The 1903 Longmans, Green edition of Cardinal Newman’s The Dream of Gerontius presents the poem as a metrical meditation on death—and something more than that. Through a loving heart and a poet’s imagination, Newman renders the state of a just soul after death, so that Gerontius stands not for one particular man but for “your soul, my soul, any soul” fortunate enough to satisfy a God who is both judging and merciful. Maurice Francis Egan, who edited this edition with introduction and notes, opens by observing that Newman’s poetry is usually associated with “The Pillar of the Cloud” (“Lead, Kindly Light”), though his prose fame has long eclipsed his verse. No poet, Egan argues, has presented the soul’s condition as Catholic theology makes it known with such force.
“Praise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise: In all His words most wonderful; Most sure in all His ways!”
The Soul at the Edge of Death
The poem follows the soul on earth as it sees itself at the moment before death, strengthened by the last sacraments and by the prayers of friends, and approaching judgment. Separated from the body until the Resurrection, it is not sundered from the love of those who loved it. Gerontius fears he must “drop from out the universal frame” into a blank abyss; the dread of annihilation is upon him, and he pleads silently that his friends in Christ pray for him. His physical supports fail—eyes darkening, feet cold, arms rigid—while the soul hears the Church’s prayers for the dying, which Newman renders in English verse from the Latin. The soul gains strength, sees God through the world’s ruin, and wills to be wholly His. The assistants redouble their supplications in the Litany for the Dying; the soul calls “out of the depths” and asserts the creed (“Firmly I believe and truly”).
Egan compares the terror of this passage to Dante’s Inferno, then imagines the deathbed scene: the priest in surplice and violet stole sprinkling holy water with the Asperges; Gerontius having kissed the crucifix; the Litany recited. The soul may live through what seems a hundred years in a second. After departure the priest says “Subvenite, Sancti Dei,” which dwells last in Gerontius’s ears; he awakes free, quoting “I had a dream…” The soul hears its Guardian Angel’s song, then demon voices crying “Virtue and vice… ‘Tis all the same.” The angel explains that the soul lacks extension and power of motion. So brief is the time that the “Subvenite” is still unfinished when the soul reaches Judgment; the angel identifies the voices as friends around the bed.
The Litanies and the Act of Faith
The central movement of the poem’s first part is a descent and a recovery. Gerontius laments his fall into a shapeless, scopeless blank abyss of nothingness, crying “O horror!” and asking his friends to pray for him since he lacks strength to pray. The Assistants chant the Kyrie eleison and invoke a long litany of intercessors—Holy Mary, all holy Angels, Choirs of the righteous, Holy Abraham, St. John Baptist, St. Joseph, St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Andrew, St. John, all Apostles and Evangelists, all holy Disciples, Innocents, Martyrs, Confessors, Hermits, Virgins, and all ye Saints of God—each asked to pray for him. Gerontius urges his fainting soul to “play the man” and prepare to meet God during the interval before the ruin falls again. The Assistants plead for mercy, deliverance from past sins, from God’s frown and ire, from perils of dying, from complying with sin or denying God or relying on self at the last, from the nethermost fire, from all evil, and from the power of the devil—rescuing him by Christ’s birth, Cross, death, burial, rising, mounting above, and the Spirit’s gracious love, to save him in the day of doom.
Gerontius then recites the “Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,” professing firm belief that God is Three and One, acknowledging Manhood taken by the Son, trusting in that crucified Manhood, and putting unruly thoughts and deeds to death. He holds Holy Church in veneration as Christ’s creation, accepts with joy whatever besets him, severs all ties binding him here, and gives adoration through the angelic host to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. He declares he can do no more, as the sense of ruin returns—worse than pain, a masterful negation and collapse of all that makes him man—as though bending over a dizzy brink or falling down forever through the solid framework of created things into the vast abyss. A fierce restless fright fills his soul; some bodily form of ill floats on the wind with loathsome curses, laughing and flapping hideous wings, making him wild with horror. He cries “O Jesu, help!” and asks Mary, Joseph, and some angel to pray for him.
