RICHARD HURRELL FROUDE
The names of those who took the lead in this movement are
familiar--Keble, Newman, Pusey, Hugh James Rose, William Palmer. Much
has been written about them by friends and enemies, and also by one of
themselves, and any special notice of them is not to the purpose of the
present narrative. But besides these, there were men who are now almost
forgotten, but who at the time interested their contemporaries, because
they were supposed to represent in a marked way the spirit and character
of the movement, or to have exercised influence upon it. They ought not
to be overlooked in an account of it. One of them has been already
mentioned, Mr. Hurrell Froude. Two others were Mr. Isaac Williams and
Mr. Charles Marriott. They were all three of them men whom those who
knew them could never forget--could never cease to admire and love.
Hurrell Froude soon passed away before the brunt of the fighting came.
His name is associated with Mr. Newman and Mr. Keble, but it is little
more than a name to those who now talk of the origin of the movement.
Yet all who remember him agree in assigning to him an importance as
great as that of any, in that little knot of men whose thoughts and
whose courage gave birth to it.
Richard Hurrell Froude was born in 1803, and was thus two years younger
than Mr. Newman, who was born in 1801. He went to Eton, and in 1821 to
Oriel, where he was a pupil of Mr. Keble, and where he was elected
Fellow, along with Robert Wilberforce, at Easter 1826. He was College
Tutor from 1827 to 1830, having Mr. Newman and R. Wilberforce for
colleagues. His health failed in 1831 and led to much absence in warm
climates. He went with Mr. Newman to the south of Europe in 1832-33, and
was with him at Rome. The next two winters, with the intervening year,
he spent in the West Indies. Early in 1836 he died at Dartington--his
birthplace. He was at the Hadleigh meeting, in July 1833, when the
foundations of the movement were laid; he went abroad that winter, and
was not much in England afterwards. It was through correspondence that
he kept up his intercourse with his friends.
Thus he was early cut off from direct and personal action on the course
which things took. But it would be a great mistake to suppose that his
influence on the line taken and on the minds of others was
inconsiderable. It would be more true to say that with one exception no
one was more responsible for the impulse which led to the movement; no
one had more to do with shaping its distinct aims and its moral spirit
and character in its first stage; no one was more daring and more clear,
as far as he saw, in what he was prepared for. There was no one to whom
his friends so much looked up with admiration and enthusiasm. There was
no "wasted shade"[19] in Hurrell Froude's disabled, prematurely
shortened life.
Like Henry Martyn he was made by strong and even merciless
self-discipline over a strong and for a long time refractory nature. He
was a man of great gifts, with much that was most attractive and noble;
but joined with this them was originally in his character a vein of
perversity and mischief, always in danger of breaking out, and with
which he kept up a long and painful struggle. His inmost thought and
knowledge of himself have been laid bare in the papers which his friends
published after his death. He was in the habit of probing his motives to
the bottom, and of recording without mercy what he thought his
self-deceits and affectations. The religious world of the day made merry
over his methods of self-discipline; but whatever may be said of them,
and such things are not easy to judge of, one thing is manifest, that
they were true and sincere efforts to conquer what he thought evil in
himself, to keep himself in order, to bring his inmost self into
subjection to the law and will of God. The self-chastening, which his
private papers show, is no passion or value for asceticism, but a purely
moral effort after self-command and honesty of character; and what makes
the struggle so touching is its perfect reality and truth. He "turned
his thoughts on that desolate wilderness, his own conscience, and said
what he saw there."[20] A man who has had a good deal to conquer in
himself, and has gone a good way to conquer it, is not apt to be
indulgent to self-deceit or indolence, or even weakness. The basis of
Froude's character was a demand which would not be put off for what was
real and thorough; an implacable scorn and hatred for what he counted
shams and pretences. "His highest ambition," he used to say, "was to be
a humdrum."[21] The intellectual and the moral parts of his character
were of a piece. The tricks and flimsinesses of a bad argument provoked
him as much as the imposture and "flash" of insincere sentiment and fine
talking; he might be conscious of "flash" in himself and his friends,
and he would admit it unequivocally; but it was as unbearable to him to
pretend not to see a fallacy as soon as it was detected, as it would
have been to him to arrive at the right answer of a sum or a problem by
tampering with the processes. Such a man, with strong affections and
keen perception of all forms of beauty, and with the deepest desire to
be reverent towards all that had a right to reverence, would find
himself in the most irritating state of opposition and impatience with
much that passed as religion round him. Principles not attempted to be
