Appeared in Winter 1989
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John Henry Newman was a man of letters – both literally and figuratively. A writer of copious epistles to family and friends, and an inveterate diarist, he defined himself in relation to the word with both a small and a capital “W.” His identity, reflected in his own speeches and writings, grew out of his relationship to sacred Scripture and secular letters, as well as from his changing appreciation of the writings of the early Church fathers and the seventeenth-century Anglican divines.
As a boy, he composed poems and plays, even penning an opera in which his younger brother Francis recalled being drafted to play the fisherman.1 At school, the future Cardinal started a weekly paper called The Spy, the publication of a secret society of which he was Grand Master.2 Inactive in sports, John Henry achieved leadership through his precocious ability with letters – a precociousness that is well reflected in diaries that record his reaction to the diverse writings of others – from the Bible to Voltaire. As he says himself, “scribbling” was preeminent among his youthful activities.
In young manhood, the versifying, letter-writing, and diary-making expanded and broadened into lyric effusions, religious tracts, and masterful sermons designed to convince the doubtful and move the faithful to greater fervor. Even the famous poet and critic, Matthew Arnold, who thoroughly disagreed with Newman’s interpretation of Anglicanism and remarked that in choosing Catholicism, John Henry had simply picked an “impossible” solution to the Victorian dilemma concerning faith, extolled the power of Newman’s writing and speech – especially when they were coupled with his personal appearance and delivered in his own speaking voice.
As Arnold recalls the effect that Newman created in the pulpit of St. Mary’s, his own description takes on the delicacy and the beauty of a prose poem. He remembers “the charm of that spiritual apparition, gliding in the dim afternoon light through the aisles of St. Mary’s, rising in the pulpit and then, in the most entrancing of voices, breaking the silence with words and thoughts which were a religious music – subtle, sweet, and mournful.3
Arnold’s praise of Newman’s eloquence is typical of the reaction of his contemporaries who differed only on the motive or degree of sincerity that they assigned to his talent. Whether they agreed with the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins that Newman showed “Sincerity and intimacy,” with “a living voice speaking out simply and directly to every reader,”4 or reviled him as “a subtle-minded ecclesiastical hairsplitter and special pleader,”‘ they concurred that he was a master of the word – a talent that
helped to make Newman, according to the often adversarial Monsignor Talbot, “the most dangerous man in England.”6
Although few would have acknowledged it, many of his critics considered Newman threatening because his gifts were so multi-faceted; his stylistic range so great; his make-up so complex; and the development of his thoughts and beliefs so continual. Even among Newman’s gifted contemporaries, few could boast ability as a “religious thinker, poet, historian, novelist, critic, autobiographer, controversialist, preacher, (and) educator.”7 When Newman combined these various personas with the diverse styles that he frequently adopted – the Ciceronian, Gibbonian, Attic, high Hebraic, regal, elegiac, and academic – to mention only a few – it is no surprise that critics often found him something of a rhetorical artful dodger.8
Ironically, Newman’s seeming duplicity derived from his hypersensitivity which, in turn, strove to render his meaning with such nuanced exactitude that he sometimes appeared a chameleon. As the eminent critic C. F. Harrold has explained, “The key to the problem of Newman’s integrity is his complexity … At first we may think that …[his] is a simple mind, so candid … so naive and ingenuous is some of its moods. But we soon find ourselves wholly lost in the labyrinthine mazes of his complex personality.”9
