I think I will try Mowbrays for Pittenger’s book. I’ve acquired 2 oz. of weight since I took up my bed and walked, and so go on from day to day getting a little fatter….
My love always,
R.M.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
20th May, 1952 †
My dear Hamilton,
I meant to write a letter, in answer to your two of 22nd an d 27th—but, since you say that Whit Monday is your birthday, am anxious to dash off a greeting, which probably wont, however, reach you on the Day. But I have no air letter stamp without going to the P.O., which I’ve not time to do (I found your letter on coming in at 4.30 from the L[ondon] L[ibrary], and have to go out at 6.45 to dine at 7 with a man at the Reform Club) so have only time for this a[ir] p[aper]. I’ll write more later, to answer your interesting letters more adequately. But now, I do wish you a happy birthday, a great cake, and a really good year ahead. I shall remember you at 8.15 [on] Monday …
I have now read, with great interest, your review of [Karl] Adam.1 If he sees it, he will be moved. Of course he wouldn’t be likely to have our church much in mind; but what you say may give him to think of it. I liked it v. much. Fr. A. must be a v. different kind of R.C. from Sir H. Slesser! He would probably deplore the latter’s book. But they will never accept us, will they? I don’t see that they can, being tied as they are to their past pronouncements. Have you ever read Salmon’s Infallibility of the Church (1888, but just republished, and reviewed in The Times Lit. Sup.)? I’ve not. The Abbot of Downside wrote to protest against the review. R.C.s don’t like the book, which is very learned obviously. It is about the rise of the doctrine. But I’d rather read Ways of Worship, published by the S.C.M. Press. It is really a report of the papers read at the World Conference of Faith and Order, 1937.
That is an interesting notion of Fr. Martindale’s about communio sanctorum.1 But can he be right? And can sanctus ever be a noun; and if it is an adjective (qualifying res?) shouldn’t it be sanctarum? But perhaps res would not be the appropriate word for the things in question. By the way, I am interested to notice that The English Missal (for Anglican use, but much of it translated from the Roman Missal) translates the prayer “Perceptio Corporis tui”2 (just before the priest’s communion) by ” partaking,” and later in the same prayer percipiendam by receive. (No “perceive” there.) A modern translation, of course….
Yes, of course Anglican Catholicism has never died; not even in the high 18th century. Though I suppose its ritual did almost die, till revived by the Tractarians. What a revival indeed, since then. I like all you say about the oneness of sacramental practices (such as confession) and of ritual, with the whole meaning and body of the Church. What about Confession, by the way? I must look into that. I mean, how far did a trickle of it run through the later 18th century, after the last Non-Juror died? A very small trickle, if any, I fancy.
Thank you for Catharine Cfowper] J[ohnson]’s nice letter. Yes, she gets “Macaulay” perfectly. We must meet sometime. Meanwhile, I improve daily. I shall get Eliz. Myers’s letters.3 Also I must read a new collection of L. Powys’s stories and essays that someone has just made.4 I think I am heavier for my sex than you for yours. Male bones weigh more than female. I (5 ft. 8), weigh (just now) 7 stone (or 98 lbs.). You (how tall) weigh only n5-120 lbs. Normally, I weigh nearer 8 stone (112). You should be heavier. Eat better and butter. (No milk.) Very much love for Monday—I am glad I know you.
Yours always,
R.M.
June
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
8th June, 1952 f
My dear Hamilton,
I was about to follow up my birthday a[ir] p[aper] with an a[ir] l[etter] when arrived your further a.l. posted 3rd June. So now I have two interesting letters before me to answer. First, to continue my observations on letter 1. I haven’t read The Edwardians1 for years, and your letter makes me decide to read it again. I will then tell you what I think about it. I remember it interested me v. much at the time. I wish you could meet the author; she is a most loveable being. … I wish we met oftener; but she seldom comes to London, and I seldom go to Sissinghurst Castle (a fascinating old castle, which they bought some years ago when it was a ruin, in which farm buildings and cattle had their home; the Nicolsons dug up the buried walls and repaired the standing ones and planted the garden, unearthing an ancient nuttery in the process, and made it a lovely place)….