The Assistants beg God to rescue him in his evil hour, as of old He rescued Enoch and Elias from the common doom, Noe from the waters, Abraham from the guilt of Heathenesse, Job from distress, Isaac when his father’s knife was raised, Lot from burning Sodom, Moses from bondage, Daniel from the lions, the Children Three amid the furnace-flame, chaste Susanna from slander, David from Golia and Saul’s wrath, the two Apostles from prison-thrall, and Thecla from her torments—so now to rescue this Thy servant. Gerontius says “Novissima hora est” and would fain sleep, the pain having wearied him, commending himself into the Lord’s hands. The Priest intones “Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo!” bidding the Christian soul go forth in the name of the omnipotent Father who created him, of Jesus Christ who bled for him, of the Holy Spirit poured out on him, and in the names of Angels, Archangels, Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Powers, Cherubim, Seraphim, Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles, Evangelists, Martyrs, Confessors, holy Monks and Hermits, holy Virgins, and all Saints of God, both men and women—praying his place be found in peace and his dwelling the Holy Mount of Sion.
The Soul Speaks: Severance and the Guardian Angel
The Soul of Gerontius then speaks. He went to sleep and is refreshed with a strange lightness and freedom, as if at length himself. All is still—no busy beat of time, no fluttering breath or struggling pulse, no moment differing from the next. He recalls a dream: someone softly said “He’s gone,” a sigh went round the room, and a priestly voice cried “Subvenite” as they knelt in prayer; the accents come fainter as at an ever-widening interval. He wonders at this severance; silence pours solitariness into his soul, and the deep rest, soothing yet stern and painful, drives his thoughts back on their spring by strange introversion, forcing him to feed upon himself. He asks whether he is alive or dead—not dead, he thinks, but in the body still, possessing confidence that each organ holds its place in one symmetry making him man, and surely he could move did he will it; yet he cannot stir hand or foot, cannot make fingers or lips witness to each other, nor by eyelid’s stroke assure himself he has a body, nor know his attitude—whether standing, lying, sitting, or kneeling. He knows, not knowing how, that the vast universe is quitting him or he it, or both rushing onward on wings of light or lightning, now million miles apart. He wonders whether this severance is wrought in lengthening measurements of space or whether he traverses infinity by endless subdivision, dying out of the expansed world. Another marvel: someone holds him fast within an ample palm—not an earthly grasp but all around the surface of his subtle being, as though he were a sphere, a uniform gentle pressure telling him he is not self-moving but borne forward. He hears a singing, unable to say whether he hears, touches, or tastes the tones—a heart-subduing melody.
The Angel sings that his work is done, his task o’er, and he comes taking the child home, for the crown is won, Alleluia.
The Threshold of Judgment
A choir recalls that Adam fell through Eve’s blandishment, and that the tempter shrieked in triumph, declaring the Maker bound by His word, so that escape or cure is none and He must abandon His “darling son” to doom. The Angel announces that the threshold, as they traverse it, utters aloud its glad responsive chant. The Fifth Choir of Angelicals sings praise to the Holiest in height and depth, celebrating the loving wisdom of God: when all was sin and shame, a second Adam came to the fight and rescue; the flesh and blood that failed in Adam should strive afresh against the foe and prevail; a higher gift than grace should refine flesh and blood—God’s Presence, His very Self, and Essence all divine; and He who smote the foe in man for man should undergo the double agony in man, in the garden secretly and on the cross on high, teaching and inspiring his brethren to suffer and to die.
The Angel tells the Soul its judgment is near, for they have come into the veiled presence of God. The Soul hears the voices it left on earth; the Angel explains these are friends around its bed saying the “Subvenite” with the priest, and that before the Throne stands the great Angel of the Agony, the same who strengthened Him when He knelt lone in the garden bedewed with blood, who best can plead for all tormented souls, the dying and the dead. The Angel of the Agony prays to Jesu by His shuddering dread, cold dismay, pang of heart, mount of sins, sense of guilt, innocence, sanctity, and Godhead, to spare the souls dear to Him who wait in prison calm and patient, and to hasten their hour to their glorious Home.
The Soul says it goes before its Judge. The Angel praises His Name, describing how the eager spirit darted from its hold with the intemperate energy of love, flying to the dear feet of Emmanuel, but the keen sanctity clothing the Crucified seized, scorched, and shrivelled it, so it lies passive before the awful Throne—consumed yet quickened by the glance of God. The Soul asks to be taken away to the lowest deep, to keep lone night-watches in hope, motionless and happy in pain, singing its sad perpetual strain until the morn, soothing its stricken breast until possessed of its Sole Peace, singing its absent Lord and Love so it may sooner rise and see Him in everlasting day.
