Jump to ContentJump to Main Navigation
Making HistoryEdward Augustus Freeman and Victorian Cultural Politics$

G.A. Bremner and Jonathan Conlin

Print publication date: 2015

Print ISBN-13: 9780197265871

Published to University Press Scholarship Online: May 2016

DOI: 10.5871/bacad/9780197265871.001.0001

Show Summary Details
Page of
date: 30 May 2020

‘Edward Semper Augustus’: E. A. Freeman on Rome, the Papacy, and the Unity of History1

‘Edward Semper Augustus’: E. A. Freeman on Rome, the Papacy, and the Unity of History1

Chapter:
(p.47) 3 ‘Edward Semper Augustus’: E. A. Freeman on Rome, the Papacy, and the Unity of History1
Source:
Making History
Author(s):

Colm Ó Siochrú

Publisher:
British Academy
DOI:10.5871/bacad/9780197265871.003.0003

Abstract and Keywords

This essay explores E. A. Freeman’s conception of the ‘unity of history’. Often presented in ‘Whiggish’ and secular terms, as the development of Roman imperialism into Teutonic liberty and nationality, this idea had deep religious roots and significances. Modernity, for Freeman, evolved in creative ‘continuity’ with Rome; but he considered that legacy contested by rival forms of Catholic Christianity – the papal-Roman, and the Orthodox-Anglican. From the emergence of this tension in Freeman’s youthful notions of the Church, history, and liberty, the essay charts a deepening aversion to ‘ultramontanism’, conceived as an integral programme of papal oppression – ecclesiastical, political, and scientific. The fall of papal Rome to the liberal-national campaign for Italian unification (1870) should have meant the vindication of Freeman’s liberal Catholic vision. The ambivalence marking his response, however, suggested his deepening anxieties concerning the future of modernity’s Christian order.

Keywords:   Edward Augustus Freeman, Anglicanism, Catholicism, Rome, papacy, liberalism, eucharist, Thomas Arnold, apocalypse, conversion

He gave me the nickname ‘Pope’ from my name Clements, and used to ask me, when I was going to the Vatican. I used to wonder what sort of place that could be and where it was, and at last I asked him. Then he told me a long story about Papal Rome, and filled me with dreamy wonder.

Clements Markham on Freeman (c.1892)2

[T]here is … one survival of the ancient Empire before whose mighty history all minds must bend in awe … greater and more memorable than that of which it is the survival … A day … [came when] men deemed that … Caesar’s moon … shone with a … reflected light … while the sun of the Pontiff shone with a light that came straight from the Creator’s hand … Great and mighty were those claims, and great and mighty were once the men who put them forth.

E. A. Freeman ‘Survivals of Empire’ (1885)3

THE ‘WONDER’ OF ROME GAVE unity to E. A. Freeman’s personal intellectual history. It ‘threw a spell’ over him in youth with a ‘magic power’ that lingered into late life.4 A desire to share the sense of enchantment animated his adolescent instruction of Cheam’s younger boys in the schoolyard of the 1830s, preoccupied the inveterate letter-writer and educational reformer of the late (p.48) 1840s and 1850s, and became such an obsession of the Regius chair of the mid-1880s, that Oxford undergraduates grew bored and Saturday Reviewers impatient.5 Rome’s ‘abiding majesty’ was ‘the surest witness to the essential unity of all history’.6 This historical credo was at once personal, political, and pedagogical. But it was also papal. The idea of Rome became bound up, for Freeman, with the idea of the papacy. As the Western empire unravelled, and the young Teutonic race laid claim to the purple garb—grabbing, mauling, reverencing, refashioning—‘a yet truer heir of that ancient sway sat as the homeborn guardian of Rome’; and ‘the successor of the Fisherman, the maker and the deposer of Kings’, forged ‘a dominion … which overleaped the Ocean’.7 The character and destiny of ‘turbulent … Pontiffs’ (past, present, and potentially future) shaped profoundly Freeman’s understanding of Rome, and the very meaning of history.8

Seeing Rome, the ‘centre’ of history’s ‘unbroken drama’, through white-and-yellow lenses, had important consequences.9 If modern history—following his ‘great master’, Thomas Arnold—was the yet-unfinished story of Rome’s appropriation and transformation by the Teutons, by the very idea of ‘nationality’,10 then it represented not only a teleological–political supersession of the imperial ideal, but also a theological–ecclesiastical supersession of the papal. Self-styled scourge of religious ‘partisanry’ and avatar of ‘scientific historical philosophy’,11 Freeman was ‘reticent (I hate the word)’ to spell this out, either to himself or others. But the religious, even eschatological, assumptions informing his study of Rome deserve consideration. Bubbling constantly below the surface, occasionally ‘burst[ing] out’, they helped form and colour his historical vision.12 Contemporaries, meanwhile, readily teased out the (p.49) implications of his oeuvre. High Churchmen sensed a ‘philosophy of history … clear and definite’: the rise of a ‘national Church’ in opposition to ‘old Rome’.13 Nonconformists drew on Freeman to chart a transhistorical, Manichaean struggle—then manifest in the debates on ‘Vaticanism’ and the Kulturkampf—between ‘two … irreconcilable ideas—the universal supremacy of the Pope, and the independent sovereignty of the Nation’.14 Freeman’s intellectual project must be understood with reference to its religio-political significances.

The apocalypse of Edward Augustus has already, of course, been written. Beneath Freeman’s ‘patriotic’ grand opera (scored by Sullivan; thundering to the Gilbertian coda, ‘He is an Englishman’) John Burrow discerned the dissonant echoes of sacred music. But this is the resonance of a lost chord: everywhere to be heard; nowhere to be found. An otherwise-powerful study is reduced to speculating that an inherited culture of Tudor apocalyptic, and too many mediaeval chronicles late at night, caused Freeman to ingest providentialism by osmosis, and dream of Arnold’s ghost.15 This reading underpins what Ian Hesketh and James Kirby, in this volume, show to be Burrow’s problematic account of Freeman’s intellectual development: the ‘erosion’ of youth’s Tory–Tractarian ‘prejudices’, and the emergence of an historical vision scientific and Teutonic–democratic.16 It also fits into a wider historiographical narrative: a shift from prophetic–apocalyptic reflections on history, common in the early 19th century, to something ‘more secular’;17 a move beyond ‘liberal Anglicanism’ into mystery without Providence, and teleology without God.18 It is a short step into ‘modernism’, where even the idols of Progress are sacrificed to the cult of fact.19 Unmoored from religious universalism, tossed on stranger tides of Thucydidean recurrence and Teutonic racialism, it is a slow slide into Aryan Machtpolitik.20

