though I gather from these that there was more entire
agreement with Dr. Newman as to action, yet it seems to me that there
still remained a closer intimacy and more filial feeling with regard
to Keble….

‘… That Hurrell Froude “re-acted on Keble” is true also, I have no
doubt, in a certain sense; it could scarcely be otherwise where there
was so much ability and affectionate playfulness, with so much
originality on one side; so much humility on the other; and so much
love on both. It would be idle to speculate on what might have been,
when the hour of trial came which none of those specially engaged
probably then foresaw. Before it arrived, Hurrell Froude had sunk
under the constitutional malady against which he struggled for four
years. What he would have been, and what he would have done, had his
life been prolonged, no one can say; it would be unfair to judge him
by what he left behind, except as rich grounds of promise. This I
believe I may confidently say, that those who knew him best loved him
the most dearly, and expected the most from him.

‘… My readers will have observed how Keble writes respecting Hurrell
Froude and his _Remains_. His death was a heavy blow to him, and no
wonder: those who knew him but were not on terms of intimacy, could
not but regard mournfully the end of one so accomplished, so gifted,
so good and so pure; a man of such remarkable promise, worn out in the
very prime of life by slow, and wasting, and long-hopeless disease.
But it was much more than this with Keble: they were more like elder
and younger brothers. Reverence in some sort sanctified Froude’s love
for Keble, and moderated the sallies of his somewhat too quick and
defiant temper, and imparted a special diffidence to his opposition,
in their occasional controversies with each other; while a sort of
paternal fondness in Keble gave unusual tenderness to his friendship
for Froude, and exaggerated, perhaps, his admiration for his undoubted
gifts of head and heart. And these were greater than mere
acquaintances would be aware of: for he did not present the best
aspects of himself to common observation….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘I had the misfortune of giving [Keble] pain, not only by differing
from him on the subject [of the _Remains_], but, owing to
misinformation, or misapprehension, on my part, by what turned out to
be a fruitless and ill-timed interference to prevent the publication.
I need not now explain how this arose; but I must confess that my
opinion remains unchanged. It is a deeply interesting book; not only
perfectly harmless now, but capable of instructing and improving those
who will read it calmly and considerately. Still, I think that it was
calculated, at the time, to throw unnecessary difficulties in the way
of the Movement; that it tended to prevent a fair consideration of
what the “movers” were attempting, to excite passion, and to encourage
a scoffing spirit against them. Some part of the anger and bitterness
with which the Ninetieth Tract was afterwards received, may fairly be
traced to the feeling created, unjustly indeed, but not unnaturally,
by the publication of the _Remains_. The one seemed to be the result
of the other, and the sequence of the two was held to show a
deliberate hostility to the Anglican, and an undue preference of the
Roman Church.’

      Rivingtons, 1878. [From the Essay on Dr. Arnold.]

  [By the kind permission of Messrs. J. R. & H. W. Mozley.]

‘The Church of England had, after a century of growing laxity, just
come to the point at which she must either retrace her steps into a
stricter state, or go forward into a formal latitudinarianism. Arnold
was for the latter course; the writers of the _Tracts for the Times_
for the former. The two schools met at these cross-roads, as it were,
and a remarkable contrast indeed they presented. The foremost
characters in the Church Movement (if they will excuse us looking at
them so historically) were undoubtedly phenomena in their way, as
Arnold was in his. Of one of these we can speak: the death that robs
us of so much, gives us, at any rate, this privilege. Singular it is
that antagonist systems should so suit themselves with champions; but
if the world had been picked for the most fair, adequate, and
expressive specimens of German-religionism and Catholicism (specimens
that each side would have acknowledged), it could not well have
produced better ones for the purpose than Dr. Arnold and Mr. Froude.
Arnold, gushing with the richness of domestic life, the darling of
Nature, and overflowing receptacle and enjoyer, with strong healthy
gusto, of all her endearments and sweets,――Arnold, the representative
of high joyous Lutheranism, is describable: Mr. Froude, hardly. His
intercourse with earth and Nature seemed to cut through them like
uncongenial steel, rather than mix and mingle with them. Yet the
polished blade smiled as it went through. The grace and spirit with
which he adorned this outward world (and seemed, to an undiscerning
eye, to love it), were but something analogous in him to the easy tone
of men in high life, whose good-nature to inferiors is the result
either of their disinterested benevolence, or sublime unconcern. In
him, the severe sweetness of the life divine not so much rejected as
disarmed those potent glows and attractions of the life natural: a
high good temper civilly evaded and disowned them. The monk by nature,
the born aristocrat of the Christian sphere, passed them clean by with
inimitable ease, marked his line, and shot clear beyond them into the
serene ether, toward the far-off Light, toward that needle’s point on
which ten thousand angels and all Heaven move…. The Catholic system,
as it advanced from the worlds beyond the grave, came with some of the
colour and circumstance of its origin. It contrasted strangely with
the light, hearty, and glowing form of earth that came from wood and
mountain, sunshine and green fields, to meet [it]. And the unearthly,
supernatural, dogmatic Church opposed a ghostly dignity to the Church
of Nature and the religion of the heart….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘The notion of the Church being an independent body, and able to keep
her own succession going on, apart from the State, is [to Arnold] “all
essentially anarchical and schismatic,” and he is only defending, he
says, “the common peace and order of the Church, against a new
outbreak of Puritanism, to oppose it.” It appears a curious objection
at first sight, from a man like Arnold, to urge against a particular
religion the claim that it would have been considered treasonable in
the days of Queen Elizabeth. But this … is the period of English
History to which he always goes for his ecclesiastical principles.
Another point of accusation, more of a moral one, does not come with
peculiar grace from Arnold, viz., the charge of immodesty and
impudence in personally daring to go so counter to received opinions
in their views of things and persons. “I have read Froude’s volume,”
he says, “and I think that its predominant character is extraordinary
impudence. I never saw a more remarkable instance of that
qualification than the way in which he, a young man, and a clergyman
of the Church of England, reviles all those persons whom the accordant
voice of that Church, without distinction of party, has agreed to
honour, even perhaps with an excess of admiration.”[317] Now, let it
be ever so true that “the accordant voice of the Church of England”
has taken one view of Cranmer and the Reformers, whereas Mr. Froude
took another, Arnold was not precisely the person to found a charge of
impudence upon such a fact. A man who without a vestige of internal
scruple or misgiving, unchristianised the whole development of the
Church from the days of the Apostles; who made the very disciples,
friends and successors of the Apostles teachers of corruption; who
made the priesthood an Antichrist, and had just himself shocked the
whole Church of England by the promulgation of a religious theory
repugnant to the feeling and ideas of almost all her members to a
man,――was certainly not a person to be tender in requiring compliance
with received views from another, or quick to call impudence in
another what in himself was the necessary adjunct of philosophy.’

      of Cleveland. 2 vols. Oxford: J. H. Parker, 1861.

  [By the kind permission of Messrs. J. Parker & Co.]

‘… The first clear indication of this new principle [a theory of
Catholic union, to which all other considerations were to bow] was
seen in the publication of the _Remains of R. H. Froude_, a young man
of great promise, Fellow of Oriel College, who died at the early age
of thirty-two, and of whose stray papers, letters, and remnants of
conversation, a full collection was published by J. H. Newman, then a
Fellow of the same College, now for some years past a member of the
Society of the Oratory in the Church of Rome. The first two volumes of
these _Remains_ were published early in 1838. The work never obtained
a wide circulation; but enough was done to give deep offence to many
minds, and to unsettle the principles of many more.

‘Those who know Richard Froude best knew that he was in the habit of
expressing himself, both by writing and in conversation, in strong,
pungent sentences, such as are not altogether uncommon with young men
of brilliant minds and vivacious temperament, and are often used by
them as much with the design of provoking answer and contradiction, as
that of conveying the speaker’s real sentiments. But when the Editor,
in his Preface to an unlimited and indiscriminate accumulation of such
winged words, claimed for them the consideration due to the deliberate
opinions of a matured reason, it was a mode of treatment which stamped
them with an importance not properly their own, and justified the
censure of those who without concerning themselves much for the
reputation of the dead, or making allowance for what was with too
little decorum brought before the public, saw the publication
announcing itself as an expansion of the principles of the _Tracts_.
And this claim was made, although poor Froude again and again declared
himself, in the pages of these volumes, as one whose mind was in a
state of progress and puzzle, sympathising at one time with Roman, at
another with Puritan, till, in a lengthened illness, and absence in
foreign lands, it fed upon its own solitary musings, with that morbid
dissatisfaction at all things which sometimes accompanies the decay of
vital power. However, the appearance of such an unreserved exposition
of distracted fancies was a great discouragement to the hopes which
had for a while found their centre at Oxford; and the disease of
Richard Froude’s mind seemed to have communicated itself to his more
distinguished Editor.’

      London: Macmillan & Co., 1889.

  [By the kind permission of Wilfrid Ward, Esq., and of Messrs.
      Macmillan & Co.]

‘… The scheme which Newman proposed, to restore to the Anglican Church
in some measure the discipline and doctrine of the Fathers, was bold
and captivating to [Mr. Ward’s] imagination; but it seemed to [him] to
be bolder and more drastic in the change it must in consistency
require, than its authors were aware. It was plain to him that nothing
short of an explicit avowal that the principles of the Reformation
were to be disowned, and its work undone, could meet the logical
requirements of the situation. And the leaders hesitated to go thus
far…. On the appearance of the first part of Froude’s _Remains_ early
in 1838, in which the Reformation was avowedly condemned, and its
condemnation tacitly[318] adopted by the two Editors, Newman and
Keble, Mr. Ward acknowledged to himself the direction which his views
were taking. “From that time,” he wrote to Dr. Pusey, “began my
inclination to see Truth where I trust it is.” The final influence
which determined his conversion was the series of lectures by Newman
on The Scripture Proof of the Doctrines of the Church, published
afterwards as Tract 85. Newman, in these lectures, dealt with the
philosophical basis of latitudinarianism on the one hand, and of the
Anglo-Catholic view of the Church on the other, with a power which did
not fail to give satisfaction to his new disciple, and to justify, on
intellectual grounds, the position which was now invested, in Ward’s
mind, with all the charm of Froude’s romantic conception of Catholic
sanctity, the fire of his reforming genius, the unhesitating
completeness of his programme of action…. Dean Scott (the late Dean of
Rochester), who saw Mr. Ward daily in the Common Room at Balliol,
notes some points of interest as to the impression produced on his
friends by the change which Froude’s _Remains_ wrought in his
attitude:――“I can speak with perfect assurance of their purport [the
purport of Mr. Ward’s remarks on the volumes published in 1838]. They
were substantially these: ‘This is what I have been looking for. Here
is a man who knows what he means, and says it. This is the man for me!
He speaks out.’ But though we were amused, and gave him credit for
having achieved the feat which the pseudo-scholastic doctor ascribes
to the angels, of passing from one extreme to the other without
passing through the middle, I do not really think that those words
indicated the actual turning-point. As I look back on them, they seem
to me to imply that the turn had taken place, but that he was looking
for a pledge, on the part of those to whom he was attaching himself,
that they were in earnest, and knew what they meant.” The appearance
of Froude’s _Remains_ was indeed an epoch in Mr. Ward’s life. “The
thing that was utterly abhorrent with him,” writes Lord Blachford,
“was to stop short”; and this was precisely what the _via media_, with
all its attractiveness, had hitherto appeared to do. All this was
changed when Froude’s outspoken views were adopted by the leaders.
“Out came _Froude_,” writes Mr. Ward to Dr. Pusey, “of which it is
little to say that it delighted me more than any book of the kind I
ever read.” “He found in Froude’s _Remains_,” continues Lord
Blachford, “a good deal of his own Radicalism (though nothing at all
of his own Utilitarianism or Liberalism), and it seemed literally to
make him jump for joy.”

‘… There was a good deal in Froude’s open speech and direct intellect
which resembled Mr. Ward’s own characteristics, different as the two
men were, in many respects. Newman describes him as “brimful and
overflowing with ideas and views”; as having “an intellect as critical
and logical as it was speculative and bold”; as “professing openly his
admiration for Rome, and his hatred of the Reformers”; as “delighting
to think of the Saints,” “having a vivid appreciation of the idea of
sanctity, its possibilities and its heights”; “embracing the principle
of penance and mortification”; “being powerfully drawn to the Mediæval
Church, but not to the Primitive.” All this might be said, with great
truth, of Mr. Ward himself. The boldness and completeness, the
uncompromising tone of the _Remains_, took hold of Mr. Ward’s
imagination. A clear, explicit rule of faith was thus substituted for
perplexing and harassing speculation. There was no temporising, or
stopping short. Mr. Ward’s dislike of the current system was echoed in
the plain statement which he was for ever quoting. “At length, under
Henry VIII., the Church of England fell. Will she ever rise
again?”[319] Froude’s writing, then, recommended itself to Mr. Ward as
having the attribute of Lord Strafford’s Irish policy: it was
thorough. And in opposition to this, Arnold’s system stopped short at
every turn. Froude’s picture of the Mediæval Church was that of an
absolute, independent, spiritual authority, direct, uncompromising,
explicit in its decrees, in contrast with the uncertain voice of the
English Church, with its hundred shades of opinions differing from,
and even opposed to, each other. Instead of groping with the feeble
light of human reason amid texts of uncertain signification, he
interpreted Scripture by the aid of constant tradition, and of the
Church’s divine illumination. The stand for moral goodness against
vice and worldliness was witnessed in the highest and most ideal types
of sanctity in Church history. The personal struggle of the ordinary
Christian against his evil inclinations was systematised and brought
to perfection in Catholic ascetic works. The doctrine of a
supernatural world and supernatural influences was not minimised, as
though one feared to tax human powers of belief: it was put forth in
the fullest and most fearless manner. Angels and Saints, as ministers
of supernatural help, were recognised; and their various offices in
aiding and protecting us, and listening to our prayers on all
occasions, forced on the attention constantly in the Catholic system.
There was no mistiness, or haze, or hesitation. All was clear,
complete, definite, carried out to its logical consequences….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Ward himself speaks in no doubtful terms of union with Rome as the
ideal vision which inspired him. “Restoration of active communion with
the Roman Church”, he writes to a friend in 1841, “is the most
enchanting earthly prospect on which my imagination can dwell.” His
remarks, too, on Froude’s book (in a letter written in the same year
to Dr. Pusey) indicate the same line of sympathies. “The especial
charm in it to me,” he wrote, “was … his hatred of our present system
and of the Reformers, and his sympathy with the rest of Christendom.”
The love of Rome and of an united Christendom, which marked the new
school, was not purely a love for ecclesiastical authority. This was
indeed one element, but there was another yet more influential in many
minds: admiration for the Saints of the Roman Church, and for the
saintly ideal, as realised especially in the monastic life. We have
already seen how this element operated in Mr. Ward’s own history.
Froude had struck the note of sanctity as well as the note of
authority. He had raised an inspiring ideal on both heads; and behold,
with however much of practical corruption and superstition mixed up
with their practical exhibitions, these ideals were actually
reverenced, attempted, often realised! in the existing Roman Church.
The worthies of the English Church, even when sharing the tender piety
of George Herbert or Bishop Ken, fell short of the heroic aims, the
martial sanctity, gained by warfare unceasing against world, flesh,
and devil, which they found exhibited in Roman hagiology. The glorying
in the Cross of Christ, which is the keynote to such lives as those of
St. Ignatius of Loyola, and St. Francis Xavier, while it recalled much
in the life of St. Paul, had no counterpart in post-Reformation
Anglicanism.[320] The state of things which made this directly
Romeward movement tolerable to any considerable section of the English
Church was, however, sufficiently remarkable. The Anglicanism of the
party must have receded very considerably from the views of the early
_Tracts_ before such a thing could be possible. Perhaps two events
were especially instrumental to such a preparation: the first was the
language used with respect to the English Reformers by Newman and
Keble, in the Preface to the second part of Froude’s _Remains_, early
in 1839. However guarded and measured the expressions were, such
language expressed a definite view, with far-reaching consequences;
and the extraordinary weight attaching to Newman’s lightest utterances
gave the words additional significance. “The Editors,” one passage
ran, “by publishing [Mr. Froude’s] sentiments … so unreservedly …
indicated their own general acquiescence in the opinion that the
persons chiefly instrumental in [the Reformation], were not, as a
party, to be trusted on ecclesiastical and theological questions, nor
yet to be imitated in their practical handling of the unspeakably
awful matters with which they were concerned.” Again, the differences
between the Reformers and the Fathers, both in doctrine and in moral
sentiment, were insisted on by the Editors. “You must choose between
the two lines,” they wrote; “they are not only diverging, but
contrary.” And certain questions as to the practical Christian ideal
are specified as instances: “Compare the sayings and manner of the two
schools on the subjects of fasting, celibacy, religious vows,
voluntary retirement and contemplation, the memory of the Saints,
rites and ceremonies recommended by antiquity.” The conclusion which,
though unspoken here, was undeniable once it was suggested, the
conclusion “in these matters Rome has preserved what England has lost;
in these matters we may take Rome for our model if we would return to
antiquity,”――could not but gain a footing in the minds of Newman’s

      TRACTS FOR THE TIMES,’ by WILLIAM PALMER, Author of _Origines
      Liturgicæ_, etc. Rivingtons, 1883. [From the Introduction.]

‘The publication of this work [_Origines Liturgicæ_] had the effect of
introducing the author to the acquaintance of some of the leading
spirits who afterwards exercised a decisive influence on the
foundation of the Oxford Movement of 1833, usually called
“Tractarian.” He had, in this work, vindicated the Church of England
on what are sometimes called High Church principles, affirming the
divine institution of the Church, and its essential independence, in
creed and jurisdiction, of merely temporal powers. He had also argued
against the Nonjurors, and sustained the harmony of Church and State.
He had vindicated the Reformation. He had defended the Catholicity and
continuity of the Church in England, and had opposed the pretensions
of the See of Rome. No one could mistake his principles, and these
principles were felt by the great mass of Churchmen to be in harmony
with their own. In forming the acquaintance of Newman and Froude, then
very distinguished Fellows of Oriel, and amongst rising men in the
University, the author knew that his principles, at least, were fully
known to, and approved by, these eminent men….

‘… The autumn and winter of 1832 passed away, but early in 1833 Froude
returned to Oxford in better health, and I had once more a friend with
whom I could work with entire sympathy in Church questions. For never
did I meet with a more cordial response to all that I felt upon these
matters, or a fuller sympathy. The only point on which I could not
concur with him was the manner in which he spoke of the union of
Church and State, which he esteemed unlawful _per se_, while I only
objected to its abuses. His language as to the Reformation, too, I
could not concur in, having considered with some attention the point
as urged in Nonjuring works, and arrived at the conclusion that the
Reformation did not merit the unfavourable judgment pronounced. After
some months, in July we were joined by Newman, who had been detained
by illness in France; and this greatly strengthened our hands.

‘In an article in the _Contemporary Review_[321] on the Oxford
Movement, I have ventured on the remark that I was not aware of an
incident mentioned in Froude’s _Remains_, illustrative at once of the
absence of elementary knowledge of the Roman Catholic system, and of
the disposition to frame ingenious hypotheses upon the most important
practical subjects. The incident referred to I described thus: “Froude
had, with Newman, been anxious to ascertain the terms upon which they
could be admitted to communion by the Roman Church, supposing that
some dispensation might be granted which would enable them to
communicate with Rome without violation of conscience”; and I
elsewhere remarked on Newman [that] “those who conversed with him did
not know that while in Italy he had sought, in company with Froude, to
ascertain the terms on which they might be admitted to communion with
Rome, and had been surprised on learning that an acceptance of the
decrees of Trent was a necessary preliminary”; and I added: “had I
been aware of these circumstances, I do not know whether I should have
been able to co-operate cordially with him.” Nay, if I had supposed
him to be willing to forsake the Church of England, I should have said
that I could, in that case, have held no communion with him. As to his
knowledge of the Roman Catholic system at that time, it was not
grounded on the critical examination of Roman Catholic works of
controversy. It was, I think, superficial, at that time and long

‘The passage on which my remarks were based was in Froude’s _Remains_,
pp. 304, 307, in which he says: “The only thing I can put my hand on
as an acquisition [at Rome] is having become acquainted with a man of
some influence at Rome, Monsignor [Wiseman], the head of the [English]
College, who has enlightened [Newman] and me on the subject of our
relations to the Church of Rome. We got introduced to him to find out
whether they would take us in on any terms to which we could twist our
consciences, and we found, to our dismay, that not one step could be
gained without swallowing the Council of Trent as a whole.” Mr.
Newman, in editing this passage, in Froude’s _Remains_, represents it
as merely “a jesting way of stating to a friend what was really the
fact: viz., that he and another availed themselves of the opportunity
of meeting a learned Romanist to ascertain the ultimate points at
issue between the Churches.” Cardinal Newman insists upon it that this
is the true version of the affair. I merely ask the reader to compare
the two statements: that of Froude, made at the time, and distinctly,
and that of Newman, made some years after, to explain it. I ask
whether the explanation is not throughout inconsistent with the
statement, whether it is not a plain attempt to explain away the
statement of Froude, whether Froude’s is not evidently the true
version? No doubt Newman thought such explanation quite within his
province as Editor. This little piece of _finesse_ merits no grave
animadversion, and I trust that I have so explained the point … as to
relieve me from the imputation of accusing of dishonesty an old friend
so much honoured for virtue and honour.’

[From the Narrative.]

‘I had not been very intimately acquainted with Mr. Newman and Mr.
Froude, and was scarcely known to Mr. Keble, or Mr. Perceval, when our
deep sense of the wrongs sustained by the Church in the suppression of
Bishoprics, and our feeling of the necessity of doing whatever was in
our power to arrest the tide of evil, brought us together in the
summer of 1833. It was at the beginning of Long Vacation when, Mr.
Froude being almost the only occupant of Oriel College, we frequently
met in the Common Room, that the resolution to unite and associate in
defence of the Church, of her violated liberties and neglected
principles, arose. This resolution was immediately acted on; and while
I corresponded with Mr. Rose, Mr. Froude communicated our design to
Mr. Keble. Mr. Newman soon took part in our deliberations, on his
return from the Continent. The particular course which we were to
adopt became the subject of much and anxious thought; and as it was
deemed advisable to confer with Mr. Rose on so important a subject,
Mr. Froude and myself, after some correspondence, visited him at
Hadleigh, in July; where I also had the pleasure of becoming
personally acquainted with Mr. Perceval, who had been invited to take
part in our deliberations…. On our return to Oxford, frequent
conferences took place at Oriel College, between Mr. Froude, Mr.
Newman, Mr. Keble, and the writer, in which various plans were
discussed…. I prepared a draft of the third formulary printed by Mr.
Perceval, which was revised and improved by a friend, and was finally
adopted as a basis of our further proceedings.[322] The formulary thus
agreed on was printed and was privately and extensively circulated
amongst our friends in all parts of England, in the autumn of 1833.
Our intention was not to form a society merely at Oxford, but to
extend it throughout all England, or rather, to form similar societies
in every part of England. But finding that jealousy was expressed in
several high quarters at the formation of any associations, and the
notion being also unacceptable to Froude and others (Newman), at
Oxford, we ceased, after a time, from circulating these papers, or
advising the formation of societies. Some permanent effects, however,
were produced….

‘The publication of the _Tracts_ commenced and was continued by
several of our friends,[323] each writer printing whatever appeared to
him advisable or useful, without the formality of previous
consultation with others…. I confess that I was rather surprised at
the rapidity with which they were composed and published, without any
previous revision or consultation; nor did it seem to me that any
caution was exercised in avoiding language calculated to give needless
offence…. The respect and regard due to the authors of the _Tracts_
rendered me anxious to place the most favourable construction on
everything which they wrote, and to hope that my apprehensions might
be ill-founded. In the course, however, of the extensive
correspondence of the autumn and winter of 1833 which has been
mentioned, so many objections were raised by the clergy against parts
of the _Tracts_, and so many indiscretions were pointed out, that I
became convinced of the necessity of making some attempt to arrest the
evil. With this object, I made application in a direction (Newman)
where much influence in the management of the _Tracts_ was exercised,
and very earnestly urged the necessity of putting an end to their
publication, or at least of suspending them for a time. On one
occasion, I thought I had been successful in the former object, and
stated the fact to several correspondents; but the sequel proved that
I was mistaken.[324] … Certainly, I had, in private conversation with
Mr. Froude, and one or two others, felt that there were material
differences between our views, on several important points. I allude
more particularly to the question of the union of Church and State,
and of the character of the English and the foreign Reformers. Mr.
Froude occasionally expressed sentiments on the latter subject which
seemed extremely unjust to the Reformers, and injurious to the Church;
but as his conversation generally was of a very startling and
paradoxical character, and his sentiments were evidently only in the
course of formation, I trusted that more knowledge and thought would
bring him to juster views….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘I will not say that the writers of the _Tracts_ have not been in any
degree instrumental in drawing forth this spirit;[325] I will not
inquire how far it is traceable to the publication of Froude’s
_Remains_, and to the defence of his views contained in the Preface to
the second series of the _Remains_; nor will I examine how far it may
be a reaction against ultra-Protestantism: it is unnecessary now to
enter on this painful and complicated question, on which different
opinions may be entertained.’

      JAMES H. RIGG, D.D. London: Charles H. Kelly, 1899.

  [By the kind permission of the Rev. James H. Rigg, D.D., and of Mr.
      Charles H. Kelly.]

‘Newman’s principles as the active leader of the Oxford Movement were
imbibed from his intercourse with Keble and

Hurrell Froude. Newman himself says expressly and emphatically that
Keble was the real father of the Oxford Movement, and it was the
influence of Froude which brought together Keble and Newman. It was
Froude who effected that blending and focussing of the sympathies and
aims of Keble, Newman, and himself which furnished the first
inspiration and impulse of the Oxford Neo-Anglican Movement. Newman,
that is to say, though afterwards the leader, was first the disciple
of Keble and even of Froude, and Keble and Froude derived their
Anglican indoctrination and inspiration not assuredly from the
Evangelical Revival, which they were brought up to hate, and did,
both, sincerely hate through life, but from the High Church school of
the early years of the eighteenth century, of which Dr. Routh was a
living representative at Oxford for many years after Keble obtained
his Fellowship at Oriel…. Keble was the tutor and the loving and
sympathetic friend of the bitter and contemptuous Froude, who “hated
the Reformation,” and reserved his utmost scorn and antipathy for
“irreverent Dissenters.” … His personal opinions were extreme, so
extreme as to lead him to admire the character of Froude, in spite of
his immodesty, his intolerance, and his puerile asceticism, because
there was in the young man such heartiness, such good fellowship, such
zeal, such talent; and all consecrated to the cause of “Catholic”
restoration and Christian progress, as he understood it.

‘… The characters of [Newman and Keble] were not likely to blend,
except under the influence of some common solvent, some medium of
overpoweringly strong affinity with both, through which characters so
sharply contrasted might be combined in sympathy and united in
counsel…. Nor could a fitter instrument have been found for bringing
about the union on this basis than Hurrell Froude. He was himself, in
several respects, as great a contrast to Keble in character as even
Newman. But then he had been Keble’s pupil, and he remained his
devoted and admiring friend…. Moreover, though Newman in his
_Apologia_ speaks of Froude as “speculative,” he was not
metaphysically sceptical, and his speculations appear to have been
confined within theologically safe regions. Froude, in fact, stood in
fear of Newman’s speculative tendency; and in one place, whilst
expressing his delight in his companionship, expresses his doubt
whether he is not more or less of a “heretic.”[326] In no sense was
Hurrell Froude doctrinally or metaphysically speculative. He had
seemingly, from the first, bound himself to tradition. His affections
went after antiquity, but, in particular, he doted upon the Mediæval
Church. His “speculations” never led him towards the verge of
unbelief. Whilst his zeal was hot, and his mind active, his intellect
seemed to make good its safety by servility to traditional dogma. If
he mocked at the Reformers, he held fast by the “Saints.” Furthermore,
although such a zealot for traditional Church authority, and so bold
and hot against all Protestants and Puritans, he was to his friends
gentle, tender, playful, pleasant, and most open-hearted. It is easy
to see by what ties such a man would be attached to Keble and to
Newman. The former regarded him somewhat as a mother regards a
high-spirited, spoilt, but frank, true-spoken and affectionate son.
She is proud of him, while she disapproves of some of his proceedings.
She reproves him, but gently, lovingly: too gently by far. She views
all his conduct with a partial eye; his very faults seem to her but
the exuberances of a noble spirit. It must be remembered also that
Froude’s animosities correspond to Keble’s dislikes, and that his
enthusiastic and passionate admiration was bestowed in accordance with
Keble’s preferences. The tempers of the teacher and pupil were very
different, but their tastes and opinions were well agreed; and, in
fact, those of Froude had been formed by Keble. What Keble instilled
by gentle influence became in Froude a potent and heady spirit. Keble,
accordingly, forgave the violence of his pupil, in part for the sake
of his orthodoxy, and in part because of his dutifulness and affection
to him personally. His excesses were but the excesses of a fine young
nature on behalf of what was good and right. “E’en his failings leaned
to virtue’s side.” While such were the ties which attached Keble to
Froude, Newman was drawn to him both by agreement in theological and
ecclesiastical opinions and tendencies, and also by a strong natural
affinity of disposition. No one can read Newman’s description of
Froude and himself in the _Apologia_ without feeling that he and such
a man as Froude must have been most congenial companions. Both were,
intellectually, what he describes Froude as being: “critical and
logical,” “speculative and bold.” Newman, no less than Froude,
“delighted in the notion of an hierarchical system of sacerdotal
power, and of full ecclesiastical liberty.” “Hatred of the Reformers,”
“scorn” of Protestantism, are noted by Newman as characteristics of
Froude. And, as to himself, “I became fierce,” “I was indignant,” “I
despised every rival system,” “I had a thorough contempt for the
Evangelicals,”――such expressions as these abound in his delineation of
his own character at this period of his life. It is no wonder,
therefore, that Froude and Newman clave to each other…. Froude was the
energetic and wilful partner of Newman in the new enterprise: Froude,
who with far less genius, far less personal tact and persuasiveness,
and no gift of public or pulpit suasion, such as Newman possessed in a
wonderful degree, was a man of intense and resolute character, of
great logical daring, of unsparing pugnacity, of far-reaching ideas,
whom Newman, and, as we have seen, Keble also, greatly admired and
even loved, though he was loved by few besides. These two men, Newman
and Froude, were mutually complementary: together they planned the
first lines of the Tractarian Movement…. For his characteristic work
at Oxford, Newman had been prepared by the influence of Keble and
Froude. To quote Dean Church, “Keble had given the inspiration, Froude
had given the impetus; then Newman took up the work.” If Froude had
lived a few years longer, it cannot be doubted that he would have gone
over the imaginary line of division, and would have found himself
consciously and professedly at Rome. Keble had neither logic nor
courage to take him across the line…. Newman, alone of the three,
slowly and reluctantly, but by force of sincere and overmastering
convictions, followed his principles out to the complete end.

‘… To the Movement, as a Movement, Keble seems to have actively
contributed no momentum whatever, although his reputation (like
Pusey’s later on) lent it a powerful sanction. To Newman belongs all
the merit or demerit of the Tractarian line of policy and action.
Without him, the Movement would never have taken form or gathered way.
Froude was, very early, a powerful and energetic colleague: indeed,
without him, Newman would not have been what he was, nor done what he
did…. The chief interest attaching to Froude is that being what he
was, he so powerfully influenced Newman, who said of him in his
_Lectures on Anglicanism_,[327] that “he, if any, is the author of the
Movement altogether”: a saying hardly, however, consistent with the
statement already quoted from the _Apologia_ as to Keble’s relation to
the Movement. Froude was a man of much force of will, and superior
natural gifts; he was handsome and attractive, a bright and lively
companion, a warm and affectionate friend, a “good fellow,” but very
free indeed of his tongue. He was ignorant, self-conscious, and
audacious; as intense a hater as he was a warm friend; a bitter bigot,
a reckless revolutionist; one who delighted to speak evil of
dignitaries, and of departed worthies and heroes reverenced by
Protestant Christians at home and abroad. Church, who did not know
him, but took his estimate of him mainly from Newman, makes a
conspicuous figure of him, giving much more space to him than to
Pusey,[328] more even than to Keble. That this should be so, shows how
deeply Church had drunk into the spirit that prompted and inspired the
Tractarians. Even his friendly hand, however, cannot omit from his
picture certain features which, to an outsider who is not fascinated
by the _camaraderie_ of the Tractarian clique … will be almost
sufficient, without further evidence, to warrant the phrase, “a
flippant railer,” in which Julius Hare (himself, assuredly, no
Evangelical bigot or narrow sectary) describes the man whose _Remains_
were edited and published by his two great friends, that Anglican
Churchmen might be led to admire the zeal and devotion, and to drink
into the spirit, of this young hero of the new party. According to
their view, his early death in the odour of sanctity (although of true
Christian saintliness in temper or spirit he seems to have had as
little tincture as any persecuting Spanish saint), left an aureole of
glory upon his memory.

‘Such was Froude’s hatred of Puritanism that, as may be learnt from
Dean Church, he was “blind to the grandeur of Milton’s poetry.” Church
speaks, himself, of his “fiery impetuosity, and the frank daring of
his disrespectful vocabulary.” He quotes James Mozley as saying: “I
would not set down anything that Froude says for his deliberate
opinion, for he really hates the present state of things so
excessively that any change would be a relief to him.” He says that
“Froude was made for conflict, not to win disciples.” He admits his
ignorance. “He was,” he tells us, “a man strong in abstract thought
and imagination, who wanted adequate knowledge.” He quotes from the
_Apologia_ Newman’s admission of two noticeable deficiencies in
Froude: “he had no turn for theology”; “his power of entering into the
minds of others was not equal to his other gifts.” Such a power, we
may note, is very unlikely to belong to men of fierce and hasty
arrogance and self-confidence. It finds its natural home in company
with “the wisdom from above,” which is not only “pure,” but “gentle
and easy to be entreated,” the characteristics of a saintliness of
another sort than that of Froude. Dean Church admits that the
_Remains_ contain phrases and sentiments and epithets surprisingly at
variance with conventional and popular estimates: “as, for example, we
may explain, when Froude speaks of the illustrious Bishop Jewel, whom
Hooker calls ‘the worthiest divine that Christendom hath bred for the
space of some hundreds of years,’ as ‘an irreverent Dissenter,’ Church
adds that ‘friends were pained and disturbed,’ while ‘foes exulted,’
at such a disclosure of the spirit of the Movement.” The apology he
offers is that “if the off-hand sayings of any man of force and wit
and strong convictions were made known to the world, they would, by
themselves, have much the same look of flippancy, injustice,
impertinence, to those who disagreed with the speaker or writer…. The
friends who published Froude’s _Remains_ knew what he was; they knew
the place and proportion of the fierce and scornful passages; they
knew that they did not go beyond the liberty and the frank speaking,
which most people give themselves in the abandon and understood
exaggeration of intimate correspondence and talk.” To which the reply
is obvious: if the Editors (who were no other than Newman and Keble)
had disapproved of the tone and style of these _Remains_, as it is
evident that Dean Church himself, notwithstanding his strong friendly
bias, could not help disapproving of them, they would either not have
published them, or would at least have suggested some such apology as
that suggested by Dean Church. But, in fact, they published them
without any such apology, and it cannot be seriously doubted that they
rather rejoiced in than condemned such gross improprieties. Further,
if this sort of writing is common in the intimate correspondence of
responsible clergymen, how is it that it is so hard, if it is at all
possible, to match the flippancy and insolence of these _Remains_ in
any other correspondence or remains of men of Christian culture and
character, known to modern literature? Dean Church, indeed, cannot but
admit that “Froude was often intemperate and unjust,” and that “his
strong language gave needless exasperation.” He endeavours, however,
to make one point in favour of the Movement, from the publication of
the _Remains_. Whether it was wise or not, he argues that “it was not
the act of cunning conspirators: it was the act of men who were ready
to show their hands and take the consequences; it was the mistake of
men confident in their own straightforwardness.” I have no wish to
revive against the first leaders of the Movement, as represented by
Froude and the admirable Editors of his _Remains_, the charge of being
conspirators, though, as I have already stated, Froude himself was the
first to describe the Tractarian Movement as a “conspiracy.” Certainly
Froude, in the earlier stage of the Movement, like Ward in its later
stages, had little in him of the conspirator’s subtlety or craft,
whatever may be said as to Newman. But an unbiassed historian would
hardly describe the act of publication as Dean Church does: he would
rather say that it was the act of men whose honesty may be admitted,
but who were sanguine partisans, men strongly biassed by their
sectarian temper, by their over-weening self-confidence….

‘But it was a strange little world, that world of Oxford, in which
Froude was regarded as a bright and leading character, sixty years
ago. It seems, as we look back upon it, to be very much farther away
than half a century, and to belong almost to a different planetary
sphere…. It was, in fact, a young and ignorant, as well as bigoted
circle, in which the idea of the Oxford Movement first germinated…. It
was a school-boyish sort of clique, and in wildness, enthusiasm,
ignorance of the actual forces and the gathering movements of the
world outside, their projects and dreams remind us of schoolboy plans
and projects for moving the world and achieving fame and greatness….

‘Schoolboys’ friendships are often intense and romantic. Those of
Newman and his circle were passionately deep and warm, more like those
of boys, in some respects, than of men; perhaps still more like those
of women who live aloof from the world in the seclusion of mutual
intimacy: intimacy suffused with the fascinating but hectic brightness
of a sort of celibate consecration to each other, apart from any
thought of stronger or more authoritative human ties that might some
time interfere with their sacrament of friendship. This _morbidezza_
of moral complexion and temperament, this more or less unnatural and
unhealthy intensity of friendship, was a marked feature in Newman’s
relations with those around him. There is no doubt a touching side to
this feature in the Tractarian Society of Oxford. Dean Church speaks
of “the affection which was characteristic of those days.” … Of the
mutually feminine attachment which bound Newman and Froude together,
there is no need to say more…. The _Apologia_ sets it forth all the
more fully because Froude was no longer living…. Newman’s was a
characteristically feminine nature: it was feminine in the quickness
and subtlety of his instincts, in affection and the caprices of
affection, in diplomatic tact and adroitness, and in a gift of
statement and grace of phrase which find their analogies in the
conversation, in the public addresses, and not seldom in the written
style, of gifted women…. Hurrell Froude, his chosen and most congenial
friend, was more feminine still than Newman, feminine in his faults as
well as in his gifts and his defects. For sympathy and mutual
intelligence the two were wonderfully well assorted…. It was a saying
of Charles Kingsley … that all the Tractarian leaders were wanting in
virility: _i.e._, not so much effeminate as naturally more woman-like
than masculine.’

      by FREDERICK OAKELEY, M.A., Oxon., Priest of the Archdiocese of
      Westminster. London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1865.

  [By the kind permission of Sir Charles W. A. Oakeley, Bart., and of
      Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co.]