Purgatory and the Angel’s Farewell
The Angel bids the golden prison open its gates with sweet music, and asks the Angels of Purgatory to receive his charge, a precious soul, until the day when, released from all bond and forfeiture, he shall reclaim it for the courts of light. The Souls in Purgatory recite a psalm paraphrased from the Psalms, ending with the Lesser Doxology. The Angel softly and gently enfolds the dearly-ransomed soul, poises and lowers it over the penal waters, dips it in the lake; the soul takes its rapid passage without sob or resistance, sinking deep into the dim distance; angels shall tend and nurse and lull it, and Masses on earth and prayers in heaven shall aid it at the Throne. The Angel bids farewell but not for ever, urging the soul to be brave and patient on its bed of sorrow, for its night of trial shall swiftly pass, and he will come and wake it on the morrow.
Egan’s editorial notes follow, explaining the Litany for the Dying, the Greek and Latin invocations, the Guardian Angel, the “Subvenite” prayer, St. Francis d’Assisi’s stigmata, the word “dreed,” the Doxology, and Dante’s Purgatory imagery.
The Poem’s Craft and Its Place
Egan affirms the poem’s conformity with Catholic theology, comparing Newman to Dante among the Doctors of the Church. He recommends comparative reading with Dante’s Purgatorio, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Rossetti’s “The Blessed Damosel,” and Tennyson’s “In Memoriam”—always with reference to Church teaching. He ranks Gerontius first among poems depicting life after death: “In Memoriam” never passes death’s bar, Milton’s is of angels rather than men, Rossetti’s only a reflection of earth, and Dante’s splendor loses the individual appeal.
The metre changes with the thought, always appropriate; the opening’s solemn movement gives the typical music, varied lyrically. The poem is admirable for musical variety on a firm basis of unity; the level of “Lead, Kindly Light” is reached many times, and musical quality is surpassed by “Take me away, and in the lowest deep.” Newman presented the soul’s experience as a “dream,” Egan suggests, from habitual caution; he has neither Dante’s nor Milton’s boldness and will not present such a sacred moment as actual fact—too reverential, so he calls it a “Dream.” A letter about “The Pillar of the Cloud” quotes Keble that poets are “not bound to be critics or to give a sense to what they had written,” adding there must be a statute of limitations, or it would be tyranny, if in an art expressing imagination and sentiment one were obliged to stand examination on the transient state of mind when homesick, seasick, or otherwise sensitive. The editor advises taking the poem without too much inquiry; if the author’s intention is not evident, either he failed to be clear, is consciously obscure, or we cannot appreciate it. The first two defects do not appear; the third, let us trust, does not exist in us.
Gordon’s Copy and the Poem’s Reach
Egan recounts that General Charles George Gordon (“Chinese Gordon”), who died in 1884 besieged by pagan hordes, a martyr to duty, carried a copy of the poem—a small duodecimo—which was given to Mr. Frank Power, correspondent of the London Times, who sent it to his sister in Dublin. Pencil-marks underlined lines on death and prayer: “Pray for me, O my friends”; “‘Tis death, O loving friends, your prayers—’tis he”; “So pray for me, my friends, who have not strength to pray”; “Use well the interval”; “Prepare to meet thy God”; “Now that the hour is come, my fear is fled.” Power later met a hero’s fate. Gordon’s last underlined words were “Farewell, but not forever, brother dear; / Be brave and patient in thy bed of sorrow.”
The volume closes with publisher’s advertisements for the “Longmans English Classics” series, edited by George Rice Carpenter of Columbia University, designed for secondary schools in accordance with the system recommended by the National Committee of Ten and as direct preparation for uniform college entrance requirements in English. Each volume was said to contain full Notes, Introductions, “Suggestions for Teachers and Students,” bibliographies, and often lists of topics for further reading, subjects for themes and compositions, and specimen examination papers. A long list of contributors and titles follows—Burke’s Speech on Conciliation with America, Carlyle’s Essay on Burns, Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, George Eliot’s Silas Marner, Milton’s Paradise Lost, several Shakespeare plays, Tennyson’s Idylls of the King and The Princess, and many others—along with testimonials from professors and schoolmasters praising the series’ plan, its Suggestions to Teachers, its unity of method, and its freedom from the objection of over-editing.
What remains, past the advertisements and the editorial apparatus, is the poem itself: a soul’s passage from the fear of annihilation through the prayers of the Church and the creeds of faith, past the Angel of the Agony, into the consuming glance of God and then into the penal waters of Purgatory, where the Guardian Angel promises to return and wake it on the morrow.