(p.50) Thirty years of scholarship cautions against considering religion a spectre at the Whig historians’ feast.21 Alongside the studies of Kirby and Hesketh, this essay challenges Burrow’s implicit secularisation of Freeman’s mind, encapsulated in the geological image of youthful religion buried under ‘layers’ of Kemble and Grote, Palgrave and Sismondi.22 Resituating Freeman in the religious contexts and debates which preoccupied him through life, it suggests that the ‘scientific’ and ‘liberal’ crusades he waged against ‘partisan’ apologetics and despotic–imperial politics ought to be understood, not in the context of a drift away from Christianity, but in terms of the common pursuit, diversely pursued, of fashioning a liberal, national, Christian order, hermeneutical and political. By its very nature seeking to avoid a narrowingly confessional framing, this project was rarely set down in programmatic statement. Rather, it was to be inferred from positive practice and contrastive critique. Key aspects of Freeman’s contribution to this project can be traced in his lifelong engagement with what he thought the antitype of modern history’s Christian order: ‘Pontifical Rome’, that ‘sacred hearth and home of the faith and worship of millions’, where the successor of the Fisherman … wields the sceptre of Diocletian’.23 Situating Freeman in a rich 19th-century tradition of moral reflection on Rome—a city excavated, mythicised, and contested with unique intensity24—illuminates the multifaceted but integral nature of his mind. The subconscious, self-conscious, religious, aesthetic, and political coalesced and collided to shape his vision of the ‘ruling city’, synonymous with History itself.25 Less sedimentary layers, Freeman’s mind resembled a well-thumbed Geneva Bible, bristling in cross-references to guide history’s devotional reader. ‘Religion’, the Old Testament, was not straightforwardly superseded by ‘History’, the New. They were reconciled—given a sense of unity—with History perfecting the Old, Religion suffusing the New.

(p.51) ‘Precocious young critic’

By the time Clements Markham enrolled in Cheam in 1838, the avuncular 16-year-old Freeman was making ready to leave. The papal nickname, so easily triggered, hinted at a mind already shaped in shadows cast by Rome and its religion.26 They reached back to infancy, darkening the bedtime stories of an orphan, the imperial city that ruled over many kings. They continued to loom in the mind of the ‘precocious [six-year-old] critic’, who disputed exegesis with passing parsons, and deemed the emancipation of Rome’s spiritual subjects in England ‘something very dreadful’.27 Nor were they dispelled in adolescence. Evangelical sense deepened into a profoundly sacramental sensibility; but neither confirmation by the archbishop of Canterbury—when Freeman encountered ‘the sacred elements representing His Body and Blood, lacerated and shed for my transgressions’—nor the first effects of Tractarian literature, were leading him, as Cheam’s ‘ignorant Protestantism’ fretted, towards ‘perversion’. Freeman was developing a credo in which Rome figured centrally—but only in the rejection of its works and empty promises. Against the papacy, the historical-mindedness and High Church piety of youth coalesced into conjointly-emerging conceptions of the Church and modern history, the twin repositories of Christian freedom.28

With a whole generation of young churchmen, Freeman was seeking terra firma in the tumultuous ecclesiological debates of the 1830s. As the Tractarian crusade gathered momentum, controversy deepened over the nature of the Church, catholically speaking, as an ecclesial–sacramental communion with Christ. The eucharist itself became a key battleground. Apologetic intensified and polarised as the High Church consensus in a ‘spiritual Real Presence’, distinct from the Roman doctrine of transubstantiation (the belief in the corporeal real presence of Christ in his human and divine nature at the consecration) came under pressure.29 Yet the advanced Tractarians causing such disruption were ultimately grappling with the consequences of the ultramontane revival on the Continent. With ‘Rationalist’ objections to transubstantiation neutered, (p.52) and ‘Jansenist’ disquiet over popular devotions to the Sacred Heart silenced,30 Romanists like Nicholas Wiseman (1802–65) were taking the undiluted Tridentinism of transubstantiation to huge audiences in London.31 They won applause, souls, and the wistful confession, by some churchmen, of the allure of their ‘great truths’.32 But they also met a barrage of criticism. In the High Church literature of which the young Freeman was such a conspicuous consumer, the Roman vision of the eucharist was shown to be doctrinally flawed and politically dangerous. For Thomas Turton (1780–1864), Cambridge’s Regius professor of divinity, it lured men to the ‘adoration of the carnal’, and distorted the nature of Christ’s kingdom into an empire of coercion.33 For Bishop Kaye of Lincoln (1783–1853), it showed Rome guilty of pagan irrationalism—believing of the natural order whatever gratified its lust for power.34 For the evangelically inflected Church of England Quarterly Review, the ‘ULTRA papistry’, of which ‘transubstantiation’ was the principal expression, fostered a ‘dire spirit of papal domination’, manifest in Romanist manoeuvrings to ‘dissolve [the] compact structure of CHURCH AND STATE’.35

Freeman almost certainly encountered this dominant orthodox–latitudinarian consensus, forged by ‘Evangelical High-Churchmen’ and a pre-Tractarian generation of Cambridge dons against Roman claims.36 His clear preoccupation at this time was to find a conception of catholicity untainted by ‘papistry’. (p.53) Thus, if he handed out copies of the Lyra Apostolica to school friends,37 he also administered sobering doses from ‘Dr. Irons’. A solid disciple of Pusey, William Josiah Irons (1812–83) restated High Church orthodoxies for his congregants at St Mary, Newington, in the form of his On the Apostolical Succession, hoping to counter the excesses of some Tractarian publicists.38 Freeman found in the text a réchauffé Caroline ecclesiology, conceptualising the Church universal as a ‘federation’ of ‘branches’ seeking ‘unity’, but rejecting any papal notion of ‘union’ that would necessitate submission to Rome—a branch in need of pruning (though not, as some apocalypticists in the Caroline gene-pool thought, deserving to be snapped for kindling in Eternity’s fires).39 Unity’s essence, for Irons, was underpinned in the eucharist, which bound many together in the common headship of one. A deformation in any branch’s eucharistic theology would disrupt its communion with the Church universal. Hence, Rome’s ‘idolatrous’ conception of transubstantiation was naturally mirrored in her pretension to supremacy. Disobeying the Pauline command not to ‘eat of things offered to idols’, she had been corrupted and become tyrannical.40 The oldest branch had been consumed by a poison that threatened to spread, choking out rich diversity, and suffocating Christendom.