As Harrold points out, in Newman’s character, paradox was the rule rather than the exception: Here is an ascetic who is also an artist and a literary epicure; a mystic with the corrosive intellect of a sceptic; a solitary who has troops of friends and followers; a great religious leader and controversialist, yet a dreamer, an idealist, childlike in his simple faith; and deft in using it as a tool to suit his purposes; a man who is timid and aggressive, deeply sincere and yet possessed of a subtlety which the greatest casuist might have envied, intellectually hard, cold, glittering and analytical one moment, and meltingly sweet, rapturously adoring, womanlike in tenderness the next …10
As Harrold observes, Newman appeared disingenuous, if not downright deceptive to his critics, not only because of his complex character (which they could not fathom), but also because he insisted, on accurately recording the development of his ideas – even if that development took him far afield from his original position. This critic is certainly right in recognizing that “few great thinkers have appeared under so many and varied aspects or seemed to pass through so many changes:”
Early in his career, Newman appeared to many as a torturous and subtle casuist, at heart a Roman priest, continuing for ten years to “corrupt” his fellow Anglicans toward Rome. Later, after publication of the Apologia, his position changed: the doctor subtilis became a doctor angelicus, whose portrait, with its saintly emaciated, ascetic face, was known in nearly every Anglican vicarage. Still later, during the Victorian conflict between Science and religion, a third Newman appears, “with the intellect of a sceptic and the heart of a mystic” – the Newman of Huxley and Leslie Stephen, a combination of Hamlet and Pascal, agonizing over faith and doubt, and finding in Catholicism a refuge from the terrors of modern knowledge.ll
Despite the complexity of Newman’s character, and the various phases through which his personal thought and reputation passed, the source of his attractiveness – whether it rejoiced the hearts of his supporters or maddened his opponents – remained the same. The secret of that attraction is contained in Newman’s identity as a man of words who directly appealed to the hearts of his audience. The motto that he chose for his shield when Pope Leo XIII elevated him to the Cardinalate in 1879, “Cor Ad Cor Loquitur, ” (“Heart speaketh unto heart”), expresses the secret of his great success as a speaker and writer. He engaged not only his audience’s minds, but also their hearts.
Ironically, this talent was also the source of his antagonists’ greatest criticisms – in speaking to the hearts of others, they implied, Newman was really seducing them – the point that his adversaries repeatedly made when they condemned him as a “Jesuitical serpent.” Principal Shairp of St. Andrews, for example, who had never shared or sympathized with Newman’s religious ideas, praised his rare power to touch the hearts of his audience: “As he spoke, how the old truth became new; how it came home with a meaning never felt before! He laid his finger, how gently, yet how powerfully, on some inner place in the hearer’s heart.”12
Those who thought that “heart speaketh unto heart” was merely an example of Victorian sentimentalism or that Newman only tipped his nefarious hand, displaying the rhetorical aces up his sleeve, would have seen a very limited and distorted part of the picture. To be sure, Newman’s appeal to the hearts of his audience was a wise rhetorical move not lost on a scholar of the master rhetor Cicero. But his reference to hearts, his interest in hearts, and, indeed, his inability to speak of or write about almost anything without referring to the heart as the core of man’s being, far surpasses Victorian sentiment or rhetorical efficacy.
What were some of the reasons for this preoccupation? The first was rooted in his home life. Raised in a middle-class Victorian home that was heavily Evangelical, Newman was taught early to scrutinize his heart and to examine his personal relationship with God. He was also taught to beware of that great bane denounced by the prophets – hardness of heart.
