Cardinal Newman, scholar of Oxford / by John A. O'Brien


^HOLAR OF Oxford
qAofoahs Quest for^J^mth

^ev. ^ohn^, O^^rien^ jCjC.®.

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CARDINAL NEWMAN

Scholar of Oxford

By

REV. JOHN A. O'BRIEN, Ph.D., LLD.

THE PAULIST PRESS
401 West S9th Street
New York 19, N. Y.



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Archbishop of New York

New York, July 21, 1937.

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED IN THE U. S. A.

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CARDINAL NEWMAN
Scholar of Oxford

By REV. JOHN A. O’BRIEN, Ph.D., LL.I).

A Soul's Quest for Truth

Every great achievement, it has been observed, is butthe lengthened shadow of a great man. A movement
which has weathered the storms of more than a century and

still exercises its influences upon the direction of human
thought is indeed no small achievement. Such is the Oxford

Movement, which projects into our modern day the mighty
figure of John Henry Newman, scholar of Oxford, litterateur,
philosopher, theologian and Cardinal of the Catholic Church.

Toward the close of the last century Lord Coleridge reflected

the sentiment of many an Englishman in referring to
Newman as “that great man who still survives at Birming-
ham in venerable age, but with undimmed mental eye and
unabated force of genius, a Roman Cardinal in title, but the
light and guide of multitudes of grateful hearts outside his

own communion and beyond the limits of these small
islands.” After the lapse of half a century, instead of grow-

ing dim, that light shines with increasing brilliance as a

beacon light for ever-enlarging multitudes of people outside

his own communion and beyond the British Isles. The
numerous volumes about him which have issued from the

press in the last few years mirror this constantly widening

interest among people of every faith in the retiring scholar

of Oxford, who still speaks to a listening world from the
pages of his mighty books.

Bom in London on February 21, 1801, Newman was
the eldest son of John Newman, a banker, and of Jemima
Fourdrinier, of Huguenot extraction. He was of a quiet,
retiring nature, finding his recreation less in school games

and more in the reading of the Bible and the novels of Scott

3



4 CARDINAL NEWMAN

which were then in the course of publication. From his
mother he received his religious training, which was a modi-
fied Calvinism. At sixteen he entered Trinity College,
Oxford, and in the following year he gained a scholarship
of £60, tenable for nine years. When only twenty-one he
was elected a fellow of Oriel, then the acknowledged center
of Oxford intellectual life. In 1824 he was ordained and
became tutor of Oriel, and later was appointed vicar of St.
Mary’s, the University Church at Oxford.

He took a Mediterranean trip with Froude, whose health
was impaired, visiting Sicily, Naples, and Rome. There he
met Dr. Wiseman, then Rector of the English College, who
was destined to play an important part in his later career.

Returning from Rome to Sicily alone, he was stricken with
a dangerous fever at Leonforte. Recalling in later years the

details of this critical illness, Newman saw himself upon
his bed, a prey to delirium, with death hovering near, giving

final instructions to his Italian servant, but adding the

strange words, the memory of which was to haunt him later
on: ‘T shall not die, I shall not die, for I have not sinned

against the light . . . God has still a work for me to do.”
When the worst of the fever had passed, and he had deter-
mined to continue his journey, he remembered himself

sitting on the bed of the inn, still weak and sobbing, and
saying to his servant, who understood not a word: ‘T have
a work to do in England.” What that work was, he had
no idea then. But subsequent events were tc prove with a

vengeance that he had a work to do.

With difficulty he reached Palermo, aching to get home.

He crossed the Mediterranean, then France, and was sailing
home when the vessel became becalmed in the Straits of

Bonifacio. While walking the deck, and gazing up at the

darkened sky, he composed the poem, “Lead, Kindly Light,”

which has become a favorite hymn in all the Christian
churches. It reveals to us the state of his mind questing



CARDINAL NEWMAN 5

for the light that he might obey the mysterious voice telling

him that he had “a work to do.”

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom.
Lead Thou me on

!

The night is dark, and I am far from home

—

Lead Thou me on

!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,—one step enough for me.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

Will lead! me on.
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone;
Arid with the morn those Angel faces smile.
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

The Oxford Movement

Newman landed in England on July 9, 1833. A few
days later what is called “The Oxford Movement” began.
Arriving at Oxford, Newman found his friends greatly
excited over the government’s Bill to suppress a number of
the Anglican bishoprics in Ireland. It was regarded by them
as a shocking usurpation by the State, a clear manifesta-
tion that the Government considered the Church its crea-

ture, with which it could do as it saw fit. What then
became of the Church as a divine institution. Apostolical

in character, having a charter independent of the State, a

conviction which these Anglican divines liked to entertain?

Keble declared war against the measure in a sermon on

“National Apostacy,” which he preached at St. Mary’s on

July 14, 1833. The sermon was printed, widely distributed,
and created a great stir.

Newman later wrote “that he had ever considered and
kept the day as the start of the religious Movement of 1833,”
subsequently known as the Oxford Movement. While
Keble first sounded the tocsin, and Pusey spread further

the alarm, it was Newman who was the real leader of the



6 CARDINAL NEWMAN

crusade. “For hundreds of young men,” writes J. A. Froude,

‘*Credo in Newmannum was a genuine symbol of faith.”
His gifts of intellect, his deep spiritual nature, and his trans-

parent honesty of purpose inspired complete confidence.

The sermons which he preached on Sunday afternoons
at St. Mary’s were events to which all of Oxford, especially

the younger men, looked forward with eagerness. Deliv-

ered without a gesture or any of the arts of the orator, the

sermons gripped the audience with their spiritual insight,

their fertility of illustration, their profound sincerity. Each
member of the audience hung upon his words as though he
only were being spoken to. “The service was very simple,”
writes Principal Shairp, “no pomp, no ritualism; for it

was characteristic of the leading men of the movement that
they left these things to the weaker brethren. ... To call
Newman’s sermons eloquent would be no word for them;
high poems rather they were as of an inspired singer, or the

outpourings of a prophet, rapt yet self-possessed. And
the tone of voice in which they were spoken, once you grew

accustomed to it, sounded like a fine strain of unearthly

music. Through the silence of that high Gothic building, the

words fell on the ear like the measured drippings of water

in some vast, dim cave. After hearing these sermons you

might come away still not believing the tenets peculiar to
the High Church system; but you would be harder than

most men if you did not feel more than ever ashamed of
coarseness, selfishness, worldliness, if you did not feel

the things of the faith brought closer to the soul.”

Newman was stirring Oxford to a religious life and fervor
much after the fashion in which Savanarola had shaken

fifteenth century Florence out of its lethargy. While the

Dominican prior, his dark eyes flashing fire, thundered from

the Duomo, arousing the Florentines to repentance, Newman
spoke in a restrained voice which at times fell to a whisper

that yet rose to a thunder within the inner ear. From every



CARDINAL NEWMAN

side disciples flocked to him as to a leader and prophet.

His influence at Oxford was supreme.

In championing the divine character of the Anglican

Church, Newman had developed the theory of the Via
Media. He held that the English Church lay at an equal
distance from Rome and Geneva. Being Apostolical in
origin and doctrine, it anathematized the peculiar tenets of

Calvin and Luther, while it protested with equal vigor

against “Roman corruptions,” excrescences upon the body
of primitive truth. Hence he conceived of the Anglican
Church as appealing to antiquity, having as its norm the
^undivided Church, and handing down the teaching of the
Fathers in the articles and in the Prayer Book. Hence
Jhis absorption in the study of the Fathers, which under his

influence became the order of the day at Oxford.

A few weeks after Keble’s sermon, Newman started on
his own initiative Tracts for the Times. Their aim was to
secure for the Church of England a definite basis in doctrine

.and discipline, and thus obtain for her some security from

the high-handed dealings of the State which her sister in-

stitution in Ireland was then experiencing. In 1841 New-
man published Tract 90, in which he set forth the thesis,
that the negations in the Thirty-nine Articles of the Angli-

can creed were directed not against the authoritative doc-

trines of the Catholic Church but only against exaggerations

which had crept in.

A storm of indignation broke out. Newman was de-
nounced as a traitor, a Guy Fawkes at Oxford. The Bishop
of Oxford censured it, and demanded that the Tracts cease.

For three years condemnations fulminated intermittently

from the bench of bishops. Entertaining high ideas of the

authority of the episcopacy, Newman regarded their con-
demnation as an ex cathedra judgment against him. Ending

the Tracts, he resigned his editorship of The British Critic,

and by and by he gave up St. Mary’s, and retired to Little-



8 CARDINAL NEWMAN

more. It was becoming increasingly apparent even to his

reluctant eyes that soon he would be obliged to choose

between Rome, the historic center of Christian unity, with

its emphasis upon apostolicity of doctrine and of practice,,

and the Church which Henry VIII had ushered into the

world and which felt no need to hark back to the center of

unity for its credentials.

“I Saw My Face . . .”

Newman was further unsettled by an article which Dr.
Wiseman, who had now returned to England, had pub-
lished in The Dublin Review. Wiseman compared the
Donatist heretic with the Anglican. Newman had previ-
ously made an exhaustive study of the Arians and other
heretical sects in the first five centuries, and he found the

comparison disturbing. “I must confess,” wrote Newman,
“that it has given me a stomach-ache. ... At this moment
we have sprung a leak; and the worst of it is that those
sharp fellows. Ward, Stanley and Co., will not let one go

to sleep upon it . . . this is a most uncomfortable article

on every account.”

The more he pondered upon the parallel suggested by
Wiseman between the earlier heresies, such as Donatism
and Monophysitism, and the Anglican formularies, the more
and more obvious it seemed, and by the same token the more
difficult did escape become. “My stronghold was antiquity,”
said Newman; “now here, in the middle of the fifth century,
I found, as it seemed to me, Christendom of the sixteenth

and nineteenth centuries reflected. I saw my face in that
mirror, and I was a Monophysite.”