These twin conceptions of communion, ecclesiastical and eucharistic, expressed in the ecological metaphor of the branch-church, made a profound impression on Freeman. Rome was not indispensable to Catholicism. Indeed, even the mediaeval paradigm of Catholic civilisation suggested otherwise. In meticulously drafted devotional poems and meditative writings on the liturgy, Freeman developed a romantic rhetoric that drew on the spirit of the convert Kenelm Digby, but which tempered the influence of his Broad Stone of Honour with repeated reference to Robert Southey’s virulently anti-papal Book of the Church.41 And where Digby, like his fellow converts, A. W. N. Pugin and Ambrose Phillipps, consciously developed a language of catholicity more English than Roman,42 the poet laureate’s romanticism conceived national unity and regeneration as something possible only in opposition to Rome. (p.54) The Church of England, he insisted, ‘rescued us, first from heathenism, then from papal idolatry and superstition; it has saved us from temporal as well as spiritual despotism’.43

Freeman synthesised. In a rhapsody on ‘The Consecration’, he bewailed the desecration of the eucharist—now by Calvinists, but firstly by ‘the poisoned influence of usurping Rome’. Weaving together England’s spiritual essence and the sacrament’s integrity, he saw the ‘beauty of our island clime’ ‘defiled’ by ‘Roman priest’. His ‘spirit yearn[ed] for holier days’, when ‘our incarnate God’ was found in ‘Flesh and Blood’ in the ‘gifts of Bread and Wine’—but according to the primitive sense of the English Church, and not as the ‘Roman’ offered ‘his cursed sacrifice’. Vehemence stemmed from seriousness. ‘Mercy ineffable, that man should feast/On his Creator!’ In this Catholic communion, Englishmen were conformed to Christ, and made His ‘true and faithful servants’. The sacrament ‘cleanses me, guides me, strengthens me’; it had ‘saving force’. The ‘most Holy Eucharist’ and the ‘Catholick Church of England’, bound together, represented for Freeman the sacramental gateway to heaven. Rome’s attack on both disrupted the economy of salvation.44

Here, in a sense, were ‘two cities’. If Freeman avoided the eschatology of papal antichrist—the ‘true Churchman’ felt only ‘pity’ for Rome, which had ‘evangelized’ England45—the dialectical tension between the contending ecclesiological models implied a sense of time, making history the redemptive narrative of Christian freedom’s national vindication against Rome. And this subtly apocalyptic sensibility was deepened in a simultaneous encounter with Broad Church historiography. Tiring of Oliver Goldsmith’s and Mrs Markham’s ‘vulgar curriculum’, Freeman devoured the recently published work of the Irish littérateur, William Cooke Taylor, whose Overthrow of the Roman Empire powerfully conveyed ‘the impression … of the unity of history’.46 Taylor supplied Freeman with the ‘deficient links’ between the ‘ancient system of civilization’ and modernity’s ‘new state of things’ in the sequential ‘unfolding’ of the ‘middle ages’; and he told the tale as moral epic, centred on Rome’s rupture into ‘old’ and ‘new’. The ‘Papal Power’ played Iago—antihero, if not antichrist—subverting Constantinople to secure its own temporalities. Against this foe, and its priestly–tyrannical imperial ally, the Mahometan Turk, Byzantium vindicated the branch-church ideal. A ‘patriot’ and a (p.55) ‘martyr’, the last Constantine in 1453 asked his people’s forgiveness, received the eucharist, and charged to his eternal reward in defence of the holy city. Cruciform self-sacrifice brought redemption. Exiles from the New Rome travelled to the Old, where their pious learning demolished ‘pontifical power’, laying the foundations of a ‘better civilization’. Modern history was both Roman and Catholic, but forged against papal malice.47

Far from Gibbon, whose doubly profane history he strove to supplant, but close to Broad Churchmen like Archbishop Whately, whose combination of critical–historical scholarship and ‘ordinary’ providence he admired, Taylor insinuated God into his narrative.48 The strategy, signalled in an earlier textbook, Outlines of Sacred History,49 had been pioneered by Thomas Arnold, who cast the nation as God’s historical vessel—‘in its highest perfection … the Church’.50 At his celebrated 1841 inaugural lecture at Oxford, with the young Freeman perched in a packed Sheldonian,51 Arnold pushed the concept to its culmination. With the fall of Western Rome, the Teutonic nations realised their ‘complete personality’, incorporating but transforming aspects of dying antiquity. The chosen instruments of ‘God’s providence’, they took up His ‘work on earth’, instigating ‘modern history’ in ‘the fulness of time’.52

God’s purpose emerged, in this account, as the Teutonic nations’ advance from Rome’s graveside. It echoed beyond Rugby to resonate amongst High Churchmen and even Tractarians. Robert Isaac Wilberforce (leading Tractarian, later convert) published in 1840 a popular work in which ‘modern history’ was shown to be the spiritual realisation of the prophet Daniel’s ‘fifth empire’—the Church—in the Gothic family of nations. This kingdom originally had to fight its way out of a Constantinian chrysalis; and Rome, the final incarnation of the worldly spirit, still presented ‘dangers’, for its claims to ‘tyrannous power’ abided in the papacy, that ‘phantom of departed empire’.53 Freeman, as a young Trinity Tractarian, was likely aware of the (p.56) volume.54 It is even possible that a later digest by Charles Abraham, an Arnold-educated High Churchman, suggested to him the phrase that would define his historical enterprise: ‘the Unity of History’.55

The continuity of personal history

A case can be made that Freeman’s avocation as an historian caused him to put away childish things. Scornful of the ‘prejudices’ enveloping the past in sectarian fog, he aspired to ‘impartiality’, a moral striving after detachment from religious ‘partisanry’.56 His oeuvre acquired an iconoclastic edge. In moments of acute confessional tension across the 1850s and 1860s, as debate raged over the conjoined matters of the pope’s temporal power in Italy and the progress of ultramontanism in England, Freeman proved willing to parry no-popery and praise Romanists.57 The rhetoric proved winning. Liberal Catholics lionised him;58 even ultramontanes, grumbling at Garibaldianism, found much to admire (especially when contrasted with Froude’s ‘envenomed’ Protestantism).59

But this belied deeper tensions, especially with converts. The barrister W. S. Lilly and mediaevalist Martin Rule complained of Freeman’s ‘bitter prepossessions against the Holy See’ and his ‘fanatic nationalism’: twin symptoms of an ‘Anglican’ neurosis. Historians infatuated with a mere branch could never see ‘the great tree, filling the earth’. They could not read history ‘philosophically’ as the ‘idea of Christendom’, ‘faithfully imaged in the story of the Papacy’, nor appreciate that the ‘scrupulous’ historian was still on ‘holy ground to be trodden reverentially’.60 History’s ‘great truths’, argued converts Emily Bowles and Henry Wilberforce, were to be ‘read … by the light of faith’, so that Catholics could see Christ’s kingdom, standing ‘firmly on the (p.57) rock’ of Peter, and give themselves to it ‘with an entire devotion’.61 For Freeman, this was history honeycombed in apologetic. He yearned for the judicious Lingard, succeeded by reckless ‘Papists’ determined to beat the stuff of history into the shape of an Unam sanctam.62

