The Oxford Movement by R.W. Church

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In this unsparing and absorbing warfare, what did Froude aim at--what
was the object he sought to bring about, what were the obstacles he
sought to overthrow?

He was accused, as was most natural, of Romanising; of wishing to bring
back Popery. It is perfectly certain that this was not what he meant,
though he did not care for the imputation of it. He was, perhaps, the
first Englishman who attempted to do justice to Rome, and to use
friendly language of it, without the intention of joining it. But what
he fought for was not Rome, not even a restoration of unity, but a
Church of England such as it was conceived of by the Caroline divines
and the Non-jurors. The great break-up of 1830 had forced on men the
anxious question, "What is the Church as spoken of in England? Is it the
Church of Christ?" and the answers were various. Hooker had said it was
"the nation"; and in entirely altered circumstances, with some
qualifications. Dr. Arnold said the same. It was "the Establishment"
according to the lawyers and politicians, both Whig and Tory. It was an
invisible and mystical body, said the Evangelicals. It was the aggregate
of separate congregations, said the Nonconformists. It was the
parliamentary creation of the Reformation, said the Erastians. The true
Church was the communion of the Pope, the pretended Church was a
legalised schism, said the Roman Catholics. All these ideas were
floating about, loose and vague, among people who talked much about the
Church. Whately, with his clear sense, had laid down that it was a
divine religious society, distinct in its origin and existence, distinct
in its attributes from any other. But this idea had fallen dead, till
Froude and his friends put new life into it Froude accepted Whately's
idea that the Church of England was the one historic uninterrupted
Church, than which there could be no other, locally in England; but into
this Froude read a great deal that never was and never could be in
Whately's thoughts. Whately had gone very far in viewing the Church from
without as a great and sacred corporate body. Casting aside the Erastian
theory, he had claimed its right to exist, and if necessary, govern
itself, separate from the state. He had recognised excommunication as
its natural and indefeasible instrument of government. But what the
internal life of the Church was, what should be its teaching and organic
system, and what was the standard and proof of these, Whately had left
unsaid. And this outline Froude filled up. For this he went the way to
which the Prayer Book, with its Offices, its Liturgy, its Ordination
services, pointed him. With the divines who had specially valued the
Prayer Book, and taught in its spirit, Bishop Wilson, William Law,
Hammond, Ken, Laud, Andrewes, he went back to the times and the sources
from which the Prayer Book came to us, the early Church, the reforming
Church for such with all its faults it was--of the eleventh, twelfth,
and thirteenth centuries, before the hopelessly corrupt and fatal times
of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, which led to the break-up of
the sixteenth. Thus to the great question, What is the Church? he gave
without hesitation, and gave to the end, the same answer that Anglicans
gave and are giving still. But he added two points which were then very
new to the ears of English Churchmen: (1) that there were great and to
most people unsuspected faults and shortcomings in the English Church,
for some of which the Reformation was gravely responsible; (2) that the
Roman Church was more right than we had been taught to think in many
parts both of principle and practice, and that our quarrel with it on
these points arose from our own ignorance and prejudices. To people who
had taken for granted all their lives that the Church was thoroughly
"Protestant" and thoroughly right in its Protestantism, and that Rome
was Antichrist, these confident statements came with a shock. He did not
enter much into dogmatic questions. As far as can be judged from his
_Remains_, the one point of doctrine on which he laid stress, as being
inadequately recognised and taught in the then condition of the English
Church, was the primitive doctrine of the Eucharist. His other
criticisms pointed to practical and moral matters; the spirit of
Erastianism, the low standard of life and purpose and self-discipline in
the clergy, the low tone of the current religious teaching. The
Evangelical teaching seemed to him a system of unreal words. The
opposite school was too self-complacent, too comfortable, too secure in
its social and political alliances; and he was bent on shaming people
into severer notions. "We will have a _vocabularium apostolicum,_ and I
will start it with four words: 'pampered aristocrats,' 'resident
gentlemen,' 'smug parsons,' and _'pauperes Christi'_. I shall use the
first on all occasions; it seems to me just to hit the thing." "I think
of putting the view forward (about new monasteries), under the title of
a 'Project for Reviving Religion in Great Towns.' Certainly colleges of
unmarried priests (who might, of course, retire to a living, when they
could and liked) would be the cheapest possible way of providing
effectively for the spiritual wants of a large population." And his
great quarrel with the existing state of things was that the spiritual
objects of the Church were overlaid and lost sight of in the anxiety not
to lose its political position. In this direction he was, as he
proclaims himself, an out-and-out Radical, and he was prepared at once
to go very far. "If a national Church means a Church without discipline,
my argument for discipline is an argument against a national Church; and
the best thing we can do is to unnationalise ours as soon as possible";
"let us tell the truth and shame the devil; let us give up a _national_
Church and have a _real_ one." His criticism did not diminish in
severity, or his proposals become less daring, as he felt that his time
was growing short and the hand of death was upon him. But to the end,
the elevation and improvement of the English Church remained his great
purpose. To his friend, as we know, the Roman Church was _either_ the
Truth or Antichrist. To Froude it was neither the whole Truth nor
Antichrist; but like the English Church itself, a great and defective
Church, whose defects were the opposite to ours, and which we should do
wisely to learn from rather than abuse. But to the last his allegiance
never wavered to the English Church.

