The public rightly regards the Apologia as the most typical and important of the writings of its author. In the first place, it is, in some ways, his most characteristic work. It is instinct with his personality. It is the best exhibition in Newman’s published writings of his curious absorption in the drama of his own life. It illustrates the gifts which his greatest enemies have not denied him—his “regal” English style, and his mastery of the methods of effective controversy. It has also special importance in the story of his career, for it marks the critical turning point of his fortunes in later life. When the Kingsley controversy began, Newman’s reputation and prospects were at their lowest ebb. He had, since joining the Catholic Church in 1845, been entirely hidden from the public eye, and it is hardly too much to say that the bulk of his fellow countrymen had almost forgotten his existence. He had devoted himself entirely to the duties of his position in his new communion. Yet his work for the Catholic Church had been inadequately appreciated by his co-religionists. The three most considerable enterprises he had undertaken—the Irish University, the translation of the Bible, and his editorship of the Rambler on lines which should enable English Catholics to take an effective share in the thought of the day—had all failed. By an influential group of extremists his orthodoxy was suspected, and they had done their best, not wholly without success, to make Rome itself share their suspicions. He was forgotten by the world at large; he was little esteemed by Catholics themselves.
Kingsley’s attack gave him the opportunity for setting himself right alike with the larger public and with the smaller. The opportunity presented difficulties, but it offered a great prize. His chance lay in a battle against heavy odds. Kingsley was a widely popular writer. In accusing the Catholic priesthood of being equivocators and indifferent to truth, he had on his side the widespread prejudice of the English public of 1864. When he added to his original indictment a list of “superstitious” beliefs which Newman himself could not repudiate, he could count on still wider sympathy. But the encounter, though it presented great difficulties, offered, as I have said, a great opportunity. Kingsley’s popularity and notoriety would advertise a combat with him, and make it notorious; thus it meant an excellent chance of gaining the attention of the world at large. Moreover Newman, if he defended the Catholic priesthood with conspicuous success, was sure to win, as their champion, quite a new position among his co-religionists.
One of the most noteworthy features in the campaign was Newman’s keen appreciation of the situation, and of the conditions on which victory depended. He had first to rivet general attention on the contest, and to write without being tedious to the average reader;—to make such a reader ready to follow the dispute further. This he succeeded in doing in the witty pamphlet, published in this volume, in which he summarized his correspondence with Kingsley,—a brief and amusing jeu d’esprit which all could enjoy. That this pamphlet made Kingsley so angry as to forget himself and strike random blows in his retort entitled “What, then, does Dr. Newman mean?” was, probably, a result foreseen by its author: and it was all in Newman’s favour. Then Newman had to keep the ball rolling, to avoid any such delay or dullness as might lose for him the general attention he had won. For this purpose it was desirable that the Apologia should be published in weekly parts, and the first parts had to sustain the note of humorous banter which his pamphlet had struck. This meant work at the very highest pressure. Easy reading means hard writing in such a case. Again, he had to find successfully the tone which could make the advocate of an unpopular cause win general sympathy. It was necessary to bring vividly home to every one the fact that he was deeply wronged, that a serious charge had been brought, that when challenged its bringer had wholly failed to justify it, and had also failed to make any adequate apology for his slander. When once Newman had completely won public sympathy he could say things that could only be told to sympathetic ears. He could then relate the whole story of his life, and could make plain its utter sincerity. The first two parts of the Apologia were brief, brilliant, and full of indignant passion. Then came the bulk of the narrative, so touching to those who had become really interested in the man. Lastly, as an Appendix, came the thirty-nine “blots”, as he called them,—with a humorous suggestion in their number of the Anglican articles—in which the worst of Kingsley’s random charges were swept away in such a tone of contempt as could only be securely adopted after the reader’s sympathy was entirely won.
The occasion was great; the work was exacting; but Newman rose to it and emerged triumphant. The Apologia carried the country by storm. It became a classic of the language, and it had to be re-edited that its form, as well as its substance, might befit its permanent character. Its form had to be no longer that appropriate to a controversy of the hour in which rapier thrusts and colloquialisms were suitable weapons, but that of an earnest autobiography which could stand side by side with those of St. Augustine and Rousseau. Its very title was changed to “History of my Religious Opinions”. But his admirers had grown fond of the old title of a book which had been a chief landmark in his life. Apologia pro vita sua eventually reappeared on the title page. The other changes were permanent.