The juxtaposition is important. It was the ‘old Roman Catholic school’ that Freeman admired. He thought it lived still in the works of liberal Catholics like John Acton and Thomas Arnold, Jr (son of ‘the master’; professor of English literature at Newman’s Catholic University, Dublin), who refused to ‘confound’ enterprises ‘historical’ and ‘devotional’.63 The matter was more than academic. Hagiographical history had political consequences. The convert-ultramontanes, who had displayed suspect tendencies in their Tractarian days,64 fretted that theology, queen of the sciences, sat on a shaky throne, and that Christendom, as belief system and social order, was imperilled. But, for Freeman, the measures they were willing to take to prop it up made for both bad scholarship and hopeless politics. To choose ‘Romanism’, as his Tractarian odyssey had suggested, was to embrace a political, religious, and intellectual creed inimical to liberty, and in ‘opposition to Catholicism’.65

The decades that followed confirmed his fears. He watched the relentless expansion of papal power over the depositum fidei culminate in ‘the portentous doctrine’ of infallibility.66 As this ensnared the mind, a refurbished Caesaro-papism enslaved the body. Freeman’s contribution to the Oxford Essays of 1857 endorsed the Risorgimento crusade against ‘priestly despotism’. The clash had been sublime when Hildebrand’s ‘crozier’ and Henry’s ‘sceptre’ disputed both the supremacy and freedom of the Church.67 But acute (p.58) moral ‘degradation’ followed ‘the ‘Babylonish captivity of Avignon’, ‘remov[ing]’ the pope from his ‘native seat’, and making him ‘the despised hireling of a French master’. Preoccupied with temporal claims, the popes became Mafiosi more than vescovi.68 Pio Nono naturally played protégé to Napoleon III during the Crimean War, his co-conspirator in making citizens more ‘slaves’ than ‘subjects’.69 Indeed, in forging chains for the soul as well as the body, the papacy seemed a typology of Mahometanism: ‘Giant Pagan’ and ‘Giant Pope’ both took refuge in an ‘eternal non possumus’.70

Faber’s legends, Manning’s ‘strange devotions’, and de Maistre’s black reaction formed an integral, dangerous, whole: ‘the rampant Popery of modern converts and Ultramontanes’.71 Intolerably supra-national, irrationally supernatural, the papacy represented modern history’s anti-type, subverting national freedom and eclipsing Christianity itself. The historian, the citizen, and the Christian deserved an authentically Catholic alternative, showing the Church’s ‘ancient constitution’ in perfect harmony with the modern history of nations. Freeman alighted on Eastern Orthodoxy, ‘the true “semper eadem”’. To antiquity and apostolicity, she added an unmutilated ‘eucharistic rite’, signalling a pure conception of catholicity congruent with history. Her very existence ‘disprove[d] the claims of Rome to universal empire’. She was to be mobilised quickly, for the enemy was again on manoeuvres, corrupting soul, Church, and polity. The learned ecumenist, William Palmer of Magdalen, had prostrated ‘himself at the feet of the Western Antichrist’; he now spewed forth an ‘abject defence of despotism, and … hopeless nonsense about the Seven Churches and their mystical meanings’.72 Similarly, Freeman’s close Trinity friend and best man, James Laird Patterson, had come, during a spiritual odyssey through the Levant, to dismiss branch-ecclesiology as a chimera. Finding himself mysteriously shut out of the Church of the Holy (p.59) Sepulchre on Maundy Thursday, at ‘the hour of the Institution of the Blessed Sacrament’, Patterson ‘obeyed’ his sense of the mystic, and made his ‘act of submission’. Freeman could have foretold the results of so wrong-headed a conception of communion: a deepening aversion to the ‘maimed’ eastern churches, an ultramontanism notable for its apocalyptic legitimism and incorrigible hagiography, and, the unkindest cut of all, a settled pro-Turkish sentiment.73

Against such betrayals, Freeman urged Anglicans ‘high’ and ‘low’ to locate in Orthodoxy the liberal paradigm of communion, forged against Rome, and to retrieve there the sense of common purpose that would secure the Christian life of the nation.74 This became a motif in his English historiography across the 1860s and 1870s. A critical aspect of the continuity of English history, he insisted, was the nation’s willingness to vindicate her freedom against ‘the ever-hateful Roman court’. The germs of ‘barbaric freedom’ became, by the 13th century, ‘things themselves’ in the struggle with papal Rome, uniting ‘nobles, clergy, and commons … in a single manifesto against the common enemy’.75 England became herself—not slave or vassal, but ‘island empire’—in William’s defiance of Hildebrand’s claim to ‘suzerainty’.76 When Henry VIII launched his reformation, it was ‘only accidentally … theological’. Its desire for ‘Popery without the Pope’ simply secured ‘the consummation of what Englishmen had been striving after for ages’.77

‘Roma o morte’?

In September 1870, Garibaldi secured the consummation of what he had been striving after for ages. Roma aeterna was Victor Emmanuel’s, and Pius IX was prigioniero del Vaticano. Yet, for Freeman, the ‘unity of history’ was unbroken. The Arnoldian tension between the Roman centre, whose ‘twofold rule’ lay in the inherited institutions of law and the papacy, and the Teuton (p.60) periphery, whose life was national liberty, still animated his imagination. The Rede lecture in Cambridge (May 1872) assured an England fixated by Risorgimento flux that the eternal city had not ‘wholly passed away’.78 Eight months later, however, Freeman’s rhetoric had subtly but perceptibly shifted. In lectures delivered to the Royal Institution, he argued that Rome ‘remained mistress of the world’ in law, language, and in the faith of Christianity, which the world ‘learned of her’. But there was not a peep about popes.79 He was groping towards an important intellectual epiphany. As the reality of Rome’s new fall sank in, Freeman reconsidered the fate of a city seeking ‘eternity’ and universal dominion. Possessed by the incurable disease of empire-lust, such cities tended towards despotism in order to coerce submission, and sacrificed their life-force in mortgaging their freedom.80 But if Caesar pursued empire in political absolutism, the pope’s pretensions, as he had previously argued, knew ‘no earthly boundaries … He stood forth as the vicegerent of the Creator, to bind and to loose … [to] release alike from the obligations of Roman slavery and … Teutonic freedom.’81 Total were the claims of papal Rome; total, when the moment came, would be its fall.