In fact, long after he had outgrown his belief in some Evangelical tenets and adopted a very High Church perspective, he still examined his conscience concerning the state of his heart. In a memorandum that he wrote of his near fatal sickness in Italy in 1833, he saw his spiritual faults mainly in terms of his “hollowness” as a result of his lack of feeling. “Indeed,” he confessed, “this is how I look on myself: very much … as a pane of glass, which transmits heat, being cold itself. . . . I believe myself at heart to be nearly hollow, i.e., with little love.”13
In later years, he, who could not speak of the deaths of certain friends without tears, reproached himself with lack of warmth in personal friendships. In one of his letters, he wrote, “I think I am very cold and reserved to people, but I cannot ever realize to myself that anyone loves me.”14
In a different context, after his conversion to Catholicism, Newman used the state of his heart as a gauge to indicate that he had made the right decision. In the Apologia, he refers to his relative lack of anxiety as an index to his peace of mind when he observes, “From the time I became a Catholic, of course, I have no further history of my religious opinions to narrate.” “In saying this,” he added, “I do not mean that my mind has been idle, or that I have had no … anxiety of heart whatever.”15
Another reason for Newman’s interest in the heart lay in his early affection for Romanticism which, to many critics, seems incongruous in light of his equally strongly developed appreciation of many Augustan writers like Addison, Johnson, Pope, Gibbon, and Crabbe. In his youth, however, Newman was a devotee of the novels of Sir Walter Scott and Jane Porter, in addition to the Gothic romances of Mrs. Radcliffe.16
Throughout his life, he had a Romantic preference for lyrical poetry, describing emotional states, rather than for the merely dramatic or narrative,17 for he agreed with Coleridge that character was more significant than plot. As Harrold astutely observes, Newman’s defense of a “non-rational, or intuitive, approach to religious faith,” his retreat to the past (in his case, the Patristic Age), and his preference for Scott and Southey show the “undeniable affinities between …[his] mind and [those of] almost any of the great Romantics.”18 As Ryan points out, however, “whereas the extreme Romanticists broke with two traditions, the classical and the Christian, Newman broke with neither, but tried to recapture both.”19
Trying to accommodate the dictates of Evangelical piety and the insights afforded by his classical studies to his Romantic, as well as Augustan sensibilities, Newman thoroughly confused those who could not fathom how such ill-assorted affinities could co-exist. To them, the ambiguity of his interest seemed disingenuous at best and downright deceitful at the worst.20
Even apart from his Evangelical upbringing and his Romantic affinities, Newman’s personal make-up was such that the emotions were exceedingly important to him. Repeatedly he refers to the value of his home, his family, and to the emotional ties that bind him to them. In converting to Catholicism and breaking many of these ties, Newman felt that he had relinquished something so precious that only God could compensate him for his loss: “None but He,” Newman writes, “can make up for the loss of those old familiar faces which haunt me continuously.”21 Indeed, except for God, his friendships seem to have been the summum bonum of his existence. The unique importance that he attached to the emotions and to friendship explains the emphasis he accords heart-wrenching, -piercing, and -breaking occurrences in both his private and public letters.
In fact, one of the reasons that he laid such importance on personal letters, as well as on literature at large, was that he believed a man’s identity and his “heart” were best reflected in his correspondence and creative writing. He praises the Church Fathers, who played such an instrumental role in his conversion, precisely because they know the human heart and because their work reflects this knowledge. “The early fathers,” he writes in The Arians of the Fourth Century, “are versed in human knowledge, they are busy in human society; they understand the human heart.”22
Newman also values their writings because they reflect the inner workings of sanctified hearts – of men who, he believed, were saints. The words of the saint, he observed, are “the index of his hidden life, as far as that life can be known to man, for `out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh’.”23 Their writing, according to Newman, is “just that kind of literature which more than any other represents the abundance of the heart.”24
Such writing, Newman thought, is the most likely to evangelize, for, as he argued in Discussions and Arguments, “The heart is commonly reached, not through the reason, but through the imagination. … Persons influence us, voices melt us, looks subdue us, deeds inflame us.”25 To him, it made sense that the Church Fathers concentrated on their own hearts and those of their auditors because, he claimed, “man is not a reasoning animal; he is a seeing, feeling, contemplating, acting animal.”26
Newman argued that literature is the “Autobiography of Mankind,” in which the bared heart of one man issues an appeal to that of another. For him, literature was “of a personal character,” consisting of the teachings of “those who have a right to speak as representatives of their kind.”27 Those who qualified as such spokesmen were those “in whose words their brethren find an interpretation of their own sentiments, a record of their own experience.”28
It was not enough, however, for the author to offer an interpretation of the reader’s or even his own sentiments, he must also give evidence of “fire within . . . [his] breast” that “overflows in the torrent of his burning, irresistible eloquence” with “the poetry of his inner soul.”29 The great author, Newman was convinced, thrills the imagination when his own heart has been touched.30 In some of the most rousing words that he ever wrote, Newman defended literature because it captures the soul of the writer and his reader, as well as the eternal verities of human experience. “If,” he writes, “language is by many … considered to be nothing short of divine, if by means of words the secrets of the heart are brought to light, pain of soul is relieved .. . and wisdom perpetuated,” if [authors] “are the spokesmen and prophets of the human family – it will not answer to make light of Literature or to neglect its study.”31
As one would expect, the Scripture was the literature that Newman found most irresistible not only because it was God-given but also because it combined the Word with the incarnate Heart of Christ. For him, this was not just writing that expressed the abundance of a heart, but that actually embodied the abundance of God’s love and revealed the Divine Heart in action.
