[Letters and Correspondence 1830-1832]

The passages in brackets occurring in the following letter are, as the reader has already been told, comments or explanations introduced by the writer of the letter in the course of copying at an after date. The transcripts were made in 1860, and the passages in brackets would be added in the course of transcription.


Oriel College: January 9, 1830.
I have taken it into my head to write you a letter, which, if it be merely a well-wisher for a new decennium, will have its {192} object; but I shall attempt to impart to you my thoughts and remarks on various subjects; and, first, I am glad to see that the Bishop of London [Blomfield], in sermons just published, maintains the propriety and expedience of the Athanasian Creed—this is important—and so does Bishop Mant, in a twaddling (so to say) publication. Now, though there are parts of the Creed I would willingly see omitted, if it could be done silently, and could not defend if attacked, yet, as to cut it out would be to lose the damnatory clauses, and to curtail it even would be to flatter the vain conceit of the age, I am heartily pleased at this firmness of the Bishop's, and notice to you that you may conceive worthier thoughts of him.

[I can explicitly state what I meant in this passage. One of my first declared departures from Whately's teaching, who, among other views, leant to Sabellianism, was in a sermon I preached in College Chapel on Easter Day, 1827. Hawkins, Whately, and Blanco White all asked to read it afterwards, and none liked it. I have it still, with their pencil comments upon it. It took the view of the doctrine of the Holy Trinity which I afterwards (in 1831-1832) found to be the Ante-Nicene view, especially on the point of the 'subordination of the Son,' as Bull (whom at that time I had not read) brings it out in one of his chapters. This view, I considered, was taken in the Nicene Creed, and I thought there was a marked contrast between it and the statements of the Athanasian Creed on the sacred doctrine. Of course, to this day I hold, and must ever hold, there is a difference of statement, though it is a difference of statement only, not of sense or substance. What I meant when I wrote the above was that the Athanasian Creed was written in a less scriptural style than the Nicene. For instance, one of my objections was this: that the Athanasian Creed says that 'the Son is equal to the Father.' Now this either means 'equal' in His Personality or 'equal' in His Divinity to the Father; but in neither alternative is the expression correct; for in His Divinity He is not equal to the Father, but the same as the Father; and in His Personality He is not equal, but subordinate to the Father.]

I am pleased, moreover, to see that the 'British Critic,' which is under his influence, not only contained an article on the Union of Church and State (as you know, supposed to be written by him) and defending it on the right, not the {193} Warburtonian, grounds, but he has had besides two articles lauding Laud, which is very different from the 'Spirit of the Age,' and not at all in the spirit of the poor 'Remembrancer,' [Note 1] which, in its last number, has offered to give up the Cross in Baptism.

I have doubt whether we can consider our King as a proprietor of land on the old Tory theory. The rightful heir was lost in the Revolution; then the nation took [usurped] the property [proprietorship] of the island [time has sanctioned their violence] and gave it to William, and then to George, on certain conditions ... that of being chief magistrate. Has not the Constitution since that time been essentially a republic? Is it not our duty to submit to being accounted such? though we ought to make a stand against farther innovation?

Ogilvie wished me to lend him Arnold's Sermons. I am glad to tell you he returned the book with an expression of much satisfaction and agreeable surprise. Some sermons, of course, he objected to; but 'the impression was decidedly favourable.' [N.B.—This is an allusion, I think, to a donnish phrase, used by and to the Provost, in the Collections Tower, of the undergraduates, in their presence.] I have read some more of them; one cannot but agree with Ogilvie in opinion.

If I possibly can I shall vote for the new Examination Statute. I cannot but fear, if it be rejected, men will be appointed [i.e. as examiners] who are likely to make great innovations, losing sight completely of those old principles which, in drawing up this, the Provost has kept in view. Cardwell, Mills, Burton, Short, Hampden, &c.—would they not exclude Aristotle, and bring in modern subjects? I should like to make Modern History, or Hebrew, &c. &c., necessary for the M.A. degree; and, strange to say, any Master of the Schools might require something of the sort (so I am told) without new statute, merely by [the University's] omitting to suspend the Dispensation for Determination. [N.B.—Among my papers are the answers in 1830-31, which I gave to a Committee, appointed by Heads of Houses, which had proposed questions to the Tutors.]

I have thought vows [e.g. of Celibacy] are evidences of {194} want of faith [N.B. trust]. Why should we look to the morrow? It will be given us to do what is our duty as the day comes; to bind duty by forestalment is to lay up manna for seven days; it will corrupt us. In a very different way, still quite a parallel, as exhibiting a want of faith [i.e. trust] vid. Origen's conduct instead of a vow.

With my sister's help I have been adjusting Keble's poems to Bennett's chants, and find some of them suit admirably. It is the only kind of music which brings out their sweetness without overpowering it.

Qy. What is meant by the right of private judgment? The duty I understand: but no one can help another's thinking in private: vid. dialogue between Rex Pentheus and Bacchus in Horace [Note 2]. [N.B.—I suppose 'the right of private judgment' means 'the right of holding, expressing, maintaining, advocating, proselytising to our private judgment and decisions.']

The following letter illustrates what is said in the 'Apologia' (p. 45)—'Also I used irony in conversation when matter-of-fact men would not see what I meant.'


January 13, 1830.
Cunningham [of Harrow] is to be at Oxford tonight, and I wanted to inform you that he has got a strange notion of your dialogue with him, and has been propagating the same. He says you asserted there was no use, or next to none, in preaching under any circumstances; that you took a lower view of it than any person he had met with, &c. In case you meet him I think you should be careful not to let drop anything that can be taken hold of.


Oriel College: January 16, 1830.
I regret to say I am kept here till Term begins—my principal Vacation engagements being a most odious Bursarship, which, besides teasing me by an inconceivable number of little businesses in Term-time, has hitherto tied me especially to this place in Vacation as the only leisure time for its greater {195} duties. It is very well to have such business, when it is one's main business; but as a business by the way it is insupportable. It has, I believe, been more than anything else the cause of my continued indisposition; and now deprives me of a pleasure which I would put second to no other that could be mentioned.

We are to have a three months' winter, I suppose. It has been my practice to walk of a day to Nuneham to dinner, and then back in the morning to breakfast. I have been more at home since July than I ever have since I came to Oxford. Shotover is, in our minds, quite a classical place; especially as Milton once lived near it, before he was contaminated by evil times and the waywardness of a proud heart; and King Charles and his Bishops seemed to rise before us along the old road which leads from Oxford to Cuddesdon. We have been paying a good deal of attention to the history of those times, and I am confirmed as a dull staid Tory unfit for these smart times.

Which way is the world marching? and how we shall be left behind when the movement is ordered by the word of command! The Times now begins to vote the King's office an abuse and a job. But this is a wise talk about nothing at all, if the future is but a shadow to us, as it is.

The Mr. Wilson to whom the following relates was subsequently President of Trinity.


January 26, 1830.
Mr. Wilson's [of Trinity] accident was of a frightful description. On Monday he was cleaning his gun, when it went off and shot him through the left wrist. He was obliged to have it immediately amputated. Indeed, they told him unless the operation took place he could not live five hours, so shattered were the bones. What made it still more distressing was that, after it was over, a second amputation was found necessary higher up.


I called on Wilson on Saturday. He was very composed and cheerful, up and moving about as usual. He bears his {196} misfortune with a serenity of mind which to me is perfectly incomprehensible. I feel quite ashamed of myself; for I seemed much more distressed at it than he was.

Mr. Newman was now passing a pamphlet on the Church Missionary Society, of which he was secretary, through the press.


Oriel College: January 29.
The printers are so tedious I shall not have the letter out till Monday. I am printing 500 copies, and if it takes (which I do not expect, but take the chance of), I shall send it campaigning all over the country. I shall make Woodgate, perhaps our friend Mr. Rickards, distribute it in Kent, and a Mr. Bramston [Note 3] (you may have heard me mention) will, I hope, distribute it in Essex. I shall send it to Davison at Worcester, and Benson in town, and to the Bishops of London, Lincoln and Llandaff—perhaps Exeter. Perhaps the Bishop of Ferns! Ha ha!—are you not laughing? I am. There is a fine fricassee of fowl before the eggs are laid. By-the-bye, Mr. B. told me that time Bishop of London has informed him that his only objection to joining the Society is the existence of public meetings. Well, but what am I doing in Oxford? Why, I have sent it (i.e. shall) to Bishop, Archdeacon, Dean, two canons, and all parochial ministers in Oxford; to Vice-Chancellor, Proctors, ten Heads of Houses, and about thirty-five M.A.'s—in all sixty-three persons. Now, if it be a silly thing, why, I am exposing myself and doing what is unsafe; but one must run risks to do good, and fortune favours the bold; so I must hug myself if no one else will hug me.

In the 'Chronological Notes' is the entry: 'February 1.—Sent round my printed letter about the Church Missionary Society.' Mr. Newman's friends wrote their thoughts on it. Mr. Bramston (once described by Mr. Newman as 'a mild Evangelical') says: {197}


February 18, 1830.
Worthless as my testimony may be, I cannot help being convinced that you are right. It is important to put on record (even if it goes no further) a Churchman's apology for a Society which is considered by all unthinking and careless persons as decidedly sectarian. Tell me whether you have any favourable results to communicate at Oxford … and whether you are likely to have any public meetings this year.

In this part of the country it is joined by those clergymen only who keep aloof from mixed society, and who, from that circumstance, are viewed with a degree of ill-will by worldly people. I should like, however, to put your suggestions before some friends of mine if you have any to spare.

A friend of a different school, mindful of the late defeat of Mr. Peel, for the reason embodied in the letter, affects a cynical turn in his sympathy.