‘The only one of these remarkable men who has passed into the region
of history[329] is he who, though the youngest of the whole number in
years, deserves to be commemorated as the first who took a
comprehensive view of the bearings and character of the Movement. Mr.
Froude was a College contemporary of my own, and I enjoyed at one time
the privilege of constant intercourse and familiar acquaintance with
him. Those who have formed their impression of him from his published
_Remains_ will scarcely, perhaps, be prepared to hear how little there
appeared, in his external deportment, while he was at Oxford, of that
remarkable austerity of life which he is now known to have habitually
practised, even then. To a form of singular elegance, and a
countenance of that peculiar and highest kind of beauty which flows
from purity of heart and mind, he added manners the most refined and
engaging. That air of sunny cheerfulness which is best expressed by
the French word _riant_, never forsook him (at the time when I knew
him best), and diffused itself, as is its wont, over every circle in
which he moved. I have seen him in spheres so different as the
Common-Rooms of Oxford, and the after-dinner company of the high
aristocratic society of the West of England; and I well remember how
he mingled even with the last in a way so easy, yet so dignified, as
at once to conciliate its sympathies and direct its tone. He was one
of those who seemed to have extracted real good out of an English
Public School education, while unaffected by its manifold vices.
Popular among his companions for his skill in all athletic exercises,
as well as for his humility, forbearance, and indomitable good temper,
he had the rare gift of changing the course of dangerous conversation
without uncouth abruptness or unbecoming dictation; and he almost
seemed, as is recorded of St. Bernardine of Sienna, to check, by his
mere presence, the profane jibe, or unseemly _équivoque_. To his great
intellectual powers his published _Remains_ bear abundant witness; nor
do we, in fact, need any other proof of them than the deference
yielded to his opinions by such men as those who have acknowledged him
for their example and their guide. Let it not be supposed that this
high panegyric is prompted by the partiality of friendship. Although I
enjoyed constant opportunities of intercourse with Mr. Froude, and
made his character a study, yet I have no claim whatever to be
considered his intimate friend. We were not, indeed, at that time, in
anything like complete religious accord; and I remember his once
saying to me, in words which subsequent events made me regard as
prophetic: “My dear O., I believe you will come right some day; but
you are a long time about it.” Poor Hurrell Froude! May it be allowed
to one who was your competitor in more than one academical contest,
and your inferior in everything (save in his happy possession of those
religious privileges which you were cut off too early to allow of your
attaining), to pay you, after many years, this feeble tribute of
gratitude and admiration! Never again will Anglicanism produce such a
disciple; never, till she is Catholic, will Oxford boast of such a son.

     ‘“_Ostendent terris hunc tantum fata, neque ultra_
       _Esse sinent. Nimium vobis Romana propago_
       _Visa potens, superi, propria hæc si dona fuissent_ …
       _Nec puer Iliaca quisquam de gente Latinos_
       _In tantum spe tollet avos: nec Romula quondam_
       _Ullo se tantum tellus jactabit alumno._”

As I have begun this quotation, I may as well go on with it:

     ‘“_Heu, pietas! heu, prisca fides! invictaque bello_
       _Dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset_
       _Obvius armato_ …
       … _Manibus date lilia plenis_:
       _Purpureos spargam flores, animamque [sodalis]_
       _His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani_

To adjust such a character with Catholic facts and Catholic principles
is no part of my present object. The reader who takes an interest in
this question will find it discussed in Dr. Newman’s _Lectures on
Anglican Difficulties_. For me it will be sufficient to take leave of
this gifted person in the well-known words: _Cum talis sis, utinam
noster esses!_

       *     *     *     *     *

‘The estimate taken [of the Reformers and] of their work by Mr.
Froude, Mr. Keble, and Mr. Newman became sufficiently manifest on the
publication of Mr. Froude’s _Remains_, with the remarks prefixed to
them by the friends just mentioned. Mr. Froude had described the
English Reformers in general, as “a set with whom he wished to have
less and less to do.” He declared his opinion that Bishop Jewel was no
better than “an irreverent Dissenter,” and expressed himself as
sceptical whether Latimer (of whom, as a “Martyr,” he did not wish to
speak disrespectfully) were not “something in the Bulteel line.” Dr.
Pusey was too humble and forbearing to enter any kind of public
protest against statements and views so different from his own. But he
was generally believed not to go along with the tenour of these
expressions, nor to approve, otherwise than by passive acquiescence,
of the publication of those parts of the work in which they were
contained…. [Living,] Mr. Froude’s frankness and attractive personal
qualities gained from the rising generation of Oxford a favourable
hearing for the (to them) original views, which he so ably and
dashingly inculcated…. No one can read Mr. Froude’s _Remains_ …
without seeing that with him and with those with whom he corresponded,
the ethical system of Oxford had exercised no small influence in the
formation of mental habits. Those who, like myself, were personally
acquainted with Mr. Froude, will remember how constantly he used to
appeal to [the] great moral teacher of antiquity, “Old ‘Stotle,” as he
used playfully to call him, against the shallow principles of the day.
There is a sense, I am convinced, in which the literature of
heathenism is often more religious than that of Protestantism. Thus,
then, it was that the philosophical studies of Oxford tended to form
certain great minds on a semi-Catholic type.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Towards the close of his mortal career, his opinions appear to have
undergone some change which was perceptible to many of his friends
even in his outward demeanour. He associated less than formerly with
the old High Church party of the Establishment, as he became convinced
that the ills of the Church must be cured by sterner and more
unworldly methods of discipline than that party was prepared to
accept. An air of gravity, and a tone of severity, even in general
society (so far as he mixed with it), had replaced that bright and
sunny cheerfulness which was characteristic of his earlier days; and
this change of exterior was greater than could be explained by his
declining health, against which he bore up with exemplary fortitude.
Together with a more anxious view of the state and prospects of the
Establishment, he had apparently taken up a less favourable opinion of
the Catholic Church, at least in its actual manifestation. A visit to
the Continent had operated (from whatever cause) unfavourably upon his
judgment of Catholics, whom he now first stigmatised as “Tridentines”:
a strange commentary, certainly, on the view put forth later by Mr.
Newman, to the effect that the prevalent Catholic system was erroneous
in that it had deviated from the Tridentine rule, not in that it
represented that rule! This and similar dicta, some of a still more
painful import, have led such of Mr. Froude’s friends as have clung to
the Established Church to believe that, had he lived, he would have
remained on their side. Such a question will naturally be determined,
to a great extent, according to the personal views and wishes of those
who speculate upon it. Certain at any rate it is, that had he come to
us, the Church would have secured the humble obedience and faithful
service of a rarely gifted intellect; while, had he stayed behind, he
would have added one more to the number of those whose absence is the
theme of our lamentation, and whose conversion, the object of our
prayers. It is part, however, of the historian’s office to investigate
such questions according to the evidence at his disposal; and in the
instance before us, that evidence is far more accessible and far more
satisfactory than is usually the case in posthumous inquiries. Mr.
Froude’s Letters to Friends, published in his _Remains_, give an
insight into his character and feelings, with all their various
developments and vicissitudes, such as is commonly the privilege of
intimate personal acquaintance, and of that alone. His bosom friends
could hardly have known him better than the careful student of these
Letters may know him, if he desire it: indeed, it is to such friends
that he discloses himself in those Letters with almost the
plain-spokenness of the Confessional.

‘Now, it must be admitted that these Letters leave the question as to
the probability of his conversion very much in that evenly-balanced
state in which, as I have just said, the wishes of friends or
partisans come in to determine it on either side. His Letters contain,
on the one hand, many passages from which, if they stood alone, it
might be concluded that he was, at certain times, almost ripe for
conversion. They also contain others apparently of an opposite tenour.
In the former class must be reckoned those indications of antipathy,
continually deriving fresh fuel from new researches, to the English
Reformation and Reformers.[330] Mr. Froude’s theological sentiments
had long passed the mark of the Laudian era, and settled at the point
of the Nonjurors.[331] He thinks one might take for an example Francis
de Sales, whom, by the way, he classes with “Jansenist Saints.”[332]
Again, he was most deeply sensitive to the shortcomings and anomalies
of his communion: he calls it an “incubus” on the country, and
ascribes to it the blighting properties of the “upas-tree.” It is
evident that he was in advance both of Mr. Keble and Mr. Newman: he
twits the former, in friendly expostulation, with the Protestantism of
his phraseology in parts of _The Christian Year_, and laments the
backwardness of the latter on some questions of the day. On the other
hand, and in the same direction of thought, he expresses admiration of
Cardinal Pole; he scruples about speaking against the Catholic system,
even its “seemingly indifferent practices”;[333] he can understand, on
the principle of reverence, the Communion under one species,[334]
perhaps the greatest of all practical difficulties to many Anglican
minds. Moreover, when at Rome, he evidently opened the subject of
reconciliation to a distinguished prelate whom he met there.[335] _Per
contra_, we have painful sayings against supposed practical abuses in
the Church. “He really thought,” as he tells us, that “certain
practices which he witnessed abroad are idolatrous”; he charges
priests with irreverence, ecclesiastical authorities with laxity,
etc.[336] Yet even these opinions he partially qualifies, and is
disposed to attribute to defective information.[337] He shrinks from
speaking against Rome _as a Church_.[338]

‘Unwilling as I am to hazard conjectures on the subject, especially
against the judgement of any among his more intimate friends, I do not
think it unreasonable to conclude, from a comparison of these
passages, that Mr. Froude’s objections were chiefly directed against
imaginary abuses, or possible relaxations of discipline, which time
and reflection would have shown him to be entirely independent of the
real merits of the controversy. I find it also difficult to believe
that, as the principle of the English Reformation received these
illustrations in the Established Church which we have lived long
enough to see,――as her constituted tribunals were found to give up, in
succession, the grace of the Sacraments, the authority of the Church,
and even the inspiration of Holy Scripture itself, as necessary
truths,――his clear and honest mind would not have accepted some or all
of these tokens of apostasy as a summons to enter the True Fold.
Assuredly, too, we have known no instance of a mind equally candid,
intelligent, and instructed, whose advances in the direction of the
Truth (especially when assisted by extraordinary acuteness of
conscience and purity of life) have stopped short, as time has gone
on, of the logical conclusions, except in cases where the progress of
such a mind has been arrested by conflicting tendencies of deeply
ingrained Protestant or national prepossession: such as in his case
were singularly absent.

‘There is, however, one phase of Mr. Froude’s mind with which it is
far more difficult to reconcile the belief of his probable conversion
than any other. This phase, indeed, seems to have been a
characteristic of himself as compared with nearly all of those who
took a leading part in the Movement, including even Mr. Keble, who was
the nearest to Mr. Froude in general character. The peculiarity to
which I refer is that of an extraordinary leaning to the side of
religious dread, and a correspondent suppression of the sentiments of
love and joy. Mr. Froude’s religion, as far as it can be gathered from
his published Journal, seems to have been (if the expression be not
too strong) more like that of a humble and pious Jew under the Old
Dispensation, than that of a Christian living in the full sunshine of
Gospel privileges. The apology for this feature in his religious
character, and for any portion of it which appears in those of other
excellent men of the same period,[339] is to be found in the
ungraceful and often irreverent form in which the warmer side of the
Christian temper was exhibited in the party called Evangelical: whose
language, based as it often was upon grievous errors of doctrine, had
a tendency to react, in religious minds, on the side of severity and
reserve. Such a form of religious spirit, however, where exhibited in
the somewhat unusual proportions which it assumes in Mr. Froude, must
undergo almost a complete revolution before it can be naturally
susceptible of the impression which Catholic devotion has a tendency
to produce, or even tolerant of the language which pervades our
approved Manuals. It is certainly difficult to find in the Mr. Froude
of the _Remains_, a compartment for devotion to Our Blessed Lady,[340]
for instance, or even to the Sacred Humanity of Our Lord, in all its
attractive and endearing fulness. Yet, taking the phenomena of his
case as a whole, and duly estimating the respective powers of the two
conflicting forces, I cannot help thinking that the Church would more
easily have conquered his prejudices than the Establishment have
retained his allegiance.’

  From ‘THE BRITISH CRITIC,’ JAN., 1838, VOL. XXIII., PP. 200 _ET
      SEQ._, BY FREDERIC ROGERS, Esq., M.A., afterwards Lord

‘… The first volume of this book, to which the following observations
will be confined, presents an unusually perfect history of as
remarkable a mind as it is often our lot to fall in with. It is
remarkable, not merely for its talent, energy, and depth of religious
feeling, but because the character in which these qualities issue, is
one almost new to the eyes of this generation; and with this unusual
tone of thought and feeling, is joined a deep reality and consistency
which forces attention, and perhaps deference, even when the author’s
views least coincide with our own settled prejudices….

‘… There is a wide intermediate range of character among those who
neither neglect nor rest in their fellow-men. With some, those
feelings of reverence and admiration, which seem like the voice of God
assigning to every man his province, are more deeply touched by the
quiet holiness of domestic life, its little delicate self-sacrifices,
its affectionate attentions and glad confidence. The idol of their
hearts is one whom men love even when he is most severe, or, if they
love him not they dare not avow it, knowing that the world would hold
them self-condemned; whose enjoyment it is to confer enjoyment, who
moves about with a heart and sympathies open to all he meets,
expecting no evil; and, when encountered by vice, rebukes it with a
mixture of horror, pity, and simplicity, which, if they fail to
convince, at least never irritate or harden. Not that such an one need
be wanting in the expression of just indignation, but he shows no
intention to punish, no assumption of superiority. He speaks either by
way of affectionate remonstrance, or to disburden his own conscience;
and those who are too bad to be affected by mere goodness, only say of
him “that he is as kind-hearted a man as can be; pity he should let
his fancies run away with him.”

‘It need hardly be said that this is Christian love, but not its only
form. Minds more bitterly alive to the unsatisfying nature of earthly
things, will thirst after some more immediate form of self-devotion to
God: and the same feelings which render their brethren less adequate
representatives of their Heavenly Father in their hearts, imply
capacities which render them less necessary. They will press as close
to God as He will let them, anxious, if it were possible, to
anticipate His purposes concerning them, watching for permission to
throw away earthly comforts in His service, if He will give them the
signal to take to themselves that honour; laborious, by meditation and
mortification of the flesh, to root out from their hearts every idle
desire that interferes with His presence there, and to bend to His
direct service every high taste and faculty which He has given them:
who would sing songs to His glory though there were none to hear them,
and would adorn holy places though there were none to see them;
anxious for no result, but for the mere happiness of devoting heart,
head, and hand to His honour, if they have but an instinct or a word
of His to tell them that He will be pleased with their little
offering. These men will no more forget their brethren than the others
will forget God; they will have their words of encouragement for the
penitent, of courtesy for the stranger, of deep affection for their
friends. But they do not go about, overflowing with kindness and
confidence to all men. Perhaps circumstances have thrown upon them one
of those great works which ever lie about the world unappropriated,
and they are “straitened till it be accomplished.” Perhaps the work of
their own salvation lies heavier on their spirits than on theirs who
live and die in happy, quiet, uniform thankfulness. Perhaps their own
renunciation of the lesser pleasures of life makes them less
understand the value which others set on them. At any rate, their
constant endeavour to realise within themselves their own high
aspirations, tends to unfit them for sympathising with buoyant earthly
merriment, or sanguine earthly wishes, except it be with the passing
interest which we give to the careless gaiety of a child.

‘Again, the stern examination by which they purge their own hearts,
that they may be worthy of God, opens to them the secrets of others.
It shows them what is their own meanness in the sight of God, and what
it may be in the sight of their fellow-men; but it lays upon them the
painful power of seeing through profession and self-deceit, and it
teaches them how, by word and eye, to silence and chastise as well as

       *     *     *     *     *

‘These men, it need scarcely be said, are not talked of as
“kind-hearted fellows”; they are felt to be partisans, and are
reverenced or hated accordingly. Their presence, when it does not
deepen the interest of conversation, is apt to impose a check on its
freedom. Men are afraid of being frivolous and unreal in their
presence; doubtful what will offend them; or what degree of
forbearance they may reckon on; suspicious of their motives, as of men
who do not speak freely, unless they speak with authority, of what
they most deeply mean; and cautious in accepting their friendship, for
it is only firmly given to similarity of religious aim. But the
loftiness of sentiment which confines, deepens also the flow of their
sympathies; their power of severity gives meaning to their affection,
and their singleness of aim a high harmony to their thoughts and
tastes. Those who will take their hand and walk with them will find
the fruit of their friendship rich according to its noble origin and

‘Now of these two characters it would perhaps be overbold to say which
is holiest; at any rate, the loveliness of one is very different from
the majesty of the other: different, not indeed in essentials, but in
the hopes, fears, tastes, and sentiments, which it forces uppermost….
The later Church of England character is very decidedly of the former
cast. Ours is the Church of Walton and Herbert, not of Athanasius and
Ambrose. And truly we have been born into a beautiful inheritance. Our
fathers have bequeathed to us the appreciation of a kindly and a holy
spirit; a spirit of affectionate unobtrusive meekness, of considerate
friendliness, of calm cheerfulness. And these are in their measure not
only appreciated but realised amongst us: the domestic and social
virtues of our clergy are in the mouths of every panegyrist of the
Church of England, and are hardly denied by her enemies…. And it is
true, that there are passages of Scripture which address themselves to
a very different class of minds: passages which ὁ δυνάμενος χωρεῖν,
χωρείτω, which “all men cannot receive, but they to whom it is given.”
There are a whole class of expressions in the New Testament, which
though surely they do not condemn the English Church, yet seem somehow
not to have received their natural development in it.[342] “If thou
wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast … and come, follow Me.”
“Blessed are ye when men shall hate you.” “Woe unto you that laugh
now, for ye shall mourn and weep.” “Κάλον ἀνθρώπῳ γύναικος μὴ
ἅπτεσθαι.” “Every one that hath forsaken brethren or sisters, or
father or mother, or wife or children, for My Name’s sake, shall
receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.” We seem
afraid of these.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Within our own Church, we are over-careful to soothe enthusiasm, and
somewhat helpless in directing it. In judging foreign Churches, or
other ages, we talk of a “misguided zeal for what they consider the
glory of God,” “the fantastic rigours by which men render themselves
callous to the sufferings of others,” “the extinction of the domestic
affections to aggrandise one ambitious Church,” words which may be
true or not, as they are applied, but which, as commonly used, are
rather rashly bandied about, considering all the hints and
recommendations that Scripture contains.[343] We can be warm enough in
our censures of those who would call down fire from Heaven, or sit at
the right hand of Christ, but have perhaps too much fellow-feeling
with him who went away sorrowful when he found he must not only obey
the law, but sell his property. The book now before us is, most
unquestionably, not of the peculiar Church of England character, but
of that cast which we are somewhat apt to depreciate, or to look on as
a romantic unreality….

‘In his Private Journal, which was written chiefly in 1826, when he
was about twenty-four, the feeling round which all others seem to
group themselves, is a craving after an ideal happiness, real and
attainable, though not yet, of which all our refined perceptions of
beauty, nobility, and holiness are but indications and foretastes, and
in which, as our character becomes equal to our capacities, they must
eventually converge. With this is joined, as perhaps its necessary
condition, a sensitive and pure taste for all that is beautiful or
lofty to sight or mind; high, though unpractised, poetical powers; and
an earnest appreciation of the reverence due to holy things, even to
our own higher thoughts and deeper emotions.

‘This itself explains why these powers and feelings, lying, it seems,
deepest, were unknown, almost unsuspected, by more than two or three
of his nearest friends. His acquaintance more readily perceived and
appreciated an unusually deep and true mode of dealing with
mathematical questions; a subtlety, boldness and ingenuity of
reasoning; a frank and accurate apprehension of the full force of an
adverse argument; and a definiteness of conception and expression
which seemed to cut through an intricate question, throwing off,
rather than grappling with objections, with a clearness which one
could hardly believe not to be sophistry.

‘But this book derives its commanding interest from the stern
self-chastisement of body and mind, from which both reason and
imagination receive their tone and substance. With this the Journal
acquaints us; and there is something which really cows an ordinary
reader, in the unsparing steadiness with which faults are sought for,
the bitter self-abasement with which they are felt, and the
unrelenting determination with which they are punished; all being
recorded, except when addressed to God, with a plain and sometimes
contemptuous homeliness of expression, which seems as if the author
wished to do dishonour to himself and his thoughts, or held that a
feeling which claimed to be deep and true, should not disdain to buy,
by humiliation, the privilege of utterance….

‘… In 1825, in which year he took his degree, passages in his letters
show the existence of those romantic views of religion which occupy so
prominent a place in his character from that time forward. Of part of
the intervening time, he speaks often in his Journal with very deep
contrition: but anyone who observes the deep humiliation with which he
confesses faults of which ordinary persons would think but little,
(common indeed to all who have really high views of Christian
excellence,) will be very cautious in inferring much as to the facts
themselves, from this most bitter recollection of them. The Journal
itself may perhaps be best introduced by some letters, giving an
account of the first part of the time which it records.’

     [To the Rev. JOHN KEBLE, but not sent.]

                                                 Sept. 28, 1826.

‘“I have been meaning to write to you every day for a long time, and I
do not suppose you would wish me to be influenced in putting off
longer by the sad thing we have just heard.[344] At least, if I may
judge from myself, there is so little difference between what are
called real afflictions and imaginary ones, that it seems just as
rational to go on in the common way when under the former as the
latter. With me, this last summer, both at the time, and looking back
on it, seems to have gone very strangely; and I do not see any ground
why my reason should contradict my feelings, because the things which
affect me are either, in their nature, confined to the person who
feels them, or are thought trifles by people in general. I have been
trying almost all the Long [Vacation] to discover a sort of
common-sense romance: I am convinced there must be such a thing, and
that Nature did not give us such a high capacity for pleasure without
making some other qualification for it besides delusion. But the
speculation has got much more serious, and runs out into many more
ramifications than I expected at first; and it seems to me as if I
might make it the main object of a long course of reading, the first
step of which would be to follow your advice in learning Hebrew and
reading the early Fathers. This I have determined upon doing
immediately upon my return to Oxford; and the intervening space I
shall pass away as I can, with I. and P.,[345] among the mountains and
waterfalls. Since I wrote this in the morning, I have been walking
with P., whose quietness of mind makes me quite ashamed of my
speculations, and I hardly like sending you this letter; however, if I
have been making myself a fool all the summer, it is better I should
not go on brooding on it by myself; for letting somebody know the
state of my thoughts is the only way of keeping them straight; and I
know no one but you who would make sufficient allowance for me to
venture on such things with. Perhaps you may think it very odd, but
this is the first time I have had resolution to ask for the papers
which they found of my mother’s after her death.”

‘The writer seems to have shrunk from allowing this letter to reach
his friend. In its stead, the following was sent:

‘“I have made three attempts to write, but all of them ran off into
something wild, which, upon reflection, I thought would be better kept
to myself. The fact is, that I have been in a strange way all the
summer, and having had no one to talk to about the things which have
bothered me, I have been every now and then getting into fits of
enthusiasm or despondency. But the result has been in some respects a
good one, and I have got to take very great pleasure in what you
recommended me when we were together at F.,[346] the evening before I
left you, our first summer, _i.e._ good books; and I feel [I]
understand places in the Psalms in a way I never used to. I go back to
Oxford with a determination to set to at Hebrew and the early Fathers,
and to keep myself in as strict order as I can: a thing which I have
been making ineffectual attempts at for some time, but which never
once entered my head for a long time of my life….

‘“And now I must drop back to myself. I wish you would say anything to
me that you think would do me good, however severe it may be. You must
have observed many things very contemptible in me, but I know worse of
myself, and shall be prepared for anything. I cannot help being afraid
that I am still deceiving myself about my motives and feelings, and
shall be glad of anything on which to steady myself.”

‘It is exceedingly interesting to trace in the Journal the actual
working day by day of the feelings to which these letters refer. The
following extract is, in effect, its opening:

‘“_July 1, 1826._――I think it will be a better way to keep a Journal
for a bit, as I find I want keeping in order about more things than
reading. I am in a most conceited way, besides very ill-tempered and
irritable. My thoughts wander very much at my prayers, and I feel
hungry for some ideal thing of which I have no definite idea. I
sometimes fancy that the odd bothering feeling which gets possession
of me is affectation, and that I appropriate it because I think it a
sign of genius: but it lasts too long, and is too disagreeable to be

‘“_July 5._――I do not know how it is, but it seems to me as if the
consciousness of having capacities for happiness, with no objects to
gratify them, seems to grow upon me, and puts me in a dreary way.
Lord, have mercy upon me!”

‘These feelings continue occasionally to appear, assuming, more and
more, a distinct and practical shape, till his return to Oxford in
October, 1826 (the period when the Letters before quoted were
written), when they gave rise to the following resolutions:

‘“I have been coming to a resolution, that as soon as I am out of the
reach of observation, I will begin a sort of monastic austere life,
and do my best to chastise myself before the Lord; that I will attend
Chapel regularly; eat little and plainly, drink as little wine as I
can, consistently with the forms of society; keep the fasts of the
Church, as much as I can, without ostentation; continue to get up at
six in the winter; abstain from all unnecessary expenses, in
everything; give all the money I can save in charity, or for the
adorning of religion. That I will submit myself to the wishes of the
[Provost?] as to one set over me by the Lord, but never give in to the
will or opinion of anyone from idleness, or false shame, or want of
spirit. That I will avoid society as much as I can, except those I can
do good to, or from whom I may expect real advantage; and I will, in
all my actions, endeavour to justify that high notion of my
capabilities of which I cannot divest myself. That I will avoid all
conversation on serious subjects, except with those whose opinions I
revere, and content myself with exercising dominion over my own mind,
without trying to influence others. The studies which I have
prescribed to myself are Hebrew and Ante-Nicene Fathers….”

‘We extract the following philosophical reflections, taken from the
Occasional Thoughts of about the same date, as similarly
characteristic of the author’s steady and systematic procedure:

‘“_Dec. 1, 7_, and _17_.――It is the object of our lives, by patient
perseverance in a course of action prescribed to us, so to shape and
discipline our desires that they may, through habit, be excited to the
same degree by the objects which are presented to our understanding,
as they would by nature, if we had senses to relish them; that is,
that the degree of our appetites for these objects should so far
exceed that which we feel for sensible objects, as the known value of
the former exceeds that of the latter. The former field of existence
is what I think St. Paul had in his mind when he spoke (Heb., vi. 19)
of ‘that which is within the veil,’ into which Jesus Christ had gone
before us: the veil signifying our unconsciousness, in spite of which,
‘by two immutable things, in which it was impossible that God should
lie, we might have strong consolation who have fled to lay hold of the
hope set before us.’ All this seems the real meaning of faith, as
insisted on so much in the New Testament.

‘“Of the objects which we pursue or avoid, some we immediately
perceive to be either present or absent; some we only believe to be so
through the intervention of the understanding. The various
dispositions of our fellow-creatures towards us are of the latter
sort. We have no faculties for perceiving love or admiration; but
being conscious of the feeling ourselves, and recognising in others
the effects which we know to proceed from them, we believe their
presence upon evidence, and are affected therewith. Of being in
society we cannot be conscious, if by society we mean not that of
certain shapes doing certain things, but of beings which feel in some
respects as we do. The existence of such beings we only believe on
evidence, having observed effects like those which proceed from our
own feelings, in so many instances as to make it appear that the
causes are likewise similar. The same sort of evidence we have of the
existence of other beings, in some respects like, and in others
different from ourselves. That a Being exists endued with power and
wisdom, the limits of which we cannot reach to, is, I think, more
certain than that we have fellow-creatures.[347] All men, whether they
know it or not, act as if they believed in a Being endued with
intelligence and power and will, superior to any interference. They
count on the course of Nature continuing as it is, because they know
that what they have long continued to do they go on with; and rely
without any doubt on its skill and ability for perfecting their
undertaking, where their own skill and ability fall short. That this
Being has any other attributes, we have not the same evidence. These
are the ‘things within the veil’; they are κυρίως, the objects of
faith. But consideration will show that the difference is not in kind
but in degree, and that among what we call the things visible, motives
are proposed to us to be acted on, approaching to it by degrees

‘“Isa. xxv. 7, 9. ‘And He will destroy in this mountain the face of
the covering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over
all nations…. And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God;
we have waited for Him, and He will save us; this is the Lord; we have
waited for Him: we will be glad and rejoice in His salvation….’

‘“The business of our life seems to be, to acquire the habit of acting
in such a manner as we should do, if we were conscious of all we know;
and in this respect no action of our lives can be indifferent, but
must either tend to form this habit or a contrary one: so that those
whose attempt to act right does not commence with their power of
acting at all, have much to undo, as well as to do. The craving, and
blankness of feeling, which attends the early stages of this habit
(‘show some token upon me for good’), makes anything acceptable which
can even in fancy fill it; and it is delightful to see things turn out
well, whose case seems, in some sort, to represent to us our
indistinct conceptions of our own. Animals fainting under the effect
of exercise, and then again recovering their strength, which that very
exercise has contributed to increase; the slow and uncertain degrees
in which this exercise is effected, and yet the certainty that it is
effected;――the growth of trees sometimes tossed by winds and checked
by frosts, yet, by the evil effects of these winds directed in what
quarter to strike their roots, so as to secure themselves for the
future, and by these frosts hardened and fitted for a new progress the
next summer:――in things of this sort I am [altered in the MS. from ‘we
are’] so constituted, as to see brethren in affliction evidently
making progress towards release….”

       *     *     *     *     *

‘The impression left on the mind after a first perusal of the Journal
is doubtless a depressing one, both from the unhappiness which it
records, and (it may be) from a fear that if we would exercise the
same strict vigilance over our own hearts, or would aim at the same
high mark, we might find cause for disquiet too. It is a real
satisfaction to find, both at the end of the Journal that the author
considers himself to have passed into a happier state, and in his
Letters, that he gradually ceases to speak of his own despondency,
either openly to his nearest friend, or in those half-jesting hints of
which his other friends must only now feel the meaning. His external
demeanour, both from natural disposition and from his contempt for any
display of feeling, seems always to have been so full of life and
energy, that from it alone, perhaps, no change in this respect could
have been inferred. This despondency we have not attempted to show in
the extracts, though it does slightly appear there; but rather his
high desires to “enter within the veil,” to be “hidden in the presence
of the Lord,” and the mode which he took to realise them. This forms a
remarkable contrast with the self-confidence and unreality which too
frequently springs from the consciousness of high views. It is,
unfortunately, not often that we see men of bold and independent
minds, subtle and comprehensive powers of reasoning, and romantic
desires, giving up, till they shall be fit for it, all notion of
“influencing others”; checking, without throwing aside, their own high
feelings; subduing, with a systematic humility, their impulses to
express them, and submitting to learn their duty by the slow and
common-sense process of “following great examples,” “studying Hebrew
and the Ante-Nicene Fathers,” and in the meantime obeying scrupulously
the voices of those whom they feel to be better than themselves….

‘The volume before us touches the magic keys with a bold hand; and
though some of the notes which come forth are rather startling, and
may be untruly struck, yet there is a meaning in them which deserves
to be analysed by those defenders of the English Church who are
looking about for weapons to wield, and ground to stand on. Two
principal wants, then, the author seems to have felt in the English
Church: authority, and richness; and that not in the spirit of a
dreaming philosopher, but of one who knew that we were here not to
think only, but to act; that evil was given us that we might strive
against it; Truth, that we might uphold or restore it; Revelation and
moral instincts, that we might know both one and the other; Talent and
energy, that we might form projects, recommend, and execute them. Nor
would the restraints he set on his impulses to influence others, till
circumstances and a conscious fitness should call him to it, make him
likely to shrink from his task when he felt it given him. He seems
early to have thought that his powers would enable him to serve the
Church more effectually as a reader and writer than as a parochial
clergyman: by acting on those minds which are to guide the masses,
[rather] than on the masses themselves. To this his position as
College Fellow seemed also to invite him; and the following extracts
illustrate part of the spirit in which he devoted himself to this
task, and the tastes he sacrificed to it.

‘“_July 27, 1827._――

     ‘What is home, you silly, silly wight,
      That it seems to you to shine so bright?
      What is home?――’Tis a place so gay,
      Where the birds are singing all the day;
      Where a wood is close by, and a river dear,
      And the banks they sleep in the water clear;
      Where the roses are red and the lilies pale;
      And the little brooks run along every vale.

      Is it nowhere but home, you silly-billee,
      That the thrushes sing in each shady tree?
      That the woods are deep, and the rivers too,
      And the roses and lilies laugh at you?
      O there are thousands of places as well!
      So be quiet, I pray, and no nonsense tell.

      Oh yes, but faces of kindness are there,
      Which brighten the flowers and freshen the air;
      Sweetly at morn our eyes do rest
      On those whom waking thoughts have blest,
      And guarded in sleep by a magic spell,
      O’er which “Good-nights” are sentinel.

      Is kindness, then, so dainty a flower,
      That it grows alone in one chosen bower?
      Hast thou not many a brother dear,
      With thee to hope, and with thee to fear,
      Owning a common Father’s aid,
      Resting alike in a common shade?

      Yes, friends may be kind, and vales may be green,
      And brooks may sparkle along between;
      But it is not Friendship’s kindest look,
      Nor loveliest vale, nor clearest brook,
      That can tell the tale which is written for me
      On each old face and well-known tree.’”

‘“_July 28._――This stagnant effusion was enough for one day, and I
must not put off any longer,” etc.

‘“_Sept. 9, 1832._――Also I am getting to be a sawney, and not to like
the dreary prospects which you[348] and I have proposed to ourselves.
But this is only a feeling; depend upon it, I will not shrink, if I
buy my constancy at the expense of a permanent separation from home.”

‘“_Sept. 27._――As to my sawney feelings, I own that home does make me
a sawney, and that the first _Eclogue_ runs in my head absurdly; but
there is more in the prospect of becoming an ecclesiastical agitator
than in――_At nos hinc, alii_,” etc.

‘And this introduces us to a side of his character on which we have as
yet scarcely touched: the fertility, buoyancy, boldness, and
versatility of his mind. It has been left unnoticed, partly because no
one who was ever so little acquainted with the author, or who would
read ever so cursorily the book before us, could well overlook it,
partly because the peculiarities on which we have dwelt seem to have
exercised a far deeper influence in making him what he was. Both the
Journal and the Occasional Thoughts, though principally interesting as
showing the processes by which his character and opinions formed
themselves, and the depth of thought and determination of purpose on
which they were based, cannot but in part show those too; but in the
Letters we are flooded with the pointed suggestions, the bold
historical views of a keen-sighted politician, the vigorous statements
and earnest queries of one who was seeking and contending for divine
Truth, and the ingenious hints, on questions of taste or science, of a
man of genius who thought nothing unworthy to employ his powers which
could be pressed into the service of religion….

‘From what has been already said, some general notion may be gained of
the author’s formal opinions. It may be added, that he was one of
those who, feeling strongly the inadequacy of their own intellects to
guide them to religious Truth, are prepared to throw themselves
unreservedly on Revelation wherever found, in Scripture or Antiquity.
Any more definite account it would be difficult to give without
unfairness either to the author or to the reader: to the reader, if we
omitted his more startling views; to the author, if we stated them
detached and unsupported. His Letters seem to show that his opinions
ran somewhat in advance of those to whom he was most closely bound.
Still less should we venture to pledge ourselves to every statement
and suggestion contained in the two volumes; yet we cannot but express
our hope that they will be very generally read and weighed, as likely
to suggest thoughts on doctrine, on Church policy, and on individual
conduct, most true, and most necessary for these times.’

      Brother-in-Law, the Ven. Sir GEORGE PREVOST. London: Longmans,
      Green & Co., 1892.

  [By the kind permission of the Rev. G. A. Williams, and of Messrs
      Longmans, Green & Co.]

‘Keble took us into his house,[349] where I formed a most valued
friendship with Froude. He was an Eton man, and at Oriel of a little
older standing than myself. [We found] religion a reality, and a man
wholly made up of love…. Here were many of us, taught with much pains
and care by one till then a stranger, and altogether gratuitously….
Each of us was always delighted to walk with him, Wilberforce,[350] to
gather instruction for the Schools, and the rest of us for love’s
sake…. I spent all this vacation [1823] at Southrop, and, I think, all
my subsequent ones. It was, I think, on this occasion that John Keble
said: “Since you have shown me your Latin poems, I shall be vain
enough to show you my English ones,” and he then lent me to read what
has since been called _The Christian Year_. It was carefully written
out in small red books. I read it a great deal, but did not much enter
into it. No more did Froude, when he saw it; and, I think, even long
after he was averse to the publication of it. Among other things he
said: “People will take Keble for a Methodist!” At that time I told
Keble my favourite poet was Collins: he said there was not enough
thought in him to please himself. Froude was always maintaining some
argument with Keble, occasionally some monstrous paradox. He was
considered a very odd fellow at College, but clever and original;
Keble alone was able to appreciate and value him. If he had not at
this time fallen into such hands, his speculations might have taken a
very dangerous turn; but as his father, the Archdeacon, told me, from
this time it was much otherwise: he continued to throw out strong
paradoxes, but always for good.

‘On returning to Oxford, Froude had now taken the place of my former
companions, Keble being a great bond between us. I think he took more
to me than I did to him, because I had been used to more of worldly
refinement and sentiment, whereas he was unworldly, and real. But
still, we were much united, and became more and more so…. Froude told
me, many years after, that Keble once, before parting from him, seemed
to have something on his mind which he wished to say, but shrunk from
saying. At last, while waiting, I think, for a coach, he said to him
before parting: “Froude, you said one day that Law’s _Serious Call_
was a clever” (or “pretty,” I forgot which) “book: it seemed to me as
if you had said the Day of Judgement would be a pretty sight.” This
speech, Froude told me, had a great effect on his after-life; and I
observed that in the published Letters in Froude’s _Remains_, he twice
alludes to it…. Henry Ryder (like Wilberforce) had been brought up in
a strict Evangelical school of the better kind; and on one occasion
got up and left a College party in consequence of something that
Froude had said that seemed to him to be of a light kind. But when he
afterwards came to know the deep self-humiliation and depth of
devotion there was in Froude’s character, which was engaged in the
discipline of the heart, he became so shocked with himself and his own
opinions, that he adopted the opposite course….

