When John Henry Newman died in 1890, English papers around the world singled out different aspects of his life and work for praise or censure, but on one point they were unanimous. As the obituarist of the Colonies and India put it, “We question whether there is a living writer who had a command of the English tongue at once so eloquent and incisive, though often ironical.” The force of Newman’s style may have been universally acknowledged, but the content of the writing was rarely paid the attention it deserves. Then, as now, Newman had many admirers and many detractors, but few true critics. Indeed, for many, insisting on the beauty of Newman’s style was a convenient way of ignoring the style’s content altogether.
There is a parallel of this in the way that Newman’s contemporaries tended to take up religion. In one of his greatest sermons, “Unreal Words” (1839), Newman observed how profession could become an evasion not only of the practice but even the apprehension of religion. “Let us never lose sight of two truths,” he exhorted his readers, “that we ought to have our hearts penetrated with the love of Christ and full of self-renunciation; but that if they be not, professing that they are does not make them so.” Similarly, effusing about the beauty of Newman’s prose style can never be a substitute for grasping the matter that the style presents.
If there is a tendency on the part of some to separate style from content in Newman’s work—instead of seeing them, as they need to be seen, as indivisible—it might stem from the example of two other prose stylists of the 19th century, John Ruskin and James Anthony Froude, whose styles often have a life of their own, quite independent from their content. Certainly, one does not have to enter into Ruskin’s attack on Renaissance Venice to enjoy the majestic music of The Stones of Venice or Froude’s defense of Henry VIII to find the prose of his Tudor histories spellbinding. But one cannot arrive at a just estimate of Newman’s prose without entering into the truths that the prose was written to impart. Newman was a great stylist because he had great things to say.
Newman is amusing on this subject in his The Idea of a University (1873), where he writes of how
we read in Persian travels of the way in which young gentlemen go to work in the East, when they would engage in correspondence with those who inspire them with hope or fear. . . . They cannot write one sentence themselves; so they betake themselves to the professional letter--writer. . . . They have a point to gain from a superior, a favour to ask, an evil to deprecate; they have to approach a man in power, or to make court to some beautiful lady. The professional man manufactures words for them, as they are wanted, as a stationer sells them paper, or a schoolmaster might cut their pens. Thought and word are, in their conception, two things, and thus there is a division of labour. The man of thought comes to the man of words; and the man of words, duly instructed in the thought, dips the pen of desire into the ink of devotedness, and proceeds to spread it over the page of desolation. Then the nightingale of affection is heard to warble to the rose of loveliness, while the breeze of anxiety plays around the brow of expectation.
In contrast to this “division of labor,” Newman was adamant that “thought and speech are inseparable from each other. Matter and expression are parts of one: style is a thinking out into language.”
One can open this superb anthology on nearly any page and find examples of how the brilliance of Newman’s style issues directly from the brilliance of what he has to say. On the worldly pseudo-Christianity that is as much a part of our society as it was of his, he speaks of “an existing teaching . . . built upon worldly principle, yet pretending to be the Gospel, dropping one whole side of the Gospel, its austere character, and considering it enough to be benevolent, courteous, candid, correct in conduct, delicate,—though it includes no true fear of God, no fervent zeal for His honor, no deep hatred of sin.”
Such a mundane religion puts Newman in mind of the far more unworldly Middle Ages, which his Protestant contemporaries were disposed to regard as lost in Roman error and corruption. For Newman,
The present age is the very contrary to what are commonly called the dark ages; and together with the faults of those ages we have lost their virtues. I say their virtues; for even the errors then prevalent, a persecuting spirit, for instance, fear of religious inquiry, bigotry, these were, after all, but perversions and excesses of real virtues, such as zeal and reverence; and we, instead of limiting and purifying them, have taken them away root and branch. Why? because we have not acted from a love of the Truth, but from the influence of the Age.
