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that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." "If thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off and cast them from thee. And they were not only to give up what was dearest to them, they were to incur the hatred of those who felt that Christianity was undermining the world: "Ye shall be hated of all men for my name's sake." Lastly, the Christian of the Apostolic age was to find his highest joy in these deprivations of earthly possessions, and of earthly ties, and in the persecution and suffering which he incurred for the sake of his Master.

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Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for behold your reward is great in heaven." And this was what the Apostles actually did. "We glory in tribulation," said St. Paul. And again, "I take pleasure in infirmities, in re proaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake; for when I am weak then am I strong. Dr. Newman then asks his audience where this character, as depicted in the New Testament, is now to be most clearly discerned; and he replies that if our Lord returned to earth He would certainly find the type of the Christian He had tried to make, best represented now in the humble monk and the holy nun," who give up house and friends and wealth and ease and good name, and liberty of will, in order to spread the kingdom of Christ and to prepare their own hearts for union with Him. Dr. Newman seems at this time to have ignored, what he once insisted on, that the form of faith in which these types of character are, to his mind, most perfectly moulded, is also the form of faith in which the opposite type of character, the character of the tyrannical ecclesiastic, the pompous priest, the worldly and despotic pope, has been most perfectly moulded, and that whatever is winning and subduing in the one picture is alarming and revolting in the other. But I am not of course attempting to criticise his view, but only to explain it. It is quite certain, I think that, Cardinal though he be, his fascination for Rome arose not in the spectacular grandeur of the Papal system, but in that mortification of worldly passions at which the monastic system obviously aims-however badly

it may often succeed in hitting its mark. To find the best possible discipline for humility has been the key-note of Cardinal Newman's religious yearning. And the austere penances of the monastic system no less than the detachment from worldly desires, fascinated him. He expresses again and again his conviction that those who feel their own sinfulness deeply, ought to have some way of marking that sense of their sinfulness, which will not be inconsistent with cheerfulness and serenity in their intercourse with the world. He cannot condemn enough the decorous conventionality of most Protestant religions. "Who ever heard," he asked in one of his later Anglican sermons, of a pleasurable, easy, joyous, repentance? It is a contradiction in terms. Hence he was driven to the principle of penance as the most natural way of expressing an abhorrence for sin, which should not recoil on others and make the social life one of gloom.

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It will have been visible, I think, before this, that Dr. Newman, though in his faith there is much of idealism, much of readiness and even eagerness to believe in undemonstrated, and often even undemonstrable, doctrines like the higher applications of the sacramental principle, and the doctrine of guardian angels and of angelic guardians generally-is, in relation to human nature, a most thoroughgoing realist, with more of insight into the grotesque inconsistencies and insincerities of human nature than some of our greatest satirists themselves. One of the most striking of Dr. Newman's Oxford Sermons is that preached as Vicar of St. Mary's, on June 2d, 1839, on Unreal Words.' It is a sermon which, more than any other known to me, gives the key to Dr. Newman's permanent effort to face the facts of the world as they are, to make men honest with themselves, and yet to keep them from sinking into that cynical and despondent honesty which acknowl-. edges the evil of the world only as an excuse for giving up the struggle with it."It need scarcely be said," says Dr. Newman in that sermon, that nothing is so rare as honesty and singleness of mind; so much so that a person who is really honest, is already perfect. Insincerity was an evil which sprang up

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within the Church from the first." It is in this sermon that Dr. Newman deals such hard, and I must say such welldeserved blows, at the literary profession. "Literature," he says, is almost in its essence unreal; for it is the exhibition of thought disjoined from practice. Its very home is supposed to be ease and retirement; and when it does more than speak or write, it is accused of transgressing its bounds. This, indeed, constitutes what is considered its true dignity and honor-viz., its abstraction from the actual affairs of life; its security from the world's struggles and vicissitudes; its saying without doing. A man of literature is considered to preserve his dignity by doing nothing, and when he proceeds forward into action, he is thought to lose his position, as if he were degrading his calling by enthusiasm, and becoming a politician or a partisan. Hence mere literary men are able to say strong things against the opinions of their age, whether religious or political, without offence because no one thinks they mean anything by them. They are not expected to go forward to act upon them, and mere words hurt no one. However, the doctrine of the sermon is that mere words do hurt very much the character which makes use of them. "To make professions," he says, "is to play with edged tools, unless we attend to what we are saying. Words have a meaning, whether we mean that meaning or not; and they are imputed to us in their real meaning, when our not meaning it is our own fault." sermon is full of vivid illustration of the unsubstantial use of words, alike when that use of thein is innocent, and when it is culpable. You see in it how Dr. Newman had looked through and through the many persons who had used 'unreal words in talking to himself. Men, he says, often "speak to clergymen in a professedly serious way, making remarks true and sound, and in themselves deep, yet unmeaning in their mouths; or they give advice to children or young men ; or, perhaps, in low spirits or sickness, they are led to speak in a religious strain, as if it was spontaneous. Or when they fall into sin, they speak of man being frail, of the deceitfulness of the human heart, of