‘It was in August, 1825, that I first went with Froude into
Devonshire. We went by a steamer from Cowes to Plymouth, as described
in a letter in Froude’s _Remains_ (Part i., Vol. i., p. 181). From
Totnes, we walked up the Dart by Dartington House to the Parsonage:
that place which ever since has been to me dearer than my native
vales, of which I always say:

     ‘_Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes Angulus ridet._

‘The Froudes were eight in family, and the Archdeacon became a great
friend. But the people after my own heart were at Dartington
House.[351] … With the Archdeacon and Hurrell we rode along the coast,
being very hospitably entertained at different houses; and at last,
from the Holdsworths’ house at Dartmouth we came up the river Dart by
boat…. Prevost, [the] summer of 1826, came to Cwm,[352] and was
engaged to my sister; and afterwards Froude came there too, and gives
an account of his stay there in his published Journal, where I am
mentioned under the letter I., and Prevost under that of P. All this
time I was very unwell, and preying on my own mind. I went to Oxford
to reside my Bachelor’s term, and lived with Sir Charles Anderson, and
saw much of Froude, who was very kind to me. I went to Dartington,
with the Archdeacon, from Oxford, and spent the Easter there…. When I
went to reside in Oxford, in October, [1831], as College Tutor, I felt
what a great change had come on my mind since residing there before,
on account of the influence of Bisley[353] and Windrush,[354] and I
found this the more on returning to the society of Froude, for I was
become so much more soft and practical, and he more theoretical and
speculative…. Yet this change that had been going on, from difference
of circumstances, in no way lessened my friendship and intimacy with
Froude, but rather increased it; for though naturally inclined to
speculation, he was himself entirely of the Keble school, which in
opposition to the Oriel or Whatelian, set ἦθος above intellect….
Living at that time so much with Froude, I was now, in consequence,
for the first time, brought into intercourse with Newman; we almost
daily walked and dined together. Newman and Froude were just then
turned out of their tutorships at Oriel, together with Robert
Wilberforce, who left Oxford for his living of East Farleigh. Their
course had, as yet, been chiefly academical, but now, released from
College affairs, their thoughts were more open to the state of the
Church…. I was greatly charmed and delighted with Newman, who was
extremely kind to me; but [I] did not altogether trust his opinions.
Although Froude was in the habit of stating things in an extreme and
paradoxical manner, yet one always felt conscious of a thorough
foundation of truth and principle in him, a ground of entire
confidence and agreement; but this was not so with Newman, even
although one appeared more in unison with his more moderate
statements.[355] … At this time he was coming to look to Keble
altogether, as he received him second-hand through Froude…. But I
always thought Froude an unfair exponent of Keble’s opinions: they
were stated by him in a manner so much his own, so startling and
original, and put in so extreme a light, that I could hardly recognise
them as the same, so different was his from Keble’s manner of
expressing himself. [_Note._――Froude used to defend his startling way
of putting facts and arguments on the ground that it was the only way
to rouse people, and get their attention; and he said that when you
had once done this, you might modify your statements. There is, of
course, some truth in this, but it always seemed, and still seems to
me, a dangerous line. John Keble could not do so: his great humility
and diffidence would prevent it, and that strict conscientiousness
which hindered him from even willingly overstating any fact, or
pressing any argument, beyond what he said it really did prove….]

‘… The circumstance which I most remember about that time[356] was a
conversation with Froude which was the first commencement of the
_Tracts for the Times_. He returned full of energy and of a prospect
of doing something for the Church; and we walked in the Trinity
College gardens, and discussed the subject. He said, in his manner:
“Isaac, we must make a row in the world! Why should we not? Only
consider what the Peculiars” (_i.e._ the Evangelicals) “have done with
a few half-truths to work upon! And with our principles, if we set
resolutely to work, we can do the same.” I said: “I have no doubt we
can make a noise, and may get people to join us; but shall we make
them really better Christians? If they take up our principles in a
hollow way, as the Peculiars” (this was a name Froude had given the
Low Church party) “have done theirs, what good shall we do?” To this
Froude said: “Church principles, forced on people’s notice, must work
for good. However, we must try; and Newman and I are determined to set
to work as soon as he returns, and you must join with us. We must have
short tracts, and letters in _The British Magazine_, and verses (and
these you can do for us), and get people to preach sermons on the
Apostolical Succession and the like. And let us come and see old
Palmer” (_i.e._ the author of the _Origines Liturgicæ_) “and get him
to do something.” We then called on Palmer, who was one of the very
few in Oxford (indeed, the only one at that time) who sympathised with
us; and although he did not altogether understand Froude, or our ways
and views (the less so as he was not himself an Oxford, but a Dublin
man), yet he was extremely hearty in the cause, looking more to
external visible union and strength than we did, for we only had at
heart certain principles. We, _i.e._, Froude, Keble, and myself,
immediately began to send some verses to _The British Magazine_, since
published [in] the _Lyra Apostolica_….

‘… From this time forth, after Newman’s return, I was thrown more and
more entirely into his society for about seven years, Froude waning
more and more away, and disappearing from Oxford….

‘… I much regretted not being with poor Froude at or nearly before his
death…. Poor Froude! he was peculiarly _vir paucorum hominum_: I
thought that knowing him, I better understood Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
Froude was a person most natural, but so original as to be unlike
anyone else, hiding depth of delicate thought in apparent
extravagances. _Hamlet_ and the _Georgics_ of Virgil, he used to say,
he should have bound together. Many have imagined, and Newman
endeavoured to persuade himself, that if Froude had lived he would
have joined the Church of Rome, as well as himself. But this I do not
at all think. There was a seriousness and steadfastness, at the
bottom, in Froude, so that I had always confidence in him:[357] Newman
told me once, half-seriously, that the publication of Froude’s
_Remains_ was owing to me, as I had said to him, if persons could have
so much brought before them that they could thoroughly understand
Froude’s character, then they might enter into his sayings; but unless
they knew him as we did, they could not understand them. For, indeed,
one constantly trembled for him in mixed society, both in Common Rooms
and in other places, feeling that he would not be understood…. On the
day of the book coming out, I went into Parker the bookseller’s with
Copeland; and there we were startled at seeing one who then was the
chief opponent of the Church principles of Newman and ourselves. It
was Ward of Balliol, author of the _Ideal_. He sat down with the book
in his hands, evidently much affected; and then we afterwards heard,
to our astonishment, that he had been very much taken by the book, had
bought a copy for himself and another to give away, and was, in fact,
quite converted.’


     ‘It was before the summer holidays,
      A noon I well remember, as we sat
      Conversing in my College rooms, my thoughts
      Mingling unconscious with the trembling leaves
      Of poplars from the window; and meanwhile,
      In converse still unbroken, thence we passed
      Into the stately garden-walks, and there
      Paced to and fro beside the aged yews
      Which once like living guardians of the lawn
      Had marshalled all the place with verdant walls:
      Now, mere memorials of their former sway.
      ’Twas a dark vapoury noon, while ruddy gleams
      Were mingling with the sun, and fell athwart
      The cloistral lime-tree avenue beyond;
      And like a curtain, the moist atmosphere
      Hung heavily around us, yet withal
      Glowing and warm, not adverse to my friend
      (Lately returned from genial Italy,
      Death in his frame and cheek), and to his eye
      Lent more than its own brightness. He was one
      I loved: ah, would that I had loved him more!
      For he was worthy of a good man’s love.
      “Yes,” said he, with my name, as he was wont,
      Sportfully playing, “we must make a noise
      In the large world; why should we not? How they
      Of Low Church views, Peculiar, through the land
      Make themselves felt and heard; and ring aloud
      With a few truths, half-truths! and shall not we
      With the whole Truth forgotten for our theme,
      The pillar and the ground of all our hopes,
      Or, rather, say the Faith entire and one
      In all its due proportions, and the Church
      Our witness of old time,――why should we not
      Lift up, as like a trumpet through the land,
      With no uncertain sound, our warning voice?”

      My answer I remember: “Noise abroad
      I doubt not we can make as well as they.
      And then to be as hollow partisans,
      Supporters,――this were easy, and the Church
      To be familiar in men’s mouths; but then
      Will they beneath all this be better men,
      More humble?”

                  “They will be so,” he replied.
      “For the great Truths themselves, depend on it,
      Will work, and work for good; but hollow men
      There will be, and needs must.”

                              Yet, to and fro,
      I urged the adverse part: “I fear the weight
      On spirits unprepared, undisciplined;
      Of others and ourselves I am afraid.
      Could men be fuller leavened with the thought
      Of Judgement and Hereafter, could we lay
      Foundations deep in honesty, ’twere well;
      But else, mere superstructure on the sand!
      Fashion, religious fashion, and the tide
      Of popular feelings,――I can never wish
      To have them with us. We must walk in doubt
      And fear, and do our parts, come what come may.”

      “Yes,” said he, pausing, “very true”: with look
      Half-loving and half-pitying. “My friend,
      You now must creep no more; for all too long
      You have in country hamlets shady grown.
      For part of this our duty, ere we die,
      Is to be up and stirring; we must rise
      Or be for ever fallen: God will help.

      Else all that’s good and holy in the land,
      Beneath the blasting influence of the State
      Will wither and dry up and droop and die,
      As neath the upas-tree. We must be up,
      And moving, now, at once; and when our friend
      Shall have returned from ancient Sicily,”
      (He spake of one whom he had left behind
      Bound for the classic shores of Syracuse),
      “Tracts we must have, and, by what means we can,
      Launch them abroad, short Tracts; we must begin,
      And you, too, you must aid, and with your verse.
      Come, see what you have ready for our hand.
      The _Monthly_, as you know, _The British_ named,
      Is open for our letters, prose, and rhyme.
      But deeper the foundations must be laid
      In these our Tracts; subsidial aid we need,
      Full many: to get friends (if here and there
      One may be found, or two) to bring to aid
      Their pulpits, and proclaim there is a Church
      Planted by Christ’s own hand within our isle.――
      And let us now to Worcester.” Then of one
      He spake, well-honoured for good service done
      Linking our Liturgies unto the past.
      “Hearty he is, and earnest; though not meet
      Throughout to understand and sympathise,
      Yet in his line will lend us his good aid,
      Though looking for external front, and powers,
      More than on principles which we are bent
      To scatter broad and deep. Let’s now to him.”
      And thus, full-sailed in academic garb,
      Through the Collegiate gates, archway, and porch
      We passed in conversation, bent to raise
      The Signal: ’twas the day of little things.

      That friend with whom I thus in council walked,
      Associate of my earlier years, long since
      Is in his peaceful grave; nor did he live
      To see our sorrows. There was that in him
      Wherein one might cast anchor. Often wont

      To talk in paradox, it was his mood
      Of playfulness, as one that inly smiled
      Mocking at the conceptions which the tongue
      Is weak to utter; venting heart-felt truths
      In startling shape preposterous; with a smile
      At incongruity of our poor thoughts
      To match our endless weight of destiny;
      Yea, at himself, to see intention yoked
      So strangely with performance, which still paced
      Unequally, and limped or dragged behind.
      His intellect was keen-edged as the sword
      Of Saladin, well-matched with battle-axe
      Of Cœur de Lion; while in poetry
      And arts, his judgement was the sculptor’s nail;
      But, like the royal Dane of Shakespeare wrought,
      One by himself, not of a class or kind:
      Like to himself alone and no one else.
        There was within him such repose on Truth,
      Absence of self, such heart-controlling fear,
      I feel that, had he lived, he had not been
      The sport of his own sails, or popular winds
      That he had courted for our object’s sake.
      Men hurry to and fro; but he the while
      Hath found the Haven where he fain would be.’

  From ‘CARDINAL NEWMAN,’ by RICHARD H. HUTTON. London: Methuen & Co.,
      1891. [English Leaders of Religion.]

  [By the kind permission of the executors of Mr. Hutton, and of
      Messrs. Methuen & Co.]

‘The friendship between Newman and Mr. Hurrell Froude, the elder
brother of the historian, which commenced in 1826, and became intimate
in 1829, lasting thence to Mr. Froude’s death from consumption in
1836, was certainly one of the most important influences which acted
on Newman’s career at the most critical period of his life. Newman’s
was one of the minds which mature slowly; and it was not till he was
twenty-six years of age that it became clear whether he would be, in
the main, a religious leader, or one of the pillars of the Whately
party; that is, the party who threw their influence into the scale of
minimising the spiritual aspect and spiritual significance of
Revelation, rather than of maximising it. Newman himself mentions that
for two or three years before 1827, he was “beginning to prefer
intellectual excellence to moral,” or, in other words, “drifting in
the direction of Liberalism.” “I was rudely awakened from my dream, at
the end of 1827, by two great blows, illness and bereavement.” And
then, in 1829, came fuller intimacy with Hurrell Froude, which seems
to have fully determined, if anything were then needed to determine,
the direction in which his mind would proceed. Mr. Hurrell Froude was,
as Newman describes him, a man of the highest gifts, gentle, tender,
playful, versatile and “of the most winning patience and
considerateness in discussion.” … I feel little doubt that Dr.
Newman’s wrath against “Liberalism” (as for many years afterwards he
always called it, identifying, as he did, Liberalism with
Latitudinarianism) was, to a very considerable extent, a moral
contagion caught from Hurrell Froude.

‘There are a few singularly beautiful lines, added by Newman after
Hurrell Froude’s death, to the exquisite poem called “Separation of
Friends,” written in 1833; and these sufficiently prove the tenderness
of Newman’s friendship for Hurrell Froude, and the intimacy of the
relation between them. The poem, as it was first written, on the
separation of friends caused by death, ran thus:

     ‘“Do not their souls, who neath the altar wait
           Until their second birth,
       The gift of patience need, as separate
           From their first friends of earth?
       Not that earth’s blessings are not all outshone
           By Eden’s angel flame,
       But that earth knows not that the dead has won
           That crown which was his aim.
       For when he left it, ’twas a twilight scene
           About his silent bier,
       A breathless struggle Faith and Sight between,
           And Hope and sacred Fear.
       Fear startled at his pains and dreary end,
           Hope raised her chalice high;
       And the twin-sisters still his shade attend,
           Viewed in the mourner’s eye.
       So, day by day, for him, from earth ascends
           As dew in summer even,
       The speechless intercession of his friends,
           Towards the azure heaven.”

‘This was an abrupt close. Nearly three years later, it appeared that
the true close had but been reserved till the friend with whom, in his
illness, Newman had been travelling, had left him alone here to offer
this “speechless intercession” on behalf of him who had departed.
Then, after Froude’s death on February 28, 1836, Newman added the
final lines:

     ‘“Ah, dearest! with a word he could dispel
           All questioning, and raise
       Our hearts to rapture, whispering all was well,
           And turning prayer to praise.
       And other secrets, too, he could declare,
           By patterns all divine,
       His earthly creed retouching here and there,
           And deepening every line.
       Dearest! he longs to speak, as I to know,
           And yet we both refrain.
       It were not good: a little doubt, below,
           And all will soon be plain.”

‘Such was Newman’s feeling for the friend (already suffering from the
commencement of the consumption of which he died three years later)
with whom he visited the Mediterranean between December, 1832, and
April, 1833, when they separated at Rome…. They visited Ithaca, but in
his poems written “off Ithaca” Newman never mentions the name of
Ulysses, though in passing Lisbon he had recalled that strong pagan
figure, in the lines which he headed “The Isles of the Sirens”:

     ‘“Cease, stranger, cease those piercing notes,
       The craft of siren choirs;
       Hush the seductive voice that floats
       Upon the languid wires.

       Music’s ethereal fire was given
       Not to dissolve our clay,
       But draw Promethean beams from heaven,
       And purge the dross away.

       Weak self, with thee the mischief lies!
       Those throbs a tale disclose:
       Nor age nor trial has made wise
       The man of many woes.”

‘There you see some trace of the influence of Froude’s high ascetic
nature speaking in the heart of a devotee of music, but a devotee of
music of the most exalted kind. Hurrell Froude, in a letter home,
mentions that the commander of the steamer in which they sailed sang
several songs, accompanying himself on the Spanish guitar, and it must
have been these songs which suggested to Newman “The Isles of the
Sirens.” When the friends reach Ithaca, Newman seems to forget “the
man of many woes” altogether; he is musing on the difficulty of
keeping himself “unspotted from the world”: which is the last thing, I
suppose, that Homer’s Ulysses ever thought about; while Byron, in the
same scenes, thought only of how he could spot himself most
effectually…. Newman’s nostalgia was more in sympathy with that of
Moses than with that of Ulysses: the home he longed for was a home he
had never yet gained. There is something very strange in the
connection between these classical scenes and the thoughts they
excited in the travellers, for I cannot help thinking that most of
these poems must have owed their origin almost as much to Froude’s
suggestion as to Newman’s pen. The lines, for instance, on
England,[359] in which Newman calls her “Tyre of the West,” and
accuses her of trusting in such poor defences as the fortified rock of
Gibraltar, and such poor resources as her rich commerce supplied, look
as if they had owed a good deal of their inspiration to Froude’s
cavalier contempt for the wealth earned by trade, as well as his scorn
for any ostentatious display of power not rooted in a devout
theocratic Faith…. There is, to me, something very striking in the
contrast between the class of thoughts which the old Greek and Roman
localities suggest to a Whig poet like Byron, with a broad dash of
licence in his Whiggery; to classical scholars like Clough, imbued
with what is now called “the modern spirit” (as well its moral
earnestness as its intellectual scepticism), and to grave spirits like
Newman’s and Hurrell Froude’s, dominated not only by a religious, but
by a strongly-marked ecclesiastical bias…. As regards the influence of
this journey on Newman’s future career, it appears that while, in many
respects, it diminished his horror of Romanism, in consequence
especially of the influence of Hurrell Froude, it had a contrary
effect on Hurrell Froude’s own mind, and later (again, through him, to
some extent, I suppose) on Newman’s. Hurrell Froude writes from
Naples[360] on February 17, 1833: “I remember you told me that I
should come back a better Englishman than I went away: better
satisfied not only that our Church is nearest in theory right, but
also that practically, in spite of its abuses, it works better; and to
own the truth, your prophecy is already nearly realised. Certainly, I
have as yet only seen the surface of things, but what I have seen does
not come up to my notions of propriety. These Catholic countries seem,
in an especial manner, κατέχειν τῆν ἀλήθειαν ἐν ἀδικία, and the
priesthood are themselves so sensible of the hollow basis on which
their power rests, that they dare not resist the most atrocious
encroachments of the State upon their privileges.” And after detailing
the abuses of the Roman Catholic system in Sicily, he goes on: “The
Church of England has fallen low, and will probably be worse before it
is better; but let the Whigs do their worst, they cannot sink us so
deep as these people have allowed themselves to fall, while retaining
all the superficials of a religious country.” When it is considered
that this was the impression of Roman Catholicism, judged by its
fruits, which that one of the two friends who was by far the more
inclined to the Roman system brought away from his life in a Roman
Catholic country, we cannot wonder that Newman should have remained
for eight more years a zealous Anglican, before he even began to
foresee clearly whither he was tending.’

  From ‘THE ANGLICAN REVIVAL,’ by J. H. OVERTON, D.D., Rector of
      Epworth and Canon of Lincoln. London: Blackie & Son, 1897.

  [By the kind permission of Messrs. Blackie & Son.]

‘The fact is that [in 1833] Rose, Palmer, and perhaps Perceval on the
one hand, Froude, Keble, and Newman on the other, represented, not
exactly two different parties, but two different classes of mind. The
former group were essentially conservative: they did not share the
dissatisfaction with the Church as it was, which was so strongly felt
by Keble, Newman, and Froude; they only desired to see it freed from
what they regarded as the oppression of the State. They were very
different types of men, Rose representing the brilliant and
fascinating, Palmer the learned, and Perceval the aristocratic or
territorial element. But none of them was prepared to follow what
Newman calls the “go-ahead” course, for which he and Froude were
ready, and from which Keble was not at all averse…. As a matter of
fact, the Movement was carried on by the latter, not by the former

‘… Pusey’s adherence was an instance of the right man coming in just
at the right time. The public had now [1835] been fairly aroused; they
had had sufficiently impressed upon them the duty of maintaining
Church principles; they had now a right to demand that those
principles should be fully and definitely explained to them in detail.
The time for short, stirring appeals was over; the time for solid,
sober treatises on divinity had arrived…. [Pusey’s] mild and
conciliatory spirit introduced a healing element into the Movement
which was certainly needed. The “fierceness” (to use his own
expression) of Newman, and especially of Newman when “kept up to the
mark by Froude,”[361] had the very natural effect of raising
opposition; and even in Keble, the gentle, humble Keble, there was a
strong spice, if not exactly of fierceness, yet of a tendency to give
vent to the most unpopular sentiments in the most uncompromising way,
without the slightest attempt to tone them down. Pusey, again, was far
more apt to recognise two sides of a question than was Keble, Newman,
or Froude…. The Movement gained Pusey, and lost Hurrell Froude, almost
at the same time. When Pusey joined the party, Froude was practically
a dying man; and in February 28, 1836, to the infinite regret of his
many friends, he died at his native Dartington. With Froude passed
away the most daring and “go-ahead” spirit connected with the whole
Movement. Newman was enthusiastic, but Froude was far more so; Newman
waged war against the complacency which was so characteristic of the
old Church party, but Froude was still more exasperated against it;
Newman was not over-cautious in his invectives against the fallacies
and prejudices of the age, but Froude was ten times less so. With an
intense earnestness and thoroughness of conviction, with a fiery
energy which would ride over anything, with a courage which sometimes
amounted to audacity, and with an irresistibly attractive personality,
there is no saying what would have happened if his short life had been
prolonged! But it is not a very profitable speculation to conjecture
what might have been. Suffice it to say that in one respect the
influence of Froude was likely to have had exactly the opposite effect
to that of Pusey. The one seemed, of all men, the most calculated to
trouble the waters, the other, to pour oil upon them; and the fact
that Froude dropped out just when Pusey began to make his influence
felt, seemed to promise that henceforth the Movement would create less
hostility. After events, however, proved that this was not to be the
case; and the causes are not far to seek….

‘One of the most startling … events was the appearance, in 1838, of
the first series of Froude’s _Remains_, edited by Keble and Newman
jointly. It is not surprising that this publication raised a violent
outcry: it gave to the world the off-hand utterances of a young
enthusiast whose opinions would probably have toned down with age, but
were here expressed with all the recklessness of inexperience, and
were only intended, in the first instance, to be read by sympathetic

‘His views on the English Reformation and Reformers were sufficiently
startling. “The present Church system is an incubus upon the country”;
“the Reformation was a limb badly set: it must be broken again in
order to be righted”; the English Reformers generally were “a set of
men with whom [I wish] to have less and less to do”; Jewel, in
particular, was “an irreverent Dissenter”; Latimer, “a Martyr somewhat
in the Bulteel line.” One can conceive the horror with which such
sentiments would be read by men with whom “our happy Establishment in
Church and State,” “our glorious Reformation,” and “our martyred
Reformers” were almost articles of faith!

‘It has been thought that the Editors miscalculated the effect which
the book would produce; but the theory is not very complimentary to
their judgement. Surely must they have known that the glamour of
Froude’s personality would not affect the general, still less the
hostile, reader (and his name was legion), who would greedily seize
upon any handle which could be turned, as Froude could so easily be,
against the Movement. Moreover, how does it agree with the fact that
when they found out their mistake, they nevertheless published in the
following year, 1839, a second series as _outré_ as the first? And
this they introduced with a Preface pointing out how Froude’s sagacity
had anticipated all the improvements that had taken place, and
representing him, not as a disturber of the people, but as a prophet
indeed. This Preface is said to have been chiefly the work of Keble,
and it is highly characteristic of the man, though not of the popular
conception of him: for Keble was always for the bold course.

‘The other Editor, Newman, writing to his friend Frederic Rogers in
July, 1837, gives six reasons why Froude’s private letters should be
published; and to his Co-editor he writes at the same time: “We have
often said the Movement must be enthusiastic. Now here is a man fitted
above all others to kindle enthusiasm.” May it not have been that both
Editors put forth the _Remains_ with their eyes perfectly wide open as
to what the result would be? that they were not unwilling the _enfant
terrible_ of the Movement should say his say, and startle the public?
The public was startled: it took in all seriousness the audacious
dicta of Froude as if they were stamped with the approval of the whole
party, which it denounced with increased vigour, accordingly.

‘It is impossible to help connecting with the publication of Froude’s
_Remains_ the starting of that project which gave to Oxford one of the
most beautiful of its many beautiful monuments, the “Martyrs’
Memorial,” opposite Balliol College, on the spot on which Cranmer,
Ridley, and Latimer had been burnt.[362] The greatest offence of
Froude was that he had spoken disparagingly of the English Reformers
generally, and of these men in particular. The project of the Memorial
originated in a small meeting held towards the close of 1838, at
Oriel, in the rooms of Mr. Golightly, who, having begun as a friend of
the Movement, had soon become its bitterest and most persistent foe.
Everybody seems to have connected the Memorial with the _Remains_; but
there was some division of opinion as to the course which should be
pursued. Keble and Newman were from the first opposed to the project,
and so were moderate men like Palmer and Benjamin Harrison. But Hook
and S. Wilberforce were in favour, and so, strange to say, was Pusey,
to a certain extent, at first, until he was persuaded otherwise by
Keble and Newman…. Keble writes to Pusey … “I am not at all prepared
to express a public dissent from Froude in his opinion of the
Reformers as a party.” On the other hand, S. Wilberforce writes to
Hook, regretting that “our good Oxford friends run down Reformers, and
will not subscribe to the Martyrs’ Memorial.” It was said of the
Memorial, “it will be a good cut against Newman”: but it was not a cut
which made him smart.’

      London: Dolman, 1853, 3 vols.[363]

  [By kind permission of the Executors of His Eminence Cardinal

‘It is not often that the leaders of opinions let the public into a
view of their secret counsels and feelings; but when they do, we think
it does credit to the uprightness and sincerity of their intentions….
Nay, the more unreservedly the human weaknesses of the individuals are
revealed, and the more the feeling is expressed that with their
exposure, or in spite of it, their cause will succeed, the more highly
we shall estimate their confidence in the correctness of their views,
and the disinterestedness of their zeal in propagating them. These
reflections have been suggested to us by the perusal of Mr. Froude’s
_Remains_. He was, while living, one of the most enthusiastic members
of the theological school from which the _Tracts for the Times_ have
emanated. He died in 1836, having attained only the age of
thirty-three;[364] and was thus prevented from arriving at that full
maturity of religious ideas which was evidently preparing in his mind,
and bearing him onwards towards the perception of Catholic truths.

‘A preface of twenty-two pages betrays the Editors’ anxiety to repel a
twofold charge: one against themselves, the other against their
deceased friend…. When one whose noble and public proofs of great
virtue far outweigh the errors of youth, or whose public reputation
makes his example, when evil, a warning; and when repentant, a
reparation and an encouragement,――when one, in short, like St.
Augustine, boldly but humbly reveals to the eyes of the Church the
wretchedness of his early sinful life, we admire, in awe, the strange
manifestation of a sublime spirit of Christian virtue, and we bless
the Divine Wisdom that hath caused it to be vouchsafed to us. But the
struggles of one who has not compensated his weaknesses by any noble
results, who withdraws from our sight a combatant, and not a victor;
who only presents us the spectacle of a frail nature, such as we all
may have, wrestling with daily and anxious trials, and not overcoming
them; (these, too, not spontaneously exhibited, but transferred from
the closet to the public arena)――have neither the grandeur nor the
instruction of the other lesson. Still, there may be reasons unknown
to us who are not in the secrets of the party, to justify, certainly
in their own eyes, this sacrifice of private feeling to a sense of
public utility…. [The Editors] would have materially strengthened
their reasoning by the following passage in [Mr. Froude’s] Letters to
Friends: “There was a passage in a letter I have just received from my
father, which made me feel so infinitely dismal that I must write to
you about it. He says you have written to him to learn something about
me, and to ask what to do with my money. It really made me feel as if
I was dead, and you were sweeping up my remains: and by the by, if I
were dead, why should I be cut off from the privilege of helping on
the Good Cause? I don’t know what money I have left,――little enough, I
suspect; but whatever it was, I am superstitious enough to think that
any good it could do _in honorem Dei et sacrosanctæ matris ecclesiæ_,
would have done something, too, _in salutem animæ meæ_.” From these
words, it appears that the author did contemplate his power of doing
good to the cause wherein he was so ardently engaged, even after his

‘The censure of their friend which the Editors foresee, is that which
forms their bugbear in all their theological researches: that of
approaching too near the Catholic, or, as they call it, Romanist
doctrines. But we must express our conviction that the Editors have
not done much credit to their friend by the manner in which they have
thought it right to shield his memory from the charge. It consists in
a careful collection of some of the most hasty, unhandsome, and
decidedly unreasonable judgements and opinions of the author,
respecting chiefly what he saw in his travels…. We think we are
justified in saying that proof of Mr. Froude’s disinclination to
Catholicity must have been very scarce, to have led the Editors to
bring together these superficial observations made during a brief
residence in a Catholic city[365] not generally reputed the most
edifying in its conduct! These, however, will not bear comparison with
the growing and expanding tendency of his mind towards everything

‘… The extracts from [his] Journal present us a picture at once
pleasing and distressing, of a mind yearning after interior
perfection, yet at a loss about the means of attaining it; embarked on
an ocean of good desires, but without stars or compass by which to
steer its course. The minute scrutiny into the motives of his actions,
the distress occasioned by discovering his relapses into faults which
most would overlook, show a sensitiveness of conscience in the
youthful writer, far more honourable to him, and far more interesting
to us, than abilities of a much higher order than what he really
possessed could ever have appeared…. How far it may be advisable to
commit to paper, even for personal benefit, these investigations of
our most secret tribunal, we have considerable doubt; and instructive
as is their record in the case before us, in nothing is it more so
than in the proof it gives us of the necessity of guidance for the
conscience and heart such as the institutions of the Catholic Church
alone provide. In the account which he gives of his own infirmities,
of his almost fruitless attempts to subdue them, and of the pain and
anxiety produced by his solitary struggles, he presents a picture
familiar to the experienced eye of any spiritual director in our
Church, and a state fully described and prescribed for by the numerous
writers whom we possess upon the inward life and the direction of
consciences. Many are they who are tossed in the same billows of
secret tribulation, many are they who are bewildered in the same mazes
of mental perplexity; but they have not at least the additional
horrors of darkness and night. Ere they can sink, a hand is stretched
out, if they will only grasp it. The troubles and trials which haunt
minds constituted as Mr. Froude’s, many a skilful guide would have
shown him to be mere illusive phantoms that only serve to turn the
attention away from serious dangers, or from solid good: snares cast
by a restlessness of spirit upon the path, to entangle the feet that
tread it…. The consequence of all his irregular and undirected
austerity, into which, with youthful eagerness, he rushed, was, that
instead of deriving thence vigour of thought, and closer intimacy with
some spiritual feelings, his spirit, on the contrary, flagged and at
length grew weary, and so fell into that despondency which failure
will produce in sensitive minds. This discouragement is visible in
many parts of his Journal…. In fact, Mr. Froude discovered that most
important principle, that obedience to the ordinances of authority
gives the great merit to the first degrees of penitential works, those
which belong to ordinary Christians: such, that is, as have not
reached the perfection of ascetic life…. While he seems so taken up,
through his Journals, with examination of his fasts and austerities,
we miss from his pages those cheerful views of religion which result
from confidence and love, from the consciousness of a strong will to
do [God] service, and an humble reliance on His mercy which will
measure that, rather than our success. What snatches there are of
prayer, bear more the character of one sinking under the fatigue of
foiled attempts, and troubled with anxiety from hopelessness of
success, than of a young and trusting mind that presses forward to a
work it deems glorious: the work of God and His religion….

‘We certainly think that his ardent way, more perhaps of expressing
himself than of feeling, leads him often to a harsh and reckless
manner of speaking of others, that must give an unfavourable
impression regarding his character, which we have every reason to
believe was amiable and gentle. Still, there are so many fine points
about him: so much distrust of himself, blended with no inconsiderable
powers of genius; so much independence of thought, coupled with
deference to the sentiments of others, those he esteemed more learned
or more virtuous than himself; so much lightness of spirit, united to
such seriousness of mind upon religious truths;――in fine, so earnest
and sincere a desire to improve and perfect himself, that our feelings
lead us to pass lightly over his faults, and dwell with pleasure upon
his finer qualities. If we have dilated somewhat upon the former, it
has been that we considered them the result of the system to which he
was by education attached, and which is alone accountable for them.

‘As, however, he increased in years, his mind began to open to the
defects and wants of that system, and boldly to conceive the necessity
of correcting them. In this he ran manifestly before his fellows, and
seems only to have been prevented by his premature death from reaching
the goal of Catholic Unity…. First, as to the Blessed Eucharist, we
find him early desirous of going beyond the timid phraseology of his
party, and attributing to the priesthood such power as the Catholic
Church alone claims…. In 1835, he condemns what he calls the
Protestant doctrine of the Eucharist in strong terms. These are his
words: “I am more and more indignant at the Protestant doctrine on the
subject of the Eucharist, and think that the principle on which it is
founded is as proud, irreverent, and foolish as that of any heresy,
even Socinianism.”[366] Still more, writing to the author of _The
Christian Year_, he blames him for denying that Christ is in the hands
of the priest or the receiver, as well as in his heart.[367] These
passages show how far prepared he was to outstrip his friends in
approximation to Catholic doctrines and Catholic expressions…. The
state of celibacy, and with it the monastic life, seems also to have
been an object of his admiration…. The last fragment published of his
attests how anxiously, how candidly, and how powerfully his mind was
at work with the great subject [of Church authority], the hinge on
which the differences between us and these new divines may be justly
said to turn. This piece[368] is a letter dated Jan. 27, 1836, a month
before his death; and as his last illness was of some weeks’ duration,
this document may be considered as his theological will and testament,
the last declaration of his yet unbroken mind…. After this, what more
can we desire in proof of what we asserted at the beginning of this
article, that these _Remains_ prove Mr. Froude’s mind to have been
gradually discovering more extensive and more accurate views of
religious truths and the principles of Faith, with such steady and
constant growth as gives us every reason to believe that longer life
alone was wanting, to see him take the salutary resolve to embrace the
conclusions of his theories to their fullest legitimate extent? While
the writings of the new divines seem to represent their theories as
perfectly formed, and their views quite fixed, the extracts we have
just made show them to be but the shifting and unsettled opinions of
men who are yet discovering errors in what they have formerly
believed, and seeking further evidence of what they shall henceforth
hold. Our concluding extract shall give fuller evidence of this fact:
it is a letter to Mr. Newman, dated All Saints’ Day, 1835. “Before I
finish this, I must enter another protest against your cursing and
swearing at the end of the [Via Media] as you do. What good can it do?
And I call it uncharitable to an excess. How mistaken we may ourselves
be, on many points that are only gradually opening on us! Surely, you
should reserve ‘blasphemous,’ ‘impious,’ etc., for denial of the
articles of Faith.”[369]

‘With this passage we close Mr. Froude’s _Remains_. Peace be to him!
is our parting salutation. The hope which an Ambrose expressed for a
Valentinian,[370] who died yet a Catechumen, we willingly will hold of
him. His ardent desires were with the Truth; his heart was not a
stranger to its love. He was one, we firmly believe, whom no sordid
views, or fear of men’s tongues, would have deterred from avowing his
full convictions, and embracing their consequences, had time and
opportunity been vouchsafed him for a longer and closer search. He is
another instance of the same mysterious Providence which guided a
Grotius and a Leibnitz to the threshold of Truth, but allowed them not
the time to step within it, into the hallowed precincts of God’s
Visible Church.’[371]

      London: Macmillan & Co., 1892.

  [By the kind permission of Dr. Abbott and of Messrs. Macmillan & Co.]

‘Newman was now [1826] on the point of making a new friend who would
do more than any other human being, perhaps more than any other single
external influence, to direct his course, or to determine its final
direction. “Bye-the-bye,” says Newman to his mother, telling her of
the election to the Oriel Fellowship, March 31, 1826, “I have not told
you the name of the other successful candidate: Froude of Oriel. We
were in grave deliberation till near two this morning…. Froude is one
of the acutest and clearest and deepest men in the memory of man.”
Clearly, Froude had had, not only Newman’s vote, but also his
strenuous advocacy in that prolonged deliberation. And it was no bad
preparation for the reception of Froude’s influence into Newman’s
heart, that the latter should thus have favoured and befriended him….
What took Newman, in Froude, was his originality and suggestiveness,
his hatred of shams, his downright and aggressive earnestness, and
perhaps, too, some glimpse of what was afterwards revealed in him: an
anxious, ascetic, and almost superstitious aspiration after a mediæval
type of holiness…. There were walks that Froude tells us of, in which
the two talked a good deal together. Froude complains that he allowed
himself to say to Newman more than he intended, revealed too much,
suffered himself to be drawn into argument, and was puzzled … but if
the older beat the younger in argument, that would rather help than
hinder the influence of the latter. Expert in logical fence, Newman
could not help gaining victories which he disdained as soon as won;
but Froude was effective in protests, and all the more with one who,
most vulnerable when victorious, had just achieved a dialectical

       *     *     *     *     *

‘… To get at Newman, a friend had to appeal to him through the
imagination; … indeed, one of the friends whom we shall have before
us, did actually, though indirectly, influence Newman’s action at so
many points in his career that if we omitted a sketch of him here, we
should have to be constantly digressing for explanations afterwards.
The three friends are: Edward Bouverie Pusey, John Keble, and, as a
climax in respect of influence, Richard Hurrell Froude…. Froude’s
opinions, [Newman] says, arrested him, even when they did not gain his
consent…. In all these beliefs [enumerated in the _Apologia_] Froude
certainly preceded, and evidence will hereafter clearly prove that he
also led, the friend who had been gradually disengaging himself from
the Evangelical School. Even in other matters where, at first, Newman
and he differed, Newman, in the end, came round to him. Froude was
“powerfully drawn to the Mediæval Church,” Newman to the Primitive;
but the Mediæval finally triumphed. He set no great store on
theological detail, nor on the writings of the Fathers, but “took an
eager courageous view of things as a whole.”[372] Omit “courageous,”
perhaps also the “eager,” and the sentence will describe the nature of
Newman’s final decision. He, too, took “things as a whole”: it was the
personified majesty of the vision of Rome that ultimately took him
captive. Recognising the difficulty of enumerating all the additions
to his creed which Newman derived from a friend to whom he owed so
much, the _Apologia_ selects four: admiration for Rome, dislike of the
Reformation, devotion to the Blessed Virgin, belief in the Real
Presence. But there is perhaps not one in the long list of Froude’s
other opinions [on sacerdotal power, ecclesiastical liberty,
acceptance of tradition, the intrinsic excellence of virginity,
miraculous interferences, delight in the Saints, and the principle of
penance and mortification: see the passage in the _Apologia_] in which
his influence on Newman is not perceptible. If not first planted, some
of them were at all events “fixed deep,” and firmly rooted, by the
friend who had previously received them. If, therefore, we would
understand Newman’s development, we should spare no trouble in
attempting to understand that one of all his friends who is shown by
evidence, direct and indirect, to have contributed most to it. For
this purpose all the more pains are needed, because the very friends
who loved him best dealt somewhat hardly with his reputation. In his
literary _Remains_, they gave to the world the most secret records of
his private life, in which, besides hinting at deeper “vilenesses,” he
sets down in detail, with unflinching severity, if not with
exaggeration, the very smallest infirmities of will and deed. The
_Apologia_ speaks of “the gentleness and tenderness of nature, the
playfulness, the free elastic force and graceful versatility of mind,
and the patient winning considerateness in discussion which endeared
him to those to whom he opened his heart”; and other testimony enables
us to believe that in the small circle of those who knew him well, he
was really such as he is there described; but if we are to judge from
his _Remains_, it is a question whether this gentleness and
considerateness reached far beyond the close company of those who were
struggling for the religious cause which he had at heart.