February 22, 1830.
 … I have sent one of your letters [on the Church Missionary Society] to the Bishop of Rochester, to Archdeacon Pott, and have put another in the way of reaching Mr. Norris of Hackney, who, I find, is a Churchman in a better sense of the word, and not like Lord Eldon, whom he disapproves of entirely, considered as a friend of the Church. I have withheld the author's name as you requested me, but told them there was no cause for alarm, as he was one who, however he might once have betrayed symptoms of sectarianism, or be called Evangelical, was now as staunch a Churchman as Addison's landlord, who, when he could not find time to go to church, headed mobs to pull down meeting-houses; that you drank Church and King every day in a bumper after dinner [N.B.—All this is a cut at my joining the opposition against Sir R. Peel in 1829, the writer being in Sir R. Peel's committee], voted for Sir R. Inglis, stood neutral on petitions, and sang 'God save the King,' and 'A health to Old England, the King and the Church,' every night after supper. {198}

I perfectly agree with you on theory [i.e. the Letter], but when I remember how many societies of this nature owe their origin or increase to sectarian bodies, who are only called into existence by the indifference or neglect of Churchmen, I should almost fear a decline of their prosperity if taken entirely out of the former and placed in the hands of the latter exclusively. Although visibly improving, still the Church, or at least that portion of it—those on whom the care of these things would then devolve, seems often to paralyse by the frigidity of its touch any institution that comes in its way. However, if it is a positive duty, we must not hesitate, &c.

In the 'Chronological Notes' is this entry:

March 8.—Turned out of the Secretaryship of the Church Missionary Society because of my pamphlet [Note 4].

Circumstances gave this incident a marked place in Mr. Newman's memory. A letter on the subject, written at this date, by a friend of Mr. Newman's, may interest the reader.


March 14, 1830.
 ... Newman, as I forgot to tell you in my last, has been completely discomfited in the matter of the Missionary Society. His proposal to put an end to public meetings was carried in the committee, which consists, I believe, only of clergymen in offices, and such laymen as they, the subscribers at large, choose to appoint. But last Monday, when there was a general Meeting to elect officers, when they generally re-elect the old ones and just fill up vacancies, he was ousted by an immense majority, Bulteel and his satellites and half Edmund Hall being in attendance. He has, to be sure, given the Low Church party great provocation, beyond his proceedings in the committee, by writing and sending to all the resident clergy of Oxford (University) a pamphlet setting forth on what principles a good Churchman might join a Society which admitted Dissenters, and by what management the Society might be exclusively attached to the Church, working under episcopal jurisdiction: thus, on the one hand, subjecting to {199} proper discipline and rule a good deal of misguided power and zeal; and, on the other, presenting to the Church of England, which has all along been very deficient on this very point, an engine made ready to her hands. And this to be effected merely by taking advantage of the opening offered to them by the Society itself, making all clergymen who choose to subscribe members of the committee, although, of course, a great secession of the Low Church party was to be expected. Very few indeed approve of this plan, or think it practicable; but Newman is not a man to be deterred by temporary failures. He is, indeed, better calculated than any man I know, by his talents, his learning, by his patience and perseverance, his conciliatory manners, and the friends he can employ in the cause—of whom I hope to be one—to release the Church of England from her present oppressed and curtailed condition.

The following letter from Mr. Rickards may be given as containing a scheme of reform in Church temporalities put forward at this date. The Preachership of the Temple had been proposed to Mr. Rickards.


Ulcombe: May 26, 1830.
Your letter relating to the Temple I considered well. Upon close and particular inquiry I ascertained that we could not live in or near London without income; and that if I did take it, it must be with the earnest hope of speedy preferment—such a hope you will not wonder I did not choose to entertain; I thought it neither a safe nor a worthy guest in a preacher's house; so I told Benson [Master of the Temple] the reason, and passed the matter by. I did this with sorrow, and after deliberation; because I found the congregation was remarkably well disposed towards me, and many even expressed a strong wish that I should be settled among them.

Yesterday, at our visitation, the Archdeacon told us mournfully that measures are about to be taken to provide for the better maintenance of the clergy who have only one small living, by making them the only persons eligible to Prebends in the different cathedrals. If the information is correct, you and I may stand a chance of a great living; and the marvellous sight will be seen of greedy men running after little ones. {200}

It will be a pleasant scene enough to watch a man actually manœuvred into a good benefice, and very angry about it without daring to say so.

I think Benson knows something about Mr. Rose, and feels an interest in looking to see whether he will get out of his scrape [with Pusey?—J. H. N.] or flounder about in it. I guess that he has a higher value for Rose's talents than I have; but I know hardly anything about the matter, except that I wish somebody would be so good as to convince me that he is a very first-rate man, because I find it mighty inconvenient to stir among Cambridge men and not to think him so. But let him be what he may in this respect, from all that is said it seems he will be a bishop before long, and so, I hope, he is all I am told he is.

To this letter is appended the following note:

Here Rickards wrote hastily. I am a bad hand at criticising men, but the admiration and love I had for Rose were inspired, I think, by his elevation of mind, his unflagging zeal, his keen appreciation of what was noble and saintly, his insight into character, and his vigorous eloquence.—J. H. N.

J. H. N. TO H. E. N.

June 9, 1830.
Yesterday I withdrew my name from the Bible Society in a note to Macbride, who took it very kindly. I said that the objections that caused me to retire from it were felt by me as such when I first subscribed to it, but that then I viewed them as indirect, not necessary, consequences, and that the more men who felt them subscribed, the greater prospect there was of their being obviated; but now, on the contrary, I viewed them as practically direct, and there being no principle recognised by the Society on which Churchmen could fall back and take their stand, no accession of members of the Church could tend to remove them.


June 14, 1830.
I have just seen Burton, who wishes to explain himself that he did not intend to ask you whether he should appoint you, but whether you would undertake the office [I suppose of {201} Select Preacher] should the Board appoint you. Burton wishes to see you also about another office—the second class of Select Preacher. [N.B.—I think this was a plan, never carried out, of University sermons through the year (the plan was rejected by Convocation, June 25, 1830), in which the Vicar of St. Mary's naturally would take part.—J. H. N.] You will be glad to hear that since I saw you we have had a little son born.


June 18, 1830.
It is at length settled that the Provost gives us no more pupils—us three (R. Wilberforce, Froude, and me)—and we die gradually with our existing pupils. This to me personally is a delightful arrangement; it will naturally lessen my labours, and at length reduce them within bearable limits, without at once depriving me of resources which I could not but reckon upon while they lasted. But for the College I think it a miserable determination. [Adding, a day or two after:] Now that I shall have more time I am full of projects what I shall do. The Fathers arise again full before me. This vacation I should not wonder if I took up the study of the Modern French Mathematics.

Riding from Oxford to Brighton, on a visit to his Mother, he writes on his way thither:

Guildford: June 30, 1830.
I arrived here at nine this morning. I am philosophising, but I have not yet brought out my speculations enough to say on what subject. Is not that the meaning of musing—namely, thinking about something or other, we cannot tell what? Hence the word music, which suggests feelings without ideas, and to amuse, which means to please without addressing the reasoning powers. Now should this, as being unsealed, fall into the hands, or rather eyes, of cab or coach man, what will he think about it? Well, that is the very thing—I told you I am musing.

If I do not come punctually tomorrow morning, consider my horse is tired.

On his return journey he again writes to his Mother from Guildford: {202}

Guildford: July 15, 1830.
I am just returned from Horsham Church. I wish churches were open in every place that a traveller stopped at. I conjecture they were some centuries ago. Though we have gained more, we certainly have lost something by old Luther.

To his sister Harriett he gives his final experience of travel:

July 19, 1830.
My journey was prosperous. On the whole I lost five miles by error of the ways. There are no direction posts, the milestones are defaced, the labourers in the fields are deaf, and the few intelligent persons one meets have a strange way of correcting their senses by their reasoning faculty. By going 'straight on,' they mean going the 'right way.' I had two instances of this. In one case the left-hand road was the right one, but the man said 'go straight on.' I believe they habitually consider the road they know best the 'right road.'

In the following letter Mr. Newman talks of himself in a vein of melancholy not usual with him:

Oriel College: July 20, 1830.
My dear Rickards,— ... I was amused by your speculations about myself, while I could not but be grateful for the interest you take in my proceedings. Sometimes I am in a humour to talk about myself easily, and if that were the case now, you should have the benefit or mischance of it; but I am not in a communicable mood. I will but say it is now many years that a conviction has been growing upon me (say since I was elected here) that men did not stay at Oxford as they ought, and that it was my duty to have no plans ulterior to a college residence. To be sure, as I passed through a hundred miles of country just now in my way to and from Brighton, the fascination of a country life nearly overset me, and always does. It will indeed be a grievous temptation should a living ever be offered me, when now even a curacy has inexpressible charms. And I will not so far commit myself as to say it must be wrong to take one under all circumstances. Is it not vastly absurd my talking in this way, when I have no more chance of such preferment than of a living in the moon? Well, but this is the only great temptation I fear, for as to other fascinations which might be more dangerous still, {203} I am pretty well out of the way of them; and at present I feel as if I would rather tear out my heart than lose it, though when once fairly caught, my views doubtless would change. Now you must not complain of this egotistical letter, for I have nothing else to fill my paper with. One thing I have earnestly desired for years, and I trust in sincerity—that I may never be rich; and I will add (though here I am more sincere at some times than at others) that I never may rise in the Church. The most useful men have not been the most highly exalted. Hooker and Hammond were simple presbyters. Nor have the most favoured been highest. St. Peter was neither the beloved disciple, nor did he labour more abundantly than they all, yet he was the President (at least for a time) of the Apostolic College. Men live after their death—they live not only in their writings or their chronicled history, but still more in that [agraphos mneme] exhibited in a school of pupils who trace their moral parentage to them. As moral truth is discovered, not by reasoning, but by habituation, so it is recommended not by books, but by oral instruction. Socrates wrote nothing. Authorship is the second best way. How grand all this is, and how conducive to indolence and self-indulgence! I shall turn philosopher, rail at the world at large, and be content with a few friends who know me. Perhaps you went up with the University address to the King.


July 28, 1830.
I was not at all unwilling for the College's sake that your brother should take his honours with us, and then be transplanted elsewhere.

We are speculating here on the issue of your undertaking to convey your horse down into Devonshire. We hope you are safe arrived, but no tidings have reached Oxford. The fine weather at length come is a time for speculation, you know. I have had many bright thoughts, and intended to communicate some, but they are departed—that is the worst of speculations. We hold them like Hæmon, [en hugrais agkalais] [Note 5]. Perhaps I had better begin with facts. {204}

I knocked my horse up by over-despatch on my way down to Brighton—i.e. I took too long stages at first. The consequence was she came down the last morning, her knees quite uninjured, but my nose cut pretty deep with the silver of my glass. It seemed to promise a scar, but will be nothing. I shall leave off glasses in riding. So I finished by walking twenty-one miles in a broiling sun on a dusty road. By-the-bye, how neatly I have implied my tumble above as a matter of course! In my journey back I was more wary, and brought her home quite fresh.