understood and carried into practice, smooth self-complacency among
those who looked down on a blind and unspiritual world, the continual
provocation of worthless reasoning and ignorant platitudes, the dull
unconscious stupidity of people who could not see that the times were
critical--that truth had to be defended, and that it was no easy or
light-hearted business to defend it--threw him into an habitual attitude
of defiance, and half-amused, half-earnest contradiction, which made him
feared by loose reasoners and pretentious talkers, and even by quiet
easy-going friends, who unexpectedly found themselves led on blindfold,
with the utmost gravity, into traps and absurdities by the wiles of his
mischievous dialectic. This was the outside look of his relentless
earnestness. People who did not like him, or his views, and who,
perhaps, had winced under his irony, naturally put down his strong
language, which on occasion could certainly be unceremonious, to
flippancy and arrogance. But within the circle of those whom he trusted,
or of those who needed at anytime his help, another side disclosed
itself--a side of the most genuine warmth of affection, an awful reality
of devoutness, which it was his great and habitual effort to keep
hidden, a high simplicity of unworldliness and generosity, and in spite
of his daring mockeries of what was commonplace or showy, the most
sincere and deeply felt humility with himself. Dangerous as he was often
thought to be in conversation, one of the features of his character
which has impressed itself on the memory of one who knew him well, was
his "patient, winning considerateness in discussion, which, with other
qualities, endeared him to those to whom he opened his heart."[22] "It
is impossible," writes James Mozley in 1833, with a mixture of
amusement, speaking of the views about celibacy which were beginning to
be current, "to talk with Froude without committing one's self on such
subjects as these, so that by and by I expect the tergiversants will be
a considerable party." His letters, with their affectionately playful
addresses, δαιμόνιε, αἰνότατε, πέπον, _Carissime, "Sir, my dear friend"_
or "Ἀργείων ὄχ' ἄριστε, have you not been a spoon?" are full of the most
delightful ease and _verve_ and sympathy.
With a keen sense of English faults he was, as Cardinal Newman has said,
"an Englishman to the backbone"; and he was, further, a fastidious,
high-tempered English gentleman, in spite of his declaiming about
"pampered aristocrats" and the "gentleman heresy." His friends thought
of him as of the "young Achilles," with his high courage, and noble
form, and "eagle eye," made for such great things, but appointed so soon
to die. "Who can refrain from tears at the thought of that bright and
beautiful Froude?" is the expression of one of them shortly before his
death, and when it was quite certain that the doom which had so long
hung over him was at hand.[23] He had the love of doing, for the mere
sake of doing, what was difficult or even dangerous to do, which is the
mainspring of characteristic English sports and games. He loved the sea;
he liked to sail his own boat, and enjoyed rough weather, and took
interest in the niceties of seamanship and shipcraft. He was a bold
rider across country. With a powerful grasp on mathematical truths and
principles, he entered with whole-hearted zest into inviting problems,
or into practical details of mechanical or hydrostatic or astronomical
science. His letters are full of such observations, put in a way which
he thought would interest his friends, and marked by his strong habit of
getting into touch with what was real and of the substance of questions.
He applied his thoughts to architecture with a power and originality
which at the time were not common. No one who only cared for this world
could be more attracted and interested than he was by the wonder and
beauty of its facts and appearances. With the deepest allegiance to his
home and reverence for its ties and authority, a home of the
old-fashioned ecclesiastical sort, sober, manly, religious, orderly, he
carried into his wider life the feelings with which he had been brought
up; bold as he was, his reason and his character craved for authority,
but authority which morally and reasonably he could respect. Mr. Keble's
goodness and purity subdued him, and disposed him to accept without
reserve his master's teaching: and towards Mr. Keble, along with an
outside show of playful criticism and privileged impertinence, there was
a reverence which governed Froude's whole nature. In the wild and rough
heyday of reform, he was a Tory of the Tories. But when authority failed
him, from cowardice or stupidity or self-interest, he could not easily
pardon it; and he was ready to startle his friends by proclaiming
himself a Radical, prepared for the sake of the highest and greatest
interests to sacrifice all second-rate and subordinate ones.
When his friends, after his death, published selections from his
journals and letters, the world was shocked by what seemed his amazing
audacity both of thought and expression about a number of things and
persons which it was customary to regard as almost beyond the reach of
criticism. The _Remains_ lent themselves admirably to the controversial
process of culling choice phrases and sentences and epithets
surprisingly at variance with conventional and popular estimates.
