ptism. Which side Hurrell
Froude would have taken nobody could say. He had died a clergyman of
the Church of England at the age of thirty-three, nine years before.
Anthony Froude had no inclination to follow Newman. But neither did
he agree with Keble. He thought for himself. Of his brief clerical
career there exists a singular record in the shape of a funeral
sermon preached at St. Mary's Church, Torquay, on the second Sunday
after Trinity, 1847. The subject was George May Coleridge, vicar of
the parish, the poet's nephew, who had been cut off in the prime of
life while Froude acted as his curate. The sermon itself is not
remarkable, except for being written in unusually good English. The
doctrine is strictly orthodox, and the simple life of a good clergyman
devoted to his people is described with much tenderness of feeling.

This sermon, of which he gave a copy to John Duke Coleridge, the
future Lord Chief Justice of England, was Froude's first experiment
in authorship, and it was at least harmless. As much cannot be said
for the second, two anonymous stories, called Shadows of the Clouds
and The Lieutenant's Daughter. The Lieutenant's Daughter has been
long and deservedly forgotten. Shadows of the Clouds is a valuable
piece of autobiography. Without literary merit, without any quality
to attract the public, it gives a vivid and faithful account of the
author's troubles at school and at home, together with a slight
sketch of his unfortunate love-affair.

Froude was a born story-teller, with an irresistible propensity for
making books. The fascination which, throughout his life, he had for
women showed itself almost before he was out of his teens; and in
this case the feeling was abundantly returned. Nevertheless he
could, within a few years, publish the whole narrative, changing
only the names, and then feel genuine surprise that the other person
concerned should be pained. He was not inconsiderate. Those who
lived with him never heard from him a rough or unkind word. But his
dramatic instinct was uncontrollable and had to be expressed. The
Archdeacon read the book, and was naturally furious. If he could
have been in any way convinced of his errors, which may be doubted,
to publish an account of them was not the best way to begin.
Reconciliation had been made impossible, and Anthony was left to his
own devices. His miscellaneous reading was not checked by an
ordination which imposed no duties. Goethe sent him to Spi