When I was at home, I wrote out all that correspondence which I mean to be a document to my heirs; and I made a bold inroad into Trigonometry, and have this morning got through about a quarter of Hamilton's Conics. [N.B.—I was beginning a new course of mathematics by analytics and differentials; I had been more accustomed to geometrical proof, fluxions, Newton, &c.] I suspect I shall have little time for it now, what with Wood, Christie, parish, and other matters.

The Senior Proctor [Dornford] got great credit for his display at the presentation of the address. The King gave him an opportunity for an off-hand speech which is thought happy. 'Mr. Proctor,' he said, 'I hope you keep up discipline in your University'; to which Dornford replied, 'Yes, sir, for we inculcate the most loyal principles.' [This is the answer that Whately is so savage with.]

Robert Wilberforce comes in a fortnight's time. Mozley [T.] evanuit altogether. I am sure we must not say a word to make him believe we wish him to stay. It will spoil him; we must be [autapkeis], and above such weakness. I think of setting up for a great man; it is the only way to be thought so. I have ever been too candid, and have in my time got into all sorts of scrapes. [N.B. (added at a later date)—How strange I should say so then, when the very words about my officious candour and my scrapes of after years are continually in my thoughts now!] I shall learn wisdom rapidly now. Besides, men must have their run, if they are worth anything. M. is now roaming: if he is ever to come round, it is not by telling him to do so.

The French are an awful people. How the world is set upon calling evil good, good evil! This Revolution [ending in abdication of Charles X.] seems to me the triumph of irreligion. What an absurdity it is in men saying, 'The times {205} will not admit of an establishment,' as if the 'times' were anything else than the people. It is the people who will not admit of it. Yet coxcombs wag their heads and think they have got at the root of the matter when they assure one that the times, the spirit of the times, makes it chimerical to attempt continuing the Catholic Church in France. The effect of this miserable French affair will be great in England.

On the prospect of an election to the Poetry Professorship, R. H. Froude writes:

August 1, 1830.
 … From several conversations with Keble, I am sure he would, on the whole, like to be Poetry Professor, if he could become so without canvassing, and if the College would send out his cards. He retains a great affection for the classics, and wishes that he had some business to spend time on them. He also thinks that a connexion of high [ethos] with poetical feeling might be useful, and has a great fancy for illustrating the theory out of Virgil, Lucretius, &c.

The following letter tells its own tale of one member of the home circle of a nature and a temper so difficult as to be a life-long trial to all concerned.


August 27, 1830.
My head, hands, and heart are all knocked up with the long composition I have sent Charles. I have sent him twenty-four closely-written foolscap pages all about nothing. He revived the controversy we had five years ago. I have sent him what is equal to nine sermons.

F.'s departure has had its sufficient share in knocking me up, and much more will it, I fear, discompose you and my sisters. Still, it is our great relief that God is not extreme to mark what is done amiss, that He looks at the motives, and accepts and blesses in spite of incidental errors. What, indeed, else would become of any of us? Frank so completely put himself into His hands that we can have no fear for him, whatever becomes of his projects.

My hand is so tired and my head so dull, you may excuse my leaving off. {206}

The following letter to his sister gives an insight into Mr. Newman's manner of literary work; with certain rules, to which probably he always adhered. It was a natural wish on her part to help him in the mechanical part of his literary labours, but he shows that no such work was with him mechanical in the sense of the mind not sharing in it, and taking an active part.


September 1830.
 … First, with many thanks, it is impossible for you to assist me in the transcription of the folio pages. The rough copy is a riddle, besides that things strike me as I go on, so that I like to have the opportunity of reviewing myself. O.'s letter to me you might have written out, but here I found it an advantage to do so myself; it put me in so much clearer possession of his position and mine in contrast, than any reading could do: and I only regretted that I had not done so before answering him. My letter would have been, not in substance different, but more scientific. Be guided by me, if ever you get into controversy, whether in private or in (faugh!) the public prints, write out first the letter you are to answer. I shall always do it in future. Experience brings wisdom.

A letter to Froude at this date concludes:

 … As for poor —— I am going to write him a letter, but I am desponding. All my plans fail. When did I ever succeed in any exertion for others? I do not say this in complaint, but really doubting whether I ought to meddle.

Added later:

[N.B.—It is remarkable to me to find myself making the very complaints then, thirty years ago, which are ever rising in my mind now. My sermon on Jeremiah, in Plain Sermons [Note 6], was written in 1829, 1830, or 1831.]

The following letter, in answer to an application for help in a projected Ecclesiastical History, again shows Mr. Newman's advocacy of thoroughness in all literary work. {207}


I hardly know what answer to make to your inquiry without knowing more of particulars. For instance, what I feel most clear about is this: I never would undertake to write lightly on any subject which admits of being treated thoroughly. I think it is the fault of the day. Now this probably will be a great objection to my engaging in a professedly popular work. Not that it is necessary to compose a long treatise, but more time (I feel) ought to be given to the subject than is consistent with the dispatch of booksellers, who must sacrifice everything to regularity of publication and trimness of appearance. An Ecclesiastical History, for example, whether long or short, ought to be derived from the original sources, and not be compiled from the standard authorities. [My 'Arians' was the result of this application.—J. H. N.]

At the end of the Long Vacation of 1830 Mrs. Newman and her daughters left Brighton and settled at Rose Hill, Iffley. This house—'Eaton's Cottage,' two cottages turned into one picturesque dwelling—was before long exchanged for Rose Bank, Iffley, where Mrs. Newman remained till her death in 1836. Some entries in the 'Chronological Notes' show the interest Mr. Newman felt in preparing Rose Hill, his Mother's cottage home. Other notices of the time have also their interest; sometimes telling much in little.

August 6.—Walked with Pusey and his wife to see the cottage at Rose Hill.
August 26.—Frank went for good [to Persia]. God guide us in His way!
September 13.—News came of poor Bennett's death by coach overturn. [The University's and my organist. A man of genius.] Walked with H. Wilberforce to Rose Hill to go over Eaton's Cottage.
September 30.—Walk with Froude to Rose Hill to inspect the furniture.
October 22.—My Mother and sisters came to Rose Hill, arriving about 4 P.M.
November 7.—Preached for Church Missionary Society. St. Mary's collection, 16l. 11s. 6d.
November 9.—Introduced my sisters to the people at Littlemore. {208}
November 12.—Dined with Provost to meet Mr. Wilberforce.
November 30.—St. Andrews; boys chanting for first time.
December 10.—Class paper came out. H. Wilberforce first and second.


The opening of 1831 found Mr. Newman 'weak and deaf' from overwork, also subject to want of sleep, with now and then sleepless nights; but ready for his pupils when Term began; for it will be remembered he did not give up those already his when the change in the tutorship came. The one absorbing public interest of 1831 was the Reform Bill. The following letter gives Mr. Newman's thoughts on the Church aspect of the question.


March 13, 1831.
I fully agree with you about the seriousness of the prospect we have before us, yet do not see what is to be done. The nation (i.e. numerically the [plethos]) is for revolution ... They certainly have the physical power, and it is the sophism of the day to put religious considerations out of sight, and, forgetting there is any power above man's, to think that what man can do he may do with impunity.

I fear that petitions against Reform would but show the weakness of the Conservative party by the small number which could be got together. At all events, I believe the University has never come forward on questions purely political, or at least before others. Besides, the Church has for a long time lost its influence as a body—Exoriatur! Nor do I think it is in a humour to exert it on this occasion, if it had any. It is partly cowed and partly offended. Two years back the State deserted it. I do not see when, in consequence of that treachery, the State has got itself into difficulties, that the Church is bound to expose itself in its service.

Not that the Church should be unforgiving; but, if others think with me, what great interest has it that things should remain as they are? I much fear society is rotten, to say a strong thing. Doubtless there are many specimens of excellence in the higher walks of life, but I am tempted to put it to you whether the persons you meet generally are—I do not say {209} consistently religious; we never can expect that in this world—but believers in Christianity in any true sense of the word. No, they are Liberals, and in saying this I conceive I am saying almost as bad of them as can be said of anyone. What will be the case if things remain as they are? Shall we not have men placed in the higher stations of the Church who are anything but real Churchmen? The Whigs have before now designed Parr for a Bishop; we shall have such as him. I would rather have the Church severed from its temporalities, and scattered to the four winds, than such a desecration of holy things. I dread above all things the pollution of such men as Lord Brougham, affecting to lay a friendly hand upon it …

You may not thank me for this long meditation; and to tell the truth I cannot, even in this long account of my thoughts, express them fully.

Do you know that my brother Frank has gone out of the country as a missionary? He left Oxford last August, and was to arrive at Bagdad by the middle of January.

You ask me what I am doing. Why, I am going to be an author, but anonymously? I am thinking of writing two works on theological subjects, for a library which is coming out under the Bishop of London's sanction. And I am retiring from the tuition.


Hastings: March 17, 1831.
I am truly glad that you have undertaken the work on the Articles, as I think it is very much wanted, and there seems scarcely a commencement of what you will do satisfactorily, an illustration of the historical sense and the language employed in them. With regard to the Councils, though, as generally treated, they are the driest portion of Ecclesiastical History, I should think an account of them might be made both interesting and improving, by exhibiting them in reference to, and as characteristic of, the ages in which they occurred. You may also be of much service, I hope, in stemming heterodoxy, one of whose strongest holds is, perhaps, the so-called history of doctrines. I do not think there will be much to be gained for your object from German writers. Some of the Fathers, or rather parts of the Fathers, you must, of course, read; but this will all aid towards your great object. I should {210} think this little essay would be of great use to yourself, towards nerving you for that design. Oh, for a conclusion of the Catalogue and the time when my hands will be free! But all in God's good time.

I may regard myself now as quite well, although my chest is still not strong.

