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C l a s s i c A p o l o g e t i c s
CONSOLATION FOR APOLOGISTS
By JOHN HENRY NEWMAN
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This Rock
Volume 4, Number 11
 November 1993 
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LEGAL restrictions on Catholics in England
were not lifted until the nineteenth century. Only as late as 1850
was the English hierarchy re-established by the Vatican. Two years
later John Henry Newman preached at the First Provincial Synod of
Westminster. Present were Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman and the bishops
of England.
This sermon, published under the title "The Second Spring,"
may be Newman's most famous. We reprint it as a tonic for apologists
and would-be apologists who may become discouraged in their work or
over the current state of the Church.
The Second Spring
WE have familiar experience
of the order, the constancy, the perpetual renovation of the material
world which surrounds us. Frail and transitory as is every part of
it, restless and migratory as are its elements, never ceasing as are
its changes, still it abides. It is bound together by a law of permanence,
it is set up in unity; and, though it is ever dying, it is ever coming
to life again. Dissolution does but give birth to fresh modes of organization,
and one death is the parent of a thousand lives. Each hour, as it
comes, is but a testimony, how fleeting, yet how secure, how certain,
is the great whole. It is like an image on the waters, which is ever
the same, though the waters ever flow.
Change upon change--yet one change cries out to another, like
the alternate Seraphim, in praise and in glory of their Maker. The
sun sinks to rise again; the day is swallowed up in the gloom of the
night, to be born out of it, as fresh as if it had never been quenched.
Spring passes into summer, and through summer and autumn into winter,
only the more surely, by its own ultimate return, to triumph over
that grave, towards which it resolutely hastened from its first hour.
We mourn over the blossoms of May, because they are to wither; but
we know, withal, that May is one day to have its revenge upon November,
by the revolution of that solemn circle which never stops--which
teaches us in our height of hope, ever to be sober, and in our depth
of desolation, never to despair.
And forcibly as this comes home to every one of us, not less forcible
is the contrast which exists between this material world, so vigorous,
so reproductive, amid all its changes, and the moral world, so feeble,
so downward, so resourceless, amid all its aspirations. That which
ought to come to nought, endures; that which promises a future, disappoints
and is no more. The same sun shines in heaven from first to last,
and the blue firmament, the everlasting mountains, reflect his rays;
but where is there upon earth the champion, the hero, the lawgiver,
the body politic, the sovereign race, which was great three hundred
years ago, and is great now?
Moralists and poets, often do they descant upon this innate vitality
of matter, this innate perishableness of mind. Man rises to fall;
he tends to dissolution from the moment he begins to be; he lives
on, indeed, in his children, he lives on in his name, he lives not
on in his own person. He is, as regards the manifestations of his
nature here below, as a bubble that breaks, and
as water poured out upon the earth. He was young, he is old, he is
never young again. This is the lament over him, poured forth in verse
and in prose, by Christians and by heathen. The greatest work of God's
hands under the sun, he, in all the manifestations of his complex
being, is born only to die.
His bodily frame first begins to feel the power of this constraining
law, though it is the last to succumb to it. We look at the bloom
of youth with interest, yet with pity; and the more graceful and sweet
it is, with pity so much the more; for, whatever be its excellence
and its glory, soon it begins to be deformed and dishonoured by the
very force of its living on. It grows into exhaustion and collapse,
till at length it crumbles into that dust out of which it was originally
taken.
So is it, too, with our moral being, a far higher and diviner portion
of our natural constitution; it begins with life, it ends with what
is worse than the mere loss of life, with a living death. How beautiful
is the human heart, when it puts forth its first leaves, and opens
and rejoices in its springtide. Fair as may be the bodily form, fairer
far, in its green foliage and bright blossoms, its natural virtue.
It blooms in the young, like some rich flower, so delicate, so fragrant,
and so dazzling.
