But, though clergymen are thus put quietly out of court, a layman may still be heard; and one could almost wish that he had lived to handle, in some fresh preface to Literature and Dogma, such a confession of faith as that which Lord Salisbury gave in 1894 —
“To me, the central point is the Resurrection of Christ, which I believe. Firstly, because it is testified by men who had every opportunity of seeing and knowing, and whose veracity was tested by the most tremendous trials, both of energy and endurance, during long lives. Secondly, because of the marvellous effect it had upon the world. As a moral phenomenon, the spread and mastery of Christianity is without a parallel. I can no more believe that colossal moral effects can be without a cause, than I can believe that the various motions of the magnet are without a cause, though I cannot wholly explain them. To any one who believes the Resurrection of Christ, the rest presents little difficulty. No one who has that belief will doubt that those who were commissioned by Him to speak — Paul, Peter, Mark, John — carried a Divine message. St. Matthew falls into the same category. St. Luke has the warrant of the generation of Christians who saw and heard the others.”
So far the testimony of a layman. Arnold, as we know, loved and elegized one Dean of Westminster. Would he have tolerated the testimony of another?
“The Church believes to-day in the Resurrection of Christ, because she has always believed in it. If all the documents which tell the story of the first Easter Day should disappear, the Church would still shout her Easter praises, and offer her Easter sacrifice of thanksgiving; for she is older than the oldest of her documents, and from father to son all through the centuries she has passed on the message of the first Easter morning— ‘The Lord is risen indeed.’ The Church believes in the Resurrection because she is the product of the Resurrection.”
But, in spite of varied criticism, Literature and Dogma was well received. Three editions were published in 1873; a fourth in 1874; a fifth in 1876, and the “popular edition” in 1883. As usual, he was serenely pleased with his handiwork. In 1874 he wrote to his sister: “It will more and more become evident how entirely religious is the work which I have done in Literature and Dogma. The enemies of religion see this well enough already.” Ten years later, he wrote from Cincinnati: “What strikes me in America is the number of friends Literature and Dogma has made me, amongst ministers of religion especially — and how the effect of the book here is conservative.”
To the various criticisms of the book he began replying in the Contemporary Review for October, 1874. In November of that year he wrote to Lady de Rothschild: “You must read my metaphysics in this last Contemporary. My first and last appearance in the field of metaphysics, where you, I know, are no stranger.” The completed reply was published as God and the Bible in 1875. This reply, which contained, as he thought, “the best prose he had ever succeeded in writing,” was a reassertion and development of the previous work, and was written, as the preface said, “for a reader who is more or less conversant with the Bible, who can feel the attraction of the Christian religion, but who has acquired habits of intellectual seriousness, has been revolted by having things presented solemnly to him for his use which will not hold water, and who will start with none of such things even to reach what he values. Come what may, he will deal with this great matter of religion fairly. It is the aim of the present volume, as it was the aim of Literature and Dogma, to show to such a man that his honesty will be rewarded.... I write to convince the lover of religion that by following habits of intellectual seriousness he need not, so far as religion is concerned, lose anything.”
It was, we must suppose, with the same benign intention that in 1877 he addressed himself to the task of persuading the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution that Bishop Butler was an untrustworthy guide in that mysterious region which lies between Philosophy and Religion. For this task, as Mr. Gladstone justly observed: he “was placed, by his own peculiar opinions, in a position far from auspicious with respect to this particular undertaking. He combined a fervent zeal for the Christian religion with a not less boldly avowed determination to transform it beyond the possibility of recognition by friend or foe. He was thus placed under a sort of necessity to condemn the handiwork of Bishop Butler, who in a certain sense gives it a new charter.” Over Butler’s grave stands a magnificent inscription, from the pen of Southey, which well illustrates the estimation in which for upwards of a century he was held by the serious mind of England —
Others had established
the Historical and Prophetical grounds
of the Christian Religion,
and that sure testimony of its truth
which is found in its perfect adaptation
to the heart of man.