‘… The Journal begins in the year 1826, when he was elected to the
Oriel Fellowship. The second line is as follows: “Feb. 1, Oxford. All
my associations here are bad, and I can hardly shake them off.” He
determines to wrestle with his conceit, affectation, wandering of
mind, lassitude…. Then follows an allusion which Newman, devoted by a
kind of inward vow to celibacy since the age of sixteen, would well
understand: “The consciousness of having capacities for happiness,
with no objects to gratify them, seems to grow upon me. Lord, have
mercy upon me.” This is the mood which he elsewhere describes to
Newman as “sawney”: natural at times to those who are under a kind of
vow to serve a cause, without domestic distractions or encumbrances.

‘The problem exhibited in these pages … is the old but never
antiquated one: “How to keep the human machine in order.” Roughly
speaking, we may say that there are two solutions. Men can be
delivered from the beast within them by love, or by fear. The second
may be called no deliverance at all by those who have a keen
appreciation of the first, but it is deliverance, of a sort; and
Froude’s Journal shows us a man of immense strength of will: of acute
intellect, and of high imaginations; restless and masterful almost to
the extent of tyrannical malignity, in his youth; conscious of
grievous lapses in the past and of something (he hardly knew what)
terribly wanting in his present moral condition; now at last goaded by
bitter remorse, and urged by the pressure of new responsibilities, to
reform his corrupt nature, and attempting to work out his salvation
through an asceticism dictated, at first, by something like terror….
In 1826, Froude had sent a letter to Keble, curiously tingeing with
his own gloom the language of the Psalmist, who prays to be hidden
under the “shadow of the wings” of the divine Protection: he speaks of
God as a Being whose presence is mainly manifested by control, and by
a holy “terror”:

     ‘“Lord of the World, Almighty King!
       Thy shadow resteth over all,
       Or where the Saints thy terrors sing,
       Or where the waves obey Thy call.”

‘… Froude’s religion, then, so far as it depended upon his conception
of God, was a religion of almost unmixed fear. So far as it was of
something better, it was purified, first, by a love and admiration for
“the holy men of old,” such as the founders of the Oxford Colleges, in
whose steps, after his election to his Fellowship, he aspired to
tread; secondly, by his affection for Keble, for whom, in the prayer
written at the same time, he thanks God, as one who had convinced him
of the error of his ways, and in whose presence he tasted happiness;
but above all, by his devotion to his mother, in whose recollection he
found a consciousness of that blessedness which he had been taught to
look for in the presence of Saints and Angels. These were feelings
which were better than his religion, and which, if they could have
developed and grown with the latter, might have delivered it from
fears, and have converted it into a source of peace as well as of
activity: but whether from the irremediable taint of the past, or
owing to influence that proved too strong for Keble’s, this growth did
not go on.

‘Newman … taught at an early period that self-knowledge is the basis
of all religious knowledge. Whether Froude adopted or originated this
doctrine, it must have stimulated his fears: for it was a proverb with
him that “everyone may know worse of himself than he possibly can of
Charles the Second.” In less than six months after the thanksgiving
recorded above, we find him protesting (January 10, 1827) that he
dares not now utter the prayers of wise and holy men, and that God has
affrighted him with hideous dreams, and disquieted him with perpetual
mortifications…. It is to Keble that he owes his release, for how long
he knows not, from the misery in which he has been recently bound. At
the same time Keble advises him to give up his ascetic self-denial,
and Froude acquiesces. Though it had the colour of humility, it now
appears to him to have been in reality the food of pride:
self-imposed, it seems to him “quite different from imposed by the
Church.” What sort of self-denials they were, and what Froude’s
self-introspection implied, the reader ought to be informed for two
reasons: first, because they show the fierce determination and almost
bitter self-hatred with which the young man turned against himself, in
his resolution to suppress his own egotism and conceit; and secondly,
because Newman and Keble (or perhaps Keble instigated by Newman),
thought it worth while to record the minutest of these details, and
spoke of the Journal as a most valuable contribution to Tractarian
literature. Froude sets down, for example, (and they print!) that he
was ashamed, on one occasion, to have it known that he had no gloves;
that he was ashamed, on another, that he had muddy trousers (although
he would not go to the length of concealing them); that he was
pleased, on another, when there was no Evening Prayer; that he felt an
impulse of pleasure on finding that W. was not at Chapel one morning;
that he ostentatiously hinted to S. that he got up at six o’clock;
that he read affectedly in evening Chapel; that he felt an inclination
to make remarks with a view to showing how much he had thought upon
serious subjects; and that once, after accidentally breaking one of
W.’s windows, he felt a disposition to “sneak away.” … He seriously
argues the pros and cons (“bothering” himself about it for three
days), concerning the purchase of a great-coat. On the one side, there
is the fact that he “wants,” _i.e._, needs it, which one would have
thought would have been conclusive; but against this he sets the fact
that he “wishes” it; and therefore it will be well to deny himself the
satisfaction…. By his own confession, he occasionally made himself
stupid and sleepy through his ascetic habits. But to the last he
retained his admiration for them, at all events when they were imposed
by external authority….

‘Why did the Editors of Froude’s _Remains_ give to the world these
extraordinary confessions?… If, indeed, Froude had taken Keble’s
advice, they could not thus have made his secrets the property of
posterity; for he had advised his pupil not only to give up his
self-imposed asceticisms, but also to burn his confessions. But this
advice was given in 1826; whereas the _Remains_ were published in
1838. Are we wrong in inferring that during this interval, Keble may
have been pushed forward by Newman his Co-editor, who taught that all
religious knowledge must be based on self-knowledge? From the Letters,
this seems probable…. It follows, at once, that there is very little
thankfulness in Froude’s form of Christianity. The visible world
seemed so full of delusion, mockery, and temptation, that a hostile or
ironical attitude towards it was the only one possible. “This irony,”
says James Mozley, “arose from that peculiar mode in which Froude
viewed all earthly things, himself and all that was dear to him not
excepted.” What was this peculiar mode? To define it briefly would be
difficult. It must have recognised something of reality and goodness
in those friends and allies towards whom his heart went out, and with
whom he was ready to labour, to the end, for what he considered the
“Truth,” freely placing his fortune, his faculties, and his last
breath, at their disposal. But still, it was not the “mode” of St.
Paul, nor of Keble; it was more like, though not quite like, that of
Newman. It was certainly not the “mode” of the author who wrote that
“God giveth us all things richly to enjoy.” Indeed, “irony” is perhaps
hardly the right word to use of the superficial self-mockery, but more
profound self-hatred and self-contempt, approaching sometimes to
despair, with which, in some of his self-introspective moods, Froude
smites and rends himself, and his faults; yes, and his resolves to
correct his faults, sometimes even pouring scorn upon himself for
writing down his own good resolutions, and for thinking well of
himself, in the act of doing it. “The chief reason,” he says, “for my
being interested in any object, is the fact that I happen to be
pursuing it,” “nor can I look with serious feeling on the miseries of
anyone but my own. The blight of God is on me for my selfish life.” …
Is “irony” a term quite strong enough to denote this savage, sarcastic
self-laceration, which, if persisted in, would result in moral and
spiritual suicide? So far, it would seem that the two friends
resembled each other in almost every one of their principles of
religious thought. A religion of fear; a profound sense of an awful
Holiness; an absence of general loving-kindness and human-heartedness;
a vast and almost servile respect for power as power; an inclination
to asceticism, in the older of the two as a test of sincerity, but in
the younger, rather as a means of suppressing the passions; a dread of
wilfulness, and a rooted suspicion of self,――these feelings appear to
have been, in both, so powerful and original, that whatever influence
either might exert upon the other would result, not in changing, but
in confirming and hardening; or at most, in suggesting some new
application of the theories common to both.

‘We now pass to the only principle in which the two seem first to have
differed, but ultimately to have agreed. This principle (if it may be
so called) is that of tact or management, especially in the diffusion,
colouring, and sometimes in the reservation or suppression, of
religious doctrine, with a view to surmounting prejudice and
instilling truth. To this, Newman (though not the first to use the
word in this sense) gave the name of “economy.” There are many reasons
for concluding that in this one respect Froude was passive, a simple
recipient from Newman…. Froude anticipated, and endeavoured to develop
precipitately, the logical results, both of the principles which they
held in common, and of those which he instilled into his friend, and
also of this particular principle which alone his friend seems to have
instilled into him. Such a development may be often noticed, when a
strong-willed man who sees only one side of a question, takes up a
plan invented by another who sees many. The inventor may be moderate;
the adopter carries the invention to excess. Froude was at that time
(1834) dragging Newman onwards towards Roman doctrine; but he may have
submitted to learn from Newman the best method of diffusing it. He did
not like the method, and therefore he called it by bad names, such as
“undermining,” “poisoning,” and the like….

‘Newman’s formal usual doctrine [was] that as we cannot be sure about
our own salvation, so neither can we about that of others; that we
have enough to do with thinking and fearing about our own eternal
concerns; that, as before God, no man can help another, for we must
not only die alone but live alone, nor can there be any spiritual
contact between soul and soul, in this life. Yet at least on one
occasion his feelings were too strong for his dogma. When Froude drew
near to death, Newman refused to fear for his sake. With him in his
mind, he would not use his favourite metaphor of “grovelling worms,”
to describe the relation between the human and the divine. Casting
away all reserve, all doubts, and all terrors, he shoots up to a
Miltonic height, in the confidence that God cannot waste this immortal
soul which He has made. Thus he writes to Froude himself:

‘“It made me think how many posts there are in His kingdom, how many
offices, Who says to one Do this, and he doeth it. It is quite
impossible that, some way or other, you are not destined to be the
instrument of God’s purposes. Though I saw the earth cleave and you
fall in, or Heaven open and a chariot appear, I should say just the
same. God has ten thousand posts of service. You might be of use in
the central elemental fire; you might be of use in the depths of the

‘The same passionate conviction, based not upon Authority or upon
Scripture, but upon his own sense of what must be right, finds
expression also in a sermon written about the same time.[374]

‘“They are taken away for some purpose, surely; their gifts are not
lost to us: their soaring minds, the fire of their contemplations, the
sanctity of their desires, the vigour of their faith, the sweetness
and gentleness of their affections, were not given without an object.
Yea, doubtless they are keeping up the perpetual chant in the Shrine
above, praying and praising God day and night in His Temple like Moses
upon the mount, while Joshua and his host fight with Amalek.”

‘… Deprived of Froude, and now of his mother, with one sister married,
and the other to be married a few months afterwards, Newman must have
felt alone indeed. How much this feeling of communion with the
departed had been growing in Newman may be seen from the only two
poems of 1835[375] (the last until we come to the Roman period), both
of which bring before us the intercession of the dead for the living.
There can be no doubt whose voice Newman was henceforth to hear most
distinctly amid all the earthly din and uproar of the conflict of the
_Tracts_: it was that of the man whose Breviary (assigned to him by a
chance utterance of some friend, which he accepted as a message from
Heaven) lay always on his study table, destined to lie there for half
a century; to the possession of which he attached such importance,
that besides minutely describing the incident in the _Apologia_, he
records it in the _Letters_, along with his mother’s death, as one of
nine important events of this critical year: “My knowing and using the

‘Froude (not Froude’s opinions, but Froude himself, or his
personality, Froude first, living, and then, as a posthumous
influence, still more powerful after death), did more than any other
external thing to make Newman what he became, and to shape, through
Newman, the Tractarian Movement. Some of Newman’s most important steps
dated from the year of their intimacy. It was in 1829 that the two
became close friends: Newman the non-political, and Froude the High
Tory…. _A priori_, we ought to be prepared to believe that Froude
pushed Newman on. Froude was a High Churchman from the first, with an
inclination towards the Mediæval Church, and from this he never
swerved: Newman was an Evangelical, extricating himself from
Evangelicalism. The former had no doubts; the latter was at that time
perpetually doubting. How could it be otherwise than natural that the
former should take the lead of the latter?

‘… Froude is not quite fairly, or at least fully, represented in the
_Remains_. The Journal, and even the Letters, fail, perhaps, to
express some latent feeling which might have softened apparent
harshness. To those who knew him well, his words were interpreted by
his personality, which all concur in describing as bright, graceful,
and even “beautiful.” … It was this brilliant and graceful embodiment,
in one so earnest, so ascetically strict, so clear-headed, and so
confident, [one] of definite consistent imaginations about spiritual
things (which imaginations Newman describes as “intellectual
principles”) that first arrested, and ultimately captivated the older
friend, who was at first disposed to smile at, even while admiring,
the erratic, “sillyish,” “red-hot” High Churchman….

‘… Fundamentally agreeing with Froude, from the first, in the
principles of religious fear, obedience, and self-distrust, Newman
differed from him only in the expression and application of them; and
on these points Froude’s mind was settled while Newman’s was still in
flux. No wonder that, by degrees, Newman lost confidence in any
utterance of his own unless Froude first stamped it with his approval.
Did not Froude always take the lead, experimenting, as it were, on
himself? And had not Newman repeatedly to confess that Froude was
right, and he himself wrong? One reason for this was, that Froude,
being of an æsthetic bent, instinctively turned from the Primitive
Church, which was, to him, an affair of books, and of which he knew
very little, to the Mediæval Church, with which he was in complete
harmony, or to the Anglican Nonjurors, about whom he had some
sympathetic knowledge. This gave to his notions a naturalness and a
practicableness in which Newman’s were deficient. For this, and for
other reasons, Froude seemed to be a seer in regions where Newman was
only a groper; and so, in time, the latter came naturally not only to
depend on the former, but also to avow his dependence so far as to
declare his unwillingness to commit himself to anything definite till
the man who could see had given it his imprimatur. Still, the brighter
and more pleasing side of Froude’s character must not allow us to
forget that his search after holiness implied not only something
bordering on abjectness towards God, but also strife on earth, and the
appearance of ill-will towards a great multitude of men. These
qualities explain in part the secret of his power over Newman, who
would not have allowed himself to be influenced by any but a detached
soul holding aloof from all the world, and especially, perhaps, from
the rabble, that “knoweth not the law.” But Froude was by far the more
combative of the two, and appears to have acted on Newman, as on
Keble, in the way of an inciting cause, or, to use his own metaphor, a

‘We find here depicted [in the _Remains_] a Christian in whose most
secret records, self-examinations and prayers, there appears scarcely
any mention of Christ as a Person, and very little trace of any love
of Christ (who hardly appears at all in them except in some reference
to the sacramental Body and Blood); yet one who with all his heart and
soul is seeking after that salvation which he supposes to be derivable
from Christ’s Church; a man who obstinately detested, first in
himself, then in others, the least vestige of affectation, cant, and
hypocrisy: who spoke what he meant, as he meant it, and would always
have gone, if his friends had allowed him, by the straightest of ways
towards what he deemed the best of objects; a man, therefore, of an
essentially truth-loving disposition, searching for Truth in all
sincerity, but restricted by a “system” to a search within certain
limits and through certain methods; shut out from the great world of
men, and shut into the comparatively small world――not indeed, as
Newman was, of books, but――of ecclesiastical traditions and
imaginations; by nature, without any deep feeling of human-hearted
sociality, without love of man as a fellow-man; by ecclesiasticism led
rather to hate than to love; loving indeed a few, but only as a
Spartan might love his companions-in-arms, loving those select spirits
by whose side he could battle for the interests of “the Church.”

‘Such a picture, though “instructive,” is not pleasing. Yet those who
feel inclined to ridicule, or to give way to disgust, as they peruse
records of one whom they may be disposed to call the Minute
Ascetic,――telling us of his shame at feeling ashamed that he had muddy
trousers, or no gloves, or of his remorse for talking “flash,” or for
not finding it easy to keep awake during a sermon, or for wanting to
win sixpences at cards, will, if they read a little further, generally
find other entries of a different character, as, for example, touching
a certain offertory: “Intended £2: 10s., but thought I should be
observed, so vowed £5 to the ―――― Mendicity Society.” We cannot smile
at the man who, beneath under-statements conveyed half in slang, half
in the language of Tractarian reserve, concealed a resolution not only
to deny himself, but even, so far as he could, to suppress himself;
who so hated his own individuality, and was so alarmed at the least
touch of the self-will of genius within him, that he made it his
“great ambition to become a humdrum.” Doomed to an early lingering
death, and to leave others to continue the religious conflict in which
he, of all the combatants, took the keenest and most passionate
pleasure, he drops no word of self-commiseration and repining; and in
the last month of his life, having contributed the proceeds of his
Fellowship to the cause, he asks Newman to use it at his pleasure, and
to make people infer that the money was being contributed by a large
number of subscribers. “Spend away, my boy, and make a great fuss, as
if your money came from a variety of sources.” If this was “economy,”
it cannot, at all events, be scoffed at. Nothing is here for contempt,
least of all from commonplace, compromising, half-way-halting
semi-Christians or quasi-Christians. Manifestly, we have here a man:
no mere word-bag or lump of sensations, but a being with a will, and
with a controlling purpose; one who knew his own mind, and therefore
had a right to lead those who did not know theirs; a fine specimen of
the ecclesiastic militant, essentially a champion of holiness, though
essentially, if charity be essential, not a Christian. Such was
Richard Hurrell Froude, who, while living, influenced Newman much, and
after his death, more; “re-touching the faith,” and “deepening every
line,” not as Newman’s poem suggested, of himself, but of the poet,
his survivor, his second self. When [Froude] died, a book of his, by
what most people would call an accident, passed into Newman’s
possession. Newman deemed it more than an accident. From that time
forward it lay on his study table; and by it, though dead, his friend
continued to speak to and to guide him: always in one direction.
Rightly does Newman record as one among nine important events of the
“cardinal” spring of 1836, “my knowing and using the Breviary.”’

  ‘ORIEL COLLEGE,’ by DAVID WATSON RANNIE, M.A. London: F. E. Robinson
      & Co., 1900.

  [By kind permission of D. W. Rannie, Esq., M.A., and of Messrs.
      Robinson & Co.]

‘The chief aim of the Fellowship [at Oriel] was to test dialectical
power; a chief occupation of the Common Room was to practise it….
Newman himself, who did more than any other man to divert the College
from criticism to submission, has left a vivid picture … of his own
argumentative _brusquerie_ in the congenial atmosphere of the Oriel
Common Room. And it is noticeable, both in his case and that of
Richard Hurrell Froude, his chief coadjutor in sowing the seed of the
coming Tractarianism in College, that their method was essentially
dialectic and modern, even though its effect, on themselves and
others, was to lead them into “fierce thoughts” against the modern
spirit and the modern trend of things. Pusey might bury himself in
theology, and Keble might be the singer and sweet saint of a revived
devotion; but Newman and Froude, even when the gates of authority
seemed about to close on them for ever, were questioners and
controversialists and gladiators, striving to rationalise reason out
of its own supremacy.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘In hurrying on the birth of the new issue, both at Oriel and beyond
it, the influence of Richard Hurrell Froude was very great. We have
seen that he was elected a Fellow of Oriel in 1826. He was an Oriel
man throughout, and had taken a double second in 1824. He was the
eldest son of the Archdeacon of Totnes, and the eldest of three
eminent brothers, all Oriel men: William, the engineer, born in 1810,
and James Anthony, the historian, born in 1818. Hurrell was born in
1803. Always delicate, he fell into consumption early in the Thirties,
and died in 1836. But though his career was short and enfeebled, and
though there is little of him in print but what the affectionate
appreciation of his friends put there, it is certain that Hurrell
Froude had in his College an influence both intense and peculiar,
which radiated widely, and was answerable for some of the most marked
phenomena of Tractarianism. Froude was perhaps the most convinced, the
most outspoken, the most throughgoing Mediævalist among the young men
who thought the Church of England in an unsatisfactory condition; and
he had the incommunicable and inexplicable gift of great personal
influence, which, in his case, took the most irresistible of all its
forms: that of impressing others with his equal pre-eminence in
intellect and character. While the other Tractarian propagandists of
the immediate future were recoiling in fear and anxiety from the
advance of the Liberal and Erastian tide, Froude was ardently
counselling reaction, loudly and scornfully proclaiming the loveliness
and rightness of at least a large number of Roman opinions and
practices, and laying a zealous axe at the root of the Protestantism
of the Church of England.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘In fact, one can plainly see that the religious revival which was
coming to the English Church was the real cause of the tutorial
quarrel at Oriel in 1830. The Tutors had the new wine of it in their
veins; they were the subjects of an enthusiasm which they were
impelled to communicate, and which was intolerant of restraint; whilst
the Provost [Hawkins] was, and was to remain, outside the range of the
new ideas. In such a situation compromise was impracticable…. This
change had certain important and well-marked results on the College.
In the first place, it riveted the authority of Provost Hawkins, and
made him for the rest of his life the dominant force in Oriel. In the
second place, as the deprived Tutors remained Fellows and attached
members of the College, it did nothing to reduce the spread of their
influence in Common Room, and indirectly, in College generally, but
rather tended to increase it, by opposition. Lastly, and most
important of all, it dealt a blow to the intellectual prestige of the
College, from which it never recovered during Hawkins’s long reign.’

      SUBJECTS.’ Series IV. By JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. London: Longmans,
      Green & Co., 1883.

  [By the kind permission of Miss Froude and of Messrs. Longmans.]

‘… The last forty or fifty years will be memorable hereafter in the
history of English opinion. The number of those who recollect the
beginnings of the Oxford Revival is shrinking fast; and such of us as
survive may usefully note down their personal recollections as a
contribution, so far as it goes, to the general narrative. It is
pleasant, too, to recall the figures of those who played the chief
parts in the drama. If they had not been men of ability, they could
not have produced the revolution that was brought about by them. Their
personal characters were singularly interesting. Two of them were
distinctly men of real genius. My own brother was, at starting, the
foremost of the party; the flame, therefore, naturally burnt hot in my
own immediate environment. The phrases and formulas of Anglo-Catholicism
had become household words in our family, before I understood
coherently what the stir and tumult was about.

‘We fancy that we are free agents. We are conscious of what we do; we
are not conscious of the causes which make us do it; and therefore we
imagine that the cause is in ourselves. The Oxford leaders believed
that they were fighting against the spirit of the age. They were
themselves most completely the creatures of their age. It was one of
those periods when conservative England had been seized with a passion
for reform. Parliament was to be reformed; the municipal institutions
were to be reformed; there was to be an end of monopolies and
privileges. The Constitution was to be cut in pieces and boiled in the
Benthamite caldron, from which it was to emerge in immortal youth. In
a reformed State there needed a reformed Church. My brother and his
friends abhorred Bentham and all his works. The Establishment, in its
existing state, was too weak to do battle with the new enemy.
Protestantism was the chrysalis of Liberalism. The Church, therefore,
was to be unprotestantised. The Reformation, my brother said, “was a
bad setting of a broken limb.” The limb needed breaking a second time,
and then it would be equal to its business.

‘My brother exaggerated the danger, and underestimated the strength,
which existing institutions and customs possess, so long as they are
left undisturbed. Before he and his friends undertook the process of
reconstruction, the Church was perhaps in the healthiest condition
which it had ever known…. The average English incumbent of fifty years
ago was a man of private fortune, the younger brother of the landlord
perhaps, and holding the family living; or it might be the landlord
himself, his advowson being part of the estate. His professional
duties were his services on Sunday, funerals and weddings on
week-days, and visits, when needed, among the sick. In other respects
he lived like his neighbours, distinguished from them only by a black
coat and white neckcloth, and greater watchfulness over his words and
actions. He farmed his own glebe; he kept horses; he shot and hunted
moderately, and mixed in general society. He was generally a
magistrate; he attended public meetings, and his education enabled him
to take a leading part in county business. His wife and daughters
looked after the poor, taught in the Sunday school, and managed the
penny clubs and clothing clubs. He himself was spoken of in the parish
as “the master,” the person who was responsible for keeping order
there, and who knew how to keep it. The labourers and the farmers
looked up to him. The family in the “great house” could not look down
upon him. If he was poor, it was still his pride to bring up his sons
as gentlemen; and economies were cheerfully submitted to at home to
give them a start in life at the University, or in the Army or Navy.

‘Our own household was a fair representative of the order. My father
was Rector of the parish. He was Archdeacon, he was Justice of the
Peace. He had a moderate fortune of his own, consisting chiefly in
land, and he belonged, therefore, to the “landed interest.” Most of
the magistrates’ work of the neighbourhood passed through his hands.
If anything was amiss, it was his advice which was most sought after;
and I remember his being called upon to lay a troublesome ghost. In
his younger days, he had been a hard rider across country. His
children knew him as a continually busy, useful man of the world, a
learned and cultivated antiquary, and an accomplished artist. My
brothers and I were excellently educated, and were sent to School and
College. Our spiritual lessons did not go beyond the Catechism. We
were told that our business in life was to work, and to make an
honourable position for ourselves. About doctrine, Evangelical or
Catholic, I do not think that in my early boyhood I ever heard a
single word, in Church or out of it. The institution had drifted into
the condition of what I should call moral health. It did not instruct
us in mysteries, it did not teach us to make religion a special object
of our thoughts; it taught us to use religion as a light by which to
see our way along the road of duty. Without the sun, our eyes would be
of no use to us; but if we look _at_ the sun we are simply dazzled,
and can see neither it nor anything else. It is precisely the same
with theological speculations. If the beacon lamp is shining, a man of
healthy mind will not discuss the composition of the flame. Enough if
it shows him how to steer, and keep clear of shoals and breakers. To
this conception of the thing we had practically arrived. Doctrinal
controversies were sleeping. People went to Church because they liked
it, because they knew that they ought to go, and because it was the
custom. They had received the Creeds from their fathers, and doubts
about them had never crossed their minds. Christianity had wrought
itself into the constitution of their natures. It was a necessary part
of the existing order of the universe, as little to be debated about
as the movements of the planets or the changes of the seasons.

‘Such the Church of England was, in the country districts, before the
Tractarian Movement. It was not perfect, but it was doing its work
satisfactorily. It is easier to alter than to improve, and the
beginning of change, like the beginning of strife, is like the letting
out of water. Jupiter, in Lessing’s fable, was invited to mend a fault
in human nature. The fault was not denied, but Jupiter said that man
was a piece of complicated machinery, and if he touched a part he
might probably spoil the whole.

‘But a new era was upon us. The miraculous nineteenth century was
coming of age, and all the world was to be remade…. History was
reconstructed for us. I had learned, like other Protestant children,
that the Pope was Antichrist, and that Gregory VII. HAD BEEN A SPECIAL
Saint. I had been told to honour the Reformers. The Reformation became
the Great Schism, Cranmer a traitor, and Latimer a vulgar ranter.
Milton was a name of horror, and Charles I. was canonised and spoken
of as the holy and blessed Martyr St. Charles. I asked once whether
the Church of England was able properly to create a Saint? St. Charles
was immediately pointed out to me. Similarly, we were to admire the
Nonjurors, to speak of James III. instead of The Pretender; to look
for Antichrist, not in the Pope, but in Whigs and revolutionists and
all their works. Henry of Exeter,[377] so famous in those days,
announced once, in my hearing, that the Court of Rome had regretted
the Emancipation Act as a victory of Latitudinarianism. I suppose he
believed what he was saying….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘These were the views which we used to hear in our home-circle, when
the Tracts were first beginning. We had been bred, all of us, Tories
of the old school. This was Toryism in ecclesiastical costume. My
brother was young, gifted, brilliant, and enthusiastic. No man is ever
good for much who has not been carried off his feet by enthusiasm,
between twenty and thirty; but it needs to be bridled and bitted; and
my brother did not live to be taught the difference between fact and
speculation. Taught it he would have been, if time had been allowed
him. No one ever recognised facts more loyally than he, when once he
saw them. This I am sure of, that when the intricacies of the
situation pressed upon him, when it became clear to him that if his
conception of the Church, and of its rights and position, was true at
all, it was not true of the Church of England in which he was born,
and that he must renounce his theory as visionary or join another
Communion, he would not have “minimised” the Roman doctrines that they
might be more easy for him to swallow, or have explained away plain
propositions till they meant anything or nothing. Whether he would
have swallowed them, or not, I cannot say; I was not eighteen when he
died, and I do not so much as form an opinion about it; but his
course, whatever it was, would have been direct and straightforward;
he was a man far more than a theologian: and if he had gone, he would
have gone with his whole heart and conscience, unassisted by
subtleties and nice distinctions. It is, however, at least equally
possible that he would not have gone at all….

       *     *     *     *     *

‘The terminus, however, towards which he and his friends were moving,
had not come in sight in my brother’s lifetime. He went forward,
hesitating at nothing, taking the fences as they came, passing lightly
over them all, and sweeping his friends along with him. He had the
contempt of an intellectual aristocrat for private judgement and the
rights of a man. In common things, a person was a fool who preferred
his own judgement to that of an expert. Why, he asked, should it be
wiser to follow private judgement in religion? As to rights, the right
of wisdom was to rule, and the right of ignorance was to be ruled. But
he belonged himself to the class whose business was to order rather
than obey. If his own Bishop had interfered with him, his theory of
episcopal authority would have been found inapplicable in that
particular instance.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘… The triumvirs who became a national force, and gave its real
character to the Oxford Movement, were Keble, Pusey, and John Henry
Newman. Newman himself was the moving power; the two others were
powers also, but of inferior mental strength. Without the third, they
would have been known as men of genius and learning; but their
personal influence would have been limited to and have ended with
themselves. Of Pusey I knew but little, and need not do more than
mention him. Of Keble I can only venture to say a few words…. The
inability to appreciate the force of arguments which he did not like
saved him from Rome, but did not save him from Roman doctrine. It
would, perhaps, have been better if he had left the Church of England,
instead of remaining there to shelter behind his high authority a
revolution in its teaching. The Mass has crept back among us, with
which we thought we had done for ever, and the honourable name of
Protestant, once our proudest distinction, has been made over to the
Church of Scotland and the Dissenters.

‘Far different from Keble, from my brother, from Dr. Pusey, from all
the rest, was the true chief of the Catholic revival――John Henry
Newman. Compared with him, they were all but as ciphers, and he the
indicating number.’


  [From _The Contemporary Review_ for March, 1878, xxxi., 822 _et
      seq._ By E. A. Freeman.][378]

‘… Mr. Froude, in his present attempt to paint the picture of the
great men of the twelfth century, puts on the outward garb of one who
has read and tested his materials, and has come to a critical
judgement on what he has read and tested. But he happily leaves a
little cranny open which enables us to look within. The very first
words of Mr. Froude’s _Life and Times of Thomas Becket_ are enough to
show us that the seeming historical inquiry is really designed as a
manifesto against a theological party which once numbered its author
among its members. To those who know the whole literature of the
subject, it has a look more unpleasant still. Those whose study of
twelfth-century history goes back to times when those who are now in
their second half-century were young, will not fail to remember a time
when the name of Froude reminded them of another, an earlier, and (I
have no hesitation in saying) a worthier treatment of the same
subject. And some of those who go back so far may be tempted to think
that natural kindliness, if no other feeling, might have kept back the
fiercest of partisans from ignoring the honest work of a long-deceased
brother, and from dealing stabs in the dark at a brother’s almost
forgotten fame…. [Mr. Froude] is controversial, something more than
controversial, from the beginning. He undertakes the study, not to
throw fresh light on the history of the twelfth century, but to deal a
blow at a party in the nineteenth. His first words are: “Among the
earliest efforts of the modern sacerdotal party in the Church of
England was an attempt to re-establish the memory of the Martyr of
Canterbury.” It is not everybody who reads this who will fully take in
what is here meant. The first attempt made, within the memory of our
own generation, to examine and compare the materials for the great
controversy between King and Primate, was made by Richard Hurrell
Froude of Oriel College: the Froude of the once famous _Remains_, the
elder brother of the man who makes this somewhat unbrotherly
reference. The elder Froude doubtless belonged to what the younger
calls “the sacerdotal party.” His wish undoubtedly was “to
re-establish the memory of the Martyr of Canterbury.” To those with
whom historic truth comes foremost, and who have no special
fanaticism, sacerdotal or anti-sacerdotal, the effort of a “sacerdotal
party” to re-establish the memory of Thomas of Canterbury may seem at
least as worthy an object as to re-establish the memory of Flogging
Fitzgerald, or of King Harry himself. To re-establish the memory of
Thomas is, at the worst, a question of words and names, and of a
certain law: it does not, like the other two re-establishments, imply
the defence of any matter of wrong, or wicked lewdness. And the elder
Froude’s history of controversy, if undertaken with a purpose of
theological partisanship, was still a piece of creditable historical
work. Done forty years or so ago, it was, of course, not up to the
level of modern criticism on the subject. But it was the beginning of
modern criticism on the subject. The elder Froude is entitled, at the
hands of everyone who writes or reads the story of Thomas, to that
measure of respectful thanks which belongs to a pioneer on any
subject. As for his spirit of partisanship, those who stand outside
the arena of all such partisanship might say that when the elder
Froude wrote, it was time that the other side should be heard, in its
turn. The name of Thomas à Becket had been so long the object of
vulgar and ignorant scorn; his character and objects had been treated
with such marked unfairness, even by historians of real merit, that
fair play might welcome a vindication, even if it went too far the
other way. Such a vindication was the object of the elder Froude: in
the course of it, he got rid of several prevalent errors, and made
ready the way for more impartial and critical examination at the hands
of others. The elder Froude did something to put one who, whatever
were his objects, whatever were his errors, was still a great and
heroic Englishman, in a historic place more worthy of him. At all
events, he deserves better than to have his work thus sneeringly
spoken of by his own younger brother: “And while Churchmen are raising
up Becket as a brazen serpent on which the world is to look to be
healed of its incredulities, the incredulous world may look with
advantage at him from its own point of view; and if unconvinced that
he was a Saint, may still find instruction in a study of his actions
and his fate.” This way of speaking may seem startling to those who
know the relation between the long-deceased champion of the one side,
and the living champion of the other…. The point of view of those
whose sole object is historic truth may well be different either from
the point of view of “Churchmen,” or from that of the “incredulous
world.” At all events, historic truth has nothing to do with the point
of view of either.’

  From _The Nineteenth Century_ for April, 1878, iii., 621. ‘A Few
      Words on Mr. Freeman,’ by J. A. Froude.

‘Mr. Freeman commences with a sentence which is grossly impertinent.
“Natural kindliness,” he says, “if no other feeling, might have kept
back the fiercest of partisans from ignoring the work of a
long-forgotten brother.” How can Mr. Freeman know my motive for not
speaking of my brother in connection with Becket, that he should
venture upon ground so sensitive? I mentioned no modern writers,
except, once, Dean Stanley. Natural kindliness would have been more
violated if I had specified my brother as a person with whose opinions
on the subject I was compelled to differ. I spoke of rehabilitation of
Becket as among the first efforts of the High Church school. My
brother’s _Remains_ were brought out by the leaders of that school
after his death, as a party manifesto; and, for my own part, I
consider the publication of the _Remains_ the greatest injury that was
ever done to my brother’s memory. But this is venial, compared with
what follows. He goes on: “And from dealing stabs in the dark at a
brother’s almost forgotten fame.” “Stabs in the dark?” Can Mr. Freeman
have measured the meaning of the words which he is using? If I had
written anonymous articles attacking my brother’s work, “stabs in the
dark” would have been a correct expression; and Mr. Freeman has
correctly measured the estimate likely to be formed of a person who
could have been guilty of doing anything so discreditable.
Irrespective of “natural kindliness,” I look back upon my brother as,
on the whole, the most remarkable man I have ever met in my life. I
have never seen any person,――not one! in whom, as I now think of him,
the excellences of intellect and character were combined in fuller
measure. Of my personal feeling towards him I cannot speak. I am
ashamed to have been compelled, by what I can describe only as an
inexcusable insult, to say what I have said.’

  From _The Contemporary Review_, May, 1879, xxxv., 218 _et seq._
      ‘Last Words on Mr. Froude,’ by E. A. Freeman.

‘… With regard to Mr. Froude’s treatment of his brother’s writings, I
see that what I have said has pained Mr. Froude. I am so far sorry for
it; but I do not admit that I said anything beyond fair criticism. I
know that the friends of Mr. R. H. Froude were deeply pained by what
Mr. J. A. Froude wrote in his _Life and Times of Thomas Becket_. I
cannot say that I was pained, because I never knew Mr. R. H. Froude.
He was, to me, neither a friend nor a kinsman, nor a man in whom I had
any personal or party interest. But as a student of twelfth-century
history, I do owe him a certain measure of thanks as a pioneer in one
of my subjects of study. Therefore, if not pained, like his personal
friends, I was indignant: because I thought that he was unworthily
treated, and that the treatment was the more unworthy because it came
from the hands of his own brother. When I spoke of “stabs in the
dark,” I meant that the victim (I must use the word) was in the dark.
Very few of Mr. Froude’s readers would know that it was his own
brother of whom Mr. Froude was speaking, in a way which, brother or no
brother, I hold to be wholly undeserved.

‘But if any impartial judge thinks that I ought not to have mentioned
the fact of the kindred between the two writers, I regret having done

      of Oriel’ [edited by the Rev. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN and the Rev.
      JOHN KEBLE]. London: Rivingtons, 1838. 2 vols.

‘[Richard Hurrell Froude] was the eldest son of the Venerable Robert
H[urrell] Froude, Archdeacon of Totnes, and was born, and died, in the
Parsonage House of Dartington, in the county of Devon. He was born in
1803, on the Feast of the Annunciation; and he died of consumption, on
the 28th of February, 1836, when he was nearly thirty-three, after an
illness of four years and a half. He was educated at Eton and Oxford,
having previously had the great advantage, while at Ottery Free
School, of living in the family of the Rev. George Coleridge. He went
to Eton in 1816, and came into residence as a Commoner of Oriel
College in the spring of 1821. In 1824 he took the degree of Bachelor
of Arts, after having obtained, on his examination, high, though not
the highest honours, both in the _Literæ Humaniores_ and the
_Disciplinæ Mathematicæ et Physicæ_. At Easter, 1826, he was elected
Fellow of his College, and, in 1827, was admitted to his M.A. degree.
The same year he accepted the office of Tutor, which he held till
1830. In December, 1828, he received Deacon’s Orders, and the year
after, Priest’s, from the last and present Bishops of Oxford.[379] The
disorder which terminated his life first showed itself in the summer
of 1831; the winter of 1832, and the following spring, he passed in
the south of Europe; and the two next winters, and the year between
them (1834), in the West Indies. The illness which immediately
preceded his death lasted but a few weeks.

‘He left behind him a considerable collection of writings, none
prepared for publication: of which the following two volumes form a
part. The Journal, with which the first commences, and which is
continued in the Appendix, reaches from the beginning of 1826, when he
was nearly twenty-three, to the spring of 1828. The Occasional
Thoughts are carried on to 1829. The Essay on Fiction was written when
he was twenty-three; the Sermons, from 1829 to 1833, when he was
between twenty-five and thirty.[380] His Letters begin in 1823, when
he was twenty, and are carried down to within a month of his death.