The following letter to Mr. Rose, written some months before their personal acquaintance began, relates to the Ecclesiastical History on which Mr. Newman had lately written to Dr. Jenkyns.


March 28, 1831.
I have allowed myself to delay my answer to your obliging letter from a sense of the importance of the undertaking to which you invite me. I am apprehensive that a work on the Councils will require a more extensive research into Ecclesiastical History than I can hope to complete in the time to be assigned me for writing it. Otherwise I am well disposed towards it.

You do not mention the number of Councils you intend should be included in the History. May I trouble you to give me a description of the kind of work you desire, and what books you especially refer to in your letter as the sources of information, and what time you can grant me?

I fear I should not be able to give my mind fully to the subject till the autumn, though I wish to commence operations sooner. If I undertook it, it would be on the understanding that it was to be but introductory to the subject which Mr. Jenkyns mentioned to you—the Articles.

I had considered a work on the Articles might be useful on the following plan: First, a defence of Articles; then the history of our own. Then an explanation of them founded on the historical view. Then a dissertation on the sources of proof—for example, revelation or nature, the Bible or the Church, the Old or New Testament, &c. Then some account of the terms used in Theology as a science—i.e. Trinity, Person, merits of Christ, Grace, Regeneration, &c. And, lastly, some general view of Christian doctrines to be proved from Scripture, and referred to their proper places in the Articles. It seems to me much better thus to collect the subjects {211} of the Articles under heads than to explain and prove each separately, with a view both to clearness of statement and fulness in the proof from Scripture.

Will you consider it out of place in one so little known as myself to add, that, though I am most desirous you should be put into full possession of my views, and at all times wish to profit by the suggestions of others, and am not aware I differ in any material point from our standard writers, yet, intending to take on myself the entire responsibility of everything I write, I should be unwilling to allow any alteration without the concurrence of my own judgment? And if the changes required were great, I should cheerfully acquiesce in my MS. being declined, rather than consent to suppress or modify any part of it which I deemed of importance.

In saying this, perhaps, I am raising actual difficulties in my wish to avoid possible prospective ones; yet, in a matter of this kind, I deem it best to use as much openness as possible, begging your indulgence of it, and being entirely disposed to welcome in turn any frank statement of your own sentiments which you may find it necessary to communicate to me.

After the academical success of his brilliant pupil—H. W. Wilberforce—the father and Mr. Newman exchange letters.


Kensington Gore: April 21, 1831.
 … I scarcely need assure you that your testimony in my dear Henry's favour is not a little gratifying to me. And I can truly assure you that the pleasure it gives me is much enhanced by the high respect for the principles, the judgment, and the means of information of the individual by whom that favourable opinion was expressed. I believe I had been led to underrate the probabilities of Henry's succeeding in his competition for the fellowship, and therefore I was less disappointed. I know not your opinion as to the profession to which he should devote himself. You probably have heard that he has entered into one of the Inns of Court, though declaring that it is contrary to his inclination. I leave the decision entirely to himself. Allow me, before I conclude, to express my hopes, that, whenever we may have the opportunity of cultivating each other's personal acquaintance and friendship, {212} you will allow us to embrace it. That it may please God to grant you a course of usefulness and comfort is the cordial wish of yours very sincerely,

The 'Chronological Notes' show that there were still pupils to occupy time and heart. Entries occur up to the end of the year. Thus:

April 30.—H. Wilberforce went for good.
May 6.—Introduced Rogers to my Mother.
May 18.—Classical list out, Wood and Wilson (his pupils) firsts.
June 4.—Mathematical class list out, Perkins first class [a pupil of mine, now dead. I don't recollect that I knew him intimately], Wilson second.
June 11.—Second day of Collections; finished my men—and so ends my Tutor's work.

In the Long Vacation Mr. Newman paid a long-remembered visit to Dartington, the home of Hurrell Froude.


Dartington: July 7, 1831.
I despatched a hasty letter yesterday from Torquay which must have disappointed you from its emptiness, but I wished you to know my progress. As we lost sight of the Needles twilight came on and we saw nothing of the coast. The night was beautiful, and on my expressing an aversion to the cabin, Froude and I agreed to sleep on deck. [Froude in consequence caught a cold which turned to the epidemic influenza, and was the beginning of his long fatal illness.—J. H. N.] I have for a long while almost vowed never to sleep in those gregarious cabins. I robbed my berth of a blanket., in which I enveloped my blessed person, and putting over it my cloak, stretched myself on a bench. At one o'clock, passing Portland Lights, the swell was considerable, as it always is there.

When I awoke, a little before four, we were passing the Devonshire coast, about fifteen miles off it. By six we were entering Torbay, and by seven we landed at Torquay. We had debated whether to go to Plymouth, or to land at Dartmouth, {213} or at Torquay—our decision would have been furthered on our finding the steamer's flag was a tricolour; but was ultimately made by a desire for breakfast, &c.

Limestone and sandstone rocks of Torbay are very brilliant in their colours, and sharp in their forms; strange to say, I believe I never saw real rocks before in my life. This consciousness keeps me very silent, for I feel I am admiring what everyone knows, and it is foolish to observe upon.

You see a house said to have belonged to Sir Walter Raleigh; what possessed him to prefer the court at Greenwich to a spot like this? Really the abstract vague desire of distinction does seem to me the most morbid unnatural feeling going. I can understand a man tempted by a definite tangible prize, or a dependent man setting out to seek his fortune; but not that gluttonous indefinite craving for honours and reputation.

Now I know I am writing great nonsense! but since I should say it in words if I were with you, I will write it down.

I know I am writing in a very dull way, but can only say that the extreme deliciousness of the air and the fragrance of everything makes me languid, indisposed to speak or write, and pensive. My journey did not fatigue me to speak of, and I have no headache, deafness, or whizzing in my ears; but really I think I should dissolve into essence of roses, or be attenuated into an echo, if I lived here. Certainly I am not more original in my remarks and disposed to start a conversation than an echo, as the people here as yet find, though they may not yet have discovered my relationship to an essence.

What strikes me most is the strange richness of everything. The rocks blush into every variety of colour, the trees and fields are emeralds, and the cottages are rubies. A beetle I picked up at Torquay was as green and gold as the stone it lay upon, and a squirrel which ran up a tree here just now was not the pale reddish-brown to which I am accustomed, but a bright brown-red. Nay, my very hands and fingers look rosy, like Homer's Aurora, and I have been gazing on them with astonishment. All this wonder I know is simple, and therefore, of course, do not you repeat it. The exuberance of the grass and the foliage is oppressive, as if one had not room to breathe, though this is a fancy—the depth of the valleys and the steepness of the slopes increase the illusion— {214} and the Duke of Wellington would be in a fidget to get some commanding point to see the country from. The scents are extremely fine, so very delicate yet so powerful, and the colours of the flowers as if they were all shot with white. The sweet peas especially have the complexion of a beautiful face. They trail up the wall mixed with myrtles as creepers. As to the sunset, the Dartmoor heights look purple, and the sky close upon them a clear orange. When I turn back and think of Southampton Water and the Isle of Wight, they seem by contrast to be drawn in Indian ink or pencil. Now I cannot make out that this is fancy; for why should I fancy? I am not especially in a poetic mood. I have heard of the brilliancy of Cintra, and still more of the East, and I suppose that this region would pale beside them; yet I am content to marvel at what I see, and think of Virgil's description of the purple meads of Elysium. Let me enjoy what I feel, even though I may unconsciously exaggerate.


Dartington: July 15, 1831.
The other day the following lines came into my head, They are not worth much, but I transcribe them.

There stray'd awhile amid the woods of Dart
One who could love them, but who durst not love;
A vow had bound him, ne'er to give his heart
To streamlet bright, or soft secluded grove.

'Twas a hard, humbling task, onwards to move
His easy captured eye from each fair spot,
With unattached and lonely step to rove
O'er happy mends, which soon its print forgot:
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim lot.

The weather has been beautiful here. The whole house has had the influenza, and been unable to go out of doors, and in consequence I have as yet seen nothing, and been nowhere. I was not sure I should not catch it myself. I have had a sermon [namely, in my first volume of 'Parochial Sermons' on the Pool of Bethesda: 'Scripture, a Record of Human Sorrow'] to write for tomorrow, which I do believe to be as bad a one as I have ever written, for I was not in the humour, but I do not tell people so; it may do good in spite of me. {215}


Dartington: July 20, 1831.
In twelve days I have written you five letters. I am amused, then, there should be a complaint of my silence.

I mean to leave this place on Friday by an afternoon coach, and you may expect me at Rose Hill about five or six on Saturday. I send you a philosophical poem [Note 7] on the origin of poetry, tendered by me the other day for a lady's album.

Possibly for a like distinction the following lines may have been penned, composed, as they must have been, amid a gathering of young people, to whom fair weather would be all important for showing off their beautiful country. The reader will remember that St. Swithin's Day falls on July 15, the date of this letter.

Dartington: July 15, 1831.

Gently, wet saint, descend, nor sluice
Our summer's broad sunshine;
Or hasten autumn's riper juice,
And let thy rain be wine.


Dartington: July 29, 1831.
People down here regret your departure; so I hope that the benefit you have derived from your excursion may some time or other bring you down again.


Oriel College: August 10, 1831.
I am just come in to Oxford for a while, and find a letter from Mozley, in which he sends you the following message: 'I have heard of Bulteel's proceedings through the newspapers. If Froude remembers his proposal, and you think St. Ebbe's a fit sphere for me, I should be much obliged to you if you would take any steps that may not be inconvenient to you to procure the curacy for us, making what use you like of my name.'

I don't know whether you have heard Bulteel is about to leave Oxford; he has communicated it to his parishioners from the pulpit. {216}

Keble, who was here yesterday, wishes you to have a country parish; he did not give his reasons. I have nothing to say except that my work [N.B. 'The Arians'] opens a grand and most interesting field to me; but how I shall ever be able to make one assertion, much less to write one page, I cannot tell. Any one, pure categorical, would need an age of reading and research. I shall confine myself to hypotheticals; your 'if' is a great philosopher, as well as peacemaker.

The preceding letter seems to imply that the idea had been for R. H. Froude and T. Mozley to take a parish in conjunction.