But was the apocalypse adumbrated by Arnold not now coming to pass? To whisper the question was to demand its answer. Joining the hordes of British tourists making their inaugural voyage to Italia libera, Freeman embarked on a fact-finding pilgrimage to determine whether eternity was indeed slipping away from Rome. The visit was not, of course, in a deeper sense, his first. As Duncan Kennedy has argued, exploring a rich modern European cultural tradition, ‘Rome visited is always in some sense Rome revisited.’ Here, Goethe gushed, one encountered ‘the entire history of the world’—‘all the dreams of … youth … come to life’.82 This was true, perforce, for Freeman, who knew the city intimately from boyhood dreams, religio-political debates, and historical studies. Indeed, one so attuned to Rome’s ‘overlapping, conflicting and confusing inheritances’, and their ‘seemingly boundless capacity for multiple, indeed conflicting, signification’, might easily have been overwhelmed.83 Here, as one German philologist put it, as in no other place, history’s magic, God’s providence, and man’s preconceived ideas collided.84 Strategies were consciously devised to cope with cognitive (p.61) dissonance. The ‘Modern Teuton’ might be enraptured with Goethe, or haunted with Chateaubriand; he might walk barefoot with Faber through the ‘Holy Sepulchre’, or stand paralysed with Newman before the seat of ‘light’ and ‘error’. With Ruskin, he might, on second thought, regret his first impressions.85

Immediately immersed in archaeological and architectural debates, which pitted consciously ‘scientific’, liberal-minded Christians against the partisanry of conservative Catholics—a scuffle pointing to the wider contestation both of the city and modern Christendom86—Freeman framed his response in the classic indignation and despair of liberal Catholic friends, like Acton and Gladstone.87 ‘[B]oiling over with fury’ at the disfigurements and abominations wreaked by ‘paips’, he surveyed a city that should have thundered, ‘Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat’,88 but which, since the Renaissance, spoke only of ‘papal vanity’. Apostolicity, the papacy’s only authentic source of life, had been sacrificed to temporal ambition: ‘the patriarchal chair’ at St John Lateran was ‘cast forth as a useless thing, while he who should fill it sulks in a distant palace, refusing to be Bishop because he can no longer be King’.89 ‘Pius IX is … jumbled up with Jupiter’, he groused to James Bryce, ‘these popes … have … forgotten who they are’.90

Dementia set in at Avignon. Unable to match their appetite for universal empire with a sustainable temporal power, popes since the Renaissance had destroyed the city ‘commonwealth’, ‘cut [themselves] off … from the life’ of Italy, and turned, bloodthirsty, to the vigorous Teutonic nations. By now vampiric, the papacy was no longer of Arnold’s ‘living’; it slipped beyond Freeman’s twilight world of ‘abiding’. The fitting penalty for its ‘two-fold dominion over mankind’ was moral death. The city’s fall to the Risorgimento revealed a centuries-old truth the implications of which had simply not been obvious. The modern papacy was not really a continuation of Roman life into the modern age—Teutonism’s awkward twin—but the attempted (p.62) radicalisation of Rome’s ‘lordly spirit’: Teutonism’s mortal enemy. Wielding ‘the sceptres of two dominions’ was inconsistent with ‘the principles of national life’. The ‘days of [such a] power’ had vanished. Pius’s final gamble—patching up his hollow supremacy in infallibility—would not prevent life seeping from the corpse. The papacy, and Rome’s ‘oecumenical position’, had utterly passed away.91

Rome was dead. From this assessment Freeman would not deviate. But with departure and distance he sought to fashion a reflection at once less frothing and more original: a perspective personal and political, but beyond straightforward rage, which would do greater justice to the complexity of his experience. In Rome, Macaulay wept at a Stabat Mater, but returned home to review Ranke’s History of the Popes. Such was the historian’s duty.92 If Macaulay was the unconscious model, Arnold was still self-consciously ‘the master’. For the former, the Roman Church joined ‘together the two great ages of the human civilisation’: in papal continuity lay a dazzling unity of history that made conceivable the ruins of St Paul’s and a world Londonless.93 Freeman, disciple of the latter, saw history’s linearity curve into a cycle. He believed he had sketched the ruins of the eternal city’s every basilica but St Peter’s, and already lived in ‘a world Romeless’.94

Yet there was no sense of triumph in reaching the long-anticipated telos. The fall of Rome should rightly have marked the Parousia of a liberal Christian order. Instead, Freeman felt only unease. The ‘vision of Dante’s Monarchy’ had passed away; but now ‘the nations’ acknowledged no authority higher than ‘physical strength’. The Roman keystone, symbolic centre of lawful rule, had crumbled; the architecture of European and global order looked unsafe.95 Ironically, rampant ultramontanes cautioning against the consequences of ceding Rome to ‘the Revolution’, had prophesied such a dislocation in almost identical language. Freeman did not relate Cardinal Manning’s warning, coloured by Palgrave, but drawn from the prophecy of St Hippolytus, ‘that before the end of the world, the Roman empire would be broken into ten democracies … [and] paganism … restored’, inaugurating ‘the last times, when Antichrist shall come’.96 But his own Christian cyclicalism (p.63) could muster nothing much cheerier. The formal record of ‘Romelessness’ occasioned only renewed religio-political angst.97 This new world was one where people hid their religion ‘as Hebrews, Pagans, mediaeval Christians did not’.98 The subterfuge, he wrote from Palermo, made for facile assumptions about science’s victory over Christianity; for puerile metaphysics and pernicious imperial Machtpolitik.99 Had the fall of Rome come to signal for Freeman not the consummation of Christianity but its worrisome retreat? His ruminations on faith and the future were increasingly framed in a dialogue with ghosts of the Roman past. The now ‘stiff and rheumaticky’ Bishop Patterson reappeared.100 R. W. Church, dean of St Paul’s, and an old Tractarian ally, wrote to Freeman of being torn, on his first visit to Rome, between hatred and abject fascination. The correspondence ended in the plaintive recollection that Newman had ‘lost his heart’ to Italy.101

Freud once observed that the unique unity of history exhibited in the eternal city—‘in which nothing that has once come into existence… passe[s] away’—was a useful metaphor for man’s psychical entity.102 He would have relished Freeman’s unconscious. To Bryce, in 1866, Freeman wrote: ‘I dreamed that I was at a ball, at which all the dancers grew tired & left off, save only myself and the Paip, who went on vigorously, only without partners. What do these things mean?’103 Freeman could not stand ‘the Paip’. But he could not dance without him, either.

Note. I wish to thank the Special Collections staff at the John Rylands Library; Peter Ghosh, who directed me to many Saturday Review articles he has identified as Freeman’s; the editors and anonymous reviewer for many helpful comments; and Jane Garnett for invaluable guidance. (p.64)

Notes:

(1) For this snide sobriquet, coined by J. H. Round, see St James’s Gazette (23 July 1887) cited in W. R. Powell, John Horace Round, Historian and Gentleman of Essex (Chelmsford, Essex Record Office, 2001), p. 102. I am indebted for this reference—and for many others—to James Kirby.