‘Those on whom the task has fallen of preparing these various writings
for publication, have found it matter of great anxiety to acquit
themselves so as to satisfy the claims of duty, which they felt
pressing on them in distinct, and, sometimes, apparently opposite

‘Some apology may seem requisite, in the first place, for the very
magnitude of the collection: as though authority were being claimed,
in a preposterous way, for the opinions of one undistinguished either
by station or by known literary eminence.

‘That apology, it is believed, will be found in the truth, and extreme
importance, of the views to the development of which the whole is
meant to be subservient; and also in the instruction derivable from a
full exhibition of the author’s character as a witness to those views.
This is the plea which it is desired to bring prominently forward;
nothing short of this, it is felt, would justify such ample and
unreserved disclosures: neither originality of thought, nor engaging
imagery, nor captivating touches of character and turns of expression.

‘Still more is this apology needed, on the more serious grounds of
friendship and duty. The publication of a private Journal and private
Letters is a serious thing. Too often it has been ventured on, in a
kind of reckless way, with an eye singly to the good expected to be
accomplished, no regard being had to the author himself, and his
wishes. It is in itself painful, nay, revolting, to expose to the
common gaze papers only intended for a single correspondent; and it
seems little less than sacrilege to bring out the solitary memoranda
of one endeavouring to feel, and to be, as much as possible alone with
his God: secretly training himself, as in His presence, in that
discipline which shuns the light of this world. To such a publication,
it were objection enough that it would seem to harmonise but too well
with the restless unsparing curiosity which now prevails.

‘No common motive, then, it may be well believed, was required to
overcome the strong reluctance which even strangers of ordinary
delicacy, much more kinsmen and intimate friends, must feel on the
first suggestion of such a proceeding. It may be frankly allowed that
gentle and good minds will naturally be prejudiced, in the outset,
against any collection of the sort. But the present is a peculiar
case, a case in which, if the survivors do not greatly deceive
themselves, they are best consulting the wishes of the departed by
publication, hazardous as that step commonly is. Let the reader,
before he condemns, imagine to himself a case like the following.

‘Let him suppose a person in the prime of manhood (with what talents
and acquirements is not now the question) devoting himself, ardently
yet soberly, to the promotion of one great cause; writing, speaking,
thinking on it for years, as exclusively as the needs and infirmities
of human life would allow; but dying before he could bring to
perfection any of the plans which had suggested themselves to him for
its advancement. Let it be certainly known to his friends that he was
firmly resolved never to shrink from anything, not morally wrong,
which he had good grounds to believe would really forward that cause:
and that it was real pain and disquiet to him if he saw his friends in
any way postponing it to his supposed feelings or interests. Suppose,
further, that having been for weeks and months in the full
consciousness of what was soon likely to befall him, he departs,
leaving such papers as make up the present collection in the hands of
those next to him in blood, without any express direction as to the
disposal of them; and that they, taking counsel with the friends on
whom he was known chiefly to rely, unanimously and decidedly judged
publication most desirable for that end which was the guide of his
life, and which they too esteemed paramount to all others; imagine the
papers appearing to them so valuable, that they feel as if they had no
right to withhold such aid from the cause to which he was pledged:
would it, or would it not, be their duty, as faithful trustees, in
such case to overcome their own scruples? would they, or would they
not, be justified in believing that they had, virtually, his own
sanction for publishing such parts even of his personal and devotional
memoranda, much more, of his letters to his friends, as they
deliberately judged likely to aid in the general good effect?

‘This case of a person sacrificing himself altogether to one great
object, is not of everyday occurrence: it is not like the too frequent
instances of papers being ransacked and brought to light, because the
writer was a little more distinguished, or accounted a little wiser,
or better, than his neighbours: it cannot be fairly drawn into a
precedent, except in circumstances equally uncommon.

‘On the whole, supposing what in this Preface must be supposed, the
nobleness, and rectitude, and pressing nature of the end which [Mr.
Froude] had in view, the principle of posthumous publication surely
must, in this instance, be conceded? The only question remaining will
be whether the selection has been judicious. On this, also, it may be
well to anticipate certain objections not unlikely to occur to sundry
classes of readers. If there be any who are startled at the strong
expressions of self-condemnation occurring so frequently, both in the
Journal and in the more serious parts of the Correspondence, he will
please to consider that the better anyone knows, the more severely
will he judge himself; and since this writer sometimes thought it his
duty to be very plain-spoken in his censure of others, in fairness to
him it seemed right to show that he did not fail to look at home; that
he tried to be more rigid to himself than to anyone else.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Censure may be expected … [on] what will be called the intolerance of
certain passages: the keen sense which the author expresses of the
guilt men incur by setting themselves against the Church. In fact,
both this and the alleged tendency to Romanism,[381] are objections,
not to the present publication, but to the view which it is designed
to support, and do not therefore quite properly come within the scope
of this Preface. To defend the severe expressions alluded to would be
in a great measure to defend the old Catholic writers for the tone in
which they have spoken of unbelievers and corrupters of the Faith. The
same portions of Holy Scripture would be appealed to in both cases;
those, namely, which teach or exemplify the duty of austere reserve
towards wilful heretics, and earnest zeal against heresiarchs. Perhaps
it may be found that [Mr. Froude’s] demeanour and language on such
subjects is a tolerably striking and consistent illustration of that
sentiment of the Psalmist: “Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate
Thee?” He hated them in their collective character, as God’s enemies,
as the antichristian party; but to all who came in his way
individually, he was, as many of his acquaintance can testify, full of
unaffected, open-hearted kindness; entering into their feelings, and
making allowance for their difficulties, not the less scrupulously
because he sometimes found himself compelled to separate from them, or
declare himself against them.

‘To judge adequately of this point, we must, further, take into
account a certain strong jealousy which he entertained of his own
honesty of mind. He was naturally, or on principle, a downright
speaker, avoiding those words of course and of compliment, which
often, it may be feared, serve to keep up a false peace at the expense
of true Christian charity. His words, therefore (playfulness and
occasional irony apart), may in general be taken more literally than
those of most men. It is easy to see that this would make his
criticisms, whether literary or moral, sound more pointed and
unsparing than those in which a writer of less frankness would indulge
himself. And this introduces another point, not unlikely to be
animadverted on as blameable, in the present selection. Many,
recoiling from his sentences, so direct, fearless, and pungent,
concerning all sorts of men and things, will be fain to account them
speeches uttered at random, more for present point and effect, than to
declare the speaker’s real opinion; and, so judging, will of course
disapprove of the collecting and publishing such sayings, especially
on high and solemn subjects, as at best incautious, and perhaps
irreverent. But they who judge thus must be met by a denial of the
fact. The expressions in question were not uttered at random: he was
not in the habit of speaking at random on such matters. This is
remarkably evinced by the fact that to various friends, at various
times, conversing or writing on the same subjects, he was constantly
employing the same illustrations and arguments, very often the same
words: as they found by comparison afterwards, and still go on to
find. Now maxims and reasonings of which this may be truly affirmed,
whatever else may be alleged against them, cannot fairly be thrown by
as mere chance sayings. Right or wrong, they were deliberate opinions,
and cannot be left out of consideration, in a complete estimate of a
writer’s character and principles. The off-hand unpremeditated way in
which they seemed to dart out of him, like sparks from a luminous
body, proved only a mind entirely possessed with the subject; glowing,
as it were, through and through.

‘Still, some will say, more selection might have been used, and many
statements at least omitted, which, however well considered by
himself, coming now, suddenly, as they do, on the reader, appear
unnecessarily startling and paradoxical. But, really, there was little
option of that kind, if justice were to be done either to him or to
the reader. His opinions had a wonderful degree of consistency and
mutual bearing; they depended on each other as one whole: who was to
take the responsibility of separating them? Who durst attempt it,
considering especially his hatred of concealment and artifice? Again:
it was due to the reader to show him fairly how far the opinions
recommended would carry him. There is no wish to disguise their
tendencies, nor to withdraw them from such examination as will prove
them erroneous, if they are so. Any homage which it is desired to
render to his memory would indeed be sadly tarnished, were he to be
spoken or written of in any spirit but that of an unshrinking openness
like his own. Such also is the tone of the Catholic Fathers, and (if
it may be urged without irreverence), of the Sacred Writers
themselves. Nothing, as far as we can find, is kept back by them,
merely because it would prove startling: openness, not disguise, is
their manner. This should not be forgotten in a compilation professing
simply to recommend their principles. Nothing, therefore, is here kept
back, but what it was judged would be fairly and naturally
misunderstood: the insertion of which, therefore, would have been,
virtually, so much untruth.

‘Lastly, it may perhaps be thought of the Correspondence in
particular, that it is eked out with unimportant details, according to
the usual mistake of partial friends. The compilers, however, can most
truly affirm that they have had the risk of such an error continually
before their eyes, and have not, to the best of their judgement,
inserted anything, which did not tell, indirectly perhaps but really,
towards filling up that outline of his mind and character, which
seemed requisite to complete the idea of him as a witness to Catholic
views. It can hardly be necessary for them to add, what the name of
Editor implies, that while they, of course, concur in his sentiments
as a whole, they are not to be understood as rendering themselves
responsible for every shade of opinion or expression.

‘It remains only to commend these fragments, if it may be done without
presumption, to the same good Providence which seemed to bless the
example and instructions of the writer while yet with us, to the
benefit of many who knew him: that “being dead,” he may “yet speak,”
as he constantly desired to do, a word in season for the Church of
God: may still have the privilege of awakening some of her members to
truer and more awful thoughts than they now have, of their own high
endowments and deep responsibility.’

      [EDITED BY THE REV. J. H. NEWMAN and the Rev. JOHN KEBLE].
      London: Rivingtons, 1839. Part II.

‘It was of course impossible but that the quantity and variety of
censure, which was elicited by the publication of the former part of
these _Remains_, should be felt by the Editors as a call for much calm
and patient consideration, before proceeding, in further fulfilment of
their trust, to offer these additional volumes to the world. One thing
has at least become evident, which was at first very uncertain: that
it was a publication of some importance for good or for evil. The
notice which it has attracted, favourable or otherwise, is at least a
token that the Editors were not mistaken, as partial friends are so
apt to be, in their estimate of the force and originality of [Mr.
Froude’s] character, or of the keen, courageous, searching precision,
with which he had, though it were but incidentally, put forth his
ecclesiastical and theological opinions, and applied them to things as
they are.

‘But in such measure as all doubt on the importance of the publication
is removed, the responsibility of it is doubtless enhanced; and it
seems right to preface it with something like a fair and full
statement of the reasons why the Editors have judged it, on the whole,
their duty to persist in this step: not wilfully slighting any man’s
scruples or remonstrances, but still thinking that the cause of the
Church, which is paramount to everything else, leaves them not at
liberty either to withdraw any important portion of what has been
already made public, or to suppress what remains. And what will be
alleged for perseverance now, will be found, perhaps in a good
measure, to justify the original publication; taken, as it must be, in
aid and in enforcement of the considerations offered in the Preface to
the first volume.

‘And first, if there be any persons, as undoubtedly there are not a
few, who think, more or less explicitly, that the mere circumstance of
a book’s raising an outcry constitutes a strong objection to it, they
are requested to put themselves for a single moment so far in the
position of the Editors, as to imagine the case of [Mr. Froude’s]
views being mainly and substantially true; and then to consider how
such outcry could have been avoided. For if it be found that
uneasiness, discontent, clamour, nay, if you will, permanent
unpopularity, are the necessary results of a certain statement,
supposing it to be true, then the actual prevalence of such feelings,
however undesirable in itself, is no objection to the truth of the
statement, but rather an argument in its favour, as far as it goes.

‘Suppose, for example, that the common opinions of the Protestant
world concerning the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist were indeed
verging as near to a profane rationalism, as these _Remains_ in
several passages assume: would not the charge of superstition,
mysticism, and Popery be echoed all around, against both Author and
Editors, much in the same way as it has been heard for the last few
months? Suppose it again true, that there is some secret but real and
fatal connection between the aforesaid faithless rationalism, and
those views regarding the great doctrines of Christianity and their
application to individual Christians, which have of late arrogated to
themselves exclusively the name of vital religion: is it not certain
that the disregard (for it is rather that than actual opposition)
which those views constantly meet with, at the hand of this Author,
would unite against him the champions of those apparently opposite
schemes, just in the manner in which we see them actually united? If
it should so be that there is a large portion of Churchmen whom the
circumstances of these or of former times have led to form an
exaggerated opinion of the necessity and sacredness of the alliance of
Church and State; to sacrifice more or less of the very being of the
Church, in order, as they think, to secure its well-being: could it
fail to happen that such as these would be alarmed and disgusted at
the fearless uncompromising tone in which the inviolability of the
Church is here asserted, and the past and present tyranny of the
State, in every part of Christendom, denounced? Lastly, should there
be any considerable number of decent religionists in the land, who
would themselves make no scruple of professing that hatred of
“asceticism” is a main ingredient in their notion of Christianity, it
were little trouble to point out the pages, in this work, at which
they are likeliest to be startled and disgusted: and yet it might be
true, all the while, that the writer’s views are Scriptural and
Catholic, and those which they have glided into, discountenanced by
the Bible and the Church.

‘So far, then, as the unfavourable criticism, with which these
_Remains_ have been visited, may be set to the account of any or all
of the four classes now mentioned, it was of course to be expected,
nor is any particular deference due to it; and the bitterer and louder
it is, and the longer it lasts, the more reason may it, perhaps, give,
to a considerate person, for suspecting that the words which provoked
it were not altogether unseasonable. But there seems to be a fear
entertained, among persons worthy of all respect, of no less an evil
than encouragement given to irreverence and lightness on sacred
subjects, partly by certain opinions of [Mr. Froude], which would lead
Englishmen (it is feared) to disparagement of their Church as it is;
partly by something, in his tone and manner of writing, which many
find startling, and can hardly reconcile to themselves. To these
persons, and these feelings, a more particular explanation seems due:
and such will, therefore, be now attempted, though in no sanguine
expectation of satisfying them to any extent; yet not altogether
without hope that in some instances they may be led to suspect their
own misgivings, as arising from impulse and habit, rather than from
sound and true views of sacred things.

‘The best way, perhaps, will be to commence by calmly recalling a few
plain facts. It is no long time ago, and yet the career of events has
been so rapid, that it seems far removed from us: but let us endeavour
to realise for a moment the posture of mind in which sincere Churchmen
found themselves, in 1832 and 1833, when the Constitution of the
country had been changed by threats of violence, and the cry of Church
Reform was being raised with a view to a similar process, and no
person knew how much strength it might gather, or by what unscrupulous
means it might be enforced. The Liturgy, in particular, seemed to be
an object of attack; and the authority of Bishops was so slighted,
both in and out of Parliament, as to make men apprehend that in no
long time the whole functions of the Church would be usurped by the
State. At that crisis, the writer of these _Remains_ felt in common
with not a few others, but with a vividness and keenness of perception
almost peculiarly his own, that a call was given, and a time come, for
asserting in their simplicity the principles of the only Primitive and
True Church: those essential rights and duties which seemed in danger
of being surrendered, in mere ignorance, to preserve certain external
trappings. He surrendered himself to this feeling, without reserve: he
spoke, and wrote, and acted from it continually; he devoted to it what
remained of life and health; and it seems to have been this, more than
anything else (excepting, perhaps, an unaffected mistrust concerning
the sincerity and depth of his own repentance), which caused the sort
of anxiety to recover, many times traceable in his correspondence. To
use the words which Walton has reported of Hooker, “he could have
wished to live longer, to do the Church more service.”

‘This being so, it cannot but be interesting and useful, now that
Providence has brought us a stage or two further on in the warfare
which he was among the foremost to commence, to have the means of
consulting such a record as the present volumes supply, of the wishes,
counsels, and anticipations of a mind so rare as his, concerning the
conduct and probable course of the struggle. Those who have been
sharers or approving witnesses of the several gatherings (so to call
them) which the events of the last six years have occasioned, tending
more or less to the revival of old Church principles, will here find
many a sentiment which animated them half-unconsciously at the time,
not only expressed in a way to sink into men’s hearts, but brought out
in its full bearings and pursued to its legitimate consequences: it
was wild inarticulate music before, but now we have the words and the
meaning. And conversely, events have been continually happening, which
have tended in a remarkable manner to illustrate [Mr. Froude’s]
remarks and confirm his prognostications: so that, already, many
things which sounded paradoxical and over-bold when he first uttered
them, may be ventured on with hope of a reasonable degree of
acceptance. His sagacity, it begins to be found, did but anticipate
the lessons of our experience. If he loved to dwell on the noble act
of Convocation in censuring Hoadly, and to forebode the rising of the
sun which set so brightly, the great majority of the University of
Oxford has since judged a like warning, however painful on personal
grounds, yet most necessary, in regard of certain opinions not very
unlike Hoadly’s. If he speaks what some would call bitterly concerning
any party in the State, on account of an hostility to the Church,
whether conscious or instinctive, which he thought he discerned in
them, it seems now to be generally acknowledged that the subsequent
proceedings of that party have been such as to justify a Churchman’s
aversion. If he had what were then esteemed exaggerated feelings about
Parliamentary suppression of Bishoprics, we have since seen the sense
of the Church so strongly expressed on that subject, as to force from
the Legislature the restoration of a See which had been actually
extinguished, as far as any act of theirs could extinguish it. If he
deprecated the current notions about the necessity of clerical
endowments, good connections, and the like, as the most effectual bar
to all projects for true Church Extension; is not the Church in our
Colonies, even now, applying for Bishops without endowment? and are
not new Churches being everywhere consecrated, at home, with only bare
nominal endowment? If he had learned of other times to regard each
Bishopric as a divinely instituted monarchy, and therefore to condemn
all intrusion on episcopal authority, by Parliaments or otherwise, as
not only disorderly, but profane, are not the clergy of England even
now, in the case of the Church Discipline Bill, asserting that same
principle against the authority which, personally, they would most
revere? If he had brought himself habitually to contemplate the
separation of Church and State as not necessarily a fatal alternative,
there have been recent declarations, lay and ecclesiastical, to the
same effect, in quarters which cannot be suspected. The Church has
been congratulated on having “recovered herself” so far as “to feel
her own strength and look to her own resources”; on having “become
sensible that however desirous to act in unison with the State, she
can boast of an independent origin, and can, as she has done before,
exist in a state of independence.”[382] And (to go no further in
enumeration at present), if the writer of these _Remains_ thought very
seriously of the importance of those arrangements in Divine Service
which tend most to remind the worshipper that God’s house is a house
of prayer and spiritual sacrifice, not of mere instruction, we have
but to look around us on the new Churches, and new internal
fittings-up of Churches, which are in progress in most parts of the
country, to be convinced that on this point, also, men sympathise with
him to a much greater extent than they did.

‘Other instances might be mentioned, in which his judgement, both of
persons and things, has been remarkably verified, even in so short a
time; but these may be sufficient to explain in some measure why his
Editors should have been more than usually scrupulous in suppressing
any of his deliberate opinions or forebodings, however lightly he
might have chosen to express them. Long experience had taught them how
much meaning and truth lay hid even in his most casual observations on
such subjects; and how probable it was that those who were at first
startled by them, would, on mature consideration, find them reasonable
and right. And whereas it has been truly observed, both in friendly
and unfriendly quarters, that the development of old principles, which
now seems to be advancing, is not such as to be accounted for by the
efforts of any particular individuals (it is something in the air,
something going on in all places at once, and in spite of all
precautions); it seemed a circumstance worth remarking, that it should
have been thus anticipated and rehearsed in a single mind: a mind of
itself inclined to rationalism, but checked first in that process, and
finally won from it, by resolute and implicit submission to the
lessons and rules of the Church in England, and rewarded (if we may
humbly judge) for such submission, by a more than ordinary insight
into the true claims of the Universal Church, and the means of
improving to the utmost our high privilege of being yet in her

‘One who knew and appreciated him well (whatever subordinate
differences might exist between them), and whose honoured name it is
now more than ever a satisfaction to join with his,――the late lamented
Mr. Rose,――used to say of him, that he was “not afraid of inferences”:
meaning, as it would seem, that he was gifted with a remarkable
fearlessness in regard of conclusions, when once his premisses were
thoroughly made good. To see his way rapidly and acutely, was common
to [Mr. Froude] with many: but to venture along it with uncompromising
faith, was, in a degree, peculiar to himself. Perhaps it was this
quality, humanly speaking, which kept him always somewhat in advance
of his time, and of those with whom he most cordially acted. However,
since it was in him consistent, bearing fruit in action as well as in
speculation, and causing him to deny himself as unsparingly as he
contradicted popular opinions, it does seem to give all views of his a
peculiar claim to consideration, on the part of those who agree with
him in first principles. There will always be a fair presumption,
previous to inquiry, that his conclusions are the legitimate result of
propositions which we admit in common with him, but which we have not
as yet the courage to follow up as he did: not to dwell on the moral
nobleness of such fearless and devout adherence to the Truth. It is
the very description of Faith “to obey and go out, not knowing whither
it goes”; and a character of which that is the principal mark, is
surely not ill-fitted to exemplify what the whole Church may soon be
called on to practise. So far, in his papers and life we seem to have,
as it were, embodied a type of the kind of resistance due to the
spirit of this age on the part of the Catholic Church, and of all her
dutiful children. Could it be right, merely through dread of censure
incurred, or disturbance given, to suppress such a document,
providentially coming into our hands?

‘Now when the great principle of Catholicism, _Quod semper, quod
ubique, quod ab omnibus_, had once rooted itself in the mind of a
person thus determined not to flinch from results; when he had once
come to be convinced that the only safe way for the Church is to go
back to the times of universal consent, so far as that is possible,
inasmuch as such universal consent is no doubtful indication of His
Will, in Whom we are all one Body,――would he not naturally go on and
say to himself: “If I lay down this rule on one question, I shall not
be dealing fairly with myself, honestly with my opponents, reverently
with Him to Whom I am virtually appealing, except I carry the same
mode of reasoning into all other questions also, wherein it is
applicable? Accepting the Church’s interpretation of Scripture as to
the necessity of real outward Baptism, I must accept it, also, as to
the connection of the Gift of Regeneration exclusively with Baptism;
accepting her view of the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist, I must not
decline her doctrine of the accompanying Sacrifice, gathered from the
same Liturgies and the same interpretation of Holy Scripture;
believing her concerning the genuineness of the Bible, I must believe
her also concerning a transmitted Priesthood; taking it on trust from
her Creeds that such and such is the only true account of the
doctrines of the Bible, I may not doubt her consistent and perpetual
witness that such and such are the right rules for interpreting the
same holy Book; I believe, because she assures me, that Bishops only
have the right to ordain; must I not believe her equally positive
assurance that Excommunication is also theirs by exclusive and
indefeasible right, and that it is no true Eucharist which is not
consecrated by hands which they have authorised?” These are instances
of the manner in which the Author of these papers reasoned; and
certainly, at first sight, there seems to be much force in his mode of
reasoning; the _onus probandi_ seems cast on those who demur to it. It
seems, if it were not for its practical consequences, more
satisfactory than the summary ways of dealing with such matters, which
we find not seldom adopted; fairer and more ingenuous than the saying:
“Times are altered; it might be all right then, but it does not follow
that it is so now”; more reverential than the other saying: “The
Fathers were good sort of men, but no number of fallible beings can
make an infallible Church”; more in harmony with Scripture and with
God’s general Providence, than to dismiss such portions of the ancient
system as we think proper, with the aphorism: “It may be, and has been
abused, and therefore is best let alone.” And having all these
advantages, it seemed to him part of Faith to suppose that, in the
end, it would prove also the best and most effective way of
maintaining the Truth of God against superstition and idolatry, as
well as against scepticism and profane exaltation of reason.

‘But further: such a mind as is here supposed, thoroughly
uncompromising in its Catholicity, would feel deeply that as ancient
consent binds the person admitting it alike to all doctrines,
interpretations, and usages, for which it can be truly alleged; so
there is something less tangible and definite, though not less real
than any of these, which no less demands his dutiful veneration, and
to which he is bound to conform himself in practice: that is to say,
the cast of thought and tone of character of the Primitive Church, its
way of judging, behaving, expressing itself, on practical matters,
great and small, as they occur. For what, in fact, is this character,
but what an Apostle once called it: “the mind of Jesus Christ”
Himself, by the secret inspiration of His Spirit communicated to His
whole mystical Body, informing, guiding, moving it, as He will? A
sacred and awful truth: of which whoever is seriously aware will
surely be very backward to question or discuss the propriety of any
sentiment allowed to be general in Christian antiquity, how remote
soever from present views and usages; much more, to treat it with
anything like contempt or bitterness.

‘Should it appear to him, for example, that the Ancient Church took in
their literal and obvious meaning those expressions of Our Saviour and
of St. Paul, which recommend celibacy as the more excellent way, so as
to give honour to those who voluntarily so abode, that they might wait
on the Lord; and in particular, to assume that the clergy should
rather, of the two, be unmarried than married:――he will not permit the
prejudices of a later time to hinder him from honouring those whom his
Lord so delighted to honour; he will consider that the same cast of
thought which leads men to scorn religious celibacy, will certainly
prevent marriage also, which they profess to honour, from being
strictly religious. Should he find that the records of the Fathers
bear witness in every page to their literal observance of the duty of
fasting, and the high importance which they attached to it, it is not
the titles of Jewish, Pharisaical, self-righteous, nor yet that of
ascetic (more widely dreaded than all!) which will deter him from
obeying his conscience in that particular. Should he perceive that the
counsels and demeanour of the holy men of old towards heretics and
other sinners, correspond much more truly with the Apostolic rule,
“Put away from among yourselves that wicked person,” than with the
liberal and unscrupulous intercourse which respectable persons now
practise, for peace, and quietness, and good-nature’s sake; it is a
conviction which cannot but widely influence both his judgment of
other times, and his conduct towards his contemporaries. It will lead
to many a sentence that will sound harsh, and many a step that will be
counted austere; it will cause him often to shock those by whom he
would greatly wish to be approved; and yet, thus he must judge and
act, if he will be true to his own principle, and conform himself
throughout to that Will of God which the consent of those purer ages

‘Another very distinguishable circumstance in the tone and manner of
the early Church is its reverential reserve with regard to holy
things: of all its characteristics apparently the most unaccountable
to the spirit of the present age. This also we may expect to discover
in a true, courageous, consistent follower of the ancients: not so
much by any conscious endeavour of his, as because it will come to him
instinctively, as some birds are said to contrive ways for enticing
observers away from their nests. And because it is reserve, we may
expect now and then to be startled at the very form of it. The nature
of the thing excludes conventional expressions, and drives people,
often, on such as are rather paradoxical; deep reverence will
occasionally veil itself, as it were, for a moment, even under the
mask of its opposite, as earnest affection is sometimes known to do.
Any expedient, almost, will be adopted by a person who enters with all
his heart into this portion of the ancient character, rather than he
will contradict that character altogether by a bare, unscrupulous,
flaunting display of sacred things or good thoughts.

‘Once more: he who makes up his mind really to take Antiquity for his
guide, will feel that he must be continually realising the presence of
a wonder-working God; his mind must be awake to the possibility of
special providences, miraculous interferences, supernatural warnings,
and tokens of the divine Purpose, and also to indications of other
unseen agency, both good and bad, relating to himself and others:
subjects of this sort, if a man be consistent, must fill up a larger
portion of his thoughts and affections, and influence his conduct far
more materially, than the customs and opinions of this age would
readily permit.

‘Other particulars might be mentioned; but these which have been
enumerated are surely sufficient to teach persons a little caution how
they apply the readily occurring words, “overstrained, fanatical,
ascetic, bigoted,” to notions and practices such as have been now
alluded to. Previous to examination, they cannot be sure that any such
notion or practice is not a development of the character which Our
Lord from the beginning willed should be impressed on His Church. If
we have not the boldness to take it on ourselves, and follow the Lamb
whithersoever He goeth, at least let us not throw stumbling-blocks in
the way of those who are more courageously disposed! When a thing is
fairly proved superstitious, uncharitable, ascetic in a bad sense,
unwarranted by Scripture and Antiquity, then let it be blamed and
rejected, not before; lest we incur such a rebuke as he did, who, with
more zeal than knowledge, would have prevented Our Lord Himself, as
these would the least of His brethren and members, from taking up and
bearing the Cross. It was in love to Christ that he remonstrated; yet
what was Christ’s reproof? “Get thee behind Me, Satan; thou art an
offence unto Me; for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but
the things that be of men….”

       *     *     *     *     *

‘We should not, perhaps, be duly thankful for so much of the
Apostolical Ritual, preserved to us by a gracious Providence, if we
were not sometimes called on to take notice how narrowly we have
escaped losing the whole: neither, again, can our escape be rightly
appreciated, without taking into the account the tendency of the
school to which our Reformers had joined themselves, and the little
dependence that could be placed on their love of Antiquity, as a
safeguard against that evil tendency. All this, of course, implies
that whatever praise and admiration may be due to individuals, both
some of the principles of the movement which is called the
Reformation, in the several countries of Europe, and in parts also,
the tone of character which it encouraged, were materially opposed to
those of the Early Church. At the risk of prolonging these remarks,
already much longer than is desirable in a Preface, a few heads shall
be mentioned, to which [Mr. Froude] would probably have referred, as
mainly accounting for his feelings on this matter.

‘First of all, he would have complained of their tone with regard to
the Apostolical Succession; not this or that writer only, but the
general body who favoured that cause, treating it as no better than a
politic invention to secure the influence of Church governors, in the
absence of true doctrine and visible spiritual gifts. Nor would he
probably have thought this charge answered by any number of quotations
from their writings, apparently tending the contrary way: because,
where opposite sets of quotations may be adduced from the same writer,
and from compositions of the same date, either his opinions are so far
neutralised, or we must ascertain by his conduct, his connections, the
cast of his sentiments generally, and such other evidence as we can
get, in which of the two statements he was overruled, and in which
left to the free expression of his own mind. By the same mode of
inquiry, he would come to judge unfavourably of their tenets about
Sacramental Grace, especially in the Holy Eucharist; about the Power
of the Keys, and the sacredness of the ancient Discipline; and about
State interference in matters spiritual; although in this latter
point, especially, their conduct spoke out for them too plainly to
admit of any construction but one. Anyone who pleases, may verify or
contradict the impressions of [Mr. Froude] on these and similar
points, by simply examining the remains of the principal Reformers,
with such cautions as are above indicated. Until he has done so, and
satisfied himself that those impressions were not merely erroneous,
but such as no student of tolerable fairness could adopt, it may be
questioned whether he has much right broadly and positively to condemn
[Mr. Froude], for wishing “to have nothing to do with such a set.”

‘And this more especially, if he take into consideration, likewise,
certain less palpable but not less substantial differences in the way
of thinking and moral sentiment, which separate the Reformers from the
Fathers, more widely, perhaps, than any definite statements of
doctrine. Compare the sayings and manner of the two schools on the
subjects of fasting, celibacy, religious vows, voluntary retirement
and contemplation, the memory of the Saints, rites and ceremonies
recommended by Antiquity, and involving any sort of self-denial, and
especially on the great point of giving men divine knowledge, and
introducing holy associations, not indiscriminately, but as men are
able to bear it: there can be little doubt that, generally speaking,
the tone of the fourth century is so unlike that of the sixteenth, on
each and all of these topics, that it is absolutely impossible for the
same mind to sympathise with both. You must choose between the two
lines: they are not only diverging, but contrary.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘But some say: “Whether right or wrong in his views, [Mr. Froude]
ought not to have spoken so rudely of these subjects”: and this brings
us to the second head of offence, his way of expressing his sentiments
on grave matters, generally. Such censurers appear to forget that his
feelings are conveyed to us in familiar Letters, and of course, as his
other _Remains_ prove, in a different tone and manner from that which
he would have adopted had he been preparing to give the expression of
them to the world: not, however, more unsuited to the occasion than
the epistolary tone and manner of very many imaginative persons, on
points concerning which, nevertheless, they feel the deepest and most
serious interest. This however, it may be thought, is only shifting
the blame from him on his Editors. But it will be found that his
phrases, however sportive, or even flippant, in their sound, had each
their own distinct meaning, embodied his views, and the reasons of
them, often in a wonderfully brief space, and could not be omitted
without much loss of instruction, and frequent risk of missing their
point and meaning. Like proverbial modes of speech, they were, of
course, not always to be taken literally, though the principle they
contained might be true in its fullest extent. Thus he once told a
friend that he was “with the Romanists in religion, and against them
in politics.” Again he says, in a letter to a friend: “When I come
home, I mean to read and write all sorts of things; for now that one
is a Radical, there is no use in being nice!” In another: “We will
have a _vocabularium apostolicum_, and I will start it with four
words: ‘pampered aristocrats,’ ‘resident gentlemen,’ ‘smug parsons,’
‘_pauperes Christi_.’ I shall use the first on all occasions; it seems
to me just to hit the thing. How is it we are so much in advance of
our generation?”[383]

‘Next, the reader is requested to consider whether a good deal of what
has startled him in that way may not be accounted for by the nature of
εἰρωνεία: not mere ludicrous irony, according to the popular English
sense of that word, but a kind of Socratic reserve, an instinctive
dissembling of his own high feelings and notions, partly through fear
of deceiving himself and others, partly (though it may sound
paradoxical) out of very reverence, giving up at once all notion of
doing justice to sacred subjects, and shrinking from nothing so much
as the disparagement of them by any kind of affectation. This whole
topic admits of forcible illustration from different persons’ ways of
reading sacred compositions. There is an apparently unconcerned mode
of enunciation, which in fact arises from people’s realising, or at
least trying to realise, their own utter incompetency to speak such
words aright. Again, of all the serious persons in the world, it is
probable that no two could be found who would thoroughly enter into
each other’s tones and expression. We must have a little faith in our
neighbour’s earnestness, in order not to think his reading affected. A
little consideration will perhaps show that most of what some might be
tempted to call harsh, or coarse, or irreverent in this work, may be
accounted for in the manner here indicated: _e.g._, [Mr. Froude’s]
playful custom of speaking of his own and his friends’ proceedings in
the language which an enemy would adopt: calling himself and his
friends “ecclesiastical agitators,” their plans for doing good “a
conspiracy,” and the effect of them “poisoning people’s minds”: and
his use of cant schoolboy words, which no doubt has disgusted many,
may be referred to the same head.

‘Often, indeed, he seemed instinctively to put his own or his friends’
views and characters in the most objectionable light in which they
could be represented, as if to show that he was fully aware of the
popular view which would be taken of what he approved, or the
arguments against it which would seem plausible to the many; and that
he was not in the least moved by it. Thus he somewhere utters a wish
that “the ‘march of mind’ in France might yet prove a bloody one.”
Elsewhere he regrets “that anything should be done to avert what seems
our only chance:[384] a spoliation on a large scale!” Thus he
habitually forced his mind to face the worst consequences or the most
unfavourable aspect of his own wish or opinion, the most obnoxious
associations with which it could be connected: and therefore used
terms expressive of those consequences or associations. It was one
form of his horror of self-deceit. Put these things together: add also
the fertility of his mind, his humour, his pointed mode of expression,
his consciousness of fearless integrity, his hatred of half-truths and
cowardly veils, his confidence in his friends’ understanding him and
allowing for him: and it will be found that they go far towards
explaining the manner, just as the principle of adhering to Antiquity
accounts for the matter, of what he says. But if after due allowance
made for all these things, there should still remain more than we can
easily reconcile ourselves to, in the way either of severity, or of
seeming rudeness of speech; coldness where we expected fervour, and
criticism where we looked for sympathy; we shall do well to remember,
that the fault, if there be a fault, is not necessarily all on [Mr.
Froude’s] side: it may be right to suspend our judgment, till we have
ascertained whether these things be not in fact due to the character
of Christian Antiquity, which he might be unconsciously realising in
greater perfection than his age could yet bear.

‘Does there yet remain something that troubles us, something that we
cannot at all explain? We must not forget (it is a deep and high
allusion, but not, it is humbly trusted, altogether irrelevant to this
case), that, as all other manifestations of Our Lord, so those which
He has vouchsafed to make of Himself in His Saints, have ever been
more or less mysterious and unaccountable. Which of the great
Scripture characters is there, whose conduct, even that part of it
which the Holy Spirit seems to mention approvingly, is not, in some
respect or another, a riddle and a paradox to us, with our modern
views? Are there not things recorded of the Ancient Church which we
know not how to enter into, yet must needs venerate because she gave
them her sanction? Nay, and is it not very conceivable that every one
of those approved in God’s sight would be in like manner, were his
history fully disclosed, “a monster” (as the Psalmist phrases it) to
every other? that Faith is necessary, in a degree, for our holding by
Christ in any one of His members, as it is the great requisite whereby
we keep hold of Him our Head? These remarks are, of course,
hypothetical: nothing is asserted of peculiar sanctity in any one:
only it seemed advisable to remind men, that where there are
appearances in one part of a character of holiness and self-denial in
a remarkable degree, there we may expect, by a kind of law of God’s
Providence, to find, in other matters, something very much beside our
expectations, and unlike our own moral taste.

‘At the same time, it should not be forgotten that there are persons
in the world to whom this very disposition to irony and playfulness,
and what we may perhaps call a certain youthfulness of expression,
serves to recommend [Mr. Froude’s] views, and attract them to him.
That seeming lightness, which was natural to him, is natural also to
some others, perhaps not a few: and it is useful that they should have
the means of knowing that it is not inconsistent with high and earnest
thoughts of things invisible, and strict rules of Christian obedience.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘After all, it is not to anything that we see, or that the world is
likely to see, that we look for the effect of these _Remains_. If
there be any who brood over them in secret, who have found them
implant a sort of sting in their bosoms, who feel that it would have
been a privilege to know their author, and watch his ways of
discipline and obedience; and if they had known him, to remember him
afterwards, and say silently, _Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis
versari, quam tui meminisse!_ if there be any, who have an eye for all
that is exquisite and beautiful in Nature and art, yet gladly turn
away from all to admire any plain downright specimen of self-denial
and obedience in the little ones of Jesus Christ; if any person dwell
with regretful love on parents, kindred, home, friends, humbling
himself all along with remembrance of past unworthiness, and
disparagement of them, yet more willing, as he values them more, to
part with them for the Church’s sake:――that is the sort of reader to
whose judgement, if to any human, the Editors of these _Remains_ would
appeal, from the prejudices, religious and political, of the day. But
who they are that will so read, and how much they will be profited,
may not be known in this world.’