It is very striking to come from Froude's boisterous freedom in his
letters to his sermons and the papers he prepared for publication. In
his sermons his manner of writing is severe and restrained even to
dryness. If they startle it is by the force and searching point of an
idea, not by any strength of words. The style is chastened, simple,
calm, with the most careful avoidance of over-statement or anything
rhetorical. And so in his papers, his mode of argument, forcible and
cogent as it is, avoids all appearance of exaggeration or even
illustrative expansion; it is all muscle and sinew; it is modelled on
the argumentative style of Bishop Butler, and still more, of William
Law. No one could suppose from these papers Froude's fiery impetuosity,
or the frank daring of his disrespectful vocabulary. Those who can read
between the lines can trace the grave irony which clung everywhere to
his deep earnestness.

There was yet another side of Froude's character which was little
thought of by his critics, or recognised by all his friends. With all
his keenness of judgment and all his readiness for conflict, some who
knew him best were impressed by the melancholy which hung over his life,
and which, though he ignored it, they could detect. It is remembered
still by Cardinal Newman. "I thought," wrote Mr. Isaac Williams, "that
knowing him, I better understood Hamlet, a person most natural, but so
original as to be unlike any one else, hiding depth of delicate thought
in apparent extravagances. _Hamlet_, and the _Georgics_ of Virgil, he
used to say, he should have bound together." "Isaac Williams," wrote Mr.
Copeland, "mentioned to me a remark made on Froude by S. Wilberforce in
his early days: 'They talk of Froude's fun, but somehow I cannot be in a
room with him alone for ten minutes without feeling so intensely
melancholy, that I do not know what to do with myself. At Brightstone,
in my Eden days, he was with me, and I was overwhelmed with the deep
sense which possessed him of yearning which nothing could satisfy and of
the unsatisfying nature of all things.'"[25]

Froude often reminds us of Pascal. Both had that peculiarly bright,
brilliant, sharp-cutting intellect which passes with ease through the
coverings and disguises which veil realities from men. Both had
mathematical powers of unusual originality and clearness; both had the
same imaginative faculty; both had the same keen interest in practical
problems of science; both felt and followed the attraction of deeper and
more awful interests. Both had the same love of beauty; both suppressed
it. Both had the same want of wide or deep learning; they made skilful
use of what books came to their hand, and used their reading as few
readers are able to use it; but their real instrument of work was their
own quick and strong insight, and power of close and vigorous reasoning.
Both had the greatest contempt for fashionable and hollow "shadows of
religion." Both had the same definite, unflinching judgment. Both used
the same clear and direct language. Both had a certain grim delight in
the irony with which they pursued their opponents. In both it is
probable that their unmeasured and unsparing criticism recoiled on the
cause which they had at heart. But in the case of both of them it was
not the temper of the satirist, it was no mere love of attacking what
was vulnerable, and indulgence in the cruel pleasure of stinging and
putting to shame, which inspired them. Their souls were moved by the
dishonour done to religion, by public evils and public dangers. Both of
them died young, before their work was done. They placed before
themselves the loftiest and most unselfish objects, the restoration of
truth and goodness in the Church, and to that they gave their life and
all that they had. And what they called on others to be they were
themselves. They were alike in the sternness, the reality, the
perseverance, almost unintelligible in its methods to ordinary men, of
their moral and spiritual self-discipline.