Generosity and lightness of heart and amiableness, the confiding spirit,
the gentle temper, the elastic cheerfulness, the open hand, the pure
affection, the noble aspiration, the heroic resolve, the romantic
pursuit, the love in which self has no part--are not these beautiful?
and are they not dressed up and set forth for admiration in their
best shapes, in tales and in poems? and ah! what a prospect of good
is there! who could believe that it is to fade! and yet, as night
follows upon day, as decrepitude follows upon health, so surely are
failure, and overthrow, and annihilation the issue of this natural
virtue, if time only be allowed to it to run its course. There are
those who are cut off in the first opening of this excellence, and
then, if we may trust their epitaphs, they have lived like angels;
but wait a while, let them live on, let the course of life proceed,
let the bright soul go through the fire and water of the world's temptations
and seductions and corruptions and transformations; and, alas for
the insufficiency of nature! alas for its powerlessness<<|<;>
to persevere, its waywardness in disappointing its own promise!
Wait till youth has become age; and not more different is the miniature
which we have of him when a boy, when every feature spoke of hope,
put side by side of the large portrait painted to his honour, when
he is old, when his limbs are shrunk, his eye dim, his brow furrowed,
and his hair grey, than differs the moral grace of that boyhood from
the forbidding and repulsive aspect of his soul, now that he has lived
to the age of man. For moroseness, and misanthropy, and selfishness,
is the ordinary winter of that spring.
Such is man in his own nature, and such, too, is he in his works.
The noblest efforts of his genius, the conquests he has made, the
doctrines he has originated, the nations he has civilized, the states
he has created, they outlive himself, they outlive him by many centuries,
but they tend to an end, and that end is dissolution. Powers of the
world, sovereignties, dynasties, sooner or later come to nought; they
have their fatal hour. The Roman conqueror shed tears over Carthage,
for in the destruction of the rival city he discerned too truly an
augury of the fall of Rome; and at length, with the weight and the
responsibilities, the crimes and the glories, of centuries upon centuries,
the Imperial City fell.
Thus man and all his works are mortal; they die, and they have no
power of renovation. But what is it, my Fathers, my Brothers, what
is it that has happened in England just at this time? Something strange
is passing over this land, by the very surprise, by the very commotion,
which it excites. Were we not near enough the scene of action to be
able to say what is going on--were we the inhabitants of some
sister planet possessed of a more perfect mechanism than this earth
has discovered for surveying the transactions of another globe--and
did we turn our eyes thence towards England just at this season, we
should be arrested by a political phenomenon as wonderful as any which
the astronomer notes down from his physical field of view. It would
be the occurrence of a national commotion, almost without parallel,
more violent than has happened here for centuries--at least in
the judgments and intentions of men, if not in act and deed.
We should note it down, that soon after St. Michael's day, 1850, a
storm arose in the moral world, so furious as to demand some great
explanation, and to rouse in us an intense desire to gain it. We should
observe it increasing from day to day, and spreading from place to
place, without remission, almost without lull, up to this very hour,
when perhaps it threatens worse still, or at least gives no sure prospect
of alleviation. Every party in the body politic undergoes its influence--from
the Queen upon her throne, down to the little ones in the infant or
day school.
The ten thousands of the constituency, the sum-total of Protestant
sects, the aggregate of religious societies and associations, the
great body of established clergy in town and country, the bar, even
the medical profession, nay, even literary and scientific circles,
every class, every interest, every fireside, gives tokens of this
ubiquitous storm. This would be our report of it, seeing it from the
distance, and we should speculate on the cause. What is it all about?
against what is it directed? what wonder has happened upon earth?
what prodigious, what preternatural event is adequate to the burden
of so vast an effect?
We should judge rightly in our curiosity about a phenomenon like this;
it must be a portentous event, and it is. It is an innovation, a miracle,
I may say, in the course of human events. The physical world revolves
year by year, and begins again; but the political order of things
does not renew itself, does not return; it continues, but it proceeds;
there is no retrogression. This is so well understood by men of the
day, that with them progress is idolized as another name for good.
