Apologia Pro Vita Sua — 18 - Chapter 4, Part 5

* * * * * Such was the object and the origin of the projected Series of the English Saints; and, since 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 may 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 in their misgivings than I, when they saw the Life of St. Stephen Harding, and decided that it was of a character inconsistent even with its proceeding from an Anglican publisher: and so the scheme was given up at once.

After the two first numbers, 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 the author of one 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 any how 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, would "be published by their respective authors on their own responsibility."

This notice was repeated in February, in the advertisement to the second number entitled "The Family of St. Richard," though to this number, for some reason which I cannot now recollect, 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 I cannot tell whether it ever appeared in print.

I will add, since the authors have been considered "hot-headed fanatic young men," whom I was in charge of, and whom I suffered to do intemperate things, that, while the writer of St. Augustine was in 1844 past forty, the author of the proposed Life of St. Boniface, Mr. Bowden, was forty-six; Mr. Johnson, who was to write St. Aldhelm, forty-three;

and most of the others were on one side or other of thirty.

Three, I think, 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[14].

[14] Vide Note D, _Lives of the English Saints_.

* * * * * 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 any thing.

I am going to publish a Volume of Sermons, including those Four against moving."

* * * * * I resigned my living on September the 18th.

I had not the means of doing it legally at Oxford.

The late Mr. Goldsmid was kind enough to aid 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, to borrow a Scriptural image from Walter Scott, 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 may be almost said to have brought to an end, as far as is necessary for a sketch such as this is, the history both of my changes of religious opinion and of the public acts which they involved.

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.

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 day, 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, as has been mentioned above, and as is repeated in the course of 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, 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 any thing 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 possessed, 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 though it was still to remain an integral part of St. Mary's. 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 towards it.

I could indeed submit to become the 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 favour, 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.

These had been 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."

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 confessed 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, 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.

For then, when I gave up my place in the Movement, I ceased from any such proceedings: and my utmost endeavour 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 Rome-ward, 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 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 they were, 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 her own feelings upon it.

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 in her case and in that of 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.

Moreover, it is but the truth to say, that it had ever been an annoyance to me to seem to be the head of a party; and that even from fastidiousness of mind, I could not bear to find a thing done elsewhere, simply or mainly because I did it myself, and that, from distrust of myself, I shrank from the thought, whenever it was brought home to me, that I was influencing others.

But nothing of this could be known to the world.

The following three letters are written to a friend, who had every claim upon me to be frank with him, Archdeacon Manning:--it will be seen that I disclose the real state of my mind 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 _any thing 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[15], 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 realize 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 realize 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."

[15] I think Sumner, Bishop of Chester, must have done so already.

3. 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 near friend whom I felt I could not help telling the other day.

But, I suppose, many more 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 describe, as nearly as I can, the way in which he first became aware of my changed state of opinion.

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 myself.

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 should 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 according to the need of 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."