I had one final advance of mind to accomplish, and one final step to
take. That further advance of mind was to be able honestly to say that
I was certain of the conclusions at which I had already arrived. That
further step, imperative when, such certitude was attained, was my
submission to the Catholic Church.
[Footnote 5: From the "Apologia." Newman, for many years, had held to
the possibility of English churchmen maintaining a middle ground
between the Catholic Church and Protestantism, but in 1843 he
abandoned this hope, resigning his living, and in 1845 formally
entered the Catholic Church. He says in the "Apologia" that "from the
end of 1841, I was on my death-bed as regards my membership with the
Anglican church, tho at the time I became aware of it only by
degrees."]
This submission did not take place till two full years after the
resignation of my living in September 1843; nor could I have made it
at an earlier date, without doubt and apprehension; that is, with any
true conviction of mind or certitude.
In the interval, of which it remains to speak--viz., between the
autumns of 1843 and 1845--I was in lay communion with the Church of
England: attending its services as usual, and abstaining altogether
from intercourse with Catholics, from their places of worship, and
from those religious rites and usages, such as the Invocation of
Saints, which are characteristics of their creed. I did all this on
principle; for I never could understand how a man could be of two
religions at once.
What I have to say about myself between these two autumns I shall
almost confine to this one point--the difficulty I was in as to the
best mode of revealing the state of my mind to my friends and others,
and how I managed to reveal it.
Up to January, 1842, I had not disclosed my state of unsettlement to
more than three persons.... To two of them, intimate and familiar
companions, in the autumn of 1839; to the third--an old friend too,
whom I have also named above--I suppose when I was in great distress
of mind upon the affair of the Jerusalem Bishopric. In May, 1843, I
made it known, as has been seen, to the friend by whose advice I
wished, as far as possible, to be guided. To mention it on set purpose
to any one, unless indeed I was asking advice, I should have felt to
be a crime. If there is anything that was abhorrent to me, it was the
scattering doubts, and unsettling consciences without necessity. A
strong presentiment that my existing opinions would ultimately give
way, and that the grounds of them were unsound, was not a sufficient
warrant for disclosing the state of my mind. I had no guarantee yet,
that that presentiment would be realized. Supposing I were crossing
ice, which came right in my way, which I had good reasons for
considering sound, and which I saw numbers before me crossing in
safety, and supposing a stranger from the bank, in a voice of
authority and in an earnest tone, warned me that it was dangerous,
and then was silent--I think I should be startled, and should look
about me anxiously, but I think too that I should go on, till I had
better grounds for doubt; and such was my state, I believe, till the
end of 1842. Then again, when my dissatisfaction became greater, it
was hard at first to determine the point of time when it was too
strong to suppress with propriety. Certitude of course is a point, but
doubt is a progress: I was not near certitude yet. Certitude is a
reflex action; it is to know that one knows. Of that I believe I was
not possest, till close upon my reception into the Catholic Church.
Again, a practical, effective doubt is a point too; but who can easily
ascertain it for himself? Who can determine when it is that the scales
in the balance of opinion begin to turn, and what was a greater
probability in behalf of a belief becomes a positive doubt against it?
In considering this question in its bearing upon my conduct in 1843,
my own simple answer to my great difficulty had been, Do what your
present state of opinion requires in the light of duty, and let that
doing tell; speak by acts. This I had done; my first act of the year
had been in February. After three months' deliberation I had published
my retractation of the violent charges which I had made against Rome:
I could not be wrong in doing so much as this; but I did no more at
the time: I did not retract my Anglican teaching. My second act had
been in September in the same year: after much sorrowful lingering and
hesitation, I had resigned my Living. I tried indeed, before I did so,
to keep Littlemore for myself, even tho it was still to remain an
integral part of St. Mary's.[6] I had given to it a church and a sort
of parsonage; I had made it a parish, and I loved it: I thought in
1843 that perhaps I need not forfeit my existing relations toward it.
I could indeed submit to become a curate at will of another; but I
hoped an arrangement was possible by which, while I had the curacy, I
might have been my own master in serving it. I had hoped an exception
might have been made in my favor, under the circumstances; but I did
not gain my request. Perhaps I was asking what was impracticable, and
it is well for me that it was so.
