Apologia Pro Vita Sua — 19 - Chapter 4, Part 6

In that autumn of 1843, at the time that I spoke to Dr. Pusey, I asked another friend also to communicate in confidence, to whom he would, the prospect which lay before me.

To another friend, Mr. James Hope, now Mr. Hope Scott, 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 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, &c. No, I have nothing to bear, but the anxiety which I feel for my friends' anxiety for me, and their perplexity.

This 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, my dear B. , 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[16].

So it is, my dear B. , and so may it ever be."

[16] Deut.

xxxiii.

12. He was in simple good faith.

He died in September of the same 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 within the Anglican Church remained too[17].

I wrote to another friend thus:-- [17] On this subject, vide my Third Lecture on "Anglican Difficulties," also Note E, _Anglican Church_.

"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 sees 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 thought myself right then; 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 Anglican Church.

To be certain is to know that one knows; what inward 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, at the end of 1844, I came to the resolution of writing an Essay on Doctrinal Development; and then, if, at the end of it, my convictions in favour of the Roman Church were not weaker, of taking the necessary steps for admission into her fold.

By this time the state of my mind was generally known, and I made no great secret of it.

I will illustrate it by letters of mine which have been put into my hands.

"November 16, 1844. I am going through what must be gone through; and my trust only is that every day of pain is so much taken from the necessary draught which must be exhausted.

There is no fear (humanly speaking) of my moving for a long time yet.

This has got out without my intending it;

but it is all well.

As far as I know myself, my one great distress is the perplexity, unsettlement, alarm, scepticism, which I am causing to so many; and the loss of kind feeling and good opinion on the part of so many, known and unknown, who have wished well to me.

And of these two sources of pain it is the former that is the constant, urgent, unmitigated one.

I had for days a literal ache all about my heart; and from time to time all the complaints of the Psalmist seemed to belong to me.

"And as far as I know myself, my one paramount reason for contemplating a change is my deep, unvarying conviction that our Church is in schism, and that my salvation depends on my joining the Church of Rome.

I may use _argumenta ad hominem_ to this person or that[18]; but I am not conscious of resentment, or disgust, at any thing that has happened to me.

I have no visions whatever of hope, no schemes of action, in any other sphere more suited to me.

I have no existing sympathies with Roman Catholics; I hardly ever, even abroad, was at one of their services; I know none of them, I do not like what I hear of them.

"And then, how much I am giving up in so many ways!

and to me sacrifices irreparable, not only from my age, when people hate changing, but from my especial love of old associations and the pleasures of memory.

Nor am I conscious of any feeling, enthusiastic or heroic, of pleasure in the sacrifice; I have nothing to support me here.

"What keeps me yet is what has kept me long; a fear that I am under a delusion; but the conviction remains firm under all circumstances, in all frames of mind.

And this most serious feeling is growing on me; viz.

that the reasons for which I believe as much as our system teaches, _must_ lead me to believe more, and that not to believe more is to fall back into scepticism.

"A thousand thanks for your most kind and consoling letter; though I have not yet spoken of it, it was a great gift."

[18] Vide supr.

p. 219, &c. Letter of Oct.

14, 1843, compared with that of Oct.

25. Shortly after I wrote to the same 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 any thing further took place."

There was a lady, now a nun of the Visitation, to whom at this time I wrote the following letters:-- 1. "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."

2. "January 8, 1845. What am I to say in answer to your letter?

I know perfectly well, I ought to let you know more of my feelings and state of mind than you do know.

But how is that possible in a few words?

Any thing I say must be abrupt; nothing can I say which will not leave a bewildering feeling, as needing so much to explain it, and being isolated, and (as it were) unlocated, and not having any thing with it to show its bearings upon other parts of the subject.

"At present, 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 to-night?

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."

3. "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.

Any how, 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?'

" 4. "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 my distress that I had been so thrust aside, without any one's taking my part.

Various measures were, I believe, talked of in consequence of this surmise.

Coincidently with it appeared an exceedingly kind article about me in a Quarterly, in its April number.

The writer praised me in kind 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."

There was a censure implied, however covertly, in these words; and it is alluded to in the following letter, addressed to a very intimate friend:-- "April 3, 1845....

Accept this apology, my dear Church, 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 James Mozley's article in the Remembrancer; yet really, my dear Church, 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."

* * * * * I am now close upon the date of my reception into the Catholic Church;

at the beginning of the year a letter had been addressed to me by a very dear friend, now no more, Charles Marriott.

I quote some sentences from it, for the love which I bear him and the value that I set on his good word.

"January 15, 1845. You know me well enough to be aware, that I never see through any thing at first.

Your letter to Badeley 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."

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."

I had begun my Essay on the Development of Doctrine in the beginning of 1845, and I was hard at it all through the year till October.

As I advanced, my difficulties so cleared away that I ceased to speak of "the Roman Catholics," and 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.

One of my friends at Littlemore had been received into the Church on Michaelmas Day, at the Passionist House at Aston, near Stone, by Father Dominic, the Superior.

At the beginning of October the latter was passing through London to Belgium; and, as I was in some perplexity what steps to take for being received myself, I assented to the proposition made to me that the good priest should take Littlemore in his way, with a view to his doing for me the same charitable service as he had done to my friend.

On October the 8th I wrote to a number of friends the following letter:-- "Littlemore, October 8th, 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 is a simple, holy man; and withal gifted with remarkable powers.

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, &c. , &c. "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 sent me by Cardinal Acton:-- "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 any thing 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 realize 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 had been kind to me both when I was a boy, and all through my Oxford life.

Trinity had never been unkind to me.

There used to be much snap-dragon 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[19].

[19] At length I revisited Oxford on February 26th, 1878, after an absence of just 32 years.

Vide Additional Note at the end of the volume.

CHAPTER V.