It was reserved for him to develop
its analogy to the Constitution
and Course of Nature;
and, laying his strong foundations
in the depth of that great argument,
there to construct
another and irrefragable proof:
thus rendering Philosophy
subservient to Faith,
and finding in outward and visible things
the type and evidence
of those within the veil.
In his lectures on Butler, Arnold set out to prove that the Philosophy was as unsound as the Faith to which it was subservient; and that it could not hold its own against Atheism or Agnosticism, but only against a system which conceded a Personal Governor of the Universe. This is the argument against the Deists which he puts into Butler’s mouth: “You all concede a Supreme Personal First Cause, the almighty and intelligent Governor of the Universe; this, you and I both agree, is the system and order of nature. But you are offended at certain things in revelation.... Well, I will show you that in your and my admitted system of nature there are just as many difficulties as in the system of revelation.” And on this, says Arnold, he does show it, “and by adversaries such as his, who grant what the Deist or Socinian grants, he never has been answered, he never will be answered. The spear of Butler’s reasoning will even follow and transfix the Duke of Somerset, who finds so much to condemn in the Bible, but ‘retires into one unassailable fortress — faith in God.’” Butler’s method, then, is allowed to be potent enough to crush all such half-believers as still clung to the idea of a Personal God and Intelligent Ruler; but it had no force or cogency against such as, following Arnold, attenuated the idea of God into a Stream of Tendency. This theme he elaborated with great ingenuity and characteristic dogmatism in his Bishop Butler and the Zeitgeist; and, inasmuch as no task can be more distasteful than to attack the teaching of a man whose genius and character one recognizes among the formative influences of one’s life, I will leave the upshot of this ill-starred endeavour to be summarized by Butler’s great champion, Mr. Gladstone —
“Various objections have been taken from various quarters to this point and that in the argument of Butler; but Mr. Arnold’s criticisms, as a whole, remain wholly isolated and unsupported. It is impossible to acquit him of the charge of a carelessness implying levity, and of an ungovernable bias towards finding fault.... Mr. Arnold himself will probably suffer more from his own censures than the great Christian philosopher who is the object of them. And it is well for him that all they can do is to effect some deduction from the fame which has been earned by him in other fields, as a true man, a searching and sagacious literary critic, and a poet of genuine creative genius.”
It is now time to enquire what practical effect he produced by all this writing (and a good deal which followed it in the same sense) on the religious thought of his time. This is a question which, in the absence of any clear or general testimony, one can only answer by the light of one’s own experience. The present writer can aver that, so far as his own personal knowledge goes, the strange case of Robert Elsmere was a unique instance. He has, of course, known plenty of people to whom, alas! revealed Religion — the accepted Faith of the Church and the Gospel — w
as a tale of no meaning, which they regarded either with blank indifference or with bitter and furious hostility. But, in all these cases, dissent from the Christian creed depended upon negations far deeper than “Miracles do not happen.” It depended on a stark incapacity to conceive the ideas of God, of permitted evil, of sin, its consequences and its remedy, and of life after death. Where there was the capacity to conceive these mysteries, men were not troubled by the minor questions of miracle, prophecy, and textual research. To use an illustration which the present writer has used elsewhere, they were not shaken by Robert Elsmere, not confirmed by Lux Mundi. Still less were they agitated by the literary dogmaticism of Matthew Arnold. Many people disliked his style, his methods, his illustrations; and, not knowing the man, disliked him also. But, as he justly observed, if he had written as these objectors wished him to write, no one would have read him; so he went on in his “sinuous, easy, unpolemical” way; and the people who disliked him closed their ears, and “flocked all the more eagerly to Messrs. Moody and Sankey.”
Mr. Gladstone wrote in 1895— “It is very difficult to keep one’s temper in dealing with M. Arnold when he touches on religious matters. His patronage of a Christianity fashioned by himself is to me more offensive and trying than rank unbelief.”