SUPPLEMENTARY TO CHAPTER III[26]

Hurrell Froude was, when I, as an undergraduate, first knew him in 1828,
tall and very thin, with something of a stoop, with a large skull and
forehead, but not a large face, delicate features, and penetrating gray
eyes, not exactly piercing, but bright with internal conceptions, and
ready to assume an expression of amusement, careful attention, inquiry,
or stern disgust, but with a basis of softness. His manner was cordial
and familiar, and assured you, as you knew him well, of his affectionate
feeling, which encouraged you to speak your mind (within certain
limits), subject to the consideration that if you said anything absurd
it would not be allowed to fall to the ground. He had more of the
undergraduate in him than any "don" whom I ever knew; absolutely unlike
Newman in being always ready to skate, sail, or ride with his
friends--and, if in a scrape, not pharisaical as to his means of getting
out of it. I remember, _e.g._, climbing Merton gate with him in my
undergraduate days, when we had been out too late boating or skating.
And unless authority or substantial decorum was really threatened he was
very lenient--or rather had an amused sympathy with the irregularities
that are mere matters of mischief or high spirits. In lecture it was,
_mutatis mutandis_, the same man. Seeing, from his _Remains_, the "high
view of his own capacities of which he could not divest himself," and
his determination not to exhibit or be puffed up by it, and looking back
on his tutorial manner (I was in his lectures both in classics and
mathematics), it was strange how he disguised, not only his _sense_ of
superiority, but the appearance of it, so that his pupils felt him more
as a fellow-student than as the refined scholar or mathematician which
he was. This was partly owing to his carelessness of those formulae,
the familiarity with which gives even second-rate lecturers a position
of superiority which is less visible in those who, like their pupils,
are themselves always struggling with principles--and partly to an
effort, perhaps sometimes overdone, not to put himself above the level
of others. In a lecture on the _Supplices_ of Aeschylus, I have heard
him say _tout bonnement,_ "I can't construe that--what do you make of
it, A.B.?" turning to the supposed best scholar in the lecture; or, when
an objection was started to his mode of getting through a difficulty,
"Ah! I had not thought of that--perhaps your way is the best." And this
mode of dealing with himself and the undergraduates whom he liked, made
them like him, but also made them really undervalue his talent, which,
as we now see, was what he meant they should do. At the same time,
though watchful over his own vanity, he was keen and prompt in
snubs--playful and challenging retort--to those he liked, but in the
nature of scornful exposure, when he had to do with coarseness or
coxcombry, or shallow display of sentiment. It was a paradoxical
consequence of his suppression of egotism that he was more solicitous to
show that you were wrong than that he was right.

He also wanted, like Socrates or Bishop Butler, to make others, if
possible, think for themselves.

However, it is not to be inferred that his conversation was made of
controversy. To a certain extent it turned that way, because he was fond
of paradox. (His brother William used to say that he, William, never
felt he had really mastered a principle till he had thrown it into a
paradox.) And paradox, of course, invites contradiction, and so
controversy. On subjects upon which he considered himself more or less
an apostle, he liked to stir people's minds by what startled them,
waking them up, or giving them "nuts to crack." An almost solemn gravity
with amusement twinkling behind it--not invisible--and ready to burst
forth into a bright low laugh when gravity had been played out, was a
very frequent posture with him.

But he was thoroughly ready to amuse and instruct, or to be amused and
instructed, as an eager and earnest speaker or listener on most matters
of interest. I do not remember that he had any great turn for beauty of
colour; he had none, I think, or next to none, for music--nor do I
remember in him any great love of humour--but for beauty of physical
form, for mechanics, for mathematics, for poetry which had a root in
true feeling, for wit (including that perception of a quasi-logical
absurdity of position), for history, for domestic incidents, his
sympathy was always lively, and he would throw himself naturally and
warmly into them. From his general demeanour (I need scarcely say) the
"odour of sanctity" was wholly absent. I am not sure that his height and
depth of aim and lively versatility of talent did not leave his
_compassionate_ sympathies rather undeveloped; certainly to himself,
and, I suspect, largely in the case of others, he would view suffering
not as a thing to be cockered up or made much of, though of course to be
alleviated if possible, but to be viewed calmly as a Providential
discipline for those who can mitigate, or have to endure it.