The past never returns--it is never good;--if we are to escape
existing ills, it must be by going forward. The past is out of date;
the past is dead. As well may the dead live to us, as well may the
dead profit us, as the past return.
This, then, is the cause of this national transport, this national
cry, which encompasses us. The past has returned, the dead lives.
Thrones are overturned, and are never restored; States live and die,
and then are matter only for history. Babylon was great, and Tyre,
and Egypt, and Nineve, and shall never be great again. The English
Church was, and the English Church was not, and the English Church
is once again. This is the portent, worthy of a cry. It is the coming
in of a Second Spring; it is a restoration in the moral world, such
as that which yearly takes place in the physical.
Three centuries ago, and the Catholic Church, that great creation
of God's power, stood in this land in pride of place. It had the honours
of near a thousand years upon it; it was enthroned in some twenty
sees up and down the broad country; it was based in the will of a
faithful people; it energized through ten thousand instruments of
power and influence; and it was ennobled by a host of Saints and Martyrs.
The churches, one by one, recounted and rejoiced in the line of glorified
intercessors, who were the respective objects of their grateful homage.
Canterbury alone numbered perhaps some sixteen, from St. Augustine
to St. Dunstan and St. Elphege, from St. Anselm and St. Thomas down
to St. Edmund. York had its St. Paulinus, St. John, St. Wilfrid, and
St. William; London, its St. Erconwald; Durham, its St. Cuthbert;
Winton, its St. Swithin. Then there were St. Aidan of Lindisfarne,
and St. Hugh of Lincoln, and St. Chad of Lichfield, and St. Thomas
of Hereford, and St. Oswald and St. Wulstan of Worcester, and St.
Osmund of Salisbury, and St. Birinus of Dorchester, and St. Richard
of Chichester. And then, too, its religious orders, its monastic establishments,
its universities, its wide relations all over Europe, its high prerogatives
in the temporal state, its wealth, its dependencies, its popular honours--where
was there in the whole of Christendom a more glorious hierarchy? Mixed
up with the civil institutions, with king and nobles, with the people,
found in every village and in every town--it seemed destined to
stand, so long as England stood, and to outlast, it might be, England's
greatness.
But it was the high decree of heaven, that the majesty of that presence
should be blotted out. It is a long story, my Fathers and Brothers--you
know it well. I need not go through it. The vivifying principle of
truth, the shadow of St. Peter, the grace of the Redeemer, left it.
That old Church in its day became a corpse (a marvellous, an awful
change!); and then it did but corrupt the air which once it refreshed,
and cumber the ground which once it beautified. So all seemed to be
lost; and there was a struggle for a time, and then its priests were
cast out or martyred. There were sacrileges innumerable. Its temples
were profaned or destroyed; its revenues seized by covetous nobles,
or squandered upon the ministers of a new faith.
The presence of Catholicism was at length simply removed--its
grace disowned--its power despised--its name, except as a
matter of history, at length almost unknown. It took a long time to
do this thoroughly; much time, much thought, much labour, much expense;
but at last it was done. Oh, that miserable day, centuries before
we were born! What a martyrdom to live in it and see the fair form
of Truth, moral and material, hacked piecemeal, and every limb and
organ carried off, and burned in the fire, or cast into the deep!
But at last the work was done. Truth was disposed of, and shovelled
away, and there was a calm, a silence, a sort of peace;--and such
was about the state of things when we were born into this weary world.
My Fathers and Brothers, you have seen it on one side, and some of
us on another; but one and all of us can bear witness to the fact
of the utter contempt into which Catholicism had fallen by the time
that we were born. You, alas, know it far better than I can know it;
but it may not be out of place, if by one or two tokens, as by the
strokes of a pencil, I bear witness to you from without, of what you
can witness so much more truly from within. No longer, the Catholic
Church in the country; nay, no longer, I may say, a Catholic community;--
but a few adherents of the Old Religion, moving silently and sorrowfully
about, as memorials of what had been.