But then again there were those — and we should hope the great majority — who, whether they knew the man or not, loved his temper, admired his methods, and found no more difficulty in detaching what was good from what was bad in his teaching, than he himself found in the case of his master, Wordsworth. A Catholic priest, ministering formerly in the Roman and now in the English Church, thus describes the help which he gained from Arnold at a time of distress and transition. “That I held to any sort of Christianity, and continued to use and enjoy the Bible, I owe entirely to Matthew Arnold. I began to read him in 1882; first his prose, and then his verse. For several years I read him over, and over, and over again with growing delight and profit; until, so far as I was able, I understood something of his mind and methods. He taught me how to think, and how to write. He undoubtedly saved me from leaving the Papal Church a dulled and blank materialist, thoroughly and violently anti-Christian; and his gentle influence tended me through the next few years, until I was mellowed for the process of reconstruction.”
This is a fine tribute to all that was best and most characteristic in his teaching. Beyond doubt, by his insistence on the relation of Letters to Religion, he helped many young men to read their Bibles with better understanding and keener appreciation; and enabled them that are without to enter for the first time into the spirit and attractiveness of the Christian ideal. Not only so, but men established in age, position, and orthodoxy, felt and acknowledged his helpfulness. When he delivered an address on “The Church of England” to a gathering of clergy at Sion College, he tells us that “Clergyman on clergyman turned on the Chairman” (who had scented heresy), “and said they agreed with me far more than with him.” A divine so profoundly Evangelical as Bishop Thorold larded his sermons and charges with extracts from Arnold’s prose and verse. In 1893 Arnold dined with Archbishop Benson, and “thought it a gratifying marvel, considering what things I have published”; but the marvel was of such frequent occurrence that it had almost ceased to be marvellous. That this was so was due, no doubt, in great measure to the charm of his character and conversation. It was not easy for any one who knew him to take serious offence at what he wrote. Just as Coleridge’s metaphysics were said by a friend to be “only his fun,” so Arnold’s theology was regarded by his admirers as part of his playfulness. It was difficult to disentangle what he really wished to teach from his jokes about the hangings of the Celestial Council-Chamber; “Willesden beyond Trent”; “Change Alley and Alley Change”; Professor Birks, “his brows crowned with myrtle,” going in procession to the Temple of Aphrodite; the Duke of Somerset “running into the strong tower” of Deism, and thinking himself “safe” there from further questionings. This method of illustration threw an air of comedy over the theme which it illustrated; and, if the criticism failed to disturb faith in Biblical theology, the critic had only himself to thank.
Another element in the satisfaction with which dignitaries and clergymen came to regard him was the fact that he was so definitely a supporter of the Church of England. To the principle of Established Churches, as part of the wider principle of extending everywhere the scope of the State, he was always friendly; but he felt the difficulty of maintaining them where, as in Scotland, they had nothing to show except “a religious service which is perhaps the most dismal performance ever invented by man,” and a theology shared by all the non-established bodies round about. No such difficulty appeared in the case of the Church of England, with its historic claim, its seemly worship, its distinctive doctrine; so of that Church as by law established he was the consistent defender. Towards ugliness, hideousness, rawness, whether manifested in life or in letters, he was always implacable; and this sentiment no doubt accounts for much of his hostility to Dissent. Margate was, in his eyes, a “brick-and-mortar image of English Protestantism, representing it in all its prose, all its uncomeliness — let me add, all its salubrity.” When criticising the proposal to let Dissenters bury their dead with their own rites in the National Church-yards, he likened the dissenting Service to a reading from Eliza Cook, and the Church’s Service to a reading from Milton, and protested against the Liberal attempt to “import Eliza Cook into a public rite.” He even was bold enough to cite his friend Mr. John Morley as secretly sharing this repugnance to Eliza Cook in a public rite. “Scio, rex Agrippa, quia credis. He is keeping company with his Festus Chamberlain and his Drusilla Collings, and cannot openly avow the truth; but in his heart he consents to it.”