J.H.N. was once reading me a letter just received from him in which (in
answer to J.H.N.'s account of his work and the possibility of his
breaking down) he said in substance: "I daresay you have more to do than
your health will bear, but I would not have you give up anything except
perhaps the deanery" (of Oriel). And then J.H.N. paused, with a kind of
inner exultant chuckle, and said, "Ah! there's a Basil for you"; as if
the friendship which sacrificed its friend, as it would sacrifice itself
to a cause, was the friendship which was really worth having.

As I came to know him in a more manly way, as a brother Fellow, friend,
and collaborateur, the character of "ecclesiastical agitator" was of
course added to this.

In this capacity his great pleasure was taking bulls by their horns.
Like the "gueux" of the Low Countries, he would have met half-way any
opprobrious nickname, and I believe coined the epithet "apostolical" for
his party because it was connected with everything in Spain which was
most obnoxious to the British public. I remember one day his grievously
shocking Palmer of Worcester, a man of an opposite texture, when a
council in J.H.N.'s rooms had been called to consider some memorial or
other to which Palmer wanted to collect the signatures of many, and
particularly of dignified persons, but in which Froude wished to express
the determined opinions of a few. Froude stretched out his long length
on Newman's sofa, and broke in upon one of Palmer's judicious harangues
about Bishops and Archdeacons and such like, with the ejaculation, "I
don't see why we should disguise from ourselves that our object is to
dictate to the clergy of this country, and I, for one, do not want any
one else to get on the box." He thought that true Churchmen must be few
before they were many--that the sin of the clergy in all ages was that
they tried to make out that Christians were many when they were only
few, and sacrificed to this object the force derivable from downright
and unmistakable enforcement of truth in speech or action.

As simplicity in thought, word, and deed formed no small part of his
ideal, his tastes in architecture, painting, sculpture, rhetoric, or
poetry were severe. He had no patience with what was artistically
dissolute, luscious, or decorated more than in proportion to its
animating idea--wishy-washy or sentimental. The ornamental parts of his
own rooms (in which I lived in his absence) were a slab of marble to
wash upon, a print of Rubens's "Deposition," and a head (life-size) of
the Apollo Belvidere. And I remember still the tall scorn, with
something of surprise, with which, on entering my undergraduate room, he
looked down on some Venuses, Cupids, and Hebes, which, freshman-like, I
had bought from an Italian.

He was not very easy even under conventional vulgarity, still less under
the vulgarity of egotism; but, being essentially a partisan, he could
put up with both in a man who was really in earnest and on the right
side. Nothing, however, I think, would have induced him to tolerate
false sentiment, and he would, I think, if he had lived, have exerted
himself very trenchantly to prevent his cause being adulterated by it.

He was, I should say, sometimes misled by a theory that genius cut
through a subject by logic or intuition, without looking to the right or
left, while common sense was always testing every step by consideration
of surroundings (I have not got his terse mode of statement), and that
genius was right, or at least had only to be corrected here and there by
common sense. This, I take it, would hardly have answered if his
trenchancy had not been in practice corrected by J.H.N.'s wider
political circumspection.

He submitted, I suppose, to J.H.N.'s axiom, that if the movement was to
do anything it must become "respectable"; but it was against his nature.

He would (as we see in the _Remains_) have wished Ken to have the
"courage of his convictions" by excommunicating the Jurors in William
III.'s time, and setting up a little Catholic Church, like the
Jansenists in Holland. He was not (as has been observed) a theologian,
but he was as jealous for orthodoxy as if he were. He spoke slightingly
of Heber as having ignorantly or carelessly communicated with (?)
Monophysites. But he probably knew no more about that and other
heresies than a man of active and penetrating mind would derive from
text-books. And I think it likely enough--not that his reverence for the
Eucharist, but--that his special attention to the details of Eucharistic
doctrine was due to the consideration that it was the foundation of
ecclesiastical discipline and authority--matters on which his mind
fastened itself with enthusiasm.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] I ought to say that I was not personally acquainted with Mr.
Froude. I have subjoined to this chapter some recollections of him by
Lord Blachford, who was his pupil and an intimate friend.