August 16, 1831.
Since you may wish to have a definite categorical answer to Mozley's question, I will say No ... Whatever you may think, I have a serious wish, and, if I could presume to say so, intention of working at the Ecclesiastical History of the Middle Ages. Willie [his brother] continues very steady, getting up at half-past five, and working without wasting time till two or three ... I think I am myself improved in composition, and attribute it to imitation of Plato.


August 24, 1831.
I wish you would come and stay a day or two with us. You would find us all uninfluenzed now, and the master of the house [his father] so gay as to read prayers at Fairford Church on Sunday. Moreover, I want some of your criticism, for somehow I can't get it out of my head that you are a real honest man.

We don't hear a very good account of Pusey, and are much inclined to suppose that he does not take care of himself. Do you know of anybody who would be fit and likely to take the place of second Master at Rugby, with emolument of 500l. or 600l. a year, in case Arnold should not succeed in an arrangement which I believe he has in view? {217}

BONAMY PRICE, ESQ. (Master at Rugby), TO REV. J. H. NEWMAN

August 1831.
The resignation of Mr. Moore having created a vacancy among our Masters, it has been suggested to us that Mr. Blencowe—a Fellow of your college—would be a very fit person to become his successor, and might not be unwilling to accept the situation. I have, therefore, taken the liberty of begging your opinion of him in reference to an engagement of this sort; judging that, from your personal acquaintance with him, there was no person to whom I could more properly apply than to yourself. His well-known character in the University leaves no room for doubt on the score of attainment, but your own experience in tuition must have convinced you, that there are many other requisites for the successful carrying on of the work of education. I do not know that anything in particular is needed for Rugby more than for any other school, except that Dr. Arnold has a sort of idiosyncrasy for a man who is [agathos paizein]. At least we all feel from experience that cheerfulness of temper and a ready turn for amusing oneself are amongst the most valuable qualifications for a schoolmaster. I hope you will excuse the liberty I thus take of asking for what I know you may feel much reluctance to give; but I trust I may plead my apology on the ground of the importance of the matter, and the necessity imposed on Dr. Arnold of procuring as certain information as he can. I hope you continue to receive favourable accounts of your brother. I have had a letter from him, written in very good spirits, and, I am glad to add, showing evidence that general and classical literature has lost no interest with him.


September 18, 1831.
Dr. Whately is made Archbishop of Dublin.


September 1831.
I am quite astonished at what you tell me about Whately, and can only say I hope he and the Irish Church may be the {218} better for it this day six months. It will be a step in that direction if they have made no truckling bargain with him to sacrifice the temporalities to a reformed Parliament, if such be their good pleasure. If you see him, pray assure him of my very sincere and constant good wishes on so trying an occasion.

The following letter shows how fixed Mr. Newman's mind was on Oxford as his lifelong home.


Oriel College: September 22, 1831.
I was very much vexed that I should have been away when you paid my sisters a visit here last July. I will not allow you have seen Oxford yet. It was a most informal proceeding to be lionised, as you were, by one who was under no monastic vow to love it and be true to it for life.


September 22, 1831.
We shall be happy to see you next week, and perhaps I may have the pleasure of introducing you to a friend of mine—an Oriel incumbent—Penrose, of Coleby, worth your knowing if you never met him.


September 30, 1831.
Mr. Lily [Scout], or rather, my dear Newman, for when I am about it I may as well speak to a friend as not, the purport of this note is to inquire about two pair of shoes which Hill says have never made their appearance in our house since I last came from Oxford; so we suppose they are pursuing their studies in the room I then occupied, viz. ground floor on the right, Jenkyns's staircase. If so, please to have them sent me &c. ... otherwise I shall be very unfit to accept the many invitations which, no doubt, I shall receive from high personages in London next week.

I must now thank you very heartily for your patient {219} endurance of all the prose and verse which was inflicted on you last Monday and Tuesday, and what is more, I don't care how soon I have an opportunity of the same kind again. Penrose went off this morning to rub off a little of the Tory dust which he might have contracted during his stay here, by a visit to William Short, of Chippenham. Then he goes to my brother's, then to Rugby, so that he will stand a fair chance of getting home in a tolerably neutral state.

During the summer and autumn of 1831 are entrances in the 'Chronological Notes' which tell, in short, events of private or public interest.

1831. August 2.—Rogers [Lord Blachford] came and read with me, stationing himself at Iffley.
August 20.—Took tea with Rogers to meet Gladstone.
September 1.—Made Rural Dean.
September 18.—Heard that Whately was appointed Archbishop of Dublin, as Rogers and I were walking over Magdalen Bridge into Oxford.
October 4.—Whately and Hind left for Ireland.
October 10.—Went over by coach to Cotton, at Denchworth, walking from the Lamb.
October 12.—Walked back to Oxford, through clay fields, streams, and miry roads, about fifteen miles. [It was in this walk that I devised the mode of writing sermons which is my published mode. One, however, of that mode, is the one which I wrote at Dartington in the foregoing July—some of my old style are among the published ones.] [Note 8]
October 14.—My rule was to lecture at Littlemore every Friday.
October 21.—Resumed my task at the Councils ['The Arians'], though with many interruptions, for a while.
October 24.—On my return from my walk found present from my pupils, consisting of the Fathers.

The following letter is certainly remarkable as showing how unconscious Mr. Newman was of the gulf that was separating him from Dr. Whately and his school. {220}


October 16, 1831.
For some time Whately's promotion teased me much, and in a selfish way. As far as he himself is concerned, one must always feel sorrow about it, for I think he will not now have a day of peace till his life's end, any more than the Abbot Boniface after quitting the Abbey of Dumdrennon; and he thinks all this too. But my first annoyance was as to my own prospects, for I foresaw he would ask me some time or other to join him at Dublin, and not only did I feel it would seem selfish and ungrateful and cowardly not to do so, but I feared it might turn out to be my duty on direct grounds, and had even thought (that is, for some time) that a post in Ireland was the one thing which seemed to have claims enough to draw me from Oxford:—perhaps you have heard me say so.

However, by this time I think my mind is quite made up that it is my duty to remain where I am, so remain I shall. (Is it not good to answer before I am asked?) My reasons for remaining are these: first, I am actually engaged to Mr. Rose for a succession of works [historical, of the Councils, J. H. N.] the composition of which is quite incompatible with the duties of a post about an Archbishop; next, this engagement will be in itself a channel of exclusive usefulness, which I should be abandoning just as I had begun it; thirdly, the study of theology is very much neglected at Oxford, and I may be doing peculiar service to the place (by 'peculiar' I mean what others will not do) by cultivating it; fourthly, if times are troublous, Oxford will want hot-headed men, and such I mean to be, and I am in my place; fifthly, I have some doubts whether my health would stand an Irish engagement. Many minor reasons might be added to the above. I dread Whately proposing something [He never did; he knew me better than I knew myself—J. H. N.], but expect nothing immediate, though at first I did.

You may assure Rickards from me, that I am a reformer as much as he can be. I should like (as far as I can understand the matter) to substitute the First Prayer Book of King Edward for the present one; but such reforms are not popular, that is the worst of it; so that practically I do become an anti-reformer in the modern sense of the word. I am thankful the Bishops have lately played so bold a part, but I fear they {221} will still give way, a large number of them being frightened 'at the sound themselves have made.'

The Provost has again negatived my proposition of doing something for Littlemore ...


October 24, 1831.
I have today received a very valuable present of books from many of my new friends and pupils, consisting of thirty six volumes of the Fathers; among these are the works of Austin, Athanasius, Cyril Alexandrinus, Epiphanius, Gregory Nyssen, Origen, Basil, Ambrose, and Irenæus. They are so fine in their outsides as to put my former ones to shame, and the editions are the best. Altogether, I am now set up in the patristical line, should I be blessed with health and ability to make use of them.


Stowlangloft: October 25, 1831.
Harriett tells me a little about your employments, and when I can get rid of the regret I feel that the College has lost you [Note 9], I am well pleased to know they are what they are. I very earnestly hope they will put you into Whately's place [Headship of Alban Hall]; that ought to be vacant by this time; I am glad you are so sanguine about Oxford, it helps me to keep up my spirits about it, when else they would be apt to fail. Most people there fall so short of one's expectations, just when they have got to the point when they might begin to realise them.

This is an odd neighbourhood into which we are got here, and thronged with a set of rather rich, moderately learned, and immoderately liberal clergy. The spirit of the Bishop of Norwich has got into them so thoroughly, that if they had not shown themselves so earnest for the late Bill, one might have thought that they reckoned a decisive opinion the chief crime. Of course, here and there we have a hot man on one extreme side pitched against a still hotter on the other side. But the effect of these seems to be only to make the mass more certain than ever, that they are the wise happy men. There was a stir {222} made a few weeks ago, which I helped to make, to bring the clergy to meet together once a month within a given district. It may still come to something, but it is at present at a standstill; and two of the oldest and more influential clergy, who professed to like the timing in most respects, still gave it as their opinion that it was unnecessary, because all things that could be discussed had been discussed already in books, and the books might be bought as they were wanted. As far as I have been able to observe, hitherto, the people are either of the lowest order of Dissenters, and this to a vast extent, or else they are Churchmen without a jot of Christian knowledge. I wish you could come and see us, that I might talk to you of many things whereof I cannot write. I can say but little to you until you do, for I feel scarcely to know anything about you. Accept our love, and let it fetch you speedily.

[On the first alarm of the cholera in England.]

Rose Hill: November 12, 1831.
 … Should it [the cholera] increase, I wish you could have that cottage at Littlemore for head-quarters for nurses to be on the spot, without mixing with uncontaminated families, and for a depot of medicines, &c. And I should think it a privilege, while health permits, for you to consider me head nurse. I have the whole in my head, should it be ordained that our vicinity is to suffer under the visitation. Pray take care of your own health. Your usefulness is before you, I trust for the comfort of many, for many years.

Towards the close of 1831 the Notes have frequent mention of the cholera.