By the way, the only thing I found rather amiss in your very good and moving words on K. Adam’s book was that you seemed rather to be content to accept a place of inferiority for the Ang[lican] Ch[urch], whereas you might have indicated that it is the better church of the two, more truthful, nearer the Gospels, more Christian, more reasonable, more open to the progressive leading of the Holy Spirit which is, in the end, to guide us all into all truth. That is a point which R.C.s don’t seem to grasp; that Christianity is being now guided, led into new aspects of the knowledge of God and his laws; they seem to consider that being static is a merit not a defect. I am just now getting letters from R.C.s disagreeing with me about Sir H. Slesser, and they keep saying that their strength is being a rock that can’t be moved, whereas it ought to be a rock that progressively does move, on and upwards towards God. I think they and I are too far apart on this matter ever to meet, so I don’t argue. But I do feel that we have the best of it! Besides having less nonsense (rather puerile and silly miracles, and infallibility, etc.). Oh yes, I do much prefer the C. of E., with all its faults…. By the way, I was interested, after our discussions recently, to find Steele of the Tatler writing in 1713, “I have not been at confession for some months.” He was, of course, an Anglican. I rather like, don’t you, the P[rayer] B[ook] admonitions (in the 1549 and ‘52 books) to people not to be offended either at those who practise private confession, or at those who don’t. I am much interested in “communio sanctorum.” I shall ask the R.C.s I know how many of them interpret it that way. Of course you are right about “res” not being implied; I wrote in unthinking haste. Anyhow I like to have that possible meaning, and shall mean it on Corpus Christi at Mass. What a good festival! In Italy we had a lovely procession always, and people threw down roses from their windows as it passed. We regard it at Grosvenor Chapel as more important than the other saints’ days this week, and it is distinguished by a 7.30 Mass as well as the 8.15. By the way, why shouldn’t you ask if someone is at peace with the Holy See? I hope you bear in mind that your cousin Rose likes all your forms of expression, and wishes not one of them altered in any direction. Letter 2 (in reply to): I am sorry about my handwriting being so cryptic; I know it is, and particularly on the rather flimsy paper of those a[ir] p[aper]s. But you shouldn’t give it too much attention; make a rough guess at it, and it will doubtless be as rewarding as my actual remarks. That dinner at Dilly’s went much astray about “difficile est” etc.; especially Mr. Wilkes.1 I am sure your meaning is the right one; “it is hard to treat what is common knowledge in a way of your own.” I will look and see what the Loeb translation has for it, when next I get to the L[ondon] L[ibrary]. But I have always supposed that to be the sense. A pity we weren’t at Dilly’s that evening. Still, dinners where they discuss that kind of thing are a good kind of dinner to be at, whatever conclusions are reached by the sensus communis of the diners. By the way, shouldn’t you think that possibly sensus communis bore two meanings in Latin, as it has in English certainly from the 16th century at least? I see in the O[xford] D[ictionary] that the Latin sensus communis is given as equivalent in meaning to common sense. It gives for meaning 1 (of common sense in English) “ordinary normal understanding of common things,” and for meaning 2 “a feeling common to a community of people, or to the human race.” Quotes in this meaning are given from Spenser on. I must certainly pray for Mr. Wilkes, that he may, besides resting in peace (improbable for he was seldom given to rest or to peace in life) grow in understanding, so that when Dilly gives dinner parties in the Elysian fields, he may
not be so far astray in his guesses at meanings. Perhaps Horace may be there too, to elucidate his own passages and confound the critics and commentators. Dear me, what dinner parties, what social joys! And perhaps (talking of the Grosvenor Chapel deceased) Lady Mary [Wortley] Montagu and Pope also meet at such parties, and will (or long since have) make up their quarrels.1
Yes, what intensity those infant joys in beautiful things had! A kind of rapture, never quite to be recaptured (as Wordsworth says). “The earth and every common sight, To me did seem, Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.”2 What Traherne called “new-burnisht joys.”3 Do you know that dehghtful poet, by the way? Dehghtful prose meditations, too. The rapture of childhood is nowhere better expressed than in his poetry. Teas in the garden and new green wheelbarrows are part of it, but by no means all. The birthday I shall never forget was a rapturous day in Italy, when we were first given a canoe, and navigated it in the calm summer sea from morning till evening; indescribable beauty and joy and romance, that returns to me still in dreams.