Considering the enormous emphasis that Newman put on the heart, some may think it surprising that the only novels he ever wrote, Loss and Gain (1848) and Callista (begun in 1849, but not completed and published until 1855) are both lacking in ordinary “love interest.” This seems all the more remarkable when one recollects his youthful infatuation with the highly romantic novels of Scott and the Gothic works of Mrs. Radcliffe – to say nothing of his later enjoyment of Trollope and Thackeray. His own omission of the usual sentimental “love interest,” which is virtually the signature of most Victorian novelists, is all the more perplexing in light of his ruefully expressed indignation that “Miss Austen has no romance – none at all!”32 One cannot simply solve the puzzle by saying that Newman was sensitive to the lack of romance in the writings of others, but oblivious to its absence in his own, for in the Apologia he warns the reader apologetically, “in spite of the foregoing pages, I have no romantic story to tell.”33
The truth about Newman’s novels is that he had a very romantic tale to tell, but not the ordinary kind of Victorian love story. Indeed, he was constitutionally incapable of writing such an account. As warmly affectionate as he was to many friends and family members and as deep as his emotions ran, his imagination was fired only by supernatural love. Sensual passion, conjugal bliss or even marital domesticity did not strike a responsive chord in his breast. The great romance for him, who as a child had imagined himself an angel, was heavenly. For him, who since his teens had felt divinely called to celibacy, the crux of a love story was not “boy meets girl,” but man meets God. How could he, who since his youth had thought of “two and two only supreme and luminously self-evident beings, myself and my Creator,” envision any greater romance than one that united God and man? How could he, who, long before his conversion, referred to his ordination as the time of his “espousals,” imagine a more satisfying marriage than the union of the human with the divine?
Both Loss and Gain and Callista depict a divine romance with a Divine Lover which is, for Newman, the greatest possible love story. Moreover, it is the only kind for which he could draw on his personal experience. That he did so is obvious to even the casual reader. In Loss and Gain, Charles Reding, a young university student who expects to be an Anglican clergyman, gradually realizes that he is “destined” to be a Roman Catholic. Instead of the happy wedding that so often ends Victorian novels, the author substitutes a kind of divine espousal: the book ends just after Charles is received into the Church with him kneeling before the tabernacle. Charles feels that “there was more than the happiness of childhood in his heart” as “he went on kneeling, as if he were already in heaven, with the throne of God before him, and angels around, and as if to move were to lose his privilege.”34
Likewise, in Callista, the story of a young pagan Greek girl of the third century who converts to Christianity, the protagonist experiences a kind of mystical union with God at the end of the book. In her case, however, acceptance of Christ as her bridegroom comes not with conversion but with martyrdom that results from her refusal to sacrifice to the genius of the emperor.
