not join you. There are positive difficulties in the way of it. And,
even if there were not, we shall have no divine warrant for doing so,
while we think that the Church of England is a branch of the true
Church, and that intercommunion with the rest of Christendom
is necessary, not for the life of a particular Church, but for
its health only. I have never disguised that there are actual
circumstances in the Church of Rome, which pain me much; of the
removal of these I see no chance, while we join you one by one; but
if our Church were prepared for a union, she might make her terms;
she might gain the Cup; she might protest against the extreme honours
paid to St. Mary; she might make some explanation of the doctrine of
Transubstantiation. I am not prepared to say that a reform in other
branches of the Roman Church would be necessary for our uniting with
them, however desirable in itself, so that we were allowed to make a
reform in our own country. We do not look towards Rome as believing
that its communion is infallible, but that union is a duty."
The following letter was occasioned by the present of a book, from
the friend to whom it is written; more will be said on the subject of
it presently:--
"Nov. 22, 1842. I only wish that your Church were more known among us
by such writings. You will not interest us in her, till we see her,
not in politics, but in her true functions of exhorting, teaching,
and guiding. I wish there were a chance of making the leading men
among you understand, what I believe is no novel thought to yourself.
It is not by learned discussions, or acute arguments, or reports of
miracles, that the heart of England can be gained. It is by men
'approving themselves,' like the Apostle, 'ministers of Christ.'
"As to your question, whether the Volume you have sent is not
calculated to remove my apprehensions that another gospel is
substituted for the true one in your practical instructions, before I
can answer it in any way, I ought to know how far the Sermons which
it comprises are _selected_ from a number, or whether they are the
whole, or such as the whole, which have been published of the
author's. I assure you, or at least I trust, that, if it is ever
clearly brought home to me that I have been wrong in what I have said
on this subject, my public avowal of that conviction will only be a
question of time with me.
"If, however, you saw our Church as we see it, you would easily
understand that such a change of feeling, did it take place, would
have no necessary tendency, which you seem to expect, to draw a
person from the Church of England to that of Rome. There is a divine
life among us, clearly manifested, in spite of all our disorders,
which is as great a note of the Church, as any can be. Why should we
seek our Lord's presence elsewhere, when He vouchsafes it to us where
we are? What _call_ have we to change our communion?
"Roman Catholics will find this to be the state of things in time to
come, whatever promise they may fancy there is of a large secession
to their Church. This man or that may leave us, but there will be no
general movement. There is, indeed, an incipient movement of our
_Church_ towards yours, and this your leading men are doing all they
can to frustrate by their unwearied efforts at all risks to carry off
individuals. When will they know their position, and embrace a larger
and wiser policy?"
The last letter, which I have inserted, is addressed to my dear
friend, Dr. Russell, the present President of Maynooth. He had,
perhaps, more to do with my conversion than any one else. He called
upon me, in passing through Oxford in the summer of 1841, and I think
I took him over some of the buildings of the University. He called
again another summer, on his way from Dublin to London. I do not
recollect that he said a word on the subject of religion on either
occasion. He sent me at different times several letters; he was
always gentle, mild, unobtrusive, uncontroversial. He let me alone.
He also gave me one or two books. Veron's Rule of Faith and some
Treatises of the Wallenburghs was one; a volume of St. Alfonso
Liguori's Sermons was another; and to that the letter which I have
last inserted relates.
Now it must be observed that the writings of St. Alfonso, as I knew
them by the extracts commonly made from them, prejudiced me as much
against the Roman Church as anything else, on account of what was
called their "Mariolatry;" but there was nothing of the kind in this
book. I wrote to ask Dr. Russell whether anything had been left out
in the translation; he answered that there certainly was an omission
of one passage about the Blessed Virgin. This omission, in the case
of a book intended for Catholics, at least showed that such passages
as are found in the works of Italian authors were not acceptable to
every part of the Catholic world. Such devotional manifestations in
honour of our Lady had been my great _crux_ as regards Catholicism; I
say frankly, I do not fully enter into them now; I trust I do not
love her the less, because I cannot enter into them. They may be
fully explained and defended; but sentiment and taste do not run with
logic: they are suitable for Italy, but they are not suitable for
England. But, over and above England, my own case was special; from a
boy I had been led to consider that my Maker and I, His creature,
were the two beings, certainly such, _in rerum natura_. I will not
here speculate, however, about my own feelings. Only this I know full
well now, and did not know then, that the Catholic Church allows no
image of any sort, material or immaterial, no dogmatic symbol, no
rite, no sacrament, no Saint, not even the Blessed Virgin herself, to
come between the soul and its Creator. It is face to face, "solus cum
solo," in all matters between man and his God. He alone creates; He
alone has redeemed; before His awful eyes we go in death; in the
vision of Him is our eternal beatitude. "Solus cum solo:"--I
recollect but indistinctly the effect produced upon me by this
volume, but it must have been considerable. At all events I had got a
key to a difficulty; in these sermons (or rather heads of sermons, as
they seem to be, taken down by a hearer) there is much of what would
be called legendary illustration; but the substance of them is plain,
practical, awful preaching upon the great truths of salvation. What I
can speak of with greater confidence is the effect upon me a little
later of the Exercises of St. Ignatius. Here again, in a pure matter
of the most direct religion, in the intercourse between God and the
soul, during a season of recollection, of repentance, of good
resolution, of inquiry into vocation, the soul was "sola cum solo;"
there was no cloud interposed between the creature and the Object of
his faith and love. The command practically enforced was, "My son,
give Me thy heart." The devotions then to angels and saints as little
interfered with the incommunicable glory of the Eternal, as the love
which we bear our friends and relations, our tender human sympathies,
are inconsistent with that supreme homage of the heart to the Unseen,
which really does but sanctify and exalt what is of earth. At a later
date Dr. Russell sent me a large bundle of penny or half-penny books
of devotion, of all sorts, as they are found in the booksellers'
shops at Rome; and, on looking them over, I was quite astonished to
find how different they were from what I had fancied, how little
there was in them to which I could really object. I have given an
account of them in my Essay on the Development of Doctrine. Dr.
Russell sent me St. Alfonso's book at the end of 1842; however, it
was still a long time before I got over my difficulty, on the score
of the devotions paid to the saints; perhaps, as I judge, from a
letter I have turned up, it was some way into 1844, before I could be
said to have got over it.
I am not sure that another consideration did not also weigh with me
then. The idea of the Blessed Virgin was as it were _magnified_ in
the Church of Rome, as time went on,--but so were all the Christian
ideas; as that of the Blessed Eucharist. The whole scene of pale,
faint, distant Apostolic Christianity is seen in Rome, as through a
telescope or magnifier. The harmony of the whole, however, is of
course what it was. It is unfair then to take one Roman idea, that of
the Blessed Virgin, out of what may be called its context.
