's fame lives and grows. In France
there is a cult of Newman, which has produced biographies by Bremond and
Faure, as well as a history of the Catholic Revival in England by
Thureau-Dangin. In England, besides Dean Church's 'Oxford Movement,' we
have biographies by R.H. Hutton and W. Barry, and appreciations or
depreciations by E. Abbott, Leslie Stephen, Froude, Mark Pattison, and
several others.

The interest is mainly personal and psychological. Newman's writings,
and his life, are a 'human document' in a very peculiar degree. Bremond
is right in calling attention to the _autocentrism_ of Newman. 'Although
(he says) the words "I" and "me" are relatively rare in Newman's
writings, whether as preacher, novelist, controversialist, philosopher,
or poet, he always reveals and always describes himself.' Even his
historical portraits are reconstructed from his inner consciousness;
hence their historical falsity--all ages are mixed in his histories--and
their philosophical truth. In a sense he was the most reserved of men.
We do not know whether he had any ordinary temptations; we do not know
whether he ever fell in love. But the texture of his mind and the growth
of his opinions have been laid bare to us with the candour of a saint
and the accuracy of a dissector or analyst. He reminds us of De Quincey,
who also could tell the story of his own life, but no other, and whose
style, like his own, was modelled on the literary traditions of the
eighteenth century.

He has left us, in the 'Apologia,' a picture of his precocious and
dreamy boyhood, when he lived in a world of his own, peopled by angels
and spirits, a world in which the supernatural was the only nature. He
was lonely and reserved, then as always. It is not for nothing that in
his sermons he expatiates so often on the impenetrability of the human
soul. A nature so self-centred has always something hard and inhuman
about it; he was loved, but loved little in return. And yet he craved
for more affection than he could reciprocate. 'I cannot ever realise to
myself,' he wrote once, 'that anyone loves me.' It is a common feeling
in imaginative, withdrawn characters. Deepseated in his nature was a
reverence for the hidden springs of thought, action, and belief. When he
spoke of 'conscience,' as he did continually, he meant, not the faculty
which decides ethical problems, but the undivided soul-nature which
underlies the separate activities of thought, will, and feeling. In