In Callista, in which the hero and heroine both give up matrimonial love for their Divine Lover, Newman vividly demonstrates his belief that the greatest love the heart can have is for God and the greatest consummation of that love is union with him. As the Bishop Caecilius tells Callista:
There is but one Lover of souls, and He loves each one of us, as though there were no one else to love. He died for each one of us, as if there were no one else to die for, he died on the shameful cross. “Amor meus crucifixus est!” The love which He inspires lasts, for it is the love of the Unchangeable. It satisfies, for He is inexhaustible. The nearer we draw to Him, the more triumphantly does He enter into us; the longer He dwells in us, the more intimately have we possession of Him. It is an espousal for eternity. That is why it is so easy for us to die for our faith, at which the world marvels.35
Callista internalizes Caecilius’ message to such an extent that she cannot think of God as an abstraction, but only as a Divine Person who loves her and who will be personally pained and disappointed if she sins. As Newman explains, for her, being a Christian means absolute union with God. She believes that the relationship of the soul with God “was loving intercourse, or it was a name . . . the three witnesses who had addressed her about Christianity had each of them made it to consist in the intimate Divine Presence in the heart. It was the friendship or mutual love of person with person” (293).
Later in the book, Callista argues with the scoffer Polemo, basing her own belief in God on the same kind of assurance that Newman had of the luminous presence of himself and his Creator. Significantly, she begins the defense of her beliefs with a reference to her heart: “Well,” she said, “I feel that God within my heart. I feel myself in His presence. . . . my nature feels towards it as towards a person. When I obey it, I feel a satisfaction; when I disobey, a soreness – just like that which I feel in pleasing or offending some revered friend. So you see, Polemo, I believe in…. what is more real to me than sun, moon, stars, and the fair earth, and the voice of friends” (314). When shortly before her death, Callista announces “one thing I know, that there is but One to love in the whole world, and I wish to love Him” (347), Newman is clearly speaking through her lips.
Despite the over-arching importance of the Divine Heart and its relationship with the protagonists in both stories, Newman constantly, almost obsessively, refers to hearts. What the Freudians would make of this, one shudders to inquire, but it does not take a psychobiographer to see that the word “heart” comes up more frequently and in more contexts than would ordinarily be expected – particularly in novels containing no earthly romance.
In Loss and Gain, the word “heart” appears four times on the opening page alone. Several of these uses indicate why Newman found the romance between the human and divine hearts so much more compelling than that between man and woman. Charles Reding’s father reflects “There is no telling what is in a boy’s heart; he may look as open and happy as usual, and be as kind and attentive, when there is a great deal of wrong going on within. The heart is a secret with its Maker; no one on earth can hope to get at it or to touch it.” Reflecting a little more, Mr. Reding thinks, “I have a cure of souls; what do I really know of my parishioners? Nothing; their hearts are sealed books to me.”
Clearly, for Newman, the romance between man and God is more satisfying because both parties can be truly known, the Divine Lover is not fooled by appearances, and he can pierce the secrets of the heart and read the “sealed books” of those organs in a way that neither Mr. Reding nor any man can. Indeed, the very name “Reding,” given Newman’s preoccupation with the word, seems significant. On the first page, Mr. Reding admits that he cannot read the hearts over which he exercises spiritual jurisdiction, setting the stage for the story of Charles who will, as a Catholic, learn, according to Newman, to read his own heart aright.
Mr. Reding also refers to the nature of evil on the first page – including a reference to the heart. He muses, “Did I guard him [his son] here at home ever so well, yet, in due time, it would be found that a serpent had crept into the heart of his innocence. Boys do not fully know what is good and what is evil, they do wrong things at first almost innocently” (6). So saying, Charles’ father introduces the worm in the rose of the romance between man and God – somehow a serpent creeps into the heart of innocence and ruins it – disqualifying the heart for union with the Divine Lover unless he redeem the one who has lost his innocence.
In the pages of Loss and Gain, the word “heart” appears again and again, sometimes in an idiomatic usage, sometimes dramatizing innocence, or evil, or courage, or openness, or misery, or anxiety or fear. But all of these “hearts” are prefigurations of the Great Heart alluded to at the end of the book. There, we see the “white heart” of Father Aloysius’ “dark Passionist habit” sewed over “his left breast” (296). This is the heart for which Charles yearns, the heart purified by the Passion of Christ and restored to its original innocence.
