opportunity that Manning required. He seized it; got himself
appointed preacher; and delivered from the pulpit of St. Mary's a
virulently Protestant harangue. This time there could indeed be
no doubt about the matter: Manning had shouted 'No Popery!' in
the very citadel of the Movement, and every one, including
Newman, recognised that he had finally cut himself off from his
old friends. Everyone, that is to say, except the Archdeacon
himself. On the day after the sermon, Manning walked out to the
neighbouring village of Littlemore, where Newman was now living
in retirement with a few chosen disciples, in the hope of being
able to give a satisfactory explanation of what he had done. But
he was disappointed; for when, after an awkward interval, one of
the disciples appeared at the door, he was informed that Mr.
Newman was not at home.

With his retirement to Littlemore, Newman had entered upon the
final period of his Anglican career. Even he could no longer help
perceiving that the end was now only a matter of time. His
progress was hastened in an agitating manner by the indiscreet
activity of one of his proselytes, W. G. Ward. a young man who
combined an extraordinary aptitude for a priori reasoning with a
passionate devotion to Opera Bouffe. It was difficult, in fact,
to decide whether the inner nature of Ward was more truly
expressing itself when he was firing off some train of scholastic
paradoxes on the Eucharist or when he was trilling the airs of
Figaro and plunging through the hilarious roulades of the Largo
al Factotum. Even Dr. Pusey could riot be quite sure, though he
was Ward's spiritual director. On one occasion his young penitent
came to him, and confessed that a vow which he had taken to
abstain from music during Lent was beginning to affect his