Thus I am brought to the principle of development of doctrine in the
Christian Church, to which I gave my mind at the end of 1842. I had
spoken of it in the passage, which I quoted many pages back, in Home
Thoughts Abroad, published in 1836; but it had been a favourite
subject with me all along. And it is certainly recognised in that
celebrated Treatise of Vincent of Lerins, which has so often been
taken as the basis of the Anglican theory. In 1843 I began to
consider it steadily; and the general view to which I came is stated
thus in a letter to a friend of the date of July 14, 1844; it will be
observed that, now as before, my _issue_ is still Faith _versus_
Church:--
"The kind of considerations which weigh with me are such as the
following:--1. I am far more certain (according to the Fathers) that
we _are_ in a state of culpable separation, _than_ that developments
do _not_ exist under the Gospel, and that the Roman developments are
not the true ones. 2. I am far more certain, that _our_ (modern)
doctrines are wrong, _than_ that the _Roman_ (modern) doctrines are
wrong. 3. Granting that the Roman (special) doctrines are not found
drawn out in the early Church, yet I think there is sufficient trace
of them in it, to recommend and prove them, _on the hypothesis_ of
the Church having a divine guidance, though not sufficient to prove
them by itself. So that the question simply turns on the nature of
the promise of the Spirit, made to the Church. 4. The proof of the
Roman (modern) doctrine is as strong (or stronger) in Antiquity, as
that of certain doctrines which both we and Romans hold: _e.g._ there
is more of evidence in Antiquity for the necessity of Unity, than for
the Apostolical Succession; for the Supremacy of the See of Rome,
than for the Presence in the Eucharist; for the practice of
Invocation, than for certain books in the present Canon of Scripture,
etc., etc. 5. The analogy of the Old Testament, and also of the New,
leads to the acknowledgment of doctrinal developments."
And thus I was led on to a further consideration. I saw that the
principle of development not only accounted for certain facts,
but was in itself a remarkable philosophical phenomenon, giving
a character to the whole course of Christian thought. It was
discernible from the first years of the Catholic teaching up to the
present day, and gave to that teaching a unity and individuality.
It served as a sort of test, which the Anglican could not exhibit,
that modern Rome was in truth ancient Antioch, Alexandria, and
Constantinople, just as a mathematical curve has its own law and
expression.
And thus again I was led on to examine more attentively what I doubt
not was in my thoughts long before, viz. the concatenation of
argument by which the mind ascends from its first to its final
religious idea; and I came to the conclusion that there was no
medium, in true philosophy, between Atheism and Catholicity, and that
a perfectly consistent mind, under those circumstances in which it
finds itself here below, must embrace either the one or the other.
And I hold this still: I am a Catholic by virtue of my believing in a
God; and if I am asked why I believe in a God, I answer that it is
because I believe in myself, for I feel it impossible to believe in
my own existence (and of that fact I am quite sure) without believing
also in the existence of Him, who lives as a Personal, All-seeing,
All-judging Being in my conscience. Now, I dare say, I have not
expressed myself with philosophical correctness, because I have not
given myself to the study of what others have said on the subject;
but I think I have a strong true meaning in what I say which will
stand examination.
Moreover, I came to the conclusion which I have been stating, on
reasoning of the same nature, as that which I had adopted on the
subject of development of doctrine. The fact of the operation from
first to last of that principle of development is an argument in
favour of the identity of Roman and Primitive Christianity; but as
there is a law which acts upon the subject-matter of dogmatic
theology, so is there a law in the matter of religious faith. In the
third part of this narrative I spoke of certitude as the consequence,
divinely intended and enjoined upon us, of the accumulative force
of certain given reasons which, taken one by one, were only
probabilities. Let it be recollected that I am historically relating
my state of mind, at the period of my life which I am surveying. I am
not speaking theologically, nor have I any intention of going into
controversy, or of defending myself; but speaking historically of
what I held in 1843-4, I say, that I believed in a God on a ground of
probability, that I believed in Christianity on a probability, and
that I believed in Catholicism on a probability, and that all three
were about the same kind of probability, a cumulative, a transcendent
probability, but still probability; inasmuch as He who made us, has
so willed that in mathematics indeed we arrive at certitude by rigid
demonstration, but in religious inquiry we arrive at certitude by
accumulated probabilities--inasmuch as He who has willed that
we should so act, co-operates with us in our acting, and thereby
bestows on us a certitude which rises higher than the logical force
of our conclusions. And thus I came to see clearly, and to have a
satisfaction in seeing, that, in being led on into the Church of
Rome, I was proceeding, not by any secondary grounds of reason, or
by controversial points in detail, but was protected and justified,
even in the use of those secondary arguments, by a great and broad
principle. But, let it be observed, that I am stating a matter of
fact, not defending it; and if any Catholic says in consequence that
I have been converted in a wrong way, I cannot help that now.
And now I have carried on the history of my opinions to their last
point, before I became a Catholic. I find great difficulty in fixing
dates precisely; but it must have been some way into 1844, before I
thought not only that the Anglican Church was certainly wrong, but
that Rome was right. Then I had nothing more to learn on the subject.
How "Samaria" faded away from my imagination I cannot tell, but it
was gone. Now to go back to the time when this last stage of my
inquiry was in its commencement, which, if I dare assign dates, was
towards the end of 1842.
In 1843, I took two very important and significant steps:--1. In
February, I made a formal retractation of all the hard things which I
had said against the Church of Rome. 2. In September, I resigned the
living of St. Mary's, Littlemore inclusive:--I will speak of these
two acts separately.
1. The words, in which I made my retractation, have given rise to
much criticism. After quoting a number of passages from my writings
against the Church of Rome, which I withdrew, I ended thus:--"If you
ask me how an individual could venture, not simply to hold, but to
publish such views of a communion so ancient, so wide-spreading, so
fruitful in Saints, I answer that I said to myself, 'I am not
speaking my own words, I am but following almost a _consensus_ of the
divines of my own Church. They have ever used the strongest language
against Rome, even the most able and learned of them. I wish to throw
myself into their system. While I say what they say, I am safe. Such
views, too, are necessary for our position.' Yet I have reason to
fear still, that such language is to be ascribed, in no small
measure, to an impetuous temper, a hope of approving myself to
persons I respect, and a wish to repel the charge of Romanism."
These words have been, and are, cited again and again against me, as
if a confession that, when in the Anglican Church, I said things
against Rome which I did not really believe.
For myself, I cannot understand how any impartial man can so take
them; and I have explained them in print several times. I trust that
by this time they have been sufficiently explained by what I have
said in former portions of this narrative; still I have a word or two
to say about them, which I have not said before I apologised in the
lines in question for saying out charges against the Church of Rome
which I fully believed to be true. What is wonderful in such an
apology?
There are many things a man may hold, which at the same time he may
feel that he has no right to say publicly. The law recognises this
principle. In our own time, men have been imprisoned and fined for
saying true things of a bad king. The maxim has been held, that, "The
greater the truth, the greater is the libel." And so as to the
judgment of society, a just indignation would be felt against a
writer who brought forward wantonly the weaknesses of a great man,
though the whole world knew that they existed. No one is at liberty
to speak ill of another without a justifiable reason, even though he
knows he is speaking truth, and the public knows it too. Therefore I
could not speak ill against the Church of Rome, though I believed
what I said, without a good reason. I did believe what I said; but
had I a good reason for saying it? I thought I had, viz. I said what
I believed was simply necessary in the controversy, in order to
defend ourselves; I considered that the Anglican position could not
be defended, without bringing charges against the Church of Rome. Is
not this almost a truism? is it not what every one says, who speaks
on the subject at all? does any serious man abuse the Church of
Rome, for the sake of abusing her, or because it justifies his
own religious position? What is the meaning of the very word
"Protestantism," but that there is a call to speak out? This then is
what I said; "I know I spoke strongly against the Church of Rome; but
it was no mere abuse, for I had a serious reason for doing so."