"The Roman Catholics"--not a sect, not even an interest,
as men conceived of it--not a body, however small, representative
of the Great Communion abroad--but a mere handful
of individuals, who might be counted, like the pebbles and detritus
of the great deluge, and who, forsooth, merely happened to retain
a creed which, in its day indeed, was the profession of a Church.
Here a set of poor Irishmen, coming and going at harvest time, or
a colony of them lodged in a miserable quarter of the vast metropolis.
There, perhaps an elderly person, seen walking in the streets, grave
and solitary, and strange, though noble in bearing, and said to be
of good family, and a "Roman Catholic."
An old-fashioned house of gloomy appearance, closed in with high walls,
with an iron gate, and yews, and the report attaching to it that "Roman
Catholics" lived there; but who they were, or what they did,
or what was meant by calling them Roman Catholics, no one could tell--though
it had an unpleasant sound, and told of form and superstition. And
then, perhaps, as we went to and fro, looking with a boy's curious
eyes through the great city, we might come today upon some Moravian
chapel, or Quaker's meeting house, and tomorrow on a chapel of the
"Roman Catholics": but nothing was to be gathered from it,
except that there were lights burning there, and some boys in white,
swinging censers; and what it all meant could only be learned from
books, from Protestant Histories and Sermons; and they did not report
well of "the Roman Catholics," but, on the contrary, deposed
that they had once had power and had abused it.
And then, again, we might, on one occasion, hear it pointedly put
out by some literary man, as the result of his careful investigation,
and as a recondite point of information, which few knew, that there
was this difference between the Roman Catholics of England and the
Roman Catholics of Ireland, that the latter had bishops, and the former
were governed by four officials, called Vicars Apostolic.
Such was about the sort of knowledge possessed of Christianity by
the heathen of old time, who persecuted its adherents from the face
of the earth, and then called them a gens lucifuga,
a people who shunned the light of day. Such were Catholics in England,
found in corners, and alleys, and cellars, and the housetops, or in
the recesses of the country; cut off from the populous world around
them, and dimly seen, as if through a mist or in twilight, as ghosts
flitting to and fro, by the high Protestants, the lords of the earth.
At length so feeble did they become, so utterly contemptible, that
contempt gave birth to pity; and the more generous of their tyrants
actually began to wish to bestow on them some favour, under the notion
that their opinions were simply too absurd ever to spread again, and
that they themselves, were they but raised in civil importance, would
soon unlearn and be ashamed of them. And thus, out of mere kindness
to us, they began to vilify our doctrines to the Protestant world,
that so our very idiocy or our secret unbelief might be our plea for
mercy.
A great change, an awful contrast, between the time-honoured Church
of St. Augustine and St. Thomas, and the poor remnant of their children
in the beginning of the nineteenth century! It was a miracle, I might
say, to have pulled down that lordly power; but there was a greater
and a truer one in store. No one could have prophesied its fall, but
still less would any one have ventured to prophesy its rise again.
The fall was wonderful; still after all it was in the order of nature;--all
things come to nought: its rise again would be a different sort of
wonder, for it is in the order of grace--and who can hope for
miracles, and such a miracle as this! Has the whole course of history
a like to show? I must speak cautiously and according to my knowledge,
but I recollect no parallel to it. Augustine, indeed, came to the
same island to which the early missionaries had come already; but
they came to Britons, and he to Saxons.
The Arian Goths and Lombards, too, cast off their heresy in St. Augustine's
age, and joined the Church; but they had never fallen away from her.
The inspired word seems to imply the almost impossibility of such
a grace as the renovation of those who have crucified to themselves
again, and trodden underfoot, the Son of God. Who then could have
dared to hope that, out of so sacrilegious a nation as this is, a
people would have been formed again unto their Saviour? What signs
did it show that it was to be singled out from among the nations?
Had it been prophesied some fifty years ago, would not the very notion
have seemed preposterous and wild?
