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Another Random Scribd Document
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 ‘… 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 conservative.’
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
accomplished.’[192]

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
object.”’
 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.
 ‘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,
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