But, not only did I think such language necessary for my Church's
religious position, but all the great Anglican divines had thought so
before me. They had thought so, and they had acted accordingly. And
therefore I said, with much propriety, that I had not done it simply
out of my own head, but that I was following the track, or rather
reproducing the teaching, of those who had preceded me.
I was pleading guilty; but pleading also that there were extenuating
circumstances in the case. We all know the story of the convict, who
on the scaffold bit off his mother's ear. By doing so he did not deny
the fact of his own crime, for which he was to hang; but he said that
his mother's indulgence, when he was a boy, had a good deal to do
with it. In like manner I had made a charge, and I had made it _ex
animo_; but I accused others of having led me into believing it and
publishing it.
But there was more than this meant in the words which I used:--first,
I will freely confess, indeed I said it some pages back, that I was
angry with the Anglican divines. I thought they had taken me in; I
had read the Fathers with their eyes; I had sometimes trusted their
quotations or their reasonings; and from reliance on them, I had used
words or made statements, which properly I ought rigidly to have
examined myself. I had exercised more faith than criticism in the
matter. This did not imply any broad misstatements on my part,
arising from reliance on their authority, but it implied carelessness
in matters of detail. And this of course was a fault.
But there was a far deeper reason for my saying what I said in this
matter, on which I have not hitherto touched; and it was this:--The
most oppressive thought, in the whole process of my change of
opinion, was the clear anticipation, verified by the event, that it
would issue in the triumph of Liberalism. Against the Anti-dogmatic
principle I had thrown my whole mind; yet now I was doing more than
any one else could do, to promote it. I was one of those who had kept
it at bay in Oxford for so many years; and thus my very retirement
was its triumph. The men who had driven me from Oxford were
distinctly the Liberals; it was they who had opened the attack upon
Tract 90, and it was they who would gain a second benefit, if I went
on to retire from the Anglican Church. But this was not all. As I
have already said, there are but two alternatives, the way to Rome,
and the way to Atheism: Anglicanism is the halfway house on the one
side, and Liberalism is the halfway house on the other. How many men
were there, as I knew full well, who would not follow me now in my
advance from Anglicanism to Rome, but would at once leave Anglicanism
and me for the Liberal camp. It is not at all easy (humanly speaking)
to wind up an Englishman to a dogmatic level. I had done so in a good
measure, in the case both of young men and of laymen, the Anglican
_Via Media_ being the representative of dogma. The dogmatic and the
Anglican principle were one, as I had taught them; but I was breaking
the _Via Media_ to pieces, and would not dogmatic faith altogether be
broken up, in the minds of a great number, by the demolition of the
_Via Media_? Oh! how unhappy this made me! I heard once from an
eyewitness the account of a poor sailor whose legs were shattered by
a ball, in the action off Algiers in 1816, and who was taken below
for an operation. The surgeon and the chaplain persuaded him to have
a leg off; it was done and the tourniquet applied to the wound. Then,
they broke it to him that he must have the other off too. The poor
fellow said, "You should have told me that, gentlemen," and
deliberately unscrewed the instrument and bled to death. Would not
that be the case with many friends of my own? How could I ever hope
to make them believe in a second theology, when I had cheated them in
the first? with what face could I publish a new edition of a dogmatic
creed, and ask them to receive it as gospel? Would it not be plain to
them that no certainty was to be found anywhere? Well, in my defence
I could but make a lame apology; however, it was the true one, viz.
that I had not read the Fathers critically enough; that in such nice
points, as those which determine the angle of divergence between the
two Churches, I had made considerable miscalculations; and how came
this about? Why the fact was, unpleasant as it was to avow, that I
had leaned too much upon the assertions of Ussher, Jeremy Taylor, or
Barrow, and had been deceived by them. Valeat quantum--it was all
that _could_ be said. This then was a chief reason of that wording of
the retractation, which has given so much offence, and the following
letter will illustrate it:--
"April 3, 1844. I wish to remark on W.'s chief distress, that my
changing my opinion seemed to unsettle one's confidence in truth and
falsehood as external things, and led one to be suspicious of the new
opinion as one became distrustful of the old. Now in what I shall
say, I am not going to speak in favour of my second thoughts in
comparison of my first, but against such scepticism and unsettlement
about truth and falsehood generally, the idea of which is very
painful.
"The case with me, then, was this, and not surely an unnatural
one:--as a matter of feeling and of duty I threw myself into the
system which I found myself in. I saw that the English Church had a
theological idea or theory as such, and I took it up. I read Laud on
Tradition, and thought it (as I still think it) very masterly. The
Anglican Theory was very distinctive. I admired it and took it on
faith. It did not (I think) occur to me to doubt it; I saw that it
was able, and supported by learning, and I felt it was a duty to
maintain it. Further, on looking into Antiquity and reading the
Fathers, I saw such portions of it as I examined, fully confirmed
(_e.g._ the supremacy of Scripture). There was only one question
about which I had a doubt, viz. whether it would _work_, for it has
never been more than a paper system....
"So far from my change of opinion having any fair tendency to
unsettle persons as to truth and falsehood viewed as objective
realities, it should be considered whether such change is not
_necessary_, if truth be a real objective thing, and be made to
confront a person who has been brought up in a system _short_ of
truth. Surely the _continuance_ of a person who wishes to go right in
a wrong system, and not his _giving it up_, would be that which
militated against the objectiveness of Truth, leading, as it would,
to the suspicion, that one thing and another were equally pleasing to
our Maker, where men were sincere.
"Nor surely is it a thing I need be sorry for, that I defended the
system in which I found myself, and thus have had to unsay my words.
For is it not one's duty, instead of beginning with criticism,
to throw oneself generously into that form of religion which is
providentially put before one? Is it right, or is it wrong, to begin
with private judgment? May we not, on the other hand, look for a
blessing _through_ obedience even to an erroneous system, and a
guidance even by means of it out of it? Were those who were strict
and conscientious in their Judaism, or those who were lukewarm and
sceptical, more likely to be led into Christianity, when Christ came?
Yet in proportion to their previous zeal, would be their appearance
of inconsistency. Certainly, I have always contended that obedience
even to an erring conscience was the way to gain light, and that
it mattered not where a man began, so that he began on what came
to hand, and in faith; and that anything might become a divine
method of Truth; that to the pure all things are pure, and have a
self-correcting virtue and a power of germinating. And though I have
no right at all to assume that this mercy is granted to me, yet the
fact, that a person in my situation _may_ have it granted to him,
seems to me to remove the perplexity which my change of opinion may
occasion.
"It may be said--I have said it to myself--'Why, however, did you
_publish_? had you waited quietly, you would have changed your
opinion without any of the misery, which now is involved in the
change, of disappointing and distressing people.' I answer, that
things are so bound up together, as to form a whole, and one cannot
tell what is or is not a condition of what. I do not see how possibly
I could have published the Tracts, or other works professing to
defend our Church, without accompanying them with a strong protest or
argument against Rome. The one obvious objection against the whole
Anglican line is, that it is Roman; so that I really think there was
no alternative between silence altogether, and forming a theory and
attacking the Roman system."
2. And now, secondly, as to my resignation of St. Mary's, which was
the second of the steps which I took in 1843. The ostensible, direct,
and sufficient cause of my doing so was the persevering attack of the
Bishops on Tract 90. I alluded to it in the letter which I have
inserted above, addressed to one of the most influential among them.