My Fathers, there was one of your own order, then in the maturity
of his powers and his reputation. His name is the property of this
diocese; yet is too great, too venerable, too dear to all Catholics,
to be confined to any part of England, when it is rather a household
word in the mouths of all of us. What would have been the feelings
of that venerable man, the champion of God's ark in an evil time,
could he have lived to see this day? It is almost presumptuous for
one who knew him not, to draw pictures about him, and his thoughts,
and his friends, some of whom are even here present; yet am I wrong
in fancying that a day such as this, in which we stand, would have
seemed to him a dream, or, if he prophesied of it, to his hearers
nothing but a mockery?
Say that one time, rapt in spirit, he had reached forward to the future,
and that his mortal eye had wandered from that lowly chapel in the
valley which had been for centuries in the possession of Catholics,
to the neighbouring height, then waste and solitary. And let him say
to those about him: "I see a bleak mount, looking upon an open
country, over against that huge town, to whose inhabitants Catholicism
is of so little account. I see the ground marked out, and an ample
enclosure made; and plantations are rising there, clothing and circling
in the space.
"And there on that high spot, far from the haunts of men, yet
in the very centre of the island, a large edifice, or rather pile
of edifices, appears, with many fronts and courts, and long cloisters
and corridors, and story upon story. And there it rises, under the
invocation of the same sweet and powerful name which has been our
strength and consolation in the valley. I look more attentively at
that building, and I see it is fashioned upon that ancient style of
art which brings back the past, which had seemed to be perishing from
off the face of the earth, or to be preserved only as a curiosity,
or to be imitated only as a fancy. I listen, and I hear the sound
of voices, grave and musical, renewing the old chant, with which Augustine
greeted Ethelbert in the free air upon the Kentish strand.
"It comes from a long procession, and it winds along the cloisters.
Priests and Religious, theologians from the schools, and canons from
the Cathedral, walk in due precedence. And then there comes a vision
of well nigh twelve mitred heads; and last I see a Prince of the Church,
in the royal dye of empire and of martyrdom, a pledge to us from Rome
of Rome's unwearied love, a token that that goodly company is firm
in Apostolic faith and hope.
"And the shadow of the Saints is there;--St. Benedict is
there, speaking to us by the voice of bishop and of priest, and counting
over the long ages through which he has prayed, and studied, and laboured;
there, too, is St. Dominic's white wool, which no blemish can impair,
no stain can dim:--and if St. Bernard be not there, it is only
that his absence may make him be remembered more. And the princely
patriarch, St. Ignatius, too, the St. George of the modern world,
with his chivalrous lance run through his writhing foe, he, too, sheds
his blessing upon that train. And others, also, his equals or his
juniors in history, whose pictures are above our altars, or soon shall
be, the surest proof that the Lord's arm has not waxen short, nor
His mercy failed--they, too, are looking down from their thrones
on high upon the throng. And so that high company moves on into the
holy place; and there, with august rite and awful sacrifice, inaugurates
the great act which brings it thither." What is that act? It
is the first synod of a new Hierarchy; it is the resurrection of the
Church.
O my Fathers, my Brothers, had that revered Bishop spoken then, who
that had heard him but would have said that he spoke what could not
be? What! those few scattered worshippers, the Roman Catholics, to
form a Church! Shall the past be rolled back? Shall the grave open?
Shall the Saxons live again to God?
Shall the shepherds, watching their poor flocks by night, be visited
by a multitude of the heavenly army, and hear how their Lord has been
newborn in their own city? Yes; for grace can, where nature cannot.
