of wine in the common room.  “When I came up at Easter, 1825, one of the first standing jokes against the college all over the university was the Oriel tea-pot.” [6] Dean Church testifies to the plainness of the services at St. Mary’s.[7] Aubrey de Vere reports his urging Newman to make an expedition with him among the Wicklow Mountains, and the latter’s “answering with a smile that life was full of work more important than the enjoyment of mountains and lakes. . . .  The ecclesiastical imagination and the mountain-worshipping imagination are two very different things.  Wordsworth’s famous ‘Tintern Abbey’ describes the river Wye, etc. . . .  The one thing which it did not see was the great monastic ruin; . . . and now here is this great theologian, who, when within a few miles of Glendalough Lake, will not visit it.” [8]

There is much gentle satire in “Loss and Gain” at the expense of the Ritualistic set in the university who were attracted principally by the external beauty of the Roman Catholic worship.  One of these is Bateman, a solemn bore, who takes great interest in “candlesticks, ciboriums, faldstools, lecterns, ante-pend turns, piscinas, roodlofts, and sedilia”:  wears a long cassock which shows absurdly under the tails of his coat; and would tolerate no architecture but Gothic in English churches, and no music but the Gregorian.  Bateman is having a chapel restored in pure fourteenth-century style and dedicated to the Royal Martyr.  He is going to convert the chapel into a chantry, and has bought land about it for a cemetery, which is to be decorated with mediaeval monuments in sculpture and painting copied from the frescoes in the Campo Santo at Pisa, of which he has a portfolio full of drawings.  “It will be quite sweet,” he says, “to hear the vesper-bell tolling over the sullen moor every evening.”  Then there is White, a weak young aesthete who shocks the company by declaring:  “We have no life or poetry in the Church of England; the Catholic Church alone is beautiful.  You would see what I mean if you went into a foreign cathedral, or even into one of the Catholic churches in our large towns.  The celebrant, deacon and sub-deacon, acolytes with lights, the incense and the chanting all combine to one end, one act of worship.”  White is much exercised by the question whether a sacristan should wear the short or the long cotta.  But he finally marries and settles down into a fat preferment.

Newman’s sensitiveness to the beauty of Catholic religion is acute.  “Her very being is poetry,” he writes.  But equally acute is his sense of the danger under which religion lies from the ministration of the arts, lest they cease to be handmaids, and “give the law to Religion.”  Hence he praises, from an ecclesiastical point of view, the service of the arts in their rudimental state—­the rude Gothic sculpture, the simple Gregorian chant.[9] A similar indifference to the merely aesthetic aspects of Catholicism is recorded