A series of their _ex cathedra_ judgments, lasting through three
years, and including a notice of no little severity in a Charge of my
own Bishop, came as near to a condemnation of my Tract, and, so far,
to a repudiation of the ancient Catholic doctrine, which was the
scope of the Tract, as was possible in the Church of England. It was
in order to shield the Tract from such a condemnation, that I had at
the time of its publication so simply put myself at the disposal of
the higher powers in London. At that time, all that was distinctly
contemplated in the way of censure, was the message which my Bishop
sent me, that it was "objectionable." That I thought was the end of
the matter. I had refused to suppress it, and they had yielded that
point. Since I wrote the former portions of this narrative, I have
found what I wrote to Dr. Pusey on March 24, while the matter was in
progress. "The more I think of it," I said, "the more reluctant I am
to suppress Tract 90, though _of course_ I will do it if the Bishop
wishes it; I cannot, however, deny that I shall feel it a severe
act." According to the notes which I took of the letters or messages
which I sent to him in the course of that day, I went on to say, "My
first feeling was to obey without a word; I will obey still; but my
judgment has steadily risen against it ever since." Then in the
postscript, "If I have done any good to the Church, I do ask the
Bishop this favour, as my reward for it, that he would not insist on
a measure, from which I think good will not come. However, I will
submit to him." Afterwards, I get stronger still: "I have almost come
to the resolution, if the Bishop publicly intimates that I must
suppress the Tract, or speaks strongly in his charge against it, to
suppress it indeed, but to resign my living also. I could not in
conscience act otherwise. You may show this in any quarter you
please."
All my then hopes, all my satisfaction at the apparent fulfilment of
those hopes, were at an end in 1843. It is not wonderful then, that
in May of that year I addressed a letter on the subject of St. Mary's
to the same friend, whom I had consulted about retiring from it in
1840. But I did more now; I told him my great unsettlement of mind on
the question of the Churches. I will insert portions of two of my
letters:--
"May 4, 1843.... At present I fear, as far as I can analyze my own
convictions, I consider the Roman Catholic Communion to be the Church
of the Apostles, and that what grace is among us (which, through
God's mercy, is not little) is extraordinary, and from the
overflowings of His dispensation. I am very far more sure that
England is in schism, than that the Roman additions to the Primitive
Creed may not be developments, arising out of a keen and vivid
realizing of the Divine Depositum of Faith.
"You will now understand what gives edge to the Bishops' Charges,
without any undue sensitiveness on my part. They distress me in two
ways:--first, as being in some sense protests and witnesses to my
conscience against my own unfaithfulness to the English Church, and
next, as being samples of her teaching, and tokens how very far she
is from even aspiring to Catholicity.
"Of course my being unfaithful to a trust is my great subject of
dread--as it has long been, as you know."
When he wrote to make natural objections to my purpose, such as the
apprehension that the removal of clerical obligations might have the
indirect effect of propelling me towards Rome, I answered:--
"May 18, 1843.... My office or charge at St. Mary's is not a mere
_state_, but a continual _energy_. People assume and assert certain
things of me in consequence. With what sort of sincerity can I obey
the Bishop? how am I to act in the frequent cases, in which one way
or another the Church of Rome comes into consideration? I have to the
utmost of my power tried to keep persons from Rome, and with some
success; but even a year and a half since, my arguments, though more
efficacious with the persons I aimed at than any others could be,
were of a nature to infuse great suspicion of me into the minds of
lookers-on.
"By retaining St. Mary's, I am an offence and a stumbling-block.
Persons are keen-sighted enough to make out what I think on certain
points, and then they infer that such opinions are compatible with
holding situations of trust in our Church. A number of younger men
take the validity of their interpretation of the Articles, etc., from
me on _faith_. Is not my present position a cruelty, as well as a
treachery towards the Church?
"I do not see how I can either preach or publish again, while I hold
St. Mary's;--but consider again the following difficulty in such a
resolution, which I must state at some length.
"Last Long Vacation the idea suggested itself to me of publishing the
Lives of the English Saints; and I had a conversation with [a
publisher] upon it. I thought it would be useful, as employing the
minds of men who were in danger of running wild, bringing them from
doctrine to history, and from speculation to fact;--again, as giving
them an interest in the English soil, and the English Church, and
keeping them from seeking sympathy in Rome, as she is; and further,
as seeking to promote the spread of right views.
"But, within the last month, it has come upon me, that, if the scheme
goes on, it will be a practical carrying out of No. 90; from the
character of the usages and opinions of ante-reformation times.
"It is easy to say, 'Why _will_ you do _any_ thing? why won't you
keep quiet? what business had you to think of any such plan at all?'
But I cannot leave a number of poor fellows in the lurch. I am bound
to do my best for a great number of people both in Oxford and
elsewhere. If _I_ did not act, others would find means to do so.
"Well, the plan has been taken up with great eagerness and interest.
Many men are setting to work. I set down the names of men, most of
them engaged, the rest half engaged and probable, some actually
writing." About thirty names follow, some of them at that time of the
school of Dr. Arnold, others of Dr. Pusey's, some my personal friends
and of my own standing, others whom I hardly knew, while of course
the majority were of the party of the new Movement. I continue:--
"The plan has gone so far, that it would create surprise and talk,
were it now suddenly given over. Yet how is it compatible with my
holding St. Mary's, being what I am?"
Such was the object and the origin of the projected series of the
English Saints; and, as the publication was connected, as has been
seen, with my resignation of St. Mary's, I may be allowed to conclude
what I have to say on the subject here, though it will read like a
digression. As soon then as the first of the series got into print,
the whole project broke down. I had already anticipated that some
portions of the series would be written in a style inconsistent with
the professions of a beneficed clergyman, and therefore I had given
up my living; but men of great weight went further, when they saw the
Life of St. Stephen Harding, and decided that it was of such a
character as to be inconsistent even with its being given to the
world by an Anglican publisher: and so the scheme was given up at
once. After the two first parts, I retired from the editorship, and
those Lives only were published in addition, which were then already
finished, or in advanced preparation. The following passages from
what I or others wrote at the time will illustrate what I have been
saying:--
In November, 1844, I wrote thus to one of the authors of them: "I am
not Editor, I have no direct control over the Series. It is T.'s
work; he may admit what he pleases; and exclude what he pleases. I
was to have been Editor. I did edit the two first numbers. I was
responsible for them, in the way in which an Editor is responsible.
Had I continued Editor, I should have exercised a control over all. I
laid down in the Preface that doctrinal subjects were, if possible,
to be excluded. But, even then, I also set down that no writer was to
be held answerable for any of the Lives but his own. When I gave up
the Editorship, I had various engagements with friends for separate
Lives remaining on my hands. I should have liked to have broken from
them all, but there were some from which I could not break, and I let
them take their course. Some have come to nothing; others like yours
have gone on. I have seen such, either in MS. or Proof. As time goes
on, I shall have less and less to do with the Series. I think the
engagement between you and me should come to an end. I have anyhow
abundant responsibility on me, and too much. I shall write to T. that
if he wants the advantage of your assistance, he must write to you
direct."
In accordance with this letter, I had already advertised in January
1844, ten months before it, that "other Lives," after St. Stephen
Harding, "will be published by their respective authors on their own
responsibility." This notice is repeated in February, in the
advertisement to the second volume entitled "The Family of St.