Wiseman had quoted with telling effect the famous
phrase of St. Augustine, Securus judicat orbis terrarum,

which may be interpreted, “Catholic consent is the judge of
controversy.” There burst in upon Newman the concept
of a living Church, witnessed to in the past by Nicaea,



CARDINAL NEWMAN 9

Ephesus, and Chalcedon, and witnessed to at the present by
its churches, schools, and monasteries in all the countries of

the world. True, the seed had unfolded into a mighty tree

but it had not lost its identity in the phenomenon of world-

wide growth. The shadow of Rome as an institution des-
tined by its Founder for mankind in all the ages, was over-
clouding his Anglican compromise, his Via Media. From this
time on, Newman was on his deathbed, he confessed after-
ward, as regards his membership in the Anglican Church.

Newman was not to take a step, however, which would
change the whole course of his life without long and delib-

erate study and prayer. For three years he remained at

Littlemore with a band of disciples, seeking light from above

that they might chart their course aright. They lived under
monastic conditions in great physical austerity and in an

atmosphere of anxiety and suspense. To his disciples he
assigned the task of writing the lives of the English saints,

while he occupied himself with the completion of an essay

on the development of doctrine, by which principle he sought

to trace the growth of the mustard seed of Apostolic teaching

into the mature doctrines of the Catholic Church. By more
than a decade he thus anticipated Darwin’s formulation of

the principle of organic evolution which was to win him
lasting fame in biology. Newman replaced the static prin-
ciple hitherto prevailing in religious thought with a dynamic

one—the principle of growth, development, evolution.
While Newman was at Littlemore he received letters

from a number of his friends urging him to take no step

that he would regret later on. Among such pleas was one
from his sister, Mrs. John Mozley, reminding him “of those

many anxious minds waiting and watching your every mo-
tion, who would misunderstand your proceedings, and con-
sider it a beginning of a formal disengaging of yourself

from your own Church.” She also enclosed a letter from
a lady who voiced the plea of many against being deprived



10 CARDINAL NEWMAN

of the guidance which they had come to rely upon from
Newman. Its sad tone was well calculated to touch New-
man’s heart.

“I have been thinking,” she wrote, “that among all the
opinions and feelings your brother is called upon to sym-

pathize with, perhaps he hears least and knows least of those
who are, perhaps, the most numerous class of all—^people
living at a distance from him, and scattered over the country,

with no means of communication with him as with one
another, yet who all have been used to look up to him as a
guide. These people have a claim upon him; he has wit-

nessed to the world, and they have received his witness;

he has taught, and they have striven to be obedient pupils.

He has formed their minds, not accidentally; he has sought
to do so, and he has succeeded. He has undertaken the
charge, and cannot now shake them off. His words have
been spoken in vain to many, but not to them. He has
been the means, under Providence, of making them what

they are. Each might have gone his separate way but for
him. To them his voluntary resignation of ministerial
duties will be a severe blow. If he was silenced, the blame

would rest with others; but giving them up of his own free
will, they will have a sense of abandonment and desertion.

There is something sad enough and discouraging enough in

being shunned and eyed with distrust by neighbours, friends,

and clergy; but whilst we have had someone to confide in,

to receive instruction from, this has been borne easily. A
sound from Littlemore and St. Mary’s seems to reach us

even here, and has given comfort on many a dreary day;
but when the voice ceases, even the words it has already

spoken, will lose some of their power; we shall have sad
thoughts as we read them. Such was our guide, but he has left

us to seek our own path; our champion has deserted us; our
watchman, whose cry used to cheer us up, is heard no more.” ^

1 Letters and Correspondence of J. H. Newman, Vol. II, pp. 420, 421.



CARDINAL NEWMAN J1

When Newman finished reading this letter, tears came
to his eyes. He suffered tortures from the consciousness of
the sorrow he was thus involuntarily bringing to souls who
trusted him. In his reply to his sister, his “Dearest

Jemima,” couched in as affectionate terms as ever, he begs

her to trust the motives which direct his course. To his
other sister, Mrs. Thomas Mozley, he writes: “I am so
drawn to the Church of Rome, that I think it safer, as a
matter of honesty, not to keep my living ... I could not
without h)^ocrisy profess myself any longer a teacher and
a champion for our Church . . . My dear Harriet, you must
learn patience, so must we all, and resignation to the will of
God.”

On September 25, 1843, he bade a tearful farewell to
his Anglican congregation at Littlemore. The little church
was adorned with flowers in honor of the seventh anni-

versary of its consecration. There, too, was the tomb of
his mother, and on it the flowers were heaped high. As
Newman ascended the pulpit an attitude of tension pre-
vailed, the members sensing that an announcement fraught
large with meaning for the future would be forthcoming.

Taking as his theme, “The Parting of Friends,” he spoke
slowly in a low voice, passing in review the scenes of

separation depicted in the Bible, dwelling at some length

upon that of David and Jonathan. His many pauses, the
pathos in his voice, told of the anguish in his soul struggling

for expression. He ended with the touching plea for the
prayers of his people that he might know God’s will and
do it.

“O my brethren,” he said, “O kind and affectionate
hearts, O loving friends, should you know any one whose
lot it has been, by writing or by word of mouth, in some

degree to help you thus to act
;

if he has ever told you what

you knew about yourselves, or what you did not know; has
read to you your wants or feelings, and comforted you by



12 CARDINAL NEWMAN

the very reading; has made you feel that there was a
higher life than this daily one, and a brighter world than

that you see; or encouraged you, or sobered you, or opened

a way to the inquiring, or soothed the perplexed; if what
he has said or done has ever made you take interest in him,
and feel well inclined toward him; remember such a one
in time to come, though you hear him not, and pray for
him, that in all things he may know God’s will, and at all
times he may be ready to fulfill it.” ^

Tears were in the eyes of all. Descending the pulpit,

Newman received Communion and withdrew. Pusey com-
pleted the services, struggling to suppress the tears that

interrupted his reading. All left Littlemore with a clear

feeling that the whole of a mighty past was definitely closed.

“I am just returned, half broken-hearted,” wrote Pusey,
from the commemoration at Littlemore; the sermon was
like one of Newman’s. . . . People sobbed visibly. ... If
our Bishops did but know what faithful hearts, devoted to
our Lord and the service of His Church, they are breaking.” ®

The agitation aroused by Newman’s farewell sermon
was as great at Oxford as at Littlemore. Writing twenty-

five years later. Principal Shairp still felt, after “an inter-

val of twenty-five years, how vividly comes back the remem-
brance of the aching blank, the awful pause, which fell on

Oxford, when that voice had ceased, and we knew that we
should hear it no more. It was as when, to one kneeling

by night, in the silence of some vast cathedral, the great

bell tolling solemnly overhead has suddenly gone still.”

There was a widespread feeling that his resignation was but

the prelude to his secession, and everybody realized what

a staggering blow this would be for the Church of England.

“I stagger to and fro like a drunken man, and am at my

2 Sermons on Subjects of the Day, p. 409.

3 Life of Pusey, Vol. II, p. 374.

4 Studies in Philosophy and Poetry, by Principal Shairp, p. 255, 4th edition



CARDINAL NEWMAN 13

wit’s end,” wrote Gladstone to Manning. Describing the

impact of this news upon the intellectual world at Oxford,

Stanley says: “No one asked about it in public, but every-
one rushed to and fro to ask in private, ... To anyone
who has been accustomed to look upon Arnold and New-
man as the two great men of the Church of England, the
death of the one and the secession of the other could not

but look ominous, like the rattle of departing chariots that

was heard on the eve of the downfall of the Temple of
Jerusalem.” ®

While Newman had lost faith completely in the Apos-
tolical character of the Anglican Church, he was not yet

fully convinced that the Church of Rome was the true
Church. He did not wish to act on mere probabilities but
desired complete certainty. “My difficulty was this,” he
wrote later: “I had been deceived greatly once; how could
I be sure that I was not deceived a second time? . . . What
test had I, that I should not change again, after that I

had become a Catholic? I had still apprehension of this,

though I thought a time would come when it would depart.”

Newman Draws Nearer

For two years Newman waited, praying and searching
for the light, seeking to pass from probability to certainty.

Some have been surprised at this long delay and have been
critical of it. But they can be answered with Newman
echoing the voice of St. Augustine: “Let those make use
of severity who are not acquainted with the difficulties of
distinguishing error from truth, and in finding the true way
of life amidst the illusions of the world.” Newman’s habit
of viewing both sides of a question, weighing the pros

against the cons on the scales of logic, further slowed his

reaching a definite conclusion. Since his decision would

5 Uje of Stanley, Vol. I, p. 332.



14 CARDINAL NEWMAN

exercise such a profound influence upon those who looked
to him for guidance, he felt it doubly necessary to exhaust
all means of resistance before surrendering. Indeed noth-
ing in Newman’s life throws into clearer relief the profound
sincerity of the man, his unwillingness to act on mere senti-

ment, his painstaking solicitude for truth, than the pro-

tracted inquiry he conducted at Littlemore before taking the

final step. Who can fail to admire the transparent honesty of
this earnest soul, struggling to dissipate the darkness of un-

certainty and to arrive not at the twilight of probability but

ai the bright light of certainty and truth before he would

chart his course upon the troubled waters of the future?

On the one hand were the associations of a lifetime, the
pleadings of his sisters, the esteem of his colleagues at

Oxford, the reverent affection of the younger men, and the

promise of advancement in the Church of his birth. On the
other hand was the alien communion of Rome, in which he

had few acquaintances and scarcely any friends. His

contact with the Catholic clergy had been practically nil.