Can there ever have been any wild heretics who asserted that there were “three Holy Ghosts” causing Athanasius to insert a clause against them in his Creed? This reflection is induced by Trinity Sunday, one of those days on which this Creed should be said. What contentious beings our Christian forefathers were! My mother used to sit down during the more minatory verses of it, embarrassing her offspring rather. To me Trinity Sunday recalls buttercup fields and punting on quiet University rivers among may bushes, very lovely, and very unlike the somewhat forceful denunciations and definitions of the good Athanasius. Here is the end of my paper, it seems. I must stop and answer some less interesting epistles.
Later. I have lost the post, and this can’t go till to-morrow morning.
Much love,
R.M.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
14th June, [1952] †
My dear Hamilton,
This is a page torn from my note book while I wait in the B[ritish] M[useum] reading room for the books I have ordered to arrive. I have now to use such scraps of spare time as turn up among my labours. The worst of this scrap is that I have left behind me your two letters—a[ir] l[etter] of a few days ago, and a[ir] p[aper] that came yesterday, so can’t answer what you said till I rejoin them. When I get home, I will have to catch a train to Romford, and shall take the a.l. with me in case I can write a little (however badly) on the short journey by electric train. I do remember that both letters were full of interesting things, largely liturgical; and that in the a.l. you told me that you were having me sent the Pittenger book, which excited and delighted me hugely. How very generous you are to me: for, tho’ you say you haven’t any more book-space, you could easily have got yourself some nice thin, small book. But how lovely for R.M. that you decided otherwise; it is a book I badly want to read, and it seems can’t be got here. It sounds exactly what I want.
I had an interesting liturgical letter the other day from a nice R.C., who enclosed with it a bibliography (compiled by him) of liturgical books, which is useful to have. He seems an expert. I might send you his letter, if it won’t make mine too heavy. The primitive Mass he describes (celebrant facing congregation, no candles, etc., on altar) is sometimes executed at S. Thomas’s, Regent St. They call it “basilican” there. Other letters I have had complain that we “filched” their churches. I reply, with dignity, that we did not filch them, we just kept them, as they were already ours, and the fact that we made some changes in our Religion was no reason for renouncing our churches. But this is, naturally, a perennial quarrel between the Churches.
Romford. Now I have got to Romford, and have your 2 letters with me, and my sister has had to go out to a patient for | an hour or so, so I will continue my letter. I have been reading again (in the train) your letters, and enjoying them. I like what you say about being in the Church: yes, isn’t it a wonderful corporate feeling of being carried along, being part of the body, not looking at it from outside, from beyond a fence. And, as you say, everything in it fits gradually in, forming the pattern of the whole; and the bits one doesn’t yet grasp, or that don’t mean anything much to one, may one day. Anyhow, that doesn’t matter to the whole pattern and movement in which one is involved, as if it was a great sweeping symphony that one can hear a little of the meaning of now and then.
The American P[rayer] B[ook] did wonderfully get hold of some tilings our P.B. had omitted; especially that consecration prayer. But, that being so, isn’t it rather odd that they left out references to private absolution? This is so, isn’t it? (I haven’t got it with me here, but seem to have looked for this in vain.) I suppose they took some things out of the Scotch Episcopalian book, didn’t they? (Again, I should know about this if I was in Hinde [House], with my nice annotated U.S.P.B. at hand). That Consecration they have is beautiful.
I like to have that Latin prayer you say secretly and mutter half aloud. I go on learning more of these. I should do well to carry a Latin Missal or Breviary about with me on journeys, etc., and read them in trains and buses (not when driving my car) as priests do. (By the way, don’t worry about the vehicular skill of my driving companions, as it is I who drive, when it’s my car, and you know, of course, how great my skill and care are.)