Richard," though to this volume also, for some reason, I also put my
initials. In the Life of St. Augustine, the author, a man of nearly
my own age, says in like manner, "No one but himself is responsible
for the way in which these materials have been used." I have in MS.
another advertisement to the same effect, but cannot tell whether it
was ever put into print.
I will add, since the authors have been considered hot-headed boys,
whom I was in charge of and whom I suffered do intemperate things,
that, while the writer of St. Augustine was of the mature age which I
have stated, most of the others were on one side or other of thirty.
Three were under twenty-five. Moreover, of these writers some became
Catholics, some remained Anglicans, and others have professed what
are called free or liberal opinions.
The immediate cause of the resignation of my living is stated in the
following letter, which I wrote to my Bishop:--
"August 29, 1843. It is with much concern that I inform your
Lordship, that Mr. A. B., who has been for the last year an inmate of
my house here, has just conformed to the Church of Rome. As I have
ever been desirous, not only of faithfully discharging the trust,
which is involved in holding a living in your Lordship's diocese, but
of approving myself to your Lordship, I will for your information
state one or two circumstances connected with this unfortunate
event.... I received him on condition of his promising me, which he
distinctly did, that he would remain quietly in our Church for three
years. A year has passed since that time, and, though I saw nothing
in him which promised that he would eventually be contented with his
present position, yet for the time his mind became as settled as one
could wish, and he frequently expressed his satisfaction at being
under the promise which I had exacted of him."
I felt it impossible to remain any longer in the service of the
Anglican Church, when such a breach of trust, however little I had to
do with it, would be laid at my door. I wrote in a few days to a
friend:
"September 7, 1843. I this day ask the Bishop leave to resign St.
Mary's. Men whom you little think, or at least whom I little thought,
are in almost a hopeless way. Really we may expect anything. I am
going to publish a Volume of Sermons, including those Four against
moving."
I resigned my living on September 18th. I had not the means of doing
it legally at Oxford. The late Mr. Goldsmid aided me in resigning it
in London. I found no fault with the Liberals; they had beaten me in
a fair field. As to the act of the Bishops, I thought, as Walter
Scott has applied the text, that they had "seethed the kid in his
mother's milk."
I said to a friend:--
"Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni."
And now I have brought almost to an end, as far as this sketch has
to treat of them, the history both of my opinions, and of the public
acts which they involved. I had only one more advance of mind to
make; and that was, to be _certain_ of what I had hitherto
anticipated, concluded, and believed; and this was close upon my
submission to the Catholic Church. And I had only one more act to
perform, and that was the act of submission itself. But two years yet
intervened before the date of these final events; during which I was
in lay communion in 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 then I now have to add is of a private nature, being my
preparation for the great event, for which I was waiting, in the
interval between the autumns of 1843 and 1845.
And I shall almost confine what I have to say 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 do it.
Up to January, 1842, I had not disclosed my state of unsettlement to
more than three persons, as has been mentioned above, and is repeated
in the letters which I am now about to give to the reader. To two of
them, intimate and familiar companions, in the Autumn of 1839: to the
third, an old friend too, when, I suppose, I was in great distress
of mind upon the affair of the Jerusalem Bishopric. In May, 1843,
I mentioned it 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 and is abhorrent to me, it is 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 realised. 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 also 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. I believe I had not that, 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 was, _Do_ what your
present state of opinion requires, and let that _doing_ tell: speak
by _acts_. This I did; my first _act_ of the year was in February,
1843. After three months' deliberation I 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: I did not retract
my Anglican teaching. My second _act_ was in September; after much
sorrowful lingering and hesitation, I resigned my Living. I tried
indeed to keep Littlemore for myself, even though it was still to
remain an integral part of St. Mary's. I had made it a parish, and I
loved it; but I did not succeed in my attempt. I could indeed bear to
become the curate at will of another, but I hoped still that I might
have been my own master there. I had hoped an exception might have
been made in my favour, under the circumstances; but I did not gain
my request. Indeed, I was asking what was impracticable, and it is
well for me that it was so.
These were my two acts of the year, and I said, "I cannot 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." They fully answered my
purpose. What I felt as a simple duty to do, did create a general
suspicion about me, without such responsibility as would be involved
in my taking the initiative in creating it. Then, when friends wrote
me on the subject, either I did not deny or I confessed it, according
to the character and need of their letters. Sometimes, in the case of
intimate friends, whom I seemed to leave in ignorance of what others
knew about me, I invited the question.
And here comes in another point for explanation. While I was fighting
for the Anglican Church in Oxford, then indeed I was very glad to
make converts, and, though 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. Then, when I gave up my place in the
Movement, I ceased from any such proceeding: and my utmost endeavour
was to tranquillise 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 altogether
and in any shape, as far as ever was possible, the thought of 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, which I was not sure that I should
choose 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
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 distressed, 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 themselves, and, being of more sensitive
complexion of mind than myself, 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. There was a gifted and deeply earnest lady, who in a
parabolical account of that time, has described both my conduct as
she felt it, and that of such as herself. In a singularly graphic,
amusing vision of pilgrims, who were making their way across a bleak
common in great discomfort, and who were ever warned against, yet
continually nearing, "the king's highway" on the right, she says,
"All my fears and disquiets were speedily renewed by seeing the most
daring of our leaders (the same who had first forced his way through
the palisade, and in whose courage and sagacity we all put implicit
trust) suddenly stop short, and declare that he would go on no
further. He did not, however, take the leap at once, but quietly sat
down on the top of the fence with his feet hanging towards the road,
as if he meant to take his time about it, and let himself down
easily." I do not wonder at all that I thus seemed so unkind to a
lady, who at that time had never seen me. We were both in trial in
our different ways. I am far from denying that I was acting selfishly
both towards them and towards others; but it was a religious
selfishness. Certainly to myself my own duty seemed clear. They that
are whole can heal others; but in my case it was, "Physician, heal
thyself." My own soul was my first concern, and it seemed an
absurdity to my reason to be converted in partnership. I wished to go
to my Lord by myself, and in my own way, or rather His way. I had
neither wish, nor, I may say, thought of taking a number with me. But
nothing of this could be known to others.
The following three letters are written to a friend, who had every
claim upon me to be frank with him:--it will be seen that I disclose
the real state of mind to him, in proportion as he presses me.
1. "October 14, 1843. I would tell you in a few words why I have
resigned St. Mary's, as you seem to wish, were it possible to do so.
But it is most difficult to bring out in brief, or even _in extenso_,
any just view of my feelings and reasons.
"The nearest approach I can give to a general account of them is to
say, that it has been caused by the general repudiation of the view,
contained in No. 90, on the part of the Church. I could not stand
against such an unanimous expression of opinion from the Bishops,
supported, as it has been, by the concurrence, or at least silence,
of all classes in the Church, lay and clerical. If there ever was a
case, in which an individual teacher has been put aside and virtually
put away by a community, mine is one. No decency has been observed in
the attacks upon me from authority; no protests have been offered
against them. It is felt,--I am far from denying, justly felt,--that
I am a foreign material, and cannot assimilate with the Church of
England.
"Even my own Bishop has said that my mode of interpreting the
Articles makes them mean _anything or nothing_. When I heard this
delivered, I did not believe my ears. I denied to others that it was
said.... Out came the charge, and the words could not be mistaken.