He knew the deep-seated prejudices of the British people
against “Romanism,” and the social and intellectual ostra-

cism which they tended from long custom to inflict upon

its members. His concern, however, was not for a crown

with the honors it would bring, but for the truth even

though it bring him a cross with shame and ignominy.

His prayer was for light to see the truth and courage to

follow wherever it might lead, even though it lead him

through strange and lonely ways, where his feet never before

had trod. Like St. Augustine, who after his conversion in

the garden at Milan, remained at his retreat at Cassisiacum

for almost a year, preparing himself by prayer and discipline

for his baptism and Holy Communion, Newman remained
at Littlemore, increasing his austerities and redoubling his

prayers. “Lord, that I may see!” was his daily prayer.
Ward and some others had preceded him into the Church



CARDINAL NEWMAN 15

of Rome, but still Newman deliberated, awaiting the result
of the working of his conscience and of his prayers for

light. That he realized what the contemplated step would

cost him is evident from a letter he wrote to his sister on
March 15, 1845: “I have a good name with many: I am
deliberately sacrificing it. I have a bad name with more:
I am fulfilling all their worst wishes, and giving them their
most coveted triumph. I am distressing all I love, unsettling
all I have instructed or aided. I am going to those whom
I do not know, and of whom I expect very little. I am
making myself an outcast, and that at my age—oh! what
can it be but a stern necessity which causes this?” ®

Meanwhile, Wiseman, puzzled at the long delay, decided

to send Father Bernard Smith, a convert and an old friend

of Newman’s, to Littlemore to note the lay of the land.

Newman received him with marked coldness. But the
vigilant eyes of Father Smith did not fail to note one tell-

tale detail. Newman dined in gray trousers. To Father
Smith, who knew Newman’s punctiliousness in the matter
of dress, this was evidence that he no longer regarded him-

self as a clergyman. But the end was not yet. “There was

a pause,” says Dean Church. “It was no secret what was
coming. But men lingered. It was not till the summer
that the first drops of the storm began to fall. Then
through the autumn and the next year, friends whose names
and forms were familiar in Oxford, one by one disappeared,

and were lost to it. . . .We sat glumly at our breakfasts
every morning, and then someone came in with news of

something disagreeable—someone gone, someone sure to go.”
Newman Surrenders!

The community at Littlemore waited and waited for

their leader to give the signal. At last the end of the long

vigil of prayer and deliberation came—simply and quietly,
6 Letters and Correspondence of J. H. Newman, Vol. II, p. 459.



16 CARDINAL NEWMAN

without pomp or melodrama. Newman learned that a
Passionist priest would be passing through Oxford on the

evening of October 8, 1845, and he sent Father Dalgairns

to meet him. “At that time,” writes Father Dalgairns, “all

of us except St. John, though we did not doubt that Newman
would become a Catholic, were anxious and ignorant of his

intentions in detail. About three o’clock I went to take my
hat and stick and walk across the fields to the Oxford
‘Angel,’ where the coach stopped. As I was taking my stick
Newman said to me in a very low and quiet tone: ‘When
you see your friend, will you tell him that I wish him to

receive me into the Church of Christ?’ I said: ‘Yes,’ and
no more. I told Father Dominic as he was dismounting from

the top of the coach. He said: ‘God be praised,’ and
neither of us spoke again till we reached Littlemore.”

On October 9, Newman made his profession of faith and
received conditional baptism. The following morning, along
with Dalgairns, St. John, Stanton and Bowles, he received

Holy Communion from the hands of Father Dominic.
The news of Newman’s entry into the Catholic Church

aroused intense excitement. “It is impossible,” says Mark
Pattison, “to describe the enormous effect produced in the

academical and clerical world, I may say throughout Eng-
land, by one man’s changing his religion.” ^ Gladstone, the

prime minister declared: “I regard Newman’s secession as

an event as unexampled as an epoch.” ® Later Disraeli, an-

other prime minister, declared “that this conversion had

dealt a blow to England from which she yet reeled.” Fol-

lowing in Newman’s steps came Oakeley, Faber, and a long

line of clergymen and Oxford graduates, numbering more

than three hundred. “Nothing similar,” says Thureau-Dan-

gin, “had been seen since the Reformation.” The proces-

sion, started by Newman, has never stopped. Continuing

1 Memoirs of Mark Pattison, p. 212.

8 Letter of December 10, 1845 {Life of Bishop Wilberforce, Vol. I, p. 328).



CARDINAL NEWMAN 17

ilito our own day, it has brought more than fourteen hundred
Anglican clergymen into the Catholic Church. The step
cost Newman dearly—his position, his friends, even his
family. Did he regret the step later on, as some writers
have sought to imply? Twenty years later, at a time when
he had reason to complain of the tactics used against him by
some of his coreligionists, he openly testified to “the perfect
peace and contentment that he had enjoyed since his con-

version.” He declared “that he had never had one doubt,”
and that “it was like coming into port after a rough sea;

and my happiness on that score remains to this day without
interruption.”

II. The Church's Renaissance in England

NEWMAN’S conversion divides a life of almost ninetyyears into equal parts, both filled with drama, strug-
gle against odds, and achievement. In October, 1846,
Newman went to Rome where he was ordained a priest and
honored by the Pope with the degree of Doctor of Divinity.
Pope Pius IX approved his plan of establishing in England
the Oratory of St. Philip, a community of religious with
simple vows, and in 1847 Newman set up the house at Lon-
don, with Father Faber as superior, and later founded Ora-

tories at Birmingham and Edgbaston. Here for almost forty

years he remained as a recluse, going out occasionally for

lectures, but spending most of his time in writing his match-

less books, which have enriched all posterity with the genius

of his thought.

His sermon. The Second Spring, delivered at the Synod

of Oscott, is a masterpiece of rare and delicate beauty, which

Macaulay learned by heart. His Lectures on the Present
Position of Catholics in England abounds in passages of

lively humor, rich imagination, and delicate beauty which

held George Eliot in thralldom. “When Newman made up



18 CARDINAL NEWMAN

his mind to join the Church of Rome,” observes R. H. Hut-
ton, ^‘his genius boomed out with a force and freedom such
as it never displayed in the Anglican community. ... In
irony, in humour, in eloquence, in imaginative force, the
writings of the later, and as we may call it, the emancipated
portion of his career far surpass the writings of his theologi-

cal apprenticeship.”

In 1854, Newman went at the request of the Irish bishops
to Dublin, as Rector of the newly-established Catholic uni-

versity. Practical difficulties beset the undertaking and
after four years Newman retired. The most valuable out-
come of this enterprise was his volume of lectures entitled
Idea of a University, which has remained as the classic in

this field from the day it first appeared. The following pas-
sage illustrates its graceful ease of diction and its pregnancy

of thought:

“That training of the intellect, which is best for the in-

dividual himself, best enables him to discharge his duties
to society. The Philosopher, indeed, and the man of the
world differ in their very notion, but the methods, by which
they are respectively formed, are pretty much the same.
The Philosopher has the same command of matters of
thought, which the true citizen and gentleman has of matters

of business and conduct. If then a practical end must be

assigned to a University course, I say it is that of training

good members of society. Its art is the art of social life, and

its end is fitness for the world.

“It neither confines its views to particular professions on

the one hand, nor creates heroes or inspires genius on the

other. Works indeed of genius fall under no art; heroic

minds come under no rule; a University is not a birthplace

of poets or of immortal authors, of founders of schools, lead-

ers of colonies, or conquerors of nations. It does not prom-

ise a generation of Aristotles or Newtons, of Napoleons or

Washingtons, of Raphaels or Shakespeares, though such



CARDINAL NEWMAN 19

miracles of nature it has before now contained within its
precincts. Nor is it content on the other hand with forming
the critic or the experimentalist, the economist or the engi-

neer, though such too it includes within its scope. But a
University training is the great ordinary means to a great
but ordinary end; it aims at raising the intellectual tone of

society, at cultivating the public mind, at purifying the na-

tional taste, at supplying true principles to popular enthusi-

asm and fixed aims to popular aspiration, at giving enlarge-
ment and sobriety to the ideas of the age, at facilitating the

exercise of political power, and refining the intercourse of

private life.

“It is the education which gives a man a clear conscious
view of his own opinions and judgments, a truth in develop-
ing them, an eloquence in expressing them, and a force in

urging them. It teaches him to see things as they are, to go
right to the point, to disentangle a skein of thought, to de-

tect what is sophistical, and to discard what is irrelevant.”

Duel With Kingsley

Since 1841 Newman had been under a cloud, sub luce
maligna, as far as concerned the great masses of cultivated

Englishmen who never could bring themselves to understand
how such a gifted mind could take the step he did. Con-
scious of the suspicion with which he was viewed, Newman
had begun in 1842 to gather biographical and other memo-

randa waiting for the opportunity to vindicate his career.

The occasion was offered him by Charles Kingsley, a novel-

ist of note, who in reviewing Fronde’s History of England in
MacmiUan^s Magazine for January, 1864, incidentally as-

serted:

“Truth for its own sake has never been a virtue with the
Roman clergy. Father Newman informs us that it need not
be, and on the whole ought not to be, that cunning is the

weapon which Heaven has given to the Saints wherewith to



20 CARDINAL NEWMAN

withstand the brute male force of the world which marries

and is given in marriage. Whether his notion is doctrinally
correct or not, it is, at least, historically so.”

When Newman protested, Kingsley replied by referring
to Newman’s sermon. Wisdom and Innocence^ published in
1844, before Newman’s conversion. “It was in consequence
of this sermon,” he wrote, “that I finally shook off the strong

influence which your writings exerted on me, and for much
of which I still owe you a deep debt of gratitude. I am most
happy to hear from you that I mistook your meaning; and
I shall be most happy, on showing me that I have wronged
you, to retract any accusation as publicly as I have made it.”