As to that Tom Jones—Mr. Thwackum confession reference, what a very odd source Mr. T. is for it! I must look it up. My Tom Jones (a 1st edition, in the family for ages) was burnt up in ‘41, but I must get a cheap one sometime—or no, I don’t actually like it enough to want to possess it; I will refer to it in a library. I have had lately two very nice ruin-seeking drives; the one in Herts, and last Thursday a lovely one to Hampshire, alone. I saw Silchester (the old Roman town now completely overgrown with crops of wheat and hay—100 acres girdled by the broken Roman wall, nothing inside the wall but a Tudor farm-house, a Norman and Perp[endicular] church, and the buried city, with a white horse cropping the grass above it. I wish some millionaire would employ architects and archaeolgists to build the Roman city again there; would it not look glorious? And import some Italians (or use those whom our miners so churlishly reject) to live in it, and chatter in the out-of-door market places, and argue loudly in the Forum, and hold basilican Masses in—the basilica. What well-spent money it would be, instead of piling up those costly armaments. But too beautiful a scheme ever to come off. From Silchester I went on to Basing House (nothing but steep walled foundations, with wild roses climbing about them) and to Basingstoke, to see the ruined Chapel of the Holy Ghost, in a weed-grown old burial ground. Very neglected and lonely and forsaken, but once a centre of monastic training and devotion. Now roofless and shattered. There is a nice 18th c. poem about it that I was reading to-day in the B[ritish] M[useum]. Those 18th c. ruin-poems are very pleasing. When they are about the ruins of abbeys, they are full of owls and bats and ghosts of monks, and rather smug execrations on “fell Superstition” who reigned there of old.
Here is one I like:
“Gothick in style, and tending to excite
Free-thinkers to a sense of what is right…
Not like St. Paul’s, beneath whose spacious dome
Thoughts of a future life too seldom come …”1
That seems to me very nice. Do you feel that way about Gothic? With your Latinism, you ought to prefer the classical style, so inconducive to thoughts of a future life.
Myself, I am all for the Byzantine (clustered domes and mosaics). I have just been to see the Ravenna mosaic copies now being shown in London. They are marvellously done. Yes, on the whole give me Byzantine. Or Romanesque, with baroque façades! As to Dostoyevsky and the Brothers K., I admire without much devoted love. I quite see that the Powyses —the Brothers P.—would adore before that shrine.
I suppose Fr. Morse2 is all for Chinese temples, with curved eaves, and balls; and I must say I sympathise. I like him, with his large beard and “large Asiatic views,” and his devotion to lamas (which I take to be the human not the goatish k
ind). Did he convert them, or only tend their bodies? I doubt if it would be easy to convert lamas; they already have their rather high priestly status, and would feel it lowering to lose it. I must get that Elizabeth Myers book from the Library. If Fr. Cow3 liked it, I should too, though I feel just now something of an anti-cow resentment, after my 8 weeks attack from them. But it is a nice name. I used to hear of a Fr. Bull, but not before of a Cow, who should, surely, be a female Religious.
I’ll tell you what I think about The Edwardians, and whether I think V.S.W. and R.M. write at all similarly, when I’ve got hold of it. (It’s years and years since I read it.) And The Venture of Prayer,1 too. But most I want Pittenger, and that is coming to me. What with that, and what with Stones of Venice (1st edition, with pictures) that Roger Senhouse (a friend of mine) is just presenting me with because he has another copy, my good fortune is great, and better than anything I could have hoped for; funes ceciderunt mihi in praeclaris.2
I wrote part of this letter in the train, returning from Romford: I hope it isn’t too apparent which part. But none of it is good writing, I fear. I wish I wrote like you … or like any other reputable minister of God’s word. Do you know that I have taken to saying clargy, and clargyman, as was customary till the 19th century. We stuck to dark, but minced down clargy to clergy, which I don’t think sounds so good. I like Shakespeare’s “Look where he comes, between two clargiemen” (Richard III). I am now gotten so old that I can talk old-fashioned with impunity.
Well, my love and gratitude, and not only for the coming Pittenger. I like your cousin Mary’s “but she never liked such people very well!” I wonder how many she knew of “such people.” It is bed-time and bath-time. I am reading in bed a large book about the Carlyles—both funny and sad.
Your most affectionate
R.M.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
22nd June, 1952 †
Letters to a Friend Page 32