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God's mercy, and so on; all these great words, heaven, hell, judgment, mercy, repentance, works, the world that now is, the world to come, being little more than lifeless sounds, whether of pipe or harp,' in their mouths and ears, as the very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument as the proprieties of conversation, or the civilities of good-breed-/ ing. Yet the teaching of the sermon is not that we should carefully cut down our best words to the frigidity and poverty of the realities within us-that is the cynic's moral-but that, when we are in earnest in desiring to feel even more deeply than we do, we should use the great words put into our mouths by our highest teachers, almost as prayers, using them in the hope to be taught to mean what we say in its fullest and deepest significance. We ever promise things greater than we master, says Dr. Newman, and we wait on God to enable us to perform them."

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Again Could Thackeray himself describe the unreal way in which people talk of a man of mark after he is gone,. without knowing in the least whether his life has been, on the whole, pure, or the reverse whether he is suffering remorse, or is at peace-with keener irony than Dr. Newman in this powerful though painful passage it occurs in one of his earlier Roman Catholic sermons-concerning the state of some distinguished man assumed to be among the lost?" The man's name, perhaps, is solemnly chanted forth and his memory decently cherished among his friends on earth. His readiness in speech, his fertility in thought, his sagacity or his wisdom, are not forgotten. Men talk of him from time to time, they appeal to his authority, they quote his words; perhaps they even raise a monument to his name, or write his history.

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now no more;' or, never was his equal in society, so just in his remarks, so versatile, so unobtrusive; or, I was fortunate to see him once when I was a boy; or, so great a benefactor to his country and his kind; or, his discourses so great; or, his philosophy so profound.' Oh, vanity of vanities, all is vanity! What profiteth it, what profiteth it? His soul is in hell.''

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know himself in so novel a position. I cannot conceive, sir,' he said, at last, why I should be unfit company for the gentlemen of the College?' Dr. Bluett's jaw dropped, and his eyes assumed a hollow aspect. 'You will corrupt their minds, sir,' he said, 'you will corrupt their minds.' Then he added in a sepulchral tone, which came from the very depth of his inside, you will introduce them, sir, to some subtle Jesuit-to some subtle Jesuit, Mr. Reding."

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Or, to take a still more striking instance of Dr. Newman's power to turn into ridicule the weak side of Protestantism, I will extract a short passage from his lectures on Catholicism in England," concerning the hue and cry against Popery : "Never has the Establishment failed in the use of these inportant and effective watchwords [namely, No peace with Rome,' Down with the Pope']; many are its shortcomings, but it is without reproach in the execution of its charge. Heresy and scepticism, infidelity and fanalicism, may challenge it in vain; but fling upon the gale the faintest whisper of Catholicism, and it recognizes by instinct the presence of its con-natural foe. Forthwith, as during the last year, the atmosphere is tremulous with agitation, and discharges its vibrations far and