This astonished me the more, because I published that Letter to him
(how unwillingly you know) on the understanding that _I_ was to
deliver his judgment on No. 90 _instead_ of him. A year elapses, and
a second and heavier judgment came forth. I did not bargain for
this,--nor did he, but the tide was too strong for him.
"I fear that I must confess, that, in proportion as I think the
English Church is showing herself intrinsically and radically alien
from Catholic principles, so do I feel the difficulties of defending
her claims to be a branch of the Catholic Church. It seems a dream to
call a communion Catholic, when one can neither appeal to any clear
statement of Catholic doctrine in its formularies, nor interpret
ambiguous formularies by the received and living Catholic sense,
whether past or present. Men of Catholic views are too truly but a
party in our Church. I cannot deny that many other independent
circumstances, which it is not worth while entering into, have led me
to the same conclusion.
"I do not say all this to every body, as you may suppose; but I do
not like to make a secret of it to you."
2. "Oct. 25, 1843. You have engaged in a dangerous correspondence; I
am deeply sorry for the pain I shall give you.
"I must tell you then frankly (but I combat arguments which to me,
alas, are shadows), that it is not from disappointment, irritation,
or impatience, that I have, whether rightly or wrongly, resigned St.
Mary's; but because I think the Church of Rome the Catholic Church,
and ours not part of the Catholic Church, because not in communion
with Rome; and because I feel that I could not honestly be a teacher
in it any longer.
"This thought came to me last summer four years.... I mentioned it to
two friends in the autumn.... It arose in the first instance from the
Monophysite and Donatist controversies, the former of which I was
engaged with in the course of theological study to which I had given
myself. This was at a time when no Bishop, I believe, had declared
against us, and when all was progress and hope. I do not think I have
ever felt disappointment or impatience, certainly not then; for I
never looked forward to the future, nor do I realise it now.
"My first effort was to write that article on the Catholicity of the
English Church; for two years it quieted me. Since the summer of 1839
I have written little or nothing on modern controversy.... You know
how unwillingly I wrote my letter to the Bishop in which I committed
myself again, as the safest course under circumstances. The article I
speak of quieted me till the end of 1841, over the affair of No. 90,
when that wretched Jerusalem Bishopric (no personal matter) revived
all my alarms. They have increased up to this moment. At that time I
told my secret to another person in addition.
"You see then that the various ecclesiastical and
quasi-ecclesiastical acts, which have taken place in the course of
the last two years and a half, are not the _cause_ of my state of
opinion, but are keen stimulants and weighty confirmations of a
conviction forced upon me, while engaged in the _course of duty_,
viz. that theological reading to which I had given myself. And this
last-mentioned circumstance is a fact, which has never, I think, come
before me till now that I write to you.
"It is three years since, on account of my state of opinion, I urged
the Provost in vain to let St. Mary's be separated from Littlemore;
thinking I might with a safe conscience serve the latter, though I
could not comfortably continue in so public a place as a University.
This was before No. 90.
"Finally, I have acted under advice, and that, not of my own
choosing, but what came to me in the way of duty, nor the advice of
those only who agree with me, but of near friends who differ from me.
"I have nothing to reproach myself with, as far as I see, in the
matter of impatience; _i.e._ practically or in conduct. And I trust
that He, who has kept me in the slow course of change hitherto, will
keep me still from hasty acts or resolves with a doubtful conscience.
"This I am sure of, that such interposition as yours, kind as it is,
only does what _you_ would consider harm. It makes me realise my own
views to myself; it makes me see their consistency; it assures me of
my own deliberateness; it suggests to me the traces of a Providential
Hand; it takes away the pain of disclosures; it relieves me of a
heavy secret.
"You may make what use of my letters you think right."
My correspondent wrote to me once more, and I replied thus: "October
31, 1843. Your letter has made my heart ache more, and caused me more
and deeper sighs than any I have had a long while, though I assure
you there is much on all sides of me to cause sighing and heartache.
On all sides I am quite haunted by the one dreadful whisper repeated
from so many quarters, and causing the keenest distress to friends.
You know but a part of my present trial, in knowing that I am
unsettled myself.
"Since the beginning of this year I have been obliged to tell the
state of my mind to some others; but never, I think, without being in
a way obliged, as from friends writing to me as you did, or guessing
how matters stood. No one in Oxford knows it or here" [Littlemore],
"but one friend whom I felt I could not help telling the other day.
But, I suppose, very many suspect it."
On receiving these letters, my correspondent, if I recollect rightly,
at once communicated the matter of them to Dr. Pusey, and this will
enable me to state as nearly as I can the way in which my changed
state of opinion was made known to him.
I had from the first a great difficulty in making Dr. Pusey
understand such differences of opinion as existed between himself
and me. When there was a proposal about the end of 1838 for a
subscription for a Cranmer Memorial, he wished us both to subscribe
together to it. I could not, of course, and wished him to subscribe
by himself. That he would not do; he could not bear the thought of
our appearing to the world in separate positions, in a matter of
importance. And, as time went on, he would not take any hints, which
I gave him, on the subject of my growing inclination to Rome. When I
found him so determined, I often had not the heart to go on. And then
I knew, that, from affection to me, he so often took up and threw
himself into what I said, that I felt the great responsibility I
should incur, if I put things before him just as I might view them.
And, not knowing him so well as I did afterwards, I feared lest I
should unsettle him. And moreover, I recollected well, how prostrated
he had been with illness in 1832, and I used always to think that the
start of the Movement had given him a fresh life. I fancied that his
physical energies even depended on the presence of a vigorous hope
and bright prospects for his imagination to feed upon; so much so,
that when he was so unworthily treated by the authorities of the
place in 1843, I recollect writing to the late Mr. Dodsworth to state
my anxiety, lest, if his mind became dejected in consequence, his
health would suffer seriously also. These were difficulties in my
way; and then again, another difficulty was, that, as we were not
together under the same roof, we only saw each other at set times;
others indeed, who were coming in or out of my rooms freely, and as
there might be need at the moment, knew all my thoughts easily; but
for him to know them well, formal efforts were necessary. A common
friend of ours broke it all to him in 1841, as far as matters had
gone at that time, and showed him clearly the logical conclusions
which must lie in propositions to which I had committed myself; but
somehow or other in a little while, his mind fell back into its
former happy state, and he could not bring himself to believe that
he and I should not go on pleasantly together to the end. But that
affectionate dream needs must have been broken at last; and two years
afterwards, that friend to whom I wrote the letters which I have just
now inserted, set himself, as I have said, to break it. Upon that, I
too begged Dr. Pusey to tell in private to any one he would, that I
thought in the event I should leave the Church of England. However,
he would not do so; and at the end of 1844 had almost relapsed into
his former thoughts about me, if I may judge from a letter of his
which I have found. Nay, at the Commemoration of 1845, a few months
before I left the Anglican Church, I think he said about me to a
friend, "I trust after all we shall keep him."
In that autumn of 1843, at the time that I spoke to Dr. Pusey, I
asked another friend also to communicate to others in confidence the
prospect which lay before me.
To another friend I gave the opportunity of knowing it, if he would,
in the following postscript to a letter:--
"While I write, I will add a word about myself. You may come near a
person or two who, owing to circumstances, know more exactly my state
of feeling than you do, though they would not tell you. Now I do not
like that you should not be aware of this, though I see no _reason_
why you should know what they happen to know. Your wishing it
otherwise would _be_ a reason."