      MOVEMENT,’ by the Rev. T. MOZLEY, M.A. 2 vols. Longmans, Green &
      Co., 1882.[385]

  [By the kind permission of Mrs. T. Mozley, and of Messrs. Longmans &

‘If there ever could be any question as to the master spirit of this
Movement, which now would be a very speculative question indeed, it
lies between John Henry Newman and Richard Hurrell Froude. Froude was
a man, such as there are now and then, of whom it is impossible for
those that have known him to speak without exceeding the bounds of
common admiration and affection. He was elder brother of William, the
distinguished engineer, who died lately, after rendering, and while
still rendering, most important services to the Admiralty, and of
Anthony, the well-known historian, the sons of Archdeacon Froude, a
scholar and no mean artist. Richard came to Oriel from Eton, a school
which does not make every boy a scholar, if it even tries to do so,
but which somehow implants in every nature a generous ambition of one
kind or other.

‘As an undergraduate, he waged a ruthless war against sophistry and
loud talk, and he gibbeted one or two victims, labelling their
sophisms with their names. Elected to a Fellowship, and now the
companion of Newman and Pusey, not to speak of elders and juniors, he
had to wield his weapons more reverentially and warily. But he had no
wish to do otherwise…. Froude’s voice combined the gravity and
authority of age with all the charms of youth, for he might be at once
reasoning with a senate, and amusing a circle of children…. He was a
bold rider. He would take a good leap when he had the chance, and
would urge his friends to follow him, mostly in vain…. Froude
delighted in taking his friends for a gallop in Blenheim Park, to the
no small peril of indifferent riders, for the horses became wild, and
went straight under the low hanging branches of the wide-spreading

‘His figure and manner were such as to command the confidence and
affection of those about him. Tall, erect, very thin, never resting or
sparing himself, investigating and explaining with unwearied energy,
incisive in his language, and with a certain fiery force of look and
tone, he seemed a sort of angelic presence to weaker natures. He
slashed at the shams, phrases, and disguises in which the lazy or the
pretentious veil their real ignorance or folly. His features readily
expressed every varying mood of playfulness, sadness, and awe. There
were those about him who would rather writhe under his most cutting
sarcasms than miss their part in the workings of his sympathy and

‘Froude was a Tory, with that transcendental idea of the English
gentleman which forms the basis of Toryism. He was a High Churchman of
the uncompromising school, very early taking part with Anselm, Becket,
Laud, and the Nonjurors. Woe to anyone who dropped in his hearing such
phrases as the Dark Ages, superstition, bigotry, right of private
judgement, enlightenment, march of mind, or progress. When a stray man
of science fell back on “law,” or a “subtle medium,” or any other
device for making matter its own lord and master, it was as if a fox
had broken cover: there ensued a chase and no mercy. Luxury, show, and
even comfort he despised and denounced. He very consistently urged
that the expenses of Eton should be kept down so low as to enable
every ordinary incumbent to send his sons there to be trained for the
ministry. All his ideas of College life were frugal and ascetic.
Having need of a press for his increasing papers and books, he had one
made of plain deal. It must have been Woodgate who came in one day,
and finding some red chalk, ornamented the press with grotesque
figures, which long were there. Froude and Newman induced several of
the Fellows to discontinue wine in the Common Room. As they had
already had a glass or two at the high table, they did not require
more. There was only one objection to the discontinuance, but it was
fatal at last; and that was its inconvenience when strangers were
present. This preference of tea to wine was no great innovation in
Oriel. When I came up at Easter, 1825, one of the first standing jokes
against the College, all over the University, was the “Oriel teapot,”
supposed to be always ready, the centre of the Oriel circle, and its
special inspiration. How there ever came to be such an idea I cannot
guess, but wherever I went, when I passed the wine, I was asked
whether I would not prefer some tea, much to the amusement of the

‘Self-renunciation in every form [Froude] could believe in; most of
all in a gentleman, particularly one of a good Devonshire family. His
acquaintance with country gentlemen had been special, perhaps
fortunate. He had not been in the north[386] of England, in the
eastern counties, or in the midlands. It was therefore in perfect
simplicity that, upon hearing one day the description of a new member
in the Reformed Parliament, he exclaimed: “Fancy a gentleman not
knowing Greek!” I chanced one day to drop, most inconsiderately, that
all were born alike, and that they were made what they are by
circumstances and education. Never did I hear the end of that. No
retraction or qualification would avail….

‘… In July, 1832, the _History of the Arians_ was ready for the press,
and as Newman was now relieved of his College duties, he was more a
man of leisure than he had ever been, and was also in more need of
rest. Hurrell Froude (as Richard was always called, though there was
another Hurrell in the family) had now to submit to be ruled by his
anxious relatives. He must spend the winter on the Mediterranean and
its shores, … and Newman was easily persuaded to go with him. In these
days, it requires little persuasion to induce ordinary people who
happen to be free from pressing engagements, to accept the offer of a
Continental trip, especially southward, in the winter. But this did
rather take Newman’s friends by surprise: the only reason they could
suppose was his great anxiety for Hurrell Froude…. He never made a
tour for pleasure’s sake, for health’s sake, or for change’s sake. He
did move about a good deal, but it was to the country parsonages to
which so many of his friends were early relegated….

‘… It must have been soon after Froude’s return from the Mediterranean
that I had with him one of our old talks about architecture. He was as
devoted to science and as loyal to it as any materialist could be. But
architecture and science are very apt to be at variance, and Froude
was always disposed to side with the latter. As for Greek
architecture, there is no science in it except the mystery of
proportion and a certain preternatural and overpowering conception of
beauty. The Temple of Egesta, which won the hearts of our travellers,
has no more science in its construction than Stonehenge. But Roman
architecture was for all the world, for its gods as well as for its
mortals. The arch, and still more the vault, were mighty bounds into
the time to come.

‘Always leaning on tradition where possible, Froude wished to believe
the pointed arch the natural suggestion of a row of round arches seen
in perspective. Of course, a deep round arch in a thick wall only
shows its roundness when you stand directly before it, but seems
pointed from any other direction. I remember ventilating this idea to
Sir Richard Westmacott and Turner, the great painter, at the former’s
table, and I remember also the great contempt with which the latter
dismissed such mechanical ideas from the realm of the picturesque. But
it was the dome that chiefly exercised Froude’s mind. It was a
positive pain to him that so grand a building as the Parthenon should
have been constructed, as he believed, in such ignorance of science.
His notion was that if Agrippa had known the qualities of the catenary
curve he would have used it, instead of the semi-circular curve: that
is, in this instance, the spherical vault…. Had any common utilitarian
made such a suggestion I should not have thought it worth notice. I
only mention it as showing the scientific character of Froude’s
tastes. The objections are obvious and overwhelming. In the first
place, beauty must lead in architecture, and construction must obey….
Spherical domes are the crux and the pitfall of architecture. They
involve false construction and positive deception…. Froude had a soul
for beauty; but he did not like shams. He did not like a thing to seem
what it was not. Few buildings are prepared to stand such a test.
Amiens Cathedral, for example, the first love of the English tourist,
is nothing more than an iron cage filled in with stone…. Robert
Wilberforce had been much impressed with Cologne Cathedral and with
the galleries of early art at Munich. It is an illustration of the
turning of the tide, and of the many smaller causes contributing to
the Movement, that in 1829, German agents (one of them with a special
introduction to Robert Wilberforce) filled Oxford with very beautiful
and interesting tinted lithographs of mediæval paintings, which have
probably, long ere this, found their way to a thousand parsonages: a
good many to Brompton Oratory!… About the same time, there came an
agent from Cologne with very large and beautiful reproductions of the
original design for the Cathedral, which it was proposed to set to
work on, with a faint hope of completing it before the end of the
century. Froude gave thirty guineas for a set of the drawings, went
wild over them, and infected not a few of his friends with mediæval
architecture. As an instance of the way in which religious sentiment
was now beginning to be disassociated from practical bearings and
necessities, Froude would frequently mention the exquisitely finished
details at York Minster and other Churches, in situations where no eye
but the eye of Heaven could possibly reach them…. He was most deeply
interested in architecture, but it is plain that he was more
penetrated and inspired by St. Peter’s[387] than even by Cologne
Cathedral. After spending three days with me in taking measurements,
tracings, mouldings, and sketches of St. Giles at Oxford, one of the
purest specimens of Early English, he devoted a good deal of time at
Barbados to designing some homely Tuscan addition to Codrington

‘It was now [1833] deep in Long Vacation, but no period in the annals
of Oxford was ever more pregnant with consequences than the next two
months. The returning travellers had lost time. The world had got the
start of them, and they had to make up for it. Froude’s imagination
teemed with new ideas, new projects, topics likely to tell or worth
trying; to be tried, indeed, and found variously successful. They came
from him like a shower of meteors, bursting out of a single spot in a
clear sky, for they had been pent up. Every post had brought the
travellers some account of fresh “atrocities.” _The Examiner_ was the
only paper that talked sense. Conservative Churchism Froude now
utterly abhorred. In passing through France, he had listened with
hopefulness to the dream that a deeper descent into republicanism than
that represented by Louis Philippe, would land that country in High
Churchism. How could the Church of England now be saved? By working
out the oath of canonical obedience? By a lay synod, pending the
apostasy of Parliament? By a race of clergy living less like country
gentlemen? By dealing in some way or other with the appointment of
Bishops? By a systematic revival of religion in large towns; in
particular, by colleges of unmarried priests? By Excommunication? By
working upon the _pauperes Christi_? By writing up the early Puritans,
who had so much to say for themselves against the tyranny of
Elizabeth? By preaching Apostolic Succession? By the high sacramental
doctrine? By attacking State interference in matters spiritual? By an
apostolic vocabulary giving everything its right name? By recalling
the memory of the Gregorian age?

‘It was perhaps a happy diversion of his thoughts that he had so much
to say on other topics, such as architecture, and the construction of
ships and dock-gates. It was now plain that he had brought home with
him not only his own fervid temperament, but some of the heat of sunny
climes, where indeed he had not taken proper care of his health, or
any care at all. Like most other Englishmen, he would not be indoors
by sunset, or put on warmer clothing when the thermometer dropped 20
or 30°. It happened to be an exceptionally cold winter in the
Mediterranean. As far as regards health, the experiment had been a

‘One thing, however, is quite clear from his Letters and other
remains; and, as he was all this time somewhat in advance of Newman,
it has a bearing on his mental history. Froude came home even more
utterly set against Roman Catholics than he had been before. His
conclusion was that they held the Truth in unrighteousness; that they
were “wretched Tridentines everywhere,” and of course, ever since the
Reformation; that the conduct and behaviour of the clergy was such
that it was impossible they could believe what they professed, that
they were idolaters in the sense of substituting easy and good-natured
divinities for the God of Truth and Holiness.

‘Froude stayed in England just long enough to take a present part in
the great Movement, and to contribute to it, and then, as he
sorrowfully said of himself, “like the man who ‘fled full soon, on the
first of June, but bade the rest keep fighting,’” he found himself
compelled by his friends to leave England for the West Indies.

‘All these vivid expressions, delivered with the sincerity of a noble
child or a newly-converted savage, chimed in with Newman’s state of
feeling, and struck deep into his very being, to bring forth fruit.
Yet in neither Froude nor Newman could now be discovered the least
suspicion of what these outbursts might lead to, for at every point
they found Rome irreconcilable and impossible.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘Froude, who had now bidden farewell to Toryism, much in the same key
as he had written of old Tyre and the Cities of the Plain, was
contributing to the _Tracts_, from Barbados, and also freely
criticising them when they seemed to him to temporise, or to fall into
modern conventionalisms. In fact he was keeping Newman, nothing loth,
up to the mark.

‘In May, 1835, he returned from Barbados. On landing, he found a
letter from Newman calling him to Oxford, where there were several
friends soon to part for the Long Vacation. His brother Anthony was
summoned from his private tutor, Mr. Hubert Cornish. Froude came, full
of energy and fire, sunburnt, but a shadow. The tale of his health was
soon told. He had a “button in his throat” which he could not get rid
of, but he talked incessantly. With a positive hunger for intellectual
difficulties, he had been studying Babbage’s calculating machine, and
he explained, at a pace which seemed to accelerate itself, its
construction, its performances, its failures, and its certain limits.
Few, if any, could follow him, still less could they find an opening
for aught they had to say, or to beg a minute’s law. He never could
realise the laggard pace of duller intelligences. I have not the least
doubt he did his best to explain Babbage’s machine to his black Euclid
class at Codrington College, and that without ever ascertaining the
result in their minds….

‘… Froude was brimful of irony, and always ready to surprise and even
shock men of a slower temperament, when he could by a smile smooth or
disarm them. As he talked, so he wrote in his letters. The Editors of
his _Remains_ were under a temptation, which they construed into a
necessity, to reproduce him as he really had been, to the very words
and the life, and let his words take their chance. Upon the whole,
they were right; for no one ever charged, or could now charge, on
Froude, that his expressions had brought anyone to Rome, or could
doubt that Froude himself was Anglican to the last….

‘… There had never been seen at Oxford, indeed seldom anywhere, so
large and noble a sacrifice of the most precious gifts and powers to a
sacred cause. The men who were devoting themselves to it were not bred
for the work, or from one school. They were not literary toilers or
adventurers glad of a chance, or veterans ready to take to one task as
lightly as to another, equally zealous to do their duty, and equally
indifferent to the form. They were not men of the common rank, casting
a die for promotion. They were not levies or conscripts, but in every
sense volunteers. Pusey, Keble, and Newman had each an individuality
capable of a development, and a part beyond that of any former
scholar, poet, or theologian in the Church of England. Each lost quite
as much as he gained by the joint action of the three. It is hard to
say what Froude might have been, or might not have been, had he lived
but a few more years, and been content to cast in his lot with common
mortals bound by conditions of place and time.’

      1840. [By the Rev. T. MOZLEY.][388]

‘Mr. Froude’s Editors have now taken another step in what they
consider their sacred duty to their friend who is not dead, but
sleepeth, and to the Church, by presenting the Catholic reader with
the second instalment of his _Remains_. The contents of the present
collection are, like those of the first, very miscellaneous, and
rather fragments and sketches than complete compositions. This, of
course, might be expected in the work of a man whose days were few,
and interrupted by illness, if indeed that may be called an
interruption which, at least all the period in which the pages before
us were written, was every day sensibly drawing him to his grave. In
Mr. Froude’s case, however, we cannot set down much of this
incompleteness to the score of illness. The strength of his religious
impressions, the boldness and clearness of his views, his long habits
of self-denial, and his unconquerable energy of mind, triumphed over
weakness and decay, till men with all their health and strength about
them might gaze upon his attenuated form, struck with a certain awe of
wonderment at the brightness of his wit, the intensenesss of his
mental vision, and the iron strength of his argument. It will perhaps
be giving a truer account of the state in which these papers appear,
to say something of the sort of intention with which we conceive they
were written. If it is permitted so to apply the words, they were the
outpourings of a soul consumed with zeal for the house of God. The
author had that in him which he could not suppress, which of itself
struggled for utterance; he also was conscious that the night was fast
approaching in which no man can work. Yet the good work which he
believed had been prepared for him to do was somewhat in advance of
his own day; and he felt no temptation to square, or round, and soften
and disguise the awful themes that glowed within him, till they should
be perfectly within the taste and compass of the men and times he
lived to see…. With no anxiety, then, for present effect, and no
embarrassing reference to any particular set of readers, he let his
spirit take its own free course. He only desired to spare no labour of
thought that was necessary for a thorough elucidation of his views, to
detect the lurking fallacy both in his own and in others’ minds, and
set the whole matter in the clearness of noonday. He wrote as he
thought and felt.

‘… We will venture a remark or two with regard to that ironical turn
which certainly does appear in various shapes in the first Part of
these _Remains_. Unpleasant as irony may sometimes be, there need not
go with it, and in this instance there did not go with it, the
smallest real asperity of temper. Who that remembers the inexpressible
sweetness of his smile, or the deep and melancholy pity with which he
would speak of those whom he felt to be the victims of modern
delusion, would not be forward to contradict such a suspicion? Such
expressions, we will venture to say, and not harshness, or anger, or
gloom, animate the features of that countenance which will never cease
to haunt the memory of those who knew him. His irony arose from that
peculiar mode in which he viewed all earthly things, himself and all
that was dear to him not excepted. It was his poetry. Irony is,
indeed, the natural way in which men of high views and keen intellect
view the world: they cannot find middle terms of controversy with men
of ordinary views; they feel a gulf between them and the world; they
cannot descend to the level of lower views, or raise others from that
level to their own. As, therefore, there is no common ground which
they can seriously or really assume with inferior and worldly minds,
they fall into a way of pretending to assume common notions, and
reasoning on them with unreal seriousness, in order to expose them.
They cannot suppress a smile at the false assumptions and pretensions
and hopes of this perishing world. The same temper leads them to
assume, for the purpose of mirth, or argument, or self-discipline
(which you please), the very worst that the world can possibly think
of themselves, their own views and designs. Irony, in fact, seems only
an ethical expression of the logical _reductio ad absurdum_, as
applied to matters of taste, morality, and religion. Great examples
have shown it to be compatible with real humility and wide
benevolence; though, like many other peculiarities of style, such as
depth of reflection, subtlety of reasoning, great affectionateness,
poetry, or humour, it may only be understood by those who have
something corresponding in themselves.

‘… As to the author now immediately before us … while we expect
certainly a great effect upon the religion of the day from a mind so
singularly gifted as his, we certainly do not expect, and never have
expected, a sudden and perceptible effect. Views so bold, so original,
so uncompromising as his, seem to float upon the surface of the
current notions of the age as oil upon the waters; they seem to have
no affinity to things as they are, and to be without a medium of
acting upon them. We do not, then, look for any great extension of Mr.
Froude’s works or name for a long time; we are prepared to think that
when talked of, it will be but objectively, as it may be called, as a
phenomenon too far removed from the speakers to interest them or
affect them; as what they have just heard of, or hardly seen. But all
the while a secret influence may be extending itself: persons may
adopt his views who are better able and willing to dilute and temper
them to the feelings of the many; the tone of religious opinion and
the standard of recognised principles may gradually be rising; popular
errors or assumptions may be silently dropped; and numbers talk
“Froudism,” as it is called, who neither know the source of their own
views, nor will credit it when taxed with it. We are able to point at
this very time to two remarkable instances of deep thinkers, with one
of whom we have no, and with the other but faint sympathy, Bentham and
Coleridge, but whom we must still allow to be unusual minds, the chief
philosophers of their day, who yet in their lifetime were not
understood, or appreciated, and have at length grown into celebrity,
and are receiving the suitable reward of their intellectual powers, by
means of what may be called the atmosphere of congenial thought which
they have at length formed around them. They have created the medium
in which their voices would sound, and then have been heard far and
near. A like result, in the cause of Truth, not of worldly philosophy,
we hope awaits the author of these volumes.’[389]

  From ‘LYRA APOSTOLICA,’ edited by H. C. BEECHING, M.A., Professor of
      Pastoral Theology at King’s College, with an Introduction by H.
      S. HOLLAND, M.A., Canon and Precentor of S. Paul’s. London:
      Methuen & Co. [The Library of Devotion.]

  [By the kind permission of the Rev. H. C. Beeching, the Rev. H. S.
      Holland, and Messrs Methuen & Co.].

[I. _From Canon Scott Holland’s Introduction._]

‘“It was at Rome that we began the _Lyra Apostolica_. The motto shows
the feeling of both Froude and myself at the time. We borrowed from M.
Bunsen a _Homer_, and Froude chose the words in which Achilles, on
returning to the battle, says: ‘You shall know the difference, now
that I am back again.’”[390] So wrote Dr. Newman in the _Apologia_,
and the words give exactly the note of the temper with which the book
still tingles from cover to cover. It sprang out of a critical hour in
which the force of an historical movement first found speech. It was
an hour of high passion that had been gathering for some onset dimly
foreseen, and had now, at last, won free vent, and had flung itself
out in articulate defiance…. With the defiance, goes also a strong
note of confidence. The men who write, however dark their outlook
seems to be, speak as those who see their way, and have made their
choice, and have found their speech, and have no doubt at all about
the issue. There was a certain rapture of recklessness about them at
the time, such as belongs to young souls who have let themselves go,
under the inspiration of a high adventure. They have burned their
boats. There is no going back. Forward all hearts are set. The
opportunity is come. It is now or never. Hurrell Froude was the
embodiment to them of this spirit of confidence, with its tinge of
audacity. He had the glow and the fascination of a man consecrated to
a cause. He wrote very little of the book, but his touch is on it
everywhere. And in a poem like “The Watchman,” with its splendid swing
and radiant courage, we can see how the subtler brain of Newman was
swept by the fire and force of the man who was to him like an

     ‘“Faint not, and fret not for threatened woe,
       Watchman on Truth’s grey height!
       Few tho’ the faithful and fierce tho’ the foe,
       Weakness is aye Heaven’s might.

       Infidel Ammon and niggard Tyre,
       (Ill-attuned pair!) unite;
       Some work for love, and some work for hire;
       But weakness shall be Heaven’s might.

       *     *     *     *     *

       Quail not, and quake not, thou Warder bold,
       Be there no friend in sight:
       Turn thee to question the days of old,
       When weakness was aye Heaven’s might.

       *     *     *     *     *

       Time’s years are many, Eternity, one;
       And One is the Infinite.
       The chosen are few, few the deeds well done:
       For scantness is still Heaven’s might.”

‘And with Froude, too, is to be associated much of the stress laid on
personal discipline which so deeply marks the poems, and which was so
congenial to both Newman and Keble…. All the heart of the men comes
out in this cry for control, for austerity. It expressed their revolt
against the glib and shallow tolerance of the popular religion, and
the loose and boneless sentimentality of the prevailing
Evangelicalism. They were determined to show that religion was a
school of character, keen, serious, and real, which claimed not merely
the feeling or the reason, but rather the entire manhood, so that
every element and capacity were to be brought into subjection under
the law of Christ, and to be governed in subordination to the supreme
purpose of the Redemptive Will. No labour could be too minute or too
precise, which was needful to bend the complete body of energies under
the yoke of this dedicated service. Hurrell Froude’s diary, edited by
Newman and Keble, startled the easy-going world of the Thirties by its
exhibition of the thoroughness and the rigour and the precision with
which this self-discipline had been carried out. Such a temper of mind
was, of course, capable of becoming morbid, strained, unnatural. And
in the hands of smaller men, it would rapidly show traces of this. But
here, in the _Lyra_, it is still fresh and clean; and the men
themselves who are under its austere fascination are so abounding in
vitality, and so rich in personal distinction, and so abhorrent of
anything pedantic or conventional, that the record of it cannot but
brace us into wholesome alarm.’

[II. _From the Rev. H. C. Beeching’s Critical Note._]

‘Of the one hundred and seventy-nine pieces in the collected volume
[_Lyra Apostolica_] (and all but two of those published in _The
British Magazine_ were reprinted), Newman wrote one hundred and nine,
Keble forty-six, Isaac Williams nine, Hurrell Froude eight, J. W.
Bowden six, and R. I. Wilberforce one. To speak of the lesser
contributions first. Robert Wilberforce’s single contribution is not
particularly happy…. Mr. Bowden’s poems are not so infelicitous in
substance, but they leave much to desire in other ways…. The
contributions of Isaac Williams consist of a few translations and
critical sonnets. Altogether of a higher stamp are the poems by
Hurrell Froude. No one could accuse that fiery spirit of being
commonplace; and perhaps because verse composition in English was not
a constant exercise with him, the few poems he wrote for the _Lyra_
have a free grace, as well as a lyric intensity that removes them from
the rank of the ordinary imitations of Keble. In XXXVI. [“Weakness of
Nature”] he strikes a note that recalls Blake:

     ‘“Sackcloth is a girdle good:
         O bind it round thee still!
       Fasting, it is Angels’ food;
         And Jesus loved the night-air chill.”

‘In the “Dialogue between the Old and New Self” (LXXIX.), he is an apt
pupil of Andrew Marvell.

     ‘“NEW SELF.

       Why sittest thou on that sea-girt rock,
     With downward look and sadly-dreaming eye?
       Playest thou beneath with Proteus’ flock,
     Or with the far-bound sea-bird wouldst thou fly?

     OLD SELF.

       I list the splash, so clear and chill,
     Of yon old fisher’s solitary oar;
       I watch the waves, that rippling still,
     Chase one another o’er the marble shore.”

‘He uses his fisher again, to give effect, in the poem on Tyre

     ‘“Now on that shore, a lonely quest,
       Some dripping fisherman may rest,
       Watching on rock or naked stone
       His dark net spread before the sun;
       Unconscious of the dooming lay.”

‘Froude’s sonnets are some of the best in the book: the one entitled
“Sight against Faith” (CXXXVI.), supposed to be addressed to Lot by
his sons-in-law, being an especially vivid piece of imagination.’

  ‘NEWMAN,’ by WILLIAM BARRY. (Literary Lives.) London: Hodder &
      Stoughton, 1904.

  [By the kind permission of the Rev. Dr. Barry, and of Messrs. Hodder
      & Stoughton.]

‘Keble was an elegant scholar, from whose rarely-opened lips pearls
and diamonds of wisdom dropped, when listeners were congenial; he
could not brook, as he did not understand, variety of opinions; and
charming as he proved to all who would not contradict him, none was
constitutionally less fitted to be at the head of a great party. His
genius had in it no elements deserving the name of original thought.
Rather did he serve Newman as the living embodiment of institutions
now deemed Apostolic, and, so to speak, himself a present antiquity.
He possessed none of those gifts which strike and subdue the
unconverted. Hurrell Froude, the “bright and beautiful,” cut off in
the midst of his days, was another sort of man. “He went forward,”
says his brother Anthony, “taking the fences as they came, passing
lightly over them all, and sweeping his friends along with them. He
had the contempt of an intellectual aristocrat for private judgment.”
This, which sounds like a bull, but is only a paradox, was equally
applicable to Newman, despite his infinite consideration for persons
as they came before him. The Many could be neither wise nor right,
except when they listened to the Few who were both. It was Froude that
made Newman and Keble really known to each other: he boasted of it as
the one good thing he had ever done. It was certainly the most
important. “You and Keble are the philosophers, and I the
rhetorician,” wrote the Vicar of St. Mary’s to him in 1836. There was
so much of a foundation in the contrast that Newman did always look to
Froude as a standard, a test, and a light by which to judge of his own
utterances…. But [Froude] disclaimed being original as other men have
prided themselves upon it. Thoughts and speculations, nevertheless,
were his daily bread…. Alone among Newman’s correspondents, he writes
as his born equal, criticising freely, breaking out into the genial
humour, so fresh and unconstrained, which lights up this all too
serious intercourse of country parsons, London dignitaries, and
unfledged Oxford dons.

       *     *     *     *     *

‘When preaching on the Greatness and Littleness of Human Life,
[Newman] refers secretly to this lofty spirit as among the men who,
“by such passing flashes, like rays of the sun, and the darting
lightning, give tokens of their immortality, … that they are but
angels in disguise.”’[391]

      Edited by his SON. London, 1850.

  ROBERT SOUTHEY to the Rev. JOHN MILLER, July 21, 1838.

‘The publication of Froude’s _Remains_ is likely to do more harm than
――――[392] is capable of doing. “The Oxford School” has acted most
unwisely in giving its sanction to such a deplorable example of
mistaken zeal. Of the two extremes, the too little and the too much,
the too little is that which is likely to produce the worst
consequence to the individual, but the too much is more hurtful to the
community; for it spreads, and rages, too, like a contagion.’

      Baisler, 1838.

‘The volumes themselves [the _Remains_] are highly valuable to every
practical student of the human character, because they exhibit an
individual in his true colours, and afford evidences of what the human
mind (even with all the advantages of natural talent and education)
may be brought to, when not guided by the Light which is from above.
They cannot but fill the heart of every true Christian with horror,
and his eye with tears, when the reflection crosses the mind that
views like these are held up as a religion of a meek and lowly
Saviour, and that an influence such as that exerted over the wretched
object of these memoirs should be permitted to draw away any poor
sinner from that open Fountain of purity and holiness which is filled
with joy, peace, and love, for all that humbly visit it. There are
from time to time a few gleams of light faintly discernible amidst the
dark confusion of the moral wilderness; but they are transient and

  From ‘MEMOIRS,’ by MARK PATTISON, late Rector of Lincoln College,
      Oxford. London: Macmillan & Co., 1885.

‘John Belfield, a Devonshire man … god-fathered me. Belfield’s special
chum [1831] was William Froude, the engineer, brother of Anthony, and
of Richard Hurrell Froude at that time Fellow of the College. The
opening thus made for me through William Froude to Richard Hurrell’s
acquaintance might have been of inestimable use to me, had I been
capable of profiting by it. But I was too childish and ignorant even
to apprehend what it was that was thus placed within my reach. I spent
one evening in Richard Hurrell’s rooms, without appreciating him
myself, or appearing to him to be worth taking up.’

  From ‘THE LIFE OF SAMUEL WILBERFORCE, Bishop of Oxford and
      Winchester.’ By his Son REGINALD WILBERFORCE. London: Kegan
      Paul, Trench & Co., 1888.

  [From his Diary, March 17, 1838.]

‘_Evening._――Read a little of Froude’s “Journals.” They are most
instructive to me; will exceedingly discredit Church principles, and
show an amazing want of Christianity, so far. They are Henry Martyn

      ANNE MOZLEY. London: Longmans, 1890.

‘Hurrell Froude passed away so early in the work of the Movement, and
could work so little for it, that his actual share in it needs to be
sought out through contemporary records. Little as his pen did, short
as his life was, those who can recall the time feel the influence of
his mere presence to have been essential to the original impulse which
set all going. They cannot imagine the start without his forwarding,
impelling look and voice. His presence impressed persons as a
spiritual, though living, influence. He stands distinct, apart, in the
memory of those who can recall it, the more that years[393] do not dim
the brightness and fire which became him so well in his office as

      Principal of Mansfield College, Oxford. London: Hodder &
      Stoughton, 1899.

‘The Romanticist tendency … was the positive factor in Anglo-Catholicism….
This gave the creative impulse; it was the spirit that quickened. The
men in whom it took shape and found speech were three: Keble, Newman,
Pusey. Perhaps we ought to name a fourth, Hurrell Froude: but he lives
in Newman. He was the swiftest, most daring spirit of them all; his
thought is hot, as it were, with the fever that shortened his days;
his words are suffused as with a hectic flush; and we must judge him
rather as one who moved men to achieve than by his own actual

     [294] [Isaac Williams’s MS. Memoir.]

     [295] [_Remains_, i., 232, 233.]

     [296] [_Apologia_, p. 84.]

     [297] [_Remains_, i., 438; _Apol._, p. 77.]

     [298] [I ought to say that I was not personally acquainted
     with Mr. Froude. I have subjoined to this chapter some
     recollections of him by Lord Blachford, who was his pupil
     and an intimate friend.]

     From the _Life and Letters of Dean Church_, edited by his
     daughter Mary C. Church. Macmillan and Co., 1895, p. 315.

                             ‘ST. PAUL’S, _Sept. 12, 1884_.
       ‘MY DEAR BLACHFORD,――… Sometime or other I shall have to
       ask you for a little help; that is, if I go on with my
       notion of having my say about the old Oxford days. One
       thing that I should try to do is to bring out Froude. Of
       course his time was cut short. But it seems to me that so
       memorable a person ought to be duly had in remembrance;
       and people now hardly recognise how much he had to do with
       the first stir. But of course all my knowledge of him is
       second-hand, or gathered from his books. He reminds me of
       Pascal: his unflinchingness, his humour, his hatred of
       humbug, his mathematical genius (architecture, and the
       French-_révolutionnaire_), his imagination, his merciless
       self-discipline. I should like to bring all this out, if,
       as I suppose, it is true. I don’t suppose Pascal would
       have loved the sea! He would have been “_seek_.”’

     [299] [‘In this mortal journeying, wasted shade
             Is worse than wasted sunshine.’
                        Henry Taylor, _Sicilian Summer_, v., 3.]

     [300] [_Remains_, part ii., i., 47.]

     [301] [_Remains_, i., 82.]

     [302] [_Apologia_, p. 84.]

     [303] Miss Harriett Newman.

     [304] The Rev. Samuel Rickards, Rector of Ulcombe, Kent, and
     of Stowlangloft, Suffolk. Said in 1827.

     [305] Dean Church knew what he was saying: none better.

     [306] Remarks on Church Discipline, _Remains_, part i., ii.,
     272, 274.

     [307] [A few references to the _Remains_ illustrating this
     are subjoined, if any one cares to compare them with these
     recollections: i., pp. 7, 13, 18, 26, 106, 184, 199,

     [308] A prior and corroborative sketch is appended, by the
     same hand:

     London: Murray, 1896.

          [By the kind permission of G. E. Marindin, Esq.]

       ‘[Hurrell Froude] was anything but “learned.” In lecture
       he gave you the idea of not being, in knowledge, so very
       much in advance of those whom he taught; but he had a fine
       taste, a quick and piercing precision of thought, a
       fertility and depth of reasoning, which stimulated a mind
       which had any quickness and activity. He had an interest
       in everything; he would draw with you, sail on the river
       with you, talk philosophy or politics with you, ride over
       fences with you, skate with you: all with a kind of joyous
       enjoyment. Mischief seems to have been his snare as a boy,
       and a controlled delight in what was on the edge of
       mischief gave a kind of verve to his character as a man.
       This made him charming to those whom he liked. But then he
       did not choose to like any whom he did not respect; and he
       could be as hard and sharp as you please on what he
       thought bad, [_i.e._,] profane, vicious, or coxcombical.’

       *     *     *     *     *

       ‘In Newman’s sermons and H. F.’s conversation, I found an
       uncompromising devotion to religion, with discouragement
       of anything like gushing profession … also a religion
       which did not reject, but aspired to embody in itself, any
       form of art and literature, poetry, philosophy, and even
       science, which could be pressed into the service of

     [309] Its owner and lover for more than fifty years has
     written a summary of its history upon the fly-leaf.

     [310] Frederic Rogers, Lord Blachford.

     [311] The Rev. John Keble.

     [312] In the later editions, the poem appears without
     indication of Froude’s name.

     [313] The first draught of this paper appeared under the
     title ‘The Lives of Whitfield and Froude: Oxford
     Catholicism,’ in the _Edinburgh Review_, vol. lxvii., pp.
     500-535: the issue for July, 1838. Rogers writes to Newman,
     on October 4 of that year: ‘I was sorry to hear that your
     friend Mr. Stephen of the Colonial Office was the author of
     the article on Froude, though that is better than if it had
     been a younger man. Doyle talked of it, and spoke of the
     _Remains_ as having produced the impression of an unamiable
     character!’ (_Letters of Lord Blachford_, edited by George
     Eden Marindin, 1896, p. 51).

     [314] Misprinted ‘B.’ in these Essays. ‘P.’ is Prevost, in
     whose company Hurrell was when this entry was made, Oct. 2,

     [315] ‘Vacant’ in text.

     [316] In _written_ prayers.

     [317] Arnold to Dr. Hawkins, 1838. _Life and Correspondence
     of Thomas Arnold, D.D._, by Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, M.A.
     London: Fellowes, 1844, ii., 125.

     [318] [I say ‘tacitly,’ because their avowed acquiescence
     first appeared in the Preface to the second part of the
     _Remains_, published in the following year.]

     [319] Not quite correctly quoted. ‘[The Church] became a
     ready prey to the rapacious Henry. It had been polluted; it
     fell: shall it ever rise again?’ State Interference in
     Matters Spiritual, _Remains_, part i., i., 227.

     [320] [This general account of the attitude and spirit of
     the new school is derived, in substance, from private notes
     of the Dean of S. Paul’s (Dean Church), to which he has
     kindly given me access. It is corroborated by the writings
     of Ward, Dalgairns, Oakeley, and others, a few years later,
     in _The British Critic._]

     [321] Vol. xliii., pp. 636 _et seq._, the issue for May,

     [322] [Suggestions for the Formation of an Association of
     Friends of the Church.]

     [323] [The leader in the Movement was Newman, but others
     supported him.] Mr. Golightly has a similar statement,
     tartly expressed in his _Correspondence Illustrative of the
     Actual State of Oxford_, 1842: ‘Mr. Newman is the real
     leader of the party, not Dr. Pusey, who is no more entitled
     to give a name to it than Amerigo Vespucci was to give a
     name to the New World. This is, of course, understood in
     Oxford: but it is desirable that it should be known

     [324] [This effort is alluded to in Froude’s _Remains_. I
     cannot but think that Froude’s influence, which was very
     great, was on many occasions exerted in a direction contrary
     to mine. He has expressed his disapprobation of the only
     Tract in the composition of which I was in any degree
     concerned.] This is No. 15. See p. 194.

     [325] Of ‘Romanising,’ in _The British Critic_, after 1840.

     [326] Froude so called Newman in 1829 (see p. 55), but not
     in relation to any new disapproved ‘speculations.’

     [327] _Lectures on certain Difficulties felt by Anglicans._
     London: Burns and Lambert, 1850, p. 32.

     [328] Dean Church’s _History of the Oxford Movement_ is a
     history of that Movement as bound up with its chief and
     hero; and the scope of it extends but to the year 1845. What
     Dr. Rigg takes to be the disproportionate space given to
     Froude is therefore no disparagement to the operative
     influence of Dr. Pusey, which may be said only to have
     thoroughly begun by 1845.

     [329] Published while Mr. Keble, Dr. Pusey, and Dr. Newman
     were all living: in the year, in fact, of their memorable
     and touching meeting at Hursley, after the long outward

     [330] [_Remains_, part i., i., 389, 393, 394, 403, 405.]

     [331] [_Idem_, 363.]

     [332] [_Idem_, i., 395.]

     [333] [_Remains_, part i., i., 336, 395.]

     [334] [_Idem_, p. 410. ‘If I were a Roman Catholic priest.’]

     [335] [Dr. Wiseman, afterwards Cardinal. _Remains_, i.,

     [336] [_Passim_, Editors’ Preface to _Remains_, ii.]

     [337] [_Remains_, 14, etc.]

     [338] [_Idem_, i., 395.]

     [339] Newman writes to Mr. Williams from Abbotsford,
     December 21, 1852, (_Autobiography of I. W._ London:
     Longmans, 1892, p. 129): ‘You only say the truth when you
     anticipate [that] I remember you tenderly in my prayers,
     though you are, my dear Williams (if you will let me say it
     in answer to what you say yourself) of “the straitest sect,”
     and as a matter of duty, will not let Heaven smile upon

     [340] The quite contrary statement in the _Apologia_ had not
     then seen the light. If there was any written reference to
     Our Lady, as seems probable, in Sermons or elsewhere in the
     _Remains_, the Editors barred it out, doubtless for the same
     reasons which so long kept Mr. Keble’s beautiful ‘Mother Out
     of Sight’ from the public.

     [341] A review of Froude’s _Remains_, Part i.

     [342] Froude says the same thing to Newman, Jan., 1835. See
     p. 165.