For the beauty, the poetry, the winningness of Catholic worship and Catholic life Arnold had the keenest admiration. “The need for beauty is a real and ever rapidly growing need in man; Puritanism cannot satisfy it, Catholicism and the Church of England can.” He dwelt with delighted interest on Eugénie de Guerin’s devotional practices, her happy Christmas in the soft air of Languedoc, her midnight Mass, her beloved Confession. On the Mass itself no one has written more sympathetically, although he disavowed the fundamental doctrine on which the Mass is founded. “Once admit the miracle of the ‘atoning sacrifice,’ once move in this order of ideas, and what can be more natural and beautiful than to imagine this miracle every day repeated, Christ offered in thousands of places, everywhere the believer enabled to enact the work of redemption and unite himself with the Body whose sacrifice saves him?”
In truth he had a strong sense, uncommon in Protestants, of Worship as distinct from Prayer — of Worship as the special object of a religious assembly. When he gave a Prayer-book to a child, he wrote on the flyleaf: “We have seen His star in the East, and are come to worship Him.” “In religion,” he said, “there are two parts: the part of thought and speculation, and the part of worship and devotion.... It does not help me to think a thing more clearly, that thousands of other people are thinking the same; but it does help me to worship with more devotion, that thousands of other people are worshipping with me. The connexion of common consent, antiquity, public establishment, long-used rites, national edifices, is everything for religious worship.” He quotes with admiration his favourite Joubert: “Just what makes worship impressive is its publicity, its external manifestation, its sound, its splendour, its observance, universally and visibly holding its sway through all the details both of our outward and of our inward life.”
“Worship,” he says, “should have in it as little as possible of what divides us, and should be as much as possible a common and public act.”
Again he quotes Joubert: “The best prayers are those which have nothing distinct about them, and which are thus of the nature of simple adoration.”
“Catholic worship,” he said, “is likely, however modified, to survive as the general worship of Christians, because it is the worship which, in a sphere where poetry i
s permissible and natural, unites most of the elements of poetry.” And again, “Unity and continuity in public religious worship are a need of human nature, an eternal aspiration of Christendom. A Catholic Church transformed is, I believe, the Church of the future.”
His speculations on that future are interesting and, naturally, not always consistent. In 1879 he writes to Sir Mountstuart Grant-Duff: “Perhaps we shall end our days in the tail of a return-current of popular religion, both ritual and dogmatic.” In 1880 he sees a great future for Catholicism, which, by virtue of its superior charm and poetry, will “endure while all the Protestant sects (amongst which I do not include the Church of England) dissolve and perish.” In 1881 he seemed to apprehend the return to Westminster Abbey, after “Wisdom’s too short reign,” of —
Folly revived, re-furbish’d sophistries, And pullulating rites externe and vain.
In the last autumn of his life he wrote to M. Fontanès — a friend whose acquaintance he first made over St. Paul and Protestantism —
“Your letter has reached me here (Ottery St. Mary), where I am staying with Lord Coleridge, the Lord Chief Justice, who is a grand-nephew of the poet. He loves literature, and, being a great deal richer than his grand-uncle, or than poets in general, has built a library from which I now write, and on which I wish that you could feast your eyes with me.... The Church Congress has just been held, and shows as usual that the clergy have no idea of the real situation; but indeed the conservatism and routine in religion are such in England that the line taken by the clergy cannot be wondered at. Nor are the conservatism and routine a bad thing, perhaps, in such a matter; but the awakening will one day come, and there will be much confusion. Have you looked at Tolstoi’s books on religion: in French they have the titles Ma Religion, Ma Confession, Que Faire? The first of these has been well translated, and has excited much attention over here; perhaps it is from this side, the socialist side that the change is likely to come: the Bible will be retained, but it will be said, as Tolstoi says, that its true, socialistic teaching has been overlooked, and attention has been fixed on metaphysical dogmas deduced from it, which are at any rate, says Tolstoi, secondary. He does not provoke discussion by denying or combating them; he merely relegates them to a secondary position.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Page 108