(2) W. R. W. Stephens, The Life and Letters of Edward A. Freeman, 2 vols (London, Macmillan, 1895), vol. 1, p. 18.

(3) E. A. Freeman, The Chief Periods of European History: Six Lectures Read in the University of Oxford in Trinity Term, 1885, with an Essay on Greek Cities under Roman Rule (London, Macmillan, 1886), pp. 155–6.

(4) E. A. Freeman, ‘Greek, Roman, and Teuton’, in Comparative Politics: Six Lectures Read before the Royal Institution in January and February, 1873 (London, Macmillan, 1873), pp. 37–75 at 44–9.

(5) E. A. Freeman, Thoughts on the Study of History, with Reference to the Proposed Changes in the Public Examinations (Oxford, John Henry Parker, 1849); idem, ‘The New Oxford Examination Statute’, The Spectator (13 January 1857), 92; Charles Oman, Inaugural Lecture on the Study of History (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1906), pp. 8–9; ‘New Books and Reprints’, Saturday Review, 63, 1630 (22 January 1887), 141; ‘Roman Persistence’, Saturday Review, 99, 2568 (14 January 1905), 49–50.

(6) [Freeman], ‘Finlay on the Byzantine Empire’, North British Review, 22, 44 (1855), 343–75 at 370, 352.

(7) Freeman, ‘Ancient Greece and Mediaeval Italy’ [1857], Historical Essays, Second Series (London, Macmillan, 1873), pp. 1–46 at 19–20; ‘First Impressions of Rome’ [1874], Historical Essays, Third Series (London, Macmillan, 1879), pp. 1–21 at 9.

(8) [Freeman], ‘The Eastern Church’, Edinburgh Review, 107, 218 (1858), 322–58.

(9) E. A. Freeman, ‘The Unity of History’, in Comparative Politics, pp. 296–340 at 306.

(10) E. A. Freeman, ‘The Office of the Historical Professor’, in The Methods of Historical Study: Eight Lectures Read in the University of Oxford in Michaelmas Term, 1884 (London, Macmillan, 1886), pp. 5–6; Thomas Arnold, Introductory Lectures on Modern History, Delivered in Lent Term, MDCCCXLII (London, Fellowes, 1849), pp. 3–6, 22–31.

(12) Freeman to Revd Henry Allon (5 January 1879 and 7 November 1873), in Albert Peel (ed.), Letters to a Victorian Editor, Henry Allon Editor of the Quarterly Review (London, Independent Press, 1929), pp. 137, 94–5.

(13) ‘Freeman’s Norman Conquest of England’, Christian Remembrancer, 55, 140 (1868), 296–322.

(14) [Joseph Parrish Thompson], ‘Paparchy and Nationality’, British Quarterly Review, 61, 121 (1875), 1–42 at 2, 36.

(15) J. W. Burrow, A Liberal Descent: Victorian Historians and the English Past (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1981), pp. 174–90.

(16) Ibid., pp. 155–8. See also F. M. Turner, The Greek Heritage in Victorian Britain (New Haven, CT, and London, Yale University Press, 1981), pp. 245–56; and Chapters 2 and 14, this volume.

(17) Norman Vance, The Victorians and Ancient Rome (Oxford, Blackwell, 1997), pp. 236–7.

(18) Christopher Parker, The English Historical Tradition since 1850 (Edinburgh, John Donald, 1990), p. 12; P. Blaas, Continuity and Anachronism: Parliamentary and Constitutional Development in Whig Historiography and in the Anti-Whig Reaction between 1890 and 1930 (The Hague, Nijhoff, 1978), pp. 23–34.

(19) See Michael Bentley’s characterisation of the ‘mood’ of modernism in Modernizing England’s Past: English Historiography in the Age of Modernism, 1870–1970 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 9.

(20) Arnaldo Momigliano, ‘Two Types of Universal History: The Cases of E. A. Freeman and Max Weber’, Journal of Modern History, 58, 1 (1986), 235–46; Rosemary Jann, The Art and Science of Victorian History (Columbus, Ohio State University Press, 1985), pp. 172f. See also C. Parker, ‘The Failure of Liberal Racialism: The Racial Ideas of E. A. Freeman’, Historical Journal, 24, 4 (1981), 825–46.

(21) For example, Richard Brent, Liberal Anglican Politics: Whiggery, Religion, and Reform, 1830–1841 (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1987).

(23) [Freeman], ‘Mommsen’s History of Rome’, National Review, 8, 16 (1859), 313–39 at 315.

(24) See, most recently, Jane Garnett and Anne Bush, ‘Rome’, in David Gange and Michael Ledger-Lomas (eds), Cities of God: The Bible and Archaeology in Nineteenth-century Britain (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 285–314; Sarah Butler, Britain and Its Empire in the Shadow of Rome: The Reception of Rome in Socio-political Debate from the 1850s to the 1920s (London, Bloomsbury, 2012); Catherine Edwards (ed.), Roman Presences: Receptions of Rome in European Culture, 1789–1945 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999).

(26) The Cheam Pope resurfaced years later, following Freeman’s reviews of his military histories. See Stephens, Life and Letters, vol. 1, p. 18. He loved their bluff localism (‘No Yorkshireman ever was pudding-headed’). See ‘Markham’s Life of Fairfax’, Saturday Review, 30, 66 (1870), 22–3. Markham even presented an instance of Teutonic self-realisation: English and Frisian kinsmen ‘won the independence of the United Provinces’ from a usurping Catholic Empire. See ‘The Battle of Nieuport’, Saturday Review, 36, 935 (1873), 409–10.

(28) Ibid., vol. 1, p. 21. For the striking parallel in Gladstone’s early religious development, see David Bebbington, The Mind of Gladstone: Religion, Homer, and Politics (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 44–54.

(29) Peter Nockles, The Oxford Movement in Context: Anglican High Churchmanship, 1760–1857 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 235–41.

(30) For the debate, raised by the Synod of Pistoia, see Dale van Kley, ‘Piety and Politics in the Century of Lights’, in Mark Goldie and Robert Wokler (eds), The Cambridge History of Eighteenth-century Political Thought (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 119–45.

(31) N. Wiseman, The Real Presence of the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Blessed Eucharist, Proved from Scripture in Eight Lectures (London, Joseph Baker, 1836); Wilfrid Ward, The Life and Times of Cardinal Wiseman, 2 vols (London, Longmans, Green, & Co., 1897), vol. 1, pp. 130–43.

(32) [J. H. Newman], ‘Dr. Wiseman’s Lectures on the Catholic Church’, British Critic, 19 (1836), 373–403 at 376. For the controversy that followed, see Simon Skinner, Tractarians and the ‘Condition of England’: The Social and Political Thought of the Oxford Movement (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 2004), pp. 36–48.

