But the title explains why this book is so timely. As we all know, the Pope is scheduled to come to England later this year and one of the reasons for his visit is to beatify Newman — to declare him the Blessed John Henry. Cornwell recounts a miracle which is said to provide the justification for this exercise — a 70-year-old deacon in Boston, Massachusetts has been cured of intolerable pains in his back as a result, it is believed, of Cardinal Newman’s intercessions.
This is the moment when non-Roman Catholics politely look at their toes. Does it make sense to speak of Newman as a saint? Very religious he certainly was, but Cornwell paints a picture here of an advanced egomaniac. Much of the second half of Newman’s life was spent in various exercises of self-contemplation, of which the Apologia was only one example. I had not realised until reading Cornwell how long Newman spent sorting through his correspondence. The picture of this old man filing 30-year-old letters and recollecting the moment he stopped talking to this Oxford don or that reminded me of the self-obsessed Tony Benn’s lifework in the basement at Holland Park, keeping all his old tapes and diaries. Newman notoriously quarrelled with Father Faber over the establishment of the London Oratory, and the letters quoted here are feline and acid. Cornwell is also rather devastating — perhaps more devastating than he intended — in his exposition of Newman’s religious thought. Yes, there are those great books. But there are also passages of sheer nonsense, such as the sermon in which Newman says that the Catholic Church holds
it were better for sun and moon to drop from heaven, for the earth to fail, and for all the many millions upon it to die of starvation in extremest agony. . . than that one soul should commit one single venial sin.
In my youth, I was a besotted Newmaniac. I closed Cornwell’s admirable book wondering why. I can see that Newman is a perennially interesting figure, but a saint? Richard Hooker was obviously both a better theologian and a more saintly priest. George Herbert was a better poet and a deeper saint. In his own day, Newman could not match the saintliness of John Keble. None of these have, as far as we know, returned from beyond the grave to give orthopaedic assistance to the gerontic population of Boston, Massachusetts, but their lives nonetheless seem more impressive.
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