In Callista also, salvation for the heart comes from learning to “read” one’s own emotions and those expressed in the Scripture properly. Although the heroine is not named “Reding,” her reading of the Gospel of St. Luke (in the dungeon where she is imprisoned before her martyrdom) unveils the heart of Christ to her and causes her to fall in love with Him. The book describes her passage from the realization that “the Shadow of … God is on my mind and heart” to her question, “Who is this God?” to the answer that the Gospel gives her.
As in Loss and Gain, Newman keeps the word “heart” ever before the reader almost the way that a tachistoscope flashes messages on a screen so quickly that they affect only the
subconscious, without allowing the watcher to become consciously aware of the subliminal suggestion. He describes aching, over-flowing, hard, black, fervent, beating, persecuted, melting, torn, thankful, kindling, pierced, speaking, fond, heavy, burdened, rent, weak, and enthralled hearts. But all of these, for Newman, find their haven only in love of God. For him, the cure for all these weary, sad, persecuted, pagan hearts is found in the words that Caecilius and Agellius (both martyrs) repeat to each other as part of the Mass, “Sursum corda” – Lift up your hearts [to the Lord]! Despite the amazing amount of talk about hearts and mention of them in even the most idiomatic phrases, Newman’s novels, as many critics have observed, are not very romantic works. This is not because Divine Romances are not interesting, but because Newman never introduces any dramatic suspense into the stories. The reader knows from the beginning that Charles is going to follow in Newman’s own footsteps no matter how many hiatuses delay his progress. Similarly, from the minute that Agellius first dreams of converting Callista, one suspects that she will become a Christian. From the time that the imperial proclamation is pinned up in the square announcing the persecution of Christians, the reader senses that Callista (and probably Agellius) too will fall prey to Decius’ murderous rage against what to him were infidels. One cannot help suspecting that Newman’s fondness for the phrase “Christianos ad leones” (Christians to the lions!), which runs throughout the book like a leitmotif, suggests the tone of the ending.
Since there is little or no dramatic conflict in either text concerning the lives of the main characters, where does Newman find tension? The answer is that he does not depict much because he is mainly interested in depicting the successive states of the soul rather than in showing its actual evolution. The kind of tension that he does manufacture is drawn directly from his own autobiography.
For him, the major conflict was between the past and the present, between what he had been as an Anglican and what he became as a Catholic. Even the way that he converted captures this tension in miniature: he read the Church Fathers of the distant past and thought that he saw nineteenth century Anglicans in the situation of the heretics of Antiquity (the Monophysites), whereas it seemed to him that the ancient Catholics were in the position of the Patristic Fathers. As he comments in the Apologia, “My stronghold was Antiquity; now here, in the middle of the fifth century, I found, as it seemed to me, Christendom of the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries reflected. I saw my face in that mirror and I was a Monophysite! The Church of the via media was in the position of the Oriental communion; Rome was where she now is and the Protestants were the Eutychians. …”31 For Newman, the drama of his own life, as well as that of his characters, Charles and Callista, hinges on first seeing something that is old, but is “new” to them (whether Catholicism or early Christianity) and then in recognizing that this new thing really answers all the oldest longings of their hearts. As Charles realizes, he has found “in a small cell” “His new home.” (293) But this new home is really ancient, as Charles recognizes when he comments to his friend Willis, “Too late have I known Thee, 0 thou ancient Truth, too late have I found Thee, First and only Fair.” (297). In playing on St. Augustine’s reference to truth so ancient and yet so new, Newman points his readers in the direction of another of Augustine’s insights – that our hearts are restless until they rest in God. This, indeed, seems to be the state which Charles Reding has reached in the last line of the book, for “he had no thoughts either for the Past or the Future” (297).