[Footnote 6: St. Mary's was the church of the University of Oxford,
Newman being its vicar. Littlemore was an outlying place attached to
St. Mary's and to which Newman withdrew on leaving Oxford in 1842.
Here, with several young men who had attached themselves to his
fortunes, he established himself in a building which came to be known
as "the Littlemore Monastery." It was here that Newman passed the
three years of meditation and anxiety which preceded his final
decision to join the Roman Church.]
These had been my two acts of the year, and I said, "I can not be
wrong in making them; let that follow which must follow in the
thoughts of the world about me, when they see what I do." And as time
went on, they fully answered my purpose. What I felt it a simple duty
to do, did create a general suspicion about me, without such
responsibility as would be involved in my initiating any direct act
for the sake of creating it. Then, when friends wrote me on the
subject, I either did not deny or I confest my state of mind,
according to the character and need of their letters. Sometimes in the
case of intimate friends, whom I should otherwise have been leaving
in ignorance of what others knew on every side of them, I invited the
question.
And here comes in another point for explanation. While I was fighting
in Oxford for the Anglican Church, then indeed I was very glad to make
converts; and tho I never broke away from that rule of my mind (as I
may call it) of which I have already spoken, of finding disciples
rather than seeking them, yet that I made advances to others in a
special way, I have no doubt; this came to an end, however, as soon as
I fell into misgivings as to the true ground to be taken in the
controversy. For then, when I gave up my place in the movement, I
ceased from any such proceedings; and my utmost endeavor was to
tranquillize such persons, especially those who belonged to the new
school, as were unsettled in their religious views, and as I judged,
hasty in their conclusions. This went on till 1843; but at that date,
as soon as I turned my face Romeward, I gave up, as far as ever was
possible, the thought of, in any respect and in any shape, acting upon
others. Then I myself was simply my own concern. How could I in any
sense direct others, who had to be guided in so momentous a matter
myself? How could I be considered in a position, even to say a word to
them, one way or the other? How could I presume to unsettle them as I
was unsettled, when I had no means of bringing them out of such
unsettlement? And if they were unsettled already, how could I point to
them a place of refuge, when I was not sure that I should choose it
for myself? My only line, my only duty, was to keep simply to my own
case. I recollected Pascal's words, "Je mourrai seul" [I will die
alone]. I deliberately put out of my thoughts all other works and
claims, and said nothing to any one, unless I was obliged.
But this brought upon me a great trouble. In the newspapers there were
continual reports about my intentions; I did not answer them:
presently strangers or friends wrote, begging to be allowed to answer
them; and if I still kept to my resolution and said nothing, then I
was thought to be mysterious, and a prejudice was excited against me.
But what was far worse, there were a number of tender, eager hearts,
of whom I knew nothing at all, who were watching me, wishing to think
as I thought, and to do as I did, if they could but find it out; who
in consequence were distrest that in so solemn a matter they could not
see what was coming, and who heard reports about me this way or that,
on a first day and on a second; and felt the weariness of waiting, and
the sickness of delayed hope, and did not understand that I was as
perplexed as they were, and being of more sensitive complexion of mind
than myself, they were made ill by the suspense. And they too, of
course, for the time thought me mysterious and inexplicable. I ask
their pardon as far as I was really unkind to them....
I left Oxford for good on Monday, February 23d, 1846. On the Saturday
and Sunday before, I was in my house at Littlemore simply by myself,
as I had been for the first day or two when I had originally taken
possession of it. I slept on Sunday night at my dear friend's, Mr.
Johnson's, at the Observatory. Various friends came to see the last
of me: Mr. Copeland, Mr. Church, Mr. Buckle, Mr. Pattison, and Mr.
Lewis. Dr. Pusey too came up to take leave of me; and I called on Dr.
Ogle, one of my very oldest friends, for he was my private tutor when
I was an undergraduate. In him I took leave of my first college,
Trinity, which was so dear to me, and which held on its foundation so
many who had been kind to me both when I was a boy, and all through my
Oxford life. Trinity had never been unkind to me. There used to be
much snapdragon growing on the walls opposite my freshman's rooms
there; and I had for years taken it as the emblem of my own perpetual
residence, even unto death, in my University.
On the morning of the 23d I left the Observatory. I have never seen
Oxford since, excepting its spires as they are seen from the railway.