November 5.—News of the cholera in Sunderland.
November 6.—Prayers against the cholera in College Chapel.
November 15.—Had papers about the cholera for my parishioners.
November 17.—We sent out Keble's cards. Candidate for Poetry Professorship.
December 8.—Keble elected Poetry Professor.
December 9.—No sleep at night. Preached University sermon in the afternoon. My first as Select Preacher. {223}
December 17.—Went round the parish with cholera committee.
December 19.—Resumed opusculum after many weeks' interruption. [I was working too hard at '‘The Arians.' It was due the next summer, and I had only begun to read for it, or scarcely so, the summer past.]
December 26.—T. Mozley disappointing me, wrote and preached lecture for morning service [Note 10].


The correspondence of the year 1832 opens with what Mr. Newman calls a sad letter from Mr. Hurrell Froude, as giving an unfavourable report of his own health. In the course of it he enters a protest on his friend's method of working on the opusculum then in progress, and then continues:


 … If you go on fiddling with your introduction you will most certainly get into a scrape at last.

I have for the last five days been reading Marsh's Michaelis, which I took up by accident, and have been much interested by it. I see that old Wilberforce [Robert] owes to it much of the profundity which I have before now been floored and overawed by. It has put many things into my head that I never thought of before.


January 13, 1832.
Your letter was most welcome, sad as it was; I call it certainly from beginning to end a sad letter, and yet somehow sad letters, in their place and in God's order, are as acceptable as merry ones.

What I write for now is to know why you will not trust your brother [N.B. William Froude] to come up by himself. Let him go into your rooms, and do stop in Devonshire a good {224}

while; in which time you not only may get well, but may convince all about you that you are well—an object not to be neglected.

 … Your advice about my work ['The Arians'] is not only sage, but good; yet not quite applicable, though I shall bear it in mind. Recollect, my good sir, that every thought I think is thought, and every word I write is writing, and that thought tells, and that words take room, and that, though I make the introduction the whole book, yet a book it is; and, though this will not steer clear of the egg blunder, to have an introduction leading to nothing, yet it is not losing time. Already I have made forty-one pages out of eighteen.

Rickards has had in his parish a true instance of Asiatic cholera, as large as life. I believe he is but a few miles from the place where the Sunderland coal barges unload. The poor man died in three or four hours. No other case has occurred, but there is much English cholera about. He was dirty, out of health, in bad circumstances, a suspected man, and in a very dejected state of mind.


January 16, 1832.
I am very sorry we are not to see you, but don't much wonder at it, considering the twenty-six tomes of the Concilia [alluding to 'The Arians'].

As it happens, I could have come up now, for I have written and transcribed enough of something meant for Latin [NB—I suppose his first Poetry Lecture], but I think I am more in the spirit of the law by waiting till the 31st.

I am very sorry to hear of Froude [N.B.—This was the first symptom of his illness]. I don't think he takes care of himself.


January 22, 1832.
I would not willingly run the risk of displeasing you, yet I cannot refrain from attempting to express, however faintly, {225} the pleasure which your discourse this day afforded me. [N.B.—This is Sermon IV. of my University sermons [Note 12].]

How entirely and completely did I go along with all you said so wisely and so truly! How thankful did I feel to Divine Mercy for raising up preachers of righteousness! In times of sorrow and depression, when evil seems to prevail over all the earth, there is an inexpressible consolation to the broken spirit to see and know that there are still some faithful found.

February 20 there is mention of a distressing letter from Froude, and the following letter from Archdeacon Froude shows how serious he felt his son's case to be.


February 22.
If the doctor advises it, I have offered to be Hurrell's companion to the Mediterranean or any other part of the world that may be supposed most favourable in such a case as his. I own my faith in the advantages to be gained by going abroad is not very great, unless they can be procured under the most favourable circumstances. At any rate, I think your suggestion for his giving up the office of treasurer shall be followed.

We hear of severe weather in town and the northern part of the kingdom; here we have had a fortnight of the most delightful time I ever remember at this season.


April (Lent) 1832.
As I grew idle and did not know what to say, I gave up my subject (for the University pulpit), and determined to preach a practical discourse fit for Lent. Therefore I have written a sermon [Note 13] against Sir James Macintosh, Knight. I still have some need of your imprimatur, and send you 'Sermon Notes,' to which I shall expect an answer by return of post should you discern anything heretical, &c. {226}

Sir J. M. asserts that imperative per se as is the voice of conscience, yet the test of its correctness is its tending to the general good. In other words, he supposes benevolence unlimited and absolute to be the attribute of the Divine governance, and the end the general good; and that it is impossible ('a contradiction in terms') for anyone who holds (as all must hold as soon as it is stated) the general good to be the most desirable conceivable end of the world's course, to love and revere, i.e. to have religious feelings towards a Deity of mixed and imperfect benevolence. Accordingly that the feeling of justice in the mind is but a divinely appointed expedient for promoting the general good; and so again of purity.

I first speak of the cheerful hopeful view of human nature which prevails at all times (especially since the glorious 1688!). Such was Paley's, Addison's, Blair's, and now Maltby's, and the Liberals'. It is nominally like the Christian's cheerfulness, but superficial, &c.

Before quoting Sir James, I come to the arguments which I wish your critical judgment on. Justice is amiable as well as Benevolence (here I go somewhat beyond Butler; part 1, ch. 3, is it? Therefore be sharp). That we do not commonly love and revere Justice arises from our being sinners and fearing it. The saints in heaven glorify God, because 'just and true are his ways,' &c.—vide Revelation.


Fairford: April 6, 1832.
On the whole I like both the subject and the [topoi], especially that on which you tell me to be sharp. Perhaps the love of order is too minute; but I will make two or three remarks on the arrangement, &c.?

Might not something be said on the silliness of attempting to reduce all our moral instincts to one generally, &c.?


April 12, 1832.
 … As to your 'Annotationes in Neandri Homiliam,' to be sure I have treated them with what is now called 'true respect,' for I have spoken highly of them and done everything but use them. I did not have them till Saturday morning; so, having your authority for what I wanted—i.e. the soundness of the main position and the [topoi]—I became indolent. {227}

The following letter to a former pupil is of so private a character that it certainly could not have been inserted here but that the receiver has already put it into print in the Addenda to his 'Reminiscences of Oriel College.' It is therefore given as a specimen of Mr. Newman's letters of counsel to young men under his influence. The sentences which introduce the letter may be given from the 'Reminiscences.'

The new idea of Cardinal Newman as a mere dialectician and orator is so utterly repugnant to all my thoughts and feelings about him, that I am tempted to add a letter which I have early referred to. When ... I returned all Newman's letters, I lamented that I had not seen this for many years, and concluded I must have lost it. I was deceived by the most important matter of the letter not appearing on the first page. Newman had a better recollection of its contents, and, finding it among the rest, returned it. The letter was written just fifty years ago [at the date 1882], while Hampden was delivering his Bampton lectures, and Newman himself was deep in his 'Arians.'


Oriel College: May 13, 1832.
My dear Mozley,—J. Marriott has taken Buckland in this neighbourhood, on his going into orders in the autumn, but the curacy being vacant in June, the place will be several months without pastor. Stevens has told me this, and on my hinting to him the possibility of its suiting you for this interval, wished me to write to you; so I do. The place you know from our Wadley excursions. You distinguished yourself by racing up the lime groves with Wilberforce, and rested under the fragrant firs. The population about 600 (?). The distance twelve miles from Oxford. There is a cottage which is used as a parsonage for the curate. I hear you are thinking of duty, else I should not have mentioned it, considering your late illness. It has been very unfortunate that you were obliged to give up your engagement with Round, but all is for the best. I am truly rejoiced to find your desire for parochial employment has not diminished, and your opinion of your own health not such as to deter you. For myself, since I heard your symptoms, I have not been alarmed, but some {228} persons have been very anxious about you. I trust you are to be preserved for many good services in the best of causes. I am sure you have that in you which will come to good, if you cherish and improve it. You may think I am saying a strange thing, perhaps an impertinent and misplaced, and perhaps founded on a misconception, yet let me say it, and blame me if it be harsh—namely, that had it pleased God to have visited you with an illness as serious as the Colchester people thought it, it would almost have seemed a rebuke for past waste of time. I believe that God often cuts off those He loves, and who really are His, as a judgment, not interfering with their ultimate safety, but as passing them by as if unworthy of being made instruments of His purposes. It is an idea which was strong upon the mind of my brother, during his illnesses of the last year, while he did not doubt that his future interests were essentially secure. I doubt not at all that you have all along your illness had thoughts about it, far better than I can suggest; and I reflect with thankfulness that the very cause of it was an endeavour on your part to be actively employed; to the notion of which you still cling; yet I cannot but sorrowfully confess to myself (how much so ever I wish to hide the past from my own mind) that you have lost much time in the last four or five years. I say I wish to hide it from myself, because, in simple truth, in it I perceive a humiliation to myself. I have expected a good deal from you, and have said I expected it. Hitherto I have been disappointed, and it is a mortification to me. I do expect it still, but in the meanwhile time is lost, as well as hope delayed. Now you must not think it unkind in me noticing this now, of all times of the year. I notice it, not as if you needed the remark most now, rather less, but because you have more time to think about it now. It is one especial use of times of illness to reflect about ourselves. Should you, however, really acquit yourself in your own mind, thinking that the course you have pursued, of letting your mind take its own way, was the best for yourself, I am quite satisfied, and will believe you, yet shall not blame myself for leading you to the question, since no one can be too suspicious about himself. Doubtless you have a charge on you for which you must give account. You have various gifts, and you have good principles. For the credit of those principles, for the sake of the Church, and for the sake of your friends, who expect it of you, see that they bring forth fruit. I have often had—nay have—continually {229} anxious thoughts about you, but it is unpleasant to obtrude them, and now I have hesitated much before I got myself to say what I have said, lest I should only be making a fuss; yet believe me to speak with very much affection towards you. Two men who know you best, G. and C., appear to me to consider you not at all improved in your particular weak points. I differ from them. Perhaps I am exaggerating their opinion, and men speak generally and largely when they would readily, on consideration, make exceptions, &c. But if this be in any measure true, think what it implies? What are we placed here for, except to overcome the [euperistatos hamartia] [Note 14], whatever it be in our own case?