     [343] The Rev. Hugh James Rose to Joshua Watson, Jan., 1838.
     ‘I think that review of Froude’ [_British Critic_ for that
     month and year, as above] ‘the most to be regretted of
     anything which I have seen of our Oxford friends. It shows a
     disposition to find fault with our Church for not satisfying
     the wants and demands, not of the human heart, but of the
     imagination of enthusiastic and ascetic and morbid-minded
     men. This no Church does or can do by any honest means. He
     who has these desires may satisfy them himself. The mass of
     men have them not. To quarrel with the Church [of England]
     on this ground, is to show a resolution to quarrel with
     her!’ _Lives of Twelve Good Men_, by John William Burgon,
     B.D., late Dean of Chichester. London: Murray, 1861, p. 135.
     Compare what Newman writes to Mr. Hope-Scott in reference to
     monastic institutions, on Jan. 3, 1842: ‘Men want an outlet
     for their devotional and penitential feelings; and if we do
     not grant it, to a dead certainty they will go where they
     can find it. This is the beginning and the end of the
     matter.’ Ornsby’s _Memoir of James Robert Hope-Scott of
     Abbotsford_. London: Murray, 1884, ii., 6.

     [344] The death of Mr. Keble’s dearest sister, Mary Anne.

     [345] Isaac Williams and Sir George Prevost.

     [346] Fairford.

     [347] Newman says of his own early youth: ‘[I rested] in the
     thought of two, and two only, absolute and luminously
     self-evident beings: myself and my Creator.’ _Apologia_,
     1890, p. 4.

     [348] Newman. Dean Church says: ‘The idea of celibacy, in
     those whom it affected in Oxford, was in the highest degree
     a religious and romantic one.’ Froude would inevitably
     translate ‘religious and romantic,’ as applied, however
     truly, to Newman and himself, as ‘sawney.’

     [349] Southrop, near Fairford.

     [350] R. I. W.

     [351] The Champernownes. The Rev. Isaac Williams married, in
     1842, Caroline, third daughter of Arthur Champernowne, Esq.,
     of Dartington Hall, Devon.

     [352] Cwmcynfelin, near Aberystwith, Cardiganshire.

     [353] The Rev. Thomas Keble, Vicar. Bisley in
     Gloucestershire should be memorable as the place where daily
     Anglican services were first revived, 1827.

     [354] The Rev. James Davis, Vicar. Mr. Williams had been his
     Curate there.

     [355] In Isaac Williams’s extremely beautiful Πόθος (in
     _Thoughts in Past Years_) he again says of Newman:

        ‘A soul that needed nothing but repose …
         But urged by something that repose to flee,

         *     *     *     *     *

         Insatiate made from mere satiety.’

     [356] In 1833, on Froude’s return from Italy.

     [357] [I find that John Keble and others quite agree with me
     that there was that in Hurrell Froude that he could not have
     joined the Church of Rome.] There is a somewhat
     corroborative passage in _A Short Sketch of the Tractarian
     Upheaval_, by Thomas Leach, B.A. London: Bemrose & Sons,
     1887. ‘It is possible, of course, as Dr. Newman would seem
     to imply, that Froude would have gone over side by side, or
     rather in advance of, his fellow-leader: for Froude was one
     to be in advance generally of those with whom he journeyed.
     On the other hand, we must give due weight to the fact that
     Froude, as Dr. Newman himself tells us, was “an Englishman
     to the backbone in his severe adherence to the real and the
     concrete.”’ The inference, pleasing to some minds, is that
     ‘Rome’ is a mere chimera.

     [358] The lines occur in the section of the book called ‘The
     Side of the Hill.’ The needlessly prosy narrative is mainly
     an amplification of a statement already quoted from the
     _Autobiography_, and is included here purely because of the
     subject-matter, and not because it can in any degree
     represent with truth one of the most charming poets of his

     [359] _Lyra Apostolica_, p. 149. The poem strangely
     foreshadows Mr. Kipling’s ‘Recessional.’

     [360] To Mr. Keble. ‘I cannot in fairness withdraw specimens
     such as these of the view taken by my very dear friend of
     Italy and its religion, though, of course, I leave them in
     the text with much pain. He was a man who did nothing by
     halves. He had cherished an ideal of the Holy See and the
     Church of Rome partly erroneous, partly unreal, and was
     greatly disappointed when, to his apprehension, it was not
     fulfilled. He had expected to find a state of lofty sanctity
     in Italian Catholics, which, he considered, was not only not
     exemplified, but was even contradicted, in what he saw and
     heard of them. As to the Tridentine definitions, he simply
     looked at them as obstacles to the union of Anglicans with
     the See of Rome, not having the theological knowledge
     necessary for a judgement on their worth.’ Note to a Letter
     addressed to the Rev. Godfrey Faussett, D.D., on Mr. R.
     Hurrell Froude’s Statements Concerning the Holy Eucharist
     and Other Matters, 1838, in _The Via Media of the Anglican
     Church_. London: Pickering, 1877, ii., 196.

     [361] Froude and Ward were both ‘fiercer’ than Newman. When
     Froude lay dying, Mr. William George Ward had not yet come
     upon the scene.

     [362] Designed after the Eleanor Crosses, by Sir G. G.
     Scott, R.A., the three statues being by H. Weekes. It does
     not stand, however, on the site of the stake.

     [363] Written in 1839. A review of Froude’s _Remains_, part i.

     [364] Thirty-two years, eleven months, three days.

     [365] Naples. [_Remains_, i., 293, 294.]

     [366] [_Remains_, i., 391.]

     [367] [_Idem_, pp. 403-404.]

     [368] [_Idem_, p. 426.] The remark on the Patriarchate of
     Constantinople: see p. 194. Dr. Wiseman thought it the very
     argument applicable to the Papal Jurisdiction.

     [369] [_Remains_, i., 422.]

     [370] _S. Ambrosii Mediolan. Epis. De Obitu Valentiniani_
     [II.] _Consolatio_. Migne, _Pat. Lat._, tom. xvi., coll.
     1355-1383. An apparently condescending, but truly
     affectionate reference.

     [371] Note by Cardinal Wiseman, 1853, in reprinting, after
     fourteen years, his review of Froude’s _Remains in Essays on
     Various Subjects_, ii., 93. ‘[It] remains marked, with
     gratitude, in my mind, as an epoch in my life,――the visit
     which Mr. Froude unexpectedly paid me, [at the English
     College, Rome, March, 1833], in company with one [J. H. N.]
     who never afterwards departed from my thoughts…. From that
     hour I watched with intense interest and love the Movement
     of which I then caught the first glimpse. My studies changed
     their course, the bent of my mind was altered, in the strong
     desire to co-operate in the new mercies of Providence.’ In
     1841, he had written to Phillipps de Lisle: ‘Let us have an
     influx of new blood, let us have but even a small number of
     such men as write in the _Tracts_, so imbued with the spirit
     of the early Church: men who have learned to teach from
     Saint Augustine, to preach from Saint Chrysostom, and to
     feel from Saint Bernard;――let even a few such men, with the
     high clerical feeling which I believe them to possess, enter
     fully into the spirit of the Catholic religion, and _we_
     shall be speedily reformed, and England quickly converted….
     It is not to you that I say this for the first time, for I
     have long said it to those about me, that if the Oxford
     divines enter the Church, we must be ready to fall into the
     shade, and take up our position in the background. I will
     gladly say to any of them: _me oportet minui_…. Their might,
     in His, would be irresistible. Abuses would soon give way
     before our united efforts, and many things which appear such
     to them would perhaps be explained.’ The writer’s ‘intense
     interest and love’ for the Movement never changed. _Life and
     Letters of Ambrose Phillipps de Lisle_, by Edmund Sheridan
     Purcell. London: Macmillan, 1900, i., 290.

     [372] ‘On the whole’ is Newman’s phrase. See p. 260.

     [373] _J. H. N. Letters and Correspondence_, ii., 66.

     [374] _Parochial Sermons_, ii., 214: Ascension Day.

     [375] There are four ‘Delta’ poems of 1835 in _Lyra
     Apostolica_, one of 1836.

     [376] Memorandum in _Letters and Correspondence_, ii., 176.

     [377] Henry Philpotts, 1778-1869, Bishop of Exeter from

     [378] The following correspondence arose out of an article
     contributed in June, 1878, by Mr. J. A. Froude to _The
     Nineteenth Century_, vol. i. It was entitled ‘Life and Times
     of Thomas Becket.’ It was founded upon _Materials for the
     History of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury_, edited
     by James Craigie Robertson, Canon of Canterbury, and
     published under the direction of the Master of the Rolls,
     1877. Mr. Froude, in reprinting his essay in _Short Studies
     on Great Subjects_, 4th Series, 1883, withdrew the passage
     which Mr. Freeman had made the text of his remarks.

     [379] The Right Rev. Charles Lloyd, D.D., and the Hon. and
     Right Rev. Richard Bagot, afterwards Bishop of Bath and

     [380] Essays and Sermons comprise vol. ii. of part i.,

     [381] Archdeacon Froude to Sir J. Coleridge, March 26, 1838:
     ‘Neither abroad nor at home, did I ever know [Hurrell] to be
     the apologist of the Papal Church, much less hold it up to
     approbation, except for its zeal and unity…. In our own,
     Bishop Bull and the Nonjurors were, I think, the patterns he
     proposed to himself for everything that was noble and
     disinterested in temporal, and sound in doctrinal matters.
     But I feel I am quite unable to explain or defend the
     notions he had formed on these important subjects.’ _Memoir
     of the Rev. John Keble, M.A., late Vicar of Hursley_, by the
     Right Hon. Sir J. T. Coleridge, D.C.L. Oxford and London:
     Parker, 3rd edition, 1870, p. 255.

     [382] [Dean of Chichester’s Charge, 1839.]

     [383] [_Remains_, part i., i., 306, 329.]

     [384] The only chance, _i.e._, of disestablishment as a

     [385] These extracts are much scattered in the original,
     hence not strictly consecutive in their piecing together.

     [386] An error. He was not so well acquainted with the
     North, however.

     [387] The preference for the style of the Italian
     Renaissance came to be shared by other faithless Oxonians,
     as all the world knows, particularly, for practical reasons,
     by Newman, Faber, and the whole English Oratorian group. It
     must seem a distinct note of impending degeneracy in Froude,
     to those who have the heart to distrust him.

     [388] A review of Froude’s _Remains_, part ii.

     [389] The Rev. James Bowling Mozley had this criticism to
     make on his brother’s article quoted above: ‘It gives too
     much the impression of Froude as a philosopher simply,
     instead of one who was constantly bringing his general
     maxims to bear, most forcibly and pointedly, on the present
     state of things; on particular classes, sects, and parties.
     It does not bring out Froude’s great, practical, and almost
     lawyer-like penetration.’ _Letters of the Rev. J. B.
     Mozley_, p. 102.

     [390] This nobly applied and famous motto is a happy
     development or paraphrase. Achilles says only, it will be
     remembered, that he has been altogether too long out of the

     [391] Selections Adapted to Seasons of the Ecclesiastical
     Year from the _Parochial Sermons of John Henry Newman, B.D._
     [Edited by the Rev. W. J. Copeland.] Rivingtons, 1878, p.

     [392] Newman’s, probably, is the suppressed name.

     [393] This was written more than fifty years after his




   ABBOTT, Dr. G. A., on R. H. F. and the Oxford Movement, in ‘The
     Anglican Career of Cardinal Newman,’ 344.
        implied view of, as to R. H. F.’s eventual change of creed, 225.

   Abercromby, James, elected Speaker of the House of Commons, 1835.,
     174 _note_.

   Abolition of Slavery by Great Britain, made law, 1833., R. H. F.’s
     views on, 170, 274.

   Absolutions, the, phrase of R. H. F., describing, 106.

   Address of the Clergy to the Archbishop of Canterbury (Howley), set
     on foot, 1833., 128, R. H. F.’s disappointment with, 130.

   Albano, death of R. I. Wilberforce at, 1857., 35 _note_.

   Algiers, R. H. F. on his visit to, 84.

  ‘Allan Water,’ favourite air of R. H. F., 45.

   Altar, the, R. H. F. on its extreme sanctity, 149.

   Altars, stone, the first modern Anglican Church to possess, 178,
     that designed by R. H. F. for Dartington, _ib._

   America (U.S.), R. H. F.’s desire to visit, 133, and criticism of
     the place assigned in, to preaching, _ib._, the wish never
     realised, 142.

   Amiens Cathedral, architectural defects of, T. Mozley on, 394.

  “Amuse,” use of the word by R. H. F., and Newman, in its obsolete
     sense, 157.

  ‘Anglican Career, The, of Cardinal Newman,’ by Dr. G. A. Abbott,
    _cited_ on R. H. F.’s connection with the Oxford Movement, 344.

  ‘Anglican Revival, The,’ by Rev. J. H. Overton, D.D., _cited_ on the
     Court of Delegates, 113 & _note._, and on R. H. F.’s connection
     with the Oxford Movement, 324.

   Antigua, visited and described by R. H. F., 135-6.

  ‘Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine, The,’ reference to an old verse
     in, by R. H. F., 127 & _note_.

  ‘Apologia pro Vita Sua,’ by Newman, history of R. H. F.’s Breviary
     given in, 187.
      _cited_ on the chief additions to his creed derived by Newman,
         from R. H. F., 260.
           on Newman’s objurgations of Roman Catholicism, and R. H. F.’s
             remarks thereon, 186.
           on R. H. F.’s connection with the Oxford Movement, 259.

  “Apostolical,” R. H. F.’s reason for using as an epithet, 257.

  ‘Apostolical Succession, The, in the English Church,’ (Tract 15),
     R. H. F.’s criticisms on, 194, Gladstone’s attitude to, in 1834.,

   Arch, the pointed, evolution of, 394.

   Architecture, _see_ Gothic _and_ Italian.

  ‘Arians, The, of the Fourth Century,’ by Newman, 70, 393, and its
     importance, 143 & _note_, 177, Bunsen’s critique on the
     Tractarians based on, 187, Stephen’s objections to, 193.

   Armathwaite Hall, Cumberland, home of the Spedding family, 2,
     birthplace of Margaret Spedding, (R. H. F.’s mother), its
     beautiful surroundings, and owners in 1829., 60.

   Arnold, Thomas, D.D. on the Church of England in 1832-3., 114.
        his definition of the said Church, 249, and attitude in regard
          to, 278, 279.
        Newman’s query regarding, 145.
        and Newman, a lady’s comment on, 190.
       _cited_ on R. H. F.’s writings as collected in the _Remains_, 280.

   Articles, The, question of Declaration _v._ Subscription, discussed
     in Convocation, 1835., R. H. F. not in favour of the change, 174.
        R. H. F.’s views on the alteration of them, 136 & _note_.

   Association of Friends of the Church, proposed, 118.

   Austerity of the religion of Newman, and R. H. F., 63, 305, 350, 403.

  ‘Autobiography of Isaac Williams,’ _ed._ by Ven. Sir G. Prevost,
    _cited_ on R. H. F.’s connection with the Oxford movement, 320.

   Aveton Giffard, home of R. H. F.’s grandparents, 4.


   BAGOT, Hon. and Rt. Rev. Richard, Bishop of Oxford, R. H. F.
     ordained priest by, 368.

   Balliol College, Oxford, beginning of its scholarly pre-eminence,

   Bancroft, _see_ Saravia and Bancroft.

   Barbados, (_see also_ Codrington College, _and_ Negroes), the
     Archdeaconry of, once offered to Keble, 131.
        atmospheric and artistic defects of, 151-2.
        climate of, 131, 144.
        emancipation in and its consequences, anticipated, 134,
          and actual, 160, 169.
        great hurricane at, in 1831., 131, 150, 151.
        life of R. H. F. at, as told in his letters, 131 _et seq._,
          lack of gain to his health from his stay there, 143, 173,
          176, no traces of his residence to be found there, 173.
        vegetation of, its luxuriance, 135, and special interest of to
          R. H. F., 132.

   Baring-Gould, Rev. S., _see_ Gould, Rev. S. Baring-.

  “Basil,” Newman’s sobriquet for R. H. F., 165, 256, letter suggesting,

   Bassenthwaite Lake, home of R. H. F.’s mother beside, 60.

   Bastille, the fall of, Keble’s epoch-making sermon on the
     anniversary of, 113.

   Battels, at Codrington College as at Oxford, 143.

   Bavaria, Louis Charles, King of, generosity of, to German artists
     in Rome, (1833.), 96.

   Becket, _see_ Life of, _and_ S. Thomas à Becket.

   Beeching, Prof. H. C., in ‘Lyra Apostolica’ as edited by him, on
    R. H. F.’s poems in that collection, 404.

   Benedictine monks of Buckfast Abbey, Buckfastleigh, their
     remembrance of R. H. F., 229.

   Bennett, Rev. W. J. E., of Frome, writer of the Preface to the
     reprint of ‘State Interference’ from R. H. F.’s ‘Remains,’ 209.

   Benthamism, Christianity’s greatest enemy, according to Stephen,

   Bible, the, whether the only authoritative teaching, according to
     R. H. F., in present times, 171.

   Bishops, mode of their appointment, R. H. F. on need for change in,
        objected to as patrons, by R. H. F., 172.

   Bisley, the first place where Anglican daily services were revived,
    (by Rev. T. Keble) 1834., 149 _note_, 322.
        marriage of Rev. J. Keble at, 160 _note_.

   Blachford, Lord, _see_ Rogers, Frederic.

   Blake, William, resemblance of R. H. F.’s style to, in a poem in
     ‘L. Apostolica,’ 404.

   Blessed Virgin Mary, question of R. H. F.’s devotion towards,

   Bogue, Rev. J. R., husband of Mary Froude, R. H. F.’s sister, 189.

   Boni, Felippo di, verse by, suggested as fit motto for R. H. F.’s
    ‘Remains,’ 208.

   Bonnell’s ‘Life,’ a religious work, R. H. F.’s opinion on, 44.

   Boone, James Shergold, editor of the ‘British Critic,’ 1835., and
     R. H. F., 186.

   Bowden, J. W., _Apostolicorum princeps_, beloved of Newman, 167.
        contributions of, to ‘L. Apostolica,’ 404.
        first and last sight by, of R. H. F., 174.
        letter to Newman, on the death of R. H. F., 198.
             from Newman on the publication of R. H. F.’s ‘Private
               Thoughts,’ 206.
       _cited_ on the Oxford Movement and its bearings, 115.

   Bowdler, Henrietta Maria, _see_ Smith, Elizabeth.

   Breviary, the Roman, R. H. F.’s first acquaintance with, 47, his
     own copy and its history, 187-8, its influence on Newman, and
     on the Oxford Movement, 352, 356.

  “Bright and beautiful,” Miss Harriett Newman’s epithets for
     R. H. F., 199 _note_, 243, 405.

  ‘British Critic, The, and Quarterly Theological Review,’
        critique by R. H. F., on Blanco White, in, 187, 191.
        letters of Thomas Becket, arranged by R. H. F. (in note
          S. Thomas à Becket) issued in, 192.
        reviews in on R. H. F.’s ‘Remains.’
             Mozley, Rev. T., on his character, irony, and influence,
             Rogers, F., on his connection with the Oxford Movement,

  ‘British Magazine, The,’ contributions to, of R. H. F., in 1832.,
     79, 124 & _note_, in 1832-3., 239, R. H. F.’s plans for using
     as a means of propagating the Oxford Movement, 324.
        its editor, (_see_ Rose, Rev. H. J.), ‘L. Apostolica,’ written
          for, 97.
        issue in, of excerpts from Dartington Parish Books, 1834., 144.
        Newman’s article in, on ‘Monasticism,’ R. H. F. on, 181-2.
       _cited_ on Christie’s ordination, 161.
             on the marriage of Henry Wilberforce, 160 _note_.
             on Newman’s ‘Arians’, 143 & _note_.

   Brockedon, William, of Totnes, R.A., friend and protégé of Archdeacon
     Froude, his career, and unfinished portrait of R. H. F., 5 & _note_,
    _see also_ Preface.

   Bucer, 164.

   Buckfast Abbey, Buckfastleigh, _see_ Benedictines.

   Bull, Bishop, and the Nonjurors, R. H. F.’s attitude to, Archdeacon
     Froude on, 371 _note_.

   Buller, Rev. Anthony, friendship of, for R. H. F., 128, the latter’s
     funeral service read by, 192.

   Bulteel, Henry Bellenden, R. H. F.’s comparisons of the Reformers
     to, 72 & _note_, _et alibi_.

   Bunsen, Baron Christian Carl Josias, Prussian Chargé d’Affaires in
     Rome, 1833., acquaintance with, of Newman and R. H. F., 100.
        his adverse view of the Tractarians, 187.

   Buonarotti, M. Angelo, _see_ Michael Angelo.

   Burgon, Dean, on the authorship of Tract 8., 125.
        on R. H. F.’s use of “conspiracy” to describe the Oxford
          Movement, 154.

   Burn, Rev. A., letter to, from Rev. C. Marriott, _cited_ on the
     authorship of Tract 8., 125.

  ‘Butler’s Analogy,’ reference to, by R. H. F., 113.

   Buxton, Sir T. Fowell, anti-slavery leader, 139 & _note_.

   Byron, Lord, Clough, and others, difference in the ideas suggested
     to, by a sight of Ithaca, 352.


  “C.,” an unidentified writer in the ‘British Magazine,’ 144 & _note_.

   Cadiz, visited by R. H. F., 82.

  ‘Callista,’ a tale of early Christian times, by Newman, 180.

   Calvert, Dr. J. M., his view on R. H. F.’s health in 1833., 127.

   Cambridge men, “log-rolling” and versatility of, R. H. F. on, 103.

        Archbishops of, _see_ Howley, Longley and Tait.
        Viscount, _see_ Sutton, Sir C. Manners.

   Cape St. Vincent, Naval battle of, 1833., 81 _note_.

   Caraccas, visited by R. H. F., native mode of landing at, 141.

  ‘Cardinal Newman,’ by R. H. Hutton, _cited_ on R. H. F.’s connection
     with the Oxford Movement, 329.

   Catholic practices and institutions, Oxford attitude to, in
     R. H. F.’s day, Canon B. Smith _cited_ on, 224.

  ‘Catholicism, Roman and Anglican,’ by Principal A. M. Fairbairn,
    _cited_ on R. H. F. as a leading spirit of the Oxford Movement, 408.

   Celibacy in relation to the men of the Oxford Movement, 310 _note_.
        views of Newman on, strengthened by R. H. F., 66.

   Cerigo, British government in 1833., 89.

   Champernowne family, the, of Dartington House, beloved of I.
     Williams, 322.
        Arthur, eldest son of Arthur Champernowne, death of, 67 _note_.
        Caroline, afterwards Mrs. Isaac Williams, 160 _note_, 322.
        Henry, (the second son), 204, donor of land for Mary Spedding’s
          memorial almshouse, 10, death of, 67 _note_.

   Charles I., “adored” by R. H. F., (1825.), 24.
        his intended negotiations for reconciliation with the Church
          of Rome, 101.
        a saint to the Oxford Tractarians, 361.

  ‘Cherwell Water Lily, The, and other Poems,’ by Rev. F. W. Faber,
     allusions in, to R. H. F., and the Oxford Movement, 263.

   Chichester, Very Rev. George Chandler, Dean of, his charge of
     1839., _cited_ on the improvement in the Church of England, 379
     & _note_.

   Chillingworth, William, _cited_ on Jeremy Taylor as a “discourser,”

   Cholderton Rectory, filled by the Rev. T. Mozley, 203 _note_.

   Christ, silence as to, of R. H. F.’s private prayers, 272.

  ‘Christian Observer, The,’ criticism of, on R. H. F.’s contributions
     to ‘L. Apostolica,’ 204.

   Christian system in Europe (1833.), R. H. F.’s views on its decayed
     state, 94.

  ‘Christian Year, The,’ by Rev. J. Keble, American edition of, and
     its peculiarities, 159.
        attitude to, of Isaac Williams, 320.
        criticisms of R. H. F. on, 28-31, 58, of its Protestantism,
          303, _cf._ 320, of the reference to the Real Presence in the
          verses for Nov. 5., 171-2 & _note_, 324; his request for a
          copy, 143.
        Keble on his aims in writing, 30.
        Wordsworth’s offer to go over, _ib._

   Christie, Rev. John Frederick, 195.
        letters to, from R. H. F. on his interview with Wiseman, (1833.),
          controversy on, when printed in the ‘Remains,’ 100-3, 104;
          on marriage, 160; on Newman’s illness in Sicily, 117.
        marriage of, 1847., 160 _note_.

   Church, Very Rev. R. W., Dean of S. Paul’s, in ‘The Oxford Movement’
     on R. H. F., in relation thereto, 235, 295 _note_, his reviewers
     on the question of R. H. F.’s possible eventual change of faith,
     225; views of on the publication of the ‘Remains,’ _cited_ by Rigg,
       “testamentary” ideas of, 213.
        and Lord Blachford’s addendum to his book on R. H. F., 221.

   Church, the, variously defined, 249.

  ‘Church Discipline,’ by R. H. F., its value, 146.

   Church Independence, conceived of as a divine prerogative by
     R. H. F., 220.

   Church of England, attitude of, as to frequent Communion challenged
     by R. H. F., his reasons, 149.
        difficulty of the laity in supporting, R. H. F. on, 172.
        in the early nineteenth century, J. Mozley on, 278, in country
          districts, J. A. Froude on, 359-61, after 1830., the general
          searchings of heart concerning, 239, 249, R. H. F.’s definite
          views on, 250 _et seq._
        disestablishment of, R. H. F.’s views on, 114, 121, 251, 261,
          287, 291.
        forebodings of separation in, R. H. F. on, 148.
        increase of, in Catholic-mindedness, 223.
        of the later period, change in the character of, 308.
        attitude within, to “enthusiasm,” 309.
        need of outlet in, for devotional and   penitential feelings,
          Newman on, 310 _note_.
        in Queen Elizabeth’s time, R. H. F. on, 123.
        rise and fall of, R. H. F. on, cited by Ward, 248 _& note_.
        saints of, deficiencies of, as compared with Roman Catholic
          saints, R. H. F. on, 165.
        and State, changes in relations between, 1882-3., effect of
          on the Oxford High Churchmen, 113, views of R. H. F. and
          Dr. Arnold cited, on the position, 114.
        some of R. H. F.’s epithets for, 303.
        teaching of, not the true equivalent of Prayer-Book teaching,
          R. H. F. on, 170.
        two chief wants felt in, by R. H. F., 317.
        views of, as to the Eucharist, 145, 163-5, 251.
        and Church of Rome, views of R. H. F. and Newman on, contrasted,

  ‘Church of the Fathers,’ by Newman, 165.

   Church of Rome (in the local and the universal sense), attitude to,
     of R. H. F., at the time of his visit to Rome and after, 101,
     103, 162, 225, 249, 259, 272, 288, 302-6, 325, 337, 357,
     361-2, 371 _note_.
        continuity and contemporaneousness of its practices, unrealised
          by Tractarians, 224.
        effect of the doctrine of the Infallibility of the Church, on
          any advances from the Church of England, 101.
        stone Altars obligatory in, 178 _note_.

   Churchmen and the Church of England at the time of the Oxford
     Movement, 239, 249.
        of the Middle Ages, and leaders of the Tractarians, “feminine
          sternness” of their aspect, 115.

   Churton, Ven. Edward, Archdeacon of Cleveland, and his brilliant
     brother, 53 _note_.
        on the ‘Remains,’ adverse view of, 209, 281.

   Churton, William Ralph, brother of the above, Fellow of Oriel, his
     impressions of the French, in 1830., 104, his death and memoirs,
     53 & _note_, memorial to designed by R. H. F., for S. Mary’s,
     Oxford, 56.

   Clark, Charlotte, wife of Rev. J. Keble, 160 _note_, on the death
     of R. H. F., 199, her sister married to Rev. Thomas Keble, 190
    _note_, 199.

   Clergy, country, in the early nineteenth century, status of, J. A.
     Froude on, 359-60, views of R. H. F. on, 118, 137, 150, views of
     Rose, 137.

   Clerical authority, modern, basis for, R. H. F. on, 122, 171.

   Clough, Arthur Hugh, and other modern, ideas suggested to, by the
     sight of classical localities, 332-3.

   Cockermouth, birthplace of Wordsworth, 60.

   Codrington College, Barbados, origin and history of, 143 & _note_,
     reorganisation of, by Bishop Coleridge, 132 _note_.
        palms of, enormous, 144.
        post held by R. H. F. at, 143 & _note_,
          his abode and mode of life at, 147 _et seq._
        situation of, and appearance, 149-51, R. H. F.’s designs for
          the improvements at, 151, 395.

   Coleridge, Rev. George May, nephew of the poet, master of Ottery
        St. Mary Free School, R. H. F.’s first schoolmaster, 5, 132

   Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 5, _cited_ on the character of Charles
     Lamb, 221, and on the epicene aspect of men of genius, 116.

   Coleridge, Sir John Duke, _cited_ as to the respective share of
     Keble and Newman in the ‘Remains,’ 203, his views on, inferred,
        letter to, from Archdeacon Froude, on R. H. F.’s attitude to
          the Roman Catholic Church, _cited_, 371 _note_.
        from Keble, on College Tutors and their Pastoral duties,
         _cited_ 36.
       _cited_ on R. H. F.’s relation to the Oxford Movement.

   Coleridge, William Hart, Bishop of Barbados during R. H. F.’s time
     there, 132, R. H. F. on his character, 135, and his “Z”-ness, 142,
     he accompanies him on a Visitation, 132, 135 _et seq._
        Codrington College reorganised by, 132 _note_.
        visit of to England, 1834., 144, 152, 161 _note_.

   College of S. Mary, Oxford, _see_ Oriel College.
        Tutors, _see_ Tutors of Oxford Colleges.

   Collings, Phillis, wife of Richard Hurrell, and their descendants, 4.

   Cologne, disedifying effect of, on F. W. Faber, 93.
        Cathedral, efforts to complete in 1829., R. H. F.’s interest
          in, 395, the High Altar as the model for R. H. F.’s altar at
          Dartington, 178; impression left by, on R. I. Wilberforce, 394.

   Communion, frequent, attitude of the Church of England to,
     challenged by R. H. F., his reasons, 148-9.
        Service, the, (_see also_ Eucharist), and Tract 93., 126.

   Congress or Conference of Tractarians at Hadleigh, 117-8, 239, 289,
     called “the conspiracy,” by R. H. F., and by W. Palmer, 154.

  “Conspiracy,” use of the term, by William Palmer of Worcester and
     R. H. F. for the Oxford Movement, 154, and by Archbishop Tait, _ib._

  ‘Contemporary Review’ and ‘Nineteenth Century,’ controversy in,
     between Prof. E. A. Freeman and J. A. Froude, on the ‘Life and
     Times of Thomas Becket,’ by R. H. F., 363.

   Convocation and the censure on Hoadly, 1717., R. H. F. on, 132, 133.
        at Oxford, 1835., R. H. F.’s last vote recorded at, 174.

   Coplestone, Edward, Provost of Oriel, and later Bishop of Llandaff,
     his fine voice, 49 & _note_, 50.

   Corfu, visit of R. H. F. to, 86 _et seq._

   Cornish, Hubert, private Tutor of J. A. Froude, 397.

   Council of Epaon, (517.), rule of, as to Stone Altars, 178 _note_.
        of Trent, and its decrees, alleged effect of in preventing the
          reconciliation with the Holy See, of the Church of England,
          101, 288.

   Court of Delegates, the, its duties modified in 1832-3., 313.

   Cranmer, (_see also_ Reformers), and his associates, attitude of
     R. H. F. towards, 164, 208, and of the other Tractarians, 337, 361.

   Creed, the, the great article of, forced forward by Newman, 239.

   Creed (held by Newman), additions to, derived from R. H. F., 260.

   Critical faculties of R. H. F., inhibitive (in conjunction with his
     health) of original work, 155.

   Cross, the, of Christ, great lives of which it has been the
     keynote, 285.

   Cumberland, churches in, R. H. F., on their poor aspect, 60, 61.

   Cwmcynfelin, Wales, visit of R. H. F., Prevost, and others to,
     1826., 322.

   Cythera, _see_ Cerigo.


   DAILY services in the Anglican communion first revived by Rev. T.
     Keble at Bisley, 1834., 149 _note_, 322.

   Dalgairns, Rev. J. B., one of the Oxford extremists, 225.

  ‘Daniel,’ poem by R. H. F., 107.

   Dart river, at Dartington, 322, house beside, once owned by
     Sir Walter Ralegh, 63 _note_, lines by Newman on its beauties,
     65, woods along, 22-3.

     almshouses at, in memory of Mrs. Froude, erected by her
       sister Mary, 10.
     associations of, with R. H. F., his birth at, 4, his great
       affection for, 63; friends visiting him there, Keble, 1823.,
       22, Newman, 1831., 63, last visit of the latter, 1835., and
       farewell of to R. H. F., (thenceforth his “Yarrow left
       unvisited”), 185, 221; R. H. F.’s stay at, 1833., (the event of
       the phosphorescent gleam, 120), 129, his return to, 1835., 176,
       latter days at, local influence, love of children and
       architectural occupations, 179, his death and burial at, 1836.,
       197, 335.
     burial-place of Mary Isabella Bogue (_née_ Froude), 189.
     death of Phillis Spedding (_née_ Froude) at, 1835., 177.
     House, the Champernowne family of, (_q.v._) 322.
     old Church, (S. Mary’s), its condition in Archdeacon Froude’s
       time, 11, Altar at set up by R. H. F., its model, 178, his
       other alterations in, _ib._ taken down (1878.), xiv.
     Parish Books, excerpts from, printed in the ‘British Magazine,’

   Dartmouth Harbour, associations with, of R. H. F., 48, 152.

  ‘David and Jonathan,’ poem by Newman, in ‘L. Apostolica,’ 91, 201.

   Davison, John, Fellow and Tutor of Oriel, high repute of, and
     subsequent career, 40 & _note_, his death, various views of held
     at Oxford, his unfinished Scripture Commentary, and Tractarian
     sympathies, 153, Newman on his character, 154.

   Death, its beautifying effect, R. H. F. on, 49.

   de Lisle, Ambrose Phillipps, and his anticipations of the outcome
     of the Oxford Movement, 223, letter to from Wiseman on the same,
        on disestablishment and its nineteenth century advocates, 114.

   Denbury, estate and living of, belonging to Archdeacon Froude, 4,
     19 _note_; alterations at, R. H. F.’s share in, 23; Rev. J. R.
     Bogue at, when curate to the Archdeacon, 189.

   Desmoulins, Camille, recalled by a speech of R. H. F., 116.

   Devonian characteristics of R. H. F., 2.

   Devonshire, beauties of, Newman on, 63-5.

  ‘Dialogue between the Old and New Self,’ by R. H. F. in ‘L.
     Apostolica,’ 404-5.

   Diary of R. H. F., excerpts from, 12 _et seq._, 269-70,
    _and see_ ‘Remains.’

   Disestablishment, views on, of R. H. F., 114, 251, 261, 287, 291.

   Divinity Professorship at Oxford, Lord Melbourne’s action
     concerning, 193, 206 _note_.

   Doane, G. W., American editor of the ‘Christian Year,’ 159 _note_.

   Dobell, Bertram, 221 _note_.

   Domes, R. H. F.’s ideas anent, 99, 394.

   Domremy and Jeanne d’Arc, an analogy with R. H. F. in, 116.

   Dornford, Joseph, Fellow and Tutor of Oriel, colleague of R. H. F.,
     and Newman in their tutorial struggles, 36, his after life, 59


   EARLY Church, the, reticence of, as to holy things, 383.

   East Farleigh, Kent, living held in turn by R. I. and H.
     Wilberforce, 35 _note_, 167 _note_.

   Eastward position, the, R. H. F. on, 144.

  “Economy,” what Newman meant by, 350.

   Edgbaston, the Oratory at, R. H. F.’s Breviary now in, 188.

  ‘Edinburgh Review,’ article in, by Sir W. Hamilton, on the Practical
     theology of Luther and others, 164 & _note_.

   Edmond, Charles, editor of ‘Poetry of the Anti-Jacobins,’ 127 _note_.

   Egesta, visited by R. H. F., 93, his description, 94, unscientific
     construction of, T. Mozley on, 394.

  ‘Eikon Basilike,’ read by R. H. F., 32.

   Eleanor Crosses, the, the model for the Oxford Martyrs’ Memorial, 337.

   Ellis, Havelock, _cited_ on the positive tendency of modern English
     thought, 1 & _note_.

   Elmsley, Peter, S.T.P. Camden Professor of History at Oxford,
     1824., 27 & _note_.

   Elrington, Thomas, Bishop of Ferns, illness of, 1835., 69 & _note_.

   Emancipation Act, attitude of the Pope to, Philpotts _cited_ on, 361.
        in Barbados, effects of, anticipated, 134, and actual, 160, 169.

   Endell St., London, after whom named, 50.

   England, effect on, of the Oxford Movement, Cardinal Manning on, 221.

   English character, dislike in, to extremes, 212-3, insularity of its
     individualism, 220.
        characteristics of R. H. F., 243.
        College at Rome, Wiseman the head of, 1833., 101.
        materialism, movers and movements against, in the early
          nineteenth century, 114.
        thought, modern, positive tendency of, Havelock Ellis _cited_ on,
          1 & _note_.

   Enthusiasm, attitude of the Church of England towards, 309.

   Epaon, Council of, (517.), decision of, as to Stone Altars, 178 _note_.

   Ephesus, the Canon of, as to Patriarchs, R. H. F. on, 194.

   Epicene appearance of men of genius, S. T. Coleridge _cited_ on, 116.

   Erastian definition of the Church (of England), about 1830., 249.

   Erastianism, (_see also_ Disestablishment), views of R. H. F. on, 261.

   Essays by R. H. F. in the ‘British Magazine,’ 1833., preferable in
     style to his sermons, 126.

  ‘Essays on Various Subjects,’ by Cardinal Wiseman, _cited_ on
     R. H. F.’s connection with the Oxford Movement, 338.

   Eton, the school of R. H. F., 5, 9, his contemporaries, 6,
     effects of education at, as shewn in him, 391.

   Eucharist, the, (_see also_ Communion), Church of England attitude
     to, R. H. F. on, (and on his own), 163-5, 251; reasons for his
     devotion to, 250, his views on, 375-6; teaching of the ‘Tracts’
     concerning, considered “Popish,” 145.

   Eucharistic Doctrine, the, R. H. F. the first of his generation to
     be drawn to, 220, his views on, Wiseman on, 342.

   Evangelical party, the, less attractive characteristics of, 305.
        definition by, of the Church (of England), 249.
        Revival, attitude of R. H. F. and Keble to, 292.

  ‘Evangelical Succession’ by Sir James Stephen, _cited_ on R. H. F.’s
     connection with the Oxford Movement, 263.

   Evangelicalism, emergence of Newman from, 353.
        Mozley’s dislike for, 216.

  ‘Examiner, The,’ sense shewn by, 1833., 395.

   Exeter, Bishop of, _see_ Philpotts.