[19] "In this mortal journeying wasted shade Is worse than wasted
sunshine."

HENRY TAYLOR, _Sicilian Summer_, v. 3.

[20] _Remains_, Second Part, i. 47.

[21] _Remains_, i. 82.

[22] _Apologia_, p. 84.

[23] The following shows the feeling about him in friends apt to be
severe critics:--"The contents of the present collection are rather
fragments and sketches than complete compositions. This might be
expected in the works of a man whose days were few and interrupted by
illness, if indeed that may be called an interruption, which was every
day sensibly drawing him to his grave. In Mr. Froude's case, however, we
cannot set down much of this incompleteness to the score of illness. The
strength of his religious impressions, the boldness and clearness of his
views, his long habits of self-denial, and his unconquerable energy of
mind, triumphed over weakness and decay, till men with all their health
and strength about them might gaze upon his attenuated form, struck with
a certain awe of wonderment at the brightness of his wit, the
intenseness of his mental vision, and the iron strength of his
argument.... We will venture a remark as to that ironical turn, which
certainly does appear in various shapes in the first part of these
_Remains_. Unpleasant as irony may sometimes be, there need not go with
it, and in this instance there did not go with it, the smallest real
asperity of temper. Who that remembers the inexpressible sweetness of
his smile, and the deep and melancholy pity with which he would speak of
those whom he felt to be the victims of modern delusions, would not be
forward to contradict such a suspicion? Such expressions, we will
venture to say, and not harshness, anger, or gloom, animate the features
of that countenance which will never cease to haunt the memory of those
who knew him. His irony arose from that peculiar mode in which he viewed
all earthly things, himself and all that was dear to him not excepted.
It was his poetry." From an article in the _British Critic_, April 1840,
p. 396, by Mr. Thomas Mozley, quoted in _Letters of J.B. Mozley,_ p.
102.

[24] Such as the "Daniel" in the _Lyra Apostolica,_ the "Dialogue
between Old Self and New Self," and the lines in the _Remains_ (i 208,
209).

[25] A few references to the _Remains_ illustrating this are subjoined
if any one cares to compare them with these recollections, i. 7, 13, 18,
26, 106, 184, 199, 200-204.

[26] I am indebted for these recollections to the late Lord Blachford.
They were written in Oct. 1884.

CHAPTER IV

MR. NEWMAN'S EARLY FRIENDS--ISAAC WILLIAMS

In the early days of the movement, among Mr. Newman's greatest friends,
and much in his confidence, were two Fellows of Trinity--a college which
never forgot that Newman had once belonged to it,--Isaac Williams and
William John Copeland. In mind and character very different, they were
close friends, with the affection which was characteristic of those
days; and for both of them Mr. Newman "had the love which passes that of
common relation."[27] Isaac Williams was born among the mountains of
Wales, and had the true poetic gift, though his power of expression was
often not equal to what he wanted to say. Copeland was a Londoner, bred
up in the strict school of Churchmanship represented by Mr. Norris of
Hackney, tempered by sympathies with the Non-jurors. At Oxford he lived,
along with Isaac Williams, in the very heart of the movement, which was
the interest of his life; but he lived, self-forgetting or
self-effacing, a wonderful mixture of tender and inexhaustible sympathy,
and of quick and keen wit, which yet, somehow or other, in that time of
exasperation and bitterness, made him few enemies. He knew more than
most men of the goings on of the movement, and he ought to have been its
chronicler. But he was fastidious and hard to satisfy, and he left his
task till it was too late.

Isaac Williams was born in Wales in 1802, a year after Newman, ten years
after John Keble. His early life was spent in London, but his affection
for Wales and its mountain scenery was great and undiminished to the end
of his life. At Harrow, where Henry Drury was his tutor, he made his
mark by his mastery of Latin composition and his devotion to Latin
language and literature. "I was so used to think in Latin that when I
had to write an English theme, which was but seldom, I had to translate
my ideas, which ran in Latin, into English";[28] and later in life he
complained of the Latin current which disturbed him when he had to write
English. He was also a great cricketer; and he describes himself as
coming up to Trinity, where he soon got a scholarship, an ambitious and
careless youth, who had never heard a word about Christianity, and to
whom religion, its aims and its restraints, were a mere name.

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