I had a dear and old friend, near his death; I never told him my
state of mind. Why should I unsettle that sweet calm tranquillity,
when I had nothing to offer him instead? I could not say, "Go to
Rome;" else I should have shown him the way. Yet I offered myself for
his examination. One day he led the way to my speaking out; but,
rightly or wrongly, I could not respond. My reason was, "I have no
certainty on the matter myself. To say 'I think' is to tease and to
distress, not to persuade."
I wrote to him on Michaelmas Day, 1843: "As you may suppose, I have
nothing to write to you about, pleasant. I _could_ tell you some very
painful things; but it is best not to anticipate trouble, which after
all can but happen, and, for what one knows, may be averted. You are
always so kind, that sometimes, when I part with you, I am nearly
moved to tears, and it would be a relief to be so, at your kindness
and at my hardness. I think no one ever had such kind friends as I
have."
The next year, January 22, I wrote to him: "Pusey has quite enough on
him, and generously takes on himself more than enough, for me to add
burdens when I am not obliged; particularly too, when I am very
conscious, that there _are_ burdens, which I am or shall be obliged
to lay upon him some time or other, whether I will or no."
And on February 21: "Half-past ten. I am just up, having a bad cold;
the like has not happened to me (except twice in January) in my
memory. You may think you have been in my thoughts, long before my
rising. Of course you are so continually, as you well know. I could
not come to see you; I am not worthy of friends. With my opinions,
to the full of which I dare not confess, I feel like a guilty person
with others, though I trust I am not so. People kindly think that I
have much to bear externally, disappointment, slander, etc. No, I
have nothing to bear, but the anxiety which I feel for my friends'
anxiety for me, and their perplexity. This [letter] is a better
Ash-Wednesday than birthday present;" [his birthday was the same day
as mine; it was Ash-Wednesday that year]; "but I cannot help writing
about what is uppermost. And now all kindest and best wishes to you,
my oldest friend, whom I must not speak more about, and with
reference to myself, lest you should be angry." It was not in his
nature to have doubts: he used to look at me with anxiety, and wonder
what had come over me.
On Easter Monday: "All that is good and gracious descend upon you and
yours from the influences of this Blessed Season; and it will be so
(so be it!), for what is the life of you all, as day passes after
day, but a simple endeavour to serve Him, from whom all blessing
comes? Though we are separated in place, yet this we have in common,
that you are living a calm and cheerful time, and I am enjoying the
thought of you. It is your blessing to have a clear heaven, and peace
around, according to the blessing pronounced on Benjamin. So it is,
and so may it ever be."
He was in simple good faith. He died in September that year. I had
expected that his last illness would have brought light to my mind,
as to what I ought to do. It brought none. I made a note, which runs
thus: "I sobbed bitterly over his coffin, to think that he left me
still dark as to what the way of truth was, and what I ought to do in
order to please God and fulfil His will." I think I wrote to Charles
Marriott to say, that at that moment, with the thought of my friend
before me, my strong view in favour of Rome remained just what it
was. On the other hand, my firm belief that grace was to be found in
the Anglican Church remained too.[5] I wrote to a friend upon his
death:--
"Sept. 16, 1844. I am full of wrong and miserable feelings, which it
is useless to detail, so grudging and sullen, when I should be
thankful. Of course, when one sees so blessed an end, and that, the
termination of so blameless a life, of one who really fed on our
ordinances and got strength from them, and see the same continued in
a whole family, the little children finding quite a solace of their
pain in the Daily Prayer, it is impossible not to feel more at ease
in our Church, as at least a sort of Zoar, a place of refuge and
temporary rest, because of the steepness of the way. Only, may we be
kept from unlawful security, lest we have Moab and Ammon for our
progeny, the enemies of Israel."
I could not continue in this state, either in the light of duty or of
reason. My difficulty was this: I had been deceived greatly once; how
could I be sure that I was not deceived a second time? I then thought
myself right; how was I to be certain that I was right now? How many
years had I thought myself sure of what I now rejected? how could I
ever again have confidence in myself? As in 1840 I listened to the
rising doubt in favour of Rome, now I listened to the waning doubt
in favour of the English Church. To be certain is to know that one
knows; what test had I, that I should not change again, after that I
had become a Catholic? I had still apprehension of this, though I
thought a time would come, when it would depart. However, some limit
ought to be put to these vague misgivings; I must do my best and then
leave it to a higher power to prosper it. So, I determined to write
an essay on Doctrinal Development; and then, if, at the end of it, my
convictions in favour of the Roman Church were not weaker, to make up
my mind to seek admission into her fold. I acted upon this resolution
in the beginning of 1845, and worked at my Essay steadily into the
autumn.
I told my resolution to various friends at the beginning of the year;
indeed, it was at that time known generally. I wrote to a friend
thus:--
"My intention is, if nothing comes upon me, which I cannot foresee,
to remain quietly _in statu quo_ for a considerable time, trusting
that my friends will kindly remember me and my trial in their
prayers. And I should give up my fellowship some time before anything
further took place."
One very dear friend, now no more, Charles Marriott, sent me a letter
at the beginning of the next year, from which, from love of him, I
quote some sentences:--
"January 15, 1845. You know me well enough to be aware, that I never
see through anything at first. Your letter to B. casts a gloom over
the future, which you can understand, if you have understood me, as I
believe you have. But I may speak out at once, of what I see and
feel at once, and doubt not that I shall ever feel: that your whole
conduct towards the Church of England and towards us, who have
striven and are still striving to seek after God for ourselves,
and to revive true religion among others, under her authority and
guidance, has been generous and considerate, and, were that word
appropriate, dutiful, to a degree that I could scarcely have
conceived possible, more unsparing of self than I should have thought
nature could sustain. I have felt with pain every link that you have
severed, and I have asked no questions, because I felt that you ought
to measure the disclosure of your thoughts according to the occasion,
and the capacity of those to whom you spoke. I write in haste, in
the midst of engagements engrossing in themselves, but partly made
tasteless, partly embittered by what I have heard; but I am willing
to trust even you, whom I love best on earth, in God's Hand, in the
earnest prayer that you may be so employed as is best for the Holy
Catholic Church."
There was a lady, who was very anxious on the subject, and I wrote to
her the following letters:--
1. "October, 1844. What can I say more to your purpose? If you will
ask me any specific questions, I will answer them, as far as I am
able."
2. "November 7, 1844. I am still where I was; I am not moving. Two
things, however, seem plain, that every one is prepared for such an
event, next, that every one expects it of me. Few indeed, who do not
think it suitable, fewer still, who do not think it likely. However,
I do not think it either suitable or likely. I have very little
reason to doubt about the issue of things, but the when and the how
are known to Him, from whom, I trust, both the course of things and
the issue come. The expression of opinion, and the latent and
habitual feeling about me, which is on every side and among all
parties, has great force. I insist upon it, because I have a great
dread of going by my own feelings, lest they should mislead me. By
one's sense of duty one must go; but external facts support one in
doing so."
3. "January 8, 1845. My full belief is, in accordance with your
letter, that, if there is a move in our Church, very few persons
indeed will be partners to it. I doubt whether one or two at the most
among residents at Oxford. And I don't know whether I can wish it.