In response to a further letter Kingsley remarked that he

liked the tone of Newman’s letter, and in his proposed
apology expressed his “hearty pleasure” at finding Newman
“on the side of truth in this or any other matter.” Newman
objected to this as well as to the no less ambiguous remark

that “no man knows the meaning of words better than Dr.
Newman.” Kingsley refused to do more, maintaining that
he had dope as much as one English gentleman could expect
from another. Exasperated beyond measure, Newman felt
that the only manner in which he could secure redress was by
publishing the correspondence, thus submitting the contro-

versy to the fairness of the British public. The result was
a masterpiece of controversial irony, unsurpassed in the

English language for the vigor of its biting satire.

“Mr. Kingsley,” Newman wrote, “begins by exclaiming:
‘Oh, Oh, the chicanery, the wholesale fraud, the vile hypoc-

risy, the conscience-killing tyranny of Rome! We have not
far to seek for evidence of it! There’s Father Newman to
wit; one living specimen is worth a hundred dead ones. He,

a priest, writing of priests, tells us that lying is never any

harm.’ I interpose, ‘You are taking a most extraordinary

liberty with my name. If I said this, tell me when and
where.’ Mr. Kingsley replies: ‘You said it, reverend sir.



CARDINAL NEWMAN 21

in a sermon which you preached when a Protestant, as Vicar
of St. Mary’s, and published in 1844, and I could read you a

very salutary lecture on the effects which that sermon had at

the time on my own opinion of you.’ I make answer:
‘Oh . . . not, it seems, as a priest speaking of priests

;
but let

us have the passage.’

“Mr. Kingsley relaxes: ‘Do you know, I like your tone.

From your tone I rejoice—greatly rejoice—to be able to be-
lieve that you did not mean what you said.’ I rejoin: ‘Mean

it! I maintain I never said it, whether as a Protestant or as

a Catholic!’ Mr. Kingsley replies: ‘I waive that point.’ I

object: ‘Is it possible? What! Waive the main question?

I either said it or I didn’t. You have made a monstrous
charge against me—direct, distinct, public; you are bound to
prove it as directly, as distinctly, as publicly, or to own you
can’t!’ ‘Well,’ says Mr. Kingsley, ‘if you are quite sure you

did not say it. I’ll take your word for it—I really will.’ ‘My
word!’ I am dumb. Somehow, I thought that it was my
word that happened to be on trial. The word of a professor
of lying that he does not lie! But Mr. Kingsley reassures

me. ‘We are both gentlemen,’ he says. ‘I have done as
much as one English gentleman can expect from another.’
I begin to see: he thought me a gentleman at the very time
that he said I taught lying on system. After all it is not I,

but it is Mr. Kingsley who did not mean what he said.”

Kingsley would have done well to have escaped as quickly

as possible from an untenable position. Newman was the
last man in England who could be charged with insincerity.
In his quest for truth he had sacrificed more than any man in
the Church of England and had received in return an obscure

post in an alien communion. Uncompromising in his loyalty

to the truth, he should have been the last man for Kingsley
to choose for his cruel and unjust attack. “But Kingsley,”

as Arnold Lunn well observes, “was as incapable of under-
standing Newman’s subtle and complex mind as a prize



22 CARDINAL NEWMAN

fighter of grasping the Einstein theory.” Foolishly persist-

ing in this attack, he wrote a pamphlet, What then does
Dr. Newman mean? It was a rehash of all the familiar anti-
Roman charges now worn threadbare. Again he gave New-
man a splendid opportunity.

Newman seized it to vindicate not only his own career
but his espoused faith, which was now assailed. The result
was the Apologia, the simple confidential tone of which

“revolutionized the popular estimate of its author.” Written

as a series of fortnightly articles, it achieved an instant suc-

cess. Newman appealed to the fairness of the British public
to decide the merits of the controversy. And not in vain.
For with all their ingrained prejudices against Romanism,

the essential fairness of the English public and their fine

sense of sportsmanship enabled them to appreciate the su-

perior logic of Newman’s reasoning and the greater deftness
of his controversial strokes. He gained a smashing victory
among all classes.

They applauded the honesty and courage of a man who,
splashed with slander and abuse by an opponent who then
sought to withdraw, pursued him until his honor and truth-
fulness were vindicated beyond all cavil. The Apologia was
written under the stress of great emotion and at a furious

speed. Newman wrote sometimes for twenty hours at a
stretch. In consequence, as literature it is uneven. But in

spite of the speed with which it was ground out, it is per-

meated with a deep earnestness which echoes even between

the lines, and is aglow with an irrepressible passion to vindi-

cate the truth. In none of his other works do the character,

personality and forthrightness of the author shine forth more

luminously.

“No finer triumph of talent in the service of conscience,”
says William Barry, “has been put on record. From that
day the Catholic religion may date its reentrance into the
national literature. Instead of arid polemics and technical



CARDINAL NEWMAN 23

arguments, a living soul had revealed in its journey toward

the old faith wherein lay the charm that drew it on. Reality

became more fascinating than romance, the problem which
staggered Protestants and modern minds—^how to reconcile
individual genius with tradition, private judgment with au

thority—^was resolved in Newman’s great example.” The
place of the Apologia among the great masterpieces of auto-
biographical writing is secure.

His Writings

Amidst the acclamations of Catholics and non-Catholics

alike, Newman turned now to the formulation of the philoso-
phy which would justify his action. He began The Grammar
of Assent, the most closely reasoned of all his works. In it

the author avoids abstractions and metaphysics and focuses

attention upon the problem of concrete affirmation, its mo-
tives, and its relation to the personality of the individual.

Hitherto interest had been centered on the objective grounds

for assent, while the subjective or psychological steps leading

to the affirmation remained largely unexplored. The author
brought to the problem a penetrating insight into the work-

ings of the human mind and heart, a rare capacity for subtle
analysis, and a vast amount of experience in examining and

analyzing the psychological factors which lead to a decision

of the will. Without sacrificing the rights of pure logic,

Newman restores the will to its rightful place and empha-
sizes the influence of the moral resonance of the individual’s

character in providing that proper disposition, that pia

crediditas, which is a prerequisite to the act of faith. In

short, assent is not a mere mechanical . echo of the syllogism,

but a distinct psychological act in which the will and the

moral reasonance of the individual play vital and important

parts.

In common with Kant, Newman considered the witness
of conscience, “the categorical imperative,” among the su-



24 CARDINAL NEWMAN

preme evidences of a Deity both immanent in the universe

and yet transcending it. He states that it would be easier
for him to doubt his own existence than the existence of
“Him who lives as an All-seeing, All-judging Being in my
conscience.” Conscience was to him, as Barry observes, the

inward revelation of God, Catholicism was the external and

objective one. He held that the reason by which men guide
themselves is implicit rather than explicit, and stressed the

need of varied and converging proofs. The work served as a
sequel and a crowm to the Development of Doctrine and com-

pletes the author’s philosophy. It was composed with pains-

taking care, some portions of it being written ten times, and
it abounds in passages of psychological penetration, deft

analysis, and logical power.

In Christianity and Scientific Investigation, Newman de-
veloped the thesis that theology was a deductive science,

while physics and the other natural sciences were inductive.

Hence there could be no real collisions between these two

bodies of knowledge. They moved in essentially different
orbits, and the appearance of conflict only would occur from

the scientist invading the domain of theology or the theo-

logian trespassing upon the territory of science. He thus
sought to provide a concordat which would prevent a recur-

rence of the Galileo imbroglio.

Some of the friends of Newman belong to a type known
in history as “Liberal Catholics,” though the term has never

found a hospitable welcome in the Church. In 1864 he wrote

of Montalembert and Lacordaire: “In their general line of

thought and conduct I enthusiastically concur and consider

them to be before their age.” He speaks of “the unselfish
aims, the thwarted projects, the unrequited toils, the grand

and tender resignation of Lacordaire”—a description which
might well be applied to himself. It will be recalled that on

his deathbed Lacordaire said: “I die a repentant Chris-

tian but an unrepentant Liberal.”



CARDINAL NEWMAN 25

In many of his lectures Newman stressed the inadequacy
of knowledge alone to provide the motive power for action

in the face of passion and habit. “Carve the granite with a

razor,” he wrote, “moor the vessel with a thread of silk, then

you may hope with such keen and delicate instruments as
human knowledge and human reason to contend against
those giants, the passions and the pride of men.” Will

power, strength of character, and those driving forces which

spring from deep religious convictions are necessary to hold

to its charted course the human bark tossed about on the
turbulent seas of angry passions.

In the midst of inner travail and suffering that came from

the blighting of his cherished hopes, Newman was accus-
tomed to turn to the writing of poetry in which he found

relief. The Dream of Gerontius is the most beautiful of his
poems, and is indeed a masterpiece of nineteenth century

English poetry. Unlike the composition of his philosophical

works which occasioned always the pains of travail, the writ-

ing of his poetry was done with ease. Thus he wrote* The
Dream of Gerontius with a facility which called for scarcely
any erasures. When completed, he attached so little im-
portance to it that he threw it into the waste-paper basket,

where it would have been lost forever had not a friend
chanced to come upon it and prevailed upon Newman to pub-
lish it anonymously. It met with instant success and has
continued to grow in popularity. Later it was made the sub-
ject of an oratorio by a distinguished musician.

In this poem the author seeks to penetrate the veil that
cloaks the mystery of the soul’s adventuring immediately

after death when it finds itself midway between time and
eternity. He follows the soul into Purgatory and describes
the scenes of the other world, peopled with angels and de-

mons, with a grandeur of imagery that reminds one of Dante
but is more detached from earthly influences and more wrapt
in the contemplation of the spiritual. Newman was much



26 CARDINAL NEWMAN

touched when he learned toward the close of his life of the
refreshment of spirit which Gordon had found in it when
shut up at Khartoum and preparing to sacrifice his life for
his country’s cause. He kept his heroic death vigil, reading
this poem and scoring with pencil lines the passages which
most appealed to him.