(33) T. Turton, The Roman Catholic Doctrine of the Eucharist Considered in Reply to Dr Wiseman’s Argument from Scripture (Cambridge, Parker, 1837), pp. 311–13, 320–21.

(34) ‘Philalethes Cantabrigiensis’ [Kaye], ‘Dr. Wiseman’, British Magazine, 11 (1 January 1837), 9–20 and (1 February 1837), 124–39.

(35) ‘Introduction’, Church of England Quarterly Review (January 1837), 1, 4–6, 32–33; ibid., ‘Dr. Wiseman’s Lectures’, 34–53.

(36) For the churchmanship of Turton and Kaye, see David Thompson, Cambridge Theology in the Nineteenth Century: Enquiry, Controversy and Truth (Aldershot, Ashgate, 2008), pp. 13–25, 61–2; E. A. Varley, ‘Kaye, John’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, online edn (2004). See also Nockles, The Oxford Movement, p. 285, and Anthony Waterman, ‘A Cambridge Via Media in Late-Georgian Anglicanism’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 42 (1991), 419–36. Refer also to Freeman to Thompson (2 September 1839) in Stephens, Life and Letters, vol. 1, pp. 24–33.

(37) Stephens, Life and Letters, vol. 1, p. 21. Lyra Apostolica (London, Rivington, 1836) was a collection of poems, originally published in British Magazine, by J. W. Bowden, Hurrell Froude, John Keble, J. H. Newman, R. I. Wilberforce, and Isaac Williams.

(38) W. J. Irons, On the Apostolical Succession: Parochial Lectures, 2nd ser. (London, Joseph Masters, 1847 [1838]), pp. v–vii. Dedicated to Pusey, the volume won High Church praise: see ‘General Literature’, Church of England Quarterly Review, 4 (1838), 566–7.

(41) Kenelm Digby, The Broadstone of Honour; Mores Catholici, or, Ages of Faith, 9 vols (London, Booker, 1831–42); Robert Southey, The Book of the Church, 2 vols (London, John Murray, 1824).

(42) See Rosemary Hill, God’s Architect: Pugin and the Building of Romantic Britain (London, Allen Lane, 2007), pp. 218–21.

(43) Southey, The Book of the Church, vol. 2, p. 528; Sheridan Gilley, ‘Nationality and Liberty, Protestant and Catholic: Robert Southey’s Book of the Church’, in Stuart Mews (ed.), Studies in Church History: Religion and National Identity (Oxford, Blackwell, 1982), pp. 409–32.

(44) Papers of E. A. Freeman, John Rylands Library: ‘The Consecration’, ‘Thoughts on the most Holy Eucharist according to the Use of the Catholick Church of England’, JRL, FA 3/3/6–7.

(45) Note ‘D’ to ‘The Offertory’, JRL, FA 3/3/7.

(47) [Freeman], ‘Finlay on the Byzantine Empire’, 352; W. C. Taylor, The History of the Overthrow of the Roman Empire, and the Foundation of the Principal European States (London, Whittaker, 1836), pp. iii–v, 200–8, 446–51, 457–65.

(48) Taylor, The History of the Overthrow of the Roman Empire, Preface, pp. 428–48; Duncan Forbes, The Liberal Anglican Idea of History (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1952), pp. 60–73.

(49) W. C. Taylor, Outlines of Sacred History from the Creation of the World to the Destruction of Jerusalem (London, Parker, 1848 [1833]), pp. v–vi.

(50) See Appendix I to Thucydides, The History of the Peloponnesian War, ed. Thomas Arnold, 3 vols (Oxford, Parker, 1830–5), vol. 1, pp. 616–17; ‘Principles of Church Reform; with Postscript (1833)’, in The Miscellaneous Works of Thomas Arnold, ed. A. P. Stanley (London, Fellowes, 1858), pp. 257–338 at 332.

(53) R. I. Wilberforce, The Five Empires: An Outline of Ancient History (London, Hughes, 1852 [1840]), pp. 12–13, 168–70, 231.

(54) See ‘Notices and Reviews’, British Magazine, 19 (1 January 1841), 102; ‘Notices of Books’, British Critic (January 1841), 245.

(55) C. J. Abraham, The Unity of History; or Outlines of Lectures on Ancient and Modern History, Considered on the Principles of the Church of England (Eton, E. P. Williams, 1845).

(56) [Freeman], ‘Saint Thomas of Canterbury and His Biographers’, National Review (April 1860), 321–47 at 327; [Freeman], ‘Italian Unity or Confederation’, Saturday Review, 13, 335 (1862), 352–3.

(57) E. A. Freeman and C. W. Boase, Correspondence Between the ‘Protestant Alliance’ and the Examiners in Law and Modern History (Oxford, Parker, 1858); [Freeman], ‘Calendar of State Papers—Foreign Series, 1553–58’, Saturday Review, 13, 327 (1862), 130–1.

(58) Lord Acton, ‘Doellinger’s Historical Work’, English Historical Review, 5, 20 (1890), 700–44 at 733.

(59) ‘Notices of Books’, Dublin Review, 52, 104 (1863), 579–80; [Anne Hope], ‘Mr. Froude and S. Thomas of Canterbury’, Dublin Review, 30, 60 (1878), 292–327 at 325–6.

(60) [W. S. Lilly], ‘The Study of Medieval History’, Dublin Review, 28, 56 (1877), 377–425 at 386–401; [Martin Rule], ‘Mr. Freeman’s William Rufus’, Dublin Review, 8, 1 (July 1882), 158–82.

(61) [Henry Wilberforce], ‘The Formation of Christendom’, Dublin Review, 5, 10 (1865), 425–53 at 429; Emily Bowles, The History of England for Catholic Children: From the Earliest Times to the Present Day (London, Burms & Lambert, 1850), Dedication, Preface, pp. vii–xii.

(62) [Freeman], ‘Mrs. Hope’s Conversion of the Teutonic Race’, Saturday Review, 33, 855 (1872), 345–6; E. A. Freeman, ‘Literature’, The Academy, 566 (10 March 1883), 161–3.

(63) [Freeman], ‘Arnold’s Manual of English Literature’, Saturday Review, 14, 370 (1862), 660–2; ‘St. Thomas’, 327.

(64) For clashes with Tractarian apologetics, see Freeman to Henry Coleridge (28 July 1848, 4 March 1850, and 11 March 1850), one-time reviews editor for the High Church Guardian, later convert and Jesuit, whose view of historical scholarship Freeman deemed instrumentalist: JRL, FA 1/7/103–5.