Friends were pained and disturbed; foes naturally enough could not hold
in their overflowing exultation at such a disclosure of the spirit of
the movement. Sermons and newspapers drew attention to Froude's
extravagances with horror and disgust. The truth is that if the off-hand
sayings in conversation or letters of any man of force and wit and
strong convictions about the things and persons that he condemns, were
made known to the world, they would by themselves have much the same
look of flippancy, injustice, impertinence to those who disagreed in
opinion with the speaker or writer they are allowed for, or they are not
allowed for by others, according to what is known of his general
character. The friends who published Froude's _Remains_ knew what he
was; they knew the place and proportion of the fierce and scornful
passages; they knew that they really did not go beyond the liberty and
the frank speaking which most people give themselves in the _abandon_
and understood exaggeration of intimate correspondence and talk. But
they miscalculated the effect on those who did not know him, or whose
interest it was to make the most of the advantage given them. They seem
to have expected that the picture which they presented of their friend's
transparent sincerity and singleness of aim, manifested amid so much
pain and self-abasement, would have touched readers more. They
miscalculated in supposing that the proofs of so much reality of
religious earnestness would carry off the offence of vehement language,
which without these proofs might naturally be thought to show mere
random violence. At any rate the result was much natural and genuine
irritation, which they were hardly prepared for. Whether on general
grounds they were wise in startling and vexing friends, and putting
fresh weapons into the hands of opponents by their frank disclosure of
so unconventional a character, is a question which may have more than
one answer; but one thing is certain, they were not wise, if they only
desired to forward the immediate interests of their party or cause. It
was not the act of cunning conspirators; it was the act of men who were
ready to show their hands, and take the consequences. Undoubtedly, they
warned off many who had so far gone along with the movement, and who now
drew back. But if the publication was a mistake, it was the mistake of
men confident in their own straight-forwardness.
There is a natural Nemesis to all over-strong and exaggerated language.
The weight of Froude's judgments was lessened by the disclosure of his
strong words, and his dashing fashion of condemnation and dislike gave
a precedent for the violence of shallower men. But to those who look
back on them now, though there can be no wonder that at the time they
excited such an outcry, their outspoken boldness hardly excites
surprise. Much of it might naturally be put down to the force of first
impressions; much of it is the vehemence of an Englishman who claims the
liberty of criticising and finding fault at home; much of it was the
inevitable vehemence of a reformer. Much of it seems clear foresight of
what has since come to be recognised. His judgments on the Reformers,
startling as they were at the time, are not so very different, as to the
facts of the case, from what most people on all sides now agree in; and
as to their temper and theology, from what most churchmen would now
agree in. Whatever allowances may be made for the difficulties of their
time, and these allowances ought to be very great, and however well they
may have done parts of their work, such as the translations and
adaptations of the Prayer Book, it is safe to say that the divines of
the Reformation never can be again, with their confessed Calvinism, with
their shifting opinions, their extravagant deference to the foreign
oracles of Geneva and Zurich, their subservience to bad men in power,
the heroes and saints of churchmen. But when all this is said, it still
remains true that Froude was often intemperate and unjust. In the hands
of the most self-restrained and considerate of its leaders, the movement
must anyhow have provoked strong opposition, and given great offence.
The surprise and the general ignorance were too great; the assault was
too rude and unexpected. But Froude's strong language gave it a
needless exasperation.
Froude was a man strong in abstract thought and imagination, who wanted
adequate knowledge. His canons of judgment were not enlarged, corrected,
and strengthened by any reading or experience commensurate with his
original powers of reasoning or invention. He was quite conscious of it,
and did his best to fill up the gap in his intellectual equipment. He
showed what he might have done under more favouring circumstances in a
very interesting volume on Becket's history and letters. But
circumstances were hopelessly against him; he had not time, he had not
health and strength, for the learning which he so needed, which he so
longed for. But wherever he could, he learned. He was quite ready to
submit his prepossessions to the test and limitation of facts. Eager and
quick-sighted, he was often apt to be hasty in conclusions from
imperfect or insufficient premisses; but even about what he saw most
clearly he was willing to hold himself in suspense, when he found that
there was something more to know. Cardinal Newman has noted two
deficiencies which, in his opinion, were noticeable in Froude. "He had
no turn for theology as such"; and, further, he goes on: "I should say
that his power of entering into the minds of others was not equal to his
other gifts"--a remark which he illustrates by saying that Froude could
not believe that "I really held the Roman Church to be antichristian."
The want of this power--in which he stood in such sharp contrast to his
friend--might be either a strength or a weakness; a strength, if his
business was only to fight; a weakness, if it was to attract and
persuade. But Froude was made for conflict, not to win disciples. Some
wild solemn poetry, marked by deep feeling and direct expression, is
scattered through his letters,[24] kindled always by things and thoughts
of the highest significance, and breaking forth with force and fire. But
probably the judgment passed on him by a clever friend, from the
examination of his handwriting, was a true one: "This fellow has a great
deal of imagination, but not the imagination of a poet." He felt that
even beyond poetry there are higher things than anything that
imagination can work upon. It was a feeling which made him blind to the
grandeur of Milton's poetry. He saw in it only an intrusion into the
most sacred of sanctities.