To Newman, poetry was not only an outlet for the emo-
tions but it was a means of disciplining and chastening them
as well. To his sensitive soul, much of the ceremony and
ritual, the processions, vestments and shrines of the Catholic

Church were suffused with poetry. The one was poetry in
action, the other was poetry crystallized in art.

“Poetry,” he said, “is a method of relieving the over-bur-

dened mind
;

it is a channel through which emotion finds ex-

pression, and that a safe, regulated expression. Now what
is the Catholic Church, viewed in her human aspect, but a
discipline of the affections and passions? What are her or-
dinances and practices but the regulated expression of keen,

or deep, or turbid feeling, and thus a “cleansing,” as Aristotle

would word it, of the sick soul?

“She is the poet of her children
;

full of music to soothe

the sad and control the wayward,—wonderful in story for the
imagination of the romantic

;
rich in s}mibol and imagery, so

that gentle and delicate feelings, which will not bear words,

may in silence intimate their presence or commune with
themselves. Her very being is poetry; every psalm, every

petition, every collect, every versicle, the cross, the mitre, the

thurible, is a fulfilment of some dream of childhood or aspira-

tion of youth. Such poets as are born under her shadow, she

takes into her service; she sets them to write hymns, or to

compose chants, or to embellish shrines, or to determine

ceremonies, or to marshal processions; nay, she can even

make schoolmen of them, as she made St. Thomas, till logic
becomes poetical.” ®

9 Essays Critical and Historical, II, 442 f.



CARDINAL NEWMAN 27

Newman’s Discernment

It is part of the tragedy of Newman’s life that after hav-

ing made so costly a sacrifice to follow the conviction of his
conscience, he was looked at askance by so many of his
former Anglican friends, and on the other side by many of
the ^^old” Catholics. KCe regarded the tendency of certain

other converts, such as Manning, now archbishop of West-
minster, W. G. Ward, editor of The Dublin Review, and F.
W. Faber, head of the Oratory at London, to overstress the
papal claims as more calculated to antagonize the British

public than to attract them. Many of the converts were
strong papalists, with pronounced inclinations to overstate

the papal authority in both temporal and spiritual matters.

Thus W. G. Ward would have relished immensely having
a Papal Bull delivered each morning with The Times. He
wanted the Pope to decide every question that arose, and

seemed to look forward with impatience to the day when the
Pope would be issuing Bulls on every subject. From such
extremes Newman’s delicate soul shrank in horror. While
he respected the authority of the Pope and believed in his in-
fallibility in matters of faith even before the dogma was
formally proclaimed, he thought it wiser to stress the reason-

ableness of doctrine than merely to show its authoritative-
ness.

In his Roman Converts, Arnold Lunn terms him a “mini-
mizer,” as Talbot did before him. But this is scarcely ac-

curate. A “realizer” would be a better term. For it was
because of his keen realization of the temper and prejudices

of the British mind of his day that he endeavored to soften
the needlessly harsh statement of certain Roman doctrines
which Ward, Faber and others were frequently making.
Understanding from his own experience as an Anglican divine
how certain ultra-Romanizing tendencies were inclined to
grate on British sensitivities, none too friendly even to the



28 CARDINAL NEWMAN

restrained statement of Roman claims, he sought to avoid
any unnecessary waving of the red flag before the British
bull.

’

An instance in point is the language used by Cardinal
Wiseman in his Pastoral announcing the re&tablishment of
the regular hierarchy in England with himself as Primate.

Writing from the Catholic atmosphere of Rome, the newly
appointed Cardinal seems to have forgotten momentarily the

anti-Roman prejudices of the British public, and addressing

his letter from “without the Flaminian gate,” declares: “Till

such time as the Holy See shall think fit otherwise to provide,

we shall govern and continue to govern the counties of Mid-
dlesex, Hertford and Essex as ordinary therefor with the

islands annexed as administrators with ordinary powers.”

A storm of indignant protest followed. “John Bull
snorted. He wrote to The Times explaining that he’d see
Wiseman damned before Wiseman governed as ordinary or
as extraordinary a yard of British soil.” Even the Prime

Minister, Lord John Russell, joined in the hue and cry. The
“No popery” campaign was in full swing again. Why? Be-
cause of a needlessly arrogant and haughty manner of stating

a simple fact, unobjectionable in itself. Because of a com-

plete lack of delicacy in dealing with latent anti-Roman

prejudices, which with a discerning and tactful statement

would have remained dormant, but which were jolted into

furious activity by the bombastic and domineering language

used. Because Newman had a profound understanding of
the British mind and knew its sensitive spots, he opposed

all his life the needlessly harsh statement of doctrine, Roman

claims and viewpoints which Manning, Talbot, Ward and

others seemed bent on using.

Another illustration is the statement of the doctrine,

Extra ecclesiam nulla salus—no salvation outside the Church.
This has been stated at times with such harshness and bru-

tality as to be positively repellent. But when the inner heart



CARDINAL NEWMAN 29

of the doctrine is reached, it is found to embody the simple
and unobjectionable truth that every human being who
acts in accordance with the light of his own conscience is
within the soul of the Church and may enter into eternal
life. Newman did not believe anything was to be gained by
the needlessly harsh and unpalatable statement of a doctrine.

In the language of our day, he did not believe in rubbing

the fur the wrong way—^at least not needlessly. In a letter
to Phillips-de Lisle in 1848, he wrote: “It is no new thing
with me to feel little S5mipathy with parties, or extreme opin-
ions of any kind.” He did not approve of attenuating that
which is true, but in setting down nothing in malice.

Manning thought he was transplanting the “Oxford tone

into the Church,” while Ward used harsher language. But
when the hue and cry broke out against the formal procla-

mation of the dogma of Papal Infallibility by the Vatican
Council in 1870, it was Newman who came to its defense,
and whose presentation more than any of the ultra-papalists,

told with the British public. He had previously opposed
the definition as untimely, but when Gladstone, the Prime
Minister, accused the Catholic Church of having “equally

repudiated modern thought and ancient history,” Newman
sprang to her defense. In a letter nominally addressed to the

Duke of Norfolk, he gave a masterly vindication of the
rights of conscience and showed the harmonious roles which
authority and reason play in the formulation of the verdict

of the individual conscience. Probably no other writer in

England or elsewhere has so stressed the important role

which conscience plays in the spiritual life and no one has

laid greater emphasis upon its finality as the court of last

appeal. Passages concerning it abound in practically all his

works.

“What is the main guide of the soul,” he asks, “given to
the whole race of Adam, outside the true fold of Christ as
well as within it, given from the first dawn of reason, given



30 CARDINAL NEWMAN

to it in spite of that grievous penalty of ignorance which is
one of the chief miseries of our fallen state? It is the light

of conscience, ‘the true Light,’ as the Evangelist says, ‘which

lighteth every man that cometh into the world.’ Whether
a man be born in pagan darkness, or in some corruption of
revealed religion; whether he has heard the name of the
Saviour of the world or not; whether he be the slave of some
superstition, or is in possession of some portions of Scrip-
ture, in any case, he has within his breast a certain com-
manding dictate, not a mere sentiment, not a mere opinion,
or impression, or view of things, but a law, an authoritative

voice, bidding him do certain things and avoid others. It is
more than a man’s self. The man himself has not power
over it, or only with extreme difficulty; he did not make
it, he cannot destroy it. He may silence it in particular
cases or directions; he may distort its enunciations; but he
cannot—or it is quite the exception if he can—he cannot
emancipate himself from it. He can disobey it, he may
refuse to use it; but it remains.

“This is Conscience; and, from the nature of the case,

its very existence carries on our minds to a being exterior to

ourselves; else, whence its strange, troublesome peremptori-

ness? I say its very existence throws us out of ourselves,

and beyond ourselves, to go and seek for Him in the height
and depth, whose voice it is. As the sunshine implies that

the sun is in the heavens, though we may see it not; as a
knocking at our doors at night implies the presence of one

outside in the dark who asks for admittance, so this Word
within us necessarily raises our minds to the idea of a

Teacher, an unseen, Teacher.”

“(Conscience) holds of God, and not of man, as an Angel

walking on the earth would be no citizen or dependent of the

Civil Power. Conscience is not a long-sighted selfishness,

nor a desire to be consistent with oneself! but it is a mes-

10 Sermons on Various Occasions, p. 64 f.



CARDINAL NEWMAN 31

senger from Him, who, both in nature and in grace, speaks

to us behind a veil, and teaches, and rules us by His repre-
sentatives. Conscience is the aboriginal Vicar of Christ, a

prophet in its informations, a monarch in its peremptoriness,

a priest in its blessings and anathemas, and, even though the

eternal priesthood throughout the Church should cease to be,

in it the sacerdotal principle would remain and would have

a sway.”

It was not only in his writings that Newman paid homage
to the thin small voice within, but in his life as well. He not
only preached obedience to that inner voice, he practiced it.

He bore eloquent testimony to his uncompromising loyalty
to its whispering when in tears he descended from the pulpit

at Littlemore and turned his back upon his beloved Oxford.

When later as a Catholic he found himself frequently put in
an unfavorable light before the officials at Rome, he scorned

the slightest approximation to toadyism, engaging in no

flattery or sycophancy, but relied solely upon the testimony

of an approving, conscience.

