All this is most true, and yet it is easy to exaggerate the share which romantic feeling had in the Oxford movement.  In his famous apostrophe to Oxford, Matthew Arnold personifies the university as a “queen of romance,” an “adorable dreamer whose heart has been so romantic,” “spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age,” and “ever calling us nearer to . . . beauty.”  Newman himself was a poet, as well as one of the masters of English prose.  The movement left an impress upon general literature in books like Keble’s “Christian Year” (1827) and “Lyra Innocentium” (1847); in Newman’s two novels, “Callista” and “Loss and Gain” (1848), and his “Verses on Various Occasions” (1867); and even found an echo in popular fiction.  Grey in Hughes’ “Tom Brown at Oxford” represents the Puseyite set.  Miss Yonge’s “Heir of Redcliffe” and Shorthouse’s “John Inglesant” are surcharged with High-Church sentiment.  Newman said that Keble made the Church of England poetical.  “The author of ‘The Christian Year’ found the Anglican system all but destitute of this divine element [poetry]; . . . vestments chucked off, lights quenched, jewels stolen, the pomp and circumstances of worship annihilated; . . . the royal arms for the crucifix; huge ugly boxes of wood, sacred to preachers, frowning on the congregation in place of the mysterious altar; and long cathedral aisles unused, railed off, like the tombs (as they were) of what had been and was not.” [5] Newman praises in “The Christian Year” what he calls its “sacramental system”; and to the unsympathetic reader it seems as though Keble saw all outdoors through a stained-glass window.  The movement had its aesthetic side, and coincided with the revival of church Gothic and with the effort to make church music and ritual richer and more impressive.  But, upon the whole, it was more intellectual than aesthetic, an affair of doctrine and church polity rather than of ecclesiology; while the later phase of ritualism into which it has tapered down appears to the profane to be largely a matter of upholstery, given over to people who concern themselves with the carving of lecterns and the embroidery of chasubles and altar cloths; with Lent lilies, antiphonal choirs, and what Carlyle calls the “singular old rubrics” of the English Church and the “three surplices at All-Hallowmas.”

Newman was, above all things, a theologian; a subtle reasoner whose relentless logic led him at last to Rome.  “From the age of fifteen,” he wrote, “dogma has been the fundamental principle of my religion; I know no other religion; I cannot enter into the idea of any other sort of religion; religion, as a mere sentiment, is to me a dream and a mockery.”  Discussions concerning church ceremonies, liturgy, ritual, he put aside with some impatience.  His own tastes were simple to asceticism.  Mozley says that Newman and Hurrell Froude induced several of the Oriel fellows to discontinue the use