Apologia pro vita sua being a history of his religious opinions
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