This trait in his character is illustrated in a reply he

wrote to Monsignor Talbot. The younger son of Lord Tal-
bot of Malahide, he had entered the Church in 1847, had

become the Pope’s chamberlain and the trusted agent of

Manning in Rome. As such he had used his strategic in-
fluence to thwart Newman in many ways. After the great
success of Apologia, however, he relented to the extent of

inviting the Oratorian to Rome. He reminded him that he
would “derive great benefit from revisiting Rome and show-
ing himself to the Ecclesiastical\authorities” and pointed out

that as a preacher he would enjoy at Rome “a more edu-
cated audience of Protestants than could ever be the case

in England.” What a tempting opportunity to curry favor
he was dangling before Newman’s eyes. Did Newman rush
to accept? He sent the following reply:

11 Difficulties of Anglicans, II, 248



32 CARDINAL NEWMAN

“Dear Monsignor Talbot,—I have received your letter
inviting me to preach in your church at Rome to an audi-
ence of Protestants more educated than could ever be the
case in England. However, Birmingham people have souls,
and I have neither the taste nor the talent for the sort of

work which you have cut out for me. And I beg to decline
your offer. ‘T am, yours truly,

“John H. Newman.”

In this brief note the character of the Oratorian, devoid

of obsequiousness and utterly lacking any tendency to
truckle, stands plainly revealed. He might have saved him-
self many a jolt if he had stooped to curry favor, but it
simply was not in his make-up. He was to learn from bitter
experience that manly independence and a scorn for the arts

of the sycophant offer no passport to preferment in a world

where climbing and crawling are performed in much the
same attitude. But he held to it to the bitter end. Then,

strangely enough, when he least expected it, recognition,
glorious, overwhelming, world wide, came to him.

It was this trait in Newman’s character which compelled
even Dean Inge, who wastes no affection upon the Catholic
Church, to pay tribute. “Newman’s confidence toward
God,” he writes, “rested on an unclouded faith in the Divine

guidance, and on a very just estimate of the worthlessness

of contemporary praise and blame. There have been very

few men who have been able to combine so strong a faith
with a thorough distrust of both logic-chopping and emo-

tional excitement, and who, while denying themselves these

aids to conviction, have been able to say, calmly and with-

out petulance, that with them it is a very small thing to be

judged of man’s judgment.”

Newman was simply practicing what he had preached in
one of his sermons. “What,” he asks, “can increase their

peace who believe and trust in the Son of God? Shall we



CARDINAL NEWMAN 33

add a drop to the ocean, or grains to the sand of the sea?

We pay indeed our superiors full reverence, and with cheer-
fulness as unto the Lord; and we honour eminent talents
as deserving admiration and reward; and the more readily

act we thus, because these are little things to pay.” Such
unworldliness as this, observes R. H. Hutton in words sin-

gularly well chosen, “stands out in strange and almost

majestic contrast to the eager turmoil of confused passions,

hesitating ideals, tentative virtues, and groping philan-

thropies, amidst which it was lived.”

EWMAN engaged in a number of projects of great prom-
ise, which because of circumstances over which he had

no control, failed to materialize. We have already seen how
his valiant effort to found a great National University in Ire-

land failed because of lack of organized support of the Irish

Bishops. Another project which stirred his enthusiasm and

seemed rich in promise was a new translation of the Bible
which Cardinal Wiseman had induced him to undertake.
The Douay Bible while a great improvement on the Rheims
edition lacks the dignity and charm of the Authorized Ver-

sion. No one realized this more painfully than Newman,
whose ear was delicately attuned to its harmonies and whose

style was so largely influenced by its chaste cadences. If

there was any one man in the English-speaking world who
was superbly gifted to turn out a masterpiece of simple

beauty and dignity it was Newman.
Friends who heard about it were elated. Newman threw

himself into the enterprise with unbounded energy. He en-
listed contributors and was already at work, when alas,
obstacles again appeared. Booksellers and publishers with

a large stock of the Douay Bible launched vigorous protest.

12 Parochial and Plain Sermons, vii. 73.

Ml. The Triumph of Failure



34 CARDINAL NEWMAN

Wiseman yielded. And again one of Newman’s great under-
talkings died aborning. What a priceless loss for the Eng-
lish-speaking world! Who can calculate the far-reaching
influence of the inspired Word expressed in Newman’s sen-
tences of stately majesty and simple beauty, cadences which

would live in the memory and keep ever fresh their precious
cargoes of eternal truth? In many respects this would ap-
pear to be one of the most tragic frustrations of all of New-
man’s great undertakings. To him may be applied the
phrase which Horace wrote about Daedalus seeking to fly to

the heights of heaven on the wings of Icarus : Si non tenuit,

tamen magnis excidit ausis .—Even though he succeeded not,
he failed in daring and noble attempts.

Another enterprise which augured much was his accept-
ance of the editorship of The Rambler. This was a journal
conducted by an able group of la)mien, of whom Lord Acton,
the historian, was one. Newman had been prevailed upon
by Cardinal Wiseman to assume the editorship with a view
of directing its policy. But the ill-fortune which attended

his many other efforts to serve the Church of his adoption
pursued him here. An article which he contributed, “On
Consulting the Laity in Matters of Doctrine,” was delated

to Rome by Bishop Brown of Newport, who denounced it as
heretical. There was some talk of summoning Newman him-
self to Rome. That it stirred him deeply is evident from
the following: “Call me to Rome—what does that mean?
It means to sever an old man from his home, to subject him
to intercourse with persons whose languages are strange to

him—to food, and to fashions, which are almost starvation
on one hand, and oblige him to dance attendance on Propa-
ganda week after week, and month after month—it means
death. This is the prospect which I cannot but feel prob-

able, did I say anything, which one bishop in England

chose to speak against and report. Others have been killed

before me. Lucas went of his own accord indeed, but when



CARDINAL NEWMAN 35

he got there—oh! how much did he, as loyal a son of the
Church and Holy See as ever was, what did he suffer be-
cause Dr. Cullen was against him? He wandered, as Dr.
Cullen said in a letter he published in a sort of triumph, he

wandered from Church to Church without a friend, and
hardly got an audience from the Pope. And I too should
go from St. Philip to Our Lady, and to St. Peter and St.
Paul, and to St, Laurence and to St. Cecilia, and if it hap-
pened to me, as to Lucas, should come back to die.”

Newman resigned from the editorship. This was in 1859,
after a mere two months of incumbency.

Wilfrid Ward, his biographer, regards the following five

years as the saddest in Newman’s life. The Oratorian chafed
under the restraint placed upon him. He craved greater free-
dom to express himself without being pounced upon by the
authorities. He contrasted sadly the present restraint with
the magnificent freedom which characterized the great intel-

lectual periods of the Church’s past—a freedom without
which the highest scholarship cannot thrive. He thought
wistfully of the liberty which Thomas Aquinas, Peter Lom-
bard, Alexander of Hales, Bonaventure and other intellectual

giants of the Church enjoyed—the freedom to defend their
theses in the open arena against all challengers, the freedom

to clash and with sturdy blows to pound out on the anvil of
controversy the nuggets of truth from the ore of speculation

and theory.

In 1863 Newman wrote to Miss E. Bowles: “This age of
the Church is peculiar. In former times there was not the

extreme centralization now in use. If a private theologian
said anything free, another answered him. If the contro-

versy grew, then it went to a bishop. . . . The Holy See was
but the court of ultimate appeal. Now if I as a private priest
put anything into print. Propaganda answers me at once.
How can I fight with such a chain on my arm? It is like the
Persians driven to fight under the lash. There was true pri-



36 CARDINAL NEWMAN

vate judgment in the primitive and mediaeval schools—there
are no schools now, no private judgment (in the religious
sense of the phrase)

,
no freedom, that is, of opinion. That

is, no exercise of the intellect. No, the system goes on by
the tradition of the intellect of former times.”

In explanation of the conditions then prevailing, it should

be recalled that the Church in England had been in a state

of siege for several centuries. Since the time of Henry VIII
her monasteries had been confiscated, her schools and

churches seized, her hierarchy suppressed, her clergy scat-

tered and the overwhelming portion of her children torn from

her by violence. At the beginning of the nineteenth century
the Catholic population numbered only about 1 60,000,^® and

they were anxious only to be let alone. Neither priests nor

people had any mood for controversy in the open arena.
They were quite content to let sleeping dogs lie. Moreover
the scenes of horror and bloodshed ushered in by the French
Revolution were still fresh in the Church’s memory, while
the rumblings of the approaching storm in Italy, portending

the seizure of the Papal States, were being heard with an

ominous frequency. The nerves of churchmen were jumpy

and jittery. They had enough dangers to contend with, with-

out inviting more from controversy on delicate and disturb-

ing questions. Warfare, persecutions, states of siege, do not

encourage speculative controversies and are not conducive to

academic freedom. There have been few periods, either be-

fore or since, when the officials of the Church had such little

relish for academic controversies as at Newman’s time.

The Project at Oxford
During all his life Newman retained a deep love for Ox-

ford, the Alma Mater which had nurtured him with her best
and had honored him with an outpouring of reverence and

affection which she had given to few, if any, of her other
13 P. Thureau-Dangin, The English Catholic Revival in the Nineteenth Cen-

tury, Vol. I.



CARDINAL NEWMAN 37

children. Among the many sacrifices which he made in en-
tering the Church of Rome, few exacted heavier toll in heart-

throbs and in tears than the resulting exile from the institu-

tion where he had dreamed his dreams, seen his visions, and

hurled his defiance at the worldliness without, with all the

high idealism of youth. When about to take the momentous
step, he felt instinctively that it would mean a long farewell
to the place that was dearest to him in all England and to
the scenes that would live hereafter only in his memory.

His foreboding proved all too true. But once again in almost

fifty years, and that in graying age, did he set foot in Ox-

ford, though occasionally from a distance he saw its storied

spires.

Something of the sentiments tugging at his heartstrings

when about to leave his Alma Mater he reveals to us in Loss
and Gain. Herein he describes how the convert,* Charles
Reding—the pseudonym for himself—about to leave Ox-
ford, “passed through Bagley wood, and the spires and

towers of the University came to his view, hallowed by how
many tender associations, lost to him for two whole years,
suddenly recovered—recovered to be lost for ever! There
lay old Oxford before him, with its hills as gentle and its

meadows as green as ever. At the first view of that beloved
place he stood still with folded arms, unable to proceed.