I have no great news for you from this place. Poor Dornford is laid up with a low fever. Wood has left us, and in a week or two commences the law in London. The few days he was in Oxford, after the decision of our election, were sad indeed: they made Froude and me quite uncomfortable, not as not fully participating in the act of the College (of which doubtless he has given you an account), but from the notion of W.'s going. Under any circumstances it is a painful thing on both sides when a man leaves residence and parts from his friends; but I am not to lose him, as we are to be very regular correspondents. Wilson is in residence this term, good fellow as he is. What a pleasant thing it would be to have more fellowships than eighteen—that is, if we could always have such good men to put into them!
Ever yours very affectionately,

In the June of 1832 Mr. Newman became personally acquainted with the Rev. Hugh James Rose, rector of Hadleigh, whose name is connected with the start of the Movement. Mr. Rose was then on a visit to Mr. Palmer, of Worcester. The entries in the 'Chronological Notes' imply that he was at once welcomed into the band of friends invited to meet him.

June 2.—Mr. Rose in Oxford.. Met him at Palmer's at dinner.
June 3.—Called, with Pusey, on Mr. Rose. This was the termination of their quarrel about German writers. {230}
June 4.—Froude and I dined at Palmer's to meet Mr. Rose.
June 6.—Dined with Ogilvie to meet Rose.

The impression made on Mr. Rose by his reception at Oxford is shown in the following passage in a letter to his late host.


 … He (Rose) says: I assure you that I have not spent so delightful a week for many years; and that I derived the very highest gratification which such times as these admit, from seeing such a body of learned, powerful and high-minded men as I had the good fortune, through your kindness, to meet at Oxford. Convey my best thanks to Mr. Ogilvie for his attention to me; and my kind regards to Mr. Newman, assuring him that his MS. [I suppose the 'Arians'] has just come into my hands safe, and that I am taking it into the country.

All through June Mr. Newman had been engaged upon his 'Arians,' or, to give its original title, 'First Volume of Councils.'

Mr. Froude had warned his friend not to go 'fiddling on' with his preface. Mr. Newman's solicitude over this first work showed itself throughout. He grudged no pains; wrote and rewrote; read passages to his home circle; sought the criticism of his friends. Mr. Henry Wilberforce made free to tell him that the style was not, to his judgment, equal to that of his sermons; finally, he notes in his diary, 'the last days of my working upon the “Arians” I was tired wonderfully, continually on the point of fainting away, quite worn out.'

Absorbed as these passages show Mr. Newman to have been in his literary work, the correspondence of this time proves his mind to have been very much occupied with the questions involved in his accepting the office of Dean of his College. {231}


June 28, 1832.
My dear Jenkyns,—The more I think about it, the more it seems to me to be the business of the College to consider whether they will make me Dean, rather than mine whether I will accept their offer. So I have come to the conclusion to take the office, if it comes to me; and leave the responsibility of first moving in the matter to them. At the same time, as a member of the College, and bound moreover in duty to it, I am desirous of clearing and expediting the business by any explanations it may be in my power to give.
Ever yours,


June 30, 1832.
My dear Jenkyns,—I write, instead of coming to you, in order to be explicit. It certainly strikes one that the College, being electors, have the direct responsibility of electing.

Had I anything to communicate either about myself or the Provost, I ought to do so; but I have nothing. For the Provost, I maintain I can know no more than yourself what will happen on his part; and for myself, I am not conscious of cherishing any specific plan or novel principle about College discipline, &c., which I am desirous of bringing into operation, or I would say so frankly. Did I know of any unsurmountable obstacle to my discharging the duties of the office efficiently, for my own sake, I would decline it. But an experiment it certainly is—an experiment, which I do not say I will do my utmost (if it is made) to bring to a successful issue, for of course I am already bound to that, but which would lead me, on taking the office, to anticipate the chance, whether from your wish or my own, of my not holding it another year. I can say no more than this; and all this, only in evidence, so to say; for you all are the judges; not I.

Why should I, being satisfied with what I am, go out of my way to bring responsibility on myself? At the same time I can say with sincerity that to be elected Dean is a mark of confidence which I have done nothing to deserve.

Excuse this long talk, which is more than I thought it would be. Now to your questions. {232}

1. I do not recollect the words of the Statute, but without waiting for precise terms, I fully think that the Dean is bound to assist and act under the Provost in maintaining the discipline and good order of the College.

2. I fully allow that the discretion of the Dean is limited, i.e. its particular acts stopped by the veto of the Provost.

But here I will make some remarks; though, since they do not interfere with the above, they may seem irrelevant.

(1) I conceive the Dean at liberty to maintain things as he finds them, when he wishes: i.e. without dreaming of interfering with the Provost's discretion, I hold the Dean to have the right of acting himself by existing rules; e.g. supposing (to take an absurd case) it were proposed that the gentlemen commoners should sleep out of College, the Dean need not be a party to such arrangement.

(2) I think the Dean has the right of determining whether or not he is acting up to his duty as prescribed by statute and custom; e.g. supposing my feelings go strongly against administering the Sacrament to an individual, and the Provost wishes me, and I refuse—here his veto cannot come in; he can only say 'you are not acting up to your office'; a point to be decided by my judgment, not his.

(3) Is not the Dean the chaplain of the College, i.e. the sole officiator in the ordinary service of the Church? i.e. I exclude the Communion Service.

I throw out these observations as they occur to me—but at present they seem correct.
Ever yours,


July 4, 1832.
My dear Jenkyns,—I agree entirely in your view, abstractedly considered, that the Dean has no independent authority, and is but a Vice-Provost. But abstract views are little to the purpose, as you observe—you have yourself given it as your opinion that the Dean, as any other officer, must have a discretionary power in fact; and whether this arises from the Provost's granting it or not, and therefore is or is not subject to his limiting, is not a practical question. I grant it is so originated, so limited; but the difficulty is, how shall we know that all parties to the proposed arrangement {233} agree to the previous question and allow the Dean's actual discretionary power? Now, of course, it would be the height of disrespect and indelicacy to ask the Provost whether he has altered his (practical) views on this subject, and I for my part hardly think it necessary, were it ever so proper; for men change their line of conduct without knowing it themselves, and I think it probable the Provost would. But if other persons have a suspicion, which I have not, that the Provost will not practically allow the principle which you allow; let them not think of making me Dean, for no good could come of the arrangement. On my part I avow without reserve, if it be necessary to speak strongly, that it would be, in my opinion, underhand in me to attempt any change which I believed the Provost to consider important, without giving him the opportunity of interposing, i.e. without acquainting him with it. Even as Tutor, an office which, though in his gift, may appear to some to be held not strictly of him, but of the University—I never made changes in fact (though the above were my abstract views) without full written explanation to those who were senior to me in the tuition, and their sanction upon it. Much less should I do so in a place which, though not in the Provost's gift, is in the abstract that of a mere assistant to him in certain specified functions.

At the same time, I never will pledge myself to mention to the Provost all I do on my own discretion; there being a multitude of little things which one who has the superintendence of others does at the moment and forgets at once—and the discriminating between great matters and little must, I conceive, rest with his own judgment. However, let me come to the practical point of the Sacrament; for if the question is to turn on this, we are both of us losing time.

I have at present no formed opinion about administering it to the mass of undergraduates; but if I have to make up my mind (which I cannot do all at once on an important subject), I think it very likely I shall make it a point of conscience to act upon it. Then the question will be whether the Provost will make it a point of conscience, on the other hand, to bid me administer it when I object. If so, dropping abstract views, it is frank to say, I should not consider myself bound to obey him in a matter so solemn. I will further say, that, at this very time (I may change my opinion next week) I am disinclined towards the present rule of (practically) obliging the undergraduates to communicate. {234}

I will say no more in answer to your letter, before I can see whether this brings things to an issue; merely adding that to ask the Provost whether he would allow me this discretion about the Sacrament, seems to me wrong; it is like imposing conditions on him, and I think he should be supreme; his discretionary power being limited solely by the practicability of governing well by means of it.

In July of this year Mr. Newman visited Cambridge, going from thence to Mr. Rickards. To his Mother he gives his first impressions of Cambridge.

Cambridge: July 16, 1832.
Having come to this place with no anticipations, I am quite taken by surprise and overcome with delight. This, doubtless, you will think premature in me, inasmuch as I have seen yet scarcely anything, and have been writing letters of business to Mr. Rose, and Rivingtons. But really, when I saw at the distance of four miles, on an extended plain, wider than the Oxford, amid thicker and greener groves, the Alma Mater Cantabrigiensis lying before me, I thought I should not be able to contain myself, and, in spite of my regret at her present defects and past history, and all that is wrong about her, I seemed about to cry 'Floreat æternum.' Surely there is a genius loci here, as in my own dear home; and the nearer I came to it the more I felt its power. I do really think the place finer than Oxford, though I suppose it isn't, for everyone says so. I like the narrow streets; they have a character, and they make the University buildings look larger by contrast. I cannot believe that King's College is not far grander than anything with us; the stone, too, is richer, and the foliage more thick and encompassing. I found my way from the town to Trinity College like old Œdipus, without guide, by instinct; how, I know not. I never studied the plan of Cambridge.

Mr. Rose is away; he is very ill, which accounts for his silence. Should you see Froude, tell him he is married.

P.S—Let me know about the cholera. I trust we shall have no cases, but it would distress me deeply should a case occur while I am away. {235}


July 18, 1832.
I was anxious to see you before I left Oxford, but called at your rooms more than once in vain. I often think of you, and not without some anxiety, when I reflect that the cholera is now in Oxford; and though it is true that few persons in the better classes of society have taken it yet, it is impossible to avoid feeling some uneasiness when it is likely to come into the vicinity, perhaps the presence, of a valued friend. Let me hear, my dear friend, of your health, and may God have you under His protection.

I congratulate you very sincerely on getting rid of MS. Few sensations in life are more agreeable. It is like taking a load off the conscience. I cannot tell with what interest and satisfaction I look forward to a perusal of the results. [N.B.—My work on the Arians.]

Mr. Newman returned to Oxford on the 24th of July, and reports 'Cholera in St. Clement's.' That it was not confined to the poorer classes is well known. The following letters show the general impression of alarm.


July 27, 1832.
 ... I did not know whether I might not say that I should be coming to see you at Oxford. I had hoped that my Mother would consent, but the deaths in the upper classes this week in London have too much alarmed her. Mrs. R. Smith was a cousin of my Father's. She was well on Sunday morning, seized at noon while on her way to church, and, in spite of the most prompt attendance of the most eminent practitioners, dead by midnight.