The same sort of realism, combined with that dash of extravagance which Dr. Newman knows so well how to throw in, when he wants to make the folly of the world seem ridiculous, even to the world itself, is to be found in his story Callista, in the description of the superfine demeanor of the Greek philosopher, Polemo of Rhodes, "the Bottomless One, as he is called by his clique, who attempts to dissuade the Christian martyr Callista from accepting Christianity; or again, to refer to something which comes home better to Englishmen, let any one who doubts Dr. Newman's power of satire read the closing chapters of "Loss and Gain," where crazy founders of sects, in rapid succession, seek to make prize of the man who is known to be severing himself from the Church of England, before he unites himself to the Church of Rome. There are passages in these chapters containing comedy as effective as anything writA movement is in birth which ten in our time. Indeed, in earlier por- has no natural crisis or resolution. tions of the same book, the sketch of Spontaneously the bells of the steeples the Evangelical tea-party at Oxford, begin to sound. Not by an act of the account of the hero's interview with volition but by a sort of mechanical imthe Vice-Principal when he is first sus- pulse, bishop and dean, archdeacon and pected of Romanizing, and the farewell canon, rector and curate, one after antaken of him by the old Principal of his other, each in his high tower, off they College on the same occasion, illustrate set, swinging and booming, tolling and amply Dr. Newman's turn for that real- chiming, with nervous intenseness and ism which is the most effective satire, thickening emotion, and deepening voland that satire which is nothing but real- ume, the old ding-dong which has scared ism thrown up against a background of town and country this weary time; tollsobriety and good sense. For example, ing and chiming away, jingling and Charles Reding, the hero of Loss and clamoring, and ringing the changes on Gain," assures the old Evangelical these poor half-dozen notes, all about Principal of his College that no harm the Popish aggression,' 'insolent and could come of it, either to himself or to insidious,' insidious and insolent,' the other undergraduates, if he were 'insolent and atrocious,' ' atrocious and permitted to remain in College till insolent,' atrocious, insolent, and unEaster. "'What, remain here, with grateful,' 'ungrateful, insolent, and all the young men about?' asked Dr. atrocious,' foul and oppressive," Bluett, with astonishment, with all the 'pestilent and horrid,' 'subtle and unyoung men about you, sir?' Charles holy,''audacious and revolting,' 'conreally had not a word to say, he did not temptible and shameless,' 'malignant,'

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'frightful,' 'mad,'' meretricious,' bobs (I think the ringers call them), bobs and bobs-royal and triple bob-majors, and grandsires, to the extent of their compass, and the full ring of their metal, in honor of Queen Bess and to the confusion of the Pope and the Princes of the Church." No one who remembers, as I do, the agitation of 1850 will think this description a mere caricature. It has the dash of extravagance, of course, which was necessary for Dr. Newman's purpose, but its satiric humor is based upon the most accurate knowledge and close observation of the unreasonable temper of the British people when once the panic of Popery falls upon them-a temper, we may say, noticeably diminished in these later years when religious England has at last begun to feel that the Roman Church is by no means the most dangerous foe with whom we have to deal.

Great as Dr. Newman is, however, in satire—that is, in painting for us the unreasonable or the conventional or the conceited and bombastic temper against a background of sober and, thoughtful judgment, that imaginative power which enables him to draw this contrast so vividly, seems to me much more powerfully illustrated on what I may call his ideal or poetical side, than in his satiric and depreciating vein. His satire could not be as powerful as it is without his imaginative power of isolating what he wants to emphasize and contrasting it with its opposite. But it is when he exerts his flexible and vivid imagination in depicting the deepest religious passion that we are most carried away by him and feel his great genius most truly. Little as I am of a Roman Catholic, I can never read without emotion, without a thrill of wonder at the power with which Dr. Newman describes what to Protestants seems most unlike the religion of Christ, his defence of the Mass in answer to the Protestant account of it as a mere muttered spell. The passage I refer to is in Loss and Gain, where the Roman convert who is supposed to have been somewhat premature in his conversion and to have found the Roman system hard to assimilate, is being rallied by an Anglican friend on the unreasonableness of the Mass, and told that he would soon be back again