Each college, each church, he counted them by their pinna-
cles and turrets. The silver Isis, the grey willows, the far-
stretching plains, the dark groves, the distant range of Shot-

over, the pleasant village where he had lived with Carlton

and Sheffield—^wood, water, stone, all so calm, so bright, they
might have been his, but his they were not. Whatever he

was to gain by becoming a Catholic, this he had lost; what-

ever he was to gain higher and better, at least this and such

as this he never could have again. He could not have an-
other Oxford, he could not have the friends of his boyhood

and youth in the choice of his manhood.”



38 CARDINAL NEWMAN

With such deep attachment to Oxford, it was only
natural that Newman should think of establishing a house
of the Oratory there. In 1864 he set himself to achieve this

goal. This he did with no pretense at deciding the contro-
versy concerning the attendance of Catholics at Oxford, but

merely with the thought that the students actually there

should not be left without any of the ministrations of reli-
gion. This, he felt, was the surest way to lose them. But
the opposition raised by Manning among the English bishops
and among his friends at Rome thwarted the plan.

Newman’s Bishop, Dr. Ullathorne, keenly regretted this
failure. A pious and zealous man, he was anxious to utilize
Newman’s great talents for the cause of religion at Oxford
The hostility, tactless and unjust, directed against his ablest
priest by high-placed ecclesiastics distressed him. In June,

1866, he reopened the matter, petitioning the Propaganda

to permit the establishment of an Oratory at Oxford. Six

months later he received a reply permitting the proposed

foundation, but directing him to discountenance Dr. New-
man’s taking up residence there. The Bishop not wishing
to hurt Newman by telling him of the restriction, and think-
ing that he could remove it by personal representations, sim-
ply informed Newman that the plan had been accepted.
Newman was enthusiastic. It looked as though his dream
of many years of returning to his old Alma Mater to cham-
pion the religion which he had embraced was at last to be

realized.

He believed that truth is its own defense, and though its
spokesman be outnumbered, the odds are with it still. He
had long felt that the policy of isolation from the great in-

tellectual center of English life was calculated only to lessen

the little influence which Catholics were then exercising, and

to render it even more negligible. They had the teachings
of Christ, he reasoned, in their Apostolical purity. They had
the great traditions of the Schoolmen. They had a masterly



CARDINAL NEWMAN 39

system of theology wrought out with marvelous consistency.

Above all, they had the promise of the Holy Ghost to be

with them all days. And while at certain times that Pente-
costal fire seemed to be but smoldering, it never failed to

blaze up ever and anon to manifest its undying character.

Why not then go into this great stronghold of intellectual
life, present her heritage of divine truth and welcome the

fullest discussion from every quarter?

To Newman, it seemed almost to be lacking in faith to
doubt the capacity of the truths of Christ and the Apostles

to sustain themselves when placed fearlessly before the eyes

and the minds of men. He opposed the policy of timid iso-
lation. He scorned the shelter of the Ivory Tower. Like St.
Paul going to the Acropolis to present the teaching of the

Crucified to the scholars of Athens, Newman yearned to
carry the Apostolic faith to the chief intellectual fortress of

England, Oxford University. He was doubly elated at the
prospect of returning under such circumstances to the cam-

pus upon which he had not set foot since the time he left it,

as an outcast and an exile without kindred or abiding place,

to join the alien communion of Rome more than a quarter
of a century ago. With the permission of his Ordinary,
Newman issued a circular, appealing for funds. The sum
of £5,000 was quickly raised. A site was purchased. New-
man packed his trunk and, sunshine on his face, talked of
the approaching fulfillment of his dream.

But then the opposition broke. Broke from a double

quarter. On the one hand, his old colleagues of Tractarian
days, Keble and Pusey, who had remained within the An-
glican Church, grew alarmed at the prospect of an invasion

of Oxford by such a formidable representative of Rome.
The memory of the influence Newman had exercised among
the faculty and with the students, whose creed was Credo
in Newmannum, was still with them. What devastation
might he not work now as the spokesman of Rome? They



40 CARDINAL NEWMAN

sounded the tocsin, and a cry of protest sprang up from An-

glican leaders at Oxford. On the other side, Manning,
equally alarmed, led the opposition from within the Church.

Rallying a number of the bishops behind him, he made
representations through his agent. Monsignor Talbot at

Rome, that Newman’s presence would draw many Catholic
students to Oxford and would further engender “a certain

Anglo-Catholicism” in which the English national spirit

would prevail over the Roman or Catholic one.
Fighting desperately to stave off another of the many de-

feats which crowned his efforts to serve the Church he loved,

Newman sent his faithful disciple, Ambrose St. John, to
Rome, with precise instructions as to the answers which

were to be made to the objections raised. He was to point
out that, even though there was a danger of increasing the

attendance, this would be more than counterbalanced by the

advantage of an Oratory church, which would provide the

ministrations of religion for students already there, who
otherwise would be neglected. But all in vain. His fellow-

convert, Manning, and, like himself, a former Oxford man,

made his views prevail at Rome. The Propaganda directed
Bishop Ullathome to “take heed lest Dr. Newman should
do anything which might favour in any way the presence of
Catholics at the University.”

It was a great blow to Newman. It was all the more
bitter because those who on the representations of his critics

had decreed his exclusion, had never even taken the trouble

to question him concerning his own views and plans. Still

more was he cut to the quick when Cardinal Reisach, who

came to collect information on the Oxford question, avoided

an interview with him. What strange nemesis was dogging
this man’s footsteps, mocking his high purposes, blighting

his hopes, and dooming to ignominious failure his many
valiant undertakings to serve the Church in as effective a

manner as his intellect could devise? Strachey pictures him



CARDINAL NEWMA^j 41

a forlorn figure, Manning and Talbot smiling in triumph,

while Newman stands at the gate with his bag, packed all in

vain, looking wistfully toward the spires of his beloved Ox-

ford, from which he was bidden to remain an exile forever,

weeping bitterly. Such would seem to be the usual verdict.

Did Newman Really Fail?

But did he really fail? Go to Oxford today and see. The
music of his voice has died but the melody of his dream

lingers on. Yes, it lingers on in abiding stone, in the im-

pressive foundations established by the great religious Orders

of the Church, in Campion Hall of the Jesuits, in St. Benet’s

Hall of the Benedictines, in the House of the Salesians, in

the Hall of the Franciscans, in the Hall of the Dominicans

with the significant inscription over its portals, “After a long

exile the sons of St. Dominic have returned!” Father

Ronald Knox, the son of an Anglican bishop, ministers as

Chaplain to the Catholic students. Black-robed Jesuits,

brown-robed Franciscans, and white-robed Dominicans are

in the lecture halls, laboratories and libraries. Father M. C,
D’Arcy, S.J., holds the chair of ethics. Newman’s dreana
at long last has come true.

In the summer of 1925 the writer discussed with Cardinal
Vaughan the work of the foundations at Oxford. A few
years previous there was some agitation for the establish-
ment of a National Catholic university. The Cardinal along
with other leaders of the Church opposed the project as un-
wise. ‘“While I do not wish to speak about what is the best
arrangement for other countries, where conditions are dif-

ferent,” said His Eminence, “I am certain that for the
Church in England the establishments we have at Oxford
and Cambridge offer the best facilities for Catholic higher
education. They are the two great historic centres of intel-
lectual life in England, and our hope is to utilize them more
and more. To cut ourselves off from these two great uni-



42 CARDINAL NEWMAN

versities, and to try to establish a university off by ourselves
would be the height of folly, if not positively suicidal. The
graduates of Oxford and Cambridge have the ear of the
English public and are at least listened to with respect.”

“What effect does Oxford have upon the faith of the
Catholic students?” inquired the writer. “Instead of weak-
ening them,” replied the Cardinal, “we can say now on the
basis of a long experience that with the provisions made for
them, attendance at Oxford strengthens them. The gradu-
ates of Oxford are supplying the Church with a type of lay

leadership which is of the highest to be found in any Cath-

olic country in the world.” The remarkable growth which
the Church in England has experienced in the last half cen-

tury is attributable in no small degree to the sterling work

of her lay apostolate, which has set an example for the Cath-

olics of all other countries.

How happy would be the Church in any country to claim
three such able apologists as Fathers Ronald Knox, C. C.

Martindale, S.J., and M. C. D’Arcy, S.J.? That brilliant
conversationalist, Arnold Lunn, clashed swords in debate

with Father Knox, only to surrender his sword at last, and

ask his erstwhile duelist to receive him into the Church

wnich not long before had opened its hospitable arms to re-

ceive Knox himself. Well indeed might the old apologist
for entering Oxford and using it for a divine purpose, in-

stead of fleeing from it, Newman himself, have smiled as he
looked down from the eternal hills upon this latest corrobora-

tion of the wisdom of his plan.