   FABER, Rev. Frederick William, disedified by Cologne, 93.
        effect on, of the ‘Remains,’ 225.
        references by, to R. H. F. and the Oxford Movement in ‘The
          Cherwell Water Lily and other Poems,’ 263.

   Fairbairn, Principal A. M., in ‘Catholicism, Roman and Anglican,’
     on R. H. F. as the moving spirit among the Tractarians, 408.

   Fairford, home of Keble’s father, 21 _note_, 42, visit to, of
     R. H. F., 1832., 75.

   Faith, according to the New Testament, R. H. F.’s conception of,
        as defined by the Editors of the ‘Remains,’ 381.

   Falmouth, _point de départ_ of R. H. F. in 1832., 78-9, and again
     in 1833., 130.
        Newman’s poem written at, 78.

  ‘Farewell to Feudalism,’ poem by R. H. F., 111.

  ‘Fashion, The, of this World passeth away,’ verses by R. H. F., 45.

   Fathers of the Church, views of, on Tradition, Newman exercised
     over, 182, R. H. F. on, 183.

   Faussett, Rev. Godfrey, letter to, from Newman on R. H. F.’s views
     of the Church of Rome after his visit to Italy, _cited_, 333;
     his pulpit denunciations of the ‘Remains,’ 210.

   Fell, _see_ Hammond and Fell.

   Fellows and Fellowships, _see_ Oriel College.

   Fellowship dues of R. H. F., his disposal of, 161, 195, 198, 339.

  “Feminine sternness” of the aspect of the great Mediæval Churchmen,
     R. H. F. on, 115.

   Ferns, Bishop of, _see_ O’Brien.

   Ferrier, Susan Edmonstone, and her novel ‘Marriage,’ 91 & _note_.

   Fillingham, Rev. R. C., and the Oxford Martyrs’ Memorial, his views
     as to its erection, 208 _note_.

   Florence under Savonarola compared with Oxford, during the
     Tractarian activity, 155.

   France, the “High Church” party of Republicans in, and their aims,
     1833., R. H. F. on, 105.

   Francia, Francesco, delight of R. H. F. in his paintings, 98.

   Freedom, the divine prerogative of the Church, R. H. F.’s
     insistence on, 220.

   French fishermen, the, off Devon coast, and their gratitude, 30.
        people, Churton’s impressions of, in 1830., 104, R. H. F.’s
          growing appreciation of, _ib._

   Freeman, Prof. E., in the ‘Contemporary Review,’ on the ‘Life and
     Times of Thomas Becket’ by R. H. F., 363.

   Froude or ffroud, of Walkhampton, grandfather of R. H. F., his
     wife, property, and descendants, 4.

   Froude, Elizabeth, aunt of R. H. F., 4.

   Froude, family, the, 4, artistic gifts of, 85, 90, 391, origin of
     their name, 34, their love of paradox, 256.

   Froude, James Anthony, fifth son and youngest child of Archdeacon
     Froude, 6 _note_, 8, 9, historian, 357, essayist, 70, scholar and
     artist, 391, educated at Eton, R. H. F.’s letter on, and on
     himself, _cited_ 6 _note_, at Oxford, his matriculation after
     R. H. F.’s death, 176.
        funeral sermon preached by, on Rev. G. M. Coleridge, 5.
        introduction of, to Carlyle, 3.
        literary style of, compared with that of R. H. F., 219.
       _cited_ on Church practices at Dartington, 10, 11.
             on the Archdeacon’s rectorial character, 360.
             on R. H. F.’s instructions in case of disagreement between
               Keble and Newman, 55.
             on R. H. F.’s ‘Life and Times of Thomas Becket,’ in
               controversy with Prof. Freeman, 363 _et seq._
             in ‘The Oxford Counter-Reformation’ on R. H. F.’s
               connection therewith, 358.
             on R. H. F.’s possible eventual change of creed, 224.

   Froude, John Spedding, third son of Archdeacon Froude, 9, 140,
     letter of R. H. F. to, from Malta, 85.

   Froude, Margaret, aunt of R. H. F., 4.

   Froude, Margaret, _née_ Spedding, wife of Archdeacon Froude, and
     mother of R. H. F., 2.
        almshouse erected in memory of, 10.
        birthplace of, 60.
        his gifts derived from, 2, 276, influence on him, 2, 12-14,
          her letter on his health and peculiar temperament, 6, 221,
        death of, 9.
        references to her in his letters, 42, 44, 60.

   Froude, Margaret, (Mallock), eldest daughter of the above, her
     marriage, husband, son and death, 9, 10 & _note_, family pet
     name for, 20.

   Froude, Mary Isabella, (Bogue), third daughter of Archdeacon Froude,
     9, her marriage and early death, 67, 189.

   Froude, Phillis, widow of Robert ffroud, grandmother of R. H. F.,
     conservatism of, at Denbury, 26 & _note_, death of, 194.

   Froude, Phillis Jane, (Spedding), second daughter of Archdeacon
     Froude, 3, 9, pet diminutive for, at home, 20, marriage of,
     ill-health, early death of, and son, 3, 67, 162, 165, 175-6.

   Froude, Rev. John, original of Blackmore’s “Păsson Chowne,” 11
     & _note_.

   Froude, Rev. Richard Hurrell, (referred to throughout this index as
     R. H. F.), eldest son of Archdeacon Froude, 2, 4, 9.
        character and characteristics of, chiefly from his friend’s
          comments thereon, (_see_ Part II. _passim_), 2, 4, 5, not to
          be discerned from his writings alone, 218.
        as summed up by Mozley, Newman and others, 190-200, by Newman,
          330, by Oakeley, 299 _et seq._
        celibate views of, 66.
        charm, as felt by his intimates, 219, 222.
        contrasted (with Keble and Newman) as to class of mind, with
          Rose, Palmer and Perceval, 334.
        critical faculties of, inhibitive in his state of health, of
          original work, 155.
        Dean Burgon on, 154.
        his dread of the effects of society on himself, 129.
        elliptical genius of, a parallel to, 182.
        epithets applied to, by Miss H. Newman and others, 199 _note_,
          243, 405.
        exaggerated way of speech, and writing, its drawbacks, 214-6,
          244-5, his defence of his way of talking, 323, his strong
          expressions, explained by his Editors, 387; Wiseman on, 341;
          his style, and its “irony,” 398.
        great personal influence, 357.
        habit of belying his own motives, an instance, 103-4.
        the integrant strain in his character, 226.
       “Irony” of, 349-50, 398.
       “kindness and sweetness,” general testimony to, 198-9.
        lack of insight into others’ minds, 246 & _see_ 105.
        lack of learning, 105, Dean Hook on his “learning,” 120 _note_.
        the leading spirit with Keble and Newman, 227, his survival
          in the latter, 228.
        his literary style, 252, and “little language,” its effect on
          the readers of the ‘Remains,’ 214-6; effects of his style on
          Newman’s, 215, reasons for its severity, 218 _et seq._
        love of boats and boating, 28.
        love for nature, 63.
        melancholy of, 252-3.
        mental characteristics noted by Rogers, 319.
        his mother on his character as a youth, 6, 221, 266.
        not “doctrinally speculative,” 292-3.
        his open and confiding nature, 5.
        open-mindedness as a traveller, 105.
        the poet and fascinator _par excellence_ of the Froude family,
          his noble literary sacrifice, 219, true value of his work,
        points in him appealing specially to Roman Catholics, 228-9.
        his private Prayers, 272.
        possibility of his having become a separatist, 224-5.
        rashness of, 120, 154.
        his religious attitude, 212, 251, and austerity, 305, 350, 403
          _et seq._, its effect on his life, 217, and on his literary
          style, 219.
        resemblance of to Hamlet, 252, 324, to Henry Martyn, 241, 408,
          and to Pascal, 240.
        his self-discipline, 12 _et seq._, 241, 255, 267, 311, 341,
          346-9, 403.
        his alleged spiritual progeny and their tendency towards
         “Rome,” 226.
        his state of mental flux, indicated by Churton, 281.
        his stern watch over the “little fox” of the tongue, 217.
        his Toryism, 260, 361, 392.
        traces of his ignorance of R. C. system shewn in the ‘Remains,’
        his unceremonious ways with men and things, impersonal
          character of, 216-7.
        events of his life, in order of date, birth of, and baptism, 4,
          early education, and portrait of by Brockedon 5 & _note_,
          Eton life of, 6; Oxford life of, begins, 9; his delicate
          health, _ib._; his friendship with Keble, 10; reads with him
          at Southrop, 21; beginning of their correspondence, (_v._
          Letters _infra_), 12, 23; his double Second Class at Oxford,
          etc., 24, 35-6; his tuition of his brother “Bob,” 25; his
          Greek and other studies, 27, 32, 41; criticisms on the
          ‘Christian Year’ (_q.v._), 29, 31; his joke on his own name,
          32, 36; his pleasure in Miss Elizabeth Smith’s writings,
          33-4; the beginning of his friendship with Newman, 35; his
          Fellowship, 35, 356-7; his Tutorship, 48, its finale, 162;
          the fight of the Tutors of whom he is one, 36-7; tour in
          Cumberland, 43; reading of “good books,” 44; verses by,
          written in 1827., 45-6; (_see_ Breviary); anxiety over
          “Bob,” 49, grief at his death, 51; action as to the
          Provostship, 50; his injunctions as to a possible
          disagreement between Keble and Newman, 55-6; he designs
          Churton’s memorial, 56; beginning of his intimate
          correspondence with Newman, (_see_ letters _infra_), 57;
          prepares for ordination, visits the Speddings, 58, 60, goes
          to Glendalough, 59-60; his sermon on Knowledge, preached at
          S. Mary’s, Oxford, 61-2; end of his Lectures at Oxford, 62,
          323; consequences, in the Oxford Movement, 63; suggested
          work with Newman at Littlemore, 63, and elsewhere, falls
          through, 68, literary plans and studies, parochial work at
          Denbury, 69, beginning of his chronic illness, 71-3, 74, 75,
          schemes of, for a Quarterly, 73; plans of his father for a
          foreign tour for, 74; his post as Junior Treasurer of Oriel,
          74, 198, sketch of by Miss Giberne nominally made at this
          date (1832.), 75; the Mediterranean tour decided on, Newman
          invited to join, 77, the departure and progress of his
          journey, 78 _et seq._ 393, effect on his views, 396, events
          at Rome, 94, meeting with Severn, 96, the visit to Wiseman,
          (_q.v._), 101, 103, health of R. H. F., 102, pleasure of in
          France and the French, 104, some poems of his period,
          106-12; interest taken by, in W. Froude’s work, 112; at the
          Hadleigh Conference, 117, his indiscreet name for it, 154; a
          touch of mysticism, 121; his vocation, 122-3; his connection
          with the Tracts, 124-6; his departure for Barbados, 1833.,
          127, his post and life there, 131 _et seq._, goes on a
          Visitation, 134 _et seq._; no benefit to his health, 143,
          162; returns to England no better, 173, his appearance on
          arrival home, 174; illness and death of his sister Phillis,
          at Dartington, 176-7; the stone altar and other improvements
          by, at Dartington, 178-9, his last days and their
          activities, 179, 185-97, Newman’s last visit to, 184-5;
          unwise method of treatment pursued with, 193; disposal of
          the Fellowship dues, 161, 195, 339; his death, 197, 335,
          effect of the news of, at Oxford, 198, comments on of
          various friends, 198-200; the collection of his papers and
          their publication as his ‘Remains,’ _see that head_; lack of
          contemporary notices of his death, 202; centenary wreath
          placed on his grave, 1903., 202.
        letters and correspondence of, ease and sympathy of his style
          in, 243.
            to Christie, on his meeting with Wiseman and on the dictates
              of the Council of Trent, 100-3, 104; on marriage, 160;
              on Newman’s illness in Sicily, 117.
            to Archdeacon Froude, from Barbados, 134, 140, 147.
            to William Froude, from Rome, 99 _et seq._; from France,
              104; on his scientific work, 112; from Barbados, 138.
            to Rev. Edward Hawkins, 50.
            to Keble, sent and unsent, on his mental life, 12 _et seq._;
              general topics, 22, 24, 25, 28; on the ‘Christian Year,’
              29, 30, on a book by Miss Elizabeth Smith, 33, 34; on
              some of his college acquaintances, 40; on his scruples,
              etc., 42, 44; on penance, 47; on his life at Oxford, 48;
              on New Year’s day 1828., 49; after “Bob” Froude’s death,
              52; general, 54; on Newman as a “heretic,” 55; again on
              the ‘Christian Year,’ and on his Cumberland and other
              journeys, 58; on his lectures at Oxford, 61; on his
              health, 75; on his Mediterranean tour, 79, from Rome,
              94, from Naples, 333, with poems, 106, 107; on the
              shining bushes at Dartington, 120; from Barbados, 131,
              _do._ on the Visitation journey, 136, on the Bishop of
              Barbados, 142, on his health, 143, general, 153; on the
              phrase “the Church teaches,” 170; after his return, on
              the same, 191.
            to and from Newman, _see under that head_.
            to Rogers, from Barbados, 15.
            to Rev. R. I. Wilberforce from Barbados, 167-9.
        publication of extracts from the letters suggested by Williams,
        in relation to the Oxford Movement, _see_ Part II.
             his place in it, 116-7, aims in forwarding, 119, bearing
               of his health thereon, 122, methods of “rousing,” 125,
               way of supporting, 161, 195, 198, 339; his “Basil-”
               like-ness, 165-6; the “perfect flower” of, 211; the
               “traveller” and the “wing and talon,” 222; the “poker,”
               of Newman, 354, and of Keble, 123; a “philosopher” of
               the Movement, 193; the “stimulator,” 353, 356, 402; one
               of the “leading triumvirate” in, 362; effect of his
               death thereon, 355.
        his personal appearance, 5, 199 _note_, 243, 299, 405.
        his poems, _see_ Poems by R. H. F.
        some of his views on,
             Abolition of Slavery, 274, and on the Negroes of Barbados,
               170, 274.
             Absolution, 106.
             the Altar, 149.
             the Articles, 174.
             Celibacy, 66, 310.
             the Church, 250.
             the Churches of England and Rome, _see those heads_.
             clergy, status of, 118, 137, 150.
             disestablishment, 114, 161, 261, 287, 291.
             Eastward position, 244.
             the Eucharist, 163-5, 220, 250, 251, 342.
             Faith, 314-5.
             Fasting, 12 _et seq._ _and see_ ‘Remains’ Part II.
             Freedom of the Church, 220.
             God, 315.
             Heber, 258.
             Jurors, 258, and Nonjurors, 139, 160, 353.
             Latimer, and his colleagues, _see_ their names _and_
             Laud, 24, 392.
             Mendicant Orders, 168.
             Monasticism, 122, 181-2, 251.
             Ordination, 4, and the Sacraments, 149.
             Penance, 7.
             the Prayer-Book, 170, 250.
             Preaching, 133.
             Private Judgment, 362.
             Scotch Orders, 161.
             Self-government, _see that head_.
             Speech and its dangers, 217.
             Tradition, _see that head_.
             the Wesleyan system, 172.
        his writings (_see_ Life and Times of Becket, articles in the
         ‘British Critic,’ etc., Poems, Remains, Sermons, _and_ Tracts),
          his character not to be discerned from, 218; unsuitability
          of his private writings for publication, 214 _et seq._

   Froude, Rev. Robert Hurrell, Rector of Dartington, and sometime
     incumbent of Denbury, Archdeacon of Totnes, father of R. H. F.,
     his family and the derivation of its name, 3, his birth and
     parentage, 4, his marriage, 3, his many children, 4, his friend
     W. Brockedon, 5 & _note_, his death in 1859., 4 _note_.
        his approval of R. H. F.’s sermon on the separation of Church
          and State, 121.
        characterisation of, by R. H. F., 276.
        contributions of, to the ‘Remains,’ 203, his satisfaction with
          the book, 209.
        dedication of Newman’s Parochial Sermons offered to, 185.
        his Denbury property (_see also_ Denbury), 19 _note_.
        and the disposal of R. H. F.’s Oxford belongings, 187, 198.
        good resolutions of R. H. F., on behaviour towards, 15, 17.
        and his laurels, 23.
        letters of, to Sir J. D. Coleridge, on R. H. F.’s attitude to
          the Roman Catholic Church, 371 _note_.
        letters to Newman, on the proposed Mediterranean journey, 74;
          on R. H. F.’s rashness, 129; on his failing health, 195, 196,
          last hours and death, 195.
        letters from R. H. F., from Barbados, 134, 140, 147, 224 &
        his rectorial character, J. A. Froude on, 11, 360.
        Williams on, 322.

   Froude, Robert Hurrell, (Bob), second son of Archdeacon Froude, 9,
     31, 47, educated at Eton, _ib._, R. H. F.’s tuition of and
     consequent studies at Oxford, 25, his failing health, 49, and
     college tricks, 49, 50, death of, R. H. F.’s letters on, and on
     his fine character, 51, 52-3.

   Froude, William, fourth son of Archdeacon Froude, afterwards the
     distinguished engineer, 9, 357, R. H. F.’s tuition of, 21, 54,
     Oxford life of, 54, 68, 77, degree taken by, 77-8, subsequent
     attainments of, 54, 357, 391; scientific work of at Oxford, 112,
        letters to, from R. H. F., (at Rome), on stained glass and on
          S. Peter’s, 99; on his scientific work, 112.
       _cited_ on Archdeacon Froude’s satisfaction with the ‘Remains,’
        on sharing R. H. F.’s love of paradox, 256.

   Fry, Mrs. Elizabeth, and her brother-in-law Sir T. Fowell Buxton,
     139 _note_.


   GENOA, visit of R. H. F. to, 102.

   German painters, school of, in Rome, 1833., their study of Raphael,

   Giants’ Causeway, visited by R. H. F., 1829., 59.

   Giberne, Miss Maria, her sketch of R. H. F., Newman, and T. Mozley,
     1832., 75. _See also_ Preface.

   Gibraltar, visit of R. H. F. to, 82 _et seq._

   Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., expectations of, by Newman in 1834., 158.
        his defence of the ‘Remains’ in the House of Commons, 210, his
          regret at R. H. F.’s attacks in, on the ‘Reformers,’ _ib._
        Italian travels of, 1832-3., 103 _note_.

   Glendalough, S. Kevin’s cave at, visited by R. H. F., 59 _note_.

   God, certain existence of, as conceived of, by R. H. F., 315, and
     by Newman in youth, 315 _note_.

   Gold, production of a red stain for glass from, R. H. F.’s queries
     concerning, 99.

  ‘Golden Keys,’ phrase used by R. H. F. for the Absolutions, 106.

   Golightly, Rev. C. P., called ‘Golius’ by R. H. F., 188 & _note_,
     his original and later attitude to the Oxford Movement, and share
     in the Martyrs’ Memorial, 337.

  ‘Goose,’ the famous, of the ‘Remains,’ 211, 270.

   Gothic architecture, interest of R. H. F. in, 395, his articles on,
     in the ‘British Magazine,’ 79, his remarks on, in connection with
     M. Angelo, 96.

   Gould, Rev. S. Baring-, cited on Keble’s first visit to Dartington,
     22 _note_.

   Gray’s ‘Elegy,’ and its purport, R. H. F. on, 29.

   Greek studies of R. H. F., and views on various authors, 27 _et seq._

   Greenaway on the Dart, house at, once owned by Sir Walter Ralegh,
     63 _note_.

   Gregory VII., Pope, (Hildebrand), 220, attitude of the Oxford
     Movement towards, 361.

   Gregory XVI., Pope, 1833., apparently not visited by R. H. F. and
     Newman, 100.

   Grey, Lord, and his interpretation of the Coronation Oath, 98 &

   Guernsey, visited by R. H. F., 54.


   HADLEIGH, Archdeacon W. R. Lyall at, visit of R. H. F. to, 129 &
        Conference, the, and its objects, 117-8, 239, 289, called
         “the conspiracy” by R. H. F., and by W. Palmer, 154.

   Halifax, Lord, the ‘Church’ of, its young Froudians and their
     future, 226.

   Hamilton, Sir W., his article on Admission of Dissenters to the
     Universities, _cited_ by R. H. F. on Luther, Melancthon etc.,
     164 & _note_.

   Hamlet, resemblance of R. H. F. to, I. Williams _cited_ on, 252, 324.

   Hammond and Fell, views of, on altering the Articles, R. H. F.’s
     conception of, 136 & _note_.

   Hampden, Rev. R. D., D.D., Divinity Professor at Oxford, afterwards
     Bishop of Hereford, colleague of Hawkins at Oriel, 62;
     1836 called the ‘Hampden Year’ of the Oxford Movement, 190.

   Hampdenism at Oxford, 195, what it meant to both High and Low
     Churchmen, 206 _note_.

   Hare, Rev. J. C., his phrase for R. H. F., 295.
        his ‘taste,’ 103.

   Harpsfield, Nicholas, as a writer on the Breviary, 188.

   Harrison, Rev. B., one of the Oxford Movement group, 180 & _note_.
        attitude of, to the Martyrs’ Memorial, 337.
        his friend, the Abbé Jäger, and Newman, 180.
        his influence on Gladstone, as to the Apostolical Succession,

   Hawkins, Rev. Edward, Fellow, and (later), Provost of Oriel, the
    ‘great’ Provost, 40 _note_.
        attitude of, towards R. H. F. and other would-be “pastoral”
          Tutors of Oriel, 36, 37.
        attitude towards, of the Oriel Tutors and its results, 357.
        and his colleagues as Lecturers after the resignation of the
          Tutors, 62.
        letter to, from R. H. F., on his Provostship, 50 & _note_.

   Hazlitt, William, a parallel between his axiom on thinking ill of
     men, and R. H. F.’s remark thereon, 218.

   Head, Sir Edmund Walker, Bart., and his art knowledge, 103 & _note_.

  ‘Heaven-in-Earth,’ verses by R. H. F., 46.

   Heber, Bishop Reginald, views of R. H. F. on, _cited_, 258.

   Henry II., _SEE_ BECKET.

   HENRY VIII., fall of the Church under, R. H. F.’s phrase
     concerning, 284.
        his encroaching on Church rights, a parallel to that of Henry
          II., 284.

   Herbert, George, tender piety of, yet short of Christian
     perfection, 285.

  “Heretic,” Newman so called by R. H. F., 293.

   Hildebrand, _see_ Gregory VII., Pope.

  ‘Historical Notes on the Tractarian Movement,’ by the Rev. F.
     Oakeley, _cited_ on R. H. F.’s connection therewith, 299.

   Hoadly, censure of Convocation on, 1717., R. H. F. on, 132, 133,

   Holdsworth family, the, of Dartmouth, 322.
        Mr., a patron of W. Brockedon, 5 _note_.

   Holland, Canon H. Scott, in Beeching’s Edition of ‘L. Apostolica,’
     on the place of R. H. F. in the Oxford Movement, 402.

   Holy things, reticence of the Early Church upon, 383.

   Hook, Dean, attitude of, to the Martyrs’ Memorial, 337.
        on R. H. F.’s “learning,” 120 _note_.

   Hooker, Bishop, his definition of the Church of England, 249.
        and the King’s supremacy, R. H. F. on, 124.
        his wish, as reported by Walton, and applied to R. H. F., 377.

   Hooppell, Rev. R. E., _cited_ on the Froude family, 3 & _note_.

   Hope-Scott, J. R., _see_ Scott, J. R. Hope-.

   House of Commons, attack in, on the ‘Remains,’ 210.

   Howe, Earl, verses on his famous victory _cited_ by R. H. F., 127

   Howley, Most Rev., Archbishop of Canterbury, Address to, by the
     clergy, 128.

   Humboldt, _cited_ on a lofty mountain near La Guayra, and on the
     heat there, 140.

   Hurrell, an old Devonshire name, 3.
        family the, related to the Coplestones, 49 _note_.

   Hurrell, Phillis, wife of Robert Froude of Walkhampton, (grandmother of
          R. H. F.), and her children, 4, death of, 1836., mentioned
          in R. H. F.’s last letter to Newman, 194.

   Hurrell, Richard, of Modbury, his wife, and descendants, 4.

   Hursley, Hampshire, Keble’s charge of, 28,
     his first Sunday at, saddened by R. H. F.’s recent death, 198.

   Hutton, R. H., in ‘Cardinal Newman,’ on R. H. F.’s connection with
     the Oxford movement, 329.

   Hyerès, R. H. F.’s impressions of, 104.

  ‘Hymns from the Parisian Breviary’ edited by Newman, 207.


   IDEAS, not facts, R. H. F.’s chief topics of conversation, 122.

   Incumbent, the English, of 1830., J. A. Froude on the status of,

   India, as a missionary field for R. H. F. and himself, Newman’s
     dreams of, 156.

   Infallibility of the Church,
        Hammond’s view _cited_ by R. H. F., 122.
        of the Church of Rome, alleged effect of the doctrine of, on
          the Reunion of Christendom, 101.

   Irish bishoprics, abolition of, 1833., 113.
        tour of R. H. F., 1829., 59.

  “Irony,” the, of R. H. F.’s introspection, J. Mozley on, 349-50,
     as shewn in the ‘Remains,’ 398.

  ‘Isles of the Sirens,’ poem by Newman, allusion in, to Ithaca, 331-2.

   Italian Renaissance architecture, Oxonian preference for, 395 _note_.

   Italy, visit of R. H. F. and Newman to, 78 _et seq._

   Ithaca, as seen by R. H. F., 87, Newman’s poetic allusion to, 331-2.


   JäGER, Abbé, and his writings, 180.

   Jansenist Saints, R. H. F.’s scheme for a Tract on, 165.

   Jansenists, the, in Holland, 258.

   Jebb, Bishop, source of his views on Church and Christian doctrine,

   Jeune, Bishop, his quotation from the ‘Christian Year’ against the
     Real Presence, and Keble’s alteration of the verse, 171-2 _note_.

   Jewel, Bishop, R. H. F.’s phrase concerning, 296, 301, 336.

   Job, the Book of, its difficulties for R. H. F., 113.

   John VI., King of Portugal, 81 _note_.

   John of Salisbury, 104 _note_, 173, his saying to Becket _cited_
     by R. H. F., 160.

  “Johnny Raw,” the Dartington pony, R. H. F.’s comments on his
     demise, 31.

   Johnson, Dr., _cited_ on Law’s ‘Serious Call,’ 44.

   Jones, Rev. Spencer, _cited_ on the logical outcome of the Oxford
     movement, 223 & _note_.

   Journal of R. H. F., (_see also_ Diary _and_ ‘Remains’) comments
     on, by Dr. Abbott, 346.
        main feelings shewn in, Rogers on, 310, 311, 316.
        Wiseman on, 330.

   Jurors of William III.’s reign, attitude of R. H. F. towards, 258.


   KEATS, the poet, his friend Mr. Severn, met by R. H. F. in Rome, 96
        Lowell _cited_ on the needful haste in his work, 218.

   Keble, Elizabeth, 160 _note_, 190 _note_, 199.

   Keble, Mary Anne, letter, (unsent) to her brother John, on the death of,
          from Rogers, 311.

   Keble, Rev. J., father of the author of the ‘Christian Year,’ home of in
          Fairford, 21.
       illness and death of, 131, 153, 162, 173.
       religious views of, 162 _note_.

   Keble, Rev. John, tutor of R. H. F. at Oriel, the writer of the
    ‘Christian Year,’ 10.
        accident to, 1835., 18.
        alleged Romeward tendencies of, J. A. Froude on, and their
          consequences, 363.
        the Archdeaconry of Barbados declined by, and why, 131.
        first curacy of, and notable pupils there, 21,
          second curacy, 1825., 28.
        and the Christian Year, _see that heading_, called, in that
          connection, the singer of revived devotion, 356.
        co-editor of R. H. F.’s ‘Remains,’ (_q.v._), 203, the Preface
          attributed to him, 336, his realisation of the difficulty of
          publishing them, 211, Newman, on his incapacity to criticise
          his writing, 203.
        contributions of, to ‘L. Apostolica,’ 107, 404.
        his curate, _see_ Rev. R. F. Wilson.
        and his eight colleagues in publishing Churton’s ‘Remains,’ 53
        his fun, in writing, free from “Hurrellisms,” 216.
        his humility, 323.
        his ignorance of Kant and Coleridge, 116.
        his living of Hursley, sad first Sunday at, 198.
        and R. H. F., friendship between, 292, his advice to R. H. F.
          on penance, 47, his confidence in R. H. F.’s critical
          powers, 155, influence of R. H. F. on, (Keble’s “poker”),
          123, 227, 235, and his on R. H. F., 47, 276, 321, the two
          called, by Newman the “Philosophers” of the Oxford Movement,
        Letters to, from R. H. F., _see_ Letters and Correspondence,
         _under the latter_.
             from, to Newman, on R. H. F.’s health and “youngness,” 142,
               on his death, 199, on his ‘Private Thoughts,’ 204, on
               publishing extracts from his letters, 205, on the
               ‘Remains,’ Churton’s adverse view of, and Archdeacon
               Froude’s satisfaction, 209.
             from Rogers, (unsent), on the death of Miss Keble, 311,
               and others _cited_ from the ‘Remains,’ 312 _et seq._
        marriage and wife of, 160 & _note_, 185, 190 _note_, 199.
        Newman’s love for, 167.
        and the Oxford Movement, 294, “father” of the Movement according
          to Newman, 238, 292, his unfitness for leadership, 405.
        poem of the ‘Mother out of Sight’ long unpublished, 306.
        refusal of the Divinity Professorship anticipated by Newman, 193.
        resemblance of, to S. Philip Neri, Newman on, 239.
        sermon preached by, on National Apostasy at S. Mary’s, Oxford,
        his understanding of Newman brought about by R. H. F., 55.
        views of, on confession, 268-9; on frequent Communion, 149 &
         _note_, on the Martyrs’ Memorial, 208 & _note_, 337, on the
          mistaken indoor treatment of R. H. F., 192; on the pastoral
          character of College Tutors, 36; on his perusal of R. H. F.’s
         ‘Private Thoughts,’ 206.
        wish of, for R. H. F. to have a country parish, 68.

   Keble, Rev. Thomas, Vicar of Bisley, Anglican daily services first
     reintroduced by, 149 _note_, 322.
        influence of, on Isaac Williams, 322.
        married to a sister of Mrs. John Keble, 190 _note_, 199.

   Ken, Bishop, 130, 285.

   Keswick, location of Armathwaite Hall, the home of the Speddings, 2.
        visit of R. H. F. to his relations at, 1829., 58.

  ‘Key, A, to the Popery of Oxford,’ by Rev. Peter Maurice, _cited_ on
     R. H. F. as exhibited in the ‘Remains,’ 407.

   Kingsley, Rev. Charles, his view of the non-virility of the
     Tractarian leaders, 115, 299.

   Kingston, a home of the Devonshire Froudes, 4.

   Klopstock, Frederick Gottlieb, and his two wives, Elizabeth Smith’s
     translated work on, 34 & _note_.


   LACORDAIRE, Père, republicanism of, 105 _note_.

   Lady Margaret Professor at Oxford, _see_ Faussett, Rev. G.

   La Guayra, visited by R. H. F., 139, 140.

   Lake District, scrambles of R. H. F. in, 43.

   Lamb, Charles, his “universality and totality of character”
     paralleled by that of R. H. F., 221.

   Lamennais, Abbé de, republicanism of, 105 _note_, caught up by
     R. H. F., 114.

  ‘Lamp, The,’ notable statement in, of the Rev. S. Jones on the
     logical outcome of the Oxford Movement, 223 _note_.

   Latimer, (and his colleagues), attitude of the Oxford Movement to,
        and the Oxford Martyrs’ memorial, 308, 337.
        phrase used concerning, by R. H. F., 301, 306.

   Laud, Archbishop, attitude of R. H. F. to, 24, 392.
        the Church of England in his time, 101.
        and Ken, their fate at the hands of posterity, 130.

   Laudians, the, (R. H. F. and his Oriel friends), 37.

   Lavington, the Sargents of, 145 _note_.

   Law and Hoadly, controversy between, R. H. F. on, 132.

   Law’s ‘Serious Call,’ Keble’s rebuke of R. H F. concerning, and its
     effect, 44, 321.
        Dr. Johnson _cited_ on, 44.

   Laxart, Durand, and La Pucelle, 116.

   Lay Synod, a, R. H. F.’s ideas as to, 124.

   Lazaret, the, at Malta, and its builders, 90.

   Leach, Thomas, _cited_ on R. H. F.’s supposed Romeward inclinations,

  ‘Lead, kindly Light,’ association of, with the Straits of Bonifacio,

   Leghorn, letter of R. H. F. to William Froude from, on stained
     glass and on S. Peter’s, Rome, etc., 99.

   Letters of R. H. F., ease and sympathy of, 243.
        suggested publication of, Newman on, to Keble, 205.

  ‘Letters and Correspondence of John Henry Newman’ edited by Miss
     Anne Mozley, _cited_ on R. H. F.’s influence on the Oxford
     Movement, 408.

   Liberalism of Newman, Keble’s attitude towards, 248.

  “Liberalism” as used by Newman, source of his attitude towards, 330.

  ‘Life and Times of Thomas Becket,’ by R. H. F., progress of, 132,
     159, 160, 220, articles on, issued in the ‘British Magazine,’
     192, Freeman and J. A. Froude’s controversy on, 363 _et seq._

  ‘Life and Correspondence of the late Robert Southey,’ _cited_ on the
    ‘Remains,’ 406.

  ‘Life, The, of Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford,’ _cited_ on his
     view of the ‘Remains,’ 408.

  “Lionisers,” past and present sense of the word, 59 _note_.

   Little Hempston, fourteenth-century priests’ house at, R. H. F. on
     its position, etc., 22.
        thunderstorm near, described by R. H. F., 26.

   Littlemore, Newman’s early English Chapel at, its designer and
     peculiarities, 178.
        schemes for R. H. F.’s joint work at, 63.

   Liturgy, the, an historical account of, R. H. F.’s sketch for, 48.

   Lives of Apostolical Divines of the Church of England, scheme for,
     of R. H. F., 160.

   Lives of Bishops Andrewes, Cosin, and Overall, R. H. F.’s wish to
     write, 160.

   Llandaff, Bishop of, _see_ Coplestone, Edward.

   Lloyd, Dr. Charles, Bishop of Oxford, alarm of R. H. F. at the
     books considered requisite by, 34 & _note_.
        lectures by, on Liturgical subjects, etc., 1827, effect of, on
          R. H. F., 47, 48.
        ordaining Bishop of R. H. F., 368.

   Lockhart, William, effect on, of the ‘Remains,’ 225.

   Longley, Rev. Charles Thomas, Headmaster of Harrow, afterwards
     Archbishop of Canterbury, 89 & _note_.
        Major John, Governor of Cythera, 1835., 89 & _note_.

  ‘Loss and Gain,’ a story, by Newman, 180-1.

   Luther and his associates, Sir W. Hamilton’s criticism on, in the
    ‘Edinburgh Review,’ 164 & _note_.
        and the Council of Trent, 101.

  ‘Lyra Apostolica,’ associations of some of the poems comprised in,
     76, 78, 85 _note_, 91, 201 _note_, 401 _note_.
        Beeching’s edition with Introduction by Canon H. Scott Holland
          _cited_ on R. H. F.’s influence on the Oxford Movement, 402.
          _cited_ on R. H. F.’s poems in that collection, 404.
        contribution invited, from Christie, 102 & _see note_, 117.
        early days of, 98 _note_.
        first home of some of the poems in, 97, 324.
        evolution of, Newman’s account of, 402.
        poems contributed by R. H. F. to, 106, 107, 108-9, 110, 111,
          112, 324; his criticisms on, 204-5.
        publication of, date of, 204.
        respective number of poems by the various contributors to,
          404, why their anonymity was discarded, 107.


   MALLOCK, William Hurrell, son of R. H. F.’s sister, Margaret, 10

   Mallock, William, father of the above, _ib._

   Malta, visit of R. H. F. to, his impressions, 85 _et seq._, his
     health when there, 85 _note_.

   Manning, Cardinal, on the effect on England of the Tractarian
     Movement, 221.

   Manning, Mrs. wife of Archdeacon (afterwards Cardinal), Manning and
     her sisters, 145 _note_.

  ‘Marriage,’ by Miss Ferrier, quaint note by Newman on his reading of
        it, 91.

   Marriott, Rev. C., _cited_ on the authorship of Tract 8., 125.

   Martyn, Henry, disparaging comparison of R. H. F. to, 241, 408.

   Martyrs’ Memorial at Oxford, why erected, (1841.), 208.
        its origin, 337.

   Marvell, Andrew, suggestion of his style, in a poem by R. H. F. in
    ‘L. Apostolica,’ 404-5.

   Maurice, Rev. Peter, of Yarnton, Chaplain of New College, in ‘A Key
     to the Property of Oxford,’ on R. H. F.’s character as shewn in
     the ‘Remains,’ 407.
        reference in the same to Littlemore Chapel, 178.

   Mediæval Church, reasons for its attractions for R. H. F., 353.

   Mediterranean voyage of R. H. F., his father, and Newman, with
     descriptions by the two friends, 78-9 _et seq._

   Melbourne, Lord, and the Divinity Professorship at Oxford, 193, 206
        on the Oxford Movement, 113.

  ‘Memoir of the Rev. John Keble,’ by Sir J. D. Coleridge, cited on
     R. H. F.’s relation to the Oxford Movement, 276.

  ‘Memoirs,’ by the Rev. Mark Pattison, _cited_ on R. H. F., 407.

  ‘Memoirs of Joshua Watson,’ edited by Ven. Archdeacon E. Churton,
     cited on the ‘Remains,’ 281.

   Mendicant Orders, references to by R. H. F., 168.

   Messina, visit of R. H. F. to, 92.

   Michael Angelo Buonarotti, his use of coloured stone in S. Peter’s
     at Rome, 96.

   Miguel, Dom Maria-Evarista, usurping King of Portugal, 1832., 81 &

   Milton, prejudices of Keble against, shared by R. H. F., 24 &
    _note_, 247, 272, 275, 296, 361.

   Mirehouse, bequeathed by T. Story to John Spedding the younger, 3.
        notable literary visitors to John Spedding at, 61.

   Modbury, Devon, the Hurrells and Froudes of, 3, 4.

  “Monarchy,” Lord Grey’s dislike to the use of the word, 98 _note_.

   Monasticism, Newman’s writings on, his misgivings concerning and
     R. H. F.’s rebutter, 181-2.

   Monasticism, revival of desired by R. H. F., 122, 251.

   Montalembert, Comte de, republicanism of, 105 _note_.

  ‘Monthly Repository,’ 221 _note_.

   Montserrat Island, visited by R. H. F., 136.

   Morpeth, Lord, his attack in the House of Commons, on Newman, as
     editor of the ‘Remains,’ 210.

   Motto to the ‘Remains,’ and I. Williams’ translation of it, 207.

   Mount Miserere, St. Christophers, (W. Indies), 137.

   Mozley, John, betrothal of to Jemima Newman, 195; their marriage,