Some who took the _Remains_ to heart were more than half sorry that it was published. The real reasons for that measure had been in the Prefaces a little obscured, because largely taken for granted as obvious. So much is clear: the need had been felt of issuing a book to serve as a dead friend’s only monument. But the moment one came to handle his compositions, all warlike, all new, one foresaw the ethical risk of putting them forward, without first educating a public to read them. Mr. Wilson, representing his own earliest feeling, and that of Mr. Keble his Vicar, sympathised, in the very beginning, with Newman over ‘the great difficulty and perplexity you must be in at present, as to what course to take…. We cannot afford by any shock even to throw back into their former upright posture of indifference or suspicion some who are now leaning our way.’ To publish poor Hurrell at all turned out a large diplomatic matter. Confident that he needed only to be known to be loved and trusted, Newman resolved to make him intimately and unmistakably known, and his opinions, in consequence, heeded as they deserved. The _Remains_ is almost the first among modern English books to expose what is sacredly private: we are all used now, whether with diminishing or undiminishing protest, to exhibitions of the spiritual anatomy of humankind. The Editors’ challenge to an Erastian world seemed based on the belief that their cause had bred its perfect flower in Froude, and that only to show him as he was, with his mighty single-hearted zest, his aspirations towards holiness, and his playful gentleness, would be to show also the attaching loveliness of their cause. They proceeded upon one or two syllogisms which had no flaw, but also no application. For, plainly, Froude was impossible to be understanded of the people, and the more he himself was expounded the worse it was for the system which he personified. An eminent critic led the way in dwelling, not on the question so unmistakably thrust forward, of Præmunire, but on Hurrell’s confessed and repented glance to see ‘whether goose came on the table at dinner!’ That goose is well known to a number of contemporary persons who have never owned a copy of the _Remains_, nor heard what ascetic theology has to say of such a thing as concupiscence of the eyes. Hurrell, in a secret hour, had named the goose only to his guardian angel, between whom and himself the sense of humour could hardly come into play. Keble’s humour, and Newman’s likewise, were almost incomparably keen: one knows not how these passages survived the proofreading. It was inevitable, however, that public attention should fasten upon them with disrelish and horror. They were unusual, they were not ‘self-respecting’; they belonged to types outgrown and superseded; in short, they were fatally ‘un-English,’ to that most respectable year 1838. It was bidden to admire a humility and disinterestedness in which it could not believe.