Lord Carrington writes to my Father that the London gentry are flying in every direction.

In the 'Chronological Notes' is written:

There had been no case of cholera in St. Mary's and Littlemore. The cases, I think, were all in the parishes which were upon the clay. {236}


Blackheath: July 23, 1832.
 … I have to thank you again for your present at parting. I have not yet discovered (though I think I have gone through most of it two or three times) where the liberty lies which you asserted yourself to have taken with me: but I do see enough of the private nature to feel extremely complimented at being allowed to see them, and being trusted with a copy.

[Rogers, having passed his examination, seemed now to have done with Oxford; so I gave him the little book as if in parting.]

I have seen Wood and Wilson lately. Wood rather knocked up by conveyancing. But he is by this time in Yorkshire, where he will remain till November. He wants a little lecturing from you; he goes to bed late ...


Oriel College: July 25, 1832.
I soon heard the speed of your operations at Rivington's, but from Mr. Rose I have only just heard. Through a variety of circumstances I have been in suspense till yesterday about the fate of my MS. Turrill, indeed, delivered it at once, but a note to Mr. Rose, which I had not in time for you, was sent wrong by Rivington. Thus over-care is often defeated by itself. Directly you went, I felt unwell, and the next night had to send for Mr. W. Nothing ought to have alarmed me, but I had been near fainting more than once, and altogether (fear being more imaginative at night-time—did you never find this? it partly accounts for the fear of ghosts), I must confess I played the fool. Continuing, however, indisposed, I was obliged to leave my work, and went to Cambridge in hopes of finding Mr. Rose, but he had left from illness, and I went on to Rickards, and fetched back my sister, finding your letter on my return yesterday. I am glad you have commenced your wanderings, and the violoncello, though they do not proceed contemporaneously. You have no chance of seeing me: I am so uncertain. After you went, we had a fatal case of cholera at Littlemore. It was not in my parish, but it made us very busy, being so very near. Between a fortnight {237} and three weeks having past without a second case, we consider we are as safe as any other part of the neighbourhood: though I have heard, on my return, that the obstinate blockheads have actually first, not burnt, but buried, and now again actually dug up, the bed furniture of the poor patient which they were ordered to destroy. Is not this the very spirit of Whiggery: opposition for its own sake, striving against the truth, because it happens to be commanded us; as if wisdom were less wise because it is powerful? and can we wonder at the brutishness of the Israelites in the desert, with such specimens before our eyes? As to the cholera, it is not yet formidable here, I am thankful to say, or I should not have gone away. (I have wandered—I meant to say, that perhaps it might come on and keep me here, and prevent my ramblings.) We have had altogether about forty cases—confined, I believe to St. Ebbe's, St. Aldate's, the Jail, &c., though we cannot, of course, boast, were it but for the bad luck of it. For myself, in these things it is well to be a fatalist; I am practically so. Whether imagination would get the better, did I actually see a case, I cannot tell, but at present I am unable to realise the danger. Surely one's time is come, or it is not; the event is out of our power. David's meaning is evident to me in a way I never understood it before. When he speaks of falling into hands higher than human, he means to say that the pestilence is beyond the physicians; but famine is not beyond the chief butlers and bakers of Israel. The difficulty is to unite resignation with activity. Here we are only called to be resigned, which is comparatively easy. Then, again, when one argues about oneself, there is on one's own mind the strong impression (I know it is not a good argument, but fear is but an impression, and this works by a counter-imagination) that one is destined for some work, which is yet undone in my case. Surely my time is not yet come. So much for the cholera.

I can hardly tell you what I would say about the verses I put into your hands. It was their private nature which constituted the liberty, for why should I tell you of things which do not pertain to you? it is, literally, being impertinent. Nor am I satisfied with your reference to the Buckland occurrence [Note 15], for there is every difference between a stranger and {238} a friend. However, I see by your letter that you suffer me, and that is enough. Do not think this absurd. We may feel things to be done in kindness, which yet our judgment condemns as out of propriety; and what I feared was, you might have an instinctive feeling that I had done what I ought not, though my own judgment, having become puzzled, might not have seen it. And even as it is, I sometimes feel quite ashamed of myself for having given you the book, and have all manner of absurd spectres dancing before me, the nephews of mauvaise honte (I cannot make out who their father is), which is more painful than guilt.

I propose going away next week to Brighton and Tunbridge Wells. I had a plan of going through part of Wales with Palmer of Worcester, in the autumn. It would be curious if we met. Davies is dead, and there will be two vacancies next year. They say Marriott of Balliol is to be a formidable competitor to you and W. How I should rejoice if you and W. succeed! It is far from impossible. I suppose Wood stands at Merton! It would complete one's happiness did he get in there. Wilson tells me that wretch H. W., instead of settling to some serious work, has been falling in and out of love in Yorkshire. Cura ut valeant oculi tui.

P.S. Calcott's is the best introductory book on thorough bass that I know. Shield is a goose.


Redesdale: August 24, 1832.
 … I hope when we go to Dublin in November I shall be able to finish a first volume containing the history of persecution {239} till the end of the ninth century. The second volume, if I live to write it, will be the history of the Inquisition properly so called. I long to see your book [the 'Arians'].

In spite of violent prejudice, the Archbishop [Whately] cannot but gain ground in the esteem of all good men that come near him. But oh, my dear Newman, what furious bigots are to be found here in the Protestant party! I have heard a sermon, beautifully written and delivered, that shocked me more than any speech of Mr. Hume, considering where it was delivered. Satire, sarcasm, everything objectionable, from the pulpit, and the congregation in an open titter. I expected 'hear hear' at every moment; and yet the preacher is high Evangelical.

 … What will the Morton Pinckney people say when they see the new Rector [Thomas Mozley]? Will they not suspect that he has run away from Lecture and gone there for fun to personate his tutor? He is, however, an excellent young man, and I trust the parishioners will soon find out his growing good qualities.


August 25, 1832.
 … I will let you know about my coming back another time; but, my dear Newman, you have yet to learn how to be a vicar, or you would see the impropriety of saying to a curate 'I am obliged to you for staying'; for it is my business to be here always. I am reading a little Chrysostom, which I find a great comfort and delight.


The sermon which I preached for you at Grove met with the fate which it would have been more entitled to had you preached it; it extracted 70l., and was 'ordered to be printed.'

Now to myself the sermon appears infinitely less calculated to be printed than even the former one; because it is more the form of a sermon than the other; and there is no one subject discussed in it, as I was obliged to make it very popular.

How far might this incidental protest against the sad neglect of our heathen countrymen in our great towns or our {240} villages, or the greater publicity given to the success with which the exertions here have, in this case, been blessed, be likely to produce other similar?

To solve this I send you my sermon; but I must insist that you will not even look at it if you are hurried still with your work, or need repose.

Should you advise this to be printed (which I think you will not), what should you do with regard to the other?

Be sure you will be acting most kindly to me by consulting your own comfort. I was truly glad to hear from Mrs. Newman that you were much better.


September 8, 1832.
The consecration day was, indeed, a day much to be remembered. Pusey's sermon was very beautiful, and is in the press ... I did not hear that he was injured by preaching, and have seen both his brothers since, and inquired after him. What progress has there been in the cholera?


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1. The reader of today must be reminded that, of the periodicals here mentioned, the British Critic did not come into the hands of the party connected with the Movement till 1838, and the Christian Remembrancer—at the date of this letter a Monthly—not till 1844.
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2. Epist. i. 16, 73.
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3. Afterwards Dean of Winchester.
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4. A statement of the facts of the case, written by Mr. Newman, will be found in vol. ii. of The Via Media of the Anglican Church.
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5. The words, though found in a fragment of Euripides (Fr. 836), do not occur in the Antigone. They may be a reminiscence of

[es d' hugron
agkon et emphron parthanon prosptussetai].—Soph. Antig. 1236.

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6. See Parochial and Plain Sermons, vol. viii.: 'Jeremiah a Lesson for the Disappointed.'
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7. Verses, p. 55, 'Seeds in the Air.'
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8. Being asked what was his former style, he spoke of Simon's style, divisions 1, 2, 3, into different heads.
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9. By Mr. Newman retiring from the tutorship.
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10. It is justice to the delinquent to give his recollections on the occasion. 'He [Newman] never complained of an unexpected addition to his work, or any interruption. I had undertaken a saint's day sermon. An hour before the time I presented myself a defaulter. I could not do it. Newman threw aside the work he was busily and eagerly engaged on and wrote a sermon, which, when delivered, might indicate days of careful preparation.'—Reminiscences chiefly of Oriel and the Oxford Movement, vol. i. p. 207.
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11. [Author of Origines Liturgicæ.—J. H. N.]
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12. The title of Sermon IV. is 'The Usurpation of Reason.' The text, Matt. xi. 19: 'Wisdom is justified of her children.'
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13. See Sermon VI., University Sermons. Title: 'On Justice, as a Principle of Divine Governance.' Text, Jer. viii. 11: 'They have healed the hurt of the daughter of my people slightly, saying Peace, peace, when there is no peace.'
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14. Heb. xii. 1.
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15. The 'verses' were an early collection of poems kept, though printed, so strictly private, and for so limited a number of readers, that it was an effort to give it to intimate friends beyond this inner circle. Several of the poems, however, now find a place in the book of Verses. The 'Buckland occurrence’ may possibly apply to the following extempore stanzas, written for a lady who was to him a stranger, who had committed her Album to a mutual acquaintance (the present Editor) with an urgent petition that Mr. Newman should be persuaded to contribute some lines to her book. This petition was preferred as a joke, but a certain pair of kittens which had great prominence given to them by his host (the Rev, Thomas Mozley), who lavished on them much wit and humour, suggested these lines, written in pencil:

Two kittens gain our pleased caress
And share our rival praise;
One has the rarer cleverness,
One Beauty’s winning ways.

Thoughtless of self, a friendly pair,
In musing mood they sit;
No airs deform the modest Fair,
No gibe the silent Wit.

So is it minds of noblest mould
Still choose a peaceful life;
Their friends the flag of war unfold
And trim the party strife.

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Newman Reader — Works of John Henry Newman
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