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in the English Church; whereupon he replies that it is quite true that to the Anglican and to the Roman Catholic, the very idea of worship is something completely different, for worship to the Anglican is the lifting of the soul to God; worship to the Roman Catholic is the summoning of God to the soul by the solemn miracle of a divine rite. "I declare to me," he said, and he clasped his hands on his knees and looked forward as if soliloquizing, me nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming as the Mass, read as it is among us. I could attend Masses forever and not be tired. It is not a mere form of words-it is a great action, the greatest action that can be on earth. It is not the invocation merely, but, if I dare use the word, the evocation of the Eternal. He becomes present on the altar in flesh and blood before whom angels bow and devils tremble. This is that awful event that is the end, and is the interpretation of every part of the solemnity. Words are necessary, but as means not as ends; they are not mere addresses to the throne of Grace-they are instruments of what is far higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on as if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go-the whole is quick, for they are all parts of one integral action. Quickly they go, for they are awful words of sacrifice, they are a work too great to delay upon; as when it was said in the beginning what thou doest, do quickly.' Quickly they pass, for the Lord Jesus, goes with them as He passed along the lake in the days of His flesh, quickly calling first one and then another. Quickly they pass, because as the lightning which shineth from one part of the heaven unto the other so is the coming of the Son of man. Quickly they pass, for they are the words of the Lord descending in the cloud and proclaiming the name of the Lord as He passes by,

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The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suffering and abundant in goodness and truth.' And as Moses on the mountain, so we too

make haste and bow our heads to the earth and worship.' So we all around, each in his place, look out for the great Advent, waiting for the moving of the

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water. Each in his place, with his own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with his own intention, with his own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is going on, watching its progress, uniting in its consummation; not painfully and hopelessly following a hard form of prayer from beginning to end, but like a concert of musical instruments, each different but concurring in a sweet harmony, we take our part with God's priest, supporting him yet guided by him. There are little children there, and old men and simple laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving; there are innocent maidens and there are penitents, but out of these many minds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great action is the measure and the scope of it. 'And oh, my dear Bateman,' he added, turning to him, 'you ask me whether this is not a formal unreasonable service. It is wonderful,' he cried, rising up, quite wonderful. When will these dear good people be enlightened? O sapientia fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia, O Adonai, O clavis David et exspectatio gentium, veni ad salvandum nos, domine Deus noster. Doubtless Bateman might have replied that this fine description hardly tallies with the simple words of the primitive text as it describes apparently what the Roman Catholic must hold to have been the first Mass: "They continued steadfastly in the Apostles' teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread and in prayer,' and that it tallies still less with the Apostle's warning to the Corinthians

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For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, ye proclaim the Lord's death till he come, whereas, according to Dr. Newman, He did come in that very rite. But I have quoted the passage not for criticism but to show the wonderful power with which Dr. Newman can throw himself into the highest religious passion and make the heart thrill with his rendering of it. The same marvellous power is shown in a lower sphere in his rendering of the phenomena of demoniacal possession in "Callista," where the chapter describing Juba's madness, and the signs of power exerted over him by some lower being, seems to me one of the greatest efforts

of an original imagination disciplined in the theology of the early Fathers, of which English literature has any record.

Take another and nobler instance of the same kind of imagination: the description of the experience of death as it is given in "The Dream of Gerontius," a description which makes the reader almost believe that the man who wrote it must himself have passed through death before he could have conceived it:

"I can no more; for now it comes again.
That sense of ruin, which is worse than pain,
That masterful negation and collapse
Of all that makes me man; as though I bent
Over the dizzy brink

Of some sheer infinite descent;
Or worse, at though

Down, down for ever, I was falling through
The solid framework of created things,
And needs must sink and sink

Into the vast abyss. And crueller still,
A fierce and restless fright begins to fill,
The mansion of my soul. And worse and

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I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed,
A strange refreshment; for I feel in me
An inexpressive lightness and a sense
Of freedom, as I were at length myself,
And ne'er had been before. How still it is!
I hear no more the busy beat of time,
No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling
pulse;

Nor does one moment differ from the next.
I had a dream; yes, some one softly said,
'He's gone;' and then a sigh went round

the room.

And then I surely heard a priestly voice

Cry Subvenite;' and they knelt in prayer.
I seem to hear him still; but thin and low
And fainter and more faint the accents come
As at an ever-widening interval.
Ah, whence is this? What it this severance?
This silence pours a solitariness
Into the very essence of my soul;

And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet,
Hath something too of sternness and of pain,
For it drives back my thoughts upon their
spring

By a strange introversion, and perforce
I now begin to feed upon myself,
Because I have naught else to feed upon."

That seems to me the highest kind of imaginative power, the imaginative power which enables him who possesses it first to enter into the real experience of others, and then to combine what it has

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