29 March: Boreham on John Keble

Arcady and Babylon
The little village of Fairford, in Gloucestershire, likes to celebrate year by year, the anniversary of the death, which occurs today, of one of the most striking and attractive personalities in English history. The story of John Keble is an epic of self-effacement. The men of the Nineteenth Century experienced few greater astonishments than that which came to them when, in 1823, Keble gravely announced that he was leaving Oxford, the scene of his academic triumphs, in order to return, as his father's curate, to the little Gloucestershire village in which he had been born. His amazing renunciation seemed to lack both rhyme and reason. At that moment he had the world at his feet. The stars in their courses seemed to have fought in his favour. First as student, and then as professor, he had covered himself with glory and won the most coveted prizes of university life.

But at the age of 31 he took the decision that fell like a bombshell among the classic halls of the university. "It seemed incredible," as Dean Church exclaimed, "that the most distinguished scholar and teacher of his day, honoured and envied by everyone, should retire from Oxford at the very height of his fame in order to busy himself with a few hundreds of Gloucestershire peasants in a miserable curacy!" Nobody could make head or tail of it. It simply did not make sense. Yet John Keble knew what he was doing. The fact is he was worried about the world. It seemed to him, as he looked out upon it from the cloistral stillness in which he so delighted, that the people of England were steeped in the lethargy of a deadly indifference to all high issues, while the Church was engrossed in fierce and bitter controversies. What could he do to mend matters? It would, he felt, be useless for him to fulminate against the evils of his time; such a course would only add to the babel of discordant voices.

A Brilliant Mind Gives Countryside A Voice
In this dilemma the spirit of his boyhood swept back upon him. In those days he had nourished his inner life on the quietude and charm of the countryside. The fragrance of the clover, the silver purity of the brook, the sweetness of the hedgerows, the sparkle of the dew-drenched meadows, and the song of the thrushes in the copse had woven themselves into the very fabric of his being. If only he could recapture the tranquillity of that sylvan loveliness and by some magic means pour it into the fevered minds of his quarrelsome fellow-countrymen! If, instead of criticising, attacking, and denouncing the qualities that grieved and shocked him, he could administer, as a potent antidote, the condensed essence of all that was purest and best in the leafy lanes of England! If only he could breathe the perfumes of Arcady into the stifling highways of Babylon! He makes up his mind to try.

And here he is, back in Fairford, about to put his theory to the test. He cuts a striking figure. His fine eyes are full of playfulness, intelligence, and deep feeling. His unaffected simplicity, genuine humility, engaging innocence, and utter unworldliness are written unmistakably upon his countenance. And yet, though a twinkle haunts his eye and a smile seems to be playing perpetually about his lips, there is deep gravity in his expression and even an element of sadness. For he is still thinking about the agitated world he has left behind him, and is wondering how he can heal its hurt. The problem solved itself more easily than he could have supposed. As he crossed and recrossed the village green at Fairford, and moved up and down those quiet country roads, he meditated on the themes that, in the course of the Church's calendar, would demand his attention on each approaching Sunday. A born poet, his secret thoughts found natural articulation in tuneful verse, and as soon as he reached the rectory he would pencil down the poems that had imparted an added delight to his woodland stroll.

Songs Soothed And Strengthened A Nation
His manuscripts grew in number until he had a poem for each day of the Church's year. His friends, hearing whispers of this hidden hoard, insisted on seeing it. Among these was Thomas Arnold, afterwards the famous headmaster of Rugby. "Why, Keble," he exclaimed, "these poems are unparalleled: nothing like them exists!" Thus extolled, a new idea seized Keble's mind. Perhaps this bundle of manuscripts represented the concrete realisation of his nebulous dream! Perhaps it was through this channel that he was to pour into the troubled life of his country the strength of her hills and the peace of her valleys! In response to the pressure of his friends he agreed to publish the verses, so long as no name was attached to them. The volume met with unprecedented success. The fact that, during Keble's lifetime, nearly 200 editions were demanded proved that, in "The Christian Year," he had hit upon the remedy that the world so sadly needed. He says of his poems that

". . . . . . . . their cherished haunt hath been
By streamlet, violet bank,
and orchard green,
'Mid lonely views and scenes of common earth."

He aims, he says, to soothe the minds of men, and beyond the shadow of a doubt he did it.

There are few things in our literature more touching than the way in which, after 30 years of perfect wedded life, John Keble and his wife set out together on life's last journey. They lay on their death-beds in adjacent rooms. He was wheeled within sight of her, and they gave each other, by way of farewell, a fond but silent glance and a feeble wave of the hand. When he passed she called the family round her own bed to give thanks that he had been spared the sorrow of surviving her. And then, shortly after, she rejoined him. In one of the choicest recesses of Westminster Abbey, close to the Unknown Warrior's Tomb, the visitor may find his monument. Around it are those of Charles Kingsley, George Herbert, William Cowper, William Wordsworth, and Matthew and Thomas Arnold. In that exquisite spot, and in that congenial company, he seems very much at home, and it is pleasant, in that atmosphere, to take an affectionate and respectful leave of him.

F W Boreham

Image: John Keble