(67) Freeman, ‘Ancient Greece and Mediaeval Italy’, 2–4, 19–21, 51n. For Palgrave’s influence here, [Freeman], ‘Sir. F. Palgrave’s Normandy and England’, Edinburgh Review, 109, 222 (1859), 486–513. For Palgrave’s apocalyptic, see Roger Smith, ‘European Nationality, Race, and Commonwealth in the Writings of Sir Francis Palgrave, 1788–1861’, in Alfred Smyth (ed.), Medieval Europeans: Studies in Ethnic Identity and National Perspectives in Medieval Europe (Basingstoke, Palgrave, 2002), pp. 233–53. See also Kirby’s emphasis on Freeman’s Tractarian anti-Erastianism in Chapter 2, this volume.

(69) See Freeman’s contributions to Tracts for the Present Crisis, Second Series, ed. A. H. Elton (Bristol, T. Kerslake, 1856): ‘Greece and the Greeks’, pp. 57–64, ‘Are the Peace Party Unpatriotic?’, pp. 83–4, ‘What Is Involved in a Guaranty of Turkey?’, pp. 97–104, ‘Russia and Her Conquests’, pp. 149–56, and ‘Turkish Reforms’, pp. 121–8 at 122. These judgements echoed (consciously or otherwise) Gladstone’s censure on the crumbling Patrimonium Petri, which united an Aristotelian argument against the church’s cannibalisation of the state, with an apocalyptic insistence that Christ’s severance of temporal and spiritual contained the germ of ‘the modern idea’, necessitating the end of ‘the Popedom’. See [W. E. Gladstone], ‘Farini’s Stato Romano’, Edinburgh Review, 95, 194 (1852), 357–96 at 360–6; [Idem], ‘Sardinia and Rome’, Quarterly Review, 97, 193 (1855), 41–71 at 56–8.

(70) [Freeman], ‘Mahometanism in the East and West’, North British Review, 23, 6 (1855), 449–80 at 463; Freeman to The Times (12 January 1877), 6.

(71) [Freeman], ‘Hook’s Life of Cardinal Pole’, Saturday Review, 28, 734 (1869), 674–5; [Freeman], ‘Mrs. Hope’s Conversion of the Teutonic Race’, 345.

(73) See J. L. Patterson, Journal of a Tour in Egypt, Palestine, Syria, and Greece: With Notes and an Appendix on Ecclesiastical Subjects (London, Dolman, 1852), Preface, pp. 71–6, 136–7, 260–6, 424–56; idem, The Martyr Spirit: The Substance of a Sermon Preached at Canterbury on the Occasion of the Seven Hundredth Anniversary of the Martyrdom of S. Thomas of Canterbury, Protector of the Secular Clergy of England (1872).

(75) E. A. Freeman, ‘The Continuity of English History’ [1860], Historical Essays, 1st Series (London, Macmillan, 1871), pp. 40–52 at 40–5; [Freeman], ‘Hook’s Lives of the Archbishops of Canterbury’, Saturday Review, 13, 330 (1862), 215–16.

(76) E. A. Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest, Its Causes and Its Results: The Reign of the Conqueror (Oxford, Clarendon, 1871), vol. 4, pp. 430–9.

(77) [Freeman], ‘Calendar of State Papers’, 130–1; ‘National Prosperity and the Reformation’, Saturday Review, 26, 668 (1868), 220–2.

(79) Ibid., p. 44.

(80) Ibid., pp. 96–9.

(82) See Duncan Kennedy, ‘A Sense of Place: Rome, History and Empire Revisited’, in Edwards, Roman Presences, pp. 19–34 at 19.

(83) Garnett and Bush, ‘Rome’, p. 285; Catherine Edwards, ‘Introduction: Shadows and Fragments’, in Edwards, Roman Presences, pp. 1–18 at 3.

(84) [Karl Ludwig von Urlichs], ‘Roman History’, Dublin Review, 7, 13 (1839), 69–98 at 69–70.

(85) ‘The Modern Teuton in Rome’, Saturday Review, 35, 921 (1873), 808–9; ‘Sentiment at Rome’, Saturday Review, 42, 1096 (1876), 529–30; John Bowden, The Life and Letters of Frederick Willian Faber (London, Richardson, 1869), p. 194; [Newman], ‘Rome’, Lyra Apostolica, p. 216; J. Ruskin, Praeterita, ed. A. O. J. Cockshut (Keele, Ryburn, 1994 [1885–9]), pp. 208–9.

(86) Garnett and Bush, ‘Rome’, pp. 296; Daniel Pick, Rome or Death: The Obsessions of General Garibaldi (London, Pimlico, 2006); Carolyn Springer, The Marble Wilderness: Ruins and Representations in Italian Romanticism, 1775–1850 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1987).

(88) See Freeman to Henry Allon, 7 November 1873, in Peel (ed.), Letters to a Victorian Editor, Henry Allon, pp. 94–5; [Freeman], ‘Basilican Churches’, Saturday Review, 36, 946 (1873), 751–3.

(89) [Freeman], ‘The Great Roman Basilicas’, Saturday Review, 36, 947 (1873), 779–81; E. A. Freeman, ‘Recent Works on the Buildings of Rome’, Macmillan’s Magazine, 30, 176 (1874), 89–103 at 94.

(90) Freeman to Bryce, 31 October 1873, Stephens, Life and Letters, vol. 2, pp. 75–6.

(91) Freeman, ‘First Impressions of Rome’, p. 21; [Freeman], ‘Old Rome and New’, Saturday Review, 42, 1097 (1876), 564–5.

(92) The Journals of Thomas Babington Macaulay, ed. William Thomas, 5 vols (London, Pickering & Chatto, 2008), vol. 1, pp. 48–125.

(93) T. B. Macaulay, ‘Ranke’s History of the Popes—Revolutions of the Papacy’, Edinburgh Review, 72 (1840), 227–58.

(94) E. A. Freeman, ‘The World Romeless’, in The Chief Periods of European History, pp. 153–208.

(95) Ibid., pp. 177–80.

(96) H. E. Manning, The Temporal Power of the Vicar of Jesus Christ (London, Burns & Oates, 1880 [1861]), pp. 233–4, 43, 74–5; see also T. W. Allies, Per Crucem ad Lucem: The Result of a Life, 2 vols (London, Regan Paul, 1879), vol. 1, p. 147.

(98) Freeman to Allon, 5 January 1879, in Peel (ed.), Letters to a Victorian Editor, Henry Allon, p. 137.

(99) E. A. Freeman, ‘Christianity and the “Geocentric” System’, Contemporary Review, 55 (1889), 539–59.

(101) Church to Freeman, 10 July 1882 and 27 October 1890, JRL, FA 1/7/78 and 85.

(102) Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, trans. James Strachey (New York, Norton, 1962), p. 17.

(103) Freeman to Bryce, 4 February 1866, Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS Bryce 5, fol. 81.