It was this fearless and powerful spirit, keen and quick to see
inferences and intolerant of compromises, that the disturbances of Roman
Catholic Emancipation and of the Reform time roused from the common
round of pursuits, natural to a serious and thoughtful clergyman of
scholarlike mind and as yet no definite objects, and brought him with
all his enthusiasm and thoroughness into a companionship with men who
had devoted their lives, and given up every worldly object, to save the
Church by raising it to its original idea and spirit. Keble had lifted
his pupil's thoughts above mere dry and unintelligent orthodoxy, and
Froude had entered with earnest purpose into Church ways of practical
self-discipline and self-correction. Bishop Lloyd's lectures had taught
him and others, to the surprise of many, that the familiar and venerated
Prayer Book was but the reflexion of mediaeval and primitive devotion,
still embodied in its Latin forms in the Roman Service books; and so
indirectly had planted in their minds the idea of the historical
connexion, and in a very profound way the spiritual sympathy, of the
modern with the pre-Reformation Church. But it is not till 1829 or 1830
that we begin in his _Remains_ to see in him the sense of a pressing and
anxious crisis in religious matters. In the summer of 1829 he came more
closely than hitherto across Mr. Newman's path. They had been Fellows
together since 1826, and Tutors since 1827. Mr. Froude, with his Toryism
and old-fashioned churchmanship, would not unnaturally be shy of a
friend of Whately's with his reputation for theological liberalism.
Froude's first letter to Mr. Newman is in August 1828. It is the letter
of a friendly and sympathising colleague in college work, glad to be
free from the "images of impudent undergraduates"; he inserts some lines
of verse, talks about Dollond and telescopes, and relates how he and a
friend got up at half-past two in the morning, and walked half a mile
to see Mercury rise; he writes about his mathematical studies and
reading for orders, and how a friend had "read half through Prideaux and
yet accuses himself of idleness"; but there is no interchange of
intimate thought. Mr. Newman was at this time, as he has told us,
drifting away from under the shadow of liberalism; and in Froude he
found a man who, without being a liberal, was as quick-sighted, as
courageous, and as alive to great thoughts and new hopes as himself.
Very different in many ways, they were in this alike, that the
commonplace notions of religion and the Church were utterly
unsatisfactory to them, and that each had the capacity for affectionate
and whole-hearted friendship. The friendship began and lasted on,
growing stronger and deeper to the end. And this was not all. Froude's
friendship with Mr. Newman overcame Mr. Keble's hesitations about Mr.
Newman's supposed liberalism. Mr. Newman has put on record what he
thought and felt about Froude; no one, probably, of the many whom
Cardinal Newman's long life has brought round him, ever occupied
Froude's place in his heart. The correspondence shows in part the way in
which Froude's spirit rose, under the sense of having such a friend to
work with in the cause which day by day grew greater and more sacred in
the eyes of both. Towards Mr. Keble Froude felt like a son to a father;
towards Mr. Newman like a soldier to his comrade, and him the most
splendid and boldest of warriors. Each mind caught fire from the other,
till the high enthusiasm of the one was quenched in an early death.
Shortly after this friendship began, the course of events also began
which finally gave birth to the Oxford movement. The break-up of parties
caused by the Roman Catholic emancipation was followed by the French and
Belgian revolutions of 1830, and these changes gave a fresh stimulus to
all the reforming parties in England--Whigs, Radicals, and liberal
religionists. Froude's letters mark the influence of these changes on
his mind. They stirred in him the fiercest disgust and indignation, and
as soon as the necessity of battle became evident to save the
Church--and such a necessity was evident--he threw himself into it with
all his heart, and his attitude was henceforth that of a determined and
uncompromising combatant. "Froude is growing stronger and stronger in
his sentiments every day," writes James Mozley, in 1832, "and cuts about
him on all sides. It is extremely fine to hear him talk. The aristocracy
of the country at present are the chief objects of his vituperation, and
he decidedly sets himself against the modern character of the gentleman,
and thinks that the Church will eventually depend for its support, as it
always did in its most influential times, on the very poorest classes."
"I would not set down anything that Froude says for his deliberate
opinion," writes James Mozley a year later, "for he really hates the
present state of things so excessively that any change would be a relief
to him." ... "Froude is staying up, and I see a great deal of him." ...
"Froude is most enthusiastic in his plans, and says, 'What fun it is
living in such times as these! how could one now go back to the times of
old Tory humbug?'" From henceforth his position among his friends was
that of the most impatient and aggressive of reformers, the one who most
urged on his fellows to outspoken language and a bold line of action.
They were not men to hang back and be afraid, but they were cautious and
considerate of popular alarms and prejudices, compared with Froude's
fearlessness. Other minds were indeed moving--minds as strong as his,
indeed, it may be, deeper, more complex, more amply furnished, with a
wider range of vision and a greater command of the field. But while he
lived, he appears as the one who spurs on and incites, where others
hesitate. He is the one by whom are visibly most felt the _gaudia
certaminis,_ and the confidence of victory, and the most profound
contempt for the men and the ideas of the boastful and short-sighted
present.
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.