The world grows old, but the Church is ever young. She can, in any
time, at her Lord's will, "inherit the Gentiles, and inhabit
the desolate cities." "Arise, Jerusalem, for thy light is
come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. Behold, darkness
shall cover the earth, and a mist the people; but the Lord shall arise
upon thee, and His glory shall be seen upon thee. Lift up thine eyes
round about, and see; all these are gathered together, they come to
thee; thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall rise
up at thy side." "Arise, make haste, my love, my dove, my
beautiful one, and come. For the winter is now past, the rain is over
and gone. The flowers have appeared in our land. . . . The fig-tree
hath put forth her green figs; the vines in flower yield their sweet
smell. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come." It is the
time for thy Visitation. Arise, Mary, and go forth in thy strength
into that north country, which once was thine own, and take possession
of a land which knows thee not. Arise, Mother of God, and with thy
thrilling voice, speak to those who labour with child, and are in
pain, till the babe of grace leaps within them. Shine on us, dear
Lady, with thy bright countenance, like the sun in his strength, O
stella matutina, O harbinger of peace, till our year is one
perpetual May. From thy sweet eyes, from thy pure smile, from thy
majestic brow, let ten thousand influences rain down, not to confound
or overwhelm, but to persuade, to win over thine enemies. O Mary,
my hope, O Mother undefiled, fulfil to us the promise of this Spring.
A second temple rises on the ruins of the old. Canterbury has gone
its way, and York is gone, and Durham is gone, and Winchester is gone.
It was sore to part with them. We clung to the vision of past greatness,
and would not believe it could come to nought; but the Church in England
has died, and the Church lives again. Westminster and Nottingham,
Beverley and Hexham, Northampton and Shrewsbury, if the world lasts,
shall be names as musical to the ear, as stirring to the heart, as
the glories we have lost; and Saints shall rise out of them, if God
so will, and Doctors once again shall give the law to Israel, and
Preachers call to penance and to justice, as at the beginning.
Yes, my Fathers and Brothers, and if it be God's blessed will, not
Saints alone, not Doctors only, not Preachers only, shall be ours--but
Martyrs, too, shall reconsecrate the soil to God. We know not
what is before us, ere we win our own; we are engaged in a great,
a joyful work, but in proportion to God's grace is the fury of His
enemies. They have welcomed us as the lion greets his prey. Perhaps
they may be familiarized in time with our appearance, but perhaps
they may be irritated the more. To set up the Church again in England
is too great an act to be done in a corner.
We have had reason to expect that such a boon would not be given to
us without a cross. It is not God's way that great blessings should
descend without the sacrifice first of great sufferings. If the truth
is to be spread to any wide extent among this people, how can we dream,
how can we hope, that trial and trouble shall not accompany its going
forth? And we have already, if it may be said without presumption,
to commence our work withal, a large store of merits. We have no slight
outfit for our opening warfare. Can we religiously suppose that the
blood of our Martyrs, three centuries ago and since, shall never receive
its recompense? Those priests, secular and regular, did they suffer
for no end? or rather, for an end which is not yet accomplished?
The long imprisonment, the fetid dungeon, the weary suspense, the
tyrannous trial, the barbarous sentence, the savage execution, the
rack, the gibbet, the knife, the cauldron, the numberless tortures
of those holy victims, O my God, are they to have no reward? Are Thy
Martyrs to cry from under Thine altar for their loving vengeance on
this guilty people, and to cry in vain? Shall they lose life, and
not gain a better life for the children of those who persecuted them?
Is this Thy way, O my God, righteous and true? Is it according to
Thy promise, O King of Saints, if I may dare talk to Thee of justice?
Did not Thou Thyself pray for Thine enemies upon the cross, and convert
them? Did not Thy first Martyr win Thy great Apostle, then a persecutor,
by his loving prayer?
And in that day of trial and desolation for England, when hearts were
pierced through and through with Mary's woe, at the crucifixion of
Thy body mystical, was not every tear that flowed, and every drop
of blood that was shed, the seeds of a future harvest, when they who
sowed in sorrow were to reap in joy?
And as that suffering of the Martyrs is not yet recompensed, so, perchance,
it is not yet exhausted. Something for what we know, remains to be
undergone, to complete the necessary sacrifice. May God forbid it,
for this poor nation's sake! But still could we be surprised, my Fathers
and my Brothers, if the winter even now should not yet be quite over?
Have we any right to take it strange, if, in this English land, the
springtime of the Church should turn out to be an English spring,
an uncertain, anxious time of hope and fear, of joy and suffering--
of bright promise and budding hopes, yet withal, of keen blasts, and
cold showers, and sudden storms?
