The death of T. S. Eliot in the first month of the seventh centenary of Dante's birth could be an occasion for examining a particular poetic influence; or, more generally, for reflecting on Dante's contemporary ‘image'. The subject, however, of the present note is an aspect of Dante's poetry in itself—though considered, as befits the occasion, with an eye to its general relevance to us today. That it has some such relevance is no doubt already implied in allowing this of Eliot's work – in particular of the Four Quartets; for no one, I suppose, would deny that these poems have a contemporary importance, and certainly they, like Ash Wednesday and Animula and even The Waste Land, are inconceivable without the influence and example of Dante. Yet one may doubt whether Eliot's own example has been much followed, in this respect, by more recent poets. Eliot did his best, certainly, and to re-read now the famous essay of 1927 is to be struck once more by its admirable concentration on Dante as artist and a master in his art. The essay was not addressed to scholars, nor even primarily, I think, to the common reader, but to the writer's fellow-poets. The emphasis was all on Dante ‘the master', ‘the greatest master of the simple style', from whom ‘more can be learned about how to write poetry’ than from any English poet. How many of our contemporaries, I wonder, look to Dante in this way? For the modern educated public the Comedy— that epitome of Western pre-Renaissance thought and feeling – remains an important historical document; it is hardly felt as a stimulus to fresh creative writing.

The interpretation of the historical process is now a major academic industry. Just as we have bibliographies of bibliographies, we have histories of historical writing. Indeed, the day is not far distant when, in history as in metaphysics, the third degree of abstraction will triumphantly be reached: a history of histories of history. The historians, those who of all men should be urging most strongly a return to the sources, are also those who lead us to the most rarefied heights of speculation about our nature and destiny. The field of history should be for ever unenclosed, and be a free breathing-space for a pallid population well nigh stifled with the fumes of philosophy.’ In the forty years since Augustine Birrell wrote The Muse of History, the Green Belt has become a built-up area; the pallid population now suffocates in libraries beneath the weight of reviews and journals whose learned footnotes tantalize with hints and glimpses of pastures long submerged.

When the theologian ventures on to this scene, the historian may well despair. Understandably, he hesitates before subscribing to Professor Toynbee's declaration that history passes over into theology. ‘It is a bad habit in historians to take at their face value the hysterical exaggerations of the pulpit'; it is also a bad habit to turn to first causes when secondary ones will do. That may be why ecclesiastical history is reckoned a soft option by those academics who rate hard-headedness as highly as any man of business.

'Extrapolation', says the dictionaries, ‘is the method of finding by calculation, based on the known terms of a series, other terms, whether preceding or following.’ The method is proper to mathematics and works efficiently when dealing with number and quantity. When it is transferred to the realm of quality and of organic life, more still to that of history and of culture, it tends to lose its precisely exact scientific quality and becomes a venture in creativity, or, at any rate, a work of fantasy. Imagination now takes the place of calculation. There can be no doubt that the scientist who seeks to learn the origin of man from a fossilized remnant of a skull that might have belonged to a man or to a baboon, must be blessed with a creative imagination as well as with a scientifically exact intelligence. I suppose that when Robert Ardrey, a playwright rather than a professional scientist, sub-titles his book ‘A personal investigation into the animal origins and nature of man’ he is serving notice that he intends to extrapolate with unrestrained imaginative abandon. At any rate, this is what he does !.

There is of course a good basis of scientific evidence in African Genesis. The most recent discoveries of paleontology made in Africa, especially the most notable, those of Dr L. S. B. Leakey at Olduvai in Tanganyika, give very convincing indications that the origin of man was in Africa not in Asia.

The Church has always demanded free speech for herself. Faith is obedience given to God through hearing and obeying the preached Word of God; and for that preaching no human authorization is necessary or even possible, but only a mission from God. ‘How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed ? Or how shall they believe him of whom they have not heard ? And how shall they hear without a preacher ? And how shall they preach unless they be sent?’ (Rom. 10.14). If freedom to preach is not granted by the secular authorities, then they are to be ignored, and the necessary freedom to speak is to be exercized, whatever the cost. Peter's defence still stands: ‘We ought to obey God rather than man’ (Acts 5.28).

From the times of the apostles onwards the Church has never hesitated over this basic freedom of speech which she must claim for herself. There has been greater unsureness over whether others should enjoy a like freedom. The weight of history has left the Church with an apparently negative approach to toleration in matters of religion or morals. But the publication of Pacem in Terris brought a new note, with the customary openness and optimism of ail Pope John's utterances. ‘By the natural law every human being has the right... to freedom in searching for truth and in expressing and communicating his opinions . . . within the limits laid down by the moral order and the common good; and he has the right to be informed truthfully about public events. . . Every human being has the right to honour God according to the dictates of an upright conscience, and therefore to worship God both in private and in public’.

'When Our Lord said “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it has pleased your Father to give you the kingdom”. He was calling down upon it long life and blessing. The praises of this life were first sung by the apostles, who learned it either from our Lord or from the Holy Spirit, with whose grace they had recently been clothed from on high. They established a way of life such that the multitude were of one heart and one soul. They had all things in common and with one accord they would all meet in the temple. Since that time there have always been men to imitate the community of the apostles . . . ‘

The quotation is from William of Saint Thierry, a Cistercian, writing not very long after the famous dictum of Etienne de Muret: ‘If you are asked which order you belong to, say you belong to the order of the gospel. I will not be monk, canon or hermit: the titles are too holy for me'. A period of evangelical revival was beginning, which would culminate a century later with the beginning of the friars under Innocent III. And so it is not really surprising to find a monastic author like William, in the twelfth century, identifying the scope of a life which we have tended to think of as enclosed, exclusive and specialized, with the most basic demands of the Christian life.

Of course we have always known that the monastic life was essentially nothing more or less than a concentration on Christian ideals.

This Time (springtime) was that very one which appeared at the moment of the first creation of the world, when the earth brought forth shoots, when the stars appeared, when heaven and earth and all that is in them came into being together. It is at this time also that the Saviour of the whole world accomplished the mystery of his own feast and, like a great star, lit up the whole world with the rays of the true religion and indeed the occasion seemed to surpass the birthday of the cosmos. At this time the type, the ancient Pasch which is called the Passover, was brought to fulfilment. Furthermore, it bears the image of the slain lamb, and hints at the sign of eating unleavened bread. All these things find their fulfilment in the feast of Salvation. It is he, the Christ, who was the Lamb whose Body was stretched out. But it was he also, the Sun of Justice, whose divine springtime and salvation-bearing change caused the life of men to pass from evil to good.