The state of the Roman Catholics is at present so unsatisfactory.
This I am sure of, that nothing but a simple, direct call of duty is
a warrant for any one leaving our Church; no preference of another
Church, no delight in its services, no hope of greater religious
advancement in it, no indignation, no disgust, at the persons and
things, among which we may find ourselves in the Church of England.
The simple question is, Can _I_ (it is personal, not whether another,
but can _I_) be saved in the English Church? am _I_ in safety, were I
to die tonight? Is it a mortal sin in _me_, not joining another
communion? P.S. I hardly see my way to concur in attendance, though
occasional, in the Roman Catholic chapel, unless a man has made up
his mind pretty well to join it eventually. Invocations are not
_required_ in the Church of Rome; somehow, I do not like using them
except under the sanction of the Church, and this makes me unwilling
to admit them in members of our Church."
4. "March 30. Now I will tell you more than any one knows except two
friends. My own convictions are as strong, as I suppose they can
become: only it is so difficult to know whether it is a call of
_reason_ or of conscience. I cannot make out, if I am impelled by
what seems clear, or by a sense of _duty_. You can understand how
painful this doubt is; so I have waited, hoping for light, and using
the words of the Psalmist, 'Show some token upon me.' But I suppose I
have no right to wait for ever for this. Then I am waiting, because
friends are most considerately bearing me in mind, and asking
guidance for me; and, I trust, I should attend to any new feelings
which came upon me, should that be the effect of their kindness. And
then this waiting subserves the purpose of preparing men's minds.
I dread shocking, unsettling people. Anyhow, I can't avoid giving
incalculable pain. So, if I had my will, I should like to wait till
the summer of 1846, which would be a full seven years from the time
that my convictions first began to fall on me. But I don't think I
shall last so long.
"My present intention is to give up my Fellowship in October, and to
publish some work or treatise between that and Christmas. I wish
people to know _why_ I am acting, as well as _what_ I am doing; it
takes off that vague and distressing surprise, 'What _can_ have made
him?'"
5. "June 1. What you tell me of yourself makes it plain that it is
your duty to remain quietly and patiently, till you see more clearly
where you are; else you are leaping in the dark."
In the early part of this year, if not before, there was an idea
afloat that my retirement from the Anglican Church was owing to the
feeling that I had so been thrust aside, without any one's taking my
part. Various measures were, I believe, talked of in consequence of
this surmise. Coincidently with it was an exceedingly kind article
about me in a quarterly, in its April number. The writer praised me
in feeling and beautiful language far above my deserts. In the course
of his remarks, he said, speaking of me as Vicar of St. Mary's: "He
had the future race of clergy hearing him. Did he value and feel
tender about, and cling to his position? ...Not at all.... No
sacrifice to him perhaps, he did not care about such things."
This was the occasion of my writing to a very intimate friend the
following letter:--
"April 3, 1845.... Accept this apology, my dear C., and forgive me.
As I say so, tears come into my eyes--that arises from the accident
of this time, when I am giving up so much I love. Just now I have
been overset by A. B.'s article in the C. D.; yet really, my dear C.,
I have never for an instant had even the temptation of repenting my
leaving Oxford. The feeling of repentance has not even come into my
mind. How could it? How could I remain at St. Mary's a hypocrite? how
could I be answerable for souls (and life so uncertain), with the
convictions, or at least persuasions, which I had upon me? It is
indeed a responsibility to act as I am doing; and I feel His hand
heavy on me without intermission, who is all Wisdom and Love, so that
my heart and mind are tired out, just as the limbs might be from
a load on one's back. That sort of dull aching pain is mine; but
my responsibility really is nothing to what it would be, to be
answerable for souls, for confiding loving souls, in the English
Church, with my convictions. My love to Marriott, and save me the
pain of sending him a line."
In July a bishop thought it worth while to give out to the world that
"the adherents of Mr. Newman are few in number. A short time will now
probably suffice to prove this fact. It is well known that he is
preparing for secession; and, when that event takes place, it will be
seen how few will go with him."
All this time I was hard at my essay on Doctrinal Development. As I
advanced, my view so cleared that instead of speaking any more of
"the Roman Catholics," I boldly called them Catholics. Before I got
to the end, I resolved to be received, and the book remains in the
state in which it was then, unfinished.
On October 8th I wrote to a number of friends the following letter:--
"Littlemore, October 8, 1845. I am this night expecting Father
Dominic, the Passionist, who, from his youth, has been led to have
distinct and direct thoughts, first of the countries of the North,
then of England. After thirty years' (almost) waiting, he was without
his own act sent here. But he has had little to do with conversions.
I saw him here for a few minutes on St. John Baptist's day last year.
He does not know of my intention; but I mean to ask of him admission
into the one Fold of Christ....
"I have so many letters to write, that this must do for all who
choose to ask about me. With my best love to dear Charles Marriott,
who is over your head, etc., etc.
"P.S. This will not go till all is over. Of course it requires no
answer."
For a while after my reception, I proposed to betake myself to some
secular calling. I wrote thus in answer to a very gracious letter of
congratulation:--
"Nov. 25, 1845. I hope you will have anticipated, before I express
it, the great gratification which I received from your Eminence's
letter. That gratification, however, was tempered by the
apprehension, that kind and anxious well-wishers at a distance attach
more importance to my step than really belongs to it. To me indeed
personally it is of course an inestimable gain; but persons and
things look great at a distance, which are not so when seen close;
and, did your Eminence know me, you would see that I was one, about
whom there has been far more talk for good and bad than he deserves,
and about whose movements far more expectation has been raised than
the event will justify.
"As I never, I do trust, aimed at anything else than obedience to my
own sense of right, and have been magnified into the leader of a
party without my wishing it or acting as such, so now, much as I may
wish to the contrary, and earnestly as I may labour (as is my duty)
to minister in a humble way to the Catholic Church, yet my powers
will, I fear, disappoint the expectations of both my own friends, and
of those who pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
"If I might ask of your Eminence a favour, it is that you would
kindly moderate those anticipations. Would it were in my power to do,
what I do not aspire to do! At present certainly I cannot look
forward to the future, and, though it would be a good work if I could
persuade others to do as I have done, yet it seems as if I had quite
enough to do in thinking of myself."
Soon, Dr. Wiseman, in whose vicariate Oxford lay, called me to
Oscott; and I went there with others; afterwards he sent me to Rome,
and finally placed me in Birmingham.
I wrote to a friend:--
"January 20, 1846. You may think how lonely I am. 'Obliviscere
populum tuum et domum patris tui,' has been in my ears for the last
twelve hours. I realise more that we are leaving Littlemore, and it
is like going on the open sea."
I left Oxford for good on Monday, February 23, 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 have 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 23rd I left the observatory. I have never seen
Oxford since, excepting its spires, as they are seen from the
railway.
Footnotes
[3] As I am not writing controversially, I will only here remark upon
this argument, that there is a great difference between a command,
which implies physical conditions, and one which is moral. To go to
Jerusalem was a matter of the body, not of the soul.
[4] I cannot prove this at this distance of time; but I do not think it
wrong to introduce here the passage containing it, as I am imputing
to the Bishop nothing which the world would think disgraceful, but,
on the contrary, what a large religious body would approve.
[5] On this subject, _vid_. my third lecture on "Anglican
Difficulties."