One thing alone I know--that according to our need, so will be
our strength. One thing I am sure of, that the more the enemy rages
against us, so much the more will the Saints in Heaven plead for us;
the more fearful are our trials from the world, the more present to
us will be our Mother Mary, and our good Patrons, and Angel Guardians;
the more malicious are the devices of men against us, the louder cry
of supplication will ascend from the bosom of the whole Church to
God for us. We shall not be left orphans; we shall have within us
the strength of the Paraclete, promised to the Church and to every
member of it.
My Fathers, my Brothers in the priesthood, I speak from my heart when
I declare my conviction, that there is no one among you here present
but, if God so willed, would readily become a martyr for His sake.
I do not say you would wish it; I do not say that the natural will
would not pray that that chalice might pass away; I do not speak of
what you can do by any strength of yours;--but in the strength
of God, in the grace of the Spirit, in the armour of justice, by the
consolations and peace of the Church, by the blessing of the Apostles
Peter and Paul, and in the name of Christ, you would do what nature
cannot do.
By the intercession of the Saints on high, by the penances and good
works and the prayers of the people of God on earth, you would be
forcibly borne up as upon the waves of the mighty deep, and carried
on out of yourselves by the fullness of grace, whether nature wished
it or no. I do not mean violently, or with unseemly struggle, but
calmly, gracefully, sweetly, joyously, you would mount up and ride
forth to the battle, as on the rush of Angel's wings, as your fathers
did before you, and gained the prize.
You, who day by day offer up the Immaculate Lamb of God, you who hold
in your hands the Incarnate Word under the visible tokens which He
has ordained, you who again and again drain the chalice of the Great
Victim; who is to make you fear? what is to startle you? what to seduce
you? who is to stop you, whether you are to suffer or to do, whether
to lay the foundations of the Church in tears, or to put the crown
upon the work in jubilation?
My Fathers, my Brothers, one word more. It may seem as if I were going
out of my way in thus addressing you; but I have some sort of plea
to urge in extenuation. When the English College at Rome was set up
by the solicitude of a great Pontiff in the beginning of England's
sorrows, and missionaries were trained there for confessorship and
martyrdom here, who was it that saluted the fair Saxon
youths as they passed by him in the streets of the great City, with
the salutation, "Salvete flores martyrum"? And when
the time came for each in turn to leave that peaceful home, and to
go forth to the conflict, to whom did they betake themselves before
leaving Rome, to receive a blessing which might nerve them for their
work?
They went for a Saint's blessing; they went to a calm old man, who
had never seen blood, except in penance; who had longed indeed to
die for Christ, what time the great St. Francis opened the way to
the far East, but who had been fixed as if a sentinel in the holy
city, and walked up and down for fifty years on one beat, while his
brethren were in the battle. O the fire of that heart, too great for
its frail tenement, which tormented him to be kept at home when the
whole Church was at war! and therefore came those bright-haired strangers
to him, ere they set out for the scene of their passion, that the
full zeal and love pent up in that burning breast might find a vent,
and flow over, from him who was kept at home, upon those who were
to face the foe. Therefore one by one, each in his turn, those youthful
soldiers came to the old man; and one by one they persevered and gained
the crown and the palm--all but one, who had not gone, and would
not go, for the salutary blessing.
My Fathers, my Brothers, that old man was my own St. Philip. Bear
with me for his sake. If I have spoken too seriously, his sweet smile
shall temper it. As he was with you three centuries ago in Rome, when
our Temple fell, so now surely it is rising, it is a pleasant token
that he should have even set out on his travels to you; and that,
as if remembering how he interceded for you at home, and recognizing
the relations he then formed with you, he should now be wishing to
have a name among you, and to be loved by you, and perchance to do
you a service, here in your own land.
John Henry Newman (1801-1890) at fifteen underwent
what today is called a "born-again" experience. Ordained
for the Church of England, he was a leader in the Oxford Movement.
In 1845 he converted to the Catholic faith and in 1879 was named a
cardinal.
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