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anger； and dread。 Infidelity was stalking through the land；
authority was laughed at； the hideous doctrines of Democracy were
being openly preached。 Worse still； if possible； the Church
herself was ignorant and lukewarm； she had forgotten the
mysteries of the sacraments； she had lost faith in the
Apostolical Succession； she was no longer interested in the Early
Fathers； and she submitted herself to the control of a secular
legislature； the members of which were not even bound to profess
belief in the Atonement。 In the face of such enormities what
could Keble do？ He was ready to do anything； but he was a simple
and an unambitious man； and his wrath would in all probability
have consumed itself unappeased within him had he not chanced to
come into contact； at the critical moment； with a spirit more
excitable and daring than his own。
Hurrell Froude； one of Keble's pupils； was a clever young man to
whom had fallen a rather larger share of self…assurance and
intolerance than even clever young men usually possess。 What was
singular about him； however； was not so much his temper as his
tastes。 The sort of ardour which impels more normal youths to
haunt Music Halls and fall in love with actresses took the form；
in Froude's case； of a romantic devotion to the Deity and an
intense interest in the state of his own soul。 He was obsessed by
the ideals of saintliness； and convinced of the supreme
importance of not eating too much。 He kept a diary in which he
recorded his delinquencies； and they were many。 'I cannot say
much for myself today；' he writes on September 29th； 1826 （he was
twenty…three years old）。 'I did not read the Psalms and Second
Lesson after breakfast； which I had neglected to do before；
though I had plenty of time on my hands。 Would have liked to be
thought adventurous for a scramble I had at the Devil's Bridge。
Looked with greediness to see if there was a goose on the table
for dinner； and though what I ate was of the plainest sort； and I
took no variety； yet even this was partly the effect of accident；
and I certainly rather exceeded in quantity； as I was fuzzy and
sleepy after dinner。' 'I allowed myself to be disgusted； with
's pomposity；' he writes a little later； 'also smiled at an
allusion in the Lessons to abstemiousness in eating。 I hope not
from pride or vanity； but mistrust； it certainly was
unintentional。' And again； 'As to my meals； I can say that I was
always careful to see that no one else would take a thing before
I served myself； and I believe as to the kind of my food； a bit
of cold endings of a dab at breakfast； and a scrap of mackerel at
dinner； are the only things that diverged from the strict rule of
simplicity。' 'I am obliged to confess；' he notes； 'that in my
intercourse with the Supreme Being； I am be come more and more
sluggish。' And then he exclaims： 'Thine eye trieth my inward
parts； and knoweth my thoughts 。。。 Oh that my ways were made so
direct that I might keep Thy statutes。 I will walk in Thy
Commandments when Thou hast set my heart at liberty。'
Such were the preoccupations of this young man。 Perhaps they
would have been different； if he had had a little less of what
Newman describes as his 'high severe idea of the intrinsic
excellence of Virginity'； but it is useless to speculate。
Naturally enough the fierce and burning zeal of Keble had a
profound effect upon his mind。 The two became intimate friends；
and Froude； eagerly seizing upon the doctrines of the elder man；
saw to it that they had as full a measure of controversial
notoriety as an Oxford common room could afford。 He plunged the
metaphysical mysteries of the Holy Catholic Church into the
atmosphere of party politics。 Surprised Doctors of Divinity found
themselves suddenly faced with strange questions which had never
entered their heads before。 Was the Church of England； or was it
not； a part of the Church Catholic？ If it was； were not the
Reformers of the sixteenth century renegades？ Was not the
participation of the Body and Blood of Christ essential to the
maintenance of Christian life and hope in each individual？ Were
Timothy and Titus Bishops？ Or were they not？ If they were； did it
not follow that the power of administering the Holy Eucharist was
the attribute of a sacred order founded by Christ Himself？ Did
not the Fathers refer to the tradition of the Church as to
something independent of the written word； and sufficient to
refute heresy； even alone？ Was it not； therefore； God's unwritten
word？ And did it not demand the same reverence from us as the
Scriptures； and for exactly the same reasonBECAUSE IT WAS HIS
WORD？ The Doctors of Divinity were aghast at such questions；
which seemed to lead they hardly knew whither； and they found it
difficult to think of very apposite answers。 But Hurrell Froude
supplied the answers himself readily enough。 All Oxford； all
England； should know the truth。 The time was out of joint； and he
was only too delighted to have been born to set it right。
But； after all； something more was needed than even the
excitement of Froude combined with the conviction of Keble to
ruffle seriously the vast calm waters of Christian thought； and
it so happened that that thing was not wanting： it was the genius
of John Henry Newman。 If Newman had never lived； or if his
father； when the gig came round on the fatal morning； still
undecided between the two Universities； had chanced to turn the
horse's head in the direction of Cambridge； who can doubt that
the Oxford Movement would have flickered out its little flame
unobserved in the Common Room of Oriel？ And how different； too；
would have been the fate of Newman himself！ He was a child of the
Romantic Revival； a creature of emotion and of memory； a dreamer
whose secret spirit dwelt apart in delectable mountains； an
artist whose subtle senses caught； like a shower in the sunshine；
the impalpable rainbow of the immaterial world。 In other times；
under other skies； his days would have been more fortunate。 He
might have helped to weave the garland of Meleager； or to mix the
lapis lazuli of Fra Angelico； or to chase the delicate truth in
the shade of an Athenian palaestra； or his hands might have
fashioned those ethereal faces that smile in the niches of
Chartres。 Even in his own age he might； at Cambridge； whose
cloisters have ever been consecrated to poetry and common sense；
have followed quietly in Gray's footsteps and brought into flower
those seeds of inspiration which now lie embedded amid the faded
devotion of the Lyra Apostolica。
At Oxford； he was doomed。 He could not withstand the last
enchantment of the Middle Age。 It was in vain that he plunged
into the pages of Gibbon or communed for long hours with
Beethoven over his beloved violin。 The air was thick with
clerical sanctity； heavy with the odours of tradition and the
soft warmth of spiritual authority； his friendship with Hurrell
Froude did the rest。 All that was weak