Here, also, is a good example of the conversational character that Gerard Manley Hopkins commended in Newman’s work. “What Cardinal Newman does is to think aloud,” the poet discerned, “to think with pen and paper. . . . He seems to be thinking ‘Gibbon is the last great master of traditional English prose; he is its perfection; I do not propose to emulate him; I begin all over again from the language of conversation, of common life.’ ”
This was an astute insight because, for all of his dazzling attainments, Newman paid very close attention to “common life.” It was an expression of his deep respect for the claims of reality. Consequently, the limpidity of his prose is of a piece with the naturalness, the sincerity, the humility of the man himself. Dean Church, the author of what remains the greatest history of the Oxford Movement, made a number of observations in his obituary of Newman in the Guardian—an Anglican paper in the 19th century—which nicely corroborate Hopkins’s point.
It is common to speak of the naturalness and ease of Cardinal Newman’s style in writing. It is, of course, the first thing that attracts notice when we open one of his books; and there are people who think it bald and thin and dry. They look out for longer words, and grander phrases, and more involved constructions, and neater epigrams. They expect a great theme to be treated with more pomp and majesty, and they are disappointed. But the majority of English readers seem to be agreed in recognising the beauty and transparent flow of language, which matches the best French writing in rendering with sureness and without effort the thought of the writer. But what is more interesting than even the formation of such a style . . . is the man behind the style. For the man and the style are one in this perfect naturalness and ease. Any one who has watched at all carefully the Cardinal’s career, whether in old days or later, must have been struck with this feature of his character, his naturalness, the freshness and freedom with which he addressed a friend or expressed an opinion, the absence of all mannerism and formality; and, where he had to keep his dignity, both his loyal obedience to the authority which enjoined it and the half-amused, half-bored impatience that he should be the person round whom all these grand doings centred. . . . He was by no means disposed to allow liberties to be taken or to put up with impertinence; for all that bordered on the unreal, for all that was pompous, conceited, affected, he had little patience; but almost beyond all these was his disgust at being made the object of foolish admiration. He protested with whimsical fierceness against being made a hero or a sage; he was what he was, he said, and nothing more; and he was inclined to be rude when people tried to force him into an eminence which he refused.
These are the qualities that make the Apologia Pro Vita Sua (1864), Newman’s great spiritual autobiography, such a special book. Far from being an exercise in self-vindication, it is full of the most guileless honesty.
If we recognize that Newman’s style is the natural efflorescence of his thought, we will also see that his thought is the expression of a very versatile personality. Editor Ian Ker does this versatility justice by distilling Newman’s vast output in terms of what he wrote as an educator, philosopher, theologian, preacher, and writer.
Thus, in the section about education, there are brilliant passages from The Idea of a University, demonstrating the perennial appeal of Newman’s educational insights, especially at a time when the incoherence of our own universities could not be plainer. In the philosophy section, there are choice extracts from A Grammar of Assent (1870), which provide a useful key to that otherwise difficult book. Then, Newman’s preaching is nicely epitomized by a generous sampling of his Plain and Parochial Sermons (1868). In the section on his theological writings, there are extracts from both his Anglican and his Roman Catholic periods, showing the striking cohesiveness of his theological work. And the splendid chapter on Newman the writer highlights not only his polemical but his satirical genius. From Newman’s caustic essay “The Anglo-American Church” (1839), for example, Ker includes that wonderful passage where Newman captures the essence of our refined Unitarians: “They want only so much religion as will satisfy their natural perception of the propriety of being religious. Reason teaches them that utter disregard of their Maker is unbecoming, and they determine to be religious, not from love and fear, but from good sense.”
Ker is to be commended for choosing these selections with such consummate care. There are also terse, shrewd, informative introductions to each of the sections. Regarding the section of extracts devoted to Newman the writer, for example, Ker observes: “Like Cicero, whom Newman greatly admired both as a controversialist and as a master of style, it is hardly possible to imagine Newman without his letters, so integral do they seem to his artistic and intellectual achievement. Not only does the corpus of correspondence provide a detailed and extended commentary on the published works, but it is in itself a marvelous manifestation of Newman’s powers as an ‘occasional writer.’ ”
Edward Short is the author of the forthcoming Newman and His Family (Bloomsbury).