In America the scores of Newman Halls at State and
secular Universities carrying on his plan, bid fair to give his

ideas a vaster range and a universal currency, and to keep

his memory ever fresh and green. “Principles,” said New-

man, “will develop themselves beyond the arbitrary points

of which you are so fond, and by which hitherto they have

been limited, like prisoners on parole.” The growth of the



CARDINAL NEWMAN 45

Newman Club movement in England, America and through-
out the world testifies to the truth of his prophetic utter-

ance. Newman was thwarted, but his idea has prevailed.
The frustration of his many noble undertakings, calcu-

lated to try the soul of the strongest man, Newman bore with
a patience that was nothing short of heroic. Shortly after

the thwarting of his Oxford project, a correspondent in

Rome made an anon)mious attack upon Newman’s ortho-
doxy in The Weekly Register. This was the spark which
kindled into a flame the long smoldering indignation of the

Catholic laity at the many unjust attacks made upon one of
the noblest and holiest souls in the Church in England. A
mass meeting of the laity was called. A testimonial, signed
by two hundred of the most distinguished English Catholics,

was presented to him. In it they served notice that “every

blow that touched him inflicted a wound on the Catholic
Church in England.” Newman was deeply touched. “The
attacks of the opponents,” he replied, “are never hard to

bear when the person who is the subject of them is con-
scious in himself that they are undeserved; but in the pres-

ent instance I have small cause indeed for pain or regret at
their occurrence, since they have at once elicited in my be-
half the warm feelings of so many dear friends who know me
well, and of so many others whose good opinion is the more
impartial for the very reason that I am not personally known
to them. Of such' men, whether friends or strangers to me,
I would a hundred times rather receive the generous S3mi-

pathy than have escaped the misrepresentations which are

the occasion for showing it.”

A Long Road Turns

There comes at last an end to everything. And an end
to the series of disappointments which had crowned New-

14 Lije of Manning, Vol. II, pp. 313, 314.



44 CARDINAL NEWMAN

man’s undertakings had come. Likewise an end to the sus-
picions under which he had labored for almost thirty years.
This ostracism of a saintly genius had been due chiefly to his
former friends, Manning, Ward, and Talbot. In 1877, New-
man was elected an honorary Fellow of Trinity College, and
in February of the following year, after an absence of thirty-

two years, he returned to the Oxford whose spires only he
had seen from a distance in the intervening years. Appear-
ing in his University robes as the guest of the President of

Trinity College, he was warmly applauded by the students
and faculty.

In the same month, Pope Pius IX died, and Leo XIII,
who had also lived in exile from the Curia since 1846, and
who had learned from experience the meaning of Vergil’s
phrase. Hand ignora malt, ascended the chair of Peter. The
Duke of Norfolk and other Catholic peers approached Car-
dinal Manning about securing the honor of the cardinalate
for Father Newman. Leo XIII had apparently already
made up his mind to so honor Newman and readily acceded
to their request. A letter of the Cardinal Secretary of State
announced to Newman “that the Holy Father, highly ap-
preciating the genius and erudition which distinguished him,

his piety, the zeal which he displayed in the exercise of the

holy ministry, his devotion and filial attachment to the Holy

Apostolic See, and the signal services he had for long years

rendered to religion, had decided on giving him a public and

solemn proof of his esteem and good will,” and that he would

proclaim his elevation to the Sacred College in the next

Consistory.

On May 12, 1879, he was created a Cardinal amidst the
universal rejoicing of the British people. Catholic and non-

Catholic alike. The event was without a parallel in modem
times, as no simple priest without duties in the Roman Curia
had been raised to the cardinalate. Congratulations poured

in upon him from such distant countries as Australia, New



CARDINAL NEWMAN 45

Zealand, as well as from all parts of America. Newman
received the exalted honor with simple dignity and with a

complete absence of personal vanity. ‘‘The cloud is lifted

from me forever,” he said to his brothers of the Oratory.
“The Roman Church has been less unpopular in Eng-

land,” observes Dean Inge, “since Newman received from
it the highest honour which it can bestow. Throughout his

career he was a steadfast witness against tepid and insincere

professions of religion, and against any compromise with the

shifting currents of popular opinion. All cultivated readers,

who have formed their tastes on the masterpieces of good

literature, are attracted, sometimes against their will, by the

dignity and reserve of his style, qualities which belong to

the man, and not only to the writer. Like Goethe, he dis-

dains the facile arts which make the commonplace reader
laugh and weep. ‘Ach die zartlichen Herzen! ein Pfuscher

vermag sie zu ruhrenl’ Like Wordsworth, he might say,

‘To stir the blood I have no cunning art.’ There are no

cheap effects in any of Newman’s writings. . . . He was
loved and honoured by men whose love is an honour, and he
is admired by all who can appreciate a consistently un-
worldly life. . . . He has left an indelible mark upon two
great religious bodies. He has stirred movements which still
agitate the Church of England and the Church of Rome, and

the end is not yet in sight.”

The remaining eleven years of his life the aging Car-
dinal spent in the quiet of the Oratory at Edgbaston, answer-

ing the many correspondents who solicited his guidance in
matters of conscience, reediting his works, and in medita-

tion and prayer. In 1886, Bishop Ullathorne dedicated to

Cardinal Newman, his former priest’ and subject, his last
spiritual work in commemoration of “forty years of a friend-
ship and confidence which had much enriched his life.”
Touched by the testimony of affection from the venerable

15 Outspokan Essays, William Ralph Inge, p. 202 ff.



46 CARDINAL NEWMAN

prelate, who had stood bravely by Newman in his many
trials, the Cardinal wrote the following note of thanks, which

Dr. Ullathorne terms “a memorial and a treasure for all
time”: “How good has God been to me in giving me such
kind friends! It has been so all through my life. They
have spared my mistakes, overlooked my defects, and found
excuses for my faults. God reward you, my dear Lord, for
your tenderness toward me, very conscious as I am of my
great failings. You have ever been indulgent towards me;
and now you show me an act of considerate charity, as great
as you can, by placing my name at the beginning of the
last work of your long life of service and sacrifice. It is a
token of S5mipathy which, now in my extreme age, encour-
ages me in the prospect of the awful journey which lies close
before me.”

In the following year Dr. Ullathorne paid a visit to the

aged Cardinal at Edgbaston and on returning narrated the

following touching incident, which showed the huniility and

simplicity of Newman had not been impaired by the honor
of the cardinalate: “I have been visiting Cardinal Newman
to-day. He is much wasted, but very cheerful. ... We had a
long and cheery talk, but as I was rising to leave an action

of his caused a scene I shall never forget, for its sublime

lesson to myself. He said in low and humble accents, ‘My
dear Lord, will you do me a great favor?’ ‘What is it?’
I asked. He glided down to his knees, bent down his vener-
able head, and said, ‘Give me your blessing.’ [A general
rule of the Church’s ritual ordains that the lower dignitary

should kneel before the higher one.] What could I do with
him before me in such a posture? I could not refuse without
giving him great embarrassment. So I laid my hand on his
head and said: ‘My dear Lord Cardinal, notwithstanding all
laws to the contrary, I pray God to bless you, and that His
Holy Spirit may be full in your heart.’ As I walked to the

Letters of Archbishop Ullathorne, pp. 481-483.



CARDINAL NEWMAN 47

door, refusing to put on his biretta as he went with me, he

said: ‘I have been indoors all my life, whilst you have battled
for the Church in the world.’ I felt annihilated in his pres-

ence; there is a Saint in that man.”

No trace of the former suspicions and hostilities now re-
mained. To an allusion to the party which had so long op-
posed him in England and in Rome, Newman replied: “Let
bygones be bygones,” adding with a smile, “Besides, they

have all come round to my side now.” His declining years
were full of serenity and peace. By a happy reversal of for-
tune, the man who had gone through so many internal crises,
had encountered such prolonged opposition from within the

Church as well as from without, now found himself at peace
with the world and with himself. All England had become

proud of him, and the universal acclamation of his .elevation

to the cardinalate became prolonged into a kind of apotheosis

such as few men have experienced in their lifetime. In
March, 1884, he writes: “For myself, now, at the end of a

long life, I say from a full heart that God has never failed
me, never disappointed me, has ever turned evil into good

for me.”

The calm of a long evening was drawing to a close.
Shortly before his death, he asked some of the brothers of

the Oratory to sing him Faber’s hymn, “The Eternal Years.”
“Many people,” he said, “speak well of my ‘Lead, Kindly
Light,’ but this is far more beautiful. Mine is of a soul in
darkness—this is of the eternal light.” After a brief illness,
he passed away peacefully on August 11, 1890, surrounded
by his brethren of the Oratory. His body lies beside that of
his faithful disciple, Ambrose St. John, in Rednall on the
quiet Lychey Hills where he had so often gone to pray in
silence and meditate, “alone with the Alone.” On his tomb
is inscribed the; epitaph written by himself, an epitaph that

i.7 Ibid., p. 512.

18 Letters and Correspondence of J. H. Newman, Vol. II, p. 482.



48 CARDINAL NEWMAN

would tell, he thought, the story of his pilgrimage: Ex
umbris et imaginibus in v^ritatem .—From the shadows and
the symbols into the truth. With his passing the race lost
a soul distinguished alike for sanctity and for scholarship.

Though dead, he still speaks to us from the pages of his
mighty books, speaks of his vision of the truth which led him

at times through strange and lonely waters, but brought him
safely at eventide to the harbor of peace and security. Poor

tired soul, he has passed at last from the tumult of contro-

versy into the silence of the beyond where the eternal truth

speaketh without the noise or confusion of words. May he
find there the rest he craved—under the everlasting arms and
in the light that shall not fail.

STUDY CLUB QUESTIONS

1. Describe the early life of Cardinal Newman.

2. What is meant by the Oxford Movement?

3. What did Cardinal Newman mean when he said: “I saw my
face in that mirror, and I was a Monophysite” ?

4. Describe Newman’s farewell to the congregation at Littlemore.

5. Describe Newman’s life at Littlemore.

6. Describe the scene of his reception into the Church.

7. Sketch Newman’s duel with Kingsley. Why is it a masterpiece
of controversy?

8. Describe the nature of his Apologia.

9. With what problems does Newman deal in The Grammar of
Assent?

10. Discuss the differences of opinion between Cardinal Manning
and Cardinal Newman.

11. Sketch Cardinal Newman’s effort to establish a foundation at
Oxford.

12. Was his failure in this matter a complete one?
13. What tribute did Dean Inge pay to Newman’s influence upon

English thought?

14. Describe the last years of the life of Cardinal Newman.





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