For Callista, as for Charles Reding, her conversion, although originally introducing her to novel ideas, really answers the oldest longings of her heart. As the author exclaims, “O what a new world of thought she had entered! It occupied her mind from its very novelty” (326-7), yet, she recognizes that in Christ “here was He who spoke to her in her conscience; whose Voice she heard, whose Person she was seeking…. Here was He who kindled a warmth on the cheek of both Chione and Agellius” (326).
Since Newman’s own life story had been a synthesizing of the old with the new, it is not surprising that he chooses the same path to show the conversions of his characters. Moreover, he believed that a “truly great intellect” “takes a connected view of old and new, past and present, far and near, and . . . has an insight into the influence of all these on one another,” for without this, he believed that there was “no whole, and no centre.”37 In other words, without this, he believed that there was no heart – and with no heart, as should be abundantly clear, there could be no life at all for Newman.
His own life, and that of his fictional characters, reflect his deep-seated belief that the heart, like the truths of faith, must be ever old and ever new, but that the heart must also somehow unify the past and the present in order to transcend time itself. Since Newman believed that this was accomplished in the Mass, it is fitting that he ends Callista with a reference to Caecilius saying daily mass at the tomb of the martyred heroine and concluded Loss and Gain with Charles’ saying his prayers of thanksgiving after the Mass.
It is not Charles, however, but Willis, the Passionist priest, who explains how the Mass is ever old, yet ever new, simultaneously fulfilling the oldest desires of the heart and renewing it. “I declare,” says Willis “to me nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass … I could attend Masses for ever, 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.” (226).
For this to happen, Willis acknowledges that “Words are necessary, but as means, not as ends.” (226) Newman believed that this was true not only for the Mass but also for his life’s work. Through his poems, essays, sermons, treatises, letters, autobiography, and novels he called the hearts of his readers and auditors into the “Great Presence” of God that they might bask in His Divine Love. For Newman, this was not only the greatest joy that life offered, but also the great insurance policy for the human heart, for he recognized, like the Biblical writers of old, although “My flesh and my heart faileth, God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”38
1F. W. Newman, Contributions Chiefly To The Early Hisioty of the Late Cardinal Newman (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, & Co., Ltd, 1981), 4.
3Matthew Arnold, “Emerson,” Discourses in America (London, 1896), 139-40.
4Gerard Manley Hopkins, Further Letters, ed. C. C. Abbott (Oxford University Press, 1938), 232.
5Charles Frederick Harrold, John Henry Newman (New York: Longmans, Green, & Co., 1946), 43.
6John Moody, John Henry Newman (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1945), 247. The passage cited is from one of Monsignor Talbot’s letters to Archbishop (later Cardinal) Manning.
8Walter E. Houghton, TheArt of Newman’s `Apologia” (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1945), 46.
10Ibid , 373.
13John Henry Newman, Memoir of 1834, quoted in Hilda Graef s God and Myself.• The Spirituality of John Henry Newman (New York: Hawthorn Books, Inc., 1968), 42.
14John Henry Newman, Letters and Correspondences II, 242.
15John Henry Newman, Apologia Pro Vita Sua, Wilfrid Ward, ed. (1913), 221.
17See A. S. Ryan, “Newman’s Conception of Literature,” Critical Studies in Amold, Emerson and Newman, Ed. J. E. Baker, University of Iowa Humanistic Studies, VI, no. I, (Iowa City, 1942).
19See Ryan, 142.
25John Henry Newman, Discussions and Arguments (1882 ed.), 293.
27John Henry Newman, “Literature”, University Subjects, ed. Ada Snell (New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1913), 83.
32Tuckwell, Reminiscences, 181.
34John Henry Newman, Loss and Gain, ed. Alan G. Hill (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 296.
35John Henry Newman, Callista (London: Burns, Oates & Co., 1873), 222.
37“Knowledge in Relation to Learning,” University Subjects, 35.
38John Henry Newman, Parochial and Plain Sermons (1898 ed., 8 vols.), I, 214.